First Pony View

by Suomibrony

Chapters

• Pony In The Mirror
• Control Yourself
• Open Up
• Pony, Meet Human
• Life On The Edge
• Experiments And Experiences
• The Unforgiving Reality Ensued
• Recovery Is Nothing Short Of Arduous
• In The Air Tonight
• So Much For Nothing
• Have A Break
• What Goes Up Must Come Down

Pony In The Mirror

I was brought out from sleep against my own accord. I felt numb. I'd woken up with a numb arm before, but this was different; even my fingers and toes were insensible. Opening my eyes, I pulled my hand up to my face. The room was dark, but I saw the faint outline of an unfamiliar appendage. Before I knew it, I had tumbled off my bed in a jittery panic and was lying down on my left side.

My legs and arms refused to behave like they were supposed to as I tried to get up. All I could do was stare fearfully into the near-complete darkness. Soon, my senses started to tell me more about my own body. No fingers, no toes, a furry hide, pointy ears, and hair along my neck. Then, I flicked a muscle that was at the end of my back. In disbelief, I did it again. My mind was quick to inform me that it was a tail.

For minutes, I lay motionlessly in complete dismay, the odd sensation of my form disquieting me. Every move I made reminded me of what I had become. Every thought in my head revolved around the same questions: 'How?' and 'Why?'

Frantically, I conjured an answer: lucid dreaming. It was the only explanation that made sense. A normal dream was a movie, and a lucid dream was a video game. With that concept in my mind, my apprehension diminished, and I became a tad happy. I was in a dream that was under my control. Maybe I wouldn't have called it a dream come true, but the possibility to experience myself as something non-human fascinated me.

Tugging and stretching my limbs, I got a feel for how they worked. After a brief moment of trying to pinch the correct nerve in my head, I successfully turned one ear. The other ear was wedged between my head and the floor and protested my command by sending me a flinch-worthy signal of minor discomfort. I had already discovered the proper muscle to control my tail, and I exercised it a few times in order to familiarize myself with it. As I was laying totally flat on my left side, I began to gingerly bend my body to get a feel for my coat. It wasn't rough, as I had expected, but soft, like a hairy but smooth fabric.

Knowing what I was infatuated with, I thought I knew what I had become—a pony.

Not aware of how soon I'd wake up, I decided to act. I pulled my left foreleg and raised my back so that I could place the limb underneath me. It didn’t go as planned, and I slipped back onto my side. Trying a different approach, I rolled over, folding my legs underneath me as I did so. Carefully yet steadily, I extended my forelegs in harmony, aligning my hooves to the floor as I levered myself to a sitting stance.

Although I couldn't see my hind legs, I was aware they were level on the floor on either side of me. I knew the posture I held was natural for a pony, but the nerve signals from all four of my new appendages were confusing.

Coming up onto all fours was trouble-free, although I did so nervously, and my legs were unsteady once I was standing. While waiting for my nerves to settle, I mused at the odd sensation of standing on hooves: it was almost as if I was hovering but somehow still touching the floor. I gently dragged a hoof and felt the weak friction hinder its movement. My mind tried to make sense of the feeling but only became more perplexed.

The only visible light came from the sun beyond my almost-sealed window, but a wall-mounted lamp that was above my bed tempted me. I contemplated briefly how to place myself perpendicular to the soft plateau to my left.

Slowly lifting one leg at a time, I began to turn myself. When my back refused to curve, it dawned on me I had only moved my forelegs. Taking another moment to focus, I trepidly sidestepped with my hind legs to the right until my back was straight again. With that checkpoint passed, I congratulated myself with a smile and braced myself for the next stage.

With my right forehoof on the bed, I pressed down to test how far the mattress would budge and then quickly raised my left foreleg onto it as well. Only then did I realize I'd have to somehow jump the rest of myself onto the bed as well.

Alarms rang in my head as I realized I was in a situation I didn't quite know how to solve. I dared not back away as I wasn't sure how to do so without stumbling into a slump. Pain would end my lucid dream, so my foremost worry was to avoid harming myself. Following a moment of decision making, I presumed I could push myself up onto the mattress.

I slid my forelegs forwards until they were level on the mattress and my chest and barrel rested on the fabric.

Pushing with my hind legs, I glided across the bed until I came to a halt when my forehooves touched the wall. The light switch was so close yet so far. If I had my real form, it could've been accomplished in a second. By now, several minutes have been wasted, and I was only halfway there.

I tried to lift my hind leg up onto the bed, but it refused to behave like a human leg. I wasn't exactly sure how equine anatomy worked, and I couldn’t persuade my new knee to land on the bed.

Realizing that I couldn't pull myself up to the bed, I was left with two options: jump up onto the bed, or attempt to wobble in the darkness to the ceiling-lamp switch. Of course, said switch was by the door. Both seemed impossible to reach, but I had no other alternatives.

Opting for the closer goal, I constructed a sequence in my head: I'd coil my hind legs, launch my back end off the floor, and then immediately twist my body sideways while pulling up my rear limbs. Simultaneously, I'd do my best to draw my forelegs to a vertical stance and elevate myself into the air. It would not be graceful, but I'd be one step closer to my goal. I rehearsed the plan a couple of times in my mind and silently counted to three.

It was all over in a second, and I was back where I started—in my bed, my left flank resting on the haphazardly folded blanket I had kicked off myself during my scrambling.

Rising up onto my hooves would prove to be difficult, I surmised, as the bed was soft and would be a less stable support for me than the solid floor. However, now I faced another problem: I had to actually touch the switch to turn on the lamp. With hands, it'd be easy to run my fingers along the cord and locate the switch. But in this new form, my alternatives were to fumble for it with either my hoof or my mouth.

I oriented myself to a prone position, but knowing how unreliable the bed was as a stable surface, I was unwilling to stand up. With my head placed against the wall, I began to shunt myself forward with my hind legs. It was strange to feel the fur tickling the side of my head—so unlike the prickly stubble I was used to. Before I could delve deeper into studying the differences, however, my cheek met the elusive cord.

Clamping my teeth on the bitter-flavored plastic cord, I began my search for the switch. Bliss coursed in my veins when I found the little protruding part that would bring forth illumination to the dimmed dreamscape.

As a precaution, I closed my eyes to shield my vision from the soon-to-come brightness. With the piece of plastic in my teeth, I gently dropped my head and felt the switch move in response. My eyes opened a few seconds later, and I released the cord to examine myself in the new light.

My coat color was a plain white—I was fine with that—but twitching the muscle at my croup, I became miffed to see twin lines of bright pink adorning my bronze-brown tail.

As much as I tried to concentrate on visualizing another color in its place, they remained pink. This obviously meant I had the same color in my mane. Although I was grateful for being self-aware in a dream, I mentally filed a nasty complaint at my subconscious for the poor color choice.

Dismissing the embarrassing fact of my hair colors, I began to think on what to do next. Reaching the bed had been a time-consuming mission, but I wasn't about to stay there and call it a day. Traces of the cord's taste still lingered in my mouth as I planned how to get off my bed and back onto the floor, although the mere thought made me nervous.

Exercising the utmost care, I shifted on my bed to bring my forelegs to the edge of the mattress. Slipping my forelegs over the soft cliff and down onto the floor, I transferred my weight to my forehooves. Realizing it might not be so hard to get off the bed after all, my nervousness decreased to a minor alertness. Little by little, I started to pull myself off the furniture.

Following a few more seconds of observing my hind legs slide off the bed and come down onto the floor individually, I was again on all four hooves.

It was strange to see the beige lit room from the height of about one meter. I felt short, like a child with four hooved legs and a tail. I scanned my humble bedroom in mild bewilderment.

Behind me was the bed, and in front of me was my black armchair. In front of the chair and placed up against the blinded window was a brown, wooden desk with a big LCD television on it. The wall before me was lined with white cabinets. Opposite of the window was the exit door. To the right of the exit was a basic bureau with assorted papers, magazines, and cables messily scattered over it. Looking back at the desk, I saw an old office chair and my brand new laptop perpendicular to the TV.

A thought occurred to me as I was contemplating my next objective: this dream was unusually real. I saw details around the room that matched exactly how it had been the last evening: the pile of games on the desk, the carelessly thrown magazine on the bureau, and my clothes on the armchair's backrest.

Nothing was out of place.

Lifting a hoof, I stomped the floor, producing a muted thud. My eyebrows arched in thought as I noticed I was able to feel the minor sensation of the impact. It was not pain, but a slight discomfort. ‘How convincing can a dream be?’ I pondered, recalling several normal dreams that had fooled me into taking their surreal absurdity for granted.

With a new wariness, I kept myself vigilant for any traces of my subconscious trying to trick me. I was a detective on the hunt to expose all the forgeries and errors in the vivid dreamscape.

To reach the door would most likely be an easier task than my last mission; all I had to do was to master my quadrupedal form. As I glanced back at my hind legs, I stopped to stare at my flank. How I'd failed to pay attention until now was lost to me. I was briefly disappointed when I saw no cutie mark, though I soon smirked at myself; ‘Blank flank,’ I thought.

Setting out to reach the hallway beyond my room proved to be more difficult than I had anticipated on four hooves, and I struggled to keep my balance. A crippled starfish could have outpaced me, but I kept on tottering resolutely until my face met the door.

Putting my teeth on the handle, I tilted my head until the latch clacked, then pulled my head back and the door opened. Alas, my celebration was short-lived as I had failed to take into account my proximity to the tall rectangle and was now an obstruction in its opening path. Swallowing my steel-flavored saliva, I looked over at my trailing end, watching it retreat before I remembered my forelegs. Trying to rouse my forelegs into action, one of my hind legs slipped, and my stability began to falter. I nearly panicked before regaining my balance.

If I had collapsed, I would've most likely injured myself and brought my unique dream to an end. I screwed my eyes shut for a second and wordlessly chided myself. At least the door was now slightly ajar, presenting me with a new opportunity beyond.

With a nudge of my muzzle, the door gently swung open, the handle bumping the wall with a dull thud. I immediately set my eyes on the next goal: the bathroom door opposite my bedroom.

It was another door I'd have to pull open, although I was now wiser from my recent hurdle and possessed a great confidence that I'd solve this puzzle with flying colors.

The trip to the door was short but not without a few missteps, though I was getting the hang of my four-hoof drive configuration. The only mirror in my humble apartment was beyond the very door I stared at.

Another taste of steel later, the door was open. I felt proud as I reversed from the door without incident. Stepping over the small threshold to the bathroom, I swung my head to the left, nudging the light switch. The lamps flickered indecisively for a second before agreeing to produce their fluorescent light.

It was a small bathroom, walled and floored with white tile, with a toilet and sink. There was a shower along the left wall, and on the right was a washing machine.

Finishing my cursory glance of the familiar space, I realized the floor, while not terribly grimy, was specked with snaking smudges. I looked down at my hooves and imagined all the kinds of residue that would adhere to them and eventually find their way into my food. As quick as I was to grimace, I was just as quick to discard the thought since I assumed I wouldn't have to eat during my dream.

Above the sink was the mirror, although from my current location, I was unable to catch my own reflection. As I was planning how to place my forelegs on the sink and crane my neck to peer at myself, a small nagging thought that had remained at the back of my head strode forth.

It told me something ridiculous, something that I wanted to scoff at and shoo away. Frustratingly, it was insistent and soon twisted my confident smile into a concerned frown. I cast my eyes at my tail, which it flashed its bronze and bright pink back at me. I turned my head away from the sight, and a chill traveled up my spine.

Hesitantly, I conjured a sentence and delivered it to my vocal chords, the air in my lungs nabbing it as the sentence was granted permission to leave.

“I am having a lucid dream.”

Immediately, a strange feeling of nervousness emerged in me, and moisture seeped onto my skin. As great fun as a lucid dream could be, this was already the second issue that irked me. I concentrated my mind on altering the imaginary reality and sent another wave of air through my mouth.

“I am not—”

I stopped mid-sentence as I realized the statement would be a lie. A mere moment ago, I was eager to see my own mirror image, but now, I'd come to resent the thought. I silently cursed at my own subconscious for dropping a joke like this on me. Or rather, in me.

Retreating back out to the hallway, I unthinkingly lowered myself to a sitting position. I glowered at the far wall of the bathroom for no cause but to have a target for my eyes while my mind seethed turbulently.

The unpleasant thought stood inside my mind, a smug expression on its hypothetical visage.

I brought a hoof to my forehead and grimaced, releasing an aggravated groan that did nothing to help overcome the current issue.

However, considering I was in a dream that could end at any second, I did my best to relax rather than waste precious time on furious idling. Gathering some courage and tranquility, I decided to continue my quest.

A few timid but determined steps later, I was at the sink. The mirror above it was mocking me with its mere presence; I gave it a stern stare in hopes of scaring it into submission. Lunging upwards, I slammed my forelegs down on the sink edges.

Glaring down at the steel and pale porcelain, the last of my reservations slowly spiraled into the drain. Putting on the most daunting expression I could muster, I lifted my head to confront the reflective glass.

A messy forelock of bronze and pink surrounded a jutting keratin spire, below which the reflection of a pair of green eyes on a white canvas gave an intimidating but ineffective stare.

For a moment, we were interlocked in a silent but eventless battle.

“Oh, really funny, ha-ha!” the unicorn eventually taunted me, causing me to wince. My eyes screwed shut, and my lips withdrew to expose my teeth, though I soon reopened my eyes to see my opponent had a mutual expression.

An inexplicable sensation of defeat and acceptance sank into me, and my rival appeared to resign with a sigh.

“I guess it has to be like this, then,” she said dejectedly. Sadly, I had to concur.

Control Yourself

I stared at the white sink gloomily, struggling to prevent myself from collapsing down onto the floor. My breaths were heavy, and with each exhale came a long pause—even my lungs were dispirited. I hesitantly lifted my head and saw a being whose expression was the very picture of misery. When I bit my lip, she bit her lip, and when my ears fell, so did hers as well. She mimicked my every move: simultaneously and flawlessly.

Before me was not a second pony but my own mirror image. Those emerald eyes, that white fur, and that unkempt, pink-striped bronze mane were mine. Even as I literally faced the facts, I stubbornly tried to dismiss them. Coming to terms with being a pony was much easier than what I now faced.

I cheerlessly filed a second complaint at my subconscious.

I pondered my adventure, the shock of the change. I had been prideful of managing to adapt to it so far, but now, none of that pride remained. I contemplated withdrawing my forelegs and letting my jaw smash against the sink to end my lucid dream, but my desire to continue convinced me to abandon the idea.

Trying to see the positives over the negatives, I decided to at least try to enjoy the false reality, despite the dismaying setback. As long as no attention was drawn to the uncomfortable truth, I'd do fine. I declared my home door to be inoperable and myself mute before coming down onto all four legs, the pitapat of my hooves announcing the end of the interaction with my reflection.

My head became heavy and my legs sluggish as I set my way out from the white-tiled room. I came to a rest in the hallway and further reasoned with myself. I was still in a lucid fantasy world, experiencing something that would be otherwise impossible. I was just as insistent on carrying on through the unique situation as I was on disregarding my lesson from the mirror.

Trying to fixate on other matters, I raised my hoof and began to examine it. Excluding the couple of centimeters before the underside as well as the underside itself, my hoof was coated in soft and short fur. As my knowledge of equine anatomy was poor, I assumed a hoof was of the same organic material a fingernail was composed of. Pivoting and swiveling the joints, tapping two hooves lightly together, and brushing my fur, I became entranced. After a minute of experimenting, it dawned on me that my appendage had some similarities with a human arm as it allowed me to perform, to a limited degree, human-like actions.

It occurred to me that hooves were essentially an equine's nails. The thought of walking on nails sprung to mind a hilarious image of a human, tall on his legs and arms, moving sneakily on his fingers and toes while a xylophone rapidly plinked an appropriate leitmotif for him. I smiled for a full second before I involuntarily pictured my own mirror image smiling, and my little joy vanished as soon as it had come.

Ignoring myself was proving to be harder than I had expected.

I absently glanced to the left and right in the hallway. At the left end was the door to the outside, and on the opposite end of the hallway was the doorway to the kitchen. To the left of it, at a ninety degree angle, was the doorway to my fairly spacious but underused living room.

All of my important possessions were in my bedroom; the living room had only a pair of armchairs, a low table, and a sofa. If the living room seemed to be disused, then the adjoining balcony certainly was. I preferred the captivating world of games and the Internet over what I considered to be vain and wasteful sunbathing. Coupled with the fact that my neighbors were known smokers, I had no good reasons to venture to the balcony.

While I sat idly, I began to toy with my tail, hearing it brush the floor and walls. Its mere existence awoke my curiosity and I looked behind myself to see it move about, only to have its bright pink highlights harshly remind me of what I was trying to ignore.

A sliver of irritation gave me the courage to move, and I set out to close the bathroom door. I was intent on not venturing in there again until the end of my illusion. The door was fully open, but I was able to place my foreleg between it and the wall. In a fit of anger, I gave the door a brisk push that brought it shut with a satisfying slam.

Suddenly, something remarkable dawned on me: I had made a few steps and turns unthinkingly and without sliding and slipping like I was on ice. Earlier, in my bedroom, I had been focused on moving each leg with extreme care and had serious balance issues.

I glanced at my four legs in awe before I returned my attention to the short hallway.

I set my sights on the home door and cleared my mind. Soon, I sensed my legs moving me forward and my body turning and swaying slightly. My short progress quickly came to a halt when my muzzle gently contacted the wooden blockade that was the door. I glanced over my shoulder, then performed a flawless 180-degree turn. I flushed away my thoughts and commanded my body to the kitchen. The soft sounds my hooves produced rebounded off the white-painted, wood-paneled walls and into my ears, creating a minimalistic background music for my journey. I covered the mere 10 meters effortlessly, but it was too early to congratulate myself.

Once more, I emptied my mind, and I crossed the short distance to the living room. At the doorway, I stopped and examined the room. Two pale green armchairs were side by side with their backs facing me. Against the opposite wall from me was a dark blue sofa adorned by red, irregular shapes resembling palm leaves. Two crimson red pillows rested on the sofa, abandoned there by me months ago. Between the three pieces of furniture was a dark brown, square-shaped wooden table. To the right of these, separated by about 3 meters of vacant space, was a wide window and a brown door to the balcony. A quick glance outside told me it was an average morning with a few clouds dotting the sky.

I mentally drew a course through the room in the shape of a figure-8 around the table and armchairs. With my plan laid out, I began my trial. Focusing on following the course's imaginary guidance line, I kept my mind blank. However, my quadruped gait soon evoked me to research the reports sent by my body and legs, but they only dumbfounded me.

Eventually, I came to a halt by the balcony-side of the table. I had traversed the course for an entire minute without fail. As incredible as it was, there was still one little thing I desired to do before I'd rejoice. I oriented my tail towards the balcony door and started to walk backwards. With great joy, I observed myself backpedal gracefully a few meters before I had to stop lest I bump into the door.

With the final trial complete, a powerful sensation of success and elation launched me onto my hind legs, then poured to my grinning mouth, to my outstretched forelegs...

“Yesss! I learned to walk!”

...And to my vocal chords. My cheerful and confident mood flipped to shocked disbelief as I came down onto my hooves with a dull thud; I had completely forgotten my unmanly predicament. For a few seconds, I was absolutely discomposed before my mouth took the initiative to act independently and rolled out words in a vexed tone.

“Fine! I admit it! I'm a fil—!”

An eye-shutting grimace silenced my errant voice, but it was too late; the damage had been done. The tense situation defused, my ears dropped, and my vision fell to the uninteresting floor. I had tried to stubbornly deny the obvious reality, and now, that conflict had come to a dramatic end. There was no reason for me to deceive myself any longer. My outbound breath stopped in my throat for a second—so I could choke back my tears—before it brought the admission forth as a somber whisper: “I'm a filly.”

I hoped crossing that threshold would bring me immediate peace, but I was wrong.

‘I'm a filly, I'm a filly, I'm a filly, I'm a filly,’ my mind tormented me by continuously playing the audio record of my voice. I looked at myself and saw invisible writing all over my body. It was tattooed on my legs, sprayed across my back and adorned my flanks. It shimmered in my tail, coursed in my veins and flickered in my vision.

Why had I refused to acknowledge the obvious? I had shunned it away instead. If I had only been reasonable from the start, I would've understood that a pony's a pony and that gender was irrelevant. I could've shrugged it off, maybe even joked about it, but something in me fought adamantly against all logic.

It managed only to postpone the inevitable truth.

When the revelation finally bounded back, it came with a such a great momentum that not only did it shatter my delusion of being a stallion, but it also created a disheartening shock wave in its wake. It was converging around my heart and threatened to break my tears out of the confines of my eyes. I had already endured one unavoidable loss, but I wouldn't allow my emotions to defeat me. With all of my strength, I held firm, stopping my tears from falling.

With the internal battle over, I reflected on my dream. One of my sincerest wishes had been to experience a lucid dream, but now, I felt an urge to ram my head into a wall and end the wish-gone-bad. However, I didn't desire to close the dream on a such sad note, and regrettably, I had to accept that I controlled a fictional, female character in a fictional reality, observing the events from a first-person view.

Just like in a video game . . .

Most likely due to my plummeting mood, I had unthinkingly come down onto my haunches. I presumed I was adapting to my four-legged form, and I questioned which one would cease first: my lucid dream or the novelty of my equine body? With my admission fresh in my memory, I seriously believed the latter.

Trying to ward off my pervasive gloom, I performed one uneventful lap around the imaginary figure-8 circuit before I came down to a sitting stance again. I let out a heavy sigh when I realized I was unable to feel any pleasure for mastering the ability that had initially been difficult but was now mundane. Ironically, the prospect of becoming depressed in a dream managed to amuse me, if only slightly.

I knew the ultimate fail-safe was to injure myself, but I had upgraded my resolution to obstinacy. Despite my low spirits, I'd push forward, no matter what!

Recalling one lone but important detail I had observed in my mirror image, I raised my hoof to search my head. My eyes rolled up in their sockets, but I saw only the blurry colors of my forelock. Regardless, in a few seconds, my appendage met the horn, and the nerve endings in my head told me that the keratin spire was being gently disturbed.

My melancholic mood took a back seat as my concern strode forth. I lowered my hoof to the center of my view, raised another, and tapped them together, producing a muted clop. I noted I felt the light impact in both appendages. In fact, I could feel the ambient temperature, my own breaths, and the pressure I put on my haunches. I licked my tongue over my teeth and lips, swung my tail, and rotated my ears. My joined hooves separated and timorously descended to the floor as I processed my latest discovery.

Just when I was slowly overcoming my gender, something worse announced itself. My lucid dream's precise replication of the details and nuances of the real world could be explained only with an alarmingly short summary: it wasn't a dream to begin with! Unwilling to dwell on something so terrifying, I quickly banished the frightening thought and returned my attention to the horn I sported. I hoped, since I was an unicorn, that I held the capacity to manipulate things with my mind.

I was more than curious to try.

I placed myself a few meters from the sofa and locked my eyes on one of the crimson red pillows. With no idea how telekinesis would work, I stared at it, expecting it to rise or roll, but that brought no discernible result. I tried to provoke a possible muscle in my head, but my horn was unresponsive, and the test subject remained static. I began to stare intensely at the stubborn object, silently threatening it with harm if it dared to disobey me. To my frustration, it did.

On the verge of forfeiting, I gave my ability one more chance. I closed my eyes and drew a mental picture of the room, thinking the pillow would move when I had no direct visual of it. I envisioned myself reaching out for the inanimate rebel and throwing it into the air in agitation. I drew in a terrified expression and small flailing arms for the mental image of the pillow as it screamed upwards, eventually smashing into the ceiling and bounding back towards the floor.

I gasped and my eyes sprung open when something struck my back. In a fraction of a second, I instinctively performed an about-face to locate my assailant. My jaw fell open when I spotted the culprit: it was the crimson red pillow.

My eyes wanted to leap out of their sockets when a quick inspection of my sofa confirmed my assumption. A few seconds later and one drool-drying wipe later, I had shut both my eyes and mouth, imagining the living space in my mind once more. I pictured the pillow rolling towards my legs. The soft contact confirmed my success, and I began to toy with the fluffy object. I lifted it off the floor and rolled it over my back, then suspended it above myself and pretended it was a yo-yo.

I was surprised how easy it was to use once I had learned to activate my magic.

Slowly, my imaginary picture of the room faded to darkness, and I began to practice my newfound skill by thought alone. I was able to squeeze the pillow, tell its position in the room, and judge its orientation relative to the room. I could even see and feel the room and its furniture without vision or touch. It was just as perplexing as it was amazing.

Delighted with my ability to manipulate the small object, I decided to move up the food chain, as it were, and thought of the sofa. To my surprise, I could barely lift it and lost my concentration quickly; the deep thump of the sofa's return to the floor startled my eyelids open. I oriented myself to face the sofa, closed my eyes, and tried again, but it levitated only a little before my invisible arms gave out.

None of my muscles were aching, but my panting told me I could've just as well tried to lift the sofa with my body. I tried to lift an armchair, but it was almost as difficult as the sofa, and I released it back to the floor once my body began to release sweat onto my back. With the limits of my telekinesis known, I wanted something else—something lighter—to test my telekinesis on.

Looking for more ideas, I made my way back to the bedroom where I spotted two green pillows on my similarly colored bed. I closed my eyes and concentrated on lifting the two fluffy rectangles. Strangely, I was disappointed when they obeyed without a struggle. Colliding them together and dancing them around the room was amusing, though the amusement soon waned, and I let the pillows crash. The lamp above the bed was still on and became my next target; the tiny switch was eager to follow my order. Running out of ideas, I arbitrarily left the dim lighting of the bedroom and back to the living room, where I sat down by the window.

Gazing through the wide glass pane over the balcony, I pondered if being a pegasus could've been more fun: soaring through the air, diving through the streets at high speed, and admiring the world serenely from above. It made my imagination go wild, and a strong sensation of elation brought a smile to my face. I wished for wings to grow on my back as I envisioned myself leaping up to the freedom of the sky from my balcony. My wide smile evolved to a euphoric grin.

Alas, an inspection of my wingless back returned me to earth, and my glee escaped along with a single disappointed sigh. I consoled myself with the fact I was not an earth pony. Impulsively, I floated the crimson pillow erratically around the room for a moment before placing it back on the sofa.

The brief play, however, made me realize that I wasn't able to manipulate objects unless I had my eyes closed. Doubting my hasty deduction, I dropped my eyelids and I picked the square object effortlessly. Uncovering my eyes, I watched as my telekinetic control over the fluffy object lost its vigor. A few more tries later, my only progress had been increasing my agitation. I launched the pillow downwards as fast as I could. It came down onto the sofa with a muted and dissatisfying thud.

I assumed that I had learned only the basics of telekinesis. Teaching myself advanced techniques might've been possible if I knew how, and I was willing to allocate my limited dreamtime to it. ‘Speaking of time . . . ’ Curious, I set course for the nearest clock.

My legs brought me to the kitchen doorway where I cast a look at the square room, noting that the overhead cupboards were out of my reach due to my reduced stature. I mourned the loss with a sigh, but I was quick to remind myself that this was not a permanent change. With the stealthy paranoia caught and restrained, I continued my survey of the room.

In front of me was a window and a plain wooden table. The left wall was bare of anything but a light-blue tapestry. To my immediate right was a brown cabinet containing cleaning tools and other assorted things related to maintaining my home. Further along the wall was the pure white dishwasher followed by two steel sinks. The far right wall featured a kitchen stove, floor-level cupboards, and the fridge-freezer. Between the two kitchen appliances was the microwave that had heated its first food sometime in the early ’90s.

In other words, my kitchen was very boring.

Observing the green symbols on my ancient microwave, I read its concise message: 9:37. My patience was rewarded with a single digit increase to the clock, from where I started a silent count. I missed the final score by 3 seconds, but it confirmed that my dream was amazingly accurate. Too accurate, and with that, my paranoia got a hold on me.

Absolutely nothing was out of place or wrong in the realm but myself! Not only was I scared of being forever a pony, but I was also scared of being discovered and becoming the center of attention for the entire world. My fear ran deeper than that, though, because I was certain I'd end up in a lab where I'd be reduced to a test animal for unethical scientists and endure inconceivable horrors up to my untimely death. Probably beyond as well.

The vision of my carcass being dissected almost made me scream.

Desperately needing proof of being in a dream, I faced the window and forcibly set my mind and eyes into examination mode, hoping to spot a visible error in the world beyond my home.

I peered at the world from my 6th-floor apartment. I could see a forest from the left spilling across and over to the right of my view, where another 8-floor apartment building resided. Directly below was a gravel path meandering up to another identical grey construct about 150 meters beyond my own, obstructing the view of the meadow and the city beyond it. A lone street curved from the right beyond the closer building and disappeared behind the farther one. Several cars, including my own, were parked on the lot by the inner side of the road.

The sky was home to several puffy clouds drifting gracefully over my location. I illustrated an imaginary map and compass in my head and calculated that they were heading northeast. A brief gust slammed against the window; it creaked a negative reply to the air's query for entry.

Observing the tranquil and realistic dreamscape through the transparent pane, I became aware of my translucent reflection. As I stared directly into large, green-rimmed black pupils that conveyed pure fear, I pondered on the impossible and how I'd survive if it was true.

‘Could I live in isolation forever? Could it be possible to have food delivered to my home? From where and how would I earn money to sustain myself? What about my relatives, my friends and neighbors? What would happen if they were to discover me? How would they react? What if they turned against me? What if I'd have to leave? Where could I go?’

As I bombarded myself with questions I hoped I'd never have to answer, a low and fluctuating noise from the outside entered my ears. I knew helicopters passed over my home daily, and I had never been bothered by them, except now the droning song of its rotors brought me only more stress.

Ever since I had woken up, I had feared that my dream was all but real. That fear had now grown more powerful and was crushing my quickly weakening hope. I wanted to resist, to fight back, but every sign had told me I had never been in a fantasy. There would be no failsafe, no escape by injuring myself. I was trapped in brutal and unforgiving reality.

My breaths became rapid and shallow, and I trembled like a leaf; I was at the onset of a panic attack.

Just as I expected—or rather, dreaded—the helicopter flew into view, passing diagonally from the above right towards the far left—from north to south. I was apprehensively watching it distance itself from me when my vision registered a shape appear from the top right of the far apartment.

My initial thought told me it was a bird that had left from a balcony on the opposite side of the building. While the location of its takeoff may have been arguably correct, it took me only a second to properly identify the winged fauna. I simultaneously crushed my fright and scored an impressive goal against my subconscious. An immense sensation of relief flushed the panic out of my body as I tracked the being speedily depart towards the east, over the forest, and beyond my view.

It was a pegasus.

Open Up

The world in my home and beyond had terrified me with its authenticity. I believed I was having a lucid dream, but the extreme level of detail in the dream had torn at my conviction. Fear had taken hold and had begun to destroy that belief. As I was on the verge of unparalleled panic, a pegasus had appeared. The sight of the mythical creature eased my stress, relieved joy taking its place.

My dream was, thankfully, just a dream.

‘In your face, subconscious! In your face!’ I wanted to shout, though I wasn't sure if taunting my inner psyche was a good way to show my gratitude, but I also wasn't sure I wanted to speak at all. Shock, denial, and grief had stemmed from hearing myself talk. It wasn't really my voice per se, but it came from my throat, and so I supposed by extension, it belonged to me, whether I liked it or not. At least for the moment.

In high spirits, I tasked myself with a new and ambitious mission.

Sitting by the window, I became aware of my translucent mirror image. Staring at myself blankly, I contemplated nothing for a few seconds before my thoughts kicked in: I wanted to climb over the figurative wall.

If I was willing to accept my body and sex in this dream, I had to accept my voice as well. Believing I had nothing to worry about, I put on a smug expression (or at least what I believe passed for smug on this face).

“This . . . this . . . ” Two words. That was all it took to brutally afflict me; my high morale vanished, leaving a gaping void of misery in its place.

‘Don't stop!’ my inner voice commanded.

“This . . . is . . . my . . . voice,” I forced the words out, my inner-self contorting in anguish. I strongly wanted to disbelieve I had spoken, let alone believe in what I had said. Defeated by my inability to overcome the loathing I harbored for my voice, I looked down to gloomily stare at the floor.

The few spoken lines repeated in my head. My very first words stung like venom, my somber admission weighing on me like a boulder.

I wanted to collapse to the floor, become eternally mute, and shed tears; however, I couldn't surrender, not when I had already started and had convinced myself I could accomplish this feat. I analyzed my situation and saw a glimmer of reason, one that could help me out from my distress. In an act of defiance, I forced my discovery to trudge up my throat.

“I'm this now . . . in here . . . and . . . only in here,” I mustered in a muted mumble. I could taste the torment in my tone, but the words carried a vital message: I was wasting a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

By trying to revert to only tolerating myself, I'd be devastated every time I was reminded of what I was in this dream. The shield of delusion would futilely keep trying to reassemble itself, never regaining its integrity. I would be left to wander in my dream as a broken wreck, all because I was scared of my own voice and sex.

I faced my blurry self, my eyes reflecting pain back at me, although behind them were faint embers of determination stubbornly refusing to be extinguished. A thought slipped into words that I no longer had the will to speak but nevertheless offered valuable insight on how to handle my situation:

‘Why am I stalling? This is like a plaster I'm ripping off slowly. I must do it in one go. A short sting is better than drawn out pain.’

I'd have to rid myself of my disheartened mood or ignore it completely before I could tackle my dilemma. I tried to think of something positive; something that could drag me out of the pit of bad morale I was in and past the painful obstacle.

How would Rainbow Dash handle the situation? She wouldn't back down; she wouldn't even think. She'd charge fearlessly at the threat!

An old marching song began to play in my head. It sang of pride, courage, and victory. I'd have to do as Rainbow Dash would. Do as the march conveyed. ‘It rushes! It wins!’

My mood improved slowly but steadily, and soon, my own defeatism burned to ash like dry paper in my inner fire. I became angry at myself, angry for having the nerve to show cowardice when I had assured myself I'd prevail effortlessly!

I prepared myself, not to arduously climb over the figurative wall but to smash it to pieces! I stood up, my confidence back with a vengeance. Centimeters from my very severe-looking mirror-self, the embers having erupted to a towering blaze, I took a deep breath before I unleashed my furious rant.

“FILLY OR COLT!? MARE OR STALLION!? WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE OTHER THAN MY VOICE AND FIGURE!? THE HAY WITH THE PINK HIGHLIGHTS! IT'S ONLY A COLOR! ANYPONY CAN TELL I'M STILL A FILLY INSide this shell of a . . . filly?”

My entire being shifted from fury to confusion and then, as I became silent, to shock. I trepidly backed away by a few meters, the reflection doing the same, its white shape surprisingly distinct on the clear glass.

I sat down, wanting to gently press the bridge of my nose with an index finger and thumb, but I had to settle for a hoof on my forehead instead. I presented myself a concise explanation for why my outburst had taken an odd turn: stress.

My foreleg descended to the floor, and I reviewed my journey in this dream so far. In summary, it had been one emotionally bumpy ride. I was well aware I had a low tolerance for stress, and I'd behave erratically if pushed to my limits. It was easy to deduce that my pent-up stress had broken through and negatively affected my attempt to attack my inhibition. I had spoken impetuously, so a simple slip-up in an otherwise successful endeavor shouldn't have come as a surprise.

I rubbed a hoof at my throat, hesitating a moment before giving my vocal chords a try: “I think . . . I can do this now.”

The words came out carefully, but they carried a smile of victory onto my face. I came close to my reflection and sat down, beaming at myself. I wasn't gazing at an unfamiliar creature any longer but at my alter ego. I was convinced I wouldn't encounter any hardships with myself. Finally, I could enjoy myself and my lucid dream!

Feeling curious, I brought my hoof to my ear and touched it. The pinna was tickled by the gentle press of my appendage, and I let out a small laugh. No longer averse to my voice, I started to vocalize some of my thoughts.

“This is quite fascinating. I can control my ears, and they also reflect my mood.” I turned my ears a few times experimentally, followed by them and my head descending unwillingly.

“Shy to myself?” Just like the red hue on my cheeks, my awkward grin was unintended.

My quick introspection left me clueless as to why I had become discombobulated by a simple ear motion.

“Just like my tail, huh? That's also a bit difficult to describe.” Looking at my tail, I raised it playfully. My hoof found itself under my jaw as I contemplated my tail, studying the feeling it created as I caused it to occasionally jump at my command.

“How do I describe something I've always had?”

The words replayed in my head, perplexing me. “Always had? Why did I say that?” I shrugged it off as a slip of the tongue and continued my hoof-under-jaw mulling. “Anyway, if I were to describe what it's like to have a tail to somepony who hasn't ever had one, how would—” I cut myself off, slightly irritated.

“Somepony? The hay am I—?”

My hoof practically slammed to the floor, and every hair on me stood rigid for a full second.

“Okay okay, time out, time out!” I blurted out, alarmed, then hastily pushed myself upright and left the kitchen.

I took myself to the living room, where I rested, prone on the sofa, head slumped on a pillow. I had temporarily dissuaded myself from talking, so I kept my concerned musings inside my head.

‘It all came by itself, like it was natural. Is it a habit I'm developing? Is it somehow related to my body? Am I involuntarily trying to behave like a pony? Wouldn't I already know how to behave like a pony?’

I lifted my head from the pillow, puzzled. Trying to study my last sentence, I began to see a hidden meaning in it instead of dismissing it as another lapse. With my stress shooting past my tolerance level, my head fell back on the pillow and a million thoughts erupted in me.

Forelegs over my head, I began to speculate random theories. Many of them were discarded outright as being beyond the impossible, but the ones that made a fraction of sense came out from my quivering self.

“What if the pegasus was just a desperate illusion and this is all real? What if I've gone insane and I'm really in a loony house? What if Equestria's real and I've been misplaced here by a botched spell?”

Despite how ridiculous it was, the last theory sounded plausible. I made a deduction so unbelievable, it carried to my voice.

“But that would mean I've always been—?” The words stopped in my throat, an uneasy feeling settling in my gut as I recalled what I had said in the kitchen:

‘How do I describe something I always had?’

“NOOO!!” With that shrill cry, I bounded off the sofa and backed away from it like it was dangerous. Trembling and looking over everything in a state of paranoia, I tried to shout firmly, but my fright betrayed my tone: “My theories were baseless ramblings! I'm only stressed! That explains my behavior! It has nothing to do with being a pony! Nothing!”

With my anxiety only increasing despite my frantic denouncing, I realized I was taking the wrong approach to alleviating my stress, and I sat down to recompose myself instead.

“This is only a dream. This is only a dream. This is only a dream . . . ” My soft chanting soothed me back to a tranquil state over the course of a minute.

With my negative emotions subdued, I gave myself a brief, collected evaluation of the scenario I was in: “This can only be a dream. It's the only sensible explanation for this impossible experience. No matter how real this seems to be, it can't ever be real.”

I paused to let my self-confidence grant me a smile, “With that said, I'm ready to face anything this dream throws at me!”

As if to spite me, a very natural feeling introduced itself at the worst moment. I looked over my shoulder at myself and spoke in agitated disbelief.

“I'm in a dream! I can't—” Realizing it was futile to reason with something that had no sense of hearing, I ceased my protest.

Either I force myself out from my dream, or I proceed with my new problem and deal with the humiliating consequences later. Neither seemed to be good choices, but I had recently made my decision to "face anything," and I couldn't eat my words. I groaned and stomped a hoof again in frustration before heading to the hallway.

Standing back from the bathroom door, I manipulated the handle effortlessly with my magic. As I opened my eyes and the door, the fluorescence spilled into my view from the confines of the once traumatic room. I had a direct visual of the fixture that I had thought would be simple to use, but a quick look told me it would be far from easy.

If I backed my hindlegs onto the ceil blue seat and kept my forelegs on the floor, I'd be oriented horizontally and only drench the upturned lid. Not only would it be difficult to clamber onto the seat, but its surface area was also inadequate to properly support me.

I thought of placing myself over the bowl by resting my forelegs on the tank, but I discarded the concept almost immediately as I realized my configuration would result only in a wet floor, hooves, and tail. I refined the idea slightly: standing over the seat, hindlegs secure on the floor, I'd tightly embrace the tank with my forelegs to hold my back vertically.

Declaring it the best solution, I approached the fixture and magically raised the lid. It was only then I realized it could be an obstruction, and the seat may be too wide for me to retain my hindlegs on the floor.

Alas, my endurance was running low, and I couldn't distribute any additional mental resources to re-evaluate the plan. Squirming desperately and with no tangible progress made, I hastily improvised and initiated Plan B. In quick succession, I removed the plastic shower drain grate, raised my tail, sat over the hole, and unlocked the flood gates.

The stream escaped into the water seal below, taking my tension along with it. A vocalization of relief strolled through my content smile. Certainly, it was strange to do it directly into the shower drain as a unicorn filly, and I was momentarily concerned that I had soiled my bed in the waking world, but my primary feeling was bliss.

With the purl underneath me fading to a few drips and then silence, sanitation became my next concern. Allowing the disposed liquid to linger in the chamber would definitely stink up the place. My experience on plumbing was less than minimal, but I had the understanding that if a large quantity of water was poured into the drain, the unpleasant substance would be flushed down to the sewer.

The obvious answer was in the shower, or rather, it was at the end of a flexible and flanged hose. Using my magic, I pulled the hand-held showerhead down and inspected it. Confusion abounded when I became aware that I'd need a bucket to fill, then empty its contents into the drain. I surmised the shower itself would be inadequate for the task.

“Where do I keep the bucket...? Oh, right!” Joy replaced confusion as I ventured to the two cupboard doors beneath the kitchen sink. Swinging open the left cupboard with my ethereal touch, I found the blue plastic bucket that was my prize.

I wrapped my forelegs around the blue bucket and pulled it out from its lair, my mind delaying for a second before informing me that it would be physically impossible for me to carry it in my arms. I rolled my eyes at my own forgetfulness and retracted one foreleg. I raised the handle with my hoof and bit my teeth on the metallic arch. If only I was more talented, I could've carried the bucket telekinetically, though my deduction gave me an idea for a test I'd do later.

The taste of steel was displeasing, but in a moment, I had carried the bucket to the shower. With ease, I levitated the showerhead into the bucket, my proud smile in full swing. In no more than ten seconds, I had the vessel filled to the brim with water and the showerhead back in its resting place. It all had gone smoothly; my telekinesis was becoming second nature to me.

I was about to empty the bucket when a funny thought announced itself: I was applying real-world rules to a dream. Why trouble myself with cleaning up my mess when anything I did or didn't do wouldn't leave lasting effects beyond the confines of my fantasy, apart from possible memories and—hopefully not—a soaked bed? In fact, I could've ventured out my home door and explored the realistic dreamworld to my heart's content without any regard for other people. After all, every being besides myself was nothing more than a figment of my imagination! Could they even behave like real people? A compilation of several amusing incidents of AI-controlled characters goofing up in video games played in my imagination. Would this dream feature similar incidents?

So far, my dream was an exact match of the authentic world except for the pegasus I had seen. The winged equid was my first clear evidence of this being a fictional world. If it hadn't been for that, I would've sworn I had awoken not into a dream but to a new day. I further theorized that my unexplained transformation was utterly impossible. Therefore, my radically changed body then became the second and most remarkable sign of being in an unreal setting. How it took so long to figure that out puzzled me. I was certain there was more to it than me overlooking the obvious, but I had to urgently return to the task at hoof when a revoltingly acerbic stench invaded my nostrils.

I was quick to use my telekinesis to tilt the bucket, the low-pitched sloshing confirming I was accurately displacing the water into the drain. The displeasing odor diminished to a tolerable level, and I replaced the drain cover. The bucket was then reassigned to become a subject for a most harmless test.

The blue vessel was wrapped in my invisible touch. It lifted off the floor silently and began to hover gracefully through the room and out the door. With no vision or touch, my awareness of the bathroom, hallway, and anything within their confines was immensely mystifying. In essence, my magic was a sixth sense.

The plastic container made its way towards the kitchen, but at the doorway, it came to an abrupt halt. My grasp vanished, and I heard the telltale clatter of the bucket crashing to the floor. I was surprised initially, but curiosity brought me to the fallen item. Inspecting the scene, my hoof came under my chin, and my brows furrowed in thought. Then, a smirk crossed my face.

I was the detective, and before me was the victim.

“Looks like he wanted to kick himself for leaving the bathroom, but instead . . . ”

I paused to place a pair of nonexistent sunglasses on myself.

“ . . . he kicked the bucket. Yeeeeaaaahh!”

Although it was cheesy, my voice couldn't possibly be more off, and I didn't shout very loudly, the imitation made me chuckle.

Quickly returning to pondering my recent telekinetic test, I analyzed my skill: I could manipulate lightweight items only within a limited range, and I had to keep my eyes closed for my invisible hand to function.

The restrictions of my innate skill disappointed me, but I had no choice but to accept them. So many things about my magic were to be left untested, I believed. An invisible timer hovered before me, counting from and to an undisclosed digit. There could be seconds to hours remaining. My longest dream had lasted for two weeks, though not as a single sequence. Rather, I had experienced short segments that were separated by days, all in the span of single night's sleep.

Zero, nine, five, eight, my microwave stated with its green liquid crystal display as I proceeded to return the bucket to its home under the sink. My current dream was advancing in real time, with each minute consisting of sixty seconds.

Done with checking Time's slow but unimpeded progress, I shot a look through the window, the expanse beyond luring me with its vibrant colors and unlimited freedom. Normally, I wouldn't even consider going outside simply because it existed, but now, it would be an injustice to keep myself indoors. My mental inquiry on what compelled me to adventure outside brought me no better reply than the brief inspection of my equine body.

Almost instinctively, I started towards the exit; however, when I passed the bathroom doorway, I came to a stop. Still playing by my own rules, I had to turn off the lights in the white-tiled room, but another thought also told me to venture forth into the room once more. My steps resounded off the white tiles, and my gaze was locked on the mirror. Affixed to the wall above the sink, it had told me an unpleasant tale in the past, but now, it was calling to me.

With a pounce, my forelegs landed on the sink, and I craned my neck. Unlike my first encounter with myself, I wasn't rejecting my image, and unlike in the kitchen, I had a perfectly clear image of myself. Too clear, because my mind skidded to a halt, leaving me gawking at my own visage. Slowly, some thoughts gathered, forming a speck of sense. Detached from myself, I leaned closer and drawled at how adorable the being in the mirror was. Abruptly, my forehooves slipped, and the air in my lungs evacuated in a blink of an eye as my torso hit the sink counter.

Fortunately, the stability failure did not result in a disaster, my forelegs having found new support from the bottom of the sink. The only damage was a startled heart and a passing feeling of heat from the adrenaline, then an embarrassed grin as I realized I had let out an atypical squeal.

After regaining my composure and posture, I resumed visual contact with myself, now with an objective eye.

I was the perfect blend of reality and cartoon, avoiding the dreaded uncanny valley entirely. The emerald green eyes charmed me, and I smiled like a spanner. I had learned my lesson, though, so I made sure my legs were locked and secure while I waited for my trance to wear off.

Several minutes passed, but I regretted none of the spent time. My idling, however wasteful, gave me an opportunity to inspect my coat. It was smooth and white with a seeming hint of light blue, though I couldn't be sure due to the off-white lighting. Despite my attempt to be unaffected by my temporary but beautiful figure, a desire at the back of my head wanted a hand to gently caress my delicate coat. My imagination tried to run wild, but a light shake of my head tamed that impulse, and I shifted my attention to the dual-colored bangs.

My messy bronze mane featured two, almost bilaterally symmetrical pink stripes extending from the forelock and along my mane to my withers. Actually, to call my mane messy was an understatement. It looked like I had stood under the downdraft of a helicopter for several minutes and never bothered to comb my mane afterwards.

That description was a hyperbole, though.

While some may have scoffed at my slightly scruffy outlook, I found it to be an interesting contrast to the rest of my appearance. I could've done without the pink highlights, but I didn't have any dye to conceal them with. I was, to my surprise, more bothered by pink, white, and bronze being a bad combination of colors. If I had been a stallion, I would've done my utmost to hide the pink streaks. Now, they were a minor inconvenience at worst.

“Just a color.” I was casual about it, though I began to muse what color could be more suitable in its place, doing my best to project them onto my reflection.

“Red stripes? Blue stripes? Green stripes?”

I paused, a certain scene replaying in my mind.

“Oh no, not green,” I pretended to be horrified.

As I envisioned more colors, I had a sudden déjà vu.

“Something about dying my mane?” I tilted my head in rumination but drew only blanks. “Or my coat, or my tail?” I glanced down at both my back and tail, expecting an answer from them but got none.

“Have I ever . . . ” I gave my reflection a strange look, “ . . . dyed my mane?”

I knew I had never dyed my hair; however, an image of myself with a black mane appeared in my mind's eye for a split second. I concentrated and saw it again. It didn't feel imaginary but like a true memory. A memory of myself with a groomed black mane and highlights so bright they could've been self-luminous.

It was so contradictory with what I knew of myself that I reacted with incredulity.

“What the hay?”

With a delay, I snapped out of my introspection when I registered the unusual expression I had muttered. “Oh great! Sounds like I do have a verbal quirk!”

The possibility that I had developed an uncontrollable idiosyncrasy wasn't amusing me at all.

“Is it my upbringing, something I learned when I was a foal?” I theorized, again doing a double-take as the last line didn't even make sense.

“For Celestia's sake, this is ridiculous!” Immediately, I flinched at my own words. With an exasperated cry, my ears pinned flat against my head, and I began to yell at myself.

“WHY DO I KEEP SAYING THESE THINGS!? I MUST KNOW WHY! IT'S BECAUSE I'VE ALWAYS BEEN A PONY!”

Suddenly, several images flashed before my eyes. They were from my past, but not the past as I knew it: in every image, I was a pony. My fury vanished, replaced by disbelief, shock, and growing distress.

The harder I tried to repel the false memories, the longer they persisted, until I was sure they were starting to replace my real ones. Apprehensively, I retreated from the mirror, giving it one last glance before abandoning the room, shutting the door and lights for good.

Wishing I could wall up the bathroom and erase the last few minutes from my memory, I backed away into my bedroom, my tail desiring to hide itself between my legs.  

“Tha-that was bad, really bad! It wasn't funny! I don't want that to happen ever again!” I spoke in quivering terror as I tried to wrap my disarranged mind around what I had experienced.

“I-I didn't . . . I wasn't . . .  I'm not . . .  I've never . . .  why did . . .  why can't . . .  I just . . .  I . . . ”

Incomplete sentences left me as the powerful stress took its toll on me. I couldn't restrain myself any longer and I slumped to the floor, tears beginning to drip from my eyes.

I had become overstressed and terrified, despite my earlier declaration that I could handle anything this dream threw at me. Not only had it forced me to adapt a weird speech habit and lie about my origin, but it had also apparently overwritten some of my memories with forgeries. It all came so suddenly I was unable to set up my defenses. I knew what I was, and I bitterly cursed at my dream for subjugating me to act out its heinous pranks.

I dried the tears from my eyes and began to pull myself together. It took a long while, but eventually, I saw the matter in a reasonable light. “It's okay. I was stressed, overreacted foolishly, and had a minor breakdown. Regardless of how good or bad this dream is, I will eventually wake up, and then all will be back to normal.”

I sighed wearily, then looked at my striped tail. “Back to normal . . .”

It took me a few seconds to notice I had said it lamentably.

“Aargh!” My forehooves pressed to my temples, and I screamed indignantly: “WHAT THE HA—!?” I shut myself up abruptly and closed my eyes, my mood cooling almost instantly; I knew better than to repeat my mistake.

I gingerly brought my forehooves together, and I began to speak in a tone so calm that it made smooth glass seem like a vortex: “No. Let's have it your way. If you want me to have the speech mannerisms of a pony, that's okay. If you want me to say I've always been a pony, then I'll comply. If you want me to have memories of myself as a pony, then I won't try to deny them.”

I placed my hooves on the floor, listening acutely to the serenity of my home. I was done fighting; it was better to humbly accept a surrender than struggle for a hollow victory. I rested all my faith on the fact that I was only sojourning in a fantasy world.

During my meditation and preparation for the departure from my home, I recalled one thing I shouldn't leave without: keys.

If I wanted to return to my home, I'd need my home key. My keys were almost always in my everyday track jacket, but I had removed them since it had to be washed.

In a few seconds, I had located the keyring lying on the bureau in my bedroom. There were only three keys on the ring, one of which was my home key. It was most fortuitous that a yellow string was tied to the keyring as well. A remnant from something long forgotten, it'd serve a purpose again.

My magic easily opened the knot. With a quick inspection, I measured the total length of the string to be about forty centimeters. More than enough. I pulled the the string through the keyring, then suspended them both in the air and drew them close to me. The ends met above my withers, intertwining several times and then forming a knot. I released the string, and my purely practical necklace was complete. I looked down and tugged at the string to confirm it was taut and secure, a proud smile soon spreading onto my lips.

Carrying my backup plan with me, I resumed my mission; however, I came to a stop just by the door. I glanced over my shoulder, like I was silently saying 'see you soon' to my home. A sudden and short memory of myself pulling a chair at the kitchen table appeared before me. It would've been meaningless if it weren't for the fact that it was yet another fake recollection. My eyes shifted down as a feeling of concern and melancholy passed through me; I knew the conditions of my surrender. I sincerely hoped I'd retain my identity for the entire duration of the dream.

A sigh passed through my nostrils, and I faced the door before me.

Never before had my home door seemed so different. My reduced size made it look imposing, and I stared at it in reverence, not thinking of it as a mere wooden portal but a barrier that separated me from potential harm.

If only my home door could open with the similar air-rushing, hair-raising, metal-grinding majesty that a Vault-Tec door did.

I closed my eyes for a second; the door handle rattled and the latch opened, the resulting sound reverberating in the corridor. The dark brown door silently drifted open, and the invisible colors of the sun meandered through my home to paint over the darkness.

With a single breath, multiple scents flowed into my nostrils, stronger than I could ever imagine. Cooking rice and meats, fresh paint, a wet dog, perfumes, soaps, coffee, tea, fish, pea soup, and more. I was almost overwhelmed by the countless aromas: my home was sterile in comparison. I quickly deduced that ponies possessed an acute sense of smell.

Waiting for my wooziness to fade, I stared at what was before me. I recalled that the white-painted concrete walls of the corridor featured five more doors in addition to mine, though I saw only two, both on my left. As a form of simplistic art, a single bistre stripe decorated the walls, and an orange button flickered alone like a candle between the two doors.

Past the corner to the right was my next objective: the elevator.

However, the unpredictable world made me recall my earlier fear, and my desire to adventure diminished slightly. I wasn't about to retreat, but I sincerely wished I truly was in a fantasy. If I wasn't, a short and terrifying life in a research lab would be my inevitable fate.

“I guess this is it,” I said, my tone full of awe, before I trepidly took my first steps beyond my home.

Pony, Meet Human

With caution marking my steps, I wandered from my home. The concrete walls and wooden doors were effective insulation, presenting my hoofsteps with an environment where they could echo pristinely. The floor was harder than in my home, and I was astonished at how audible my steps were. My subconscious still perceived my forelegs as arms that should have had dextrous digits, and I was naturally bewildered as I experimentally tapped my hoof on the floor a few times.

I pitched my neck down and raised my leg to get a closer look at my hoof, gazing at it in a strange mixture of awe, disbelief, and delight. When one has spent more than twenty years as a human guy, a dramatic but temporary change like this was a challenge to comprehend.

Deciding to just roll with it, my next task was to focus my magic on closing the door as gently as I could. With the beams of sunlight denied entry into the corridor, only the faint, stubborn orange glow of the button for the lights to my left remained.

I was now beyond the safety of my home.

Along with the emerging concern for my dream's authenticity, the multitudes of scents entering my nose were making me nauseated. It'd only take a moment before I'd fully adjust to my acute sense of smell, but to fight my own doubts would require more than time.

“Remember, this is a dream!” I told myself, my nervousness detectible in my own tone.

I started as the corridor became bathed in the pale yellow that was cast by the ceiling-mounted lights, soon followed by a low droning entering my ears. Another human was using the elevator. I hoped that whoever it was wouldn't venture to my floor, not with the way I was looking. The paranoid side of my mind chucked out a few chilling concepts to my mouth, from where they slipped intermittently.

“What if I'm wrong . . . ? What if this isn't a dream . . . ? What if this is real . . .?”

A few seconds passed, and I heard the elevator come to a stop at the floor it was called to, then resume its journey. Listening attentively to the machinery moving the mobile room, I approached the corner cautiously, stopping so I could peek my head around to see the elevator door to my immediate right. The gray monolith of steel with a rectangular column for a window stood tall and imposingly, much like everything else around me. The sensation of diminutiveness it instilled in me wasn't helping the instinctive fear that caused me to hold my head low. I didn't want to be wrong, I really didn't, but if I was—

The droning came to a halt, and as the door opened, so did my respiration. Intending to bolt back into my home, I rotated around in an instant, but in my anxiety, I had completely forgotten the door was closed. Too disarrayed to utilize my magic, I stared at the door in agape consternation. In desperation, I curled down to a small pile on the floor, the trapped air furtively exiting through my nostrils as I did my best to hide myself in plain sight.

An unsettling silence soon befell the corridor: a few steps emitted from behind me, but no keys jingled, no home door opened. Nothing. The hairs on my back stood up like spikes, and the air became sealed in my lungs again. I was petrified; not even my eyes were blinking. At any moment, whoever was near me would grab me and—

“You, uh, okay there?”

It was the voice of a male, and he sounded concerned and confused, a stark contrast to what I had feared to receive. My dread left me with a sigh, my apprehension vanished, and my breathing returned to normal.

“Did something happen to you?” He might have misunderstood my sigh as a sign of grief, although he wasn't entirely wrong.

Apart from a couple of positive moments to break the pattern, this entire morning had been plagued by very stressful incidents: the shock of being a pony, the denial of my sex and the difficulties accepting it, the paranoia of my dream being the genuine reality, ridiculous theories I almost believed in, unwanted mannerisms, implausible memories.

Again, to my disappointment, I had discovered that my belief in my dream being genuine was dangerously flimsy, demonstrated exemplarily by my recent, but thankfully short, panic of encountering a fellow human being. I had expected to be treated as an alien at worst and had prepared to meet hollow caricatures at best.

“Do you need any help?” He was undeterred by my silence, forcing me to abandon my deliberation. With newfound faith in my dream, my confidence made a remarkable recovery. At long last and in spite of everything I had gone through, it was time to have fun!

“Um, I'm . . . fine.” I mimicked Fluttershy's unassuming tone. Only the tiny smile I had betrayed my internal snickering.

“Come on,” he encouraged softly. “I'm pretty sure something bothers you.”

He didn't know it, but he was right; however, I wasn't about to pour my heart out to the imaginary man. Why would I? That wasn't the joy I was looking for, if it even could count as something enjoyable. I craved to let loose in this fundamentally unreal playground, and its population would serve as my playthings.

“I, um, only had a rough morning,” I summed up my emotionally tumultuous experience, anticipating the topic to be changed.

“Look, if you want to talk about it—”

“No, I don't,” I curtly interrupted the insistent man, the brief burst of irritation carrying to my tone. He might've been genuinely worried for me, but I wasn't. I desired to have a merry time, not blabber about my immediate past, let alone think about it. I looked toward the future now. However, my gruff reply was uncalled for.

“I, uh, I'm . . . it's nothing,” I said in an apologetic tone, fine tuning it to match the tender pegasus whilst I began to lift myself from the floor. “Just one of those mornings when—”

“When your hair refuses to fall into place?” he interjected with a lighthearted comment.

I produced a small laugh to compliment his jape, straightening my forelegs to bring myself to a sitting stance. “Oh, yes, I think you nailed the head on that,” I replied through my smile and glanced up at what little I could see of my unkempt mane.

“Hit the nail on the head,” he corrected with mirth in his tone, embarrassing me to some degree. Delaying for a moment to allow my blush to fade (at least I think I had a blush), I raised myself onto all fours and finally turned to face him; instead, shock and surprise filled me as I ended up looking at his forest green plaid shirt and dark blue jeans.

The middle-aged man stood perhaps about a meter from me, yet I had to pitch my head to make eye contact with his sparsely-haired counterpart. It's one thing to have estimated my height to be in the range of one meter, but it's an entirely another thing when he was twice as tall as I was. As a human, I would've been as tall as him, but now as a pony, I was so . . . tiny.

“To be honest,” he said as I backed by a few steps, “if something's on your mind, I'm all ears . . .”

“I-I, um, I, uh . . .” I mumbled, my sights falling on his unimpressive brown shoes as my mind tried to overcome our size differences. Retrieving some of my composure, I decided I didn't want him to suspect I was about to unload a boulder off my shoulders, so I hastily opened my mouth to say pretty much anything I could think of. Poor choice on my part.

“I, uh, yes, um . . .” I stammered at the giant, drawing a puzzled expression out of him. I gawked in silence for a few seconds until my brain finally surmounted the disparity and constructed a sentence for me. A small smile of relief emerged on me as I spoke it without much thought. “Well, yeah, many things are on my mind.” Almost immediately following my reply did it dawn to me I had only dug my knees deeper.

“Good to hear! So what's nagging you?” he said with an expectant yet kind tone, his relaxed visage a contrast to the blank expression that successfully concealed my shock. Rather than roll out my inner issues, I began to process a method out of the unpleasant situation that wasn't a hasty goodbye and a rapid dash into the elevator. I deemed I could turn this conversation into something else than an impromptu psychotherapy session. As I pondered for a solution, my vision drifted around aimlessly, eventually halting on the gray plastic shopping bag he carried in his fisted left hand. It was bulging with wares, and I inspected it intricately for an idea.

“Well I, uh, have this . . . um.” I stalled for time as my brain worked its synapses. In sudden revelation, something I hadn't considered at all ventured into my thoughts. “I, uh, have a very, very, serious question.” I spoke quietly, and my sights detached from the bag and rolled down to my forelegs. It was a very serious question I had conjured. Very serious. Terrifyingly serious.

“Shoot,” the man said casually.

I hesitated for a second, eyeing my forehooves with a mix of fear and desperation. “What do you see?” I whispered timidly. It was a question aimed as much at him as it was to myself.

‘I see a pony's forelegs,’ I answered the question. ‘But that's what I see. I could be crazy and only hallucinating myself as a pony. This man could open my eyes to the truth and free me from my supposed psychosis.’

“Pardon?” he said to my surprise, and I returned my eyes on him to see he had cocked an eyebrow. Despite my unease, I repeated my question as calmly as possible, small beads of perspiration beginning to meander between the hairs of my coat. I hoped it was my coat. Hoped hard. Hoped very hard. I was, frankly, scared out of my mind. The longer the uncertainty of my shape prevailed, the more stressed I'd become . . . and I had a low tolerance for stress.

“Well, I see you right here in front of me,” he said after a small pause, now with a smirk on his countenance. I suspected he was trying to camouflage his confusion . . . or worse, his mirth! He behaved like a human, not like a shoddy copy of one. If this was the genuine reality, and there were actually two humans present, I'd become quite mad. Mainly, it was because I'd be literally mad, but it was also because a voice in my head would come forth to scream 'Objection!' in fury if I wasn't a pony. It was very apparent that the possibility of suffering a highly humiliating experience had already chipped at my sanity. Swallowing hard first, I presented the unusually calm man a trembling question:

“Can you please be more specific?”

His brows contracted, perplexed, yet his smirk was intact.

“Well, uh . . . I see you, standing on all fours.”

“On all fours!?” I echoed the words with dread, my barely collected exterior deteriorating rapidly as I was becoming more and more stressed. Whether he was intentionally daft or not made no difference to me any longer. I had given him the benefit of doubt, but now, that had worn down to a thin membrane that would falter at any moment.

I glanced over my shoulder and tossed my tail. I believed it was my tail. What else could it have been? Was my mind deceiving me so convincingly I could feel the muscle that controlled my tail, the hooves at the end of my limbs, and the hairs on my slender frame?

“Yeah, on all fours,” he bounded the words back, looking like he couldn't possibly understand how serious I was. In fact, I couldn't understand how he could be so dense! It was as if he had deliberately lied to me! No! My senses couldn't possibly be tricking me! To believe I was currently a human, contrary to all the evidence I had, was unthinkable! I knew what I saw, I knew what I felt, I knew what I sounded like.

I was a young mare, not a human! Why couldn't the despicable scoundrel tell me that!?

‘Oh no,’ I snapped out of my ferocious insisting, ‘This stress is driving me insane!’ I cast a quick but nervous glance at the waiting man, then eyed my legs with the same look. ‘No, I'm not insane!’ I asserted. ‘I only want to believe I'm a pony because being told that I'm a human who is deluded into regarding himself as a mare would be so horribly humiliating that it would completely shatter my mind and I'd succumb to a primitive defensive reaction known as intense anger!’ That emotion then began to work into my thoughts, and my brows contorted. ‘Which, by the way, is already winding up to full gear. Oh yes, it is.’ Anger felt good, I noted. Humiliation would bring me anguish, but anger would please me.

With my panic converting into blind rage at a rapid rate, I realized I had two choices left how to deal with it. One was easy, the other was rational. Reluctantly, I decided to go for the difficult option, which was to cool myself in spite of the intensely aggravating situation. I knew that if I was calm, I could save myself from falling into my own paranoid theory, a theory I was more than willing to believe due to it being the most realistic explanation for everything that I had experienced up to now, but I was too perturbed. Somehow, I had to prove to myself I was in a lucid dream and not completely bonkers . . . and this man would be of the utmost importance in achieving that objective.

As a concession to my angrier side, I gave the arguably duplicitous man a stern look as I said sarcastically, “Thank you kindly for the astute observation.” Without removing my glare from his continually puzzled expression, I spoke again, but without the sarcasm. “Do you mind waiting with me while I ponder my next move?” He concurred by nodding rather nonchalantly. For a moment, I thought all would be okay. I'd cool down and realize what would debunk my theory for good, and then there'd be much rejoicing. However, when he started to turn towards what I suspected was his home door, my frail tranquility didn't shatter.

It vaporized.

“Don't you dare to walk away from me!” I released a great quantity of my internal blaze, and my ears flattened back; he had become my enemy. I didn't care whether he was honestly stupid or not—or if I were a pony or not—I wanted him to suffer! Had my anger been tangible, it would've boiled titanium.

He rotated his upper body, a very confused expression on him as he futilely tried to talk some calming words into me.

“Uh, hey, take it easy now. I'm only tak—”

“Shut your pie hole!” I commanded. “I didn't give you permission to leave!” To my frustration, the voice of a young mare didn't quite convey my inner drill sergeant. Because that's what I was! I was a mar . . . No, I couldn't let that urge become vocal! My humiliation would be complete if it did.

“Er- What?” He seemed to be taken aback by my flammable behavior. “Permission? What the he—” He jittered as a resounding clack erupted in the corridor, courtesy of my forehoof striking the floor. I swear, I couldn't have produced that sound by any other available means.

“You'll stay right here with me!” I said indignantly, my voice increasing in strength as I continued to speak. “I said I have to plan my next move, and your participation in it is absolutely mandatory and nonnegotiable!” I didn't know what I'd do to him, but I'd do something to him; of that, I was convinced.

“Well, uh, but—”

“Silence!” I snapped, and his eyes spread wide open. My glare locked on him, and I launched into a vehement tirade. “Since you're obviously of limited intellect and can't comprehend why I'm so furious at you, I'm left with no choice but to explain it to you: I asked you a very simple question, and you failed to answer that question. To unshroud it further, I'm in complete disbelief at how you could be so incredibly imperceptive that it was outright impossible for you to discern what you saw before your own two eyes!” Probably due to my choice of words, he looked quite lost; I continued ranting regardless.

“How difficult can it be to tell to me what I really am!?” My tone bore a trace of incredulity and despair. “Does honesty give you an allergic reaction or something!? I mean, have you ever heard of the words 'straightforward', 'unambiguous', or 'frank'!?” My incendiary tone came back. “Well, now you have! Just so you know, those were synonyms, or in other words, they mean the same thing, but I'm fairly convinced the repetition was necessary to ensure the concept would sink into the raisin that pretends to be your brain!” Incendiary became vitriol. “But hey, you should congratulate yourself! Due to your stellar performance at being a marvelous example of striking ineptitude, your astonishing inability to entitle me with a clear answer to a basic question has spectacularly devastated my mood! I hope you are proud and content because I definitely don't share your sentiments. At! All!” Two hoof stomps emphasized the final two words.

“However, against my better judgement, I have to warn you: if you decide to do anything to worsen my mood any further, such as talk or move . . .” I paused, but only to draw in air and rear up onto my hind legs. “I'LL FORCE YOU TO REGRET IT!”

With my rant over, I slammed down my forehooves as I returned to the quadruped stance, myself wheezing in fury and eyes locked on his perturbed face.

“. . . Look, I'm not sure wha—”

“What is your major malfunction!?” I shouted piercingly, tears of rage in my eyes. “I ordered you stay put and silent, yet you persist!?” A subsequent exasperated huff aimed at the floor vented a big portion of my tempest, but my strict glare was quick to return to him. “Or do I have to imprint that vital directive into you?” I threatened. “Because I assure you, I know how to subdue you, and you'll cry like there's no tomorrow if you don't desist from being a bothersome oaf!” I audibly struck my hoof to the floor. The shocked man was wise enough not to speak again, but I wasn't done with him yet. I wiped the few drops from my eyes into my furry forearm. I hoped it was furry.

“For your information,” I said with serenity, “I regard you with nothing but unending contempt, though I suspect you know that already. That said, I fully expect you to cooperate from this moment onward. If not, then the educative imprinting shall commence.” I tapped my hoof a few more times to give him a clue. Indeed, I had conjured an arguably efficient method to incapacitate him, and I was ready to put that plan into motion when he finally nodded his silent agreement to keep his trap shut and his legs rooted to the floor.

“I'm glad that you have at last accepted your most humble and submissive position.” I said, a pleased but malignant smile on me. Right as the man seemed to relax, I shook off my calm exterior to billow an insult. “You balding baboon!” He unhinged his jaw to roll out a possible retort. Or else he was agape at hearing me insult him so suddenly; it didn't matter to me.

“Ah-ah-ah,” I reproved him whilst shaking my head, a smug smile on my lips. “No talking, no moving.” He promptly sealed his cranium cavity, and I chuckled mischievously.

“Say, isn't crying your ultimate wish?” I taunted him with insidious encouragement. “So what's stopping you from having a go at it, hm? Come on, do it! Fulfill that desire! I can help you achieve it!” It was quite obvious I was high on an exhilarating power trip of which I was not ashamed. “All right all right, I admit it,” I relented, laughing. “I do know you don't want to cry, but, well . . .” My vivacious tone became ominously serious. “I can't always be right, now can I?” He didn't say a word, his expression frozen in confused consternation. A wry smile emerged on me. “Good boy,” I said softly like he was a canine trainee.

For the time being, our one-sided play had come to an end. So had that insistent desire to declare myself a mare to him; of that, I was most appreciative. I knew my mind was that of a male human, but to have been revealed to be one in appearance while in the immediate vicinity of another human . . . I would've died out of shame.

Despite the ruckus made, no prying eyes had come to watch the commotion. Perhaps the walls and doors were just that effective at blocking sounds from accessing the abodes. Or maybe most homes, if not all homes, were vacant as it now was, seemingly, a Friday noon.

Judging by the man's slight fidgeting, he wasn't comfortable being quiet and idle near me. If I truly was a pony, which I had no desire to doubt, I should've been about as terrifying as a fluffy pillow. I was quite bemused by my success at intimidating him into submission.

Although I was poised to educate him in a rather brutish manner, deep down I wasn't the violent type, and I might come to regret the decision to attack the man. Might. My anger had attempted to coerce me to incapacitate the plaid-shirted numbskull and force tears from him by applying blunt force to his groin. Repeatedly, if necessary. Even the toughest guys will weep when their twins are being rendered into elongated disks, I surmised. Thankfully, I had never been subjected to such cringe-worthy pain. The closest to it was a minor bicycle mishap when I was a child. The top tube is unpleasantly hard, I had learned.

I had kept my waning glare on the restless man for a while, my relaxing expression concealing my indecision on whether to dismiss him and then collect myself in solitude or if I could still find a purposeful use for him. After much deliberation, I concluded it was best to keep him in my vice as he could still prove to be instrumental in verifying my equine form and lucid dream. To put it lightly, the possibility of them being refuted was highly unwelcome; however, if that were true, I had to keep myself in check and accept it with humility if possible. With my inner inferno doused, I also began to search for the significant clue that would further aid me in my quest for affirming my physical status as a pony and my mental status of wakefulness, or rather the lack thereof.

Suddenly, everything became black—although much later than I had anticipated—as the lights went out; their inbuilt timer had counted down to zero. For a brief moment, there was nothing but silence in the darkness, until I let out a little self-satisfied chuckle as I noticed (by ear) that the surmised neighbor wasn't taking his chance to escape from me. Did I really scare him into petrification? After all, I was quite sure I bore the appearance of a harmless unicorn who lacked a cutie mark and proficiency in his own telek— Wait! That was it! That was what I had failed to see earlier! If I could utilize telekinesis and generate a supportive reaction from the man, then my favored theory would receive the crucial backing it so greatly needed!

“I pressed the button!” I exclaimed with pride and in mild awe as the lights came on. A partially visible tin can in his bag drew my immediate attention, and I deftly employed my telekinesis to quickly but gingerly carry the metallic object to the ceiling. Without doubt, this display of magic would cert—

“You goddamn horn-headed mule!” His enraged shout caught me by surprise, and my eyes snapped open. The item dropped, but I regained my senses and saved the cylindrical container from its harsh meeting with the floor in the nick of time.

“What's wrong with you!?” he demanded, his face turning red. “Is this a funny game to you!? I'm not a toy you can play with, and I really don't care what kind of sorcery you— Arrrgh—!” He abruptly hunched, his free hand clutching his chest as he groaned with a fierce grimace.

Before I could deliver a proportional response for his insubordination, I became concerned for his health. Regardless of whether he was real or not, I couldn't retain a good conscience if he died of a heart attack before my eyes; my idea of fun didn't entail accidental or purposeful death. I closed the small gap and came to stand almost next to him, a pang of intense guilt and concern coursing in me.

“I-I'm terribly sorry, I really am!” I apologized. “Will you be okay? Do you need help?” I offered. Although I couldn't entirely shake the feeling I was talking to an illusion, I did my best to show sincere concern for him.

“Urgh! I have . . . a heart condition . . .” he strained to talk, coughing throatily. His shopping bag slipped from his hand and came to an upright position next to his feet. My concern for him ascended to a higher level. “But no . . . I'll be fine,” he tried to reassure me weakly as his posture began to fall.

“No, you won't be fine! Please, you can't die!” I protested, then looked about at the doors in my vicinity as my sweat glands began to work in overdrive. “I-I should get you some immediate he-AAAGH!” My startled yelp was due to him abruptly wrapping his hands around my forelegs and hoisting me up. Next thing I knew, I had my back and forelegs pressed against the wall, my hind legs dangling in the air and his furious face so close I could feel his pungent exhales brush my facial fur.

He had a feral look in his eyes, like he was seconds away from tearing into his captured prey. I dared not to talk nor break eye contact, let alone attempt to free myself. Dream or not, pony or not, I considered my well-being to be more valuable than an act of brave defiance.

As he continued to glare at me like an animal, I quickly theorized that he may have feigned the heart problem in order to seize and then subjugate me to whatever cruel retribution he was now concocting in that raisin of his. I also surmised that either he was stronger than his figure implied, or I was lighter than I had estimated. Or both. It didn't really matter. What mattered was that I had to think of a way to survive this sticky situation, preferably unscathed.

His deeply unsettling glower going on and on with no end in sight to my restrained predicament, I finally devised an unorthodox scheme to dissuade the brute from potentially inflicting bodily harm upon me. Namely, I took advantage of my appearance, and by that, I mean I did my best to display pleadingly big eyes and a sad pout, even whined a tiny whimper in hopes of melting his icy heart. It felt . . . wrong . . .  to go for that angle, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

For a moment, he was unresponsive to my imploringly apologetic and wounded look, but when he drew a vicious smile on himself, my apprehension returned to my countenance.

“Good girl,” he murmured sinisterly.

Without warning, he released his grip and I gasped in shock. My unprepared body almost collapsed completely when my hooves landed back on the floor. Only my hind legs took the fall less graciously, and I slipped onto my haunches, thankfully without injury.

Trembling and breathless, but also relieved the extremely tense situation was over, I watched as he then took hold of his bag and approached the rightmost door of the two that were to my right. He opened the door without as much as looking behind himself, and once inside his own dwelling, he drew the door shut so fiercely I was certain a pressure wave rebounded more than once in the corridor.

With the door sealed, my subdued aggravation announced its grouching comeback. “That oversized orangutang. Of all things possible, he chose to call me a gi—!” My intonation caught up to me and cancelled my aggravation's performance. My mood passed through momentary confusion before reaching impassivity.

“Oh . . . right. I guess I am . . . ” I said flatly, omitting the final but obvious part of the statement, followed by a nonchalant shrug—or at least that was what I tried to do. Since I was supporting myself on my hindquarters and forelegs, I didn't shift my shoulders and forelegs in a normal shrug. On the contrary, my entire body slouched. Again, I became briefly perplexed.

Moving on to more meaningful matters than being bemused by bungled body language, I reviewed the interaction I had with the man in search for clear signs of my presence in a fictional world. First and foremost, I wasn't seen as something alien but as a person who bore the shape of a pony. A real human would've not started a peaceful conversation with me; they would've done the contrary, maybe gasped in shock, but definitely not socialized with me like I was a common sight. At any rate, the dullard had eventually, albeit disparagingly, affirmed I was a unicorn.

Secondly, I had utilized magic—telekinesis to be precise—in the presence of the berk, no less, taking his precious tin can and introducing it to the ceiling in a most gentle manner, which was apparently the final straw for him. I should've just launched the tin can at his weak spot upon being assaulted by his verbal volley, but the situation took an unexpected turn before I had the chance to counterattack. With the entire ordeal over, I could've also taken a moment to review my own (mis)behavior, but all things considered, that was now unnecessary. To sum up, he indirectly called me a pony, and he lost his temper when I applied magic to his belongings, not to mention he called me a gi . . . yeah.

“Finally,” I said in tranquil joy, my forehooves doing the best imitation of fingers placed vertically flat on each other. “I have absolutely nothing to worry about. This is a lucid dream, and nothing but a lucid dream.” I raised one foreleg up in glee. “Dream confirmed!” I cried out in imitation of MythBusters. Pity I couldn't replicate Jamie's or Adam's voice. Kari's, then? Maybe. I wanted to bounce up and down in circles like an automated spring whilst cheering in a most unmanly way, but the constrictive nature of my male gender rules persuaded me to tone down my celebration by a great margin.

As I began to lift myself up, my left hind leg nudged a mystery object. In curiosity, I oriented myself to get a look at what it was, and to my surprise, it was the sealed and undamaged tin can.

I was quite sure its owner wouldn't mind if I were to procure it for myself. He definitely hadn't noticed its absence yet. Therefore, I was hasty to inspect the label. I would've been disappointed if it was tuna, ground beef, or some other indigestible dead animal. To my joy, the blue-tinted label featured images of pineapples. That was all the information I needed, and I became spellbound, which I ultimately broke free from when a sizable bead of saliva squeezed itself past my lips. The elevator had to wait; a meal to consume was now my fate!

Feeling a tad unsafe where I was, I ventured to the corridor's opposite end where I would be as far away from the nasty neighbor's door as possible. If he still existed, that is. Being a fictional creation, he could've vanished like ash into the wind the moment he closed the door.

I had distanced myself from the produce by a dozen meters upon relocating myself, but a magical moment brought us together again. I was quick to note that my magic's range had increased, but I had more pressing matters to attend to than researching my telekinesis.

I gave my surroundings a quick look, priming my ears to be alert for the sounds of opening doors, just in case. Justin Case. I'm sure somepony out there had that name. I mean, some human. I had assumed my contemplations to be free from the 'ponyisms', but it seems I was wrong. Sure, it was fun once in a while, but to have it be constantly present both in speech and mind?

Seriously? Seriously.

Regardless, I was now alone with the delicacy. My beaming expression couldn't possibly tell how strongly I imagined the taste of the golden sweets in my mouth. With my magic lifting the pull tab, the can's top opened and detached with a satisfying rip and snap. The loot was in plain sight, and my joyful smile turned to a grin. I licked my chops, restraining myself to simply gaze at the exposed fruits and teasing my appetite all the while. Ultimately, the unshackled scent of the fruit ventured into my nostrils, and I was at liberty to deal with the appropriated food.

The can wasn't wide enough for me to simply dive my muzzle into it, so I had to blindly levitate the rings to my mouth. That didn't hinder me at all from eating the fantastically flavored fruit and then drinking the delightful nectar in unashamed ardor. Never in my life had ordinary pineapple slices and juice tasted so incredibly good, although I noticed a slight tang of sorts in them. I attributed that sensation to my equine taste buds; however, I had for some reason begun to experience difficulties in thinking. Difficulties in thought? Thought difficulties? Never mind.

Once I was done with the goods, I found something funny. Not a physical object, but a mental concept. It was funny. I think it was elation. Yeah, that was it! Pure elation. It was so powerful I started to giggle in a very girly-girly way. Very unlike me, really, but that didn't bother me much now. In this dream, I could do whatever I wanted and be whatever I wanted. So what if I behaved out of character? Or was that in-character? I had this not-really-a-thought in my head that said, 'Yo filly, you've been a pony ever since you were born.' I responded with my yes-really-a-thought, 'Sure, whatever, let's go with that, because while you are über wrong, I don't care to argue since I'll wake up eventually, and then I will be a dude again, so boo-yah!' Besides, who'd judge me? This was a dream, not a court of law. My dream. It's mine. All mine. Mine mine mine, down down down! Silly black-feathered waterfowl. Daffy Duck deserved what was coming to him.

So, anyway, every negative thought, feeling, and memory was replaced with pure euphoria. Well, not exactly, but that thought sounded nice. That thought that I thought. It was nice. Sounded nice. I didn't say it, so it didn't sound literally, but figuratively. I think. Yes, I could think, and all by myself. How about that?

Then out of nowhere this familiar tune exploded (BOOM!) into existence inside my head, and I wanted to bounce to it hyper-energetically. It had beepyish sounds and synthezetors. Okay, I knew the word, but I didn't care to think it right, and the music wasn't really playing in my head like there was a physical radio inside. Also, Zetor was a tractor, but whatever, I was having a laugh. Wait? Having a laugh? Like I held it physically? Never mind. Since I was obviously very happy, I launched up into the air and onto my legs, my cheery grin as wide as something that's very wide and grinny. And cheery. Simultaneously, I had realized something very extremely fascinating.

“Ohmygoshthisisasupergreatfeeling!” I spoke very rapidly and in a tone matching Pinkie Pie's. I think it was a close match, if not a precise match. Not match match, but the other match. The one that doesn't burn. And pitch as in voice, not that viscous dark substance and not airplane attitude. Would be kinda cool to be an airplane, though. I'd be a Cessna 152! Then I'd fly free like an airplane, though I wouldn't be able to fly upside down. Gravity-assisted fuel system would mean engine goes 'I pass out now,' and wings unfit to support themselves when inverted would be all 'adios amiga!'. Or was that 'adios amigo!' instead? Never mind! Because I'd be wingless and falling and crashing, I'd be a very very sad Cessna 152. And very hurt.

So I drifted, I mean, my mind drifted. Drifting is what cocky teens dream of doing with their repurposed front-wheel drive family sedans, which are oh-really 35% faster than normal because they have shiny rims, suspension so low they can't drive over speedbumps, and the gaudiest spoiler that money could buy. Psh!

Anyhow, my mind drifted to . . . what? Was it pineapples? Oh yeah, it was pineapples! I began to wonder if Pinkie ever baked pineapple sweets, like pineapple muffins, pineapple cake, pineapple donuts, and lots of more pineapply yummy stuff! Why did I wonder that? I didn't know. I had never met Pinkie Pie. Well, I thought I hadn't, because if I did, I'd know. Unless I forgot. Which I didn't. So I knew I hadn't forgotten I hadn't met Pinkie and . . . Wait, what? Yes. No, I meant, no. No to what? I didn't know. Know what? I didn't know I knew I didn't know what? I didn't know what what? What was what what? Never mind! It was happy time in honor of happy time! “Yay.”

Hey, I know what I could do now! I mean, I had honed the tone, but now, I had the correct voice for it, too! “Yay.” It was perfect! I was in stitches! Not literally but figuratively, because if I was literally in stitches, then that would've meant I was . . . in stitches? Injured and stitched? Inside stitches? Never mind! Off to the elevator, I was! Happy time!

“Yay.”

More stitches!

So I utilized my horribly and regrettably impaired magic (Boo-hoo!) to open the big, boring, heavy, steel door like it didn't even exist. Probably it didn't, dream thingy whatnot, yeah that! I zipped inside and I had already pressed the button for the bottom floor a trillion zillion bazillion madeupnumberillion times before the door closed because I was superduperquickfast!

That beepy happy music was still playing, which I could totally turn off on a whim because it was imaginary music. Yeah, really! Music off, then on, off, on, off, on, off, on. Then I got a little agitated because I hated skipping music. Anyway, I rocked back and forth to the tune, but that was because I was a poor dancer. I couldn't remember the lyrics too well, either.

“We look for relaxation; so the only explanation!”

“. . . and music everywhere!”

“Watch the yellow screen!”

“Go-go-go-go-go . . . ”

“. . . here they come!”

“And drop the bomb!”

I met Jim! I kissed him! Did he like it? I know he did! I mean, I think he did. He wasn't the talkative type, so I couldn't tell really. Kinda weird that he looked different from what I remembered him to look like, and I'm not even sure he was named Jim. Or that I knew him to begin with. This dream was so weird. I think I had a wonky memory again, and that was confusing me. Or else, the eeeehvuuuhl dream lord had changed him, too! Dumb dream lord, playing with my memories and Jim! Oh, wait, I wasn't supposed to fight the dream lord because I had surrendered to him. Oopsie daisy!

Anyway, it was very nice (very nice!) Jim was in my dream. Pity me and him couldn't wander together in this dream. It would've been difficult since I was a pony now. That sparked a weird memory, but it was too confusing and made no sense.

Maybe if I wasn't a pony, then maybe me and Jim could've been together? Maybe. I could've been a chain link fence, instead. That would've made this a super duper lame dream. Anyhow, I had to go without Jim. I was sure he understood my decision. He didn't say anything at all about it, though. So typical of him.

So where was I going, then? Out into the world wide world, of course! I'd be on the beaches and on the hills! Some important but grumpy old man in history said something about fighting on the beaches and hills. Strange, grumpy old man. I bet he was incontinent and very fighty. I didn't go to beaches or hills, though, but to a meadow.

Grass wasn't tasty, so I didn't eat much of it. I tried to find some of the tasty plants I ate when I was a foal. Wait? How did I know they were tasty? I only saw memories of me eating them but knew not what they tasted like, only that I ate them because they were tasty. Wait, what? How did that make any sense? Confound these phony pony memories; they were driving me into confusion!

I tried to find the tasty plants regardless, but when I didn't find any, I became sad for 3.14 seconds. The next digit was what now? Digit of pie? What? Pies weren't digits! Were they? Never mind! More fun time! “Yay.” Stitches!

Where . . . Where did . . . the time . . . go?

Not sure . . . where I've . . . gone to either . . .

Stuck here . . .

Couldn't climb out . . .  River  . . . Scary water . . . Woozy head . . .

Tried to . . . think where . . . I had been . . . Very spotty . . .  

Were . . . the pineapples . . . special pineapples? Had a . . . weird taste . . .

Saw more . . . memories . . . pony memories . . . Phony pony . . . memories . . .

Like copies . . .  of my . . . memories . . . but . . .  just . . . as real . . . and . . . very . . . pony . . .

They . . . confuse . . . me . . .

So . . . tired . . . now . . .

Yay . . . Stitchy . . .

Life On The Edge

I crossed the border of Slumbertania and into Awakeyland. A throbbing inside my head welcomed me to the familiar nation. Doing my best to ignore the unpleasant sensation, I noticed I wasn't on a soft mattress and underneath a comfy blanket. Nor did my head rest on a pillow. I was laying on a soft surface, but it wasn't smooth like a pillow or a mattress. When scents of various flora and damp air began to register in my nostrils, perplexed, I ordered my eyelids to retract. Peering through drowsy slits, my eyes were greeted by a countryside landscape on an overcast day. I found myself resting on a patch of moss on an elevated rocky surface that sloped down to a river.

My subcranial pounding made me question what kind of a party I had been attending and what decadent prankster had alcoholized my beverage. I was a staunch teetotaler, and to become intoxicated, not to mention so severely that I'd pass out in the middle of nowhere, was simply disgraceful and unacceptable! Whoever was responsible for my unfavorable predicament would be the recipient of a proper and acrid chewing out! However, my inebriation must've been extreme since I had no recollection of ever being at a party recently. In that case, good riddance! I didn't want to remember it anyway! Worst. Party. Ever!

To further indignify my situation, a brief gust informed me I was buck naked. Although . . . it didn't feel quite naked, more like I was wearing an encompassing, skintight, warming felt of some kind. Unusually enveloping, in fact, as it seemed to literally cover me from head to toe. As I began to pay more attention to other things than my surmised hangover, I discovered something was off about my arms and legs as well as my posture. Somehow, my legs were parallel with my torso, yet it didn't hurt me one bit, and . . . then my hands . . . Why couldn't I feel my fingers?

In extreme confusion, I glanced at my resting arms and saw two hair-coated somethings in their place; a startled cry launched from my mouth, and I became doubly shocked. My scream had been several octaves above what I'd normally be capable of producing. I became further confused when I placed the hard, fingerless extremity on my throat, displacing a string there.

“Wha-? My voice . . . I . . .” I stammered in disbelief. Then, like a rapid train passing by a stationary observer, the events of my lucid dream flashed through my mind. I drew my limb up to my face and stared at it in agape incredulity. Suspecting the worst, I apprehensively turned my head around to get a look at myself.

“Bu-but, h-how!?” I sputtered in horror, recoiling at the sight of a begrimed ice-white coat and bronze-colored, pink-striped tail. “Th-this shouldn't be possible!”

Motivated by a spontaneous impulse, I shot into an upright stance before I was reminded of the impossibility of maintaining a bipedal posture. I came back down onto all fours in a second, the minor impact sending a small jolt from the ends of the limbs up to the shoulders, and for a split second, I was extremely cognizant of the drastic changes in my physique.

I began to rotate erratically, eyeing my limbs and body in horrified disbelief while barely managing to speak between my frenetic breaths. “No . . . this . . . it can't be . . . I'm a—” I halted when my tail tucked itself between my legs, squeaking at the sight and feel of the involuntary reaction.

Moisture began to seep into my eyes as panic began to strip away my control. It wrapped itself tightly around my heart, commanding my body to quake violently. In a matter of seconds, my mind succumbed to the fright as well. I could feel a horrified scream building up inside me . . . I couldn't let it happen. I couldn't let it win, but if this was real . . . There wouldn't be a failsafe! There would be no way out! I'd be imprisoned! Sealed! Confined! Stuck! No escape at all . . . trapped . . . in a pony . . . a filly . . . female . . .

Oh no . . . I . . . Please no . . . I . . . Wait . . . I think . . .

I got it . . . Yes . . . I got it. I got it! I got it I got it I got it!

“It's a dream!” I exclaimed, a fragile smile creasing my lips, “I'm still inside the lucid dream! It-it makes pe-perfect s-sense! The- it- I . . .” My smile and tone withered rapidly under the powerful assault of emotions, and for a few futile but quiet seconds, I resisted before they finally prevailed over me. Cringing forth a miserable squeak, I dropped my head and granted the fluid in my eyes the liberty to run down my cheeks.

I drew a heavy breath and wiped the tears into my foreleg. “Only a dream . . .” I sighed shakily in relief, gazing at my appendage as I timorously placed it back to the ground.

Some events in my past had scared me, but never had I been this terrified. Few things could compare—the pure fear that takes hold and never wants to let go, it was so close to . . . I couldn't ideate how I'd  . . . If this wasn't . . . If I were . . . permanently . . . No, I didn't even want to consider it. I didn't want to stress myself any further. If I hadn't remembered to tell myself I was sojourning in a vivid fantasy produced by my own subconscious . . . I didn't understand how I hadn't thought of it immediately. Maybe the very convincing waking-up experience was the reason. Would I have awoken for real if I had been overwhelmed by fear and thus changed the dream to a nightmare? It didn't make a difference; I was past the terror now.

Or so I thought.

As my cool returned to me, so did my awareness of the persistent headache. My recently acquired peace strained like a flimsy garment as panic's dark dominion threatened to expand into me again.

“It's . . . it's . . .” I stuttered in consternation. “It's . . . it's just a minor discomfort!” I conjured a plausible explanation, trading my terrified grimace for an uneasy but wide grin. “It's not pain, not pain at all! Only discomfort! And this is still a dream!” I was so flustered I couldn't help but laugh. Nervously. Was that how fear worked on me now? How funny! Not. Then why did it make me laugh? Fear and joy crashing into each other and short-circuiting my brain? The recent stress warping my emotions? Yes! Right! The headache! I had to refute it!

“It's the dream's doing! It must be! It's playing a prank on me! But I know this isn't real! Nope! Nuh-uh! Not reality! Negativo! Njet! It's not reality! Only a dream! It's the only possible explanation! Pain makes the dream stop! Discomfort doesn't!”

I coughed suddenly; my saliva had heard enough of my hysterical rambling and slipped down into my windpipe. It was good saliva, for it brought immediate sanity back to my head.

“Oh . . . kay . . . I got . . . the point,” I managed to say between my coughing.

Once I had cleared the uninvited substance from my throat, I resumed gently sailing to tranquility island, noticing as I did so that I had fallen on my haunches in my panic-stricken state. From personal experience, I knew excessive stress would disrupt my rationality, effectively turning me crazy. Luckily, experience also told me I would recover from them. Sometimes it took a few minutes, other times a few hours, but eventually I'd conquer my madness. All I had to do was relax, during which I'd evaluate my conduct from a near impartial standpoint if possible. I didn't trust myself too highly on that, but striving for it was at least a noble goal.

I had suffered two highly stressful incidents. It's not far-fetched to postulate that the incidents, combined with my momentary relief and joy of overcoming the first anxiety attack, sent my emotions and mind on the fritz. Thankfully, with that bout of cerebral incoherency a thing of the past, all was well again.

The headache was becoming tolerable, though I yearned for a pill of ibuprofen to dull its edge completely. What a cruel and crazy dream I had, burdening me with an all-too-authentic headache, as if it wanted me to believe this was real and not a wry fantasy. I wasn't so easily tricked, however. My impossible transformation, the sighting of the pegasus, the interaction with the man—they were indisputable evidence. I was at peace. In a dream. Cease thinking. Take a break.

I sat silent with my eyes closed, head inclined and mind void of troubling thoughts. With every drift of air passing over and out from me, I was reacquainted with my form. I clapped my forehooves lightly on the ground, tossed my tail, turned my ears, waited for a gust to gently pass through my hairs, and finally . . . “This is my voice,” I stated calmly in my unmistakably female voice. It was a pleasant voice when spoken with a collected and relaxed attitude.

“And my dream isn't over yet,” I continued as I drew my eyes open and examined the circle of sunken rock I had been relocated to.

I studied the vertical crescent of rocky slopes behind and next to me with scrunched brows: eighty-degree angle, three to four meters tall, laced with copious amounts of moss and lichen, but also covered with indents and protrusions.

“I could climb my way out of here,” I said optimistically, then with emerging frustration glanced at the soiled undersides of my forehooves. “If it weren't for these.”

Sighing away my light sourness, I got up on my hooves with little effort and began to stroll leisurely towards the river.

‘Well, I suppose I can just go down this little incline to the river emb—’

“Holy horse apples!”

In a blink of an eye, I had frantically backpedaled by a few body lengths and stumbled clumsily—and without injury—onto my haunches. The innocuous incline was deceiving until I stood at its edge and the steep slope to a ten-meter drop was revealed to my eyes.

I swallowed, tasting a trace of pineapples, mixed with enzymes and other unappetizing flavors, at the back of my tongue. Gathering my spinning mind, I observed that my dream liked to be consistent in regards to what I had eaten previously.

“. . . horse apples?” I wondered bedazzled, my mind performing a few more revolutions before halting.

Once my queasiness had faded entirely, I analyzed my situation. ‘So . . . I can't climb out from here, and I don't dare to jump down . . .’ My brows lowered as I absorbed that.

“So, what now?” I pondered irately. “Simply wait here until I'm miraculously lifted out?” The sarcastic remark instigated me to cast an inquisitive look at the grassy lips above me. ‘Hmm . . . Maybe somepony's nearby!?’ I hoped, followed by a delayed flinch. “Someone, someone, someone,” I muttered in irritation as I tapped a hoof at my forehead.

“Aaanywaaay,” I said as I resigned from my annoyance, ‘the likelihood of some dream character being here is slim; I should nevertheless try to call for help.’

I shouted for assistance for a complete minute, trying to draw the attention of anypony—or any human—in the vicinity. I didn't drop into despair when I realized there was no reply to my shouts. If anything, I became annoyed when my calls went unanswered.

“Oh joy,” I grouched and sat down, my complaint breaking out from the confines of my mind. “It appears I've been deposited into this solitary confinement to await my awakening from this imaginary world!”

With my burst over, I began to glare at the scenery beyond the river. The rural landscape was picturesque at least, and it would've been soothing . . . if it had been a sunny summer day! Accursed autumn cloud cover! I inhaled deeply and evacuated the majority of my irritation with the outbound breath.

“Maybe if I were to. . . ?” I murmured, focusing a fearful yet contemplative look towards the concealed riverside precipice. I had assumed it was narrower and farther out from the cliff, but it was rather wide and close to the cliff. The gradient of the slope had fooled me into perceiving that the ground was a gentle slope into the river instead of the steep cliff that it was.

“Nah,” I dismissed the idea after a moment, slashing my hoof through the air. “I'm not ready to wake up yet.” In the dreams where I plunged into water, I never "survived" it. Those incidents were how I met my end in a recurring nightmare, where I was in an out-of-control car as it soared off a pier at high speed; I always woke up the instant the car struck the water. I held no doubt the same would apply to me now, sans the car of course. I was too afraid of water to take that route. However, the point stood clear: if I were to leap down, I'd bring an immediate closure to my most extraordinary dream upon piercing the river surface.

Left with nothing else to do, I gauged the appearance of the illusory world in front of me. A placid wide brown river separated my elevated rocky location from a vast yellow field of plants. I didn't know enough about agriculture to recognize what plants were growing there. It would've been nice if a combine harvester was on the field to liven the view. The wide band of yellow was flanked by a green meadow on one side and a plowed field on the other. All three met a horizon-spanning pine forest in the distance. The sky itself was nothing but a gray and featureless canvas. A typical autumn afternoon, I estimated. It wasn't a warm day, either, but my coat did a remarkable job at denying my body warmth to the cold air. A number of birds chirped merrily somewhere nearby. Good for them. I wasn't sharing their enthusiasm.

With my boredom increasing every passing minute, I began to trudge around on the four by six meter semicircular zone. Jogging my legs and mind at the same time, I endeavored to remember what I had done before "waking up." My immediate recollection was of myself consuming the canned food I had taken for myself after its owner forgot to retrieve it. Following my delicious pineapple meal, everything became a disjointed blur. Riding the elevator down, being extremely euphoric, and conversing with another individual were my only memories from the foggy episode. To whom—or what—I had spoken to was lost into the shroud. The entire post-meal episode might've been a lapse into a "normal" dream, though my fading headache/hangover made me consider that the canned food was another prank set up by the dream overlord. Dreams are intrinsically nonsensical, after all.

I appreciated being fully aware again, though I was disheartened that my trapped status was wasting my unique and limited dream-time in this uninteresting location. Desiring to ward off such a sad thought, I began to scrutinize my own locomotion. Since the previous attempt at figuring out my four-legged walk had only bewildered me, I decided to investigate the "quattro coreografia" with firmer determination this time. ‘Heh, look at me, creating pseudo-Italian terms for four-legged locomotion.’

I mentally denoted each leg with an abbreviation: FR, FL, HR, and HL. My plan was to slow down my gait to a near stand-still, taking one step at a time while speaking the moniker I had given to my legs as I raised them. It seemed to be so simple, yet when I lifted my front-right leg, or FR, my immediate reaction was stupefying indecision. I gently lowered my leg, my mind vacant for a spell.

“Oh, come on!” I complained as my faculties came back online. “How hard can it be to comprehend walking?” I pursed my lips as I thought deeply on how to solve this astonishingly complicated issue. Maybe I was being too slow? Over-analyzing each step? I took a moment to relax a little.

“Time to retry,” I declared flatly and set my eyes on my hind-legs. In order to teach my brain a lesson, I resumed my walking with a mind void of thoughts. I watched the quadrupedal performance under the role of a perceptive camcorder rather than a contemplative researcher.

After a solid minute of walking, I stopped, my eyes locked on my legs as I lifted them in sync. “I started with . . . Ef-El. Then came Aitch-Ar, and then . . . Ef-Ar and then Aitch-El . . . Ah-ha! Eureka!” I exclaimed in glee. With a pleased smile on my lips, I observed my legs do their part as I resumed my gait.

“Ef-El, Aitch-Ar, Ef-Ar, Aitch-El, Ef-El, Aitch-Ar, Ef-Ar, Aitch-El, Ef-El, Aitch-Ar, Ef-Ar, Aitch-El~” I chanted in a four-beat tempo, tracing an oval on the rock. Once I got the pattern down, my sporadic movement escalated to a continuous gait, my seamless chanting decreasing until it had become voiceless.

I gradually raised my pace until my unhurried gait couldn't keep up and launched into a new, two-beat rhythm. Too curious to hold my thoughts at bay, I fumbled on my legs almost immediately and came to a halt on an astride stance. I gazed blankly ahead, an embarrassed smile arriving after a delay.

“Oops,” I chuckled abashedly, returning to a normal stance. ‘Glad nopony was around to see my blunder.’ I glanced around to affirm I was right. Collecting my composure and normalizing my expression, I reinitiated my activity with a clear mind and keen eyes.

After a few laps, I had calculated the rhythm: when HR lifted, so did FL. When those were returning to the ground, it was HL and FR's turn to reproduce the previous pair's motions. With my legs now moving as synchronized diagonal pairs, I bounced along merrily in the joy of having learned a new lesson in the art of quadruped locomotion. Not only did I have a pleased smile on my face, but my tail seemed to signal my excitement as well, swinging lively like a banner caught in a breeze. I wasn't sure why exactly, but I was feeling extraordinarily good. A desire to rear up to a jubilant cheer was begging earnestly for permission to express itself. I could imagine a filly commencing with the frivolous display shamelessly, but not me; I had strict gender-specific standards to adhere to.

A craving to progress to a gallop emerged. Sadly, my current location was pitifully inadequate for anything more than a short sprint. Feeling lamentably confined again, I approached a random section of the near-vertical slope, where I then lunged upright and landed my forehooves on the steep rock. Gazing at the tantalizing grassy lips above, I opened my mouth to beseech the ruler of my dream.

“Hey, uh, me,” I awkwardly addressed my subconscious. “Can you, I mean, me . . . uh, you . . . ? Never mind.” I discarded my confusion and got to the point. “Can I humbly ask to be granted a human form for five minutes please?” I voiced my wish with politeness.

No response.

“How about half of that?” I bargained.

Nothing.

“No? One minute then?” I waited for a while, gazing around impatiently. “You expect me to climb out of here in thirty seconds?” I half-hinted, scowling. “Male or female, I don't care, just give me a chance to ascend from this miserable location!” When nothing occurred, I cleared my throat and gathered a bucketful of courage.

Inclining my head down, I brought forth a pout and rolled my eyes skywards. “Pweease?” I beseeched innocently, hopefully allocating an adorable shimmer into my eyes. Somewhere inside my head, my masculinity was protesting.

No response. Again. With my request left unfulfilled despite my very atypical performance, I disengaged from my pose with a long, exasperated groan, then shot a stern glare at the clouds above me.

“You insensitive jerk!” I snapped shrilly, declaring the fruitless one-way conversation to be over.

Underneath my displeased exterior, I brimmed with bemusement. My attempt at persuasion with "myself" was unorthodox, however, I couldn't possibly associate myself with the sadistic being who operated this world, denying me my freedom and frustrating me at every opportunity.

That brought my attention to my insult: "Insensitive jerk" didn't seem like something I'd normally say when I'm scornful at somepony. I associated that utterance more with a . . . No, my female structure was deceiving me. Or maybe I had become so alienated from myself that the roleplay had inadvertently lasted longer than I had intended . . . although since this was a dream, I wouldn't have to worry about inconsistencies in my conduct.

No matter how good or bad dreams are, they're finite. Nightmares are conjured by a sleeping mind, too, and those are undeniably horrible. This extraordinary lucid dream was simply riddled with a number of unpleasant moments. Most of those negative moments, however, were made much worse by my stressing over every minutia. The interaction I had with my imaginary neighbor resulted in a humiliating disaster due to my losing my head and blowing up on him. In hindsight, there were many things I did wrong.

I should've been straightforward and asked without leaving any room for misinterpretation. I should've ignored the paranoid notion of a psychosis. I should've said that I had no time to chat and prevented the debacle from ever taking place. I should've been rational and not viewed the man as a malicious jester. The entire ordeal happened because I had made one mistake after another until I received the full brunt of the indignifying repercussions.

Why couldn't I just be carefree and positive? I had been when I was trotting about recently, but I had suppressed the urge to release my joy. Could it be that all the negative emotions made my happiness more potent in turn? I had limited it, though, put dampers on it. Was I afraid of something? Of course I was.

I looked over at my two-toned tail and arbitrarily wiggled it once. “Temporarily, I'm a pony . . .” I muttered, and my eyes rolled to the side in thought. Since I was an avid fan of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, I presumed my form was a semi-conscious wish that my sleeping mind had granted. Now, I was stuck to expend that wish on this lousy cliffside.

Birds warbled beyond eyesight and the sky had become slightly darker since I last bothered to pay attention to it. My mood withered further as the incredibly boring view dug itself into my conscience, myself tapping my forehoof idly as minutes passed and my mind drew blanks on what to do. Eventually, I stopped the leg-tapping and looked down at my limb, the grace of its shape more evident in my eyes now than before. My bored brows were afflicted when I contemplated a serious question: “Why a female pony?”

‘Am I so practical-minded,’ I postulated as I shifted my sights from my hoof to my flank, ‘that I consider housing my reproductive organs inside me to be such an advantage over the obvious alternative that I've manifested myself as a mare?’ Half-closing my eyes, I glanced sidelong at nothing specific. “Or as a filly, whichever way it is,” I said, trying to sound indifferent in spite of the uneasy topic and attempting to reconcile myself with my new Andrea Libmanesque voice.

“Regardless of the terminology,” I returned to the present issue, inspecting my pink-striped bronze tail and white body, “why these colors, then? They're . . . feminine.” It took effort to speak that word, even if I only managed a whimper. I drifted my gaze over the irregular ground before my forelegs.

“I'm thankful I don't have a princess pink coat, but . . . these colors . . . don't belong on a stallion . . .” I paused as I collected an unnerving thought and peeked at my tail. “But is . . . is this how I would envision myself if I . . . were a female pony?” I bowed my head and hushed my voice even further. Truth be told, I wasn't sure what colors I would've picked, but this selection didn't fit with me. Maybe this was the representation of my inner gi— No, the colors were purely random.

An inner warmth radiated up to my skin and pushed out wet beads. I felt slightly queasy, too. I guess it was either due to embarrassment or humiliation. Or both.

This unnerving self-inspection was as disconcerting as it was fascinating, and it made me wish I had studied psychology with dedication. Nevertheless, I paused shortly to retrieve some composure before I continued my introspection.

‘Every female has an underlying masculine side, just as every male has his feminine counterpart. The animus and anima, if I'm not mistaken,’ I thought sagely, recalling the little psychology I had researched. “So, this, uh, may then be my femininity personalized . . . Eh-heh, ponified, I mean,” I corrected my deduction, the lighthearted remark lacking the potency to reduce my nervousness.

“So, uh . . .” My mind halted—or rather my mouth halted—and I cast a cursory glance at my rocky containment walls for courage to press on. “Since I'm . . . um, a female for the time being . . . maybe, uh . . .” I had gradually slouched as I spoke and was now completely prone, and if possible, I would've continued into the stone as well. “Because this . . . is, uhm . . . a unique situation, I could . . . could try to . . . try to . . . do something . . . something, um . . .” I was practically enveloped in a film of sweat at this point.

“. . . something different.”

Experiments And Experiences

I was in a dream: alone, bored, and temporarily a mare with literally nowhere to go. What could I do? What else had I left to do than delve into that which very few males ever admit to having? My masculinity was protesting my idea of exploration. Since I wasn't outwardly a male in this lucid dream, though, what should masculinity matter? Why shouldn't I be free to enjoy the opportunities this body could grant me? No one would ever know of what I'd do here unless I told. If there was ever a ripe time and excuse to disregard gender guidelines, it was now.

I was that bored.

I drew in a wavering inhale, holding it in me as I rose to a sitting position, then expelled some of my quaking with an equally quaky exhale. I closed my eyes, head tilted down as I waited for my nerves to settle. I wasn't angry, afraid, or embarrassed, only unsure. I had to steel myself. I had to be brave. I'd have to be braver than a guy standing on a speeding car. Never done that, though, and would probably never dare to. Too risky. What was riskier than that? Several things were, but in here? I had nothing but myself. What could I do with myself? I had magic and a mare's body. Both of which I'd lose when my dream ended. What could I do with both? What could I do to myself?

Conjuring forth my magic, its mystifying presence immediately blanketed everything in a five-meter radius. I could "feel" the stones, patches of moss and lichen, numerous leaves, a dozen twigs of various length, and myself sitting in the middle.

Using my magic to read my surroundings wasn't the same as perceiving the world with my eyes; it was as if I was "feeling" the shapes and colors of objects in a short radius around me. With my magic's help, I could tell my mane and forelock were so detestably disheveled as to resemble a crashing, sidelong wave originating from my right ear. Along my neck was a hairy path of brown and pink scrunched to a compact mess, some jutting in every direction like wrinkly rags. In contrast, my tail was remarkably prim. I decided to correct the disparity.

Thinking I could simply use magic to fashion my mane into a presentable shape, I directed my invisible touch at myself; however, the attempt halted short of my body, as if I was attempting to force two identically charged magnets together. Undeterred, I located and levitated a sturdy twig towards myself, an indirect application of magic that met with success. The twig delved into the hairs along my neck and, with some difficulties at first, soon opened the hairy knots. With that part of my mane unfurled to hang down to my shoulder, the makeshift haircare tool proceeded up towards the top of my head where it untied more twined hairs and straightened twisted locks to the best of its ability. After a few more touches, the strong gale on my head was pacified to a moderate breeze.

My disembodied awareness panned around me, evaluating my looks. I would've provoked a high-class pony like Rarity to give me a disdainful eye, but at least I no longer looked like I had completely disregarded my coiffure. I evaluated my manestyle to be a mixture of Rainbow Dash's scruffiness and Twilight's . . . straightness? Though my forelock was too thick to adequately replicate the lean, curved, and finely cut awning she had suspended over her forehead. Not that I'd want to imitate her style; I'd almost found my own. I tried to look up at my shaggy bangs, but as soon as I opened my eyes, the magic ceased and the twig fell.

Alas, since handling hair with a gnarly twig couldn't hope to produce anything refined, I had to settle for the slightly-better-than-bedmane style. Regardless, the hair was no longer obscuring my vision, and even I could tell that its new appearance was an improvement.

Feeling vivacious, I turned my head to the side and lifted my foreleg to meet the back of my hoof with my chin. Smiling, I cast the immobile twig a half-lidded sidelong look. I tittered as I imagined my pose from a third-person perspective. I wasn't one hundred percent comfortable with what I was doing, but I was relieved I had mustered the courage for it. Would I ever have another chance at this? Probably not. I had already done a few minor excursions motivated by dire rather than desire. Now that I had crossed the threshold, it shouldn't be a giant leap to do it for my own amusement.

I planted my leg back on the ground and thought of something cute. I chose puppies and kittens. And cartoon ponies. And ferrets—that was original! With those in mind, I did my best to channel their cuteness into my ingratiating expression. With my head inclined and sporting a (hopefully) sweet smile, I rolled my eyes up and envisioned a person standing before me, his or her heart melting as they caught the sight of my irresistibly adorable poise.

They'd kneel down, and I'd keep my innocent eyes locked on theirs. Kind words would bring a blush to me, and I'd turn my head in modesty. Hands would reach for me, gentle cooing would carry to my ears, and I'd comply silently, permitting the nimble digits to gently caress my mane and body. Fingers would run along my hairs and slightly tickle my skin, soothing me. I'd enjoy the affection I had received, and everything would be at peace.

It was a delight forever left unfulfilled, I realized, when my vacant surroundings and untouched hide finally broke my daydream (in a dream) by their sheer passive presence. I sighed forlornly, my eyes downcast.

I glanced around with a modicum of longing. The cold walls around me and the impassive flora beyond the river gave a horrible sense of abandonment. Even the birds had quieted, and nothing but the sound of the wind was picked up by my ears. I might not have many friends, and on some days I never left my home, but I had never been truly alone before. I was constantly aware of being near another human, be it above, below, or outside, and I always had my cell phone nearby.

Not here, though. I had nothing but myself as company.

A small band began to coil itself tighter around my heart. It was the unpleasant feeling of complete loneliness. Had this imaginary realm now removed all life from it but me? Abandoned me on a desolate outcropping from where I dared not to escape? Could I brave my fear? Leave my prison? Risk waking myself up?

With great hesitation, I took myself to the edge of the gradient, but the sight of the stagnant river far below was brief, for my head became light, and I had to turn away as I released a weak moan of indisposition. Spotting a fairly sizable patch of moss, I rested down on it and tried to think of comforting things.

Some welcome peace came to me as I posited a busy road and town not too far away, the droning of their presence merely camouflaged by the dull wail of the wind. I further reasoned that I wasn't completely alone; I simply couldn't perceive another living being from my current location.

To my relief, a pair of small birds fluttered past me in an erratic aerial dance. The duo crossed my location in a span of seconds, soon followed by the low roar of a jet plane from somewhere far away. My ears were the first to align themselves at the distinctive sound, locking towards the left side of the pine forest on the horizon. I oriented myself at the origin of the sound as well, hoping to see the mechanical avian elegantly transit the sky. Disappointingly, its slender frame was entirely obscured by a blanket of gray. Judging by the sudden emergence of its distinguishable sound, I surmised the aircraft had recently departed from an airfield and was climbing up to cruising altitude. If this dream's geography was anything like the real world's, then I was roughly ten kilometers from my abode. I knew a smaller town was situated along the river about fifteen kilometers upriver from my home, which meant I would be about half of that distance from it now.

The jet plane's droning gradually vanished over the course of minutes, and I resumed striking a few more demure poses. I quickly began to long for a mirror.

If only I could brave my fear of water and, by some miracle, survive the plunge into the river without breaking out from my dream, then perhaps I could see my reflection in the water. The thought inspired me to picture a vivid scene.

Sitting on the river embankment, I'd admire my visage smiling in tranquil joy back at me, the setting sun's beams glistening on hair and water with captivating luster, mane neat and prim—a special gift for my birthday.

“Huh?” I snapped out from my odd reverie, hearing a voice call me by a name. I was left stunned, my brows wrinkling as confusion transitioned through disbelief to irritation.

“Oh, you,” I said, directing my glare skywards. “So that's the pony name you've assigned to me?” Of course, I wasn't entitled a response of any kind, so I gave up the pursuit. The name circulated inside my consciousness like an airplane on a holding pattern, and for a brief moment, I swore I saw it in my mind's eye, written on a card addressed to somepony. There was another name there, but my dream lord was courteous enough not to divulge it. Not that it mattered. It was yet another nonsensical memory. I know how those played out. In a normal dream, I'd fall for them in a heartbeat, but as I was aware of being in a dream, I saw past the unconvincing folly. Regardless, now I had a 'name', and it wasn't exactly the best name for me. On the positive side, I wouldn't have to reveal it, and it wasn't a gender-corrected version of my real name. Fortunately.

Disengaging from contemplating the abnormalities my dream imbued me with, I realized that I had time but no idea how to utilize it . . . until I recalled my lamentations concerning my telekinesis, and I hatched an idea on the spot. I hastily located the twig I had used recently.

“Test number one: have a direct visual on the twig and try to levitate it,” I stated with a hint of strictness; the displeasure of knowing my 'name' had yet to dissipate. As I expected, the twig remained grounded, my magic unwilling to manifest itself. I held a decaying glower on the twig as my mind dispelled its excess agitation.

“Test number two,” I said calmly, “try to levitate the twig without establishing a direct visual.” I performed a semi-circle, this time holding my eyes open as I focused on my magic. I "felt" a blanket of the magical touch radiate out to my immediate vicinity for a split second before wrapping itself around the twig. I knew where the twig was in advance, so perhaps that knowledge extended to my magic as well. My mane obscured the view of my horn, though I surmised it was coated in whiteness. The twig lifted off the ground without a trace of trouble, and I smiled in accomplishment. Initiating test number three, I carefully brought the twig closer to me. Its flightpath was set to cross overhead, and my magic constantly kept me appraised of the twig's approach.

I was prepared for the twig to fall the instant I had it in my view, but I hoped that I'd be able to retain my magical grip on it.

The twig, wrapped in a faint white glow, came into my view and immediately started to shake itself loose from my grasp.

“Comeoncomeoncomeonpleasepleasepleaseplease,” I pleaded frantically as the twig began to poke itself past its shimmering boundaries. I grunted in despair when the magic's tint began to flicker.

Right when I feared I had lost the battle, the tenuous aura brightened dramatically, and the twig's rebellion was quelled. My jaw wanted to dislodge at the sight as I stared at the pacified object.

I fixated on the suspended twig whilst I meticulously but cautiously restudied myself for clues about my magic. For a moment, I detected nothing, but soon I noted a minor tingling at the base of my horn. I had been so focused on using my blind method of telekinesis before that I hadn't thought on how it felt.

Delving deeper into my mind and nerves, I discovered that the power holding the twig was semi-independent of me. I controlled it, but the twig remained perfectly content inside its white wrapper even as my focus on maintaining the magic began to diminish as I contemplated it. Reducing my magic's intensity, the tingling and white glow gradually subsided until they faded completely, and the twig became an obedient follower of the laws of gravity once again.

I theorized that the brief slip of control I experienced as the twig entered into my field of vision was not a failing of my own, but instead, it was a sign of the twig transferring from one magical grip to another. Being a novice, I was unaware of this transition; any unicorn but me could've done it without breaking a sweat. I further speculated I had not one but at the least three discernible types of telekinetic powers: the 'blind' telekinesis, the localized bubble of 'visual' magic, and the most common and mundane one that I only now had learned to use. I wasn't sure if these abilities were standard or unique to my dream-self, though. All of this made me wish for a "Telekinesis For Dummies" book.

Based on the tingling at the base of my horn, I surmised that it didn't house my magic but instead behaved as a transmitter and amplifier for it. I had to direct my inner energy to travel into the horn, and from there, it would pretty much do the rest for me. Hopefully, concentrating my energy into and through my horn to wield the twig whilst it was within my field of vision would be no different from the blind magic I had become used to. I knew some form of concentration was required to maintain the controlling glow on the target, but once my grip on the lightweight twig was secure, I had to reduce the energy to near nothing for the twig to fall free. It was quite the contrast to the difficulty of achieving the hold on it in the first place. If the opportunity would present itself, I'd gladly run additional telekinesis tests on multiple objects of varying size and mass.

With chary expectation, I set my eyes on the twig again, this time not directing my will outwardly, but inwardly. It wasn't about me wanting to levitate something; it was about wanting my magic to levitate something for me.

I predicted a new struggle, but instead, I gawked in astonishment as the twig was more than willing to follow my command. The tingling in my forehead was faint, but the joy I held wasn't. In high spirits, I began to experiment with the twig. First, I tested my magic's range by levitating the twig upwards. It reached a strange border a dozen meters above me, where it then bounced gently up and down like a cork in water. I set the twig to orbit around me on a horizontal plane. Starting as a wavy and eccentric ellipsoid, it evened to a flat circle after a dozen revolutions as I became more adept at controlling the most common form of telekinesis.

Pleased by my improved skills, I brought the twig to hover before myself. Curious, I directed my hoof into the white aura, though it caused no discernible reaction. Watching my limb attempt to interact with the sparkling glow a few more times with no success, I pondered if the mystifying layer was composed of ionized gas.

Following a few more minutes of additional playing and practicing, I had honed my telekinesis to work without a hitch. “Hard to execute, easy to master.” I proclaimed proudly.

In respect for the twig, I granted it a mossy mattress as a reward. Once placed on its humble bed, I sat down and bowed gracefully to the inorganic assistant, then looked at my flank in anticipation.

“Oh, what a dreadful shame; I didn't receive a telekinesis cutie mark,” I said in mock disappointment. “But, really, what would a telekinesis cutie mark look like, anyhow?” I wondered, glancing at the twig quizzically. Smirking playfully, I leaned in very close to it and pouted.

“Aww, liwl' twiggy is so sweepy he can't answer my liwl' question,” I cooed, fighting to keep my lips from drawing to a smile. My composure fell no more than a second after my 'liwl' display, and an exuberant laugh earned its liberty. Instantly, I clasped my mouth shut with my forehooves, blinking in shocked disbelief as I slowly withdrew my limbs.

“Wow,” I said, my embarrassment affecting my countenance and tone. “That was unusual . . . not . . . like mine . . .” I looked around with flustered eyes, hoping my conduct hadn't been exposed to more than my pair of ears.

“Oh-kay, nopony but me here, so all is well.” I reassured my unnerved and abashed self after my visual sweep confirmed my solitude. ‘Just my typical laugh altered in pitch.’ I swiped the issue under the rug then summarily moved back to the topic of cutie marks.

I wonder if I would love carrying and manipulating things with my sixth sense so much that it'd manifest on my flanks as a cutie mark? Strangely, deep inside, I felt a longing for a cutie mark, but I dismissed that as another of my dream's ludicrous jests. Still, the capability of employing telekinesis in reality was something I would have certainly enjoyed having. Really, who wouldn't? It would be totally awesome!

However, if I had become a pegasus instead of a unicorn, I wouldn't be confined to this dismal rocky formation in the first place; I would've flown away a long time ago! Although, with how much effort it took to learn to use my magic, I might've crashed back to the soil the moment I had tried to fly. The Super Mario Bros. game over tune would have played, and I'd woken up in my bed, angry and disappointed at myself for being so eager to fly that I had forgone testing my wings in the safe environment of my home.

Feeling boredom settle in again, I was about to attempt a new pose when something hit me. Just a little tap at the end of my muzzle. Soon came another tiny tap on my back, then another, as well as several tiny taps around me. A quick glance at my general area revealed small discolorations on the rock, with more appearing every passing second.

“Rain?” I presented and answered my question simultaneously. I gazed skywards with incredulity and received more confirmation in the form of water landing on my lips. In no dream that I knew of had it ever rained.

A mischievous drop fell into my eye and I grunted, turning my head down. I lifted my limb to rub at the stricken photoreceptor, but the appearance of a hard extremity before my unharmed eye made me abort the instinctive action. Resourcefully, I discovered a softer area behind my hoof and used that to treat my closed eye instead. 'Pastern'—that word throbbed in my head as I gazed at my . . . pastern. Funny how the mind digests concepts and words unconsciously, then spits them out at a whim. My headache still throbbed, although it had subsided greatly by now.

In regard to the natural phenomenon, my coat would provide protection from the chilly autumn rain, but for how long? What would happen once my coat's integrity was compromised? Under normal circumstances—as ridiculous as that sounded—I'd begin to freeze; however, this being a dream, I had no idea if it applied here as well. I guess only time could tell.

Under the belief that minimizing contact with open air and the rain would reduce the feeling of the theorized loss of warmth, I lay prone on my mossy mattress. To further ensure my body heat would be contained, I pulled my legs close to my body. Then I waited, and waited, and waited.

The light drizzle turned to a heavier downpour, and the world became darker. My forelock, heavy from the water, drooped over my eyes.

I waited some more. What else could I do?

The consistent bombardment eventually whittled down my coat's defenses, and the cold water began to withdraw body heat from me. My fascination with experiencing rain in a dream wore off entirely.

“I'd appreciate a team of weather pegasi about now,” I hoped half-jokingly, wiping my drenched forelock out of my face. I had begun to shiver, and I became concerned that I'd truly wake up if this discomfort became severe. I speculated that I had kicked off my blanket in my sleep, and the resulting loss of the warm pocket of air was now being reflected in my dream.

“Okay, you can cancel the rain now,” I complained to my disassociated side. “It's not funny, and I mean it. Those odd memories and the things you made me say, somepony and the likes, they were within acceptable limits, but you're seriously pushing your luck now.”

A cranial knock to the rock would beam me out from this dream. Leaping down into the river would garner the same result. The gradients were impossible to climb, at least for a pony. My only feasible option was to wait.

“So, what's the fun in this?” I dourly asked my overlording subconscious, who had beset me with the dissatisfactory conditions of my limited playing field and this troublesome precipitation. “I'm freezing here. Get that? Freezing. Trembling. In a dream. Are you trying to prove a point with this? Because if you are, it's entirely lost on me. Or is this retribution for my calling you a jerk? For your information, I don't regret that remark.”

My forelock continued to soak up water and slipped back over my eyes. I felt as if I was enveloped in a freezing, irremovable, waterlogged, and encompassing rug. The coldness bore into my bones like drills made of ice. I wasn't in pain, but my discomfort was extreme, and I had no way to alleviate it. I felt absolutely awful, and I wouldn't allow it to last for a minute longer. I had to do something.

I fumbled with my forehooves to push my soaked hair out of my vision. Hooves being hooves, and the hair being more soaked than before, my shivering and bad mood further compounded on me, and I found it troublesome to displace the bangs. After a few poor attempts, I groaned in exasperation and tossed my head up. My forelock folded haphazardly onto my head, and I had a clear vision of the world again. I possessed a fury that mixed into my trembling but gave me no warmth. What it did give me was absolute bravado.

“That's it!” I shot up onto my legs, yelling at the sky. “I've had enough! I wouldn't think it would come to this, but I! Am! Leaving!” I emphasized my message with fierce hoof stomps. Peering at the darkened realm, I saw the contours of the river. Fueled by seething determination, I began to propel myself towards the body of water. I was actually galloping, but I paid little attention to how I was managing it. My fears had been quelled by the burst of rage, and I launched myself over the precipice. As soon as my legs left the solid ground, my rational side reasserted its place in my consciousness, and my fury dimmed.

Regret. Sadness. That was what I felt. So many things I still desired to experience. It had been, despite all the problems and hardships, a very fascinating journey. I wish it hadn't ended like this. My gallop hadn't even been all that impressive; I'd barely managed to clear the edge of the embankment with my leap.

A splash—everything became dark and all sounds were muted. I was floating with nothing under my hooves and feeling unusually peaceful. The water was chilly and surrounded me on all sides, but I wasn't trembling anymore. I held my breath, waiting to be thrown out from . . . wait? Oh no!

Instinctively, I began to push water with my limbs. I had no idea how to swim as a pony, and that only made my fear grow more severe. I had to find the surface, the bottom, anything in the lightless void that I could use to regain my bearings. The little oxygen I had stored in my lungs was depleting at an alarming rate. Bubbles were flowing out from my nostrils as my diaphragm began to relax, and I was afraid that my dream was getting the last laugh by forcing me to suffer a very authentic drowning. My heart was racing and my mind was consumed by fear, but I wasn't waking up! If I hadn't been underwater, I would have screamed in horror.

I was spinning in every direction when my hind hooves finally touched something hard. Instilling a speck of rational thought, I brought my second set of hooves onto the solid boundary; then, I launched myself in the opposite direction from what I sincerely hoped was the river floor. As I journeyed through the liquid, my throat convulsed for a split second, and I breathed a small amount of water.

A strange warmth and peace descended into me. My scared heart joined the tranquility, and I ceased my struggling. Maybe drowning wouldn't be as bad as I had feared it to be. How about that?

Air. I breathed air; my head had popped above the surface, and my instincts did their task valiantly. I coughed water, frantically pumping my legs in a dire attempt to keep me from slipping back underneath the rippling river. My forelock had again fallen to obstruct my vision; a brisk shake took care of that issue.

The opposite river bank was perhaps two dozen meters away, not tall and not too steep, laced with moderately-sized rocks and exposed soil—definitely climbable. My paddling soon found a rhythm, and it became easier to swim, but I gave it no thought. My goal was simple, and my eyes were locked on the inviting safety of rocks and grass. As I neared the boundary of water and earth, my bliss became stronger, ushering my fear of water to the sidelines.

“I can't believe it!” I said, laughing. “I can't believe I made it!” My hooves touched the soft soil a few meters before the shore. “I survived the fall!” My swimming transitioned to a lively gait. “A second chance at my dream!” I planted my legs on the earthen gradient and began to ascend the moderate slope. “It's so unbelievable, I could just cheer to my heart's content!” I reached a rock just beneath a protruding part of the meadow and lunged up to plant my forelegs on it. “I think I'll actually do that once I- WHOA!”

The brittle soil I had placed my forelegs on crumbled as I placed my weight upon it, leading me to slip off my legs . . .

“Oooff!”

. . . and slam hard onto a large rock, knocking the wind out of me. With my balance lost, I tumbled back down into the river, where I lay resting sideways and partially submerged. Dazedly, I picked myself up and trudged up to the meadow.

“Ah-oww,” I moaned as I came to a secure stop on the grass, my wits coming back along with an unpleasant sensation on my barrel. “I hope I didn't break a rib,” I continued as I timorously twisted and arched my back, trying to diagnose my pain. When I didn't feel anything poke at my skin or innards, I surmised I had sustained nothing worse than a nasty bruise.

Before I could retrieve my joy, something dreadfully alarming dawned on me. I had felt pain. Not discomfort, but pain. Authentic pain! If that . . . then . . . I . . . No! It couldn't be! It was impossible! This was supposed to be impossible! I . . . It . . . No . . . Oh no . . . Oh no! NO! I couldn't lose it!

“Come on! I can deal with this!” I began to reassure myself in desperation. “Just because this is real doesn't mean it's permanent! I can't think like that! This could be over in a few hours!” My voice began to fade in tandem with my declining hope. “Or a couple days, or in a week . . . a month . . . a year . . . never be over . . .” I trailed off, and an unimaginable bleakness enveloped my mind. Every bone, nerve, and tissue turned against me. I didn't want them! I didn't want to be in this body! I wanted out! I had to escape! Run! Flee! HELP!

“No! I can't panic! It doesn't solve anything! I can't escape this no matter how hard I try! I just have . . .” My voice began to shatter. “To accept it . . . consider the worst . . . could be . . . forever . . .” I whimpered and . . . and . . . I feared so horribly. The panic, I was succumbing to it . . . NO! I couldn't allow it to win!

“I refuse to submit! I won't panic!” I yelled, my voice wavering in terror. My eyes were layered with tears and my entire being was shaking, but behind it all, I was fighting tooth and nail. “I can calm myself! Be rational! Fight it! I can fight the panic! Defeat it! Crush it! Eradicate it!” Defiance began to crease my lips into a fierce grin. “Yes! I can fight this! I can win! I won't lose to the pitiful panic! Ha-ha! I laugh in its face! I won't take this lying down! I will prevail! I'm a strong girl! I can- What the hay!”

I froze. I had called mys- . . . It made no sense! It made no sense! I . . . I couldn't breathe . . .

I HAD TO ESCAPE!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!”

The Unforgiving Reality Ensued

Terror . . .

Heart racing . . . it hurt . . .

I wailed incessantly . . .

Ran . . . Fell . . . Got up . . . Ran . . . Fell . . . Got up . . . Repeated . . . over . . . and over . . .

Tried to flee from myself.

I wailed . . . until I couldn't . . .

I ran . . . until I couldn't . . .

Twisting and kicking . . . desperately tried to tear my body asunder . . . Failed . . . Collapsed.

I couldn't escape . . .

Crying.

I couldn't stop crying.

I tried to wake up . . . I wanted to wake up . . .

I just wanted to wake up . . . I tried so hard . . .

The pain I had brought on myself didn't end my nightmare . . . I didn't wake up . . .

The horrible fear tormented my heart.

The immeasurable emotional anguish wasn't ending my trauma.

Being a pony was supposed to be a fascinating experience . . . With no escape it was horrifying . . .

Every nerve told me I was a pony . . . I knew it . . . but I didn't want to know it!

Tried to stop knowing . . . Couldn't stop knowing . . . I was trapped . . .

Trapped . . . in a pony . . .

Alone . . . Helpless . . .

Had to fight it . . . Had to survive the deranging stress.

Not become a filly . . .

Scared . . .

Filly . . . Scared filly . . .

Ignore it . . . Ignore myself . . . Ignore . . . a filly . . . Ignore . . .

Ignore . . .

Ignore!

Ignored . . .

I didn't want to be scared . . . I didn't want this . . .

Every nerve told it over and over and over now.

Small form . . . The hooves . . . The moving ears . . . Hair everywhere . . . Pony . . .

Tearful . . . fearful breaths . . . through my larynx . . . Female's larynx . . . Filly . . .

Nothing I could do . . . Only try to ignore it . . . Ignore it . . .

Ignore being a filly . . . A crying filly . . .

So difficult . . . Impossible . . . Too many things had changed, couldn't ignore any of them . . .

Why . . . ?

Why had I become this?

A pony . . . Female . . . Why?

Why? Why, why, why, why, why?

I wanted to know why . . .

Body told me. A pony. All the time. Never stopped. Never! It didn't stop . . .

Why couldn't it stop? I had to ignore it. Not listen. Ignore! Ignore . . .

Was so difficult to ignore . . . I couldn't. Every nerve told me . . . pony.

Down there . . . its absence told me . . . Female . . .

I felt sick knowing that . . . Sad and sick . . .

I didn't want to be this!

I didn't . . .

I wanted everything to be restored!

I wanted peace to be restored . . .

I wanted to become numb . . .

Too cold . . .

Too upset . . .

No, I had to stop this. I had to collect myself! Be strong like a . . . Why had I said that to myself? Why? I wasn't . . . No, I didn't want to remember that! I had been stressed and still was. So wrong . . . Everything was so wrong . . .

I could find peace. Could manage not to be numb and upset. I had to focus, try to piece something together.

Where was I? I had no idea. Rain, darkness, and tears obscured my vision. The ground felt hard, uneven . . .

What had occurred? I had panicked, and after that, all had been an incomprehensible blur, but now . . . now . . . I . . .

Maybe I would be listened to . . . ? I was still sobbing . . . hearing a female in my throat twist every sound I made . . . I felt terribly discouraged from talking . . . but maybe . . . I wasn't alone? Maybe there was salvation for me?

“P-please . . . help me . . . I d-don't w-want this n-no m-more . . . I j-just want out . . . I just . . . P-p-please, I w-want to know . . . It's all I ask f-for . . . t-the only t-thing . . . I w-want to know . . . t-the only thing I wish . . . How . . . how t-to g-get out . . . p-please . . . h-help m-m-me . . . h-h-help . . . I-I'm b-begging, p-please . . . I-I d-don't want t-to be a f-f-filly . . . Help . . . me . . . t-turn me b-back into a guy . . . P-please . . . help . . .” The rest of my plea were whimpers . . . The same female that had spoken in my stead was now sobbing pitifully . . . I was sobbing pitifully . . .

I waited. Waited some more. Then even more. I waited so long that a form of sensibility reinstated itself. Maybe it was only a minute, but it might've as well been an hour. There came no help, no answer, and no comfort. I received nothing but cold misery in the form of the interminable downpour. I was utterly scared and alone. Desperately, I began to writhe in a final attempt to break out from my prison, grunting and squeaking tearfully all the while. It was all in vain. There was no escape. The utterly heartrending anguish consumed me again, and I resigned myself back to the role of a shriveling, miserably sobbing heap.

Every audible sound coming from me consisted of pain, even as it inflicted more upon me. This wasn't what I sounded like! This wasn't what I looked like! I wasn't a pony, I wasn't female! . . . But every little spasm and sob reminded me of the precise and desponding facts of my transformed body. Wishing nothing more than total peace from myself, I gradually became silent and unmoving. Even my tongue was centered in my mouth, where it couldn't contact my teeth and divulge my lack of cuspids to me.

I concentrated on the pressure my clenched teeth were exerting on each other. For a moment, I found mild comfort in this since the shape of my mouth was surprisingly human-like. Alas, I quickly recalled that stallions had a long angular muzzle, whereas mares had a significantly smaller rounded snout, the inner shape of the mouth not far removed from a human's. My tongue acted independently and inquisitively for a second, sadly confirming the assumption I had made. It didn't make an iota of difference whether my quick analysis on pony mouths was wrong or not. The irony of discovering the human-like feature in the body of an Equestrian mare shattered my self-deception and fragile tranquility like they were hollow eggshells, and the resulting outflow of tears was veiled by the rain.

I was alone, lost, and beside myself with despair and horror. Grains and stones were digging into my hide, and the sky was pouring chilling water over me, but those hardly registered in me anymore. They were insignificant annoyances that hardly matched the cerebral torture my morphed body incurred.

I had no will to move. No will to do anything. No will whatsoever. Lying flat like a carcass, I stared fixedly at nothing, drawing somber breaths. Was this how I'd go out? As a female animal? Life cut short before I even got close to achieving my dreams and aspirations? No matter how horrible and untimely my death would be, I always imagined there would be remains to use as identification. A body to bury. A funeral to be held. Mourning relatives. Now, I was an alien being, and my DNA was probably out of this world. Literally. I was unidentifiable. I was effectively a missing person. Was I even a person? Alive or not, if I was seen by my parents, I'd be as unrecognizable to them as I was to myself.

I wished they were here with me, though. Helping me, comforting me, protecting me and loving . . . or maybe they wouldn't. Could I wish such horror on them and humiliation on me? Would they believe me? I, stuck as a petite pony, claiming to be their son? Would I believe it myself if I were in their place? Even if they were convinced, could they defend me from the world? How long would it take until they'd slip up, inadvertently but inevitably sealing my fate as some lab project? What if they could manage to successfully conceal me from the public eye? I'd probably be confined indoors for the rest of my life, my future all but ruined. Would I always be their son? Would they disown me if the secret of what I was proved too hard to maintain? What would I do? Live in the seclusion of a forest, reluctantly obeying my survival instincts and adapting to a new life? Life as an animal? Eating berries, leaves, and grass? Would I even survive the winter? Freezing and starving, I'd succumb to fatigue, weeping until my last breath.

Why did I even bother to run these scenarios in my mind?

I couldn't live as a pony regardless. Not as a filly. I had no future as one.

No. This would be my final day. That was all I needed to know.

Gradually, the rain took its toll on me, and complex thoughts became more and more difficult to abet. I considered it a fortune because it was easier for my devastated self to simply exist instead of being pensive.

The rain continued, and the darkness finally became total. Maybe took an hour. Did it matter? I did nothing and now I saw nothing. The surrounding void was no match to mine. For some unfathomable reason, my heart kept beating. Couldn't it just quit it?

Maybe a wild animal would come to slay me? I was defenseless, had no will to fight. Easy prey. Why wasn't an animal finding me? It would hurt a little, but then I'd be granted peace.

Why wasn't I succumbing to the cold? My unwanted body was still here. I could feel it shiver. I could feel the rain pelt it. Striking the two things on my head. I had no shelter to give them from the rain, and they twitched involuntarily under the harassment of the incessant droplets. It didn't hurt, but I wept again for a fierce want to forget my bodily horror. Why couldn't the cold show me mercy and grant me ultimate peace by making me numb?

Then, I saw a gleam. It vanished, then came back. The pattern continued. It was distant, but with each appearance it was nearing.

I recognized it. Two lights. Close to each other. Illuminating a path.

Shifted towards me. It was on a road.

I realized something. I was on a road, too.

The thing grew brighter. We were on the same road. I thanked the guiding force for this merciful meeting.

Finally, I'd get my peace. A little bump, and then the suffering would be over. The lights were the keys to my prison cell, keys to my eternal peace, the light at the end of my dark tunnel.

It would be over.

The pain. The sorrow. The fear. The joys. The hopes. My life. All over.

My aspiration since I was a kid. Gone, too.

It was directly ahead now. We would meet soon.

I wasn't scared anymore.

Just a few more meters, then afterlife. I wished a Cessna 172 waited for me there . . . Never got to pilot one. Didn't even get to flight school. Worked to gather the money. To one day be free from the bonds of earth itself. Me and the plane . . . together we'd be one. The perfect bliss, and now I'd never . . . My greatest dream. Forever unattainable. The greatest joy I had ever wanted to experience . . . I cried. . .

The lights were so bright now that I could barely look at them. I had to force my eyes open, but the whiteness was soon to overwhelm my efforts. Never had headlights been so bright. It was like staring at the sun, but I wanted keep my eyes open. Witness my final second.

‘Dad. Mom. I'm sorry . . . My friends. I'm so sorry . . . Jim. I'm so very sorry . . . that I'll be forever gone . . . Please, always remember me . . .’

No . . .

No, no, no!

No afterlife . . . No Cessna . . . No mercy.

Instead, a short symphony of displacing gravel . . .

It didn't come. It came so close, but it didn't come. It had been so close. My freedom from this torment, my final wish, and my only reason to feel joy. It had been coldly denied. Two rectangles in a sideways world . . . interlocked rings in between the beaming eyes of the impassive machine. I knew that emblem . . . It was supposed to be my passport to a better existence . . .

Through the rain and purring of an internal combustion engine, I heard a few steps. Whoever it was had. . . Wait . . . No, I couldn't be seen as this! I had to get up and flee, but . . . I couldn't. I was so utterly defeated, so scared of the bodily terror that had befallen upon me that I was paralyzed. Besides . . . this wasn't a situation that I could run from.

Whoever had found me crossed into the brightness and graced me with tangible warmth. The minor joy of receiving heat in the cold was immediately destroyed by the ever-present discomfort of my alien shape and the looming fear of it being dissected by morally depraved scientists.

“Thank God, you're breathing! I thought you were dead.” He was worried. Relieved. Why? Why couldn't I be dead? I couldn't be seen as this. “Are you okay? Can you move?” I wasn't okay. Spiritless to move. What was he scheming to do to me? “Just my damn luck! The one day I forget my cell phone at home, this happens!” He was lucky; I wasn't. Who would he call? Did it make any difference who he'd call? I was doomed regardless. If only I had met my end under the wheels of the car . . .

“Can you hear me?” I could hear him. Why was he lifting my head? “You don't look too good.” No, I didn't. I didn't look like myself. I didn't want to be seen as this. So little light, yet his unshaven face was shining with concern. Why?

“Don't you worry one bit, I won't leave you here.” Why couldn't you? Why did you pick me up? I should've tried to run, but I didn't want to. Not as this. I couldn't be seen as this. I didn't like being carried either. A fragment of pride protesting . . .

Dry, soft and warm—I had been placed on the rear seat of the car. My new environment was of little consolation. The car began to move.

“My home's not far away, so I'll take you there, and then I'll call for help. You'll be fine soon, I promise.” No, I wouldn't be fine. I couldn't be seen as this. Why call for help? What was he planning to do to me? Was he good-natured? Was he saving me? Was he lulling me into a false sense of safety? He talked to me, asked questions. He sounded worried and serious, but I was absolutely inattentive to what he said and made no reply. Music was playing softly. I listened to it fixedly. Recognized a song. Breaking The Chains by Dokken. The solo was good. It helped me a little. Very little.

I continued to listen to music, but grievous threads were spiraling around my heart and upset it every time I did something—anything—related to my irremovable form. My acceptance . . . No. The tolerance I had for this body had shattered, and I was so focused on keeping myself together that I was having a hard time thinking straight. If I lost myself again . . . I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't be seen doing that. I couldn't be seen as this . . .

He had said soon, and more songs played, but time was being tardy for me. Only by paying attention to the music did I know time was progressing at a seemingly normal rate. With my body temperature climbing back to nominal levels, my senses started to return to me, and I came to earnestly wish I was in a sensory deprivation tank. It didn't matter how I aligned my limbs; they told me exactly what they were. I missed my fingers. Their nonexistence wouldn't leave me alone. It was like pain, but not quite. A numb agony. I didn't even want to think about them. If only it were so easy . . . I had to pound my mind with thoughts to keep myself on the calmer side, but like a piston in an engine, my thoughts quickly rotated back to my horrible situation. Perhaps it was only right that they did.

I still wanted this to be a dream, because then this could end somehow. Painlessly. I just wanted to wake up, in my bed, with everything okay. I had read a fair share of fictional stories and seen movies where transformation occurred during sleep. Never did I imagine it'd happen to me. How could I have? Why would I ever prepare for the impossible? This was impossible. Something like this doesn't just happen. So . . . how could this be possible, then? What had made all this possible? I wanted to know.

Then . . . there was something persistent . . . An overwhelming, repeating feeling: I couldn't be seen as this. Why? What was so wrong about this? Why couldn't I be seen as this? Because it was dangerous to be a pony. Correction: used to be. Presently, the possibility of the unimaginable horror of becoming a lab animal had been reduced. At worst, it had only been postponed. Though trivial in comparison to the real hazard, this was utterly wrong . . . It was wrong for me to be of this configuration. I was tragically and unjustly encased in this unbreakable shell.

I couldn't be seen as it. As this. As a . . . a female.

A much more potent and emasculating word existed to describe this extremely distorted version of myself. Female was somewhat of a neutral word . . . or maybe not . . . It was nonetheless a degrading, undesirable, and unfair title which I had not requested and had no available means to remove . . . and the irremovability of my status threatened to force tears from my eyes. I didn't want to be a female pony! Yet, here I was, mysteriously transformed into one, without the faintest clue on how to turn back into whom I used to be, and I feared that I was now doomed to this miserable life.

How had this happened to me, and why? I just wanted to know the answers. Answers that a stream of tears couldn't hope to grant me. Pony or female? I didn't know which hurt me more. Frightened me more. Crying about it was so wrong, so unmanly . . . but it was the only comfort I had to offer myself. Not even shielding my eyes with my arms could accomplish that pertinent task, what with them . . . being covered in soft fur . . . possessing delicate skin . . .

Like that of a female . . .

They weren't my arms! I didn't want to be a filly! I'd never wish to be a female! Not even a pony. I didn't wish for anything . . . and I almost began to cry openly. My life was ruined. Of course, I would cry about that, but I still tried to save face. Only the recurring sniffles dared to reveal my grief.

Wishing to forget the reality of my insufferable condition, the music again became my sole focus. Rock songs, most of which I didn't recognize. Didn't make a difference, though. The music permitted me to be quite ignorant of my flesh and future; that was what made the difference between drowning in my own lachrymosity and holding my head barely above the surface.

Time passed. Was it minutes? Hours? Years? No, only five barely familiar songs had played to their conclusion when the car stopped and became quiet. The music, the engine, and even the driver were quiet. Without music to focus on, my attention shifted to the door handle instead. Not long after, the voice of a somewhat fraught male drifted into my ears . . .

“Alright, here's the plan: I'll take you into my home and call you a doc ASAP. I don't know if you're seriously injured or not, but I hope to God you aren't.”

. . . my strange, sensitive, disturbingly flexible ears. Why did they have to turn? I didn't want them to do that! I didn't want to know this body . . . Didn't want it . . . It wasn't even possible to mentally escape from my bodily horror, was it? A few feeble and futile attempts, sure, but I was too easily pulled back into the quagmire of misery. Wait, what? Call me a doctor? Now I was truly doomed. The doctor would probably knock this guy out cold or worse, then take me to wherever I'd then serve as a most extraordinary research subject.

The guy muttered something indiscernible under his breath, but I didn't open my mouth to ask what; I had nothing but sorrow queuing within my throat. A door opened nearby, then after it closed, I had a short moment in solitude. Not that it granted me anything remotely positive. When the door before me opened, I didn't look into his eyes. If he hadn't known I had shed tears with shameful abundance, he did now. Softly spoken but useless words of consolation slinked into my tormented mind, followed by two arms and hands swiftly but gingerly taking me from the warm and gray out to the cold and dark.

I was so light and small now that it was of no trouble for him to support me in his arms. Gazing at the ground beneath me, I struggled to evict the thoughts related to my form and future. Thoughts were controllable. Sadly, nerves were not, but at least I could try not to devote a thought to them. The meandering path of concrete tiles embedded in the lawn scrolled beneath me as I was transported to his abode. Concrete changed to a parquet floor, then finally to white ceramic tiles, whereupon I was laid down with care.

“Okay, you rest easy here while I fetch my phone and return in a second,” the unknown male told me as I resumed my sprawled-out-like-a-starfish stance. “I really hope you aren't wounded or ill,” he reiterated before he sighed, then left in an apparent hurry. Really? Care for my health and then invite another human here? Maybe I still had a chance, though? As difficult it was to admit, my shape had adorable facial features. Perhaps I could use it to persuade the doctor to obey his professional confidentiality and extend my life . . . Life as a forever imprisoned female pony?

I sighed; I had only bad choices ahead of me.

I began to lethargically survey my location. The slightly rectangular white-tiled room was a bathroom with an inbuilt bathtub occupying a corner on the longer left-side wall. A small assortment of haircare bottles was perched on a glass shelf above the bathtub. To the left of the shelf and tub was a grooved door. Probably a sauna there. Opposite that door was another ajar door. The right wall was closest to me, a shower affixed to it ostensibly far above me. Resting my head back on the ceramic underlay, I continued to cling intently to the tiny tranquility I had discovered from inspecting the room.

Alas, I started to shiver. Not due to a cold. An extreme fear. Unprecedented form of claustrophobia, I hastily assessed. That tremendous fear demanded all of my mental strength to keep myself from falling prey to it. I knew it wouldn't help me at all if I did waver, but a significant part of me desired to scream in complete terror under the illogical belief that I could tear myself free from my transmogrified body by twisting and kicking forcibly enough.

Again . . .

The Caucasian male rushed back and crouched down. “Check for injuries? I'm not sure I know how to do that,” he said with doubt both in tone and expression, followed by barely discernible speech emitting from his cell phone. He nervously licked his lips, frowning as he regarded me, then closed his index finger and thumb across his mustache before setting his hand on his knee. “Okay, I'll try to do my best. Help is on the way, right? Good.” He sighed, seemingly having second thoughts about what he was about to do. Understanding what was about to come, I hoped he'd hesitate forever to inspect me and order the "help" to go away.

Alas, he then did exactly what I feared by placing a pair of fingers on my upper arm. Gingerly, he started to press my skin, moving methodically and slowly towards the end of my limb. Unwilling to look at my appendages, I fought behind tightly closed eyelids to preserve my brittle composure when my extremely distressed mind was directly informed of the encompassing layer of excess hair and the hide underneath. When he reached the border of the soft skin and hard keratin, the sensory feed became too cumbersome to bear, and I withdrew my limb. I winced lengthily, both at what had instigated me to move my limb and suppressing an excruciating discomfort when an instinct to fold five digits into my palm informed me there were only one and none.

“Does it hurt?” the man wondered with justifiable concern. My response was to swiftly resile the limb to its least troubling posture. Only now did I notice I was hyperventilating. Quickly, I embraced the disappearing traces of peace remaining in myself, and not a second too late. There were no broken bones in me, only the tormented shards of a broken spirit, though I would've gladly traded the latter for the former. Bones would heal over time, but mental trauma could be forever.

“I can't be sure, but it could be that . . . I see. How long? Okay . . . I'll stay on the line until he arrives,” he talked to his phone. Allegedly, some kind of medical aid was on the way. It wouldn't help me. It couldn't help me. What I needed was something much more urgent and integral: my original body. I wanted out from this highly undignified and frightening frame, but I didn't know how to leave. That was my agonizing wound, and no plaster, no suture, and no antibiotic would heal it. The pain was so grievous that I was constantly on the verge of tears. I was fearing for my life in more ways than one. I didn't want to die in a lab, but I didn't want to live in the secrecy of some guy's home, either.

“Hey? You feeling okay?” he asked. It was a calmer tone now, probably meant to relax me as much as it was to relax him. Such a noble but wasted effort in my case. “Lets try to chat about something," he suggested, sounding like he was trying to mask his unease with a dose of friendly unconcern. "I heard it helps relieve stress. I'm Marcus Lundvik. Strange surname, I know, but that's what I get when my mother married a Swede, and I'm not talking about the vegetable.” He chuckled at his own remark, but I was miserably immune to his mirth. “Anyway, I'm thirty-four, I've lived in this little town since the age of five, and I work in retail. Furniture, to be precise. I get a nice employee discount both there and in the cafeteria.” A silence followed, myself doing nothing more than stare at the far wall. “So . . . how about you?”

Unthinking and unmoving, I gazed at the seams between the tiles in another desperate attempt to bathe myself in ignorance of the surreal reality I was in. Here, my life was all but a nightmare come true, and he gives a quick summary of his own life? This truly was a nightmare, then! He didn't even care that I was a pony! The crouching furniture salesman—who had tried to comfort me with his deceitful hospitality—shifted on his bent legs as he waited for . . . I didn't even care. Half of his attention was on me, the other half on the phone he held to his ear. Presumably. I didn't care to find out.  

“You . . . don't want to talk?” His lax tone didn't adequately mask his underlying concern any longer. No, I didn't want to contribute to the chit-chat! I didn't want to hear the voice belonging to this body. I simply waited. For what, I truly didn't know. Maybe the doctor would just . . . I didn't even know. I didn't even want to think anymore! I just wanted to be utterly ignorant of everything!

“Hey, uh, you'll be fine, won't you?” the guy inquired, his concern back in gear. His hand found its way onto my back, displacing hair in his attempt to comfort me. I didn't want to know I had so much hair, and his gentle stroking of it was having the very opposite effect of his intentions. Underneath the hair and the skin resided a pair of lungs within a small ribcage, pumping fitfully small amounts of air. Between them was my anxious heart, frightened of the alien framework it was now sealed in and of surgical tools that would cut it open. Then, all the hairs on me began to bristle, and my jaw locked. The tremors of an anxiety attack were approaching . . .

The doorbell's abrupt chime penetrated the room and thankfully called off the hand from mollifying me into a new panic attack. Maybe it should've. I could've had a chance to escape. To survive in the woods . . . for a few months . . .

“Okay, I think he's here,” he said to the phone—or me—before he stood up. “I'll be back soon with good help in tow!” With my eyes still locked on the wall, glum silence was my reply, and I was left alone with myself again.

Nothing particular ventured into my mind. Hoping to retain my tattered sangfroid to the last second, I was fully fixated on analyzing the mortar between the wall tiles for crumbs of willpower to repel an overwhelming anxiety. Moments later, I heard talking coming from beyond the room, the volume increasing in sync with their approach to my location. My attention converged on their chat. A distinct fear began to form in me. Just a few seconds left, and then my fate would be defined for good.

“...to a hospital if I were you,” an unfamiliar male spoke in displeasure.

“Sorry. I was all shot with nerves and did what I thought was for the best,” the recently introduced man defended himself apologetically.

“Don't fret too much about it, sir,” came the reassuringly spoken reply. “Currently, I have a more important task at my hooves than concerning myself with a hopefully minor and forgivable misjudgement.”

Wait . . . what? Hooves? Scantly had I formed a guess in my head when the answer literally stepped into my view and—  OHMYGOSH!

“Anyhow, time to do what I do best!”

Wha—  whoa! Were my deceiving eyes me? I mean, eyes me deceiving? I mean- that-that- NO! WAY!! Oh, my, oh my, ohmy, ohmyohmyohmyOHMY! A pony! A real, sand-yellow-coated pegasus pony, with wings and feathers, a slicked-back tangerine-orange mane, golden-yellow eyes, a green medkit with flared wings, and a white cross as a cutie mark, and there was a streamlined medical kit strapped to his back with a harness and and and . . . and . . . and everything! Whaaaooow!

“Hold on a second, doc. Let me take that kit off for you.”

I . . . I . . . I still didn't believe what was before me! Was he real!? If he was, then I'd be ecstatic, if I wasn't already! Wow! No, that was too weak! Woooow! No! Superwoooow! That was better! I-I . . . This was incredible! A real pegasus!

“Thank you, sir.”

This was astounding! A breathing, living, talking, sapient pegasus! Just like in the cartoon, but more real and more awesome! Now he was looking at me and smiling so kindly, too! Was I grinning? Was this real? This better be real! I'll tell all about this on Equestria Dai—!

“May I say, dear miss, you sport quite the positive attitude in spite of the emergency I was informed of."

I . . . W-w-what? Dear miss? I wasn't— ! . . . Oh no . . . I had . . . I had almost forgotten . . . and it hurt so much more to be told than to know that I . . . that I looked . . . was trapped as . . . I didn't want to be seen as a female . . .

This was all too real . . .

Recovery Is Nothing Short Of Arduous

“Is something wrong, miss? Did I offend you in some way? I'm sincerely sorry if I did.”

The pony had a fairly cordial attitude, but he had inadvertently brought reality itself back onto me like a jet plane with retracted landing gears. With my blissful ignorance destroyed, I had dropped my head and eyelids, a lump in my throat eager to turn the smallest attempt to talk into shameful sobs. I didn't want to speak with the voice I had now, let alone hear it weep. Being ignorant of myself again seemed like such a good idea, but my silence was a robust chain that kept me from exposing the nature of my anxiety.

“Are you injured?” the still astonishing equine worried. Supposing he meant physical injuries, I feebly shook my steeply inclined head. “Are you okay?” He continued, softly, after a brief pause: “You're shivering.”

Of course I was shivering, and I definitely wasn't okay. I was a victim of some unknown event which had transmogrified me and . . . and taken me to a parallel plane of existence, too! What else could explain the presence of the pegasus? He was real. The scent of his damp coat inflowing to my nostrils was definitely real. The extremely frightening threat of a short and dismal life as a lab animal was most likely no longer real. That was a relief, though woefully inadequate to undo the stress of being an animal of the opposite sex. My want to flee from this body was fierce, and the despair of not knowing of a true solution was immeasurable. I wouldn't ever want to live as a female, and to be seen as one was an injustice against my very being. The inability to remove this guise kept me perpetually distraught. I wouldn't be half as upset if I had become a stallion.

I had trouble breathing . . .

“I can give you something for it, though.”

Daring to uncover my eyes and glance at the source of the gently spoken suggestion, I saw the pegasus grab a narrow plastic tube from his medical kit and orient the equipment to be lengthwise in his mouth. He then lowered his head to place the opposite end of the tube close to my lips. I registered the unnervingly salient yet gracefully shaped snout of mine, from where my sights quickly traveled up the translucent tube back to the pegasus. A concerned frown was replaced with an encouraging smile as he gingerly prodded the device at my lips. A faint odor of disinfectant infiltrated my mouth when I instinctively curled my lips inwards to lick them. Uncaring of the consequences, I draped my lips around my end of the tube. The disinfectant stung in my mouth, but subsided quickly. From his end of the tube came a tiny snap, and something small rolled onto my tongue.

The pegasus drew the tube from me with care and placed it on the floor. “It's diazepam, a muscle relaxant,” he explained. I glanced at the contraption. There was a small box with a switch on the end that had been in his mouth; apparently, it was a container and integrated release mechanism for the drug. “It also helps to combat anxiety and stress,” he continued to detail the effects of the medicine. Letting that information orbit in my head for a few seconds first, I swallowed the near tasteless pill without vigor. I was in a dire need of some form of peace, and if I had to ingest a drug to attain it, so be it.

The pegasus appraised the sensibly silent man. “Sir, can you please dispose of this in my stead?” he requested affably, giving the tube a light prod with his forehoof. “It's recyclable,” he added, as if it was an afterthought. Marcus picked up the simple medical device as prompted, the pegasus thanking him before the red-tee-wearing man left the room. He wore a very dark blue jacket earlier, I recalled.

“Hey, what about the two pegasi outside?” Marcus came back to the door, the contraption still in his hand. “Shouldn't they be with you?”

“Oh, no,” the pony replied politely. “Medical Brace and Ampoule must always stand alert. If things start to look grim, I'll hit the alarm,” he gestured at the medkit where a bright red button was located conveniently on the inner side of the flipped-over lid, “to inform them they have a patient to deliver. Regrettably, the stretcher's too bulky to be taken indoors, but I'm pretty sure the young lady isn't in life-threatening danger.” The paramedic glanced at me with a tender smile.

I had tried to ponder this harmony between ponies and humans, but the young cogitation was demolished by the things atop my head flopping down when their unwilling owner had been referred to as a female. The guy left, but I was temporarily so out of it that I failed to discern what he said. If I had just passed out completely . . .

“Listen dear, I'll start by checking you for fractures and any signs of internal injuries. It shouldn't take more than a minute.” He had a smile on him that insinuated all would go well, but it dissipated momentarily when he took stock of my miserable expression. “Don't worry,” he said in caring tone. “I've never injured a patient.”

Until he had addressed me with feminine pronouns, that is . . . Although in his defense, he was factually correct, and I wasn't collected enough yet to negate the obvious evidence. A dejected sigh passed through my nostrils, and my head rested itself on the floor in defeat. My best option was to wait for the medicine to take effect and dull my anxiety. In the meantime, it was up to me to keep myself together. I had to constantly tell myself not to bend my fingers . . .

“Tell me to stop if you feel any pain.” Predicting what was coming, I wished to turn ethereal to preserve my physical immunity and frail tranquility. Unsurprisingly, a light prod on my arm proved those wishes false. Fighting a desire to scream in panic, I remained tense and immobile as the pony inspected me for injuries. He was very thorough, which didn't mitigate my unease. “Relax,” he reassured, probably noticing that my breaths had become shallow and irregular. “Everything looks fine.” I did my best to retain control as he methodically pressed his hooves on my arms. And shoulders. Neck. Ribs. Back. Hips—Wait NO!

Everything in the room became a smudge of predominantly white colors in my vision as my limbs instinctively shot into uncoordinated action. Next thing I knew, I had crammed myself into a corner. Hyperventilating and heart beating against my ribcage, I had secured a shocked stare on the startled stallion. All the marvel I had for the unearthly pony became virtually nonexistent. Thankfully, I hadn't lost myself to a panic attack, though it had come very close. The light pressure he had exerted on me seemed to linger on my skin, addling my thoughts. However, the vortex of disorganized cogitations quickly coalesced to inform me of what had triggered my hasty move: I was naked! Unclothed! Exposed! So was he, and I was practically defenseless! Most alarmingly, he had set his hooves too close to where . . . things I never would've imagined possessing were! Ugh. My stomach knotted now that I had consciously taken note of the . . . parts, and he . . . he could've done something appallingly intrusive to them! No wait wait wait wait! That was an irrational and unwarranted conclusion. He wouldn't dare do that to me! Would he? We were naked, and momentarily alone, and he was a stallion, and sadly I wasn't, and there could be a possibility he'd bring out his primitive desires in full while I was utterly distraught and helpless! Of course that was a ridiculous and unfounded fear! The guy would've come to my rescue regardless of the pony's actions. I had to dismiss this nonsensical assessment of the winged paramedic doing something indecent to me. Ponies would never do something so detestable. They were kind beings and incapable of evil. I had to calm down, and dismiss the ludicrous supposition that insinuated otherwise! Dismiss, dismiss, dismiss . . .

“I apologize, miss.” The pegasus got up onto his hooves, a sorry look on his muzzle. “My intention wasn't to upset you.” Meanwhile, the 'dismiss' in my head lost the three first letters but remained in its loop, playing a different, unsettling song.

He brought a hoof to his chin, appraising me with a thoughtful expression. “Judging by your brisk skitter, motor control of your legs is ostensibly normal,” he mused pedantically with a scantly perceivable voice. “Although . . .” With caution on his face, he began to trepidly close the gap separating us, and the broken record in my head came to a sudden halt. “Since I believe you're not injured, can you tell me what troubles you?” Glancing at the open door behind the pony, who I hoped wasn't just putting on the airs of concern, I planned to bolt on a second's notice. “I'm not a psychologist, but I can listen to you nonetheless.” I knew it wasn't from him I had to escape but from my senseless suspicions. Alas, when the frowning stallion got the clue and sat down about a meter's distance from me, my less rational side began to instinctively push myself away. “Please, do not be afraid," he articulated softly with a somber glimmer in his golden eyes. "I only wish to help you.” I would have moved farther away if not for the unyielding wall tiles. They felt cold through . . . all the . . . this . . . wet . . . my . . . coat! I think . . . I was nearing the end of my rope . . . The pony . . . a predator . . . Stupid misconception! Away with you! I had to concentrate! Concentrate, concentrate, concentrate! A modicum of sensibility! I had to hold it tightly!

“Listen closely, and try to relax,” the intrusively-close stallion said in an unmalicious voice, “I promise not to upset you.” Promise or not, I . . . I suddenly became aware of having . . . of not having hands. I couldn't feel the floor underneath my . . . the . . . hooves. A subdued sensation of the solidity beneath them transmitted through the horribly enlarged nails on my two remaining digits! Soft dermal tissue and perceptive nerves replaced by relatively insensitive mass of keratin! Dexterous digits numbering in five per appendage subtracted by four to one maladroit and disfigured mockery with an almost exclusive role of supporting my body! A mutated fingertip enveloped in its own oversized nail! NO! Stop! I had to stop the never ending over-analyzation before it ruined me! I had to calm myself, I could . . . just . . . If I could just . . . almost there, almost. Okay, at least a little. I had pushed back the tears and frightened scream that would've been the declaration of a panic attack. Now if I could erase it from my entire self, too . . .

“Am I doing something wrong? I can't help you if I'm left in the dark,” the pony said, looking quite comfortless himself. The answer he waited for didn't come. “It goes against my judgment, but . . . if you wish, then just . . . tell me to go away.” Sadly, any thought I instigated refused to depart from my brain. Hence, I was in no capacity to clearly instruct him to back off. Desperate to reduce the excruciatingly troubling flood of nerve signals rushing in from my upper appendages, I tried to lift them off the floor, but I had to abort the attempt when I realized the two abhorrent digits truly were pertinent in supporting myself. Undeterred by the failure, I rested on my legs . . . my hind legs while leaning against the wall, folding my arms in front of me. It was awkward, but at least I was able to ignore my arms and their extremities. Both the pony and I were starting to relax. For a few seconds. Then, another unnerving sensation struck me, and my grimace almost returned. Wanting to distance myself from the perv- . . . perplexed pegasus, I had wedged my back and head into the corner. What was on my head was . . . They . . . they were now in contact with the wall. An invasion of new nerve signals cascaded from the undesired features into my strained brain, but I was powerless to retract my head from its position. Sights transfixed on the very close stallion, I was aware that I was instinctively but senselessly straining to put even more distance between us. Plus, I was fighting an onslaught of nerve signals running down from the two large things attached to my head. Suddenly, I found myself sitting on my behind, my hind legs unable to continue supporting me. Something was now underneath me, irritating . . . What was that I felt where my—? Oh, gross! I shuddered, cringed, tried to usher away the horrible feelings and mental imagery. I didn't want to know about those! I didn't want to think on what I was! Ears, hooves, naked. Female! If I could just have a minute free from all those, I could relax! A minute as myself to calm my swirling mental chaos. I wouldn't even mind a potent anesthetic. I just wanted an escape! Alas, it was a useless want. I had to rely on my tremendously frayed self and the slowly working medicine to rebuild my shattered tolerance and dispel my anxiety for good.

Wishing for some breathing space or maybe even a moment alone, I tried to surmount the dislike I had for this body's voice and speak to the pitying but puzzled pegasus. It didn't go too well; I produced nothing more than tremulous, incomprehensible peeps which only further confused the frowning stallion. Now I knew exactly what was in store for me: the stress I contained was itching for a way out, and any attempt to talk again would open the ocular floodgates. Thus, the stallion, who was apparently contemplating on how to properly mollify me, remained too close to comfort. The male with a mustache and light beard returned, his expression reflecting some form of sadness as he saw me; I liked to think he empathized with my severe plight.

“What's going on? Is she okay? She looks like she's been scared to death,” he wondered with concern as he came to stand by the pony. Just his height seemed to debase me further; he looked to be slightly above two meters tall. He received an uncertain but contrite glance from the pony, whereas I suffered the sound of "she" echoing in my head like an insult and enhancing the fierce desire I had to reject this body. The looping pronoun was shortly overshadowed by the . . . the wedged things on me. I had almost managed to forget them! I was finally able to remove my head from the wall by a slight margin, but the continuing existence of the two sound-catchers didn't cease to pester me. It was as though every heartbeat sent a potent sensory pulse through them and into my overstressed brain. The discomfort of the prominent features breached my already weakened cerebral defense lines like a hot knife through butter and started to exacerbate my terror. My tenuous tranquility—if I could even associate such a word to it—finally began to erode, each passing second increasing my stress on a logarithmic scale.

I wasn't sure if the pegasus and human were conversing to each other or me; I wasn't paying much attention to them anymore. My focus was firmly set on trying to combat all the unnerving things related to my inescapable physiological condition, mostly on ignoring the two intolerable troublemakers on my head. They were incessantly agitating me. In fact, it seemed like any attempt to forget them only made things worse! I was in a vicious and inescapable cycle! They reacted to my every emotion, and I wanted them to stop! Stop being down-folded! Stop turning! Stop existing! I had to erase their insufferable presence! I wanted them to go away! I couldn't take them anymore! I had to get them off me but they were still there. I was trying to get rid of them, but I couldn't grab them my fingers weren't working I wanted them back it only made things worse I couldn't get the horrible ears off me I wanted them off me to get them off me GET THEM OFF ME!!

“Stop!” A sobering yell struck my eardrums along with something quickly swiping my limb from my right ear. “What're you doing to yourself!?” a sand-yellow shape shouted in extreme concern, his hard extremities now on my shoulders. My vestiges of self-restraint failed almost instantly, and panic began to build up in me at an alarming rate as I stared at the pegasus in a silent plea for help. I had to chance it . . . I had to tell him why I . . . who I . . . But . . . whimpered . . . Almost sobbing . . . Grief and fright enveloping my frantically beating heart. I cringed, pushing the pony away . . . Felt my limbs, I saw my limbs . . . I wished to unsee them, unfeel them! I couldn't . . . The collapsed pony . . . His expression was impossible to discern . . . Everything was blurring. Everything in my body felt wrong. Everything was wrong, wrong, WRONG!! I couldn't . . . anymore . . . I had to . . .

“AAAAAAAAAAHHH!!”

Panic didn't come . . . like I had dreaded . . . Like I had expected. That blood curdling scream . . . sounded wrong . . . It broke me like I was frail glass . . . Small pile . . . Cried profusely . . . Tried to conceal the torrents . . . Sodded my arms in return . . . My hairy arms . . . The only fingers . . . felt wrong . . . Entire body felt wrong . . . The tears weren't helping . . . So dearly wished they did . . . I was inconsolable . . . Ignoring myself was impossible . . . I failed to mute the uncontrollable weeping . . . and it sounded so wrong . . . Not my voice . . . I didn't want to hear it . . . I didn't want to know what I was now . . . They saw me be like this . . . Saw me as this . . . The unfathomable misery . . . The humiliation and shame . . . The abject horror . . . The emotional ache in my heart . . . I wished for nothing more in the world than to escape from this prison . . . A button to press, a keyword to speak, a move to perform . . . Anything! As long as I could do it now! Please . . .  Anything . . .

I was scared . . . So scared . . . Please . . . help . . .

“Hey . . . Don't cry . . .” A soft, caring whisper, by . . . I couldn't coax myself to open my eyes . . . but . . . I knew whose voice it was . . .

Something slipped underneath me . . . raised me with care . . . as if I could be shattered again . . . Lamely I tried to resist . . . but I was limp . . . I was frail . . . Broken . . . Still crying . . .

Then, a warmth radiated into me. Body heat. A fragrance of deodorant and an underlying but unexpected natural scent. His arms and hands wrapped over my neck and back. Mine were . . . I circled them around him on a compulsion. I supposed he was crouching, or kneeling . . . My legs were steadying me on the floor. Strange as it was, all of this didn't upset me. I felt a calmness, and though I didn't want to embrace him or be embraced by him . . . this felt so nice. Soothing. Safe. Nothing I had ever felt before compared to this. It was a sincere effort to console me, and the inflowing serenity that closed my tear ducts began to dilute the sorrow and agony coursing within me. Still, my breaths were irregular and weak, and I randomly hiccuped with a tiny squeak.

“It's okay, it's okay,” he hushed, gently stroking the wet hair on my neck. That aspect . . . the mane and underlying coat . . . they bothered me . . . But not so much now that I was inside his aura of compassion. For the first time since the realization of my situation, I was actually relieved. Not through sheer amazement, as was the case when I saw the pegasus arrive. I was simply . . . starting to feel fine. Like an injured child comforted by a loving father. Odd comparison, but it seemed quite appropriate. I smiled lightly on the inside. I had only a few and distant memories of my dad consoling me like this. Funny. A stranger was comforting me more in a few minutes than my own parents and friends had in the past year. My friends were all about having fun, and while I wasn't estranged from my parents, I never brought up any of my life's serious issues with them, either. Didn't have many for that matter, but I was the type who toughed out my personal issues. By myself. Alone.

I had finally achieved the freedom I sought when I moved into a house of my own last winter. Then, I turned into a loner. A perfectly content loner. I was more or less apathetic when it came to maintaining social connections. Seeking relationships was never of much importance to me. I was about as romantic as a pile of discarded toilet rolls, and I considered the shallow-minded pursuit of a fling detestable. I was satisfied with my existence as a solitary, self-sufficient, and free person. It was a fundamentally carefree existence. And now . . . I wanted this immensely soothing and pleasant embrace to never end, because . . . I felt very safe here, protected from the horror of my body.

I didn't want to be alone.

Startled by a lock of hair falling across my face, I opened my eyes lethargically. Just beyond the shoulder supporting my head was the sand-yellow pegasus, the open door and room beyond it serving as his backdrop. Through vision blurred by moisture on my corneas and partially obscured by hair, I deciphered his expression of a sincerely relieved and warm smile. I would've returned the gesture, but I was in no shape to do so. I momentarily thought of withdrawing from the compassionate embrace to profess that I was perfectly fine now, but that would have been an absurd lie conceived by my pride. Had I heeded that unwise advice, it would've lead to disaster on account that I hadn't reconciled with this highly unfamiliar version of myself. So, as reluctant as I was to consider it, I had no smarter choice but to fit into this strange skin. My eyes fell shut, and I began to take deep breaths, partially hindered by clogged nostrils. Much welcomed tranquility circled into me regardless. I had to take this unique moment to deal with undeniable facts, though. Cautiously, I parted hairs off my face with the backside of my extremity—the pastern, I recalled—before replacing my appendage around Marcus' and drawing more resolve from his immediate presence.

For the time being, I was a pony. A . . . a filly . . . or a young mare . . . and sadly, I wasn't bestowed with the power to change that. However, I had a new plan for my future: I'd return home, where I'd search for clues, find a lead . . . Discover the answers to why and how this had happened to me, and those in turn would provide the solution that I desperately needed. Hopefully . . . Hope for the best, prepare for the . . . the . . . No, please, not that . . . Please . . .

Tears welled again behind my eyelids, and my mournful sigh ended with a tiny whimper and a sniffle. A gentle caress mollified me, giving me the strength to cease my sobbing before it had the chance to begin anew. Nonetheless, I had an incalculably bitter pill to swallow: the likelihood of my form being permanent was possible, and I had to prepare for that. From the bottom of my heart, I hoped it wasn't.

“I hope you're feeling better,” the pony finally broke the silence. “Can you now tell us the cause of your anxiety?” he queried quietly, as if fearful he'd break me with his voice alone. I glimpsed at him, and his eyes shone with profound concern in contrast with his smile. Still too miserable to say a word—not even able to confirm his assumption with a nod—I tried to communicate with my eyes alone. But I knew that wouldn't really work. “You were devastated, and I'm still worried for you. I've dealt with severe physical injuries . . . but I don't have the training for psychological trauma.” He let out a long sigh before whispering glumly to the floor, “But now I wish I did . . .”

I considered this body a very severe physical ailment. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do for me. That was another harsh truth; presently, this really was my body. It was my fuzzy drying coat, my four legs with hooves at their ends . . . My flexible ears, my . . . visible snout . . . my . . . my . . . That . . . The . . . fallopian tubes! Ugh . . . Close enough. It was one thing when I believed the body was unreal, but now that I knew it wasn't . . . Maybe I shouldn't have thought about what was different. Or missing . . . As if to disprove my assessment, my hind legs shifted a little in a vain attempt to find what I had . . . once had.

I heaved air, feeling light-headed and sick to my stomach.

“Excuse me, but if I may,” the pegasus said unsurely, looking at me with sympathy, “can I continue the examination?” As soon as the pegasus had presented his request, he inclined his head and brought a hoof to his chin. “On second thought . . .” He planted his hoof down and appraised me with a careful smile. “I believe it's unneeded. You're not injured.” His smile wilted, as if he didn't believe his own words. “Though . . . you do look terrible.” Staring weakly at him, I fought a strong gag reflex instigated by the vacancy between my legs. The hand caressed my neck again, sending placating waves into my recovering conscious.

I still felt a bit queasy. If I ever had a desire to explore my reproductive parts, then that thought had perished entirely; now that the feature was sickeningly genuine, I wanted absolutely nothing to do with it! Perhaps having hooves was a blessing in that regard, since they were unfit to—I exhaled somberly but furtively—to manipulate things in the same manner fingers could. Not that I'd have to worry too much about that for long. Hope for the best, prepare— no, that was unfathomable. Too painful to consider, even if it . . . could be probable.

“I think it's for the best we take it easy on her now. Whatever she's gone through hasn't been easy,” Marcus offered. “Do you agree?” With some initial uncertainty, he slid his hand along my neck, cuing me to give a yes or no. The pony had an understanding glint in his eyes as he gave a sincere affirmation, but I was unable to muster the willpower to talk. I sniffled slightly, then hummed a weak and purposefully low imitation of a "yes". My recuperation was more important than the retelling of my tale, especially if the truth of my real form would be revealed. Small steps first. Right now, I was too shaken to explain the cause of my grief without breaking into tears. Again. Rebuilding a tolerance for my present body was paramount. After that was complete . . . truth time.

More solace soon flowed into me when the short-haired male caressed my back without prompt. Even my back felt somewhat different, and not only because it was covered in hair. Something to do with the spine, possibly how it was connected to my pelvis? I didn't know exactly. Obviously, a bipedal posture was difficult if not impossible to maintain, another saddening truth of my body I had to accept. It wasn't as disturbing as so many other altered parts, some of which were luckily concealed from sight . . .

I think I was starting to look pale.

“Say, doc,” Marcus began, worry in his tone, “does she look unwell? You think she's sick, or ate something poisonous? Is there anything you can do to help her?” I was taken aback by what Marcus said. The paramedic pegasus wouldn't stomach pump me, would he? I hoped not. Sparked by the revolting idea of stomach contents being removed, I realized I had not eaten since this morning. An unpredicted grumble indicated my stomach had noticed as well.

Marcus took immediate note of the sound. “So, you're hungry, huh?” he queried, a detectable hint of mirth in his tone. He gave me a friendly pat on my shoulders that nonetheless seemed a bit too strong for my liking. “Maybe that's why doc pony here said you looked sick; you're starving!” He let out a small laugh. “I could offer you a quick meal. Bet that would cheer you right up! I mean, uh, if you're in the condition to stomach food, that is.” At his suggestion and ignoring the caveat, the hole within me replayed its message. The human chuckled to its complaint, and I mentally agreed that a meal had a chance of improving my mood and hastening my recuperation.

“Now hold on! Are you sure it's a good idea to give her food?” the pegasus objected, taking Marcus' warning seriously. “Since we don't know whether she's suffering some kind of illness or not, I can't risk her developing complications from food.”

"If she's really sick, then she won't eat anyways,” Marcus returned calmly.

The pony trotted out of my view, talking in a strict manner, “That's a good point, but I have to keep a close watch on her. I'll hold you directly responsible if any food proves to be detrimental.” My back bristled at hearing the doc pony's sudden shift in character.

“So you're saying that if she pukes on the floor, I'm the one who pays her medical bill?” Marcus quipped. By the long silence that came, the pony wasn't amused in the slightest, and despite the exchange occurring behind my back, I was sure I could feel the cross look the pony was giving Marcus.

“Among other things, yes,” the pony rebutted in a very clear and level voice. “However, since you've so thoroughly evaluated the risks . . .” A deliberately lengthy pause followed his mocking tone, and only my imagination could read the unseen facial expressions that reflected the thoughts behind them. “. . . Can I trust you to understand your responsibility?”

“You can,” Marcus laconically agreed to the terms presented. I hoped the petty bickering would now be water over the dam. Why was it so difficult to give me food?

“Very well,” the doc pony replied, seemingly content with the arrangement. “Provided she gives her assent, of course,” he added.

Luckily for me, my stomach groaned an affirmative; I wasn't eager to hear my female voice speak. Though I was calm on the surface, on the inside, I felt like a precariously balanced bucket of tears, ready to topple the moment I had to give a summary of my day. Besides, they'd never believe I was a guy if I was weeping and sobbing like a . . . Like I had done just minutes ago.

“Well,” Marcus chuckled, “I take that as a yes.”

Although an honest apology might have defused the situation more nicely, I was relieved that the small altercation hadn't left him embittered. When I realized he had to let go of me, however, I lost some of my serenity. I began to steel myself for the inevitable, but it felt like I was preparing to stop a bus by raising a hand at it. Or a hoof, whatever.

Regardless of my unspoken doubts, he carefully set me upright on the floor, and a powerful chill immediately slinked through my bones. It was the cold of being removed from his warm grace and left standing on my own legs. My four legs . . . I felt no anger, only an abstract mental and emotional pain. The fear of this form being eternal awoke, and I shot a glance around the room from the height of about eighty centimeters: the height I'd observe the world from for as long as I was a pony. For every moment that I had my eyes open, I'd see a white snout at the bottom of my vision, and it would emit my every spoken thought in that high-pitched voice! Hate and sadness collided, creating unadulterated misery. Limply, I hung my head and closed my eyes. Soon after, my head was gingerly lifted, and another appendage wiped off the few tears I hadn't noticed shedding. I didn't object to his touch. Forlornly, I looked at the kind face, and suddenly, I noted its small likeness to a certain renowned human.

“Don't be sad. Everything'll be fine,” he spoke, smiling reassuringly. “I won't be gone long, and you have a friend here who can keep you company in the meantime.” He stroked my cheek gently. I started to doubt if telling the truth would offer any help. They'd know what and who I was, but what then? Sympathy and apologetic shrugs? Opinionated dismissals and skeptical frowns? Or were these two the perfect guides to my restoration? I couldn't know, and I didn't. How had ponies come to this world anyway? Was I just a statistic? Another unfortunate person brought against their will into this world? Had the medi-pony been human once and settled to a new life out of pure necessity? I just didn't know! I didn't know anything!

I felt so lost. Forsaken . . .

“Indeed, everything is fine.” The pony sat down beside me with a peaceful smile, and Marcus stood up as I glanced over at my "friend". I watched Marcus as he paced out of the room, stopping briefly at the threshold to cast a quick smile our way. I wanted him to turn back, raising a forelimb in a stillborn attempt to follow him when he left my view. Unbelievably, I longed to return to his therapeutic embrace; however, I had to cope with this unrequested form on my own. Resuming the empathic embrace with Marcus would only be refusing to face reality. The longer I waited, the harder the blow would be. I had to get this done with and adapt to this existence to the best of my abilities. Hopefully, I wouldn't have to carry the burden of this body for more than a few hours.

The thought of forever being a female pony caused my breaths to dry my mouth, a trace aroma of shampoo accompanying them, but I was . . . mostly okay. Somewhat okay. As okay as a guy afraid of being stuck as this for the rest of his life could be. I couldn't even wrap my mind around such an existence. I had to think of the present, which was . . . me, standing on all fours. A strange sensation. There wasn't a precise way to tell what was underneath my hooves. I could feel something, but it was subdued, like standing on very hard rubber implanted on the tips of my fingers and toes. Difficult to understand, much like the pressure in my joints, shoulders, back, and hips . . . I wasn't supposed to stand this way. Like a quadruped. It was degrading. I wasn't an animal. I wouldn't want to be an animal! Not forever . . . But the pain in my heart was too easy to provoke. I didn't want to cry again . . . I was scared . . .

“Do you wish to talk, miss?” the pegasus queried from my left, the feminine pronoun striking me like a sadness-tipped arrow. My head pitched down like a withering flower, and those darn expressive ears followed suit. Taking a deep breath to produce a silent sigh first, I glanced at the tangerine-maned pony and gave him a deliberately low, melancholic hum as a reply. He kept smiling, like he was trying his hardest to assure all was truly fine. If only . . .

“So, how are you feeling? Better, I hope." I gave an another hum. How could I be okay with talking when even that tiny sound was too high for my liking? “I suppose that was a yes,” he said, unsure, and another sigh of mine brought the bathtub into my vision. “Was it?” he added, but I felt too bleak to speak. Would've lead to pathetic whimpers anyway . . .

Shifting in place for a spell, I tried to expedite my reconciliation to my body with no significant success. I couldn't get over the feeling that I was balancing on the nails of a pair of toes and fingers at the end of very strange appendages. What I thought were my elbows were actually my wrists, I think. Where were my elbows, then? The small motion I dared told me they were close to my ribs. My entire arm was now a leg, and what used to be my only pair of legs had been changed, too. My knees were practically on the same level as my belly. Neck felt longer, ears acted on their own, there was an ever-present snout in my vision, and I believed that even my vision was different. Somehow. I had been so blind, so imperceptive of so many things when I had thought this was a dream. Now, I was oversensitive to anything and everything! Not only of this body but smells and sounds, too. Were the colors more vivid as well? This was simply too weird to digest. For almost an entire day, I had been more or less okay being a fundamentally unreal quadruped. But now? I was an animal, and a female no less! Those few words were inadequate to describe the abject nightmare condensed into an adorable shape that had imprisoned me behind its cute countenance. Curse all those tales where the transformed person adapts to their new physique in minutes! I did adapt, yes, but only because I thought this wasn't real; I thought I had a method to return to my original form at any moment. Now, I didn't have a simple exit strategy, and I knew my body had been morphed to that of a female pony. I was afraid. I was so horribly afraid! Scared out of my mind! THIS WASN'T FUN ANYMORE!!

I was grateful the medicine helped prevent another panic attack. Blinking back my tears, I glanced again at the pony. Emotionally, I was somewhere between gloom and anxiety; in contrast, he had a small smile that looked wary yet optimistic. Unable to reciprocate, I fixed my eyes back to the floor and the thin sheeting of dirty water there. For a moment, I wondered where the puddle had come from, but then I realized my sodden coat was its source. Not that the observation was of much help. I only wanted to keep my mind away from contemplating my present existence.

A future that was anything but a quick return home, and then inspecting it for a dimensional hole or something, was . . . horrifying.

Marcus was taking his sweet time, and the room wasn't decorated with anything to pique my interest. So, once again, I turned my head to the most interesting sight available: the pegasus. Our expressions were still polar opposites. We were opposites but of the same species. I was an opposite of myself. Even in my dispirited mood was my mind willing to appraise our differences.

He had a sleek and glistening coat; mine was begrimed . . . but slightly velvety. Fuzzier. Softer-looking. Even our legs and hooves seemed to be different: his were rugged and larger, whereas mine were . . . those of a female. Dainty. Whatever! The difference was subtle but unmistakable. Or perhaps I saw things that weren't true. I had never observed such dimorphism in the cartoon itself; I thought stallions and mares had near-identical bodies. Maybe I was wrong all along? What did I even know? This was real. The cartoon wasn't.

Suffice to say, my entire form was delicate, and sadly, that wasn't at all surprising. It was just another kind of humiliation. A shameful disgrace. My slightly smaller body meant I was a female. No ambiguity whatsoever. Silently, I begged for something supernatural to strike my agnostic self and restore my manhood. At least make me a stallion, because then I'd have something to relate to. Maybe have my voice restored, which would tremendously help my confidence. This morning, I had been ignorant of the reality of my sex, and looking back, I couldn't at all understand how. Now, I didn't even have to look at myself to know that I was a female pony . . . If I could just have a minute's pardon from this unjust entrapment . . .

Darn tears! They were so eager to emerge, but a slow sigh and a blink were enough to send them retreating—this time. The soft breath was a small hint to myself why I was firmly aversive of talking; I knew the voice matched my looks. I had known that since I first heard it, and I had struggled so hard to tolerate it. Now, I wasn't even sure I wanted to tolerate it. I didn't want to sound like a . . . like a . . . I had now learned to loathe that word. I never wanted to hear it ever again, let alone speak it. I wished to unlearn it, forget its very existence! Maybe I could just remain mute and pretend to be ignorant . . . What a stupid idea! I had to talk . . . But not before my fortitude was concrete, not before I was ready to tolerate my tone again.

Currently, I was as sturdy as chewy toffee.

The sand-yellow paramedic still carried an inoffensive, gentle smile. I would've thought he'd try to strike up a new conversation by now, but apparently he had decided to remain silent. Perhaps he was detecting the scent of fragility emitting from my still-damp body? Quite decent of him, really. Or . . . Wait? Maybe he had an entirely different motive behind his smile? What was he actually thinking about? What if . . .?

An awful suspicion struck me, and a flash of an intense desire to flee hit me. Unintentionally inhaling sharply, I leaned a tad to the side and compulsively bent one foreleg up. Simultaneously, my joyless gaze on the stallion traded for an apprehensive one; I had just conjured a likely explanation for the doc pony's untroubled look!

“Something bothering you?” He raised an eyebrow while my leg trepidly contacted the floor, then he glanced around in confusion as if to look for the source of the perturbance. How blind he was; he was the source! I knew how guys thought! I would know; I was one! Or used to be . . . No! Still was! I knew what I did so easily and clandestinely when I knew I'd get away with it, especially when I wore sunglasses. A little fun, no harm done! I hadn't thought I'd ever be on the receiving end of such stares! Well, now that I thought of it, maybe some females were checking out my average body in that special way. Or maybe not; I had a better face than body. That was beside the point, though! The point was that the stallion was naturally predisposed to appreciate females, and hence he might've regarded my unrequested body immodestly! Most likely, he had already eyed every detail down to my . . . Wait . . . I wasn't actually . . . an owner of a desirable posterior, was I? Did I even want to know? No! I definitely and without any doubt didn't want to know! Hastily, I concluded it was best for me to remain ignorant by classifying the precise shape of my hindquarters forbidden from visual and tactile investigation. Oh great . . .

Thanks to my overzealous mind, I swear I now felt the very air dab my unclothed rear in an unsettling and thorough manner. Then, visions of female buttocks—female human buttocks—began to spill uncontrollably into my mental canvas. It would've been quite pleasant, if it were not for the fact that every picture following the other had more and more noticeable properties of an ice-white filly with a pink-brown tail. I screwed my eyes shut and tried to think of something to will away the obscene and nightmarish slideshow, but it came to an abrupt a halt when something solid touched my shoulder.

“Are you in pain? I can offer— Whoa!” The pony was startled, but not nearly as much as I was when I realized it was his hoof that was on me. Not a second later, I was catching my breath, standing astride a dozen centimeters from my previous spot; the brief fit of nerves had thrown my body into disarray, and I had almost flailed myself into an embarrassing pile on the floor. If it weren't for the relaxant circulating in my system, I probably would've ran out the door, screaming at the top of my lungs.

"Well, uh, you seem to be quite . . . easily startled,” the fallen pony said between his panting, ending his intermittent deduction by clearing his throat, then rubbed his flank with a grunt. Meanwhile, I steadied myself, too, albeit more in posture than mind, and I noted that my right hoof felt a bit sore. Connecting the dots, I reluctantly offered the pony a contrite look; I hadn't meant to hit him. “Brings to mind a filly I knew when I was younger,” he said with a small chuckle, apparently amused by the short anecdote, or else he was trying to ease the tension. Being compared to a female pony didn't improve my mood at all. I looked away from him as he stood up, anticipating and then blinking away a small teardrop. “Oh . . . That was tactless of me,” he said apologetically. I pawed the floor nervously for a moment, hoping to arbitrarily rediscover my lost tolerance of being a female pony. I had to, lest I remain a perpetual bundle of nerves instead of just a slowly recovering one. Actually, I had to accept being the recipient of "she," and "her," and "miss" . . . and more, I feared. Was he still looking? If the situation was reversed and I was the stallion, would I . . . Maybe. Darn!

Regardless if his mind was brimming with dirty thoughts or not, I had to preserve my dignity by not showing my fundamentally naked rear to him. With cautious steps, I reoriented myself to be perpendicular to him. I felt cold . . . The chills of fear and sorrow. I questioned why had I not already run away. Why had I not escaped to a solitary place where I could vent all of my pain? I guess . . . because I knew crying wouldn't help me. I could cry for hours, and it wouldn't help me.

“I'm sorry, but I feel helpless when I don't know what's troubling you.” I heard the pony's benign voice and light clopping of hooves, causing me to flinch when the sounds tugged my ears to his direction. “However, if I could just try to cons—” Instinctively, I turned my head at him and raised a limb to ward off his advance. He regarded it and me with large eyes of surprise, then knitted his brows in dejected inquiry. My intense stare softened to a frown, and I shook my head lethargically. Backpedaling a slight, he sighed lengthily. “All right,” he murmured and gazed down, giving a small click of his tongue in a sign of pity. I . . . actually felt sorry for him; he only wanted to help me, but . . . I didn't request it. I had to endure this on my own. Prove to myself that I wasn't weak. I couldn't surrender to the desire of being comforted.

Gradually, I rested my leg, then backtracked with utmost care. Again, I felt that unwelcome fear and grief flashing in me. Then, the suspicion on the pony came back with a shocking realization on my present self: my quadrupedal posture meant I was constantly thrusting out my rear for all to see! It was a horribly embarrassing and disgraceful revelation; I was immodest by default! How did female ponies deal with this? Did they accept it because it was unavoidable, or was pony society absent of the superficial desire of that aspect of a mare's physique? It seemed likely, and I hoped it was true. Otherwise, stallions would be utterly destitute of morals. Or they had impressive self-control. This pony's wings were relaxed, so . . . But those appendages meant nothing! Just a hypothesis created by avid fans of the cartoon! There was only one way to know for sure, but I didn't have a clear visual—not that I wanted to see another guy's device! Gross!

“I know I'm repeating myself, but . . . can you please tell me what troubles you? Can you tell me anything at all?” the one suspected of uncivilized misconduct queried, his brows visibly scrunched. I had nothing to say. “Is there anything you want to say . . . to do . . . or want me to do? I'm here to help you, and . . .” His voice sank to a faint whisper as he gazed over at his medkit, crestfallen. “This is pointless.”

It was just too easy to think of the worst when I was stressed . . . I should have been ashamed of myself. And I think I was. Had I not learned anything from the cartoon? Ninth episode of the first season: Bridle Gossip. Its message was to not judge a book by its cover. To not jump to conclusions, and definitely not without undeniable evidence. The idea that the stallion was covetously checking out my essentially naked body was unfair. Innocent until proven guilty. I wasn't sure I wanted to find the incriminating evidence. Ignorance was bliss? At any rate, I desired to cover myself in something; however, a quick survey of the bathroom revealed no towels to reinstate my modesty with. Great. Naked and stuck as a female pony in the presen—

“Hello again!” A breeze of relief cooled my frayed nerves as Marcus announced his return. I eagerly set my eyes on the white bowl he carried in his hand. “I brought pears. Did you two talk?” Pears? Yum!

“Sadly, no,” the pegasus replied, and while I still had my nose . . . snout aimed at the high-held ceramic ware, I glanced obliquely at him as he spoke, “She hasn't said a single word yet. She's been laconic and . . . jumpy,” he said the last word after a moment's hesitation. I think there was a trace of sadness when he said it, but I couldn't be sure. “I'm . . . quite puzzled.” He looked miserable, and a pang of guilt bounded within me. I knew I had been anything but talkative, and had I actually dared to hear my voice, I could've explained myself. Plus, the immense man-stuck-as-filly boulder might have come off my shoulders. However, I had a definite goal of going home, and the sooner I could start the investigation of what got me into this frightening mess, the better. A chat would more than likely only be a hindrance. Even if I were to tell my identity . . .

“Well, that's a pity,” Marcus said as he came to a crouch, and I took immediate notice of the divided fruits in the bowl. Two pears in eight pieces. Stomach groan of extraordinary want! “But I'm sure she'll be just right after this little meal.” Yes. Consume the meal, then ask to be taken home. Once there, I'd be fine! Of course, I'd have to resolve the severe disagreement I had with my voice before that. Although . . . did I want to tell them of my predicament or not? What would be the advantages? The disadvantages? Perhaps it was best to relegate that dilemma to a time after these pears fill the growling hole within myself.

Paying heed to my voiceless instinct, I stretched my head over the low-held ware and began to lift a limb to grab one of the fruit slices. “Hold on a sec!” Marcus exclaimed, and I stopped cold to regard him with bemused surprise. The dish was then lowered down to the floor before . . . my legs?

“Bon appetit!” I heard him say with sincere delight. My raised limb sunk back to the floor, and I frowned. Sure, I was hungry, but . . . I'd have to eat directly from the bowl? Like an . . . an animal?

“Don't worry; they're perfectly good pears,” he assured, apparently oblivious to why I was staring dolefully at the food. “Bought them yesterday. I had to tell myself not to eat one while I was preparing them.” He chuckled warmly, which brought my sights up at him. I saw his smile fall. “I don't know what's worrying you, but try to look past it and be positive, okay?” he said, his smile coming back with lesser strength. I felt a slight better due to his wise words, and it was true that the food was attractive. Cursorily, I noted that he had changed his shirt to a pale blue one. Oh, right . . . I was drenched when we . . . In hindsight, the embrace we had shared was plain awkward. I again focused on the food, but I felt slightly worried for myself. I really couldn't admonish myself for hugging a guy. Could I?

“Hey, are you going to eat?” He gave me a light and brief touch on my chin with his finger to bring my head up. Unlike the sparse yet execrable stubble I got as a reward after a few days of not shaving, this was . . . different. Foreign? Yes. Annoying? No. How odd . . . Was I preferring soft hair instead of a beard?

“Yes, the moment of truth, I suppose,” the pegasus stated, drawing our eyes onto him. He hemmed forth a smile, then gestured at the food. “Your meal, miss?”

‘Miss . . . '  I thought pitifully as I turned my attention back to the bowl. No escape from those titles as long as the two were convinced I was female, but that issue had to be dealt with later.  Right now, I had something more vital to attend to. My stomach audibly instructed me to go at the pears without a second thought, but my civilized side reminded me I wasn't a primitive creature who'd dive his mouth at the pristine fruits. As Marcus had said, they were pretty good pears, and I'd be fairly off my rocker to disagree. The pears were reflecting fluorescence off their peeled surfaces like pearls, a very alluring aroma of sweetness was wafting into my nostrils, and my mouth was filling with excess water in conjunction with my mind's lust for the products of nature . . . Oh my. The pears really looked marvelous! How had I gone this long without feeling hungry? My lips were practically as dry as a desert in contrast with the ocean behind them, and to have the divine flavor of pear grace both was something to yearn for.

So . . . what was holding me back?

“So . . . what's holding you back?” Marcus' query drew me out of my trance. He bore a bemused smile, tilting his head. “They look fine to me.” He motioned a hand at the tantalizing food. How I so wished to have my pair of hands back . . .

Nothing I could about that now, though.

Aligning my eyes from the guy to the pegasus and back, the brief sadness in me was quickly overshadowed by reemerging self-consciousness. Now, I felt like I was a stage performer under the attentive eyes of a studious audience. Lifting my hoof to the slanted rim of the bowl, I pawed the ceramic in a dither, the faint noise augmented by an unexpected silence. If I just had fingers, then surmounting my considerable trepidation would be a lesser challenge. I wouldn't even be in this situation if some mysterious force had not robbed me of my body. Well, regardless . . . This still was my body . . . and it was hungry; however, satisfying it while subjected to this oppressive scrutiny was inconceivable.

“Maybe she's ill and can't eat?” the pegasus surmised, and unequivocally, I disagreed on the "can't eat" part, though I didn't voice that. “While you were gone, she had an anxiety attack, which could've affected her and—” In a sign of admission to my hunger, I started to bow myself closer to the fruits and simultaneously tuned out the ensuing chatter. Maybe . . . I could do this and prove the pegasus wrong? But I was so nervous! I couldn't eat like an uncouth beast! Why did this have to be so difficult? Hunger versus pride; it was a heated battle, and my strained frown turned to a small grimace. If I could just feast on the fresh and lustrous fruits, then maybe I'd be empowered to properly reconcile with my body. Maybe even feel genuinely happy again?

A trail started to escape from the corner of my mouth. I was so very close to snatching up a pale yellow treat, but then my grimace converted to a flinch, and I raised my head from the ware. Swallowing the overgrown globule that was in my mouth before inaudibly sighing my tense expression off, I glanced at both males in defeat. They wore confused expressions, and suddenly the air became heavy, and my skin heated up from the inside. I really didn't enjoy being the center of attention. Not before, and especially not as this and under these circumstances. If they had read my mind, they would've absented from the room, head over heels.

“Is something wrong with the food?” Marcus queried, then looked at the pears with scrunched brows. “I swear they're okay.” Tentatively, he pinched a smaller slice and raised it to be a dozen centimeters from his visage. Swiveling his head to appraise us both, he asked for our approval: “May I?” To which I could offer only a tiny frown and nod. The produce then disappeared into the guy's mouth. “Tastes fine to me,” he said, shrugging. The pony regarded him askance but ultimately relaxed, albeit his lips retained the minor downward angle.

The pony began to inspect the seven remaining slices. I took stock of him as he sniffed the contents, worried that he'd snack on a pear as well and accidentally ruin the rest of them with drool. When I hastily placed a limb on the rim of the bowl in an unsuccessful attempt to take the ware for myself, the pegasus was startled a bodylength back. A jab of sorrow inside my chest was all I needed to know what I missed. I didn't even know what finger the hoof corresponded to, and tears of longing and anguish again threatened to invade my eyes. Tensely fluttering my eyes to drive off the liquid grief first, I grimaced in determination and descended prone, doing my best to ignore the cerebral agony of hindlegs tucking parallel to my body and my two strange digits wrapping around the base of the bowl. The pegasus retreated a little more and was now watching me, head tilted and brows telling of confusion, concern, and contriteness. I stared at him morosely, feeling as though I had rescued my meal from being ruined by his unwelcome spittle. The strong aroma of pear was toying with my sinuses and beseeching me to satisfy my base needs, but I held my head level and narrowed my gaze on the sand-yellow pegasus. I had found a reason to be dissatisfied, and that feeling kept most of the horror of my entrapment under the lid.

The pony's expression transitioned from minor shock to kindness. “Sorry, miss. I wasn't about to take a bite for myself, only trying to confirm the fruits were safe.”

“You know that by . . . smelling them?” Marcus said incredulously. The pony promptly swiveled him a neutral look.

“Of course,” the stallion replied, shining a small smile of smugness, and the salesman's skepticism slowly shifted to stunned awe.

“Wow,” he finally said, plainly, then wrinkled his brows as he began to rub his small beard in thought.

Being called 'miss' saddened more than angered me, in spite of my sullen mood. Although, how long could I endure such name-calling before I snapped? The debacle that followed the last time blind fury took hold of me wasn't pretty. Perhaps it was luck that I wasn't feeling enraged. Troubling as it was, never telling the pony and Marcus of my real identity and instead hiding behind this curtain of a filly started to look like a smart idea. I'd have to tolerate feminine pronouns and perhaps some chivalry, but feminine pronouns were just words, not insults, and words weren't supposed to hurt. Sticks and stones and whatnot.

Weren't supposed to hurt . . .

“Listen, I can tell something serious is bothering you. I won't twist your arm, but . . . I'd like to know why you're so miserable.” It was Marcus; I recognized his voice. Pensively, I transfixed my vision on the tantalizing fruits, my ungainly digits still enfolded around the bowl. Idly, I bent the joint of what constituted my only remaining digit on my right limb. Feeling one digit where there should have been five, a cold shudder bristled the hairs on my back, and my lungs contracted in mental and emotional pain. Technically, the extremity was a finger, just . . . a poor mockery of one. Pretty far from it, actually. I could still grab something the same way the ponies in the cartoon did, though I hoped I wouldn't have to adjust to that. Really, I would just go home, and all would turn out okay.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a hand coming closer at me. It halted when I scowled at it and its owner. He, however, looked slightly hurt, as though he didn't understand why I was displeased at him so suddenly. With a soundless sigh, dejection replaced my tense look, and his hand dared to retry its approach. This time, I didn't object, and the light and brief touch that came on my cheek had a placating effect. The bowl, still in my embrace, was nudged a smidgen closer to me. “I thought you'd be all over this by now.” True, I wanted to devour the tempting meal, but . . . preferably in private so that only one pair of eyes would judge my conduct. Looking at the open door, I flaccidly raised my right forelimb to point at it. They didn't seem to get the meaning, so I sighed and jabbed the appendage indicatively a few times.

“Do you need, uh . . . help to get up?” Marcus asked unsurely and carefully grabbed my hoof. A squirm snaked down my back as I only felt his index finger and thumb stimulate my nerves; they were the only fingers touching my hide, and I had to stifle a moan of frustration and queasiness. Timorously, I pulled my limb from his loose grip and aimed my eyes at the bowl. Once the limb was resting on the floor, I swallowed, then drew my lips in to bite them as I pondered. Communicating solely with body language and audible breaths had run its course, and that meant there was only one viable option left. I had to speak with the voice of my body. To sound like a . . . the filly I resembled. I closed my eyes and wished for deafness for the next five seconds.

“I want to be alone for a while,” I said. Well, my mouth did; my vocal cords refused to do their part. An insignificant fragment of amusement threatened, but failed, to crease my lips soon after. Seems like I got that five-second wish, in a way. I had found the perfect excuse to speak, but not the strength to enunciate my thoughts. My frown worsened when sorrow pinched at my heart again. Why were my emotions so potent and easy to provoke? Okay, confession: I was always a bit of a soft touch, but this level of sensitivity was ridiculous. With much haste, I supposed that the recent and still ongoing experience was a sufficient explanation for my frailty. Additionally, my recuperation was in its infancy and vulnerable. No matter, once back in my home, things would look good for me again. I was certain of that. I had to be.

I wanted privacy, but my gestures had been unsuccessful, and my unfavorable voice hadn't played ball when I had needed to talk. What would I have to do for some solitude? Physically force the duo out from here? I didn't even want to move, let alone walk. Not as this, on four legs. If it even was classified a walk! Trot, amble, canter, whatever! I didn't care! I didn't want to be this! Didn't want to . . . to be a . . . a filly . . . Accursed emotions! The horror was . . . I didn't want to release tears again!

Then, I did . . . I closed my eyes to hide my emotion.

“What's wrong now?” the empathetic figure asked softly. For once, I tried to speak my mind, but in a repeat of before, all I mustered were a few pitiful hums and whimpers. My ears further emphasized my sadness and discomfort. I tried to wipe the tears off, but my . . . my legs refused to listen to me and remained by the bowl.

“I'd be careful if I were you,” the pony cautioned softly, and dauntless to my liquid sorrow, I looked at him. So did the guy. “She's frail.” My vision then focused on a hand that was reaching out for me. It had a wedding ring on its fourth digit.

“She trusts me,” the hand's owner replied peaceably.

“I know,” the sitting pony replied in a similar manner, glancing at the floor. The man's hand then moved a little closer, and, disinclined to accept more physical touches, I leaned my head back. However, his expression was sincere, and I was unwilling to disprove his earlier assessment and possibly break our trust, so I closed my eyes and moved my head closer to him.

A light touch wiped the beads off my cheeks with care, and my eyelids twitched slightly when his digits ran over my nasal bone. I managed to quell my tears with his help, but was I fit to talk? A part of me wanted to stay silent for good, but another refused to back down at the dismaying prospect of . . . of speaking with the voice of a . . . voice so . . . shamefully feminine. No. Defeatism wasn't right . . . It was just a voice. Different intonation, nothing more, and it can't hurt me. Not physically . . .

I sniffled, then pressed on.

“Can I . . .”

It was the frailest and faintest whisper I ever heard, and I couldn't believe it had come from me. Nonetheless, it was a step in the right direction. Marcus hummed in tender curiosity, and I sensed him lean closer to me. Obliged to meet his expectation, I found the crumbs of courage to reattempt presenting my yearning. “Can I be . . .” I said with a voice more like a breath than a whisper, “be alone . . . Just . . . just for a minute?” ‘So, that's how a melancholy-stricken Fluttershy sounds to herself?’ I remarked humorlessly, now that I had unintentionally emulated the bashful pony's tone.

A very relieved smile crossed his face. “Sure thing, I can give you that." Relieved as well, a tiny smile paid a visit to my countenance, and my ears righted themselves. I had won a small but tough battle, and I could now eat the pears in relative peace. Two stones with one bird! I meant— No, never mind. Maybe I'd even have the gumption to speak sooner? Reveal the cause of my most extreme distress to date? Would they believe me, though? After I had been such a wreck that in no way could I have conveyed any masculinity . . . ? Great! Now that my loathing for my voice was finally budging, my male ego wanted to preserve face and join the opposition against exposing my identity. What a terrible revelation; better to be perceived as a saddened female, than a male who had bawled his eyes out because of a transmogrification to a filly. Or a mare. Not that terminology made much difference to me when I felt the empty area between my legs.

“Don't lose your smile now,” Marcus encouraged when my good mood began to fade from my expression. Just for his sake, I compelled myself to smile lightly. He swiveled his head to look at the pony. “Hey, uh, Mister . . . pony . . . um . . .” In bemusement, I looked at the pony just in time to see him flash a mild frown in response to Marcus' fumbling.

“Forgot my name, sir? It's Aidin,” the sand-yellow pegasus reminded plainly.

“Yeah, umm, sorry, Aidin,” Marcus said, eyes aversive and a hand reaching for his neck. “Like I tried to say,” he drawled, throwing his hand down before he displayed a carefully amicable expression for Aidin. “She wants a moment for herself,” he gestured at me. As if there were any other "shes" to be confused with. Was I really about to maintain this guise then? I was torn on the subject.

“No offense meant, but did she specify a reason?” Aidin demanded with a trace of dissatisfaction. “I don't want to leave her unsupervised.”

“Unsupervised?” Marcus echoed, brows creasing along with a side of his lips.

“She's my patient,” Aidin rebutted curtly, closing his eyes briefly, giving himself a haughty look. Meanwhile, my uncomfortably reactive ears were yet again downturned; the slick-maned pony seemed disinclined to grant me the privacy I had requested.

Feeling a glimmer of bravery in me, I carefully took a try at defusing the situation. “Um, don't worry, uh . . . Aidin, I'm . . .” I nodded when my composure faltered. “Quite fine,” I asserted the blatant lie so softly that even precision microphones could not have detected it. Needless to say, I was completely ignored. And quite dispirited. I had bravely leaped off a tall cliff down into a frightening river, but accepting the reality of my unmodified voice was intimidating me to act like a . . . a meek filly. An unwillingness to behave even remotely as a female had the exact opposite effect on me.

“Well, no, she didn't give a reason, but . . . ” Marcus huffed in frustration and stood up, splaying his arms at the pony. “Come on! A few minutes and we'll be back.” Aidin regarded Marcus with a distrusting frown, and a brief but tense silence ensued. “Look, I know you're worried for her too, but if she starts choking and coughing—which I'm pretty sure we both can agree on that she won't—you'll be here in a flash.” Smiling again, he joined his palms in front of his chest and aimed his fingertips at the pony, slanting his head down by a small angle as he spoke: “Besides, it's only for a few minutes. Think about it.”

The pegasus held onto his look for a spell, but ultimately he assented: “It wasn't you who asked, and I respect a patient's wishes . . . So it's fair that I comply.” His tone had betrayed his reluctance, but nevertheless, he approached the door along with Marcus. There, the winged paramedic stopped and looked over at me with a small frown. “All right, miss, we . . . uh . . . ” His lips twisted in uncertainty, but quickly, a flash of revelation crossed his visage, and he glanced at the human, then back at me. “Why, where have my manners been?” he said as he wheeled to face me. “Pardon me, I've completely forgotten to introduce myself. The name's Aidin.” He briefly placed his hoof to his chest. “Pleased to meet you, miss,” he said, bowing his head courteously, whereas I regarded his sudden gallantry with surprise and disbelief. “May I humbly ask to learn your name in return?”

Well, now I was definitely in a tight spot.

“You asked if you could ask her a question?” Marcus said with a sly smile and crossed his arms, drawing the immediate attention of Aidin.

The pony furrowed his brows as he turned to face Marcus, a scowl prickling the edge of his lips. “Yes, I did.”

Any traces of humor vanished from Marcus' face. “Uh . . . sorry.”

The pony sighed in a mix of disappointment and forgiveness, a silence lingering in the room for a few more seconds before he aimed a benign but expectant look in my direction. “So, miss?”

Right, miss . . . This was it, then. I had balled the thought back and forth in me for long enough—now was an opportune moment to decide with finality. None of this fear of a free trip to a mental house or a surrender to silence in dread of the humiliation of being a guy with a filly's body. The honest truth had to be revealed. I was nervous of the consequences being less than favorable, but I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. Besides, if I convinced them of my manhood, my discomfort of being looked on as a real female would be gone. Maybe I would even receive help? Yes, I had to be optimistic.

A few breaths to steel myself. Remaining prone, a fairly impassive mask plastered onto my face. Rescinding any trace of timorousness was of the utmost importance if I wished to introduce myself in my unnervingly female voice . . . I closed my eyes and braced myself.

“My name's Rosy Stri—” I cut off myself with a cough, and my eyes shot open in extreme surprise and shock at what had (almost) come out of my mouth.

“Are . . . Are you okay?” the pegasus said in alarm.

I was aghast, blinking my eyes in total confusion. I tried—and failed—to compute what just had happened. Feeling the pressure of two gazes upon me, I hastily disregarded inspecting the strange lapse further and parsed myself together. “O-oh, um . . . Y-y-yes, I'm . . . I'm fine, very fine,” I stammered nervously. “O-only got something i-in my throat, t-that's all.” I then faked a few coughs, but the reassuring smile that followed had a hard time feeling honest.

“I . . . see,” I got as a reply from the uncertain but concerned stallion, his human counterpart regarding me with an identical expression.

“Y-yeah, there's n-no need to worry.” My confidence had dropped significantly, and the best I managed now was a trepid whisper. “Um, w-what I, uh, really meant to say is that my name's actually Rosy-” I muted myself completely and averted my head. Simultaneously, my facial muscles slackened, and I was sure I felt my pupils shrink, ears falling not a second later to accentuate the excruciating unease. I was perplexed, horrified, dismayed; those words failed to describe my condition. How, why . . . ? That name . . . It . . . So . . . What the . . . ? All I had tried to do was speak my own name! How was it possible for me to fail at something so simple, and twice in a row? What was wrong with me?

“Are you shy, or . . . is it something worse?” Aidin's voice pulled a fraction of me out from my consternation, and in my peripheral vision, I saw him taking a few wary steps towards me.

Marcus put his hand on Aidin's shoulder, and he in turn looked up at him with a small hum. The kind-faced guy shook his head, frowning. “She’s probably just confused and in shock after whatever she has endured. Give her the moment she wanted, okay? You can check up on her soon,” he cajoled softly.

“Ah, why not?” the pegasus relented with a sigh. Looking at me defeatedly at first, he soon replaced his expression with a strained-looking smile. “Well, see you in a few minutes, when you're truly fine . . . I hope.” His smile became a slight more sincere: “Rosy's the name, was it?” Hearing that name sent a very surreal signal through my brain.

Not accounting the single instance of a tiny “uh” crawling up from my throat in reply, I was completely speechless and stunned, unable and unwilling to show them my face.

His smile weakened noticeably before he turned around. Both individuals walked out the door, closing it softly save for the tiniest gap through which the distancing voice of Aidin slipped in, “She seems to be upset or shy, at worst traumatized by something, but definitely not ill. I do admit that my concern for her health was a tad . . . ”

My stomach rumbled in spite of the mental chaos reigning in my head, and I thoughtlessly obeyed my needs to chomp up one slice of fruit directly from the bowl. The taste was strong and pleasant, but I scarcely took note of it. Even the animalistic manner in which I ate was an insignificant disruption in the surging jet engine that was my frayed brain. Hoping to bring some much needed clarity to the situation and attenuate my turmoil, I took the three most critical aspects of my predicament and explained them with as few words as possible.

My body I could explain: I had been transformed.

The pegasus stallion I could explain: I was in an alternate universe where Equestrian ponies were common.

My name I could . . . My name!? It wasn't mine! But . . . it was?

My sights had frozen on the six remaining slices in the bowl; they enthralled me no more. Two names danced in erratic patterns inside my mind's eye like leaves in a gale. Or rather, like one leaf being pummeled into submission by the downdraft of a twin-engined helicopter. Fortunately, to dispel my worst fears, I was able to discern that leaf to be what I considered to be my male name, but my name . . . that other name was more powerful. More important. More . . . authentic? Like it really was . . . mine . . . ?

Then, an awful premonition made itself known. What if I hadn’t been dragged to another universe and transformed at all? What if . . . What if I . . . ?

“I am Rosy Stripes?”

My whisper of extreme disbelief sent horrible chills down my back . . . and that signal into my brain again. It was a vibe of . . . of . . . validity. Had I not learned of my . .. that name only a few hours ago?

Why was it now so . . . so seemingly familiar? As if it preceded this day. As if it had always . . . Wouldn't . . . Wouldn't that imply . . . I was . . . had been . . . been a . . . pony since . . . Female . . . No! That was a horrid falsity that couldn’t be possibly true! I didn’t even feel right in this body! Didn’t feel right at all . . .

Intense brightness . . . of the fluorescent . . . lamps above . . . Jet engine . . . flame out . . .

In The Air Tonight

Voices intruded upon my black tranquility as I became aware of a rocking motion. No! I didn't want to wake up! I didn't make a sound. More talking. One apologetic and defensive, another admonishing and displeased. I tried to retreat back into my tranquil state. I heard a mutual understanding, spoken with calmer words. I still didn't respond, even as I felt gentle prodding begin. More talking, now worried. My sleepy feeling was comfortable . . . but I was starting to feel weird all over. I guess my sleep was ending. I suddenly felt myself hoisted . . . like a pallet on a forklift? Wait! What was going on?

My eyes shot wide open. “Heyyy!” I cried in surprise and confusion. The feelings tripled when I registered the uncharacteristically high pitch of my voice and a blurry impression of what might've been a bathroom. Shortly, my focusing vision confirmed it really was a bathroom. Somehow, I was suspended above the floor.

“Oh man, am I glad that you're finally back!” a relieved male voice came from a little overhead. Something uncomfortably integral atop my head twisted around to make his subsequent talk clearer: “You gave us quite the scare when we found you out cold and couldn't wake you. But Aidin did a quick examination and said you were okay.” I was momentarily perplexed, but my senses hastily kicked in to remind me of the present reality: where I was, who had spoken, what he had spoken about, and . . . that white thing in my vision meant—No!

“Yes, that I did,” another male voice said from beyond my immediate eyesight, currently filled by the white floor. With a light cringe, my semi-autonomous ears turned to my left to pinpoint the source before my eyes followed. Golden eyes that sat beneath furrowed brows focused on me. “But then, I began to worry that your loss of consciousness might be a symptom of a brain injury, like a hemorrhage, so I want to get you to the hospital.”

“Oh, yeah, that . . .” Marcus admitted plaintively. “So, that explains her erratic behavior you told me about?”

“Anxiety, communication problems, unexpected loss of awareness . . .” Aidin sighed, then continued, “I'm afraid they might indicate a hemorrhage.”

I had countless inquiries spinning in my head. Concentrating on the most pressing problem, I asked, “What's a hemor—?” Every muscle in my body turned rigid as the sound of my light voice reached my ears, and I squeezed my eyes shut to dispel my shock. “Hemorrhage? Wh-wh-what's that?” I continued, dismayed by how frail my fear-filled voice sounded.

“Internal bleeding,” he clarified after a momentary hesitation. No doubt my episode emboldened his suspicions of my health. “Or it could just be ischemia,” he muttered under his breath as he turned around for the bathroom exit. I had no idea what that word meant, but I knew enough already. The thought of my brain bleeding brought on a fresh slice of dread. How was internal bleeding stopped anyway? With an operation, I supposed. The imagery that presented itself to my mind's eye chilled me to the core.

“Please follow me, sir. We must go,” Aidin urged, glancing over his back as he left the room. The world began to sway and bob as my living forklift obediently trailed him.

“And, and, uh, this bleeding . . . it's bad?” I struggled against what seemed to be my body's inclination to speak in a hushed voice while still keeping my faculties organized. Being carried like a lapdog wasn't helping, but unfortunately, I still didn't feel I could walk on my own.

“Yes,” Aidin said to me, his expression serious. “Very bad.” Shouldn't he just say everything is fine? Or was it better for him to be bluntly honest? Either way, the pony considered my health to be in danger, and it seemed certain I wasn't going home as soon as I had anticipated.

“A-are you sure that your diagnosis is correct?” I worried, hoping he had misjudged and that I wasn't carrying a subcranial time bomb; I didn't want to die anymore. Blind luck had guided me to that road, and now that I had a second chance at life, I didn't want it to end on an operating table.

“I'd also like to know if you're correct on that,” Marcus shared some of my feelings. I had taken little notice of his home's decoration and furniture, but now, a plain white door with six identically shaped square windows stood before the pony's path.

“No, I'm not, and I can't be sure until I get her to the hospital, but I hope I'm wrong.” He glanced at me. “Now, uhm, this door is locked, er . . .” A grimace twisted his lips as he flailed a forelimb indicatively toward the door. Marcus deftly opened the lock without dropping me. “Thank you,” Aidin sighed, relieved. “Human houses and their doors . . .” The sand-yellow pony pushed the door open with his left foreleg, permitting the outside air to rush over us. Its chilly bite on me was minor, and I guess I had my coat to . . . thank.

A hospital wasn't a place I wanted to go to—a building packed to the brim with people who could label me insane the moment I said something about being a human male. I truly hoped I wasn't ill. If I was, I'd have to remain hospitalized for days. How could I keep myself secret for that long? Maybe I couldn't? Who am I kidding, I definitely couldn't! Oh no . . . Oh no! No, no, NO!

Desperately, I tried to argue. “But I-I, uh, I f-feel fine,” I stammered shakily, sounding like an imperfect Fluttershy copy. I wasn't sick, as in puking, coughing, or . . . paralyzed. Truth be told, I had no idea what hemorrhage could really lead to. The illness I best identified was the chronic discomfort and anxiety caused by my highly unsettling female equine form.

Turning his head around to reply, the paramedic had a sad glint in his eyes that matched his words: “I'm very sorry, but feeling fine and being fine aren't the same thing.” As we stepped outside into the rainy darkness, the water that began to run down my ears afflicted me with a sudden queasiness.

I hated to admit he was right; a life-threatening ailment could be amidst my brain matter. A trip to a hospital was likely unavoidable, and I'd be crazy to conjure any new counterarguments or attempt to flee. I had to accept this.

“I'm not taking any chances,” he continued as we began to head for the driveway, “and I fear I may not have taken action soon enough.” He let out a sigh that expressed both worry for me and remorse for himself.

“However, while you were unconscious, I took the liberty to check your pulse and finish the medical examination—and I apologize deeply for encroaching on your privacy.” He glanced at me with a sorry frown. “I hope you understand.” I was a bit disgusted, maybe even slighted, at what he had done while I was out cold, but I did understand his actions. “I believe you are unharmed, but a TIA or similar injury—or something worse—could be possible, and that's something I can't treat with the medical equipment I've brought with me.” I had no clue what a TIA was. My medical experience was limited to perusing random articles on human anatomy while bored at home, and that information was of little use to me now.

Marcus joined in to be the voice of reassurance. “If you ask me, I think you're completely fine, and your stay in the hospital won't be a long one.” Hopefully, he spoke the truth . . .

Cursorily, I noted that Marcus' home was the only house I could see out here. I guess we were in a rural area. Even the distance from his old-fashioned house to the driveway was notable, as were the two pony-like shapes facing us, illuminated by the driveway lights.

“I'm glad that you're hopeful, and I assure you, so am I. Still, it's better to be safe than sorry,” Aidin said as he came to stand before two soaked pegasi. “But if my worries are unfounded, then you're free to leave the hospital at any time.” After this, a pegasus by his side pointedly cleared her throat. “I'll also owe somepony special a bag of carrots, if you're sound as a bell,” he said to me with a confident smile. The mare chuckled lightly after that statement; I think she was more than convinced of my well-being.

“Don't sweat it,” Marcus said as I tried to discern the details of the flat object placed on the ground between the two pegasus ponies. They wore body-length harnesses that connected to the green contraption with two flexible rods per pony. “You'll be back on your legs in no time!” His fingers rubbed me lightly as he carefully adjusted my position in his arms, lightly tickling my new form in the process. Unfortunately, I couldn't appreciate the sensation.

“Of that, sir, I have no doubts,” the paramedic concurred with surprising decorum. The others watched me with compassionate curiosity as Aidin motioned at the device between them. “Now, please rest her gently on the stretcher,” he instructed amicably, identifying the contraption for me. Marcus began to do as prompted, and as my health—and my life—could be in jeopardy, I decided it was best to be perfectly compliant. Carefully orienting me to be parallel with the two pegasi, Marcus let my forehooves touch down on the stretcher first, which ensued without too much mental conflict; however, when I was laid prone and my hind legs were tucked to my sides, I winced with an unintended grunt. The reconciliation with my extremely unusual physiology was still in its infancy. Marcus voiced an apology, which he augmented by gently running his hand down my neck and back. Nonverbally, and therefore secret to him, I accepted his mollifying gesture, although my briefly tensing muscles informed how questionably I regarded his gesture. He almost seemed to perceive me more as an animal than a sapient being.

Heeding Aidin's further instructions, Marcus began to affix belts over my forelegs, back, and across my . . . tail. That sent a powerful squirm along the total length of my spine, but I knew that I had to be secured. Simultaneously, I realized that I was about to be taken into the air by the pegasi duo, which was a fascinating method of transportation. Still, it was hard to ignore the feelings of unease and disgrace for my restraints, but those were nuisances compared to the real threat on my well-being. A glance revealed that the locking mechanism for the belt holding my forelimbs in place was fastened with a user-friendly lock even . . . a pony could open. With their . . . my mouth.

“Thank you for your help, sir,” Aidin said politely once the three belts were in place. The tangerine-maned pony looked at me with a gentle gaze, although I could see his worry shimmering in his golden eyes. “Now, please allow me to introduce my colleagues.” He looked to my right: “Ampoule.” The pegasus nodded silently with a lean smile, his short cobalt blue mane and eyes creating a strong contrast with his bright yellow coat. “And Medical Brace,” Aidin said with warmth to the mare to my left. Her aquamarine pelt was identifiable thanks to the illumination provided by the few lollipop-shaped driveway lamps.

“Hello, hon,” she said with a smile, half-lidding the amethyst eyes that sat beneath her long and weathered peroxide blonde mane, before lowering her head down to whisper into my ear: “If you're what we call a false alarm, my sweetheart here owes me some fresh carrots. I promise to give you a share after you get a clean bill of health, okay?” Compassion and confidence were drawn on her features when she withdrew from me, but I was simply confused. A false alarm?

With a smug expression on her visage, she looked at Aidin, who poorly feigned obliviousness of what she had said. I think. I couldn't tell if they were being honest, or if it was simply an act to make me feel safe. Relaxed. I managed to reply with a ghost of a smile. I didn't know if they could tell, but I was starting to feel ill from stress. I could only hope I'd build a resistance to my fears, and inure to my ears . . . before I broke into tears.

“All right, everypony. The situation is this,” Aidin said to both pegasi, and I looked at him attentively. “As I said earlier, our patient seems to be suffering from psychological trauma. She lost consciousness recently, and she may have an intracerebral injury.” The two ponies nodded sharply in acknowledgement, whereas my frown worsened; I found no joy in being referred to as a female, and I was very much concerned of what would happen to me at the hospital. My fears ranged from surgery to death, to the potentially devastating consequences of an accidental or forced revealing of my identity. Plus, the rain landing on my literally inhuman ears was discomforting. “Good. Now—Oh, pardon me!” An apologetic grin dawned on Aidin. “I almost forgot to tell you: her name's Rosy.”

Rosy? Rosy Stripes? That was my name? The one that had caused me to faint? The one that I had outright refused to think of again? The name that had always been mine, except not before today? My name must be a sign of brain injury! I mean, that name! Aidin was right; I was really suffering from a brain injury!

Worryingly, the two pegasi, whose cutie marks I saw matched their names, dawdled with benign expectation on their expressive muzzles. In turn, I eyed both with justified alarm on my mind. “Um, h-h-hi,” I managed to whimper to the stallion. Ampoule simply bowed his head with a frown of sympathy, radiating goodwill that I was impervious to. My ears and head sunk down, the latter mitigating my stress none, and I closed my eyes tightly as I began to counter my ascending anxiety and hyperventilation.

“Don't be afraid, hon,” Medical Brace's dulcet tone slinked into my ears, and I felt something soft grace my neck. “You can count on all of us.” She paused, while the massage continued. “Remember what I said about carrots?”

“Yeah,” I pushed a shamefully tiny squeak past the lump in my throat. I couldn't understand nor believe that I was capable of producing such a sound.

“Listen. In an hour, you'll be eating carrots with a smile on your lips. Trust me, hon,” she assured. By now, I believed she was sincere. As I turned to look at her with exhausted eyes, I noticed what was on my neck and smiled lightly. A real pegasus wing! It was so soft, even through my fur. A desire to unbuckle myself and cry into her aquamarine plumes threatened to impose its will upon me, but I pushed it back—simply being graced by her wing was more than I could've wished for.

A rustling alerted my ears, which informed me that it came from behind, and Medical Brace retracted herself. A translucent tarp that was apparently integral to the stretcher was rolled over me by Marcus. It shielded me from the elements, much to the relief of my overly sensitive ears. The fairly spacious cover that was now being painted by the downpour had small support beams of its own, probably to provide rigidity against the colliding air once we were airborne. Noting that I was saved from the rain's torture, and with the help of Medical Brace's gesture still fresh in my mind, I began to calm. I was so shaken that I wanted to leak tears from behind my closed eyes, but I couldn't allow that. Not now, not here. Maybe . . . if I let out just a few furtive tears . . . just a small release . . . No, not even that was permitted. I had cried more in the past few hours than I had in an entire year. I had to show some dignity and resilience.

By the sound of things, Aidin or Marcus began to close some kind of latches to secure the cover in place. Aidin spoke, “I wish to speak with Marcus for a while, so leave without me this time.”

“D'accord,” the so far silent stallion said, and then I heard the flapping of wings.

“Sure thing! See you soon, sweetheart,” Medical Brace affirmed chipperly to her special somepony. I was silent, but a few seconds later, my eyelids and ears ascended as I suddenly remembered something vital. “But, uh—” It was too late; a small g-force pressed my body to the canvas when I was hoisted into the air. “My pears . . .” I continued in a pitiably mousy tone, followed by a moan of comparable quality as I slumped my head between my forelegs. The lock for the belts irritated my jaw, but I didn't care. A muted, agitated groan emitted from my throat when my annoying ears fell, too. No matter, sooner or later, I'd acclimate to them, but the single morsel in my stomach had probably dissolved by now, and soon I'd have an empty hole in me again.

Why were all the good things being taken from me? I had to overreact. I had to mess up, and now, I had only myself to blame! Everything could've gone better had I not been tricked twice by my name . . . Or a subcranial injury was the culprit. That must be what was making my name feel so genuine. I could do absolutely nothing now but hope the hospital could cure me. And maybe provide me with nutrition, too. Preferably something edible and tasty. Perhaps. Was hospital food terrible? I didn't care. I just had to be tight-lipped about myself and disallow my curiosity to act. My survival as a free, inconspicuous individual rested on being laconic and passive.

I peered into the darkness. The lights from a few houses and scattered light poles of this rural area were a drab sight. I glanced at the ponies by my side, noticing a gently upwards-slanted surface between them and me. The shape was connected to the equine's harness with a pair of segmented rods. As I was examining it, the flight path changed, and a brighter light show crossing the horizon caught my immediate attention. It took me a few seconds to identify it as a highway a few kilometers away, and . . . it was beautiful. The orange streak that was slowly nearing us had me mesmerized. I couldn't help but smile, and I felt . . . a little happy. My concerns were being pushed to the caboose of my train of thought.

The air and rain noisily toyed with the tarp, but they didn't distract me from soon fantasizing about the perky droning of a horizontally opposed, four-cylinder Lycoming engine rotating a two-bladed propeller at 23,000 revolutions per minute. I closed my eyes to immerse myself deeper into this stress-alleviating vision.

Clear sky all around, with the exception of a few clouds. The scenery of roads, lakes, forests, and towns a few thousand feet below scrolling gently by at a velocity of 90 knots, with the wind, the entrancing rotations of the airscrew, and the heart of the machine as a soundtrack. My imagination ran so vividly that I began to hear ATC chatter, and the engine and the propeller sounds became subtly separate. Flying an airplane was a wondrous beauty worth achieving. A wish to covet. A dream to realize. It was so close. Me and the plane, together in the air . . . experiencing a freedom like no other, not as two, but as one . . .

I sighed, I couldn't properly describe it, but it would be magic. I had only one more month of jobless procrastination until I was supposed to enter flight school. Despite my initial concerns on the contrary, I would safely make it on the money I had saved from my former job.

I had worked in a small electronics shop, owned by one Oscar Dahlin. My task there was to do pretty much everything that didn't require his seemingly unlimited expertise on electronics. While I never saw him outside work hours, we were nonetheless cool with each other. He didn't talk much about his personal life, but what I did learn was that he was a widower with no family. He was also very passionate about his little enterprise, which he had kept successfully afloat for about thirty years. I found that to be a very admirable accomplishment.

What was funny was that when he placed his old car up for sale, I bought it almost right on the spot, with the money I had earned from being in his employment. I had to wonder if getting me the car was his intention. I wagered it was; he had an air about him the days leading up to his decision to sell it. The car wasn't expensive, and it wasn't in bad shape. Of course, it didn't have power steering, central locking, or proper air conditioning. Pure practicality. Still, I was happy with the sky-blue sedan, and I think he was happy that it was in my possession instead of in a scrap yard. Sadly, he kicked the bucket the next weekend. Apparently, he ruptured a vessel, or something. I hoped it had been painless . . . and that brought back to mind my present condition. What was I thinking about? I had to go back to it! It was Oscar, and he . . . Gone . . . The shop . . . Yes! Calming, calming . . . calming . . . calming memories . . .

After Oscar's death, I decided to simply enjoy my home, living on my meager savings and unemployment benefits for a while. Occasionally, I would hang out with my friends, but I had grown tired of their idea of fun, which entailed drinking themselves stupid almost every time I was with them. It hadn't always been like that, but it seemed that adulthood equaled a right to frequently invoke intoxication. Since I was the only sober guy, it was highly awkward being with my temporarily obnoxious friends, who voiced opinions that I didn't acknowledge, hoping they weren't their true beliefs; however, the louder they became, the quieter I became, and with that kind of isolation came conviction. About two weeks ago, when they were once again in an altered state of mind, I finally lost my cool and gave them a piece of my mind. After an embittering altercation, I left them to their own devices. It would take a while before I'd dare to see them again, if ever . . . They were still my friends . . . Or were they? Was I a friend to them? I was so torn on those subjects . . . and I didn't want to focus on that now.

Oscar had looked so healthy that day. Slightly graying hair, but other than that, his features bore no trace of the sixty years of his life's journey. I still remember the smile on his spry, bespectacled face when he handed over the keys to me. Said that "I should take care of the humble fella.” I bought his car for a meager sum and fully expected to see him after the weekend. But that was the last I saw of him. Next I heard, he had collapsed on the way out of a hardware store. I hated to admit it—even now—that I had honestly teared up a smidgen when the news reached me.

Life went on, I wasn't in any kind of financial trouble, and I was the new owner of an old car, so things were comparatively good. During my first days of ownership, I took the car on a few excursions to get a better feel for it. Namely, I tested the nimble sedan a little on a sizeable and usually vacant lot of a horse racing track outside the city limits.

At some point, I had promised myself to take very good care of the aged sedan for as long as possible. I felt it was the right thing to do. Some kind of legacy, or duty, that Oscar had passed to me. Four meters of alloy and plastic weighing at about one ton gained status that was beyond its original intent as an ultimately impermanent and replaceable form of transportation. I believe that in an effort to ensure I'd responsibly protect and preserve the car, I applied a name to it. Or would that be him? Quite absurd, I confess, that I was taking Oscar's humorous comment a bit too seriously. Jim's just an unfeeling, lifeless machine . . .

Maybe someday, I'll get over the sentimentality and give him a good home. I had actually learned a few days ago that he was just a couple of years short of qualifying as a museum car. I guess that was another, much better and logical reason to maintain the car. My little automobile, a future museum exhibit? That kind of an impressive accomplishment would make me burst with immense pride and joy!

Wait, what was that?

Ampoule's sudden guffaw wrenched me out of my memory lane. Whatever the cause of his mirth was, I had now been brought back to the present moment, and my current method of travel was dissuading me from slipping back into my recollections.

After an arbitrary glance of my immediate surroundings, the compactible wing design that was integrated to a stretcher made me primarily wonder whether it was a recent innovation or if it had been perfected over several generations, and had it been developed here on this Earth or brought from Equestria? If that place truly existed, that is. As I understood (with the help of countless fictional stories and some educated theories), there's a universe for anything and everything, and more are created constantly and indefinitely. Even the number and arrangement of atoms flowing in and out from my lungs probably created an infinite number of universes for every passing attosecond. Hence, it wouldn't be a completely absurd claim that two drastically different universes – one with humans, the other with ponies – were somehow connected.

However, I had no way to ascertain the existence of Equestria other than asking the pegasi . . . What if they asked what Equestria was? How would I explain that? These ponies weren't inarguable proof of its existence. Maybe I could blame the brain injury for my unusual question? Perhaps it would be wiser to start with an innocuous question from which I could segue the direction of the conversation to the ponies' birthplaces. I just had to hope they wouldn't ask me any similar questions; I didn't trust myself to produce a proper cover story on a short notice. Maybe I could pretend that I was amnesiac? No, that would be too risky. However, I could learn a lot just by starting a conversation with a simple question that's unrelated to Equestria and ponies. Now, what could that question be . . . ?

Luckily, the air and rain rattling the protective tarp sparked an idea, and with a smile, I looked at the pony to my right. “Can you tell me what our altitude and airspeed are?” I queried enthusiastically to Ampoule, but my distinctively feminine voice immediately caused me to gag in disgust. I had defaulted to being an out-and-out male on a subconscious level in spite of my awareness of my equine shape. I may've received a reply to my aeronautically pertinent inquiry, but I didn't hear it over my morosity.

Suddenly, I recalled an instance when I was in an ill mood, just like now. In my mind's eye, lush rolling hills were stretching so far that the vivid green blended with the light blue horizon. I was just a young . . . filly?

No!

The memories of my own human past were unquestionably authentic, and the brief vision I had just seen was nothing but a glitch caused by my cerebral injury! I shouldn't worry too much. I would be healed soon, and then my real name would be restored. The name that I could see in my mind but had failed to come out. No fear. The docs would fix me. Save me.

Unfortunately, I doubted they could cure my number one illness: my physical composition. I had been assured—and I wanted to be sure—that I wasn't in a life-threatening danger. If I kept quiet, there was a very good chance that once I was discharged, the hospital staff would be none the wiser of who I was. And then I'd stroll home to do some on-site research, and . . . If that research was inconclusive? If I found nothing from there, or from the infinite well of information that was the Internet? Or if I learned that there was no way back? That this was how I had to be, for all time? That the worst case scenario had become real and eternal . . . ?

Something started to tug at my heart, and my breaths became spasmodic. Those were the symptoms of the vague but disheartening predictions that were swirling in my mind. There was no clear vision of what kind of a life I'd have as a female equine, just . . . abstract horror and overwhelming melancholy. I knew there was nothing I could do, not right now . . . except to keep my hopes up!

‘For goodness sake! Here and now's not the darn time to drag myself down to sadness city! Anything less but the total restoration of my real self and life is completely unacceptable! I will prevail!’ I scolded myself, frowning tensely as I worked to perish the dismal thoughts and salvage my declining mood. The contempt I felt for my own moment of weakness channeled outwards, and I glared at nothing, hoping to overhear the ponies' conversation.

Much to my disappointment, the two were talking in a language I recognized but couldn't speak nor understand. I almost growled at my linguistic deficiency; it would've been less menacing than a revving Vespa thanks to my dauntingly feminine larynx.

I was envious of the duo's method of flight, although I would have preferred a machine to pilot. Regardless, if I had any say in my unexplained transformation into a pony, I would've chosen to be a pegasus.

A pegasus stallion, just to be clear.

The rhythmic oscillation of their wings gradually soothed my ill feelings, though I wasn't exactly sure why my sights became affixed to the repetitive movements of their plumed limbs. Obviously, I was amazed by their existence alone, especially now that the worst of my mind-addling trauma was behind me. I could've tried to initiate dialogue with them again, but . . . those wings . . . I stared at them in complete bewilderment.

After a short duration of thoughtless observation of both ponies, it occurred to me that the wings were working in opposing directions: when the mare's wings were in an upward cycle, the stallion's were thrusting downwards, and vice versa. It took me a while, but I was able to guesstimate that turning was accomplished by the pony on the inner side reducing the wing beat rate, whereas the outer pony increased theirs. Their wings may have tilted, or the pony yawed to aid the maneuver, but such intricate details were difficult to distinguish through the darkness and the droplets streaking the plastic cover; it was only because they carried lights that I was able to see them at all. The change of heading was comparable to steering a twin-engined airplane by adjusting the engine power to create asymmetrical thrust. It was interesting that the pegasi expertly employed a technique usually demonstrated by aircraft whose control surfaces had become inoperable.

The flying pair changed heading nimbly and efficiently, maintaining a level attitude. When the ponies had lifted off, the folded surfaces between them and the stretcher had expanded to produce an airfoil of sorts, although that had gone unnoticed by me when it had occurred. Apparently, sex didn't have much effect on a pegasi's muscle mass, as Medical Brace had no trouble matching her partner's wing strokes. Another apparent and astonishing aspect was their adherence to aviation regulations: the lights they carried were navigational lights! A red and a green collar on the mare and the stallion, respectively. I had to wonder where the strobe lights were. Maybe hidden underneath the stretcher and airfoil?

I finally detached my focus from the pegasi to scan my surroundings. The highway was below us now, dotted with the moving reds and whites of automobile lights. Moist air was rushing in from small gaps between the tarp and stretcher. To my surprise, the smell of emission from the cars below was detectable but not irritating. Not too far away was the familiar sea of colors belonging to my home city. Mostly orange and white, in addition to logos, traffic lights, and other signs. A few kilometers ahead, on the right side of the highway, was a mall. The illuminated latticed column, most likely brandishing familiar brand names, marked its location. I had been there once or twice.

The rural landscape gave way to more and more homes of various types, and commercial buildings as well. Passing the mall, we soon reached the city proper, and the highway transitioned to a thoroughfare leading into the heart of the population center. The lights of civilization that stretched out in every direction were unusually bright and vibrant. Maybe it was the darkness creating a contrast, or the water on the tarp working as lenses to enhance the luminosity of the incalculable gleams. Or my vision; I didn't exactly have human eyes anymore. In any case, it was an unusual but magnificent view.

I saw so much more and farther. This vista helped me to remember the times I had ventured to one of the few hills in the city to survey the landscape. Armed with binoculars and a map, I'd sometimes stay there up to an hour, spotting landmarks for my own pleasure. Although the hill wasn't very tall by worldly standards, most of the city's buildings were of less height, thus granting me a good impression of the scenery. The farther away the landmark, the more spectacular and breathtaking it was to witness. Most notable was the water tower over 30 kilometers away! The wondrous sight was spellbinding; it took so long for me to tell myself to leave every time I had been up on that hill. All I had done was watch in stunned awe and delight. It had been so beautiful, yet so simple, and so was this.

Really, what could be more wonderful than flying?

Because I had no way to tell the time, I couldn't gauge how long we had been in the air. We had left the expressway behind to cross over the denser areas of the city. In the distance, a relatively large building stood almost half again taller than the ones surrounding it—our destination. I recognized the thirteen-floor-tall monolith as the city's main hospital. A sadness at the end of my flight, and the uncertainty of my future, began to creep in at the same rate the predominantly white building became more distinct. Hopefully, in less than an hour or so, I'd be told I was okay, or at least being treated back to health.

I hoped they had unicorn magic that'd be able to fix me. The image of my head being cut open, the insertion of surgical tools and . . . brain bandages or whatever—Those didn't play well with me. The relaxed look I had just moments ago had been replaced by a frown, and my tail was trying to hide itself between my legs. That felt uncomfortable. Regardless, my primary objectives were to be as inconspicuous as possible and to keep my male humanity strictly to myself. I had to wear my appearance like it was perfectly normal; I couldn't detest any of its properties or show signs of ineptitude.

It took a few seconds for me to fully comprehend my scheme, but when I did, my face blanked in unprecedented terror and shock. The greatest challenge of my life was minutes away, and I had no better or wiser options available. I would strive to be as passive and reticent as possible to minimize the attention I'd receive, besides the obvious medical care, and the staff would naturally be predisposed to perceive me as what I resembled.

Once the hospital was no more than a few hundred meters away, I summed up the behavior I'd stick to: withdrawn, quiet, and very cautious of what I'd say or do. However, I had to ask myself: was my planned guise just another layer of humiliating femininity I was applying to myself? Was it better if I behaved as myself, sans the male human traits? Was it even possible to disallow my innate characteristics from manifesting? I couldn't know for sure. I was being taken to a hospital, a place stacked with people who could legitimately suspect my sanity the moment I acted outside my soon-to-be-assumed role. I had to attract as little attention as possible. I couldn't tell what frightened me more: the supposed brain injury, the methods the doctors would employ to treat me, my true self being exposed, or my ruse of being an authentic pony if the situation demanded for it. I hoped for the best, but I had no idea how to prepare for the worst.

With the flight in its landing approach, I took notice of a wide white structure with an overhang at the far side of the rectangular roof. Exercising much precision and care, the two ponies flared to a glide along the length of the roof before landing smoothly underneath the overhang. The wing-like assembly and stretcher lowered to the floor, and a pair of the sliding doors in front of me opened into a surprisingly bright room.

The sudden increase in luminosity forced my eyes to close. The two ponies pulled the entire wing assembly, and me with it, into the room. Judging by the clicks and shuffles, they were proceeding to uncouple themselves from the complex harness. The stallion said something in a complaining tone, and the mare replied with an appeasing one. Why did they speak in that language? Not that I could ask. I had to be passive.

I heard more clicking, and then the stretcher was lifted off the floor and almost simultaneously rotated 90 degrees. A quick glance informed me that I had been placed transversely on the ponies' backs. I had not seen or heard any others besides the two, so they must've done it by themselves.

Hooves clacked softly on the floor, then came to a halt after only a few seconds. The two spoke briefly again in that fancy language, and I heard elevator doors open. It wasn't until now that I actually questioned why I had been airlifted by pegasus ponies instead of an ambulance delivering me here. If it wasn't so unnerving being in a hospital, I would've felt amazed again.

“Feeling well, hon?” Medical Brace asked softly. I replied with a hasty, positive-sounding hum. The too-high sound that climbed from my throat didn't convince me, but at least I hadn't gone rigid in dread. “Don't worry,” she continued in that unbelievably soothing voice of hers, “You're safe now, and you'll have carrots soon. Promise.” How could she be sure of that? Was she the pony splitting my head open and staunching my internal bleeding?

The brightness inside the elevator was unbearable to me, so barring a few quick looks, I continued to keep my eyes sealed while I waited for my vision to acclimate. I briefly envied the two ponies for being less light-sensitive than me. To help quell my fears, I wondered if, perhaps once this was over, I could ask for a return flight home? I almost smiled in anticipation in spite of my concerns.

To think, the previous evening, right before sleep, I had been busy playing . . . a video game? How odd. Why couldn't I remember what game it was? I had . . . four games? That few? I saw them on the desk this morning, and yesterday, too. Didn't I have more? Odd. Something seemed off about my home now that I thought about it. Something I should be aware of, but my mind wasn't telling me what it was. Or . . . it was simply the stress and possible brain injury throwing my faculties into disarray. Probably that, yeah. I would've continued to play whatever video game it was the next morning and leisurely counted down another day to flight school, had not fate, or whatever, done this to me. I had been removed—No! Torn away from my comfy and safe existence, and all I could do now was maintain hope that it wasn't impossible to get it back. Until then . . . For as long as I would be here, in this hospital, maybe even in this realm . . . I had to keep myself a secret . . . and that meant . . . I had to be a mare.

What had I done to deserve this kind of torment?

So Much For Nothing

An electronic chime announcing the parting of the elevator doors broke me out of my mentations. With my sensitive photoreceptors shielded by eyelids, I felt myself sway as the hooves of the two pegasi bearing me resounded off the floor.

“Excuse me,” Medical Brace called as we came to a stop. “We need a scan for a possible brain injury here.” She then grunted, and the stretcher moved a little. “Ow. Whoever designed this stupid junk wasn't thinking of comfort,” she murmured under her breath. Ampoule laughed, then said something in a questioning but mirthful tone, to which the usually gentle mare replied with an annoyed grumble. I tried to understand what had been said. Something about . . . No, I couldn't figure it out. Shucks. Probably said I was really fine, and that I'd be out the hospital doors in an hour. Or not. The tone wasn't right. In any case, I had to firmly believe in positive results and, more importantly, remain calm at all times, or free room and board in a nuthouse were in my future.

“I got this!” another female called enthusiastically. With a cringe, I reluctantly thanked my semi-autonomous soundcatchers for telling me that she was to my left.

The next moment, I heard a series of snaps and rustles, and warily, I drew my eyelids to a slit. ‘Ouch!’  I shut my eyes. ‘Why's this still so bright to me?’ I wondered. I had been able to discern, however, that my roomy plastic cover was being removed, and I was in a small lobby of sorts. The feeling of overwhelming sensory input must've been due to my pony eyes still being unaccustomed to the brightness. I had never been sensitive of normal indoor lights before, though. Not even in Marcus' bathroom. Were the lights here brighter or something?

“Go on ahead. Might take me a minute or two to deal with the team rotation paperwork and entrust me with supervision over the patient in Aidin's absence before I can follow,” Medical Brace assumably instructed to the unseen female. I felt something tap me in the barrel from underneath the stretcher's canvas. “Don't you fear, hon,” she said “You'll be okay soon.” Yeah, sure, I'd be okay, no problem. Not nervous at all. Just had to believe in good things.

I was lifted up, startling my eyes open, and I noticed they had adjusted to the light. The stretcher was now on a gurney, rolling down the hallway. Gazing ahead, I observed how few people were present across its cream-colored floor.

As we passed a few doors, curiosity suggested I should learn who was carting me through the white-walled hallway. Slowly swiveling my head around, I saw a hand, then tracked that up to the shoulder, and from there to the face. Medium-length anthracite-black hair, simplistic but stylish glasses, and young features. A pretty nose. She was kinda cute.

“Oh, hi there!” she said very chipperly, and my ears drooped. The pleasant image I had of her broke, and her supposedly friendly expression became downright perturbing.

“Uhm . . . hi,” I replied with a faint whisper, distancing my head from her a little.

“So, hey, what's your name?” she asked in a rhythmical manner. That was . . . a nice variation.

“Uh . . .” I averted my head from her uncanny expression on the pretense of being shy, although I didn't have to pretend that much. I guess the defect in my head hadn't cured itself because I thought of the name that felt like it was genuinely mine, when it was anything but. Obviously, I couldn't tell her my male human name. My best option was to keep a low profile for as long as possible, or until I was absolutely sure it was safe to confide my identity to somepony I was willing to trust. Somepony? The ponyisms were most likely caused by the brain damage, too! When did this even start? Did I hit my head when I fell out of my bed this morning? No, I managed to catch myself quite softly. I hadn't hit my head at all today. Strange . . . Was something wrong about my bed? My home? I couldn't be certain. Perhaps it was just the brain anomaly toying with my faculties again?

“Mine's Lisa,” the young nurse introduced herself, my uncomfortable ears rotating on their own to catch her voice.

“Okay,” I replied, a strain of discomfort and dread in my quiet tone. I attempted to appreciate her positivity, though it wasn't meshing well with me. We rounded a corner to a corridor with a peculiarly light pink floor.

“Now, don't be such a scaredy tail. You know why? Because you have absolutely nothing to be afraid of!” Lisa tried to reassure me, but she only made me flinch. As if the jarring delivery of her statement could wash away my concerns. She was wrong. No, scratch that. She was absolutely dreadful! She wasn't even close to being like Medical Brace, who had a smooth voice and a sensibly kind demeanor. Lisa wasn't even like Marcus Lund-something. He was nice, and I'd be fast friends with him. Maybe. He was a teetotaler, right?

I wouldn't hug him again, regardless.

Hoping I wasn't going in for a surgery and staying here for days, but also a touch aggravated by the nurse's decorum, I replied with forced optimism in my succinct whisper: “I know.”

“Why, of course you know, my littlest sweetest pony,” she replied in a manner that I found condescending, and I screwed my eyes shut. Why had I opened my mouth? Was she trying to be amusing? Had she been reassigned from a kindergarten to a hospital? Did she have a brain injury herself? She was like jagged, rusty, horrible, horrible nails on a chalkboard! Then, as she continued to talk, my eyes rolled upwards in frustrated despair. “Say, are you saying that if you didn't know, I'd have to tell it to you for you to know? Didn't I already do that? Hey, maybe—?”

“Zip it,” I cut in tersely, my ears pricking backwards. That annoyed me, too. With so many things already stressing me out, I didn't need much to be pushed to my limits.

“Hey now don't be such a crabap—”

“Didn't you hear me?” I interrupted grouchily, my unadulterated high-pitched voice only agitating me further.

“Sure, I heard you, sis, and—”

Sis? With an exasperated, puny-sounding groan that brought a short-term grimace to me, I crashed my head in the space between my forelegs. “Not. One. Word. MORE,” I emphasized my ultimatum through my teeth.

The silence that followed indicated she had at the least a rudimentary rational conscience. My vexation withered quickly though, and I sighed as my ears unglued themselves from my skull. “Lisa, please understand,” I said as amiably as I could, feeling that I had been a smidgen too harsh, even though I held the opinion that she deserved every drop of my contempt. “Your flippant attitude is completely inappropriate, insensitive, and . . . well, creepy. It only upsets me, and probably other patients you've had and will have.” Undesiring to start an educative tirade that would undoubtedly feature many snide remarks masquerading as advice, I simply got to the point: "Please rethink your behavior. Your silence will do me more good than anything you could possibly say, so please . . . don't talk to me anymore." After a second's pause, I added in a smaller voice, “I'm sorry.”

There was a bleakness in me . . . my male self conjured the words, but my distaff larynx spoke them. The disparity made me sound alien, which only enhanced my sensation of entrapment. Thankfully, the grief and fear were soon superseded by the much welcomed peace of relative quiet I had earned for myself. The relaxant Aidin had given me was likely helping matters, too. To keep my cool, I held my eyes gently closed, taking slow breaths as I was delivered to my destination. My recent ire had riled me from the withdrawn role I had hoped to adhere to; I'd strengthen my laconic passiveness with an absolute rule: silence is golden. I'd behave as if voiceless. Voiceless, and horribly depressed. The hospital staff would definitely worry to no end, maybe even be more than concerned once I inevitably struggled to do even the simplest pony-esque things. On the plus side (if it could be called that), my silence would minimize the risk of saying something that could compromise the integrity of my sadly irremovable disguise.

The gurney halted, and the characteristic sound of a knuckle rapping a door preceded a muffled female's voice. “Yes, do come in.” I opened my eyes just in time to see Lisa open a door before me, and a moment later, she carted me into the room. With a smidgen of intrigue, I surveyed the warmly-colored space, noting a couple of shelves with assorted books, a basic hospital bed by the wall ahead, and a series of windows spanning the entire length of the left wall, permitting a view of four-story apartment buildings on the other side of a street. What was most striking was the size of the furniture and equipment here: they were smaller than normal, and that made this room look huge. Even the desk in the very left corner beneath the long window—Whoa!

“Good evening.”

My head ascended from the stretcher's green canvas along with my pinnae stiffening involuntarily in surprised astonishment. Not at the greeting, but at the sight of a pale orange pony standing from behind the low desk to smile at us. I blinked a few times, just to make sure that what had just moments ago been inspecting the disorganized papers on the desk wasn't an illusion. No, she was still there, regarding me with some puzzlement. “I presume this patient requires my attention?” the red-maned unicorn asked.

“Yes. A scan. Possible brain injury,” Lisa relayed laconically, her tone traceless of the highly aggravating glee she had earlier. I couldn't say that I was too sorry about deflating her mood. I was more concerned about my brain injury, and I didn't look forward to knowing how severe it was.

“Very well. Thank you for the help,” the unicorn replied as she strolled to the gurney's left side, and that was when I spied her cutie mark: a trio of curved, translucent vertical lines snugly interlacing the shape of a bistre-brown pony. Lisa left wordlessly, which apparently prompted the mare to look toward the gently closed door with a concerned and inquiring frown. She soon removed her expression with a hum and placed her hoof on something below the gurney's mattress. “Quite rainy out there, is it not?” she said to break the ice.

“Yeah,” I said instinctually, the flowery and fresh nuances of hyacinth and mandarin orange emanating from her essence enthralling me. ‘Amazing perfume,’  I commented absently. With a tiny hydraulic hissing sound, the gurney began to descend, and soon, I was slightly below face-level of the standing mare. I must've looked utterly stupid, gazing into her auburn eyes without a clue what to think or say as I came down; all the while, she drew a lax smile on herself. The sound of the door closing startled me into focusing my attention over my back, a split second after my directional microphones had done so already.

“Nice to see you, Peachy Hale,” a familiar pony said in her affable tone as she crossed the few meters to stand beside the identified unicorn. After greeting the now harness-free aquamarine pegasus, Peachy Hale began to undo the not-so-restricting belts from me with her magic. It looked so effortless for her, and I had to consciously dissuade myself from gawking in wonder at her magic-enveloped horn. So instead, I stared at Medical Brace's half-lidded amethyst eyes. Her peroxide blonde mane was damp. Hah, wet mane. Well, damp mane. That sight and the associated cogitations creased my lips lightly. “Well, hello to you as well,” she said to me after a few seconds with a tiny giggle, subtle bemusement in her eyes.

“Hi,” I replied in an unintentionally shy tone that, along with my tiny smile, elicited a small chuckle from her.

“There,” Peachy Hale said softly as the belt pressing on my fuzzy behind was removed, the sensation and subsequent realization disconcerting me. I was naked . . . “Being free from those belts feels so much more comfortable, doesn't it?” I replied with a flat hum. The unicorn glanced at her pegasus counterpart with a smile. “Alright. I'm ready to run the scan.” She then looked at me. “Are you ready?” she asked.

“Uhh . . . yeah. I think I am,” I replied, still moderately timid of my own intonation. More so, I was puzzled at what was about to occur. She'd run the scan? How? Wasn't a scanner like a big donut-shaped device conjoined with a bed? The most advanced contraptions I saw here were a scale, standing along the wall next to the bed, and a basic wall clock, the latter of which hung above and behind Peachy's desk. It was half past nine.

There wasn't even a computer here. How odd.

“How are you holding up, hon?” Medical Brace asked me.

How should I answer that question? I wasn't gifted with an intrinsic meter to provide a numerical value of my current health at all times. “Um, I'll know soon . . . Right?” I nonetheless hazarded to reply.

“That's not what I meant,” she giggled in gentle amusement. “But yes, you'll know soon.” I tried to smile, too, but my ears were telling their own tale by curving down and backwards.

“Please, don't worry,” Peachy reproved me with the kindest tone. Had my ears told her I was worried? Those could throw a wrench into my plans to conceal my emotions, which might inadvertently lead to the exposure of my identity. Somehow. “You'll be perfectly fine.”

“Yeah, of course. No doubt about it,” I hoped nervously, my soft female voice making my whisper sound like I was mimicking a certain withdrawn pegasus.

Peachy nodded with an empathetic look. “I better start the scan, then.” Ears righting themselves, my eyes were automatically drawn to her horn when it lit up again, and simultaneously, she closed her eyes. A mere second later, my right hind leg began to sting mildly, as if it was becoming . . . completely numb! I drew a startled inhale, and I began to restlessly twitch the strange joints in my strange leg. It's one thing to have equine legs with relatively insensitive hooves, but to potentially lose sensation in the entire appendage frightened me.

“Don't be alarmed, hon,” Medical Brace soothed, and I fixated a look of concerned inquiry on her as my leg lost more of its tactile acuity. With a sympathetic glint in her eyes, she reached over and rested her hoof on my, my . . . what was this part of the forelimb called? Cannon! Nevertheless, her aquamarine hoof resting on my hairy skin took me by such surprise that I forgot my present troubles. As I was looking at her with an uncomprehending gaze, she continued, “Peachy's magic is only looking at your insides, and just to be safe, she always does a complete scan for any type of physical injury.” The paramedic pegasus took on a reflective expression. “Her magic does feel a bit weird at first, I know,” she said, as if she had personal experience of this. “But that'll phase out in a few seconds.” Her moderately furrowed brows relaxed. “The scan will only take a minute or two, so take a deep breath, and think of nice things while we wait for Peachy to finish, okay?”

“Okay,” I repeated quietly, stealing a glance at the colorful magic on my hind leg. True to her words, and to my immense relief, sensation returned to my hind leg. In fact, the unicorn's magic was now merely making me feel momentary numbness where it traversed. Now that I was becoming tranquil, I found it fascinating to have magic applied on me.

Medical Brace withdrew her leg once she seemed to be sure I was no longer anxious. Maybe it was a deliberate effect of Peachy's magic, or I simply had understood its innocuity, or maybe the mellow pegasus could channel tranquility with her touch; in any case, I felt much relieved. The fact that I hadn't been taken to an imaging machine but to a unicorn, who was now scanning me with magic, was positively bewildering. Why was I treated to this kind of an exception? Would it be a good idea to ask? If I presented the query in an ingenious manner, they wouldn't give me strange looks for being unponylike. Then again, was magical scanning common knowledge? How could I know if I didn't ask? But could asking lead to a series of events that would reveal what I was?

I'd best not ask.

I noticed that the momentary numbness was coursing in my right foreleg. There was actually a thin ring of pale orange indicating the magic's apparent location, gently releasing white glimmers of magic that floated leisurely, like tiny short-lived dandelion seeds. The magical bracelet was simply beautiful to look at. I kind of . . . wanted one. Was it feminine to like a sparkly magical bracelet? I couldn't say for sure. Would I happily show it to my friends back in my original plane of existence? Would I dare to show it to Benny, David, Peter, and Thomas? I doubted that. They weren't my only friends, but . . . Were those four my friends any longer?

Two weeks back, I was with them in Benny's home. I didn't see them much anymore, but when I did, I wanted to have fun, like we used to. All had started quite well that evening, and I was enjoying myself while I still could. Then, as I had come to anticipate, my friends began to drink themselves stupid. I loathed the intoxicating consumable from the bottom of my heart, and for too long had I passively watched my friends enslave themselves to the wills of the abhorrent sludge. I never felt comfortable in the presence of those who were drunk. On the contrary, their preternatural joy frightened me, which I easily converted into an empowering emotion: animosity. I had decided that if I failed to change their habits, I would no longer associate myself with those four friends. So, that evening, I feared that several years of shared friendship was coming to an end with finality, and I hoped I wasn't powerless to prevent it. I demanded that my friends quit alcohol for good. No exceptions, no pardons, and no excuses. I told them how alcohol was one of society's greatest stumbling blocks, perhaps the worst humankind has met. I explained that alcohol shattered families and caused violence, health problems, and even death. To my disheartening dismay, things quickly went pear-shaped, and my friends, they . . . They were untrustworthy, unseemly, insincere drunkards whose affability was nothing more but a mendacity constructed by their alcohol-corrupted minds! I really didn't want to . . . I didn't want to think of this anymore!

Hastily, I distanced myself from the surprisingly emotional look on my recent past, spotting the magical imaging bracelet retract from my left foreleg towards my torso. In spite of my cogitations, the continuing difficulty to adjust back to my form, and the persistent worry for my health, the uplifting effect of witnessing the shimmering brilliance hadn't been snuffed out entirely. I should have been thinking of nice things, like Medical Brace had encouraged me to.

I needed to think of something different to dilute my negative feelings before the scan ended . . . Something I liked . . . Cars! I liked cars. I made a quick slideshow in my mind but soon stopped at one image: a memory of my car on the clear day I had bought it, parked on its spot near my current residence. It was as if the sky above had shared its color with the 55 kW wonder machine. The vision was beautifully picturesque, with a road separating the parking lot from a green meadow, a forest not far away. I lived in a green neighborhood, but then again, the city I lived in was quite green with flora. Anyhow, I had been quite happy with my purchase, and my lips reflected that. It was a memory pleasantly unrelated to my present reality.

Speaking of reality, according to my nervous system, the magic emitting from Peachy's pale orange horn was now traveling up my neck. The scan would travel to my brain, and . . . maybe it would delete my deleterious ailment? That would be more than perfect! Peachy herself seemed to be in a peaceful trance with her head aligned down, as if she had fallen asleep standing.

“Psst.” The paramedic pegasus leaned a smidgen closer. “Listen carefully, hon. I'll let you in on a little secret: Peachy may tickle your nose,” she confided with such muted magnitude that I might not have heard it if I didn't have pony ear drums. The innocent look on her muzzle as she withdrew gave me a bad vibe, bringing my ears down along with a frown.

“Why's that a secr—?” I started, but my ears flipped up in surprise when she shook her head sharply.

“Shh. Just wait,” she whispered, casting a quick glance at the entranced unicorn, as if to affirm she hadn't been alerted. “It'll be good.” Before I could assemble a thought into spoken format, my sinuses began to itch. Badly. Intuitively, I averted my head from the ponies and closed my eyes. I suppose Peachy's magic was in my nostrils now, and it was like I had inhaled hair spray directly from the nozzle. I tried to quell the overwhelming irritation with sheer willpower, but it was simply insufferable.

“AHSPLYAaahhgh!”

I let out an unbridled sneeze. I was decently dizzy after the expulsion of air, and I sniffled reflexively a few times. Something ran down to my lips, and it . . . tasted salty? “Eagh!” I stuck out my tongue in disgust—Huh? What? Only now did it dawn on me that Medical Brace was laughing. Oh, she wasn't only laughing; she had collapsed to the floor, clutching herself tightly.

While I was genuinely unable to comprehend what was so funny, Peachy was observing the pegasus with saucer eyes and an ajar jaw. Shortly, she began to frown. “Oh no,” she lamented quietly, upon which the unicorn's pinnae lost their rigidity. That must be a bad sign!

“Oh no, what?” I worried, but she was apparently too focused on watching the merry mare to hear my faint vocalization. My peace of mind began to erode as fears that I had impressively held at bay started to drench my mind . . . which could now be doomed to cease working due to an eternally untreatable injury that would permanently kill me to death! Oh nononononono! The medical mares wouldn't let that happen to me! Okay, okay, had to calmly quick—quickly calm myself . . . Becoming calmer . . . Calming down . . . There! Regular respiration rate restored and panicked grimace prevented! That wasn't so difficult. I suppose the relaxant I had ingested was thankfully still doing its stuff.

But for how long . . . ?

Anyhow, now that I was somewhat collected again, I noted that the nearly uncontrollably laughing pony began to address the flatly staring unicorn: “Dear, hahahahaha! Dear, Pea-Peashihihihi! Peacherine em-em—” She produced a long chortle, collecting herself (somewhat) to blurt out: “Peacherine Emily Hale!” As she laughed herself supine, my eyes darted over to the named pony for a blink of an eye. Ponies had human-like middle names? I . . . didn't? Why did I think of that? This scene had me so deeply and utterly confused that I couldn't even think straight. The aquamarine mare certainly had fun, but her colleague's countenance had begun to take on the markings of disdain. “You, you, hahahaha! Have-hav-hahahaha-ha-have, have, have lost,” Medical Brace stammered merrily. “Lost the bet!” she managed before she again succumbed to her overwhelming hilarity.

Some of her exultation transmitted to me but only brought me an awkward smile. “What bet?” I asked uncertainly, glancing at the apparent loser. She seemed to be absorbed in glaring sternly at the exhilarated mare, and I had spoken too quietly; I was promptly ignored. Again. Perhaps it was simply best to wait for the situation to normalize, then hear if they'd explain this 'bet' without my direct involvement. I wasn't in imminent danger. I hoped. Peachy would've restored order by now if I was. Still, I didn't understand any of this.

The paramedic seemed to gather herself, rolling over prone to aim her bluish-green hoof at me with a drained smile on her. “Best sneeze I've ever heard from a mare.” Huh? Did she . . . just congratulate me for sneezing? And called me a mare? I almost frowned in disgruntlement. I didn't enjoy being called a mare, let alone actually being one, but necessity dictated that I keep my protests unspoken.

Medical Brace pushed herself onto her haunches, wiping her tears of mirth into her right pastern. “That was, by the way, much more than I had expected,” she said to me, then let out a long and content exhale. “Mares I know produce only a suppressed 'atchi'.” She accented that onomatopeia by pressing her forehoof to her snout, and I suppressed a groan. “But not you,” she giggled. So, my sneeze wasn't typically feminine, then? Woohoo . . . I was beginning to consider imitating Peachy's indignant expression. Medical Brace finally noted said look on the unicorn, and it diminished her merriment. “I'm sorry. I guess I surprised myself,” she said with a tone too merry for the situation; Peachy's lips seemed to contort with a stifled snarl. The pegasus looked at me. “Anyway, thanks to your most opportune sneeze, I've now won myself two free spa coupons.” She brought her forehooves together before her muzzle for a moment. “And you'll get a raincoat. Isn't that just great?”

I was nonplussed once again. She had won two spa coupons . . . and I had won a raincoat? By sneezing? This was completely ridiculous! First, a nurse who spoke to me like I was a plush toy, and now Medical Brace acting like she had been disconnected from reality! Was I in a hospital with perfectly sane and competent staff, or a crazyhouse with crazies who organize crazy competitions with their non-crazy and unsuspecting patients?!

“Well,” with that icy word directed at the pegasus, Peachy sat down. “I admit that I've been bested, but you're definitely not being very considerate or modest about it.” Medical Brace opened her mouth to speak, but Peachy swiftly shut her up. “I'm not done yet!” she snapped. “I know perfectly well why you were cackling like a madmare, and those excuses I heard were unbelievably pitiful.” The momentarily shocked pegasus put on an unfazed look, but I could see some kind of emotion lingering in her eyes. “For months, you have waited to somehow win a bet that had impossible odds. I didn't expect you to win it either, but now that you have, you should've at least maintained your professionalism. It's not like you would've lost the spa coupons had you remained tactful.” Medical Brace simply gazed away, a trace of annoyance on her lips. “You could lose more than that now.” The unicorn squinted, and I was quite sure I saw a malpractice report being written in her mind.

The pegasus was quiet, hints of morosity pricking her lips. “Althea, dear,” Peachy said with a tense, sarcastic tone. Wait. Althea? “You have a competitive spirit that has a very unfortunate tendency to get the better of you. We both know that, and you've said that you find great thrill in gambling. That's all fine as long as you're civil and respectful, and you ensure nopony is harmed. I'm afraid I can't say that is true this time, and I'm honestly not joking when I question if you've completely abandoned your so-called acclaimed empathy just so you could gloat over a trifling last-minute victory.”

Alth . . . Medi . . . The darn winged pony thingie whatever closed her eyes and aimed her muzzle up, then placed a hoof on her sternum. “I prefer you call me Embee, thank you very much,” she countered the biting criticism with an air of dismissive righteousness. “And I do care about others,” she said as she relaxed from her pose. “I always do, and don't you ever again give that a second thought,” she seemingly warned, face nonchalant. I guess she had taken offense. Then, she sighed, and sincerity emerged on her countenance. “Peachy, please. We're great friends, and you know that every patient I'm with is my friend, too. I would never wish to harm my friends.” If it hadn't been for her beseeching tone, I would've sworn she was being duplicitous. I would've also sworn that ensuring I'm not milliseconds away from death is more important than their completely useless friendship junk. Peachy seemed to lose a tiny fraction of her strict look in favor of mistrusting incredulity, and I truly hoped that Embee's claim was more than a desperate attempt to save her own skin. “So, hon.” She looked toward me with a careful smile. “No harm done? I just had a little laugh, and we can simply forget that it ever was a matter worth raising a squabble over.” Faint signs of genuine fear migrated from her tone into her amethyst eyes.

Darn my heart, because it felt sorry for her.

Peachy aimed an expectant look of concern my way. “I apologize for my colleague's indiscreet outburst. Are you alright? Medical Brace didn't hurt your feelings, did she?”

While Embee's 'little' laugh had greatly confused me, and I understood now why it had infuriated Peachy, I definitely didn't want to give the impression that I had been severely affected . . . and consequently place Embee in a stickier situation than she might already be in. My cover couldn't afford the spotlight if repercussions were to befall her because of my involvement.

Embee's confidence was evaporating, most likely at the realization of her own conduct. I was moderately annoyed at her, even feeling a little betrayed; however, I was in a vital position to defuse the situation. I needed to maintain my façade at all costs, but that look of fear in her eyes . . . Perhaps I should count myself lucky that protecting myself and helping her were not mutually exclusive.

I creased my lips into a smile. “No worries, Peachy,” I said casually, and the brows of both mares ascended in mixed inquiry and surprise. “You heard what your dear friend said before, right? I'm her patient, which means I'm her friend, and friends don't harm each other.” Cursorily, I noted that what I had said with my emasculated larynx threatened to make me feel wistful for my frie— for my original voice, that is.

Embee seemed to be at a loss for words. “Thank you, hon,” she finally said appreciatively. I was silent behind my amiable mask, chaining an urge to tell the mares to stop idling and get on with it. Embee nonetheless soon cast a relieved look to her left with a sigh. “Well, there you have it, Peachy.” She playfully poked the unicorn in the ribs, who in turn glared back as her pale orange hoof massaged the point of impact briefly. “It was all fun and games in her opinion, too!” Peachy dropped her leg with a telling sound. When it became apparent Peachy hadn't cancelled her annoyed frown, Embee's friendly smile lessened before she spoke a single word: “Relax.”

Peachy's eyes rolled down. “Hmph. Fun and games . . .” she echoed plainly. A smirk soon dawned on her, which she displayed to Embee. “Just like your bet with Ampoule, huh?”

Embee's face twisted into a discontent impression with a frustrated sigh. “I can't believe I agreed to that. Now, I have to talk to him in that "magnifique" language for at least three more weeks, and he finds it so irritatingly funny when I say something wrong. I mean, I can understand that his lover persuaded him to learn it, but how could I let him coax me into learning it . . . too?” She quit her rant when she took notice of Peachy's complacent look.

I thought the bright yellow stallion was from a foreign land, but it seemed I was mistaken; Embee's competitiveness could indeed get the better of her, but that was principally irrelevant. I hadn't exonerated her just so the two mares could continue to ignore me. “So, um, hello?” I suggested with minor impatience while glancing obliquely, seeing only two-colored hair in that direction. I expected the medical practicants to actually practice medicine, and I was tempted to roll out more sarcasm; out of courtesy, I didn't.

“Oh!” Producing a contrite smile, the feathery-maned unicorn shifted her attention to me. “I'm very sorry. It looks like I got a little caught up flapping my gums with my colleague here.” The disapproving glance she followed up on the pegasus didn't go unnoticed by either of us. “She's very sorry, too,” she added quickly. Embee looked taken aback at Peachy speaking in her stead, but nothing on her expression spoke of offense. In my eyes, what Peachy did was rude. “Please, allow me to present you some help first.”

The unicorn doc looked behind herself, and a small tissue was swiftly hovered to me from a box placed on her desk. With the white object practically at the midpoint between her and me, Peachy's warm expression turned expectant, then puzzled before becoming very quizzical when uncomfortably long seconds passed without any action from me.

Clueless on what I'd have to do, I swallowed nervously. “What is it, hon?” Embee wondered, frowning. It was obvious I was doing a faux pas that any real pony would know how to avert.

Peachy stalled for a few more agonizing seconds, then put a smile on herself with a sympathetic sigh. “A thousand apologies. I understand now. I'll do it for you, if you don't mind.”

“I don't mind,” I complied almost reflexively. Then, the white tissue took an approach path to my visible snout, and that's when I took notice of the substance there. That was a gross and humiliating discovery, and now I knew what Peachy was trying to have me realize: I was supposed to grab the piece of absorbent paper with my . . . hoof? Too late for that, and probably physically impossible, too.

Thinking quickly, I leaned in a smidgen to meet the levitating tissue, and I did my best to blow my nostrils clear. It was an odd thing to do on the account of a muzzle being quite unequal in shape and position compared to a human nose. The hygienic product, which was surprisingly resistant to my light push, soon rubbed the unpleasant materials off thanks to Peachy's telekinetic initiative. However, I felt terribly inept and humiliated as the tainted tissue was withdrawn.

“Uhm . . . I'm sorry, I, um, didn't quite . . . quite . . .” I trailed off, drawing blanks on how to explain myself. So, I simply looked dolefully at her pale orange hooves, then at my own pair with a defeated sigh. It was still weird to look at them, let alone understand that they were mine. One little tug of the appendage was a more-than-decent confirmation of their inseparable relation to me. ‘I'm sorry, Peachy, but I couldn't grab the tissue because I don't have hands,’ I thought forlornly. Maybe I should've said that?

As a joke . . .

Peachy dumped the tissue into a waste bin by her desk with a faint sound that my perceptive ears nevertheless detected. She rolled out comforting words: “Oh, please don't feel bad. I didn't immediately remember that some unicorns lose their ability to use magic after my scan spell. Luckily, it's just a passing inconvenience.”

‘Yeah, why should I feel bad? I should be leaping in merriment because clumsy pony hooves are obviously superior to dexterous human fingers,’ I replied bitterly, with my own familiar voice . . . now unfairly restricted to my own mind. So many things I couldn't do because I was presently a pony. Correction: unicorn pony; I had forgotten a darn spiral was in my head as compensation for the unsolicited violation of my morphological freedom. But hey, I had magic now. Yippie-kay-yay . . . Most body language requiring a human form was denied to me. Like shrugging . . . and many more natural gestures and actions that I didn't want to think about. In fact, focusing on the deprivation of my familiar body only made me feel bitter and blue.

“Hey, thanks for the help,” I nevertheless said listlessly with a modicum of appreciation. “I guess I was . . . and am a little out of it. I've been, um . . . in the rough today.” No, that was wrong; I was sounding too serious, and now the mares probably wanted to know more than I was willing to tell. I had to say something uplifting, and fast. “Heh, well, only literally in the rough, I think, since I've gotten myself quite muddied up,” I improvised with a sheepish look that hopefully concealed my true emotions; my upright ears seemed to be respectfully docile. “See?” I offered my left foreleg for the mares. “That's mud, all right.” It was like pointing a finger, except with a bigger nail weighing it down.

Both mares seemed to be fairly puzzled. “Quite so,” Peachy murmured, her snout wrinkling as she took a tentative inhale of my begrimed and apparently smelly leg. Carefully, I rested it back to its place, feeling the tiniest shudder when I was once again reminded of my lost fingers.

“Yeah, so, anyway . . .” My smile withered when two sets of curious eyes concentrated back on me. I stalled for a moment as I constructed a half-truth. “Being brought here has made me, uh, so confused, and um, and stressed, that I . . . I can't really think properly.” I paused briefly to hastily think of more ideas. “I mean . . . this brain injury I was told of . . .” I purposefully began to insert fright into my tone. “That is . . . I hadn't thought about that I could . . . but I-I . . now that I do, it's not making me feel okay . . . I'm . . . I'm s-scared, a-and I—” Suddenly, my soprano voice pitched into an unintended squeak before cutting out, and an unwelcome fluid blurred my vision. With emotional anguish pinching my very being into a flinch, I closed my eyes to fight back the tears and turned my head away from the mares. ‘I hope that was enough to dismiss their difficult questions . . . I can't tell them the real reason I'm in pain,’ I thought as I began to normalize my hiccuping respiration. Then, I realized that my feigned fright had actually originated from the very real distress I contained. I had become genuinely afraid, but not of my brain injury; that could be treated with conventional and proven means.

“Oh, it's . . . It's alright, hon,” Embee said, her typically smooth voice tuned to a somber note. With a thin line of water persisting on my lower eyelids, I dared to cast her a gaze. The sight made her frown in pity. “I understand why you're scared, and . . .” She pitched her head, shuffling a restless forehoof. “I'm really sorry if I made you feel terrible when I . . . I . . .” Her voice faded to nothing. Had I made that powerful of an effect on her? In a notable sign of compassion, Peachy cast a look of concern at her friend.

“Yeah,” I said dejectedly, and Embee's ears drooped. A sarcastic comment deriding her laughing fit—unethical, unacceptable, unprofessional—desired to follow, but I wisely dispersed it from my mind. I didn't want to be distressed and terrified to tears, but was it better to hide those feelings behind anger and detest projected at Embee, maybe even berate Peachy, too? No, that was unjust and wrong, and it wouldn't solve anything. In fact, I shouldn't express my anxiety at all; it could unleash my full anguish. Instead, I shrouded it with a feigned smile. “Let bygones be bygones,” I offered, expecting to help set this assumably routine medical examination back on its proper course . . . and drag Embee up from the gutter she had sunk into.

Her ears perked. “Yeah, I guess you're right,” she mumbled with the tiniest smile. She soon looked to her left. “So, Peachy? What can you do to help her feel better?”

Peachy sighed deeply. “It's best I tell her the news.”

Finally! The moment I had been waiting for! Or dreading for . . . “Come on. Spill it out, then,” I said with careful anticipation, my tone cracking in spite of my best efforts. All my fear and grief was resisting efforts to repress it; however, disastrous panic would be indubitable if I couldn't.

“All right, let me review first,” the doc pony said, closing her eyes and dropping her head to rest on her upended hoof. A suspenseful moment began, during which I began to reflect on how surreal all this was in order to strengthen my fortitude: I was in a hospital in the company of two creatures that normally shouldn't exist. One of them had helped bring me here by literally winging it, and the other had recently scanned my insides with her innate magic. To top all that, I had become a being that by all accounts should be completely fictional . . . but I didn't want to think of that! Geez! Why couldn't I give myself some peace? I had to distract myself with . . . Cars! Any of them! Renault 19! Random facts . . . Stylish and modern. Designed by Giugiaro. Took 16 hours to manufacture one car.

“Hmm.” Peachy's brows bushed, and my attention immediately jumped to her. Was that a good hum? My weak smile wanted to invert in worry, but I had to be confident and patient . . . because I was a patient. A patient patient! That was kinda funny. Okay, smile integrity improved by 75%. Not that I had any expertise in scientifically measuring smile integrity.

Peachy disengaged from her magically collected data inspection and gingerly rested her hoof on the floor. The expression on her face spoke of goodness coming my way, without actually speaking a single word, because faces don't speak, but the mouth does, and that's part of the face, so the face does speak. So to speak. “May I say,” the speaking face spoke, joining her forehooves, “I have some splendid news for you, dear miss.” Oh . . . That title was uncalled for; however, it was like a small slap that thankfully pushed my mental turbulence beneath a formidable layer of minor disgruntlement.

Embee giggled amusedly. “That's so like Aidin when he wants to sound high-class.” Peachy replied to the comment with a sly smile, rolling her auburn eyes. I wasn't exactly amused myself, though I think the unicorn said something positive before calling me a . . . "dear miss". My masculinity would certainly be forever grateful. Nevertheless, I couldn't let myself frown in displeasure. Tolerance was the key here, and I shouldn't take female pronouns as insults.

“Unlike Aidin,” Peachy said smugly, “I actually lived in Canterlot for longer than two weeks.” Upon hearing that, whatever thought that was about to congregate vanished, and I had to really, really, REALLY vanquish a fanboyish sputtering storm of astonishment with a wrecking ball made of neutronium. If the ponies had even glanced at me, they would've seen my face blank in unprecedented incomprehension because, well . . . well, well, Canterlot existed? Somewhere here? In another realm that was connected to this one? Was this even Earth? Was I in Equestria? What the . . . what, what what whatwhatwhatwhatWHAT!? Oh my GOSH! I had I had, I had to, to calm to calm calm downdown right and left NOW! Whoa . . . At least my smile was a lot more authentic now. Embee rolled her eyes. Did she? I think she did. She blew air past her lips in a dismissive manner. That's what the mare did. Okay, I was back in the present moment and reality. Yes. Good. Did I miss something? Miss? No, that disagreement didn't warp my face. Just a silly word! Anyhow, Canterlot! Where? How?

“This is absurd,” Peachy said with a disbelieving giggle, and I had to stop my smile from becoming an involuntary grin. “We're getting awfully distracted, again.” I couldn't let them know how awestruck I had been or that I now wanted to know how to get to Canterlot and then go there as soon as I had been cured and my dangly-do was back! “I'm sorry about that,” Peachy said to me with a sheepish grin, an expression she replaced with a calm but gentle look soon after. “The splendid news that you've waited so anxiously for is this: you're perfectly healthy.” Wait, what did I hear?

“Huh?” flew out from my mouth after a moment of dumbfounded staring. “R-really? Can you run that me by again?” I had to do a double take on myself. “I mean, I mean, uh, did you say that I'm fine?”

Peachy chuckled warmly. “That's right.” She nodded. “You're healthy.” I still had trouble believing my ears. “A few insignificant contusions and scrapes are the worst you've suffered, and luckily, there's no brain injury of any kind.” The two mares exchanged relieved smiles. “I think this means we can all let out a collective sigh of relief.”

Peachy then sighed, which seemingly bemused Embee into staring blankly at her friend for a short moment before glancing away with a smirk. Although Peachy's gesture seemed to be of token quality and a touch awkward, I was too happy to be bothered by such tiny issues.

“I admit, hon, even I was a bit worried that you really were suffering from a brain injury,” Embee said with her sweet voice.

My face was affixed in a rictus of delight. “I . . . I . . . I'm speechless,” I managed, feeling like my head wanted to float to the ceiling.

“Hey, I promised you a share of carrots if you were okay,” Embee reminded, and I basked in the warmth of the pleasing promise and her friendly gaze. She tilted her head, eyes rolling to the angled side. “But, to be honest . . .” She set her sights on me, empathy written on her muzzle and ears turning flaccid. “I would've shared them anyways, because I would've felt awful if I didn't.”

“Thatch, that's, touch, um . . . Thank so you very much, uh . . . Thank you so very much!” I stammered in exuberance-induced dysphasia. Both mares stifled their laughter, and I felt an urge to embrace them in joyful gratitude, which my rational side dissuaded me from. “Sorry. I'm just so happy that I can't even speak right,” I said, embarrassment tinting my voice, its perennial femininity unable to punch through my delightful daze.

Peachy looked at me, comprehension shining in her eyes. “I think I can relate to that.” She  seemed to hesitate, a hoof placed to her curved lips. “Now, sticking to my end of the deal with Embee, you'll receive my . . .” Her tiny cough transitioned into a small laugh. “A raincoat, I mean. If you want it, that is.” Embee surreptitiously rolled her eyes. “Anyhow . . .” Fighting an urge to sit upright and clap my forehooves together at the idea of soon receiving a garment to hide my nudity, I observed in beatitude as Peachy returned to her desk and telekinetically procured a pen and paper from a drawer. “After Embee and I sign this document, you're free to leave.”

“What? It's that simple?” I queried, a big part of me unbelieving that I wouldn't need to spill out a plethora of personal information, fill a dozen-page form on past medical conditions, be hauled in to take a blood test, and pedantically explain how a Talbot Horizon differentiates from a Dodge Omni. “Uh, you mean, no obligations?” The friendly doc mare shook her head. “I can go home, just like that?” A nod. “You and Embee scribble your signatures on that paper, and that's it?” This was simply too good to be true, but I'd be a total blockhead if I started to vocally question the lack of red tape.

“Sure enough,” Peachy affirmed as she telekinetically signed the document, after which Embee walked over to do her part. “You see, we aren't mandated to monitor your health when you're principally unharmed and don't need any acute aid. This document—” She tapped her hoof on it twice, startling Embee into dropping the pen and giving the unicorn a brief glower. Peachy didn't seem to notice. “—is a record that states a doctor and another practitioner treated a patient back to health, granting us the legal permission to discharge the patient, meaning you, from the hospital. Anyhow, I'm sure you wish to receive Embee's carrots, my, uh, your raincoat, and . . .” An evaluating look affixed onto her visage. “Perhaps clean yourself up before you go, too.”

I ran the most important data through my head and realized that . . . this was exceptional! I wouldn't stay here for days! I wouldn't have to! I wouldn't need to! So many things had gone wrong, I had suffered so tremendously, but finally . . . YES! I simply beamed in delightful bliss, watching as Embee deftly took the pen back into her mouth to sign the document. I could never do that. Because . . . I've never had to? At any rate, I envisioned myself leaving within the next thirty to sixty minutes, wearing my new and modest raincoat, and giving the hospital a not-so-modest raspberry once I was outside. No disrespect to the staff, of course. However, I was inclined to savor a few carrots before leaving, to avoid passing out from fatigue. Judging by my stomach's silence, it had already done that; a few orange roots would certainly wake it up.

A light tap indicated Embee had dropped the pen onto the desk. “So, I guess we're done here?” she presumed with a casual smile.

“Unless something suddenly comes up, then yes,” Peachy replied with a matching expression. “I need to pen down a few more details, but you two can go when you please.” Then, they both looked at me. “Now, this may sound like an odd question, but are you able to walk?”

My smile vanished instantly. “Oh, uh . . .” I realized I had been sitting immobile for so long that I had become complacent with my posture, and the concept of standing up and walking sent a fierce wave of dread through me; however, the two ponies were unwittingly pressuring me to behave like a normal pony, and it was imperative that I did behave like a normal pony. My survival depended on it. “Of course I can walk,” I assured lamely, but I quickly shaped my face with a mask of incredulity. “I mean, what kind of a silly question is that?” I produced a small, somewhat forced laugh, which nonetheless sounded so strange coming from my female's voice box. Everything did. Regardless, to prove myself, I sat up with much impetuousness, but the pressure I placed on my strange fingernails and heels made me feel nauseous, and I slouched almost immediately.

“Please don't rush yourself, hon,” Embee cautioned as she strode towards me. “While it's true that you're healthy, the scan may've debilit—”

“Nonsense!” Her concern was enough of a motive to straighten myself up. “I can and will do this!” I deflected her worry with a confident reply and expression, although small beads of sweat were tickling the skin underneath my mane. I had to act now, and so, without paying much attention to how absolutely strange it felt to place weight on slightly elastic keratin features, I stood up on my four legs and resolutely made my way towards Embee. Or that's what I tried to do. My humanity stubbornly prevented the four-legged locomotion from initiating properly. Just as I realized things were going awry, a disturbingly feminine yelp came reflexively as I—

“Oh my goodness! Are you all right, hon!?” I heard Embee cry after I had pivoted myself to take a plunge to the floor, disrupting my congenital data recorder upon impact. Blinking the double vision from my eyes, my tactile perception told me that my trailing end was pointing at the ceiling, whereas my forelegs were aimed towards my hindhooves. Also, my jaw hurt a little, but that was hopefully just an ephemeral sensation. While my failure was superficially embarrassing, the serious side was that it might've renewed the concerns for my health.

I quickly raised my head from the floor to do the most reasonable thing in this situation: I laughed. “Hahahahaha!” Ugh. That barely sounded like me, but it was extremely important that I didn't show any detest, awkwardness, or sorrow for being a female pony. “I'm okay, I'm okay! My, uh, legs have only fallen asleep,” I assured with a hasty untruth, grinning sheepishly. Both mares were concerned, and that sight almost turned my grin into an expression of fright. “Um, no need to help me up. I can do it myself.”

“Oh, all right,” Peachy acquiesced warily. It was only now that I noticed she had leapt up onto her desk in an aborted attempt to supposedly rush to my aid.

Embee was by my side, a forelimb stretching out for me to grab. I ignored it as I didn't need that kind of help, and so, carefully but resolutely, I began to manipulate my single-digit appendages. First, I gently folded my forelegs in tandem, then utilized them to set me into an awkward sitting stance. Having my furry behind meet the floor was NOT a pleasant feeling. It reminded me I was naked, and that I had an extra hole . . . which I didn't want to think about! Spurred by the disgusting and shocking epiphany, my hind legs stalwartly placed me on my four hooves. Those then ever so minutely expanded under the exertion of my light weight, and that too was a very disturbing feeling. As if I wasn't already quickly nearing the end of my wits, a rebellious part of me then cramped my entire body in protest, demanding fiercely for ascension onto my hind legs. I knew that was physically impossible, and my conscious suppression of that desire wasn't helping me.

“Are you really sure you're okay, hon?” Embee said in genuine worry, and I noticed that my cramp was surrendering to a full-body shiver. Behind my straining smile, I felt like the signals coming from all the features conflicting with my human condition were ordering me to scream at the top of my lungs in abject horror as a prelude to panicked and uncontrollable thrashing. No! That was not going to happen! I had done so well this far, and I couldn't fail now! I simply couldn't!

With intense perseverance and a fierce hate for my weakness, and possibly with the aid of the remnants of Aidin's medicine, I was able to get a hold of myself with remarkable quickness. The terrifying but short intrapsychic battle began to subside, and I shook my inclining head with due care to prevent my flexible ears from swaying with my motion.

“Yeah, I'm okay. Don't worry about me,” I said languidly as I cursorily surveyed the ponies. With my physical stability guaranteed and the mental equivalent gradually reconstructing itself, I reinforced my small smile as I conjured an excuse. “I'm really sorry about giving you guys the scares.” I sounded enfeebled; I cleared my throat to reform my tone. “I'm still trying to wake up these insubordinate legs, you see. They wanted to give way under me, and . . . that was a rhy-mee?” I chuckled at my words. The effect on the mares was lukewarm, but I think I was doing well on swaying their minds.

Next, I lifted up my right hind leg. “This one's so sound asleep, it's actually snoring.” Both mares stared in confusion and inquiry, although Embee's lips were curled in uncertain mirth. That was auspicious: my humor was effective! “Wakey wakey, sleepy time's over.” I stomped my leg on the floor. I concealed my perturbation at the nerve signals from the digit with a near-compulsive laugh. Giggle? No. It was a laugh!

I felt uneasy balancing on the very ends of my limbs again. When I had still believed I was dreaming, I was completely okay with my quadruped configuration. I only had to restore that fortitude, and then I'd be fine. How hard could that be? Harder than my hooves, which were actually slightly elastic!

“Oh, I see,” Peachy said after a moment, hopping down to stand before the desk. She was unassured. Why was she unassured? Didn't she appreciate my humor? My sober friends—both of them, not counting Embee—had said my sense of humor was strange. “However, if you don't feel quite okay yet, we can see if it's possible to reserve a bed for you to recover in overnight.”

That suggestion brought me back to earth. “Ah, um,” I stammered in minor alarm, but I hastily constructed a casual expression. I hoped it was casual. “Thanks, but no thanks,” I declined politely, lifting my foreleg off the floor in some form of unthought body language. I placed my leg down with care to avoid repeating my previous error before I continued articulately, “While I perfectly understand your concerns and honestly appreciate your kind and hospitable offer, I assure you, I don't require additional services to augment that which I've already been granted.” I had to applaud myself for my eloquence, but conversely, speaking so much with my femininely gentle voice ironically grated my ears. Reticence was tempting me now, but that option was decisively out of the question.

I was getting strange looks, and I suspected that my recent perissological statement had put the mares in extreme suspicion mode. Cornered so severely, I saw no other way out but to swallow my pride, and I continued humbly to Peachy, “And yes, Medical Brace was absolutely right. That magic you used had an enfeebling effect, but I was overconfident and didn't want to admit I might've been affected. I'm really sorry.” I produced a candid expression. “But I hold no animosity towards you. I'm telling you though, I'm quite fine now. Once I've had my meal and the reward for the sneeze, I'll head back home to rest. Really, I don't need to stay.”

“Reward for the sneeze,” Embee echoed to herself with a chuckle. She was on my side now, I hoped, but Peachy had her hoof on her chin, along with a studious impression that daunted my composure. I truly hoped my verbose declination, subsequent humility, and lowly poise had dissuaded her from ordering me to remain here for any longer than I wanted. I had to look normal . . . and a delicately measured application of humor could be advantageous to that purpose!

“Yeah, a reward for the sneeze,” I repeated, nervousness trying to deform my newly-formed moderate smile. A fortunate epiphany invigorated my faculty for humor, and puckishness flowed to my lips. “Maybe Peachy's holding back a sneeze, huh?” I suggested to Embee.

“What?” the pegasus said in blatant disbelief, giving the unicorn a fast glance. “You're joking, right?”

“Not really.” I cast her a brief glance, concealing my fright that this gamble would come crashing on me behind my maintained coolness. “Do you see how she's holding her hoof close to her snout?” I told the pegasus, my eyes aimed towards the unicorn, whose suddenly puzzled but inquiring eyes momentarily crossed when she looked down her muzzle. “That implies she's at the least prepared for the possibility.”

“Hmm?” the pegasus intoned with some type of consideration in her tone.

“Hey, Peachy, listen. I propose a deal,” I started coolly. “If you sneeze now, you'll get a raincoat . . . I mean, my raincoat,” I incited conspiratorially, and to show that I wasn't being mean-spirited, I laughed lightly. It was a laugh, not a giggle. Giggling is what gir—young females do. I wasn't that. Hence, logic dictates that I couldn't giggle.

“Are you willing to accept that challenge, Peachy?” Embee asked. The unicorn cocked a nonplussed eyebrow and slowly lowered her hoof. I think there was a chance I had just appealed to Embee's thrill-seeking side. Not sure I could utilize that in my favor, though.

“Oh, I get it,” Peachy said after a few seconds, eyelids falling to the midpoint. “You're both being total jokesters to me, huh?” With a tired huff, she closed her eyes for a moment. “I'm sorry, but I can't join that game.”

“Well, I wasn't . . .” Embee started defensively but cut herself off. “All right, you got me,” she admitted reluctantly as the unicorn trotted back to sit behind her desk. “But you know, you could've tried to fake a sneeze,” she suggested cautiously. Peachy glanced upwards with a low sound of discontentment.

“Ridiculous games . . .” the unicorn complained under her breath. After a moment of morose staring at the papers on her desk, she cast her softening sights at me. “Anyway, you said you're okay, and I affirmed the same.” She breathed out a small sigh, then glanced down at the signed papers again. “To be honest with you, I worried that you broke your jaw on that fall.” She glanced aside. “Or broke what I had just scanned,” my forward-aimed ears caught her quietly muttering.

I camouflaged my sigh of release with a normal outbound breath. I was very glad that I had cleverly dissuaded the doc pony from infringing my right of self-determination. I also noted that I was quickly acclimatizing to standing on my hooves, even though opposition still smoldered within me. I didn't enjoy being naked either, but being among ponies made that easier to cope with. I still felt that my posture granted my posterior too much exposure. If I could just somehow conceal it . . . Why did my mind invoke images of mares wearing lingerie? That was just wrong. Or right? I didn't know. Would I wear—I wouldn't think of such things!

“Now, if you have any questions, feel free to ask,” Peachy offered affably. “In any case, Embee will remain with you until you depart from the hospital. It's standard policy, you see,” she explained. Abruptly, the pale orange mare looked askance. “Wait, did I forget something . . . ?” she mumbled, putting on a thoughtful pout.

Evicting the persisting visions of panty-clad ponies from my mind first, I pondered on asking if she did magical scans on humans, and the desire to know how to travel to Canterlot was piquing my curiosity like nothing else. I also wanted to learn why she and her friend had set up a betting game involving my unrequested participation, rewarding me with a raincoat and spurred a conflict that neither party dealt with adequate professionalism. However, I was eager to vacate from the hospital, now that I had been granted a clean bill of health and avoided enforced hospitalization. “No, Peachy. I have no questions to ask,” I said, one last imaginary vision of a strategically clothed pony flashing through my mental canvas. Regardless, I then looked at the pegasus. “So, Embee, if I may call you that, can I have my share of carrots now, please?” I requested politely, licking the middle of my lips to emphasize my desire for food.

I must've looked cute doing it, and my feelings about that were mixed.

“Certainly hon, and yes, you can call me Embee if you like.” She took herself to the exit, where she placed her hoof into a cup-shaped protrusion affixed to the door. “We'll get the carrots from the break room,” she said as she depressed the device. A click emanated from the door, and I realized it was a door handle she was operating. For ponies. Quite ingenious.

“Oh, now I remember!” Peachy exclaimed in frustration as Embee backtracked a short distance on three hooves to open the door inwards; we looked over at the unicorn, and I saw her distance from what must've been a facehoof. “I'm really sorry that it took this long, but can you state your name?” My brows wrinkled in incredulity.

“Of course I can.” Not an eyeblink later did I realize the ramifications of my confident and unfortunately obvious reply. Oh, the pitfalls of trying to act normal . . .

I saw my name, and it was bright and prominent in my mind like a neon sign, but there was another name there. That name had been stripped of its rank and color, and I couldn't allow myself to associate with it. Not here, and not to these ponies. I couldn't hope for Peachy to accept my continued silence, and Embee already knew my name, which she would disclose if I didn't. Feverishly, I pushed my consciousness through the rapid thought lane and took the off ramp that maintained the unaffected look I still miraculously bore. “It's Rosy,” I said succinctly. Suddenly, I felt weird.

“That's a nice name,” Peachy complimented with a smile. “Albeit unusually short,” she noted, amiable inquiry on her face and genuinely innocent mirth in her tone.

“Well, uh . . .” Wait, did I just think I should speak out the rest of my name? I better not do that. My complete name, Rosy Stripes, was utterly false; Rosy was innocuous enough. “It's just easier to say that than my full name,” I explained. “Just like I've called you Peachy, and Embee, um, heh, Embee.” A compulsion drew my lips into a smile, but I still felt weird. Why was I feeling weird? It wasn't related to my hooves, my posture, or my worryingly unclothed form. It didn't have anything to do with my acute vision. Oh darn! Now I was sure of it: Peachy knew I hadn't told my full name! Or was it something else . . . No, the name thing had to be it!

“That's quite reasonable,” Peachy said gently.

“Yeah, it is.” I concurred. The glint of anticipation in her eyes was impossible to deny, and I wanted to leave this room. Now. That meant I had to walk on my four hooves. I knew how to, but the prospect daunted me just as much as staying here did. It had been tough enough to stand like a pony. However, I had to keep my cool at all costs, and it was very important that I didn't act on impatience. Disaster would strike if I caved in and bolted under the duress of anxiety.

“But just for the hospital records,” Peachy continued, her congenial tone and expression informing that she was unaware of my predicament, “I think it wouldn't be too much to ask for your full name.” Well, the unavoidable was now before me, despite my desperate attempts to avert it. Dispiriting resignation brimmed within me, but I was able to chain my demeanor to indifference.

“That's completely fair,” I said. ‘Except that it's absolutely not!’ I wanted to protest, but declining to speak my name would relight the recently doused suspicions. “My name's Rosy Stripes,” I divulged with a faint touch of apology that masked my distress, and I still felt so weird. What was it, then? Something regarding my name? I think I was close to realizing it when my stomach finally awoke with a creaking complaint. Distracted, I dropped my head a little, apprehension and confusion hiding beneath a disconcerted visage. “I'm sorry, but can I go now?” I requested.

I saw the unicorn doc write something into the release document, possibly my name, before her face lifted up with an innocent and kind expression. “Yes, of course you can, and I wish you well. It's very nice that everything turned out fine.” Once again, I plastered a casual mask on myself.

“Ditto!” I said, doing my best to sound grateful. “Thank you for everything.” Yes, everything was fine . . . except I was utterly doomed! At least she hadn't asked where I lived, because that would've placed me right in the frying pan; she'd have looked up who really lived in my home, which was me, which wasn't Rosy Stripes. Maybe I could just scarf the carrots, politely decline the raincoat, and let the rain wash me clean?

I had to get out of here.

Since I had been finally given permission to leave, I began to clear my mind to ensure it wouldn't accidentally interfere with my locomotion as I set my muscle memory to autonomously vacate myself from this odious interrogation room.

Walking on all fours felt extremely strange after the lengthy hiatus, but I didn't think about it. I heard and felt my hooves softly contact the floor, but I didn't think about that. My body swayed. I didn't think. Naked posterior. No think!

With a small sigh, I let my mind resume its normal routines. It was only a few steps before I stood in the white-walled hallway with the light pink floor. I felt like I had just been delivered a hope-shattering blow. I had told them my fabricated name, and sooner or later, it would be called into question . . . ? No, it wouldn't be. The pieces were finally congregating, and I couldn't believe that it had taken me this long to put them together!

This was evidently a different world from the one I had lived in yesterday, and I hadn't materialized out of thin air or literally transformed into a pony this morning. In this universe, I had existed as this since . . . I was born. I had been dangerously wrong; my name wouldn't be discredited! It was most likely adorning the mail slot in my home door, written on the bills I had received and paid, and included in the population register. I think I now began to deduce what had felt weird: this body naturally didn't feel at all like it was mine because it simply wasn't, but my name did, even though that really wasn't mine, either. My feminine name, as inherent to me as it wanted to be, conflicted immensely with my masculine selfhood.

The door behind me closed, throwing me out from my analytical introspection. Embee leisurely strolled to my right. “This way, hon,” she instructed gently, but the floor drew my attention as my train of thought whisked me back onboard.

As long as I acted accordingly, I'd be relatively safe from suspicion. Everypony would . . . Every individual would see me as . . . what I truly didn't identify as. I had no qualifications or aspirations to be what I wasn't. This body I was trapped in belonged to a unicorn mare, and I had to pretend to be her more than in name when I didn't even know what kind of a pony she was!

“Something on your mind, hon?” a soft voice asked. I distanced myself from my mentations once again, looking to the right to meet Embee's amethyst eyes. She had come to a stop to face me and was staring at me with curiosity.

“Uhm . . . no, well, kind of,” I stammered dumbly, which, with the addition of a neutral expression, hopefully obscured my anxiety. “Did you say something?” I feigned obliviousness.

“I said we're going this way,” Embee answered, gesturing with a forelimb behind herself. The hallway was vacant, with a series of doors on both sides, turning to the left after a dozen meters. She tilted her head with her lips creasing upwards. “So, you got lost in your thoughts?”

“Uh, yeah.” I plastered an abashed smile on myself. “I did. Sorry. Sometimes, I think of fascinating stuff that then captivates me completely.” Unbeknownst to Embee, she had graced close to a good point: I couldn't concentrate on comprehending my condition when I was centered in a social situation. I half-coughed, half-laughed when my stomach groaned abruptly. “Anyway, I'm starving, and this isn't the best of places for a chit-chat, so . . . lead the way!” I urged with a lively tone, painting a happier look on my involuntarily borrowed body.

“All right, hon,” Embee said kindly. Hastily, I reminded myself that my fear of my name being fictional had been eliminated, and that things would henceforth go comparatively smoothly if I didn't give anypony a good reason to doubt my sanity, equinity, or assumed identity.

Right as Embee began to rotate around, I was suddenly hit by a speech-crippling revelation! ‘Embee, wait! I haven't properly psyched myself to walk! Oh fff . . . ponyfeathers! Vorwärts!’

Have A Break

Okay, okay, okay . . . okay! Some rationality still in my very nervous self? Good! I knew how to walk, and I was successfully doing it even as my human condition stupidly refused to cooperate! Whatever scrap of equine condition I had, I was using it to its fullest.

Remarkably, I had started walking almost the very moment Embee had, and I wanted to stay diagonally behind her. That way, I'd have fair warning to reform my strained expression into a blithe smile were she to spy a look at me, but not too far behind, lest I see her totally never before seen and now entirely forgotten behind, which would indubitably remind me of my own behind! Well, it really wasn't mine. It actually belonged to a female pony, but that was part of the problem: it belonged to a female! I didn't trust that a less sophisticated side wouldn't awake should I see the potentially alluring and hence forbidden shape surrounding my or Embee's tail. Spurred by that line of thought, the dirtier depths of my imagination spat up a highly unwelcome vision of a mare in boyshorts. As fiercely as I tried not to, I felt wronged for not having even that little modesty. The intimate experience with female nudity was unsettling me further, and I didn't know why it was worse than male nudity, but any extrapolation was prohibited by my cognitive cacophony.

I was afraid, too. Afraid of what might happen if my true identity was revealed. Being regarded as a full-fledged female pony was safer than whatever event that'd ensue if I wasn't. Nonetheless, this choice was disturbing, humiliating, and adversarial to my maltreated, restrained, and violated male humanity. I needed to comprehend this untoward and nearly instinctive intolerance so that I could vanquish it. I was like . . . a Škoda 120 misplaced amongst front-engine, front-wheel-drive cars! I definitely didn't belong in this convention, and I didn't want to be here. I yearned to return to my own gathering of rear-wheel-drive cars, but I couldn't do that because I was stuck inside this!

I was suffering from a contradiction of self-image and body. Transgenderism plus transpecism? I hadn't expected to come to that conclusion, but now, it seemed very appropriate. I wouldn't condemn a transgendered individual for disliking their body, because . . . they had my sincerest sympathies now that I had been forsaken into a relatable predicament. I couldn't eliminate my intolerance as I had planned. I could only hope I'd cope with it soon.

Embee and I had already traveled for about . . . too far and too long. I knew it was finite, but . . . Were distances greater as a pony, or was time standing still, or . . . some third thing that made this stroll feel so perennial?! Silly misgivings! We'd be at our destination shortly. Just had to tolerate the strange bones shifting beneath my skin, the pressure applied to my four cycling hooves and the joints above them, my short stature, and . . . several other things I had once been perfectly fine with.

I cringed when my tail involuntarily twitched, brushing my behind and drawing my thoughts towards the area between my hind legs . . . and the emptiness there. Much to my dismay, my tail swung a few more times before I got it under control. Forcing my head and ears straight, I walked . . . Did stallions and mares walk differently? They should be indifferent . . . Were they? I really hoped I wasn't inadvertently swinging my rear like I've seen some human females do; too disgraceful! Too degrading! No, wait, that was inane—all ponies walk in a neutral manner. End of debate! Breathing okay, walking okay, Embee was oblivious, and I was totally not troubled by my nudity; everything was perfectly okay. Almost perfectly okay. I had to maintain my . . . adequate calmness . . . as soon as I acquired it.

Oh horseapples!

As if fate had read my mind with malicious motives, a red- and black-maned stallion emerged from a room no more than five meters ahead and just before a turn to the left. I was scarcely able to put on a nonchalant face before we passed the dark blue unicorn, and I desperately tried to (somehow) walk in an extremely neutral manner. With my breathing on hold, I earnestly hoped his burgundy eyes weren't ogling me. I didn't dare to look over my back. Getting a confirmatory glimpse of him being a lecherous scoundrel and/or my assumably curvaceous tail section could have disastrous effects on my panicky psyche! He seemed to be drowsy, so . . . maybe he didn't gaze at me? His attention was probably on Embee instead, who, thankfully, was between me and him. She didn't have spots of mud on her, and her long and blonde mane had to be pleasing to the eye, unlike whatever unsightly mess I had on my head and neck. Suffice to say, she must be more attractive in every department. Even in the rear. She'd better be!

No, I didn't want to know!

As we rounded the corner, I let out my breath through clenched teeth. I noticed droplets of perspiration itching my skin, but I couldn't scratch with these hooves! They were dedicated to supporting and ambulating me . . . If I could will myself deaf to the rhythmical clicking, then my stress would reduce decently. On the bright side, I was still walking steadily! How many anxious squeaks had I already suppressed? A few . . . dozen? Darn the insubordinate part of my subconscious that rejected my form and how it locomoted! Couldn't it just quit already?

HR, FL, HL, FR; that was the pattern! I could never pull off that choreography as a human! I didn't need to . . . but now, I had integrated it into my pith so well that it had become nearly automatic, and . . . this disquieting and dehumanizing method was the only way. Every quadrupedal step I took stabbed my core. Why was I subjecting myself to this torment? Why wasn't I stopping? I should stop . . . Just stop and pour out all of my accumulated anguish until I had no tears left . . .

No! I wasn't weak, and I couldn't submit to the tyranny of my pathetic frailties! I could . . . divert my attention to something completely unrelated, like . . . doors! We passed one door. It was white. It had a small inset in its lower part. Then, we passed a second door. It also was white and had an inset. Third door—white . . . Inset . . . Oh! Embee and I stopped at this one. A respite from walking . . . Dispelling my stress with a single furtive sigh, I realized how dangerously close I'd come to falling apart. Counting doors was a good idea, and in hindsight, I should've tried it earlier; it would've saved me from the composure-whittling anxiety. I realized that standing was a lot easier to my frayed mind than walking. I also noted that my neck and back formed a rough ninety-degree angle, my spine descended into a concave between my pelvis and shoulders. Wait, withers, not shoulders. Anyhow, it was as if my skeletal system formed an S-shape of sorts, starting from my head and ending at my hind hooves, yet this brought me no physical discomfort.

“Well, here we are, literally at the other end of the hospital,” Embee announced leisurely, as if she hadn't even seen how enfeebled I was. Probably hadn't, because the fabricated expression she saw was moderately eager, if a bit tired.

‘And figuratively at the other end of the world!’ I desired to add with factitious glee, but I was simply too drained to offer my sarcasm.

“This is the break room.” Embee placed her hoof into the inset of the door, and the telltale click near the door handle ordered me to be firm just a little longer. She gently pushed the door open, and we entered the room, me with lead hooves and a great want to ignore the unease coalescing in my abdomen. Walking on all fours without preparation had done a number on me . . .

I barely registered that the lights were on before we had made our entrance.

“As you can see, this room's suited, though not exclusively, for ponies.” The aquamarine pegasus standing by my side gestured with a nod to our diagonal right; in the center of the room was an appreciably low, wood-framed glass table surrounded by wide and soft-looking cushions, the ensemble resting on top of a carpet patterned with multicolored bands. A section of the right wall had been neatly removed, but from this position, I saw little of what was beyond except for the edge of a window and a radiator beneath it. The wall directly ahead of us consisted of a row of windows, permitting a view of the top floors of an inner-city apartment beneath an orange-tinted sky. Rainwater streaked down panes of glass slightly above my eye level, and I was glad they were; their elevation reduced the risk of seeing my reflection.

“I know this sounds like it was ripped from a trite speech, but . . .” Embee looked askance with a droll smirk as she deliberately cleared her throat. “The equidaetrics department wishes to politely offer a positive, lasting impression to every discharged patient by serving them a complimentary meal.” Equidaetrics department? I should've been more surprised at that; however, the unpleasant taste of stomach acids visited the back of my tongue, greatly reducing my astonishment. Embee had no part in my transient queasiness . . . other than forcing me to walk before I had prepared myself for it.

Regardless, I forgave her blunder and was poised to eat.

“Well, ah, that's very nice.” I would've said more, such as applaud the hospital's generosity, wonder why the amiable practice had been established, and question what was the point of Embee's promise of carrots if I was about to receive food anyway, but my obstinately male side dissuaded me from playing ball with my feminine voice—this time.

“If you meant the service, and not that poorly written stuff our janitor roped me into reciting after I lost a game of poker,” Embee said with half-hearted humor in her tone, “then yes, it's very nice.” After a half-second pause, she hummed contemplatively. “You know hon, it's more than very nice because you'll receive more than a simple meal.” She looked toward the rain-streaked row of windows at the far wall. “The weather's perfect for your new raincoat, you see?” I was reminded of Peachy's thinly veiled dissatisfaction at relinquishing the raincoat, and I promised myself I'd return the attire back to her as soon as I knew how to send myself back to my life. Anyhow, Embee's unconcerned mood was a good sign; she hadn't been tipped off that my guts had yet to untwine completely from the aftermath of the sudden stroll. Despite that, I had no trouble maintaining a smile.

“Yeah, how about that,” I started tentatively, defiant to my desire for silence over hearing my feminine intonation. “I'll be testing my reward for a sneeze in no time at all, and that reward is precisely what I wanted before I even knew I wanted it,” I jested, my mirth impeded by my unbefitting voice and a momentary awareness of my nakedness.

Embee chuckled, bending her neck to show me the right half of her friendly expression. “Then consider this to be your very own little celebratory banquet.”

“Mmm-hm,” I hummed with a lean smirk. ‘Little banquet? That's oxymoronic,’ I remarked with the voice I couldn't currently produce. Spontaneously, I recalled that my parents claimed my voice was charmingly mellow, and as much as my male ego loathed to admit, this set of vocal cords easily translated the quality into a femininely gentle intonation.

“By the way,” Embee mulled, her hoof locating to her chin as she slowly pivoted her head to cast a look around the room. “It's actually been almost a year since the extensive renovation, which I understood was a big undertaking, and there's been talk of a small celebration.”

‘Renovation and celebration; that rhymed,’ I noted cursorily. “A small celebration with party hats, streamers, cake, and so on,” I added in a subtly humorous monotone.

Embee faced me, planting her hoof down. “Ah, no,” she sighed, a little disappointed. “Just a few guys and gals gathering in a restaurant, calling it a celebration. Some might go to a club to party afterwards, I think.” She again brought her hoof to her chin, apparently contemplating something deeply.

Looking at Embee, I realized I was a few centimeters shorter than her, and I felt a pang of melancholic inferiority, questioning the maturity of this body. Being slightly smaller than the roughly meter-tall pegasus—a little over half of my human height—wasn't good for my self-esteem.

Thankfully, I felt my spirits recover as I watched Embee's hoof contact the pale-brown linoleum floor, creating a soft clap. Her head inclined upwards: “I heard this hospital was quite a chore to be in, what with having been built to cater only to humans, and the rampant mold growth that was everywhere.” With a light exhale, she waved her hoof dismissively before looking at me tranquilly. “Anyway, I can't attend the proposed celebration because . . .” She gazed away absently, humming softly as her eyes slid halfway shut and gained a dreamy shimmer. “Me and my special somepony must attend a celebration dedicated to us.” Combined with the warm smile and melody in her tone, I presumed she meant a wedding ceremony. Hoping I wouldn't encourage her to talk treacly about her future spouse and matrimony, I struggled for a moment to parse a proper reply.

“Well, I'm very glad that fortune has brought you two together, and I wish you the best in your shared future,” I congratulated her, but immediately reviewed my words and assumed I had spoken wrongly. I felt my ears slant down as my mouth warped into an awkward smile. My eyes unwilling to stay affixed to her, I began to rectify hurriedly: “Uh, with your special somepony, I mean, not with fortune, but, well, why not with that as well? Like, uhm, fortune, you, and, er, your special somepony being together.” Warmth bursted in me now that I thought I had implied something naughty. Compulsively, I lifted my right forehoof off the floor, leaning a little from her. “Sorry for that, Embee,” I apologized, unable to wipe the embarrassed look off my face. Hers was marked by a small smile of bafflement. “That got, ah, um, a little out of . . .” I glanced in disbelief at my elevated appendage, gently resting it back and correcting my stance. “Hoof, heh.” Why had I lifted it up?

Embee stared incomprehensively, before breaking into unsure laughter. “No need to feel embarrassed and apologize, hon. I appreciate the compliment and . . .” My eyes were drawn from her relaxed visage to her left foreleg, crossed over her right as if to point at me. “Humor, was it?” she finished with an inquiry.

She hadn't heard anything risqué in what I had said? That was good. I wasn't fond of raunchy jokes, and telling one by accident would be a humiliating misfortune. “Yeah, humor . . .” I felt compelled to paw the floor with my forehoof. “I was trying, uhm, it was kind of funny, but in an unintentional way, uh, you see if fortune was an entity and, um—”

“What are you talking about, hon?” Embee interjected laughingly. Seeing puzzled amusement on her, I realized how discombobulated I was, explaining a dirty joke she perhaps hadn't and didn't need to understand.

“Gee, that . . . uh, I don't even know,” I replied, stifling a titter down to an uneasy smile, and taking reluctant control of my auricular muscles to upright my drooped ears. They were fundamental to how I communicated, and I had to be more aware of their position, though manual operation felt stranger than letting them govern themselves. “Anyway, as if it wasn't quite clear already, I want to say that you're a very lucky mare!” I spoke flatteringly, doing my best to regain my composure and repress another protest by my masculinity when expectation and reality didn't meet in my current voice. Why couldn't I fully inure myself to this voice already?

“I know, hon, and thank you!” I saw the dreamy look return before she aimed her face towards the windows again. “Oh, when me and Aidin finally lock our wings and stroll together down the aisle, that, I bet my tail, will be the greatest and happiest moment of our lives! I can imagine the preparations and congratulations and celebrations, and, oh my! I can hardly wait for it!” she squealed enthusiastically. My ears had fallen to half-mast at the implication of receiving a bucketful of her romantic syrup, though I honestly wished Embee all the fortune in the world, and reacting to her gushing with a sickened groan would be extremely rude and dishonorable. Best I simply tune out whatever she said from now and wait for her to continue strolling forward.

Nevertheless, Embee's eager anticipation of her marriage reminded me of my own lack of romantic skills. My "gotta connect" brain component had never developed beyond a basic attraction for the opposite sex. I presumed those factors contributed to my want of an independent and free life. Quite daringly, I thought I could do without friends as well. Or, no, on second thought, I couldn't be that solitary. I needed some kind of companionship. Friends, not a life partner. I just didn't have the innate requirements for the latter. Society in general would look at me strangely for that, but what could I do? I was what I was.

As for a certain quartet whose enjoyability had plummeted ever since they found happiness from a bottle rather than from within themselves . . . ‘Without booze, there ain't no fun.’ I can't believe Benny said that. Or was it David? No, it was Benny. Had he forgotten his dad passing away from alcohol-related liver cirrhosis five years past? Probably hadn't, because I had reminded him two weeks ago. Quite bluntly, too. Whether Benny had been ironic about the exclusivity of alcohol and joy, I didn't ask because . . . I didn't feel the need. I probably should have. What happened to my friends? What happened to me? Had I misjudged them? Was I unreasonably opinionated? Was it all just a big misunderstanding? Why was I so unsure? For over a week, they had tried to contact me with calls and text messages before they apparently gave up. I . . . almost responded to one call. Maybe I should get back in contact . . . No, two friends were better than those four—or none—and I'd meet new ones in flight school. Actually, said two friends were my cousins who had recently moved away—one for work, the other for family.

Once this unprecedented ordeal was over, maybe I should visit the working one, Emma, to detail this ordeal as a wacky dream or something. My parents were clueless, barely grasping the concept of the Internet, so telling them how I had stumbled upon colorful cartoon ponies and that . . . I dreamt I was one? That conversation would be all kinds of awkward. Emma, however, owned a bunch of first-generation MLP figurines. Hence, she probably wouldn't treat my coming out of the stable with derision.

Anyhow, I hadn't seen Emma in a good while, separated as we were by almost two hundred kilometers. It would be great seeing her though, since she was exceptionally nice. Crossing the distance would be a small adventure in itself as I was fond of driving. Maybe I should do that , after twirling some things in my fingers and strolling around on two legs in my home out of pure joy. Then, I'd wrap my hands around the shallow-grooved, two-spoked black steering wheel . . . Yank the hand brake, shift the gear to neutral, twist the key to activate the electrics and set the four pistons rotating, turn the knob by the left side of the gauges to alight the trapezoid-shaped headlights, fasten the seatbelt, cross my right arm over my chest to lock the door, check the mirror positions, test the brakes and accelerator; all set to go! An internalized routine reminiscent of a pre-flight checklist. Quite peculiarly, if I was attentive while the engine was idling and the radio was off, I could hear tiny hissing sounds repeating harmoniously. Was that the fuel being injected into the cylinders, or was it the rotation of the crankshaft? Or the camshaft? I had no idea. I should investigate that complex machi—

“Gyah!”

My heart missed a beat, and for a split-second, I was unable to comprehend what had happened. My wits slipped back to their place soon enough, and I realized I had yelped due to a full-body jolt that had almost tipped me off balance. While I was busy catching my breath after receiving a sensation equivalent to a static discharge, an aquamarine hoof began oscillating up and down before my eyes. Then, my integrated magic projector relayed that two instances of external stimuli had been applied to its terminus, delivering a pair of light kinetic forces that converted at the base into tenuous neural signals, which then radiated into my cranium and prompted me to produce the shamefully feminine vocalization.

“Hello?” the owner of the hoof asked with a careful laugh, stepping in from my left. My forehead was stinging, but that was more out of the strangeness of having a horn there rather than physical pain. Embee leaned closer, peering mirthfully, whereas I gazed back dumbly. “Medical Brace to Rosy Stripes, Medical Brace to Rosy Stripes,” she spoke our names with a jocular flourish. “Can you heeaaar meee?”

Preceded by a small grunt, I furrowed my brows in disbelieving puzzlement. “Uh, yeah yeah, I-I can,” I replied, annoyance in my tone. “But, uh, you, ah, you didn't have to, uhm . . .” I stammered in one breath, minor hurt beneath my tone. Averting my head by a dozen degrees, my eyes remained affixed to hers as I continued hesitantly in a quieter voice, “Touch my horn.” Just vocally relating that thing to myself felt like an affront. Compulsively, I lifted a hoof toward my agitated forehead. ‘And what use would this action serve, huh?’ I asked myself irately when the extremity reached ribcage level. My hoof sank obediently back to its supporting role, and I set a mildly discontent look on Embee with a long sigh, compelling her to lean back with a rueful frown. Darn horn. Until the nerve connections up there calmed down, I'd feel like a piece of rebar was stuck in my head. Wait, had I reacted to my name . . . her name? Rosy Stripes. Right, I had her body and inexplicably adopted her name as well, but now was not the time to get absorbed in my thoughts.

Again.

“I'm sorry I did that, hon, but I waved a hoof in front of your eyes for ten seconds without getting so much as a twitch out of you.” I seriously doubted she had waved her hoof for literally ten seconds. Regardless, her sorry tone didn't cloak the amused look on her face.

Closing my eyes, I exhaled a nerve-relaxing sigh. She was so close to me that I could smell her. Rainwater and . . . horse. “No, it's fine, Embee. I'm not mad at you,” I said peaceably, abandoning my want of vengeance through sarcasm. I was only upset at being blatantly reminded of the disparity between a human and unicorn head. No need to lash out at her for that.

“Alright, hon. I was a little afraid I hurt your feelings,” she intoned with assumably sincere apology. “I wonder, though, what thought captivated you this time?”

“Um, a something,” I responded, blinking my eyes like an innocent and clueless child. At least that gesture wasn't feminized. ‘If my sense of masculinity was any more unreasonably unyielding, it would object to breathing with my mare's lungs,’ I quipped, frankly becoming tired of how that aspect of my identity cared not for the credibility of my important guise. An unrelated complaint came from my mare's stomach, and with a neutral look, I tried to will Embee's ears unreceptive to the specific frequencies. Her wary smile told of my limited success.

“Was that 'something' food?” she cooed with a chuckle.

‘Nope. I was merely so discouraged by the chance of hearing you talk about your love life—which in retrospect could've given me a lot of info on this universe—that I stupidly and inopportunely distanced myself to wander from thought to thought in a thoughtless desire to ignore pretty much all things related to my persistently unfamiliar and tangibly feminine equine configuration,’ I was tempted to ramble dryly, but that would've opened a can of smelly, abhorrent, nauseatingly squiggling worms. Also, I was short on appropriate and safe witticisms at the moment.

“Nah. I only tried to make sense of something at the wrong moment,” I said plainly, wrinkling my lips to a small smile soon after. “I'm sorry about that. It was a little stupid of me.” Something was nagging in my head ever since I thought about my car. Probably related to intricacies of engine sounds, but that was neither here nor there. “But I'm okay, and you're right. I could really use some food right about now,” I finished, trying not to sound like I was telling her to hurry up. I then realized we (and especially I) had stood idly for a few minutes, which was probably my fault, but I didn't feel bad about it.

Embee looked fairly embarrassed. “Yeah, we both got a bit distracted in our own ways, it seems. Weddings and whatnot, hahahah,” she laughed awkwardly, then nodded her head in the direction of the table. “Uh, why don't you take a seat, hon? I'll bring you the promised meal in a few.”

A surge of anticipation sent a pulse to right my already upright ears, causing a nugatory and scarcely bothersome twitch instead. “All right, then! I'll get comfy,” I said happily. ‘Ugh, dumb female voice and its apparent propensity for perkiness,’ I thought unhappily behind my smile as I aimed my eyes (and snout) towards the simplistically stylish table.

With my recent experience through the hospital as an educative warning, I prepared myself mentally with a fairly calm exhale before rousing my legs into action. Coming to a halt by the lime green cushion after a few short and thankfully easy steps, I began to take an interest in the upside-down comic book on the wood-framed glass table. “Excuse me, hon,” Embee started, my left ear rotating automatically to improve detection of the inquiring mare's voice, “but I didn't quite catch what you said.” I lifted my head up in minor disbelief, one ear falling horizontal. If she hadn't heard what I had said . . . well, so much for her pony ears being acute. “Did you say you wanted to get some coffee?”

“Huh?” I twisted my neck to cast an uncomprehending look on her. An exchange of differing expressions commenced before I realized the pegasus had misheard me. Straightening my ear, I puffed a small amount of air through my nostrils, candor creasing my lips. “Sorry, no. I meant that I'll get on a cushion and relax.” Placing my forehoof on the cushion, I tested its pliability in conjunction with a visual inspection; my hoof sank by approximately ten centimeters. This cushion looked and felt more like a pillow. I could've used it as a place to sleep had I a blanket to wrap myself in. Gladdened by the pleasing impression, I turned my attention back to Embee, who still looked a bit confused. “I'll get com-fee, you know?” I explained, tilting my head down by a few centimeters on the fourth syllable.

“Oh! Comfy. Coffee.” Embee giggled in minor embarrassment. “My bad.”

“Heh,” I breathed in gentle mirth. “Don't worry. It's okay.” I then realized that was true: I wasn't unbearably anxious, Embee had no clue of my true identity, and while maintaining this feminine disguise chafed my masculinity, I had to admit that being on this side of the fence wasn't as unsettling as I had feared it to be. I didn't even have to coat my conduct with anything resembling femininity! With an astonishingly good feeling brimming within me, I again set my sights on the comic book, cursorily noting that Embee had closed the door at some point. A sudden reminder was sent from my tongue to my brain. “Uhm, but . . . I can get cof-fee, right?” I asked her.

“Of course, if you want to,” Embee replied amiably, then glanced aside. “It . . . should only take a couple of minutes to brew.” She seemed uncertain about something, but her quick recovery convinced me not to ask why. Anyhow, carrots and coffee? What a strange combination, but the culinary delight and nourishment gained from both could encapsulate my distancing anxiety in hardened titanium. I assumed this body wasn't allergic or otherwise intolerant to the food and drink. I'd come off looking incredibly stupid and irresponsible if I enjoyed my basic meal only to suffer from indigestion minutes later.

Dropping my eyes with a thoughtful frown, I stalled for a few seconds before deciding to go for the gamble. “Alright.” I nodded gingerly. “Wouldn't hurt to have a cup of coffee, I suppose,” I returned gratefully, hopeful that the coffee wasn't pernicious to my health.

“Sure thing, hon. Why don't you make yourself comfy while I get you some coffee?” the amused pegasus suggested with a giggle.

Unwilling to hear my emasculated laugh, I merely smiled back at her before I carefully got onto the cushion. As my comparatively light weight dented the pliable furniture , I questioned my balance; every surface I had stood on today was sturdy, but the cushion's softness was daunting with these digits . . . The nails of my four toes . . . and the odd sensations in them and my joints . . . I began to feel nauseous again. Bitter enzymes were threatening to advance up to my mouth unless I stopped focusing on my limbs. I hastily wondered if Embee would object to my begrimed body staining the cushion. I then presumed that if she did, she would've said something about it by now.

“Hey, are you feeling okay, hon?” Embee queried, a touch of concern in her voice. Again, my soundcatchers directed towards her before my eyes did . Considering how frequently and easily my ears moved, I should get used to the discomfort they imposed on me. Eventually. “I couldn't help but notice that you seem to be a little unsteady on your legs,” she continued. Her observation brought my ears down.

“Uh, sure, I'm okay.” I manufactured a smile with a confidence level of 57%. “Just getting a little tired, that's all,” I improvised, my ears recomposing themselves.

“If you feel like dozing off for a while, then just drop down,” Embee suggested, prompting me to glance down at my forelegs. They were pivoted slightly off-center, as if anticipating the cushion morphing into ice. I didn't have to look to know the same was true for my second pair of legs. “You don't have to nap upright, like in a cheapo motel, when you got a nice cushion under yourself, right, hon?” she said with an inoffensive laugh. Paranoia told me not to ask what she meant, lest I endanger my cover, so I presumed whatever motel she was thinking of was comparable to a stable with unclean box stalls.

“Yeah . . . Good point,” I said, averting my head so I could conceal my light disgust with an artificial yawn, which to my surprise turned authentic almost from the get-go. I began to doubt I'd get home before the want of sleep overwhelmed me. Oh wait, the caffeine could help! “Anyhow, do you have milk and sugar for the coffee?” I queried, hesitant to lower myself yet, since I was unsure I'd retain my balance through the procedure. “I'd be very disappointed if I had to drink it black.” The memory of the one time I had tried that undrinkable swill made my lips curl. Better than the beer Peter challenged me to try, though that had been enough to convince me—“That stuff's just plain nasty,” I thought out loud, taking the chance to briefly study how I sounded. In contrast to the small tremors my original voice produced in my throat, this type flowed with smoothness; the vibrations in my throat were almost indistinguishable. Emitting the light, and admittedly nice, tones from such an intimate point of origin still didn't feel right.

“Don't worry about it, hon,” Embee assured in her slightly lower dulcet voice. “I'm pretty sure we got both here. If not, I can fetch some from the other departments.”

I smiled; no unsavory black coffee for me! “Okay, sounds like all's good, then!” I acknowledged delightfully. She trotted to the adjoining room, and I glanced aside just in time to avoid sighting her glutes. If I were to see hers, I'd know what mine looked like. Possessing them was bad enough; I didn't want that image burned into my mind, too! My impulsive imagination took that caveat as an order to picture my present form wearing a brightly colored one-piece swimsuit. I disregarded concern for my balance, pressing a hoof to my forehead, barely suppressing a groan from becoming audible. I was disgusted a second time when nudity scored (a fraction) less on the desirability scale than the atrocious attire.

Holding the hard sole to my forehead quickly began to feel very weird; I had a lasting and perfectly understandable impression that a finger was supposed to be at the end of my limb. Which finger, that I truly didn't want to know. Also, considering the things I had trampled on since I was thrust into this body, countless contaminations were probably now spreading to my visage. Reflexively, I scrubbed my forehead with my pastern, as if that'd eliminate whatever malaise I believed I had inadvertently infected my face with. Giving my grimy hoof a narrow glower of contempt, I equated the entire appendage to be indubitably feminine regardless of any evidence to affirm the claim besides its association with my body. After a second of incredulous gazing at nothing, I realized I was so annoyed that I wasn't even thinking straight.

With a tense puff, I resentfully dropped the hoof, my gaze affixing to my dirt-stained pair of forelegs as if they were depraved criminals responsible for the loss of my fingers, bipedal stance, and sex. I guess that summed up what I disliked most about being a pony, and my irritation subsided as I realized the cause of my bad mood. With a significantly calmer mind, I let out a soft breath and made one reconciliatory step with my right forehoof before I uprighted my head.

With a half-conscious command sent to the very end of my back, my tail swung once, reminding me of its none-too-pleasing presence. It also reminded me that I possibly had an attractive posterior. I guess my rationality finally imposed itself, because I began to honestly question why I hadn't courageously challenged my ludicrously aversive mindset. Curtailing the depraved feeling had never been difficult, so why would that be different now? However, I had to caution myself by noting that this wasn't my body, and that my male libido could disregard intellect, logic, and restraint—even basic common sense—to perceive the uncomfortably proximate and conjecturably feminine features with . . . ugh . . . deplorably arousing consequences. I had no clue whatsoever what that'd feel like now that I had female parts, and I wasn't at all eager to find out. Although . . . I could strive to be objective and disprove my ridiculous preconception about pony posteriors by keeping in mind that I wasn't some lascivious clopper who found cartoon ponies sexually enticing. This was no cartoon. Neither was this a female human's body, (and were I in possession of one, I wouldn't indignify myself by exploiting it) but a mare's body.

I pictured a common horse, and I saw nothing alluring about it, not even when I pictured its flanks from the aft. How was a cartoon pony any different? In fact, had I ever felt even the tiniest hint of desire for an equine, real or drawn? No, I hadn't. Just the concept alone made me shiver as if I had been massaged with ice. That alone was a signifi—“You don't mind that the coffee's decaf, do you?” My mental cogwork was halted by Embee's voice bouncing from the room over.

“Decaf? What?” I mumbled. Right! No sleep-postponing caffeine . . . “No, it's all fine by me,” I replied, hiding my disappointment with a pococurante tone. “Coffee's coffee.” I tried to shrug, but instead slouched awkwardly. I was perplexed for a few seconds before I gave a frustrated huff. Looking down, I briefly cycled my forelegs like slow pistons, sullenly accepting my physical limitations as I did so. Proceeding to analyze if my flanks shared a discernible likeness with a human female's counterpart and therefore conduct an experiment on whether visual scrutiny would or wouldn't evoke an extremely undesirable reaction in my most disagreeable area . . . No, this wasn't the time or place, especially if the most dreaded and revolting result manifested. So instead, I cast a sweeping but idle look around.

A few potted plants and paintings decorated the space, and a nondescript radio on a basic stand was tucked into a corner next to the second room's entryway. Other than those and the furniture, there wasn't much else. Despite the sparse furnishings, the atmosphere was cozy for a small repurposed hospital room, and I took to absorbing its pleasantness. Embee was busy in the other room, which I presumed to be a kitchen. Judging by the steady and soft sounds of what I surmised to be a knife tapping a cutting board, she was quite deft with hooves. Or teeth. Both, perhaps. Rolling my tongue over my herbivore's teeth, I tried to imagine using them to wield a screwdriver, a hammer, or any other tool or gadget with skill matching that of a human hand. The comparison was pointless. Five fingers were better, obviously.

After a few seconds of listening to the promising sounds of my meal being prepared, I let out a small sigh. The discomfort for my form and its femininity was being slowly suppressed by my recovering resilience—a beneficial development! I'd get through this impermanent predicament if I could refrain from fighting my physical composition. Actually, while I was waiting for my carrots and coffee, I should take a moment to prioritize. Sure, my ultimate mission was to return home and investigate . . . my brand new laptop computer? Something was in there? Unfortunately, the hope-inspiring inkling was too vague to provide details on what my computer contained. I had a fair idea on how I came to learn of this serendipitous tidbit, and it was related to how I knew my . . . her name. Exploring those puzzles had to wait until a later time; attuning to this body was of greater importance.

Now that I was aware that the most coveted solution existed back at home, I had a greater incentive than pure necessity. Still, once bitten, twice shy; thinking ‘It's really fascinating to be a pony,’ didn't seem to work, and I was certain I'd encounter a few bumps before my humanity would withdraw to a recess of my mind, as it had done quite smoothly this morning. However, there was another concern I was struggling with, and to solve that, I had to take a straightforward approach. My subconscious opposed me, but I prevailed quickly, presenting the very daring supposition to myself: being a female couldn't be so terrible.

My body temperature ascended as I became disconcerted by what must've been a combination of defamation, mockery, and betrayal. Maybe I was a little bit too daring, but it was a good move, and I couldn't allow myself to retreat.

Moderately flustered—and aware how uncomfortably insulating a fuzzy coat can be—I began to ponder on the short-term benefits of being the opposite sex. Amatory themes were strictly forbidden. Just the idea of arousal—inadvertent or not—repulsed me. Long-term benefits were banned as well, due to their location being deep inside the panic territory, and I predicted that the diazepam's anxiety-inhibiting effects had expired by now.

Alas, I soon discovered I was shamefully short on ideas. Arbitrarily, I wondered how this situation would go if reversed—a female as a male. I guess I was annoyed or bitter at my standstill, because I sarcastically deduced that a female would downplay the change by enunciating a few unconcerned words with their suavely titillating masculine voice, behaving with unabashed indifference from then on. Then, it dawned on me: my voice! I presumed that if I thought about it with positivity, I might come to good terms with my intonation instead of tolerating it with wavering consistency.

As an experiment, I hummed quietly. Quick analysis: Gentle. Soft. Feminine . . . Trying to sound less feminine would certainly confuse Embee, and regardless of how vainly my masculine side tried to spin it, my present voice was a female's. I recalled imitating Fluttershy a few times over the course of the day and, admittedly, even before I had this voice . . . but only when I was alone and for my own amusement. Anyhow, unless its modulation occurred naturally, I shouldn't do it again. The capability of mimicking the tones of the animal-adoring pegasus was a . . . fair attribute, though I knew no immediate purpose for it.

Perhaps I was only beating around the bush, and solving my vocalization quandary wasn't any more complex than understanding that talking was unavoidable. Indeed, the intonation couldn't be such a big deal, like my preposterously inflexible masculinity insisted. It was just a different vocal pitch! Could I make it any simpler?

I guess not.

I'd be home soon, where I'd return this body to its rightful owner and translocate back to my own. I was certain that'd happen. My intuition was telling me that the how-to was in my computer—well, hers. Anyhow, in the meantime, I shouldn't and didn't need to abide my masculine image. It hadn't done me any favors recently, and I was pretty sure that wouldn't change if I granted it full control. I should attempt to set aside the femininity-fearing trait and replace it with a flexible version once I was in my real body, if not earlier. To consider this temporary flip of my sex as a serious reduction in my worth was a very sordid attitude to hold. I had to regard this as something exciting, like a live-action role-playing game, an undercover mission, or a trial at method acting.

However, I shouldn't overact or strain my femininity. Applejack was a good example of a comfortable and safe medium to aim for. She was undeniably female, but she didn't (often) profess distinct femininity, which was a skill I was uninitiated to. Still, I supposed that I had the privilege and liberty to express normally concealed wants with relative impunity. Furthermore, being on this side of the gender line might be a very educative experience, especially if nopony knew I really wasn't a mare.

So . . . I had to, I could, and . . . I wanted to . . . breathe normally and douse the fire of nervousness, and . . . while based on nothing more than pure speculation and lacking any concrete proof, I surmised that every male (and female) fantasized of this, so I had to count myself lucky that I had this incomparable chance to allow . . . myself to be . . . something else, just for a while. A something . . . opposite of a guy, and that was a . . . female!

What a surprisingly tough cogitation that was, but I was very relieved for achieving a significant breakthrough. From simply trying to accept my voice, to being more permissive about being a female. I had truly surprised myself. I could even enjoy these few exceptional hours before I was back in my real home. Hopefully I would. At the least, I should obey my decision. Once—or if—push comes to shove, then I shouldn't revert into the worthless femininity-rejecting shell like a cowardly wimp.

It was only now that I realized I had completely forgotten to sit down—I was actually shaking a little from nervousness and minor victorious excitement. I wasn't even facing the table! Once again, I had courageously overcome an ingrained disposition that had been cultivated by constant conditioning from society, culture, and . . . so forth; I had no time to delve deeper on that kind of extensive and profound topic. Embee certainly wasn't in a hurry, but I was sure she'd bring my meal in a few moments.

I better not dawdle.

Wanting to sit in the exact center of the cushion, I rotated into position with due care not to misstep and collapse onto the soft underlay. I suspected that time was limited, yet I had to sacrifice a few seconds testing the articulation of my hind legs by alternately lifting them a couple of times. As strange as it was, I felt disconnected from my latter half, as if I still couldn't fully comprehend I was really in the form of a quadruped. Nonetheless, I was confident that I could sit down without spectacularly messing it up, and so, I leaned backwards to drop myself onto my hindquarters.

Bad move.

I sank into the cushion, its fabric instantly snuggling without mercy to inform me what was not between my legs. Granted, something was there, and that sent a vertiginous feeling into an orbit inside my head. In spite of that disturbance, my brain decoded the stream of nerve signals into a perturbingly precise word: mammillae. My tongue lolled out from my mouth with a silent, prolonged retch that threatened to eject my pharynx.

Breathing laboriously, I sat like a sculpture of a pony on the verge of fainting. An elemental thought pinballed in me, disbelieving how I could be so severely afflicted by so little. Literally. Just thin fabric barely pressing the . . . insignificant protuberances. I was astonished—and very much revolted—that they were down there instead of on my thorax. While I had very recently warmed up to femininity, my misplaced human intuition was slow to embrace my rethought stance. Regarding the two features with any kind of enthusiasm was improbable, but I did come up with two mitigating factors: First, I had to be somewhat thankful I didn't have a pair of inconvenient blobs of fat on my ribcage, like most human females do; second, my queasiness evidenced that my desire to pervertly explore this body was minimal, if not totally nonexistent.

Hoping to both normalize my outlook before Embee's return and put my mind on anything else than contemplating my onerous adjusting to the pair of dairy-do's where the dangly-do was supposed to be, I stretched a sluggish foreleg to the comic book that I had ignored for too long. Despite my debilitated and delicate condition, I was able to apply pressure on the book and drag it closer to myself.

Now that it was the sole focus of my eyes, I began to identify details: a black, star-dotted sky above a yellow lunar landscape, three characters in orange suits . . . Two humans and a white dog in space suits? Astonishment and joy alleviating my nausea, I eagerly rotated the illustrious comic book around. Alas, disappointment came to me with a dejected sigh. “Blistering barnacles,” I complained quietly, gazing wistfully at On a marché sur la Lune.

My dad loved this and other comic series, and I had read all of them several times when I was young. Images and summaries of countless books I had read years ago began to bustle in my mind, flooding me with nostalgia. I glanced at my begrimed leg resting on the lamentably unreadable comic, then directed my vision upwards to examine the two colors of my messy mane. If it were blonde, I'd be like a unicorn cousin of a certain poor lonesome cowboy's loyal and smart companion, Jolly—

“Oh! That belongs to Aidin's cousin,” a voice informed kindly, drawing my sights to its speaker with a tiny, ear-stiffing, eyelid-retracting start; Embee was standing in the doorway, unaware of my minor surprise. “Ah, Ampoule, I mean,” she clarified with a hint of abashment. “He's actually Aidin's first cousin twice removed.”

In my receding state of nausea and disappointment—and a touch puzzled by the reveal—I accepted the genealogy with, “That's nice to know.” Paranoia then woke up to assume she had covertly observed me while I was sickened by an anatomical feature, but I didn't let that suspicion affect my tone or outlook. “Um, how long have you been standing there?” I asked unassumingly enough.

“A few seconds,” she replied. As far as I could tell, she was disarmingly sincere. She would've rushed to my aid if I had looked ill, I supposed.

“Okay. I was just curious.” My eyes drifted back to the comic book. “Anyway, this would be a great read, but I don't understand squat about this language,” I said dissatisfiedly.

“I share your loss,” Embee concurred with a hint of chagrin while I stared fixedly at the comic book. A summary of the story flashed through my mind. Poor Wolfe. “Ampoule's adoring that language because of the lady he dates, who also likes those comics. I forgot her name, but she's from . . . hmh, I forgot the country, too,” she said, her voice giving me the impression she was embarrassed, prompting me to look at her to affirm if that was genuine; her tone had been a touch tense. “Started with the letter B, I think.” The reflective expression on her face was genuine enough.

With a contemplative hum, I brought my hoof wall to my chin, perfunctorily noting the fuzziness there while I stared over my snout; I had no means to block that strangely dainty feature from my vision. ‘Right. Gotta try to express some femininity and possibly ponyesque gestures, but only to the extent I'm okay with. Have to act natural, if I can. I'm already beyond my league just by inhabiting this body, though I'm determined to tackle this highly unusual challenge. My leap off the cliff's nothing compared to this. Still, if I conduct myself wisely, then the remainder of my time as a mare might prove both exquisitely entertaining and extremely educational. I do have to wonder, is it masculine to be feminine? Oh, never mind; I'm getting distracted.’

My outward appearance implied I was trying to crack Embee's riddle. It wasn't a hard one. “Belgium?” I offered, overturning my hoof as I cast my sights at the aquamarine pegasus. I recalled that Embee had spoken to Ampoule in another language. I was pretty sure doing that when it was principally unnecessary had been the reason for her disgruntlement. Her being mad at Ampoule for dating a foreigner was . . . Nah, that was simply inconceivable.

With a hum and an oblique look toward the rain-streaked windows, her eyes narrowed briefly. My hoof sunk neatly back to the cushion. “Probably that,” she supposed neutrally, refocusing on me. So, if I was right, then Ampoule's 'lady' was a Belgian pony . . . or a human! Interspecies romance? That'd be . . . fascinating, to say the least. I was afraid to ask if it involved togetherness, but I presumed that if both parties asserted their mutual and voluntary consent, then there wouldn't be a problem. “It's nice that you knew that.” She showed me an appreciative smile. “I can't remember the names of the countless nations of this world. I only need to know the names of the neighboring towns and municipalities,” Embee said with disinterest or . . . something; I was too distracted to diligently decode her tone and expression.

‘This world? Embee isn't native to Earth? Wow! If I correctly interpreted that little detail, then that's so incredible . . . But now's not the time!’ I thought, pulling myself safe from a blizzard of astonishment.

“Anyway,” Embee continued amiably, “I came to tell you that the coffee's brewing.” Her smile withered. “Finally.” She seemed a touch frustrated. Be that as it may, true to her words, I sensed the soothing aroma of coffee in the air. Embarrassingly enough, a particular emptiness within me made its existence known. My ears slumped, and my hoof found its way to my abdomen—as if that could appease my stomach. “Golly, hon, you must be starving,” Embee said, smiling sympathetically. I decided against voicing a retort pertaining to negation, brown waste, and a fictional detective. Unaccustomed to my hard hoof on my hairy hide, I glanced down to visually confirm what I felt. On the account of my snout, I didn't see all of my barrel—and thankfully, none of what had fiercely perturbed me not too long ago.

I was still tangibly aware of them . . .

Recovering with a quick jocular snerk, my ears perked autonomously as I retracted my hoof. “Starving? Hah! You got it all wrong. What you heard was nothing more than a harmless and meaningless side effect caused by minor food deprivation,” I joked jauntily. A tiny part of me disagreed with my chirpy intonation, but I dismissed it, reaffirming that my voice was nice, and I had the right to like nice things.

“Uh, minor . . . food deprivation?” Embee's incredulous expression turned to that of amusement with a snort. “You kidder,” she commented, smirking.

Despite my doubts of her sincerity, I smiled, pleased. “Eh, yeah, I got my moments,” I said, waving a hoof casually. ‘And I'm amazed I actually made it this far with so little sustenance.’ On that note, I recalled the softness of my abdomen when my hoof had been on it, but I didn't divert my focus to research why, save a hasty supposition that females had soft skin.

A short chuckle escaped Embee's throat. “In all honesty, hon, I'm sorry that you had to wait this long,” she apologized through her smile. “Things designed for humans usually don't work too well with hooves and teeth,” she explained, a scowl growing on her. Twisting her head around, she glared at something out of my sight. “Opening a coffee jar sealed with a cap so . . . so—” her complaint ended with frustrated huff and a forehoof stomp. “It's like chewing a brick open,” she groused, whipping her head back. I couldn't help but frown at her plight.

“I can imagine,” I sympathized, picturing Embee fighting furiously to wrench and gnaw open the cap of a decaf coffee jar.

Embee sighed, her line of sight overshooting my eyes by a hair. “I guess you can,” she said joylessly. Though she looked defeated, she didn't seem jealous of me. She could fly, so she couldn't possibly envy my magic. Still, what her eyes hinted at wasn't hard to piece together.

“Yeah, I . . . could've helped,” I said unsurely, a useless command to rub my hands fizzling out before it got past my ulna. Oh, sure I could've helped; I was a unicorn who could use magic just as smoothly as I got off a stretcher. In all seriousness, I'd have to try my magic sooner or later, see if my mind-rending panic hadn't erased the routines. I wasn't even sure how I had learned the skill in the first place. I got agitated and then it simply . . . happened.

Embee drew a breath. “I apologize, hon. I didn't mean anything by what I just said. I could've asked for your help instead of needlessly getting worked up,” she said contritely.

“It's fine, and I'm okay. You did well, I'm sure,” I consoled. I wasn't sure what else to say. If she had asked for help and I'd summoned only sweatdrops, then she would've become suspicious, and then . . . can of worms. Suddenly, I realized time was wasting, but I didn't want to bring that up in a rude fashion. “So, um . . . you said I had to wait for something?” I asked innocently.

“Oh!” Her eyes widened, and she threw a brief glance over her back before fixing her sights back to me. “Sorry, hon!” she laughed awkwardly. “I'll be right back.” As the embarrassed mare headed back to the presumed kitchen, I quickly averted my gaze. My face immediately scrunched in vexation.

‘Great going!’ I began to berate myself, ‘I could've tested the integrity of my 'female pony behind equals female human behind' absurdity, but I had to heed the stupid fear of possibly "feeling" something natural! If glimpsing a horse's duff can make that happen, then seeing a human's equivalent should've afflicted me with chronic cerebral oxygen deprivation through terminal priapism!’ As soon as I had that thought, curiosity chipped in: what would the "feel" be like as a female? It was hard to admit, but were I a sexologist, this would be an extremely fortunate opportunity to research an innate body mechanism. Thankfully, I had no justifiable reason to be that curious.

Besides, I wouldn't deign to mistreat a body that wasn't mine.

Speaking of which, where had the original occupant gone to? Was she now in my body, or was she here, dormant beneath my self? I couldn't know, but what I did know was that since I had her body, I had her brain as well. That was the basic explanation for my pony colloquialisms, memories, and name. I would've loved to analyze the intertwined state of my mind and her brain, but once again, this was the wrong time and place.

Embee was returning.

She was strolling with caution for the wares on the tray held in her teeth. The sight made me wonder about the strain exerted on her jaw, teeth, and neck, accounting for the weight and placement of the two bowls. Judging by her expression, she spared it no thought. Expertly, she placed the brown tray on the table. “As promised: fresh and rinsed Maestro F1's! I hope you enjoy them!” she said happily. What were Maestro F1's? That sounded like the name of a race car.

I appraised the two wares: each contained a fair pile of cut-up carrots and nothing else. Maestro F1's were carrots! How about that? Amazingly, I discerned their sweet fragrance, evoking a vague memory of visiting my grandparents over a decade ago. The carroty aroma also made my mouth water and replaced my declining irritation with an eager smile. I ensured the aforementioned water didn't escape my mouth before I spoke. “Thank you, Embee! These carrots look delicious!” I said with joy and gratitude. I left unsaid that she could've fought with the coffee jar after delivering me the simple meal. I would've said it very politely, though.

“You're welcome, hon,” she replied, sitting on a Tyrian purple cushion to my diagonal left. Smiling pleasantly, she reached over to wrap her forelegs around one bowl and take it for herself. So, she was going to eat with me? Perhaps it was to establish a sense of comforting safety and equality with her patients.

With one hoof supporting me, I gingerly leaned forward, stretching out a forehoof to procure my own serving. A mental flinch behind my smile told how incomplete my readjustment to being a hooved creature was. Unfortunately, as much as I desired to gorge myself on my food, a very persuasive side of my mind strictly forbade me from eating like an uncouth animal. To compound my dilemma, I was still uncertain if conjuring my magic was possible. I had been brought back to square one on such a simple concept as walking, so there was no telling how far back my telekinesis had been set. At best, it'd work like a charm. At worst, the carrots would . . . explode? I truly had no clue, but I chose not to risk it.

I affixed my eyes on my begrimed foreleg wrapped around the bowl. Obviously, hooves were quite unsuitable to deliver the carrots to my mouth. I had only one option, but still . . . Maybe I could stall for time while I waited for hunger to repress my reservations. I had thought about my appearance a while ago . . . “Hey, um, Embee? Can I ask you a question?” I said, resting my impractical limb back on the cushion. How could she look so pleasingly cute and bewilderingly elegant while eating directly from the dish? Could I match her decorum? I hoped so. It was better than believing I'd be a slobbering beast.

She lifted her head, sparing a few seconds to mince and swallow the food in her mouth. “Sure you can, hon,” she replied, tugging her lips into a gentle smile. “What's on your mind?” Now it was my turn to speak. In my gentle voice. Mental hum of cautious admiration.

“You don't seem to mind that I'm so dirty I could be a unicorn earth pony,” I jested, the light mirth in my tone diminishing toward the end. I probably looked embarrassed or diffident, but I felt dishonest to myself; I couldn't vocally affirm that I was a pony without substantial opposition. Surely, I'd soon surmount that roleplay-hampering obstacle.

The true pony gave a friendly laugh, although my slumped ears muffled it by a small margin. “Don't feel bad, hon. You don't mind that my mane and coat are a matted mess, do you?” she rebutted with a self-ironic smile, running a hoof through the fringe of her long mane. I remembered that she had flown through rainy weather not too long ago. She didn't look too shabby, really.

“No,” I replied innocuously, momentarily aware of my mane, draped over my neck and withers. Felt like even it was telling me to act accordingly. I had short hair when I was a guy . . .

Embee chuckled lightly, her gaze softening a bit more. “Believe me, hon.” She smirked kindly. “I've seen perfectly healthy ponies who looked a lot worse than both of us combined.” Her gentle demeanor conveyed no ill intent, and I started to feel confident that this hospital visit would be smooth sailing; I just needed to dauntlessly maintain my temporary image. “Did you want to take a shower first?” She tilted her head, an inquisitive glint in her eyes.

With a drawn out hum, I righted my ears. “It's funny that you ask, because I didn't even think of taking a shower until now,” I responded to her, briefly wondering how the hay I would shower. Or more precisely, dry myself after a shower; a towel couldn't absorb all the water from a soggy coat, could it? “But, no. The shower can wait.” Inclining my head down, my friendly eyes zeroed in on hers. “I'd prefer to eat first, especially now that my meal's right in front of me,” I assured, blindly placing my hoof to the bowl's rim with a soft plink. The feeling—actually, the lack of it—was jarring, but I didn't let that show. I had to act pony, and I should consider this to be fun, darn it!

“Alright, hon.” Embee nodded. “I didn't say you'd have to take a shower now,” she clarified, a trace of humor on her lips.

“I know that,” I responded, almost laughing a little. A particular emptiness within me issued a silent complaint. “First the food, then the shower, right?”

“Mmh, yeah,” she agreed pleasantly. I watched as she dipped her head back to her meal when, to my surprise, she hesitated. She raised her head to direct her amethyst eyes at me again, brows furrowing in worry, and I felt compelled to mimic her expression. Something was up, causing my instincts to declare DEFCON 4. “In all seriousness though, Peachy didn't bring it up, so . . .” For a second, she reached for her chin and dropped her eyes, as if unsure about speaking her mind. “I've been considering asking it myself.” She breathed out a long and quiet sigh. “What happened to you?”

A chill slinked through me. “What do you mean?” I feigned ignorance, though I was equally as worried because I knew exactly what she meant: the evidence was all over my body.

“You said that you got yourself 'muddied up', but . . . how?” I immediately dropped my eyes and ears. I hadn't even considered a contingency plan for this. I had been too distracted and optimistic to think of the inevitable.

“Uh . . . yeah. I did get muddied up,” I affirmed quietly. “But, um, it's . . .” The excuse failed to form into a cohesive thought, let alone spoken words. Again, a want to rub my hands went nowhere. How I was slumped meant my forelegs were explicitly fulfilling their natural purpose. My decreasing mood and confidence lead to my hooves feeling unfamiliar. I didn't want to be here. Not in this room, not in this building, not in this body. I didn't want to be here . . .

“When I met you,” Embee started carefully, “you seemed terribly upset, dismal even. I wanted to help, so I tried to comfort you.” What she had done had felt so unfathomably nice that, even now, it put a very brief smile on my face. “Aidin told me that . . .” She paused her soft recounting, and with a cautious glance, I saw her staring at the table; her expression was gravely pensive. “You were found in the middle of a rural road, and you panicked in that home. To be honest, while I haven't shown it much, I've been concerned all this time, and I'd like to hear what happened to you,” she whispered, her tone oozing with concern and compassion, even traces of apology for telling me what I already knew. Flashes of pertinent memories flitted in my mind, glimpsing at how my most base instincts had luckily brought me to the gravel road, where I had . . . succumbed to despair after my supplications failed to bring me help. The traumatic event was actually so powerful that it subdued my fear of exposure. All the same, I felt terrible.

“Um, I, yeah . . .” I mumbled, but my disquieted mind failed to construct a sentence worth speaking. Hoping to ensure my hoof (and by extension, my body) would feel normal, thereby averting a total collapse of my rationality, I pawed the extremity back and forth on a short stretch of the table's wooden frame, absently observing the ceiling and the rectangular lamp translucently reflecting off the glass. I think it was working, and I stopped after a few seconds, but . . . my thoughts were zipping about without direction. Trying to run away from here was the worst option. A better one was to maintain my guise and composure. I had to do that . . . I wasn't so much afraid as I was disheartened . . . Perhaps I was so frightened that I felt saddened? My growing apprehension emanated from the same anxiety of my entrapment. The anxiety I thought I had become fully resilient to had changed to sorrow. Panicking . . . was behind me. Of course, I still longed deeply for my familiar anatomy, but . . . I had accepted that I was powerless to shed my form by relinquishing control.

“Do you want to talk about it, hon?” Embee appealed tenderly. No, I didn't; talking about it would invoke suspicion. But if I remained completely silent, she might think I was the victim of . . . the most horrifying and heinous kind of assault. That was an impression I definitely didn't want to give her! And I wasn't any good at telling lies. Did that mean I didn't have any alternative but to reveal the truth? My roleplay would end, and . . . what then? The worst would ensue? I'd get the help I wished for? Maybe . . . this had to end?

“It's, uhm, I'm . . .” I drew my dry lips inwards to moisturize them with my tongue. No. I couldn't let on who I really was. The unforeseeable risks of the future compelled me to silence. The desire to keep my true self secret was almost instinctive. I wanted . . . I needed to feel safe. Telling the truth wasn't safe, but hiding behind the identity of this mare . . . at any cost? That was . . . kind of crazy, but much safer! I wasn't thinking rationally, and I couldn't think rationally! I was in a heartrending dither, and I needed time to calm down and think what to do . . .

The silence lasted for several seconds. “It's what, hon?” she asked cautiously, as if anything above a whisper would make me fall apart like a house of cards. Maybe I was a house of cards . . .

I drew in a slow breath, my mouth minutely ajar before I composed myself. “I-is it okay I . . . O-once we've eaten . . . Once we're drinking our coffee?” I spoke intermittently, trying not to sound like my proposal was a plea. How could I get out of this apprehensive mess? How easy it was to . . . feel an ache, and . . . let my eyes water? ‘No, I can't!’ I closed my eyes as I turned my head away, my glum expression gaining the furrowed brows of indignation. ‘Just because I'm in a mare's body and pretending to be her doesn't grant me this kind of liberty!’ I chided myself. I couldn't be honest with Embee when I didn't know what it'd lead to. I knew too little of this world and how ponies had come. I could be just one of many who've been displaced the same way I had, but I didn't know that. I didn't even know what to say. I was afraid. I was afraid of the unknown. Too afraid! No tears, no tears, not that. Had to calm down . . .

“That's perfectly okay, hon,” Embee reassured. “I suppose it's been a tough day for you, and I really don't want to make it any tougher.” Her assent to my wish—and her empathetic but subtly apologetic voice—had a placating effect. “Try to gather your strength first, and then we'll talk if you feel like you can.”

“Yes, I . . .” I paused to clear the obstruction from my throat. “Thank you, Embee,” I said almost inaudibly. I was surprised that it took so little to push me to the brink of tears. How could that be possible? I hadn't even tried to be sad. I didn't want to believe that females were intrinsically more emotional than males. That had to be a pervasively circulated and accepted misconception, but . . . I was in her body. What effects did estrogen have on me? No, I really couldn't and didn't want to think about that now. Instead, I should be relieved and appreciative of the few minutes I had bought to consider my options: forge a believable story, or come clean regardless of my worst predictions.

When I slowly opened my eyes, I confirmed that they were fairly dry. I faced the carrots. They were so vivid . . . and my snout was kind of the same. It was always there, telling me exactly what I was. For a brief moment, I felt something odd, but I couldn't make sense of it. Maybe it was just a small bump my abating emotions struck, or a memory from my brain that failed to manifest, or maybe it simply was the weirdness of having a snout. “Will you be okay?” Embee asked, activating my Pryer reflex to turn my left ear toward her. Wait, Pryer reflex? No, never mind!

I nodded languidly, seeing her frown in my peripheral vision. “Yeah,” I breathed before I drew in another to produce a long, deep sigh. Best I try to find something positive from this. I suppose eating like a pony would . . . perhaps be fun? A different experience, at the least. Besides, I was hungry, and the path of least resistance was downwards. “Just need a moment, you know?” I continued, my voice a touch listless from my emotional perturbation. I looked at her, and sympathy was written on her face as she mouthed an 'okay'. Her gaze lingered on me, as if she believed it was the only thread holding me together. Nonetheless, she returned her attention to her food, although she looked like it was the last thing she wanted to do in the world.

‘I should eat, too,’ I suggested to myself. As unabashedly as possible, I lowered my obscured mouth to the orange treats. I was still jittery from my abrupt emotional spike. I had to behave like a pony. ‘Okay, here goes . . .’

I was now . . . eating from the perspective of a pony.

Considering what I used to be, this was, without question, a bizarre manner to eat, but I was thankful that my restlessness was offset by the juicy, crunchy, and very flavorous food. I could only presume that my pony tongue made normal carrots into mood-recovering, delicious ambrosia.

What was that tiny plink I heard? Did something hit the bowl? Something . . . that was on me? Oh, right! I had forgotten I was carrying my keys with me! I was surprised yet glad I still had them. That was . . . the nagging thought? Home key and . . . car key! I had a . . . Rosy had a car? If so, that was very fascinating; however, a pony owning a car was irrelevant to the present situation. I had to think . . . Wait, I had taken my keys, left my home, and . . . Idea!

Motivated by desperation, my plan was forming quickly. Very quickly! It couldn't fail. . . but, if it did, I'd be in a nearly unsolvable pinch.The only solution would then be reckless honesty and hoping for the best. Well, I was already hoping for the best, but . . . I really needed some nutrition, and these were unbelievably fantastic carrots. Yum yum yum! No, that didn't do it; I was trying to enjoy this moment and my meal to the best of my abilities.

Still, gotta refine my plan. Refine, refine, refine . . . I could make this work . . . Strange. I saw a short memory of peering at my car's engine. Why had I done that? Wait . . . this had been just a few days ago, and I had been . . .

No, I had more pressing matters to contend with than studying her memory fragment.

What Goes Up Must Come Down

‘Best carrots I have ever tasted!’ I thought as I ate, a small smile pricking my lips. I felt content champing my food, but what I was prepared to tell Embee limited my joy. Had I been a pathological liar, I would've felt proud of cooking up the fairly plausible tale. Nevertheless, I laid my hopes on her unconditionally accepting my yet unspoken cover story. If she didn't, then . . . it really wasn't worth keeping up my ruse with further lies. Instead, I'd do my best to submit . . . Apologize with sincere remorse, and from thereon, be as honest as Applejack without much regard for my continued safety. But what would the outcome be if Embee still mistrusted me? So much for honesty being my salvation. I was clueless on what would happen afterwards, or what I'd do. Would I just sink into despair? Maybe . . . or maybe not. It really depended on whether the demurely eating pony—or anypony—knew of any prior incidents of transdimensional mind dislocation into a pre-existing body. I couldn't risk asking before I had exhausted my alternatives first. One such alternative was the extensive perusal of the Internet—like a library, but so much more immense, accessible, and extremely . . . advanced? How odd. For a moment, I had begun to marvel about an everyday thing.

At any rate, Embee was a slower eater than I. The last of my meal traveled down my throat, and the empty bowl became the second most prominent white attraction in my vision. The winner was part of my face. I sighed, my nostrils flaring visibly. As I gazed bleakly at my protruding facial feature, my brain suddenly cranked out a positive note: since stallions had a larger, stockier muzzle, perhaps I should consider myself lucky that my vision was less obstructed. A spontaneous itch at the top of my snout compelled me to gingerly rub the spot. The feeling of a huge fingernail meeting facial bone where it shouldn't be was almost too strange to comprehend. The nasal bone being underneath a soft layer of furry hide just added to my confusion. Sighing, I returned my hoof to the cushion. I hadn't thought of it before, but there were two distinct aromas in the air. One was coffee, the other . . . sharp and strong, but with a hint of refined sweetness. Floral. A flower in the second room? Could be.

Anyhow, the white ware before me beamed a message of success: I had just dined like an earth pony or pegasus. Or a magic-inept unicorn, I considered wryly. I surmounted most of my unease once my stomach got its third delivery of sweet and juicy nutrition. In fact, its well-deserved satiation was now countering my woes to some degree. With a few faint smacks, I slowly licked my lips, savoring the remainder of succulent carrot juice on them. I was a bit saddened that there wasn't a little more of the orange delicacy. They were only simple vegetables, yet they were so good that I seriously began to consider including them in my regular diet from here on. Chicken and carrots in rice and moderately spiced sauce? Or maybe I'd eat them as is, like a quick snack?

“Sooo, how did you like them carrots?” Embee's mellow query drew my gaze to her. Carrots, not apples. That was sort of funny, and I would've chuckled if I wasn't on a knife-edge. Furthermore, my less-than-stellar prognosis of the coming storytime over coffee was impeding my food-induced delight, painting me with a pallid expression. Embee sported a tender smile, empty bowl before her.

Despite myself, a mischievous sensation developed. ‘Should I let it happen? It might entertain me during this dire moment, but would it go against the role I'm portraying? How would Embee react? What's not okay for a female to do . . . Oh? Is she worried?’

Embee raised her right hoof and leaned slightly toward me. “Are you feeling alright?” she asked, a modicum of distress on her countenance. I nodded once with an affirmative hum. “Okay”, she sighed through a smile, relaxing her posture. “Speaking for myself, these carrots were great.” She glanced at the empty wares. “How about you? Did you enjoy them?”

That was the green light: I chose to air what I had vacillated about as a predictably poor imitation of Big Macintosh: “Eeeeyurp!”

Embee's eyes dilated as reserved amusement creased my lips. I hadn't expected that the structure of my equine throat would alter the pitch of my belch. As bemused as I was, the sound pulled me out from my mood pit. I chuckled to myself, pausing for a second before a quick and light laugh escaped me: “Hehaha!” Even that sounded—Oh, wait, did I just . . . giggle? My smile remained intact, but my ears curved back and my coat gained an insulation boost, corroborating that my indubitably feminine laugh qualified as a giggle. I had breached my self-imposed femininity parameters, I believed . . . but no! Rejecting this minor female-pertinent attribute, as easy as it would've been, was simply impermissible! For the time being, I had a female voice, so naturally I had a female laugh as well. If it had a tendency to come out as a giggle . . . then so be it!

My inner argument lasted no more than a few seconds, during which I cursorily noted Embee's flat look. “I'm sorry, that was really crude,” I masked my discomfiture with an apology. “But I thought it . . . uh?” I quieted, my auricular muscles directing my ears down. Only now did I start to interpret her expression: incredulity combined with a trace of disdain. “Would be funny . . . to, er . . .” I found my voice again, but only as a mumble before it faded to nothing. Dismayed, I gazed downwards over my snout, wishing I could sink and disappear into the cushion.

“You . . . thought it would be funny to belch?” Embee guessed doubtingly.

I hummed as hesitant confirmation. She didn't sound much disgusted or insulted, so that was a little reassuring . . . but I was ashamed. Disappointed, too. It went without saying that what I had done was indecorous and, considering my earlier demeanor, very unexpected. I further surmised that belching wasn't regarded well among females. I had presumed . . . I had anticipated otherwise? I would've moaned in dejection, had it not died in my throat. I only wanted to have some fun before I started weaving my web of lies . . .

“Hey,” Embee said softly. Save for my autonomous ears trying and failing to align themselves upright, I was unresponsive. Still, I had to be a little thankful that she interrupted my pensiveness. I was at the brink of a worthless intrapsychic pity party anyway. “Rosy?” she tried again. An indiscreet flinch caused my eyeblink to be a tad tenser than normal.

‘Okay, I have to be clear here: that's not my real name. It just seems like it really is,’ I reminded myself, starting to fear that my original name was in danger of erasure if I accepted my name. Her name! More worry crept in. ‘Right! I also have to prepare for an honest path. Make sure that I don't slip up. So, my name's not Rosy Stripes . . . and now I feel like I'm telling myself a blatant lie. Although, my name's not bad, per se. It's just a female's . . . but I have to be adamant here! My actual, human male name is—’

“Rosy?” I almost let out a grunt of frustration at Embee's inquiry. Hastily, I retrieved my original name (and that name felt disturbingly extraneous), then recited it in my mind at lightning speed a few times. With worry-easing success attained, I languidly raised my head toward the aquamarine medical mare. Her face wore a frown of obvious concern, an expression that was much more welcome than presumed irritation.

“Uh, yes, Embee?” I replied with a glimmer of forced joy in my listless tone. ‘So, do you want to hear my not-entirely-fake story now, later, or never? Please say never. I'll be so happy if you do, and I'd be even happier if I could just go home, no questions asked. My life's most important mission awaits there.’

Abruptly, a bunch of memories spilled into my mind, only to vanish a second later. Something remained, though. I saw a vague semblance of a parking lot. Thinking harder, I recognized it as the one near my home. An older guy, almost twice as tall as me, was standing by a familiar light blue sedan. A keyring with two keys hanging from his index finger above my head. They were for the car, and he was offering them to me. His name was Oscar, and . . . I wrapped the keys in my magic, since I was now the new owner of said vehicle. This all felt normal, as though I had been there, because . . . I had actually experienced all that? The old, spry guy, he was . . . a proprietor of a used car dealership, Oscar's Cars. Wasn't he? I had a plethora of human memories that stated he owned something else. Now I . . . had two recollections on how I had acquired the car. Most perturbingly, my . . . No, Rosy's . . . How odd. We shared names. No, wait, what!? The name . . . Just like my name did, my . . . her memory felt more authentic. That was a nasty omen! If her memories took precedence over mine, and I unlocked more of hers, then who and what I was could degrade . . . Be usurped . . . Fade . . . Cease to exist? Oh no! Nonononono! That'd be bad! Really, really bad!

“Hey? Hello?” Embee drew me out from my confounding consternation—confusion in her voice—and her face was the picture of worry. I proceeded to do my best not to hyperventilate, or look like I had seen a ghost. “Are you feeling alright, hon? You seemed to zone out as soon as you replied.”

Oh ponyfeathers! I had been so absorbed in my memory mix-up and subsequent fear for my existence that I was jeopardizing my guise. The guise that could be the end of me? Hopefully not. Thankfully, I wasn't trembling, but I was close. “Uhm, yeah . . . I'm-I'm okay,” I said mutedly, inadvertently sounding somber; given what I had just experienced, why wouldn't I?

Embee's frown eased a tad. “I truly hope you are,” she whispered warily. As much as I would've loved to lighten our respective moods with a chit-chat, I had a very crucial objective to tackle.

I performed a review of my psyche, which swiftly yielded an anxiety-attenuating result: my most significant defense against identity death was my perpetual discomfort at inhabiting a mare's body. ‘I suppose I'll do fine if I can protect myself from marefication, maybe reluctantly accept the change if it's inevitable but perfectly reversible. However, there's absolutely no conceivable way I'd ever want to be a mare forever!’ My vehemence was highly assuaging. Additionally, the events of today served as a very powerful reminder of what and who I was. And I might've overreacted about identity erosion. My cool was regenerating, allowing me to concentrate on the here and now.

“Don't worry about me, Embee. I'll be just fine, alright?” I said, my weak smile contrasting with my tepid tone. ‘That sounded more defensive than I had intended,’ I thought remorsefully as I placed my hoof on the bowl. “Anyhow, I can't thank you enough for the carrots. They were simply lovely. Unmatched by any other variety I've ever eaten.” My smile withered when my shame reemerged. “But how I expressed my gratitude . . .” I couldn't keep my eyes on Embee's appreciative expression. The illegible comic felt easier to look at. “I offended you with my improper . . . I'm sorry . . .” my glum tone dwindled to an indecipherable mumble. I was also afraid that I had clued her in that everything wasn't right with me. She'd probably inquire about my ordeal now.

“What?” she uttered. “No, you didn't! You don't need to feel sorry. I wasn't at all offended.”

Blinking dumbly at her compassionate protest, I asked in disbelief, “You weren't?” My tone was tinted with wary hope.

“Nope.” She shook her head, her pleasant smile almost persuading me to believe her. “Did you zone out because you thought I was mad at you?”

“Yeah, that's precisely why,” I responded, intuitively taking the opportunity to save my skin. Then, I collected my courage to confront another quandary, my vision drifting from one table corner to the other before refocusing on her. “But you . . .” I tilted my head. “You weren't even a little offended?” I asked, certain she had disapproved of my conduct.

Embee's lips twisted into a perplexed smile. “Wh-why . . .” She broke into a short but friendly laugh, then raised a foreleg as she said: “Now why on Equestria would I be mad at you?”

“Uh . . .” My rueful expression froze. Had I just received proof of the existence of Equestria? I was faintly aware that it was real, but . . . No, not now. My protracted ruminations would renew Embee's concerns, maybe even alight her suspicions about my rationality. Or dig up more memories with undesirable effects. “I, uh, um um, because I . . .” Dejection was still on my countenance as I distractedly fixated on the purple cushion underneath her. Hoping to reduce my light nervousness, I tried to wring the edge of my cushion, an act that was impossible to accomplish with a hoof. “What I, uh . . .” I cleared my throat and my confusion. “What I did was a tremendous faux pas that should earn me appalled looks and scornful comments,” I analyzed despondently.

Embee's giggle was sufficiently lighthearted to cause my ears to finally perk up and cast off some of my dismay. “Relax.”

“I'm honestly trying to,” I said, my lips barely moving; Embee didn't seem to notice my optimistic whisper and continued to talk.

“Perhaps a strict pony would be cross with you, but you can trust me, hon. I'm not a strict pony.” Her easygoing nature brought a smile to my face, and I raised my head to look at her half-lidded amethyst eyes, relief flowing through me.

‘But you can trust me, hon,’ I echoed her words, earnestly wishing I could simply overcome my fears and confide in her. “It's great that you're being so understanding and friendly,” I said shyly, the appreciation in my tone almost succumbing to a constrained imitation; it wasn't easy to ignore the suspicion of Embee's unending goodwill driving me into an inescapable corner. Maybe I could compensate for my pretense by being honest about everything else?

“Thank you, I do my best. You can bet your farm that laughing about a little belch doesn't even come close to tangling my tail.” She drew a hoof to her mouth, her warm chuckle circumventing it with ease.

“Hehehe, ahh, yeah,” I tittered atypically, aversively casting a glance at an abstract painting to my right. “It just seemed like a fun thing to do,” I admitted sheepishly, shifting my gaze to the potted plant in the corner as I pawed the cushion with my forehoof for a second. A sudden pang of sadness made my smile diminish. Adjusting to my relatively insensitive and maladroit extremities would take a while, but I was confident that my bodily discomfort would never subside. Not when I knew the perils that could entail. However, I had to drive into my mind that no matter what occurred, being a mare was only temporary. If I couldn't solve this predicament by myself, then I'd absolutely have to seek help. One way or another, everything would be fine. I had nothing to worry about.

“Listen,” Embee intoned politely. I promptly placed my attention on her. “If it's not clear already, I agree with you. It was funny.”

A boulder fell off my withers. “Oh,” I breathed. My smile regained its integrity. “It . . . was?” I asked timidly.

Embee smiled calmly. “Definitely.”

I was a smidgen puzzled. “Thanks,” my shy tone pitched with a trace of glee. “I was so worried that it was anything but funny.”

“Ahh,” Embee sighed sympathetically, her ears flicking backwards for a second. “I'm sorry I upset you, hon. You confused me; that's all.”

“O-okay,” I acknowledged, shrinking a little. “Well, that's very nice to know, really. Thanks. Again.” All things considered, I felt mellow, and I hummed happily at this development. “And, uh, I of course accept your apology,” I continued quietly. “I misunderstood you, thinking the worst . . . It was shamefully presumptuous.” I paused for a moment, recalling something called "confirmation bias," but I didn't think deeply on it. “But please accept my apologies as well. I mean, if that's okay with you.” I almost grinned at recognizing and then deliberately abetting my accidental Fluttershy impression: a tiny pitch alteration, some softness, and voilà! It was just too easy. I liked soft things, and my voice was no exception, although I still preferred my true voice.

“It's okay. I'll gladly accept your apology if it makes you feel better,” Embee said with candor. Was that her angle? To do everything she could to ensure my comfort and peace of mind? With admiration warming my heart, I concentrated on the table.

“Yeah, it does, but I'm already feeling better . . . Thanks anyway.” I felt that I was receiving more respect and attention than I deserved, something that not many had done for me, in retrospect. Then again, I couldn't recall more than a couple of instances when I had wanted or needed respect or an apology. I guess my life had been smooth in that regard. That could be one explanation for why being a sudden mare was so hard to cope with. Somepony who was less finicky and stress-prone would probably do well. Somep . . . one who had toughened up through flight training; I couldn't be a pilot if I unraveled at the seams when the stinky stuff struck the propeller. And I as sure as hay would be a pilot! Not for big aircraft or fighter planes. Just the smaller craft. They seemed more inviting. However, the topic of piloting brought to mind that the Marcus guy looked a lot like First Officer Jeffrey Skiles. He and Captain Chesley Sullenberger safely landed a severely damaged Airbus into the Hudson River without casualties (Canada geese notwithstanding). Maybe one day, I'll be just as amazing as my idols! Except without the loss of engines and subsequent emergency ditching. At the least, I should consider hovering a Cessna. I've seen videos of it being done, and read a little about how to do it. I also read how to recover from a stall. Maybe I should just play it safe, and not try anything crazy. Just like I should do now? A fake story or the sincere truth? Which one was the crazier choice? Which one guaranteed a return to my home? Was Embee trustworthy?

I was reluctant to dig up a sore issue, but . . . I needed to make sure I hadn't lost a memory, even one I'd rather not have. If I had, then that was solid proof of impending identity loss.

I had entrusted Thomas not to tell anypony of my fascination when he found out about it due to a mishap with my browser tabs. To my great relief and surprise, he seemed nonchalant. ‘Hey, whatever floats your boat, man.’ Then, two weeks back, we were hanging out with other friends. Their habitual drunkenness was getting on my nerves, so I recommended that they should try to go easy on the stuff, that I very much preferred our joys to be sincere and not perverted by a toxic substance. Thomas saw fit to expose my secret, and things turned very sordid. I tried to keep my cool. I tried to be civil. I defended my stance, my opinions, myself. My friends questioned my sexual preferences and identity, trying to "save me" and to "be a man" by offering drinks. I didn't need to be "saved", and intoxication didn't equal masculinity! Just because I liked a cartoon about magical ponies and was secretly creeped out by drunken people, I was treated like dirt? What the hay was their problem? I didn't make fun of them or their hobbies; I couldn't stoop down to their level . . . I just didn't like them drinking so much . . . I cared for my friends, but I was afraid of saying that. It probably would've served as another source of mockery . . . I tried to play the ignore card, but that only escalated my belittling, and sadly . . . I complimented the jerks with some very nice words before leaving the immature and insensitive morons in a rage.

I almost crashed into a bridge support on the way home . . . I was speeding, took a corner badly, and the rear tires lost traction. After one full spin on the wet asphalt, I was miraculously driving forward again, as if I had done a daring stunt. I could've died. I could've lost Jim. My parent's would've lost me . . . If only my friends hadn't been intoxicated out of their minds! They would've never said and done what they did if they were sober; I was sure of that! I was also sure they were sorry and wanted to make amends, but I was done with them. I couldn't believe I felt regret about that decision. Thomas was . . . used to be my best friend. I had known him for almost ten years, and he blew it all away for cheap giggles! He betrayed my trust! How could he do that to me? It still hurt a little, even after two weeks. Maybe I was at fault, though? Maybe I took their jests seriously, let them get under my skin when I should've deflected them with ironic remarks. Geez! I was a forgiving, pitiful, soft-hearted guy who longed to regain a lost friendship with a bunch of jerks . . .

Could I trust Embee, then? She wouldn't betray me, would she?

“Sorry to disturb you, hon, but you look like you're absorbed in your thoughts again. Have been for the past two minutes, actually.” Her calm voice made my auricular muscles twitch in attention. Coincidentally, I realized I automatically gauged sounds to determine in a split second if I was under the threat of impending harm and what decision or action I should take to ensure my safety. Pryer reflex, I recalled. I had no idea where I had learned that from. I had a hunch I had read it from a book when I was young. Or when she was young. Be that as it may, the adoption of at least one equine instinct was a little creepy. Fascinating, but creepy. Anyhow, I had just explored my persona and memories, and hadn't encountered anything that was missing or distinctively ponylike, so . . . despite the touching recollections, I was relatively good. As I focused on Embee's gentle, inquiring expression, I assured myself that if I kept some form of recursive loop active in my subconsciousness, then I'd prevent a possible personality death. A disparity between body and mind was good.

“Uh . . . Yeah, I did get lost in my thoughts. Sorry,” I admitted belatedly, smiling bashfully at Embee. There was a hint of worry in her eyes, though. Sooner or later, she'd ask the toughest question of them all. If I could just be fearless enough to rescind my planned cover story. From posture, to voice, to the increased vividness of colors, my current physiological status maintained an underlying sense of confusion, constantly affecting my demeanor in ways I couldn't fully prevent or even detect. Embee must've noted my unusual behavior by now. Speaking of behavior, my voice alone was in all likelihood guiding me towards femininity without my deliberate intention or even knowledge—“Oh great!” I thought out loud, my tone rich with factitious abashment and honest shock. “I think I'm doing it again. Uh, getting lost in my mind, that is.” The situation called for a titter. Talking: okay. Very feminine laughter: not yet okay.

“Don't worry about it.” A sad but sympathetic look washed over her face. Seemed like I had convinced the mildly mannered mare, thank goodness. “You must've gone through a lot recently. Please, take all the time you need to sort it out. We'll talk if and when you feel ready, okay?” Or maybe I hadn't. Her unassuming statement was foreboding; I had to stop my plaintive expression from frowning.

“Thanks for trying to understand me. You're right: I've been trying to sort things out,” I confessed diffidently, willing a ghost of a smile. I poked my bowl idly with the tip of my hoof, pushing the ware by a few centimeters. I couldn't feel the ceramic. “It's . . . just so complicated. I don't even know where to begin,” I lamented, my focus affixed on my snout and the insensate hoof resting on the bowl. ‘Look at that. A trifecta of white. That's not complicated at all,’ I noted joylessly in a futile attempt to cheer myself up. ‘And my inner voice is male. Imitating the Team Fortress 2 Sniper got a few laughs from Peter. He loves that game, yet he's not a brony despite all the overwhelming pony content modded into it. Or maybe that's exactly why he's not a brony. Well, goodbye sniper, welcome Fluttershy. I hope we'll meet again.’ I sighed dolefully. Soon, I'd tell my story, which was nothing more than blaming my panic and muddy looks on a can of pineapples, but . . . I kept getting odd flashes: Tin. BPA. 'Rapid ingestion may cause temporary disruptions to the thaumaturgy system.' What was BPA? What was a thaumaturgy system? Whatever it was, I apparently had one now, and I had disturbed it when I scarfed the pineapples.

“Rosy, it's okay. We'll go at your pace,” Embee reaffirmed softly, and I managed the composure to look at her. Once again, it occurred to me that I was in the presence of something impossible: a sapient, self-aware pony. That cheered me up a little. Feeling a smidgen privileged, I watched in mild awe as her lips moved with a perfect imitation of human suppleness: “When you feel ready, then you can talk, but only if you want to, remember?”

Her intelligent eyes accompanied an incredibly compassionate smile; I gently closed my own to avert a brain-locking cuteness overload. “Yes, I remember,” I whispered. Ignoring what I had seen, I pondered if I could simply . . . shut up. Nothing and nopony was forcing me to say anything. Still, I felt obliged to provide . . . I couldn't just be stubbornly enigmatic to her. Could I?

“By the way,” Embee began in her smooth voice.

With a wary but curious “Hm?” I opened my eyes. She still looked cute, but luckily my brain didn't bust its circuit breakers. Maybe I was just a tad too rational to allow that.

“I did a bit of thinking myself, and you know what?” Embee's smile changed to a friendly smirk, bestowing me with much needed optimism.

“I know what? Well, that depends if I know what this 'what' you speak of is,” I replied, eliciting a small chuckle from her, though I suspected she was only being tactful about my offbeat humor.

Nonetheless, an amiable smile spread across her face, which I assumed was due to kindness and vivaciousness mixing in her mind. Not that I could really know. “Believe it or not, you remind me of my sister.”

My ears folded towards my nape, but I kept my smile. “Oh, um . . .” Was I like her sister? That was . . . great? “I'm . . . I'm honored, Embee.” My eyes dipped down as I ended my supposition with a contemplative hum. Part of me regarded her innocent comment as accidental derision to my self-image, another as firm evidence that I was behaving like a female without my knowing . . . but I was determined not to fall prey to those preposterous insinuations! I was safe. My demeanor hadn't become involuntarily feminine. I was still a guy. I was only pretending not to be. There was no cause for alarm! Sustaining calmness . . .

“Going deep into your thoughts again, are you?” Embee asked, chuckling lightly. I was a little busy to answer yet. Calmness . . . sustained! Ears uprighted!

“Aahh, well . . .” I drawled deliberately, directing my eyes at the ceiling. “Since you said I'm like your sister,” I said to Embee with a hopefully confident smile and tone, “I've decided to utilize my limited intellect to conduct a full introspective analysis on our shared aspects, disregarding the obvious similarities, such as, uh, such as . . .” No, I couldn't titter at what I was about to say. I could do this with a straight face! “Such as both of us being female ponies,” I said a little uneasily. “Hehehe!” Darn! I broke into a titter, and I almost tittered about breaking into a titter. It was kind of funny in hindsight . . . “Uhm, to perform my research with sufficient exactitude, please grant me a moment of relative silence.” The grin I flashed brought to mind Applejack's attempt at dissuading Pinkie Pie from entering the barn in "Party of One."

Embee's face was the perfect picture of befuddlement. “Uh . . .” Her brow arched slowly. “Okay, Rosy. You do that,” she said flatly, as if unaware she had spoken.

“And so I will, thank you!” I proclaimed with a raised fing . . . hoof. That minor disappointment washed away my nervosity. I stopped myself from trying to lean on a nonexistent wrist. At least gazing towards my mane wasn't impossible while in this form. Anyhow, I had bought a little more time to deal with a topical problem: being compared to Embee's sister was not a strike at my voluntarily displaced and potentially threatened masculinity, because she was in all likelihood a great and reputable pony. Like my favorite: Rainbow Dash! Who wouldn't want to be like her? I kind of was now since . . . I had the matching anatomy (including the—ugh—unspeakables). Except I had a horn on my head instead of wings on my back, a non-raspy voice, different colors in my coat and mane and . . . Actually, I wasn't at all like her. Perhaps not even in personality. Oh well . . .

“Meh. I'm drawing blanks,” I submitted with mock disappointment. With a click of my tongue, I cast off my pseudo-contemplative look. Rather surprisingly, Embee was smiling. Was it an honest smile, or only out of politeness? Had my humor been that strange? Oh, never mind!

“So, tell me Embee, what makes you think I'm awes—” I covered my fumble with a small (and an accidentally adorably demure) cough. “Sorry. How exactly am I like your sister?” I queried with eager curiosity in my tone, even though I was averse to being compared to . . . an assumably outstanding and respectable mare who was probably totally awesome! Maybe Embee's sister really was Rainbow Dash? That'd be even more totally awesome! Totaliest awesomest?

An unsure grin grew on Embee. “To be honest, it's a little embarrassing.” Her ears curled back. “Maybe to us both, but, uh . . .” Her gaze fell toward the table's rim.

‘. . . my sister is THE one and only Rainbow Dash!’ I excitedly finished her sentence. Then, I realized something even more astonishing: ‘That'd mean she's real?’ I almost gasped. While only a few seconds had passed, I already felt my patience ebb. “Oh, come on! Don't start second-guessing yourself now! You're making me sweat in suspense here,” I complained lightheartedly. Embee's ears rebounded in minor surprise as she locked her startled eyes on me.

However, my urging sparked a thought, and thus, I raised a forelimb to my snout. A short whiff was followed by a prompt increase of distance between the two features. “Ew.” I grimaced in disgust at the origin of loam and pony sweat. “Thank goodness I'll be clean before I go home,” I murmured. Embee understood my sentiment, if her curled lips were of any indication. “So anyway, your embarrassing tale?” I queried, flatly appraising my unfamiliar limb a moment longer before I gently placed it on the cushion. “I'm sure it's great, and not because you'll implicitly make fun of me, which I'm sure you won't,” I encouraged, my tone pitching up toward the end. “You're way too gracious to do that,” I complimented sweetly, finishing with a wide grin. Hopefully, I had now succeeded in replicating the cutest expression I could envision, minus adorable squeak sound effect. I reminded myself that I had forgiven Embee's tactless laughing fit while I had believed I was dying of a brain injury.

The equine gambler, who up until now had forgotten to look bashful about the unspun yarn, sighed lightly. “Right, uh . . . How you reminded me of my sister, well . . .” She paused to clear her throat from behind her hoof. “When we were just fillies . . . and please, don't take this the wrong way,” she said timorously, shaking her head.

“No worries, Embee. I'll take it the right way!” I said merrily, using that and a diabetically cute expression to cover a suspicion that I was about to be compared to a filly. A young female, the four letter g-word, the antithesis of me. Oh, wonderful . . .

A reserved giggle slinked into my acute ears. “When we drank soda, she'd, uh, I can't believe I'm telling you this . . .” She hid her face into her hooves for a second. “Sometimes, she'd goad me into a burping contest, and I, well . . . do I even need to say more?”

My brain cogs halted. ‘She . . . What?’ Befuddlement tugged my lips to an uncertain smile. “Ah, uhm, that's some, uh, thing, hum,” a few poor attempts at speaking my mind rolled out my mouth, as Embee's cheeks began to turn pink. How the hay does fur turn pink? I'd have to contemplate that later. “You, uh . . .” I finally got a disbelieving smirk onto my face. “No. No.” I shook my head slowly, then smiled slyly as I cast the uneasy pegasus a diagonal look. “You know what I think? I think you're only playing a joke on me,” I posited, bending my right foreleg up, my analytical side telling me I was basically pointing a finger at her. Didn't feel at all like a finger, though.

Mane swaying, she shook her head, the trying smile on her lips discernibly fighting an embarrassed grin. “I'm not joking, hon.” My hoof met the cushion, and I ignored the numbness to the best of my abilities as I stared blankly at Embee.

“So . . . Okay, I'm not offended, but . . . let me get this straight,” I said slowly, my tone full of incredulity. “My burp made you think of belching contests with your sister?”

“That's right,” Embee vouched, her tone wavering with a titter. “She was, and still is . . . Oh, what's the word?”

While Embee absorbed herself in browsing her internal dictionary, my imagination created a reenactment of the sibling scenario. As ridiculous that mental image was, a memory of Need for Speed: High Stakes—a game I played as a kid—provided the sound effects. Whoever had coded the background sounds for the food joint at the starting line of Redrock Ridge must've had a tremendous laugh, because that plain white building was the source of frequent belches. In fact, they were so frequent, every virtual patron there might've been a professional competitive belcher! Placing my hoof before my mouth failed to conceal my smile, let alone prevent a snicker from becoming audible. Two females trying to best each other at burping? Now that was outright absurd! My preconceptions about the prettier sex—specifically them being elegant and above the immaturity of unabashed belching—were crumbling fast. “I'm sorry, Embee.” I lowered my hoof onto the table's wooden edge. “But I think the word you're trying to think of is 'unprecedented', because never in my life have I heard of two fillies dueling with belches,” I said amusedly.

Embee chuckled. “Well, now you have,” she affirmed abashedly. My imagination assembled a vivid vision, which expedited my composure's downfall.

“No, no no no!” I exclaimed, trying to contain my laughter, gesturing my forelimb at Embee. “No way! You have to be kidding!”

The blush on her cheeks told me otherwise. “As I said, I'm not!”

“Okay okay! You leave me no choice but to believe you,” I conceded, my hoof slipping to the cushion. “But I hah-have to admit, I have, hahahah, ahh, no idea why this is so funny. Haha, just . . . b-b-bfftwhahaha! Burping f-f-fillies! Geez! No! Hahahahahaha!” My laugh was disconcertingly female, prompting me to get a hold of myself. “Hahahaha! Hahaha, haha! Okay, phew. Hah! There! All okay! I'm okay!” My imagination acted up once more, coaxing me to snicker lengthily, followed by a few disobedient giggles, which my self-image and pony façade wished to denounce and ban, contrary to my earlier approval.

Not counting a few short laughs from both of us, a relative silence permeated the room; our only guests were the muffled sounds of presumably ordinary hospital activity penetrating the door and the soft noise of the air conditioning vents above. Embee was smiling widely, the red on her cheeks diminishing. Meanwhile, I was thinking on how to laugh without sounding too feminine.

“One time, my sister said, ‘I'm famished’,” Embee recounted casually, glancing a few degrees to her left. Formulating a tolerable laugh had to wait.

“Alright,” I said through my nonplussed smile, a half-cough, half-chuckle ascending my throat a second later. I was so close to laughing again. “So, what's—”

“With a belch,” she interjected abruptly, facing me with a wry grin. My breathing stopped, my brain stopped . . . and then I lost it.

“Pffffhahahahahaha!” The sheer power of my amusement made me collapse onto my right side. “Hahahahaha! Hehe-hehe-help! Get me hahahahaha! A doctor! Hahahaha! I'm dying, hehehehihihihi! Of-of-of laughter! Hahahahaha! Hihihihi!” I tried to get up, but a strength penalty had been imposed on my muscles. I squirmed in mirth, tears leaking from my closed eyes. I sounded so strange, wheezing and squeaking between bursts of laughter, but it also felt so good. I could hear Embee laughing with me. Shared joy was the best joy! I surrendered to revel in my well-deserved mirth, finally accepting that giggling, while unquestionably abnormal coming out of my mouth, wasn't at all bad. Giggling was strangely hilarious in itself. So perky! Despite my voice being unfit to imitate her, I was able to produce a few passably Rainbow Dash-like laughs. That was both amusing and adorable!

After a minute of positive debilitation, I began to collect myself, with the occasional laugh and giggle setting me back a little. I didn't mind. Pony physiology being what it is, and laughter-induced weakness affecting me, I had some difficulties rolling prone and sidling towards my lime green cushion. ‘Left foreleg to my left, push with the right, then repeat with my hind legs.’ I was very glad I didn't have prominent mammaries on my chest like human females do. Otherwise, my sideway movement would've felt absolutely dreadful with the squishing and the tugging and the utter dismay. Seriously, possessing such inconveniences would've felt dreadful regardless. Why human females put them on display and what made them attractive to human males was almost alien to me. I never cared for them. Then again, my libido was like a Citroën 2CV in a world of sports cars.

Back on my cushion, I pushed myself to a sitting stance, a posture that my restive human condition found easiest to comply with. “Thank you, thank you!” I exclaimed breathlessly, waving a forelimb weakly. Embee looked drained, having spent a good while making her sides ache, too. “You've been a wonderful audience, Embee,” I said, thinking I was an actor who had just performed a play and expecting a round of applause. Not including begrudging participation in elementary school plays and my current masquerade, I had never acted.

“My pleasure,” she replied with a wide smile. “But I think it was you who played the part of the audience.” Her eyes closed as she giggled. “Or we had a duet!” That earned a brief and casual giggle from us.

“Maybe we did.” I carefully wiped my appreciated tears into my fetlock, followed by a happy sigh. “To be honest, I'm very grateful for the food and the laugh. I really needed to unwind after what I've gone through.” Oh darn! I accidentally insinuated that my ordeal's been awful. Not that she didn't already have an inkling. “Speaking of which, I'll tell you more about it soon,” I said to keep her curiosity at bay, clinging hard to my smile as I forced my ears to stay propped up.

“There's no rush. Take all the time you need,” she reminded sweetly, almost apologetically. Was she afraid that her presence alone was pressuring me to explain?

“Yeah, I know,” I whispered, my smile slipping away briefly. “I mean, I shouldn't be too eager, haha,” I said lamely. The icicles of apprehension were poking at my back. I really didn't want to tell a lie. Or the truth for that matter. However, I had to stay calm above all else. Everything would work out in my favor. Somehow . . .

“Well, I think a cup of soothing coffee will help us put our concerns to rest.” Her gaze drifted toward the second room. “Unless the coffee has evaporated by now,” she joked bashfully.

“If so, then we can't drink it,” I said gloomily, but before she could reply, I smiled half-amusedly. “We'd have to inhale it.” I surprised myself when I was actually able to giggle, though Embee's reciprocation sounded a lot more natural.

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that.” She reached over for her bowl. “Anyhow, I'll take these—”

“No, hold on!” I raised my hoof.

“Why?” She stopped, setting an inquiring gaze on me.

Assisting her and following her to the other room could help me relax better than the coffee. “Uh, I got this thing, you see?” I gingerly tapped my horn, trying not to grin awkwardly when I felt a tiny pulse marginally in front of my forehead. ‘Darn unseen unicorn rebar and its sensitive stand-by magic,’ I complained as I lowered my hoof. “I think I can help you this time.” Assuming I could get my magic to work . . . I really hadn't thought this decision through, had I? Oh, super . . .

“Oh?” A gentle smile grew on Embee; I did my best to replicate it. “I'd greatly appreciate that! Thank you.” Withdrawing her hooves from her bowl, she sat down and beamed at me, which made me feel terrible behind my unworried mask because I didn't want to let her down. I didn't have a second to rehearse, either. Wait, I did have a few seconds!

“Embee, I know you care for me, but you don't have to watch over me. It's, uhm, actually making me a little nervous,” I said with hopefully believable meekness, idly rubbing my forehoof on my hind leg. The sensation of a big fingernail running over my narrow and elongated metatarsal evoked bewilderment, wistfulness, and even some curiosity. This was a good sign; the recursive loop was functioning.

“I'm sorry.” Embee frowned contritely. “I didn't know I was bothering you.” Her demeanor educed a pang of guilt to downflap my expressive directional microphones. “I'll give you some peace and pour us some coffee in the meantime.” She stood up, and I made a quick note on how, in case my equine intuition malfunctioned.

I brought my ears up, suppressing the minor flinch of my inflexible humanity. “If it's still in a liquid state, that is,” I chirped forcedly, hoping to ease our respective worries. Her amused chuckle verified that I had at least achieved success on her side. My foreleg now back on the cushion, I fixated on my bowl before she turned around; sighting her tailside now might ruin my inchoate concentration.

‘Okay! Just have to stare intently at the bowl and think really hard that I'm moving it with an innate and mystifying power! I'm sure I won't have any problems at all. Nope. Nothing can go wrong with my ethereal touch,’ I thought frantically, doing my best to prevent perspiration leakage. ‘No, wait. I have to think differently. More confidence, less worrying!’ My tongue stuck out the side of my mouth in determination. ‘I think I can do this. Yes! That's right! I have to do this, I can do this . . . I will do this!’ Suddenly, an epiphany brought my head up. ‘Why can't I?’ I stared at the wall ahead in puzzlement. ‘I was the second pony in magic kindergarten to learn the basic levitation spell.’ Next thing I knew, I felt something odd within my forehead. Subsequently, a tingling, shimmering glow encased the bowl, and it ascended a dozen centimeters. This sight, coupled with my vague flashback, almost rolled my eyelids past their maximum operating limit; the magic vanished, and the bowl capsized before it fell with a grimace-inducing bang.

“What was that!?” Embee yelled in shock from the room over.

I stared aghast at the luckily undamaged bowl. “Ponyfeathers,” I whispered through my teeth.

The sound of hoofsteps impelled me to frown fearfully. Not a second later, Embee appeared in the doorway. Wearing an alarmed expression, she glanced toward the table, then at me. “Rosy? What happened?”

My eyes darted between the overturned bowl and her. “Uh, I, um . . . I sneezed,” I fibbed guiltily, then inhaled congestedly a couple of times before using my fetlock to wipe my snout—carefully. Equine cartilage, epidermis, and hair where thin air should be just didn't mesh with me. “And I lost my concentration.” As my posture wilted, I hesitated. ‘I can't act this way. It's too feminine . . . But didn't I recently giggle uninhibitedly? Oh, what the hay, I can do this, too.’ I realigned my ears toward my neck and pouted ruefully. “I'm terribly sorry,” I said, like I had been caught thieving cookies from a jar.

“Oh, don't feel too bad, hon,” Embee soothed, encouraging my ears to perk up. “But . . .” She cocked an eyebrow. “I didn't hear you sneeze, though.”

I glanced aside, recalling my very unbridled sneeze from earlier. “Well . . .” I rubbed the soft hairs on my chin with my pastern. “It was a tiny sneeze, you know?” I brought the soles of my forehooves to my snout and imitated a dainty sneeze; it'd be a frigid and cloudless day on Venus when I did that for real. “I had to dampen it so I wouldn't lose my focus.”

“I think I understand, but still . . .” Her questioning glance towards the table felt oppressingly allusive.

“It's not an infallible technique,” I said remorsefully, hoping Embee wouldn't examine my rubbish explanation.

“Hmm.” Her gaze lingered on the bowl for an agonizingly long second before she smiled warily. “Well, good thing nothing broke. Just be careful, okay?” I couldn't help but smile now that I was off the hook. Also, I felt confident about summoning a levitation spell, which was remarkable given how uncertain I was just moments ago.

“Oh, I will,” I intoned peaceably. “Now, uhm, maybe I was wrong about being nervous. Let me try again.” I zeroed in on the bowl, then expected it to do what I wanted . . . No, for the bowl to do what my magic needed it to do: the ceramic ware had to arise. A tingle in my forehead told me that magical energy had begun to spool up in my body, and would transmit its signal from my horn as soon as it . . . calibrated itself with Earth's unique background magic. After a small delay, a white aura enveloped my target, immediately bestowing me with a feel of its ceramic construction. As if every square millimeter of it was covered with my tactile sense! Another second later, the vessel began to ascend. I grinned widely at this, and the bowl flipped over without so much as a conscious command to do so. This was intuitive! I wasn't even straining myself! Moving the bowl was as easy as holding it in a hand! “Ta-daa!” I pointed an outstretched foreleg at the bowl floating an arm's length above the table. “My mundane ability is working mundanely! Yeeeeey!” I cheered energetically. Was my perkiness affecting my voice, or was the voice making me act perky?

“That's, uh, amazing, Rosy,” a bemused Embee inserted, eyeing the lightly bobbing bowl. My hoof, the white vessel, and my exuberation settled in tandem, ending with my flat stare on her. “Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your fun,” she continued apologetically.

“Eh,” I sighed nonchalantly. A want to shrug began to travel to my shoulders, but I thwarted that signal: shrugging entailed moving the shoulders upwards, but with my forelegs supporting my body, shrugging would actually cause me to lurch downwards, which would look abnormal in my current physiological state. “I was overdoing it anyway,” I said dismissively. Truly, why had I been so exuberant? I had known the basic levitation spell for years. Well, not really . . . Darn memory mix-up! Suddenly, I caught sight of something fascinating, and my lips creased to a smile. “Although, you know what would be really fun?” I asked amiably.

“No. Tell me,” Embee said, tone tinged with curiosity, but I chose to keep my lips sealed. Since I'd have to walk to the second room soon (and walk in general), I levered myself up. Thus, I was reintroduced to the unpleasant standing-on-my-nails feeling. My attention was quickly drawn from the lack of hands to my tail falling between my . . . cheeks. I was fairly okay with the extra appendage providing modesty, but the 'receptacle' itself evoked nothing but abhorrence. Still, out of sight, out of mind. “Well, are you going to tell me or not?” Embee urged affably.

I circulated several ideas in my head on how to tell her, but I abandoned the whimsical idea of speaking in a sensual tone. The remotest concept of flirting—even by accident—as a mare to a mare who was apparently days short of being married was highly unbecoming and boorish. Moreover, it would be reprehensibly irresponsible to defame the pony whose body I inhabited. What I did do was lower my head slightly and whisper (unsensually), “So, what I think would be fun is . . .” Embee lowered her head, and her bemused but expectant visage nearly made me giggle. Deliberately, I curved my head toward her right. As I expected, Embee mirrored my gesture. “Music,” I finished, allowing myself a smirk.

“Oh!” Her head sprung up, mine following at a slower rate. “The radio!” she exclaimed in joyful realization as we exchanged glances.

“All we hear is, radio ga ga,” I sing-songed, my head tilting lightly as I made my body sway from side to side. I would've trotted in place, but the incurred forces on my hooves and equine joints could've upset my restrained and wounded human condition.

One of Embee's ears drooped sideways. “What?” She looked at me, visibly lost on what I had referenced.

Smiling, I rolled my eyes with an inoffensive puff. “Never mind,” I said jovially. Aside from her ear lifting up, her outlook remained unchanged. “Let's just have some sweet tunes drift into this cozy place.” I cast a look at the table and colorful carpet. Along with the cushions, it was like an oasis of soothing vibrancy among the dull brown walls and floor.

My attention returned to Embee as I heard her distractedly utter, “Radio gaga?” A second passed before she shook the confusion away. “Oh yes, music,” she said awkwardly. “What the hay is a radio gaga . . . ?” My acute auditory sense detected the puzzlement under her breath as we both took a few steps to the radio. So much for shaking her confusion away. She even studied the radio's brand; it definitely didn't provide the answer. Her confusion amused me, but I didn't want to make her feel any worse, so I half-heartedly tried to stifle my giggle when she looked at me cluelessly.

“Don't worry your head about it,” I reassured happily. “They were only lyrics to a song I've heard,” I summarized.

“Ohh-kay?” She nodded, the glimmer in her eyes hinting that she absorbed the trivia without immediate comprehension. Nevertheless, anticipation drew her lips to a smile. “Well, if we're lucky, that song might be on the radio right now!”

“That'd be great!” I said eagerly as Embee faced the radio, my tail surprising me by flicking to my right. ‘Joy can do that to my tail? Gotta be careful, then. Wouldn't want anypony to glimpse the unmentionable,’ I thought uneasily behind my gleeful smile, then lightly swayed my tail a few times to improve my understanding and control of the caudal muscle. Meanwhile, Embee placed her hoof on top of the radio to manipulate a switch. The garbled noise spewing out made her sigh in discontent.

“Sorry, hon. This thing was brought here only a few days ago, and this is my first time trying to use it,” she said, presumably to vent her frustration. “But I understand it works like any normal radio by, uh . . .” A thoughtful frown came to her as she started scanning the various buttons and dials on the radio's coal black shell. “Tuning into frequencies?” she continued slowly, as if sparing no attention to what she was saying. I was quick to spot the tuner dial. With an oblique glance and an ear-levelling sigh, I chose to grant Embee the full delight of finding it by herself . . . which meant I also got to delight in boredly observing her meticulously inspect each and every feature on the radio but the correct one. Finding it after several long moments, she decisively placed the tip of her hoof into one of several accommodating grooves on the dial's side and gave it a light twist. I took note of that deftness. “Ah! That did the trick!” she exulted when the radio finally began to air something intelligible. Instantly, both my equine instinct and my curiosity reoriented my ears toward the speakers.

“So what's it playing?” I wondered impatiently.

“. . . almost night,” A male voice spoke, “Two minutes to midnight? No, not yet folks. Anyhow, sounds like we got a caller.” Was this a talk show? I almost gasped in excitement at the surprise. I could learn a lot about this world, especially if the topic in question pertained to ponies! Or better yet, if a pony called in! That'd be so awesome!

“Uh, yeah . . .” The caller, a female, hesitated. “Most horrible movie scene?” My blood curled upon hearing that. “Definitely that scene in The Machinist where Miller . . . That was just awful! Just so awful! It gave me horrible nightmares for days! Even my boyfriend said he—”

Unwilling to hear more, I latched my ears to my skull (and for once, I was very thankful for their suppleness). “Embee, this isn't music. Change the channel, please,” I beseeched restlessly. Oh no, imagery was incoming and I had to think of anything else, but I was too late . . . Oh gross, oh gross, oh gross! If I had the power to eradicate one memory right now, it was that scene. I hated gory movies! Couldn't Thomas have chosen a "softer" movie to rent, like the director's cut of Das Boot as I had recommended? In his defense, he probably didn't know what was coming. I could still taste the cheese puffs crawling up my throat, and I had seen that movie years ago! Even he stopped gobbling his snacks after witnessing the horrifying event, although he did try to joke about his discomfort. I was of lesser integrity and made no effort to hide my nausea. We should've just played a video game since those don't make me sick to my stomach. And this . . . was a fond memory I had of him. I felt both happy and sad. I liked the times when I didn't submissively tag along with him into a disheartening carouse . . .

“Hey, are you okay, hon?” My acute ears discerned Embee's voice amidst the currently playing rock song.

“I'm sorry,” I said weakly to the frowning pegasus mare by my side, righting my ears to make the music sound clearer.

“Sorry about what?” she queried, a little confused. A bunch of memories regarding happy video gaming moments cajoled for my attention, but I sent them back to the recess of my mind with a small sigh.

“That movie the caller mentioned . . .” I was leery of going into details. “Umm . . . Well, it has a really disgusting thing in it . . .” The sickening memory flared up, making me gag. “Trust me, you don't want to know,” I said, hopefully dissuading her from prying to know what damage a horrendously unsafe drill press could do.

“That kind of movie, huh?” A look of understanding dawned on her. “I have a pretty good reason to favor lighthearted comedies myself.” That I could agree on, but I'd probably regret my curiosity for half an eternity.

“That reason being?” I whispered apprehensively, feeling cold despite all the insulating fur I had.

Embee swallowed visibly, horror shrinking her pupils. “The reason, uh, was a movie my sister wanted to see. It was unique. A space movie, uhm . . . Alien,” she divulged.

“Yeah . . . seen that one.” I moaned feebly as a shudder slinked through my entire body, wishing I could take my barrel into a tight and protective hug without flopping down in doing so. I could sit on my haunches, I realized, but I decided not to; I could tough out my transient nausea. “Anyhow, let's not think about the awful things, shall we?” I suggested, trying hard to eradicate the unease from my smile. “To allay our filmography afflictions, let's focus on the music for a moment.” I could forget the sickening scenes if I listened to the music instead. I hoped.

“There's no easy way out, there's no shortcut home! There's no easy way out, givin' in, givin' in can't be wrong, no! There's no easy way out, there's no shortcut home! There's no easy—”

I had hoped. “Oh, shut up,” I grumbled quietly at the inopportune song, and with remarkable precision, I poked the dial just like Embee had. I took no notice of the new song that began to play, but in the corner of my eye, I saw Embee looking at me in puzzlement. “I didn't like that song,” I said offhandedly.

“Why not?” she asked, meeting my flat stare with a peaceable smile. “I thought it was nice.”

“It didn't fit my mood, that's all,” I replied shortly, my ears revealing my subsequent dismay. ‘Didn't fit my mood? What the hay? That was a stupid reply!’ If I had spared a moment to think, I could've spoken a white lie instead of being disadvantageously sincere.

“Didn't fit your mood? What do you mean by that?” Embee said, her face mixed with confusion and worry. I was in a pinch. I actually liked the song, but it simply . . . hit too close to home. Did I really make that pun? I was oh so laughing. “Did the song upset you?” Embee interrupted my cogitations.

My ears pricked up, and I almost tripped in my haste to turn myself perpendicular to her. “I'm not upset!” Subsequently, I winced in guilt, my ears turning down. “Well, kind of, but not really, uh, I'm sorry for snapping at you, but, uhm . . .” I mumbled apologetically, unable to look at her. Everything had been going well. I could've just let the song play and done nothing, but I just had to let it get the better of me . . . What was I going to do now?

“What's wrong, hon?” Embee queried tenderly. I hesitated before directing my eyes up to hers. “Is this about what you've experienced, before you were found?” She had a studious but sad glint in her eyes. As my silence continued, she turned to face me. “Rosy?” She took a trepidatious step closer, and I quickly doubled the distance, nearly bungling my stability as I did so.

‘Horseapples! Can't I even move right? Of course I can't! It's almost impossible to be a pony when I have no idea when it will end—if it can end. Oh no, wrong thoughts, wrong thoughts! It will end, it will end, but . . . I think I've only built mental barriers to keep my anxiety in check. They can't hold on forever! In fact, my computer providing the ultimate solution could just be another barrier—a desperate, hope-inspiring delusion!’

I really wanted to come clean and not soft-pedal everything, but honesty was forbidding; not only was the likelihood of profuse weeping very high, there was no guarantee Embee would believe me. However, I believed she was sincerely worried and wanted to help in any capacity she could. Was she trustworthy, though? Could she console me in a time of extreme crisis? I hoped so. “It's okay, you can talk to me.” Maybe she was right. Maybe I should get the planned pineapple excuse out of the way before I shied away from it.

“Ah, what I did . . .” The words stopped in my throat and my face scrunched up with emotion. No, I couldn't do this yet. I blinked away the unwanted tears rimming my eyes, whispering in a pitch so high it was almost a whine: “Okay, yeah, I'll tell you soon, I promise.” I wasn't particular to how my feminine voice made me sound even more fragile; I cleared my throat to sound more collected. “Uh, haha, but I can't abscond from helping you first, right?” I said lamely through a strained smile. I struggled with an onslaught of discrepant sensations as I balanced on three digits, pointing the fourth at the table to my right. “We can enjoy coffee and have a nice talk once I've gotten those things where they need to be.” As I looked at her, I understood that she knew I was struggling to keep my powerful discontentment under the lid. She stared at me with a face full of pity, almost pleading to know why I was behaving like this. I couldn't smile any longer.

“Alright,” she assented warily, almost regretfully. I had to blink tears away again.

I was marginally thankful for the respite, and I summoned my magic to place the wares onto the tray. Without any kind of pleasure. I simply . . . couldn't; my mind was in disarray. I barely took notice of encasing the tray in a white aura. White aura? Not green . . . like my eyes? Well, whatever. In a few seconds, my task was done. The tray floated off the table and gracefully flew into the next room. I followed it with shaky legs, dumbfounded at the effortless manipulation. However, the pining for my real form was making my breaths heavy; I had to stop after a few steps and a forty-five-degree turn to my right towards the sink. At least I could take stock of the room from the doorway while my distress abated. Remarkably, my magic was still keeping the tray aloft and safe, despite my inattention.

The initial impression of the room was . . . white. The ceiling was white, the walls were white, and the floor was . . . grayish? Several light brown cupboards, breaking the white monotony, lined the walls from my right all the way to the far corner, where the sink was. A black and white picture hung on the left wall, but apart from recognizing it as depicting the hospital, I spared it no further attention. Adjusting my sight to the right of the sink, I saw a white mini-fridge in the far right corner, a dishwasher to the left, and a bouquet of flowers—mauve dahlias—in a glass vase beside the fridge. Next to the fragrant flowers were a microwave and the coffee machine. The distinctively aromatic coffee was waiting to be poured into two cups with detailed landscapes depicted on them. Of all the colors in the world, the machine was pink; I almost chuckled at that. Admittedly, the uncommon color made it look quite lovely. The one in my home was just a boring grey. ‘Pink: the color that once was considered masculine is nowadays the exact opposite,’ I deadpanned mentally. Tucked in the far corner of the room was the sink. Excluding the appliances, everything was scaled for ponies.

I placed the magic-shrouded tray on the steel drainboard, and the minor tingling in my head faded at the same rate the white and wavy aura did. I had wanted this levitation performance to feel even a little special, but instead, it had been disappointingly anticlimactic. Maybe later it'd feel exquisite again? Maybe I was simply too preoccupied at the moment? I sighed dolorously, my ears dropping as I stared at the waxed floor. A few seconds to settle my nerves would do me well. The sheen of the fluorescent lights on the plastic floor was easy to focus on. My attention was drawn to where my petite hooves met the floor, a reflection of something white and vague extending forward. It began to sharpen into something recognizable.

I tilted my head, and the shape moved. My brain was assembling the details into a distinguishable image. The face was one of the most central parts of an individual's identity, and to see an unfamiliar one . . . which could replace mine? I wanted to look away before it was too late, but my neck was as unyielding as a girder. I felt strangely curious, yet apprehensive.

“Hey, how are you feeling, hon?” Embee said caringly, my semi-independent ears telling me she was standing on my right. Simultaneously, I saw two protrusions extend on either side of the reflection beneath me. Those were my ears, and I started to recognize . . . I didn't want to see this!

Stopping a frightened gasp in my throat, I broke out of my daze with a start. My sight lingered on the unimpressive plastic tapestry between the cupboard and sink for a moment before turning to Embee. I thanked my lucky stars I hadn't discerned my foreign visage while she had been gazing at me with a frown. “What was that, Rosy?” her whisper slinked into my ears, which twitched marginally as I reminded myself of my real name. It felt meaningless, like the name of a character from a book or a video game.

In spite of my best attempts, the radio wrenched my ears toward it, capturing my attention. “Aw-right! You're on Nostalgy Radio with Sound Wave, and do I feel energetic! I just luuuuv the music you wonderful humans delight my ears with! Mmm-mm! So, all of you two-feets and four-hooves still awake, don't go dozing off yet, 'cause now it's time to fly! I would fly, but I'm an earth pony, hah hah hah! Have some good-goodness by a wonderful fella who, contrary to his name, isn't petty, hahah!”

Embee's amethyst eyes continued to scrutinize my blank expression as I tried to make sense of why I was estranged by what was once my name. “I'm getting really worried now. Are you sure you're feeling okay?” Her increasing concern for me brought somberness to my face, and I closed my eyes.

I inclined my head, hastily surmising that the stress was playing tricks on me. “I need a minute to clear my head,” I said humbly, intentionally avoiding her question. I faced the sink; however, if the gleaming floor wasn't daunting enough, something more intimidating was between the doorway and the pink apparatus: a looking glass. Sure, it was no larger than a laptop screen and served as decoration, but . . . What kind of a smartflank mounts that kind of torture device in a kitchen!? Oh, right . . . they wouldn't know an extremely fraught pon . . . person like me would come across it. I definitely didn't want to see my present face. Not only could that become my 'primary' face and erase my real one, but I could risk a repeat of the two earlier viewings. The second one nearly traumatized me . . .

“By all means,” Embee said conciliatorily, followed by a single, soft prod on my right shoulder. I was initially floored by this, but when I realized the touch was too soft for a hoof, I suddenly felt moved. Embee had done something I could've never anticipated . . .

‘A nuzzle is apparently a non-verbal method of communication to impart compassion, inspire mutual trust, and mollify the recipient,’ I summarily analyzed the fundamentals of Embee's gesture as I plodded the short distance to the sink, avoiding the looking glass. ‘But that's not a reason to start sniveling like a miserable foal!’ I berated myself, shivering minutely from the sheer power of the emotions I was curtailing. I had to distract myself. It was . . . a little funny that I felt like I was in a miniature-scale kitchen. The ceiling was high, but the sink and cupboards were low enough that an earth pony could reach them with ease. While my vision was aimed at the microwave, I saw the aquamarine and blonde shape of Embee in the corner of my eye. Turning my head completely around—an achievement only my equine neck could permit—I saw her tilt her head with a supportive smile. I smiled back weakly, and only briefly; the glimpse of my trailing end was highly dissuasive. Luckily, I didn't become involuntarily excited, only confused. I wasn't even sure why I might become aroused by a mare's flank, especially my own, but I was afraid to risk finding out. Then again, under these tormentous circumstances, arousal was impossible anyway.

My composure was crumbling, and I became immersed in dismal disbelief. I didn't want to comprehend that I was standing like a pony—as a pony—but the unceasing sensation at the ends of my remoter limbs wasn't telling any merciful lies. My mental barriers were falling like dominoes, and I had to fiercely repress a desire to sit my shivering form on the floor and cry my eyes out. I wanted a respite from all the horrors my mind and body were pushing onto me . . . and that's why I was by the sink! I had to do something besides succumb to my emotions, even if that would feel good . . .

A current rushed to my horn, and a second later, my ethereal grip twisted the handle to bring about a pillar of water from the faucet. I reached my right han . . . hoof in a desire to cup water . . . once my left hoof would do its part? Darn. It was obvious I couldn't hold a significant amount of water in my hooves, and supporting part of my weight on my equine elbows didn't sound appealing. The sole was concave, but the triangular shape—the frog—was a channel that'd allow the water to run out. Stupid, ungainly . . . I couldn't even cup water properly . . .

I let the water run over my dainty hoof, but I couldn't feel it. Warm water running between my fingers? Never thought I'd miss that. I'd get it back. I'd get everything back!

A memory came to me as I gloomily watched the water run over my hoof. I had singed my hand one birthday when I tried to put out the candles on the cake with my fingers. It was a crazy thing to do, but I was . . . How old was I back then? Wait? This . . . When was this?! I frantically racked my brain, but I had no idea when I had burnt my hand . . . or when my birthday was. I couldn't even narrow it down to a specific month! How could I forget something so important? Horrible dread and loss filled my heart, and I began to pound my mind harder. No, wait! I did recall more details! I had accidentally set the fur behind my coronet band on fire when I had tried to douse the candles by clapping them with my hooves. I had disregarded my mom's warnings, but I was very young and thoughtless. No . . . wait, what was this? What was doing this to me? What . . . But . . . I had two conflicting memories again? No, no no no no no nonono! This wasn't happening! If . . . If I cried just a little bit, maybe I'd feel better about this shocking development? Better about losing myself? No, I could stay collected! If I didn't, I would frighten myself into hyperventilation and subsequent sniffles and tears!

Acting on an impulse, I began to collect water into a magical bubble. As some form of therapy? I wasn't really sure right now; I couldn't think straight. As my magic collected the water, I noticed that while I could "feel" the temperature and shape of the water, its lack of contact with skin meant there was no sensation of slipperiness or coolness. It was strange, but I latched onto the peculiarity as if it were a lifeline. The bubble, it was like . . . a rippling plastic bag with water, and the plastic was my slightly lacking tactile sense. Now, what could I do with this bubble? Wash my tears, I concluded in a fraction of a second. The magic bubble opened gently as it met my face to spill its contents over my closed eyes, my muzzle dividing the soothing cascade into two torrents that poured into the steel sink below. I was breathing shakily and my teeth were clenched; I needed a second bubble of warm water to cool my nerves. As I was gathering more water with my magic, I got a better idea. A little fun. Just had to concentrate a little harder than normal!

I used my hoof to push down the handle, before getting to work. The irregular blob of water began to smooth out until it was a perfect sphere, thanks to a primarily purposeless trick I learned about three years ago. Huh? Oh, right. That tidbit belonged to her. A victorious smirk visited me for catching the inconsistency. I was not done with the bubble, though. I turned it into a cube. That was easy . . . Too easy. Just like the sphere, this light-refracting cube looked neat. Meticulously, I began to stretch it, flatten it, give it protrusions and curves. Excluding the resculpting of a few details, it was like perfectly projecting my imagination into reality.

With a touch of pride beneath my melancholy, I floated my piece of art to the middle of the room. Embee and I stepped forward to examine it more closely, sadness stiffening my joints. Embee's eyes were glued on my magical sculpture. “I've seen things like that in the air. They're usually at a much greater altitude than I am, though,” she said with wonder in her tone. When I didn't reply, she looked at me. “But you creating that with just magic and water? I'm honestly impressed, Rosy. It's very beautiful!” Despite her praise, I gazed pensively at my beautiful scale replica of a Cessna 152—the wingspan seemed about right at 35 centimeters—as I raised it to hover above us. I've lived near an airport most of my life, so I saw airplanes fly over our home often and at a low altitude. They were so incredibly bedazzling . . .

“One of these days, I'll fly a plane,” I said with a voice full of longing, sending my sufficiently accurate reproduction on a clockwise holding pattern. A few laps later the plane had brought a smile to my face. “Look at it fly. Isn't it just so incredible?” I found myself sounding depressed, which I had to rectify. “Airplanes are so super awesome . . .” I cheered, trotting sluggishly on the spot. “Heeheehee . . .” my giggle came out splendidly: full of energy and ending on a doleful sigh . . . Embee ignored the soaring plane to look at me with undeniable concern. I heard her speak, but I wasn't paying attention. I kept watching the plane wistfully. I had to think . . . on how to make the best of a bad situation! Plan ahead!

I could do quite okay in this body for a few days, if the circumstances demanded it. Maybe my identity would degrade a little, but I'd get it back in perfect condition once I was in my body. Right? I hadn't changed or lost anything permanently, had I? I could save myself from being flooded with this mare's experiences, couldn't I? On that note, where was she, then? Maybe she was in my body? Maybe she couldn't take it and had gotten herself killed . . . like I almost did. I felt so horribly guilty about the harm I had placed her body in, and I was so sincerely sorry. But . . . if she wasn't in my body, was she here with me? If so, she was witnessing my irresponsibility ruin her life the very moment I left my home. I was so sorry about that, too. I hoped she'd forgive me . . . Or maybe it was worse? Maybe my existence in her body had killed her, and her memories and traits were now being passed on to me? Maybe my body expired when I was torn from it? Then I'd have nothing to return to—a most horrifying thought! I'd be trapped in this body, fighting a battle I couldn't win! Little by little, I'd lose pieces of myself! Experiences, feelings . . . memories. Those I cherished most: my parents, my joys, my aspirations . . . Those that inspired me to be free from the bonds of earth itself . . . The ones that made me . . . me! I'd lose them all! I'd lose everything! For over a decade, I dreamt of flying a plane, and when I was weeks from making that wish turn real, this happens! I'd lose that too, and . . . and . . . I couldn't take this anymore!

“Or maybe I'll never fly a plane!” I shouted mournfully, my eyes turning misty. The Cessna entered a steep dive and crashed between us, violently shattering into countless droplets scattering in every direction. I . . . I didn't mean to kill it . . .

“Rosy!?” Embee yelled in shock, but I couldn't look at her. I stared in open-jawed despair at the wet puddle—the allegory for my life and future—as tears blurred my vision. “What did you—” A somber squeak escaped me with a cringe, and I crumbled to a sitting stance. The weight on my forehooves made me realize I didn't have palms to hide my face in, and that horrible loss almost persuaded me to shrivel up into a quivering pile. “—do that . . . for? Oh my . . .” she continued emotively. I struggled to weep silently, which would be okay, but . . . I was inconsolable, and the cork on my bottled emotions was loosening.

“Rosy?” Embee asked softly. “What's going on? What happened to you? Talk to me, please,” she implored. I was trembling fiercely and could hardly breathe. I tried to read her expression, but everything was a fuzzy blend of colors. She was close. Sitting before me? In the puddle of water that once was a resplendent replica of an airborne beauty? “Rosy. You're safe and you can trust me, I promise,” she spoke rapidly, tone dripping with sincerity and compassion.

“I can . . . trust you?” I whimpered hopefully, tears blending with the water in my soaked facial fur. “Really?”

Solemnly, she said, “Yes, you can.” That was all I needed to hear! “I give my word—Uhmh!” I had reached over to her and pulled us together. Squeaking several thank you's in a pitch higher than I had ever anticipated I'd be able to, I wrapped my limbs over her back and wings, embracing her like my life depended on it. I held my breath as the last of my restraint withered and my full sorrow began to find its way out in an anguished bawl.

“Everything will be okay, hon. Everything will be okay,” Embee soothed, stroking my back with care as I cried profusely. I didn't care anymore how wrong it sounded to cry with a female's vocal cords. I didn't care that all my life I had believed guys weren't supposed to cry! I wasn't bound by that stupid, oppressive, and ridiculous constraint anymore! I couldn't be and wasn't afraid of my own emotions. I just wanted to purge all of my sadness and my anxiety . . . To shed tears until I had none left. That would help . . . Weeping was helping. Sweet release. I had so needed this . . . and I really wanted to say I believed her now, but all I could reply with were sniffles and sobs. I was glad she was here, being consolingly warm and soft. I wasn't enduring distress alone this time, and I . . . I didn't want to be alone! There had to be others like me, there had to, there had to! Please please please please . . .

“Em-m-m-bh . . . Emh . . . I-I-Igh . . . th, nhj . . .” I gibbered miserably, overwhelmed with so much emotion I might as well have aphasia.

“It's okay, I'm here for you,” she whispered. I tried to feel her wing, but a hoof and fur-coated skin were no analogues for hands. Even the small acute area in the back-center of the hoof was insufficient. It was better than nothing, though. The little I could feel, along with her presence, was gradually calming me. She was my relaxant. Thank goodness, thank goodness, thank goodness . . . But I had gone beyond a line I hadn't considered crossing. Now I couldn't hide anymore, and I didn't want to! I had to do this.

“I . . . I . . . I have . . . a que . . . a question,” I said between my hiccuping sobs.

“Yes, hon?” Embee asked hushedly.

“What-what w-w . . .” I choked on my own tears.

Embee rubbed my spine consolingly. “Take your time. It's not a race.” Was she crying too? Maybe. Just the thought alone that she was affected by my intense sorrow bestowed me with gratitude. I respected her. I trusted her! She could help me! Maybe she knew something? Maybe she could save me?

“What would . . . would you . . . would you do . . . if you . . .” I stammered raspily, trying to stave off my persistent crying just long enough to squeeze out one sentence. I was too frail; I broke into a new bout of sobs with a gasp.

“I'm here for you, Rosy. Don't worry,” the only friend and support I had right now reassured.

Breathing raggedly and rapidly a few times, I recovered a fraction of myself, then spoke tremulously but resolutely: “What would y-you do i-if you w-woke up in a b-b-body that's n-not yours?” There was no turning back now. ‘Please know what I mean. Please don't betray me. Please don't do that to me! Please help me . . . Please help!’