Out & About in the Equestrian Kingdom
by Midnight Shadow
Chapter 8
"If you're both ready?" Buttercup asked, his deep voice carrying easily across the room. Julep took a quick look at Sprocket, who nodded.
"I've got the injector ready," the bay gelding said nervously. "They're not going to like it, but it'll work. Once."
"I hope you don't need it, Wild," murmured Velvet sleepily as she curled up in the corner, "but my boy Sprocket's the one to get your buns out of the bakery if the worst comes to the worst."
"I'm initializing your rider subroutines, Sprocket," said Buttercup. "You did a good job with it. The gestalt is steady. You're good to go."
Sprocket nodded awkwardly, then turned to Velvet. "G'night V. I'll be right here."
"You be a good boy, okay?" Velvet groaned indulgently, closed her eyes and then started snoring gently.
"Because if you're not," said Velvet with a grin, running Rogers' hand through his thinning hair before placing his hat firmly back on his head, "She won't spank you later."
***
The Canterlot Draconic Adoption and Daycare Centre was a friendly looking, modern styled building in the very heart of Canterlot, just down from the Celestial Sisters University and not far from Princess Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns. Julep giggled behind her hooves at the bright and gay colour scheme as she trotted through the wide front doors and up to the main desk. There was a studious unicorn behind it; her pale blue hide and golden mane hid bright green eyes that were framed by thin wire spectacles.
"Hello miss…? What can I do for you?" the unicorn asked politely, shuffling a pile of scrolls with her magic.
"My name is Mint Julep," said Mint Julep, smiling sweetly, "and I'm here to pick up my little sweetie Short Stop."
"Short Stop? Short… hmm…" The receptionist rifled through her papers nervously. "I'm sorry we don't see to have—"
"Fe fooks fike fiff." Julep had pulled a scroll out of her saddlebags. It had a picture on it of a pink baby dragon with dark green spines. She put it down on the desk, then tapped it with a hoof. "He needs to come with me."
"I, uh… I don't think…"
Mint Julep shook her head, then leaned closer, gesturing conspiratorially with a backwards nod. The receptionist leaned closer.
"He's actually not a dragon," Julep whispered, then put a hoof to her lips. "He's actually a prince from a faraway land, under a magic spell. Celestia wants this kept quiet, so if you could just—"
"You didn't let me finish," dead-panned the receptionist as she leaned back away from Julep. "I was going to say you probably don't want him. He's rather badly behaved, throws all his toys out of the playpen and has been known to refuse to nap when told."
"Oh how dreadful," murmured Julep, rolling her eyes. "I want him anyway."
The receptionist sighed. "Magical curse?"
"Uh-huh."
"Far away land?"
"Double uh-huh."
"Mayflower."
"Triple uhh… wait, what?" Julep blinked.
"My name's Mayflower," said the receptionist, smiling as she pushed her glasses up her muzzle. "And I'll be happy to help you pick out a dragon hatchling all of your very own."
***
The interior of the draconic daycare was a bustling hive of activity, with hopeful little adoptees and adopters in various stages of completing paperwork and demonstrating filial-type friendship and love. By far the bustliest part was the playroom, where dozens of little hatchlings were in various stages of undress and redress at the tender mercies of a few, caring older ponies and a gaggle of excitable youngsters.
One particularly high-walled pen near the back, however, sported a sign which said 'timeout'. It was home to a single, particularly furious inmate.
"Three days!" yelled Rogers, jumping up and down and shaking his diminutive fists. "You left me here for three days!"
"Shh!" whispered Julep, mugging wildly.
"Aren't they cute at this age?" sighed Mayflower happily as she looked down into the playpen at the furious pink dragon. She dangled a hoof over the fence playfully whilst Rogers – better known as Short Stop in his 'salmon' coloured guise as a baby dragon (not pink, definitely not pink) – snapped and snarled at it.
"They do have a certain charm," replied Julep, hiding another giggle behind a wing.
"You know, glad as I would be to let you have him… are you sure your prince isn't in another playpen?"
Julep shook her head. "I'm sure."
"Very well." Mayflower's horn glowed brightly, and Rogers found himself hoisted into the air. The unicorn nuzzled him briefly, then deposited him right-side up on Julep's back.
"Three days!" Rogers hissed again.
"You said, honey, but Mommy is very sorry and had to go the long way around. Now come on, sweetness—"
"Sweetne—!"
"Unless you'd like to stay here another three days," hissed Julep, making cutting motions across her throat.
"Fine," hissed Rogers. "Come on then, Mommy, let's get out of here." He glared at Mayflower, who waved sweetly to him as they passed through the double doors and out into bright Canterlot sunshine.
***
Rogers huffed from his seat perched near Julep's tail. Little spurts of smoke and flame puffed from his nostrils. "I can't believe Celestia left me in there to rot."
"You could have escaped, you know," Julep replied with a giggle, glancing back over her shoulders. "That sort of thing is a part of the game."
"I know." Rogers scowled, "I was waiting for you, though. The first day I expected you'd waltz right through those doors and pick me up. The second had me cooling my heels. The third and I was all set for a jail-break… though it would have made finding you a lot harder. Do you have any idea what sort of multiplier we've got in here?"
"You said three days?" Julep asked, pausing in her easy walk down Starswirl Avenue.
"Two nights—" Rogers' tummy growled "—and most of the third day."
"Hmm, that means we're running about twenty-four times normal. Definitely hi-time, though Celestia's running this particular sim slower than most purely ghost shards. That means we've got at least two days here."
"Dammit. Celestia could have put us anywhere near Steven—"
"That's Haft, honey. He's called Bronze Haft, now."
"—Haft, then – but she didn't." Rogers flexed his claws, staring at them, then put one claw to his head to adjust a hat that he wasn't wearing. He made an angry fist, shook it, and scowled again.
"That's not what Equestria's about, though," interjected Julep, sweetly. "You should know that. Equestria's the journey, not the destination. That's why you wanted me along, right?"
Rogers snorted. "I know. It's just so inconvenient though! Out there I could get on a suborbital if I needed, be anywhere on the planet in an hour or so. But here, our target lives…?"
"A few miles outside of Canterlot, in a cabin in the forest at the foot of the Foal Mountains," offered Julep, matter-of-factly, as she swept a wing tip in rough circles off to one side.
"I thought it might be something like that," huffed Rogers in disgust. "A few huh? I bet we'll need those days just to get there."
"Be glad Celestia's running this sim slower than his penitentiary, we'd have months if that were the case. Either this sim is just larger, or it has more contact with Mundis. Or Celestia's doing us a favour. We could be there by tonight if I flew," mused Julep, stretching her wings experimentally.
"Well, what are we likely to meet out there?" asked Rogers, narrowing his eyes. "This might be a game, but I know the stakes are high."
Julep snorted, then smiled wryly, her ears flicking about in amusement. "It wouldn't be much of a game if it was easy. Now let me think…" The mare shook herself, causing a squawk of discomfort from the hatchling on her back. "Some ursa minors and majors, maybe a few hydra… the biggest problem is going to be timberwolves, at this time of year."
"Timberwolves, huh? I wonder how our target—" Rogers began, rumbling to himself and scratching at his muzzle thoughtfully.
"Can you call him our 'client'?" begged Julep suddenly, stopping so quickly that Rogers almost fell. "I-it just sounds so… mean, to call him a target."
"I'm sorry," said Rogers, once he'd steadied himself. He cleared his throat, then continued. "Ahem. Our client, Bronze Haft, lives alone?"
"Uh huh." Julep nodded easily as she started moving again. She took a quick drink from a fountain, then turned right through Gaskin Square and headed for the main gates out of Canterlot.
"A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma," grumbled Rogers.
"What's that supposed to mean, sweetie?" giggled Julep, reaching her head back to nuzzle at the small pink dragon.
Rogers hissed and batted at her muzzle. "Stop it, girl! I'm not some… some..."
"Helpless little waif?" suggested Julep, grinning.
Rogers stuck his tail in his muzzle sheepishly and grinned back. "I suppose I earned that, huh?" he asked, a few moments later.
"You have, rather," replied Julep. "I don't mind being called 'girl', but I'm not the trophy you've been treating me as the last few days. At least not here in Equestria. And don't you forget it!" She gave him another nuzzle, which Rogers batted at in weak protest. He snorted, chuckling to himself as she turned to face forwards again.
"I promise. Mommy."
"That's better. Now trust me to keep us safe. I've got a few ideas about how to get us there."
"Getting there might not be the issue," Rogers muttered, as Julep spread her wings and leaped into the air.
***
As I felt Darillo withdraw to whatever internal holt the diamond dog had found for himself in my secure compute and store layer, I opened my eyes. With some surprise, I noted my visual acuity had gone up a few extra notches and my hearing seemed sharper. I blinked, rapidly, and twitched my ears about — my head felt funny, as did my muzzle.
"A bridle?" I asked aloud, working my jaw in circles to see how it felt.
"A very fetching one," said Rogers' voice. A quick datachirp told me, however, that this was really Velvet in a Rogers suit. I gasped in surprise, and almost choked at a constriction around my midsection.
"And I thought we went through this already too," said Velvet, as she noticed my discomfort. Rogers' hands adjusted something heavy on my back slightly. "That's your saddle. Yes, I've adjusted it properly. No, it's not too tight. Breathe normally, don't fight it."
"Are you sure you're not trying to strangle me slowly?" I asked, wheezing.
"Silly pony," said Velvet, with a snort. "You need to be saddled up, Sonny Jim. You're going to learn to ride. Kind of." Velvet – in Rogers' body – grinned. I looked over at the 'real' Velvet, who was slumbering on a thick foam mattress in one corner of the room. "I'm staying asleep until I'm out of range. It gets awkward otherwise." Velvet added, whispering with an almost tender note in her voice, as she noted my gaze.
"I don't know how you can just… do that," I said, furrowing my brow, shaking a hoof towards her slumbering self.
"I don't 'just do' anything," replied Velvet coolly. "But in this case, if Rog thinks it's necessary," she added, hefting one foot up into what I assumed was a stirrup before swinging herself up and onto my back, "I'm inclined to believe him."
"Oof!"
"Oh, buck up." Velvet dug Rogers' heels into my flanks. I squealed in surprise. "Don't tell me you don't like it." I whickered noncommittally, having her weight on my back did feel… somehow right, somehow familiar. "That's right," Velvet said, "you feel it too. It's part of ponytraiting."
"I—"
"Shh," Velvet interjected. "Don't speak. This may seem a little weird to you… but I want you to be the pony you already are. And that means no talking," she added, as I opened my mouth again. "Just for a little while, okay hon?"
"Is this what you did to Sprocket?" I mumbled.
Velvet swatted me in the withers, and chuckled. "Yes, but it was for him, not to. It's something he… needs. I'm not going to go that far with you, don't worry. Unless you ask nicely." I nickered, laughing along with her. "It's just important that you and Rogers learn to work as a team. You're his noble steed; as strange as it may sound, you're not a self-driving vehicle. You need a rider."
I opened my mouth to retort, but before I could, Velvet dug her right heel into my flank. Instinctively, I stepped away from the pressure. Before I could complete the motion, she moved her left foot ever so slightly forwards and pressed in with her calf. I turned clockwise around my front hooves. A congratulatory pat on the base of my neck swiftly followed.
"That's right gi—" Velvet cocked her head as she checked my personality matrix. "Hmm, I mean boy. Well done. And now the other way…"
Tap-tap push. I turned the other way.
"Very good. You're doing so well, let's try something a little bit trickier."
There was a gentle increase on my muzzle as Velvet leaned forwards slightly and pulled on the reins. At the same time, she put pressure on both flanks. I took the only obvious course, and stepped gingerly backwards. I made another couple of steps as Velvet released the pressure on my flanks but kept up the pull on the reins. I snorted nervously, but made another step. Immediately, the pressure on my muzzle stopped as well.
With yet another congratulatory pat, I felt Velvet settle herself squarely in the saddle. "Do you know how important that was?"
In lieu of answering verbally, I shook my head.
"That was something very difficult for real equines to do. We have an innate fear of stepping backwards – an old friend of mine told me once that for horses, what's behind them doesn't exist. We have a blind spot that Celestia's pony morphology has only made worse, and whilst it might only be a behavioral package upgrade, ponytraiting still comes with a lot of real horsey smarts. For you to step backwards means you trust me. I'm proud of you, boy, real proud. Rog will be too. Now, how about we go for a bit of a walk? Stretch your legs a little, make sure the tack's up to snuff before we get to the station for reals?"
I snorted an affirmative, nodding my head.
"Careful out there, Rog," said Buttercup, as he nudged the huge single door open with one great iron-shod hoof.
"Another reason for you to stay silent, boy, won't slip up if you don't say anything," said Velvet to me quietly, grinning. "Come on, partner, time to head out." She dug in her heels and tightened her hold on the reins. I whinnied in surprise and jinked forwards before another few tugs on the reins and a couple of short, reprimanding kicks had me drop into a walk.
"That's better, girl," said Velvet.
I flicked an ear in acknowledgement. It would be a lot easier to keep up a charade rather than attempt the same sensorum trick Roger had tried earlier, at least with the buzz of the historical case-data being fed into my public compute and store layer distracting me somewhat.
"Lose yourself in the datastream, girl," said Velvet, reassuringly. She was monitoring my neocortical activity and had noted the concentration shift. "You need to be my mount. For this exercise, I am your brain. Use your eyes and ears, but only after listening to me. If you can't do this, you'll be no good as a noble steed. If we hit trouble, I need you to know what I expect of you even when we're in a blackout. And that means understanding my needs on an instinctive, non-verbal level. When I say 'faster' with my boots, and you're walking, you should speed up or break into a trot as directed. When I say slower or faster, you need to adjust the cadence until you and I move as one — man and horse."
We'd cleared the strange, homely shed that functioned as the 'stables' and were heading around the park once more when a brief pressure on my right side caused me to once more step left, but this time a swift tug on the left reins let me understand Velvet's true intentions – turn left. She course-corrected a few more times as we meandered at a brisk walk through the park until she had me turning properly. For somebody who spent their life as a pony, she was a very good rider – or she seemed so, at least, to my inexperienced senses. The way her commands flowed naturally and her movements were crisp and clear led me to believe that whether it had been some sort of ability package or not, she'd internalized the lessons and had earned those stripes.
A sudden kick-kick on both sides startled me out of my musings, and I found myself accelerating to a trot. After a couple of hoofsteps, Velvet eased into an up-down motion of her own – rising, or posting, trot – that matched my gait perfectly.
"Feeling better, girl? Getting used to it?"
I snorted and nodded my head in agreement, which earned me a sharp, repremanding, don't do that tug on my reins, but Velvet had got the message. She patted me again, awkwardly as we were moving at speed, then settled into drilling the same sorts of turns as before until she was satisfied I was familiar with them. Then she sat herself down in the saddle against my motion and tugged gently on the reins. She kept up the pressure as I dropped to a walk until I finally stopped. To my surprise, I was breathing rather heavily. I wasn't allowed much of a breather, though, as she then kicked into my ribs again and had me walk on.
"Never let yourself be ridden hard and put up wet, okay?" Velvet stated, after a few minutes of silence. "Advanced metabolisms or not, you can still get sick or sore. We're going to walk off this little bout of exercise to make sure you've stretched your muscles, and from now on we're going to ride together daily, at least an hour each time, got it? It's good for both of us, but especially for you. You're doing most of the work, after all."
I nickered happily as she patted me on the side. It was a simple gesture, but it meant a lot.
"Remind me to get Velvet to show you how she and Sprocket work together. They compete nationally, you could learn a thing or two from them."
I flicked an ear thoughtfully. Ponies competed in dressage and riding competitions by themselves...? A search online returned a few popular, short video clips and news articles – ponytrait ponies and horses did indeed compete, but differently to non-trait equines and riders. This was a melding between individual gymkhana, dressage and so on, and pairings between humanoform riders and trait-equines for more traditional-type displays where only the rider knew the desired routine and the pony or horse in question would have to follow instructions, with points given or taken away for style. Interesting. I'd not really been sporty before traits, but it looked like fun. I filed it away for later, then returned my attention to Velvet, who was quite happily steering me onwards with minute foot movements – the reins were slack and I'd been walking with my head drooped almost to the ground, resting.
"You're going to be a good one, girl," said Velvet. "Not every pony makes a good noble steed." It wasn't hard to detect the pride in her voice. I found myself hoping the real Rogers would be just as proud. I'd not really had somebody be honestly proud of my accomplishments for a while, and though this was just for 'doing as you're told', it bolstered me. I stood up straighter, puffing out my chest. A rhythmic tapping of Velvet's heavy booted feet adjusted my hoof-steps until I was marching. She guffawed, just like Rogers, then finally reined me in as we approached a rather austere-looking sandstone-yellow building with wide steps and high doors and windows.
"Yep, you're a keeper alright. Come on now, girl, we're at the station. Let's get you cleaned up so you're presentable."
She dismounted, swinging her right leg up and over before dropping to the plascrete. She stretched, Rogers' older body popping and cracking as she straightened. "Ahh, that's better."
"Speak for yourself," I huffed, shaking out my mane. I was breathing hard and was drenched in sweat. Foam flecked my muzzle and I could feel my nostrils dilating as I puffed.
"Here, let me help you with that, girl." Velvet bent and loosened the girthstrap around my barrel, then heaved the saddle off my back. I took a deep breath, nodding my head thankfully. "Come on." Velvet grinned, "You might be a super-strong pony but this is heavy for me."
"Up there?" I cocked my head towards the steps.
"Naa, round the back. You need a shower, you stink."
"Gee, thanks," I said, snapping my teeth at her. She just chuckled, and led the way. I shook the reins on my bridle until they were comfortable, then followed.
***
The station's pony facilities were on the lower levels. They were stark and utilitarian, but functional. Velvet ducked into a tack room with the saddle, then returned for the bridle. Returning a second time, she held a tough-looking box in one hand and a halter in the other.
"Come on, I've got a surprise for you. You've done your duty, now it's time for your reward. Trust me," she added, as I raised an eyebrow in surprise at her, "it makes it all worthwhile."
Somewhat hesitantly, I followed her through a spacious beige-tinted corridor into a large stall lit by a single archaic strip light. The sound of water filling a bucket was loud, even above the buzzing of the incandescent bulb.
"Shh, calm down." Velvet's words were soft as she put the halter on me then clipped ropes from the walls of the stall to each side of the head-garment.
"What's that for?" I asked, flicking an ear.
"Helps keep you in position. No more. Now relax." She lifted the bucket, moved to my flanks and then grabbed a heavy, warm sponge and started gently but firmly wiping away the excess sweat and grime from my body. I did as I was bid, closing my eyes. The attention – the rub-down – was therapeutic. Thoroughly, without the slightest hesitation or hint of awkwardness, Velvet doused my fur all over with the warm, soapy water then ran a sort of metallic loop against my body, scraping the excess off, before playing colder water against my hooves. It wasn't until after she'd finished brushing my flanks and had tamed my unruly mane and tail with a stiff comb that more resembled a garden fork than anything else, that I realized I'd been dozing.
I awoke to Velvet's soft laughter and a gruff knuckling against my poll as she then bent to fasten the front straps of a blue and white polka-dot cotton stall blanket around my chest.
"There. Now you can dry off without dripping all over the floor." She straightened again, then rubbed me between the ears. "Silly pony. Told you it was worth it, and I meant it. You ponies do the hard work, and we're a team. Julep was right – you do your duty to me, I do mine to you."
I didn't know what to say. I'd never really spent a day at the spa before, either, and now I was being told I'd get this daily?
"You ready for more gear, girl?"
"L-like what?"
"That tactical helmet I promised you, and two good pairs of boots. I don't think you'll want shoes – not yet at least." Schematics popped up in my store and compute, and a fashion subroutine tried them on against my body-plan.
"Do, uh, the other ponies wear shoes?"
"Sprocket uses plastic shoes. You might not have noticed, they're colour co-ordinated. Mama Sprinkles doesn't. Velvet's got boots like I'm getting for you. Only Buttercup has actual horse shoes, but he's so big he needs the support." Velvet hooked one of Rogers' fingers through a strap in the halter I was still wearing, and tugged gently.
"You can just ask me to follow, you know."
"I know, but…" Velvet took her hand away, dropping it down to her sides. "I'm sorry." She turned and started to walk.
"I tell you what," I said, bumping my head into her arm, "just this once."
"I guess I'm the silly pony, huh?" said Velvet.
"You sure are. Let's get that tactical helmet and those boots. Are they colour co-ordinated?" I asked curiously, a small grin on my muzzle as Velvet once more hooked her fingers through my halter's strap.
"Any colour you like, as long as they're black." Velvet snorted. "Well, tell a lie. The ones here at the station come in black, brown and maroon, but we can replicate you some customs later."
Horse boots are almost exactly what they sound like. They're large, round sneakers. For horses – or ponies, in my case. They felt oddly heavy around my hooves in a way that actual shoes never had. I figured I'd get used to them.
"And this is the mark thirty-eight equinoform tactical reconnaissance helmet," said Velvet, slipping one on over my ears and slapping the top heartily. I winced at the expected impact, but it didn't hurt. In fact I barely even felt it other than as pressure. "Give it a whirl. I'll be back in a moment." With that, she exited the gear locker.
The helmet was a solid plastic shell around a conforming inner core that moulded to my head almost perfectly. My ears were protected by a mobile cover which helped to somehow focus sound rather than obscure it. The visor was directly overlaying a whole host of technical and tactical data onto the world, shifting and changing as my attention did. It was incredibly simplistic, nowhere near as visually pleasing and malleable as using my store and compute layer for AR, but the raw ability to intuit and plan different actions and responses that it was capable of was… almost frightening. The AI within was sub-sentient, but right on the line, and as I hooked into its systems I could feel its subroutines probing my communication and physical relay APIs.
I'd never been very militarily minded, not even when playing as Stalwart. My questing prowess as that battle-hardened unicorn was a mixture of brute force and his smarts. With this helmet, I got the feeling I would almost be his equal in a one-on-one brawl. I mentally prepared myself to interface, but Darillo's security and eigenwall integrity routines bade me pause. With a quiet thank you for who or whatever had arranged that chance encounter, I called upon my tenant.
"Darillo?" I asked internally.
"Am here," the diamond dog eevee whispered.
"Check it out for me. This thing clean?"
The display glitched momentarily, then reset. "Is now." I sent silent thanks to my combat-ready passenger, then looked up as Velvet in her Rogers suit closed the door and bolted it.
"You still want to know what happened to Steven and Teresa?" she asked quietly over the encrypted link.
I mentally nodded. "It's a little late to back out now," I joked, putting as much humour into the encoded transmission as I could.
"Good. Then we're up."
I was about to walk over to her when the House's 'net went offline and my helmet flashed up a large number of alerts and suggestions for escape routes and Station-mind infiltration techniques.
"What just happened?" I asked, ears flattening against my skull.
"Welcome to your first ever combat simulation," Velvet replied as she cocked her head to one side. "Or at least that's what the Station thinks it is. Station thinks we're breaking in your new gear, but that's not quite true. Let me just sync up with your helmet…"
"Wait what? What are—" I recoiled in shock as Velvet tapped in directly to my helmet and engaged the communications relay. A moment later, she'd contacted Buttercup through the helmet's own powerful radio and had re-established the encrypted datafeed.
"Remember what we really came here for?" asked Velvet aloud, hands on hips with a small smirk on Rogers' face.
"Uhh, that… thing, that I saw?"
"Yup. It's in the evidence locker. Know where that is?"
I shook my head.
Velvet grinned widely, showing her teeth. "Next door. And I'm about to show you why Roger wanted me along. Come on, Wild. I need you for tactical. Remind me to teach you how to pick locks with your muzzle and a hairpin, one day. Just not today. Today we have about five minutes before the secondary security routines will forcibly come back up, my privilege hack is discovered and the security cameras realize we're not in the gear locker."
Somewhere, in the back of my mind, alarm bells were ringing. Real ones.
My knees were weak and my legs felt like lead, but I trotted after Velvet as she strode matter-of-factly out into the corridor.
***
Lockpicking: it's not just for toaster repairponies!
Uh...
Okay, intellectually, I understand the thought process here. Talking while running (or galloping) is a massive waste of oxygen, and the only thing worse than a backseat driver is when that backseat driver is the vehicle itself. Best to get that training established from the get-go. But on a visceral level? It's kind of creepy.
Heh. Stealth pun.
Overall, a most enjoyable chapter. Especially poor Short Stop. It's like CelestAi's been hard-coded to equate dragon hatchlings with Butt Monkeys. Can't imagine how she came to that conclusion...
Definitely looking forward to more.
Another enjoyable chapter informed by your experience with horses in the real world. I like the feeling of solid knowledge of subject, I always enjoy that feeling in a story.
I have one thing that bothers me - how short is Rogers anyway? Or, conversely, is Oats unusually large for a MLP pony? The semi-anthropomorphic ponies in MLP:FIM have been well defined by multiple fan studies as being around three-and-a half to four feet tall to the top of the poll (Celestia at eight to nine feet tall), which makes riding one problematic for an average-sized human, doesn't it? Or do I fail to grasp how such a small creature could be ridden? Or is Oats as large as a terrestrial, real world equine?
Also of interest to me is just how semi-anthropomorphic Oats is, as a traited MLP pony. Equestrians are capable of a much greater range of limb and body motions than terrestrial ponies, and are clearly possessed of joints and muscles closer to hominids than actual equines. Can Oats stand on his/her hind legs and use forelegs as blunt arms? Can Oats roll onto hir back and let fore and back legs splay out to the sides comfortably? Cross forelegs behind the head while relaxing? This is unclear to me. Mostly, so far, Oats seems more like a proper pony than a member of Equuis Sapiens Equestriana to me. Is that the case?
I loved the grooming sequence, and I also really enjoyed the exchange between Velvet-in-Rogers and Oats. I liked the training sequence on many levels. I did find it hard to keep reminding myself that Velvet was wearing Roger's body... in the movie in my mind, I kept hearing a female voice for Velvet, which wouldn't be the case. I almost wish there were a few more reminders of the situation, since it is so unusual... just to keep it clear in my mind.
The 'Silly Pony' reference to older generations of MLP was noted and enjoyed. Silly Applejack!
The concept of having Velvet Original sleep while Velvet Bifurcated walked off in Rog's body, to prevent squicky weird feelings was powerful. It would be creepy, at least until one got used to the process, to experience a clone of oneself trot off with no absolute guarantee of reintegration into one being again. The horror of a potential loss of one branch of the split would be terrible in a world where one felt truly safe and immortal. I get that. I feel that. Really awesome stuff there, because it means that you felt it too, or you wouldn't have written it. I think about that sort of situation a lot, among other future post-upload possibilities.
As always, you are creating a marvelous, deep world here, far greater than all of its various inspirations put together.
4115139
As I thought about things when setting up this world, two things became obvious. One was that I wanted body traiting to mean something, that with physical changes would come mental changes because it would be necessary and unavoidable. At a minimum a fully morphic body would get you treated differently by some, even when common. And secondly, being a 'noble steed' in particular requires the ability to function when the 'net has been compromised or is otherwise unavailable. Most of the time it won't be needed, but when it is, it is vital. Out of that ability grew a new kind of sport, too, where the rider and mount must develop a true rapport, demonstrating the intelligence and skills of both.
4117219
That's actually a good question. It's one I've been waiting for people to ask. There are about five other dreadfully important questions that need answering, but I'm not going to pose them myself, that'd be no fun
I can answer both questions at once: 'real' trait-equines are, to all intents and purposes, 'normal' equines. They can't stand on their hind legs, they don't have control over the weak nuclear force to pick things up, they don't have prehensile tails. This is why Rogers comments at one point that he thought they were "almost semi-disabled" - ponies need helpers to do a lot of common things. They are completely unable to build things on their own, require assistance with bodily ablutions, can't clean their own tails or even brush most of their own bodies and lack the two-handed fine motor control that normal humans posses.
Trait equines are the size of terran ponies at least - large ones (so ponytraiting should raise another question for the observant). They're small for those determined to ride them, but serviceable, and require both dedicated restroom facilities (though their needs equate to a larger squat toilet, so it's not entirely 'dedicated') as well as a lot of food (though their advanced metabolisms negate a lot of this).
However, this is the future. Those not living with a companion - other ponies (common) or humanoform (also common) - also have the ability to reform their homes and wardrobes around their new bodies, and can 'purchase' helper robots that braid manes and tails, wipe inaccessible areas and do the sorts of biological and physical maintenance that real ponies (and horses, like Buttercup) require.
4115139
...also you and everyone else so far missed another stealth pun
4117271 "There are about five other dreadfully important questions that need answering, but I'm not going to pose them myself, that'd be no fun"
1. How does money - or its nearest equivalent - work in the Ordinalverse? It seems a post-scarcity world, and we have heard of a reputation system, but one wonders how those butt-wiping robots are accounted for... or if every being can expect basic needs-plus-a-bit-extra to simply be provided by the Fifteen?
2. There is one hell of a cyber-ecology going on, especially if alien, host-less Evees and other programs can slip in to a mind and take up residence or offer services. There seems to be a lot of living software out there feeding off of other software in some kind of ecological system. There are probably predators and prey, too. Who or what manages this ecology (I don't mean solving the mysterious results of it, like our Roger)? Are there cyber-naturalists? Game wardens? Big Program Hunters? Do digital forest rangers dream of electric forest fires?
3. Roger and company are pulling a big Ocean's Seven operation on the System, and they may, or may not be actually behind the backs of the Fifteen, or their underlings... is this even possible? In such a massive realworld/cyberworld universe, can any being truly sneak or get away with anything? And if not, is everything happening really just a game... or is it some machination of Big Software Minds? How is it possible to do anything in this situation that is not watched from on high? Or is that the point?
4. I have to wonder if all the colorful characters surrounding Roger are parts of Roger, budded off, just as Julep is a bud off of Oats (or, perhaps, his ultimate self?)... in short how many protagonists are in this story - I could make an argument for only two - the complex that is Oats and the complex that is Roger. Are we dealing with teams... or multiply expressed entities? I'm even beginning to wonder if Oats is real, in the sense of actually having an existence prior to the events. Maybe only one protagonist... or perhaps I am getting too out there.
5. We have the strange crime that starts all of this off. Roger shoots both attacker and victim, to let the Cybergod Sort Them Out. Only... he has to sort them out instead. But if such a crime can be ended with the termination of the bodies of both attacker and victim, if the easy, approved solution is the discorporation of all involved... how can any crime truly be said to exist? Death is the ultimate penalty, yet here it is just an inconvenience. Forget stun rays or tasers or overide cyber shut-down commands, we're talking a bullet through the gizzard. If this is a money world, then that is much more expensive than just a police-authorized Sleep Override on the situation. Roger shot! A gun!
This is the greatest mystery of all to me. What could possess Roger to shoot two beings down, when there must be any number of fancy authority-driven software means to drop suspects harmlessly? I use the word 'possess' deliberately. I cannot help but wonder just how many entities in that beginning were... possessed... by something, somehow. Why... a gun? Why a physical solution to a software problem?
4117311
Well you got some of the questions, but not all of them
Basic needs and then some are accounted for and supplied by The Fifteen (and the countless other AIs in the system). Nobody has to work, nobody has to farm, or dig, or sweep. Nor, for that matter, do they need to perform medical operations, pilot spacecraft or anything else. However, most people do do something with their lives. Lots of people do relatively mundane things like run coffee shops or fashion outlets, others do farm, or perform medical operations, because they either get something out of it personally or because they can make a "better" living with their skills.
Basically, it's a mixture of reputation and prowess that rewards your ability to draw upon the mass/energy bank that the AIs control. If most people ask for a mansion, they won't get one, but a famous artist that makes irreplaceable, unique items, or somebody who designs unique, powerful and popular Maker recipes or designs will.
When people farm, they grow real food which, as a novelty, is regarded highly by connoisseurs over replicated rations - special coffees, real vegetables, hand-made dishes... these can be bought for "real" money (bits) which are scarce - because the goods are themselves scarce. But nobody needs to suffer, it's just if you do more, you get more, but if you do nothing you still get most everything you could realistically want and everything you need. Investment, in this world, is saying "I wish to contribute mass/energy to this effort to produce this thing", which then either rewards you with shares, or... doesn't. People learn to produce new things to give them individual benefits above the baseline. You can be an investment guru, of course, but the rules are slightly different, and discourage hoarding of assets over philanthropy and investment itself.
In short, yes. There is a burgeoning "other world" (though "other multiverse" is far more apt) where billions of AIs roam. They work upon and within the substrate which itself is managed by the fifteen. AIs work to hunt down and destroy other, rogue AIs that would cause either their system damage or the humans problems, or even to destabilize the physical substrate of the digital ordinalverse itself. If you can imagine a spiraling fractal of creatures from the smallest of endosymbionts, through amoebas, up through multi-celled lifeforms to humans, to groupminds like cities, to metaminds like the brands that harvest attention in memespace, out to AIs that manage this interaction, to the greater AIs that manage those and the physical world... it's like the human body writ large across an entire world and beyond. White blood cells have become intelligent, thinking organisms, in some cases many times more intelligent than humans as they seek to protect their home and the greater system beyond.
It manages itself, but "the fifteen" sit on top - though like humans ourselves, they are made up of billions - if not trillions - of other moving parts, including the humans that trait their influence.
I could point out that in a perfect simulation of world, the inhabitants wouldn't know they were in a simulation, but that would be too recursive. The colourful characters surrounding Rogers and Oats are real, as are our protagonists. At least to themselves, and really... if I were pulling some sort of inception-level event here, I think it would require a lot more effort from me than it's getting to do at all well. I'm not saying everything is as it seems, but this isn't some fever-dream.
The reason is multi-fold, here.
First, the 'net was offline. It was done deliberately. It was actually jammed, preventing completely and totally all communications other than exceptionally hardened comms. This means that softer options - sequestration, seeding of terminator nanites to pop a few important blood vessels and so on - were unavailable.
Secondly, the reason it was offline was... spoilery, but I'll say this: Rogers sees a neural-rod in the hands of the apparent perpetrator, Steven. That means that he was going to do something to permanently and possibly detrimentally affect the apparent victim, Teresa, and her Eigenstate. What we have here isn't just kidnapping or murder, but obliteration. If a person's eigenstate is compromised, the root trust of their personality matrix is compromised. That means untangling changes in the extant, living version as well as 'offline' (stored, but accessible) memories becomes a legal nightmare, not to mention technologically difficult (if not impossible).
The 'software' issue becomes a question of "did you try turning it off and on again?" - and really, when you need to prevent obliteration of at least one person, the easiest is to prevent a 'software infection' in the first place.
Welp. Sounds like things are picking up.
Poor bastard had to let himself be ridden. That sounds like an excellent reason not to ponytrait.
4117311
You've basically hit the nail on the head. There are, in my world, practically no crimes worth perpetrating. The only crimes left are personal - stealing someone's identity, stealing personal, irreplaceable handmade items, physical assault. It's the sheriffs that deal with the physical aspect - personal disagreements, threats of bodily harm, gangs should there be any. It's why ponies - and horses - are used as noble/faithful steeds. They're needed for their physical hardiness and intelligence, as well as the calming effect they have on the public.
Military robots aren't really needed because there aren't any real wars, and suicide bombing is only an inconvenience. The real trouble is non-corporeal in any event...
This is, in effect, the biggest, baddest, scariest boogaloo in my world. There are AIs out there so fiendishly intelligent that they could conceive of ways to convince you to let their agents into your brain, through your eigenwall, and to modify your personality. All without what we would recognize as a "virus". They can use memes, propaganda, subtle environmental changes, other people...
Be afraid. Be very afraid
4117358
In his defense, he did ask for it! It's part of what being a pony - or horse - is in this new world. You don't have to, of course, but when your form gives you certain abilities above others, why not make use of them?
It may sound menial, but in this post-scarcity world, being a friendly, talking taxi-service is valued far far higher than it is today for us.
As much as I utterly adore this story so far....actually no, rather, let me say that I utterly adore this story and leave it at that.
Still, I find something very discomforting in the ease with which this character has settled into the position of subservient pony steed, and in the.....almost base pleasure he gets from it. The way he finds such satisfaction in being given a simple pat on the neck, being treated to a wash, the pride he feels in obeying swift and simple commands. I know the ponytraiting was mental and physical, but it seems like his mind was rewired to make him enjoy -being- a pony, and all the miscellaneous things that entails. Which is a thought I find highly disturbing. That and the whole multiple existence thingy with Velvet inhabiting Rogers and Mint Julep co-habiting with Mixed Oats and what-have-you is seriously messing with my head. All in all a highly discomforting read, I'm just glad Darillo is around, he just sounds so...solid. I'm not even in the story and I still feel more comfortable whenever he crops up. Can't wait for the next chapter, keep 'em coming!
4117437
I'm glad you're feeling discomfort, because that's actually something I intended. Well, not discomfort so much as something. I want ponytraiting (traits in general, actually) to be more than just cosmetic.
In Oats' defense, he's not actually subservient. That is the side you've seen of him so far because he's getting a crash-course in being a noble steed from somebody who enjoys it on more than one level, but he's not a pet or a mindless automaton. What he is, is a valued member of a team with a specialized set of skills around a disposition which is hard-wired to be friendly and work in groups.
He's also somewhat out of his depth and more than a little lost in his own life. In his own words, he traited because he "wanted to belong" and now, rather than having a drifting, purposeless existence, he's found something he's actually good at. Like he says, it may have been thanks for just "doing as you're told", but it was heartfelt thanks, not some ritual (though ritual equestrianism is a part of it).
Velvet, as you've seen, is "alpha" material. She's the herd matriarch, though they all defer to "Mama Sprinkles". Sprocket is a kid who got a pretty heavy slap on the wrist and traited against his will in lieu of other, more permanent and extreme modifications. And Buttercup is... Buttercup.
To all intents and purposes, the ponies are the elite unit of the sheriff's department, and the human members work for them. Just like today, the ponies are the real star of the show when it comes to events and public relations. More people know of the Desert Orchids and Secretariats than the Lester Piggotts.
Oats hasn't had his time in the sun yet, but he will...
4117360
Tells us to be afraid and leaves a Trollestia emote.
Prediction: the entire problem and plot of this whole story will turn out to be one of the Fifteen trolling the others, in Their equivalent of /b/.
4117437
It was, actually. It's somewhat deliberate - as I've said, a pony needs help in a way a human doesn't - and somewhat comes with the territory. A pony-traited pony comes with "a lot of real, horsey smarts" because there's just a lot of things that a pony needs to do instinctively that a human doesn't, and it's really proven impossible to totally remove the "unwanted" when they're not especially "unwanted", or removing them is actually detrimental. It's a case of not being able to completely rewire things without the gestalt failing, so you take what you can get.
Like, most people get scared if you jump out and go "boo!" at them successfully. A pony isn't going to be very different to a human, but the response is going to more equine-typical - running away or towards, rearing up and kicking out with front hooves, in lieu of flailing hands and/or punching and running away or towards.
If you give somebody a sensitive, fur-covered body, then have somebody brush them, that's going to feel fantastic, so since it's something a pony needs (otherwise they get grimy and disgusting and unfit to be around humans - imagine the pony version of a scraggly-bearded, unwashed human bum! ugh! Wild horses stink if you didn't know, and uncared for domesticated horses stink even worse) then make sure they enjoy it so they actively seek it out. Simple. The upshot is they enjoy physical contact and closeness, and physical interactions like petting and stroking, which again touches areas like the punishment/reward centers of the brain... unavoidable.
At least, that's my armchair reasoning.
4117476
moohoohaahaa.
I mean, uh, glad you're enjoying the show!
4117358
4117437
I could say that in order to lead, one must first learn to follow, but while that is true, it would not be the truth of my response.
I don't see your problem. Frankly, being able to be a equine partner sounds like a lot of fun. Every person is subservient to somebody right now, and always has been. You... are both subservient to a LOT of humans right this moment, and have been, and will be, every day for the rest of your lives.
Oats, however, gets his inevitable subservience served up with status, lots of care and attention, grooming and pleasure, and he/she gets to feel important as well. Additionally, the possibility of status through competition riding struck me as intriguing as well.
I would say that being ridden as an armored police pony with a cybernetic VR helmet and daily grooming and massage beats any damn job in the private - or corporate - sector I have ever held in my life. Busting your ass flipping burgers while some fat ass manager screams at you? Barely making deadline for some stupid game product and then having your product lead tell you that the entire thing has to be redrawn because the nephew of the CEO likes bunnies better than Egyptian Mummies? (true story) No.
I think being a fabulous police pony is vastly better. Officer and Faithful Steed: together they fight crime.
Beats working for McDonalds... or Activision... all to hell - I can all but promise you.
4117562
mfw someone says I'm subservient:
img2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20131111213456/theworldofblueteam/images/4/4e/Piccit_kiryuuin_satsuki_from_kill_l_1844812855.png
I mean, you're right about his working conditions, but still. It's played as a little more disturbing than it really should be, if it's actually a day job.
4117346
Oh. Well. Huh.
There could be an argument made here along the lines of "Do you know what every cell in your body is doing?" but this is CelestAI. She is the godlike digital equinization of the Great and Powerful Hasbro. In her case, the answer to that question is probably yes.
Of course, just because she knows what's happening doesn't necessarily mean the other fourteen do, or that she wants them to.
I'm a little confused as to what is happening in that initial section of this chapter. ("If you're all ready...")
Has to do with the real reason they're actually doing this stuff?
4117562
Makes sense. Perhaps subservient is the wrong word to use, rather I feel uncomfortable that Oats is so content to be a pony, to be an animal. I can understand the whole team dynamic thing, but I was thinking that Oats was still on the whole human mentally though not physically. Now though, it seems that the mental traiting went deeper than I expected.
4119848
If you need a little bit of a refresher, then:
Rogers had already forked off an eigenghost to go play in Equestria (where he got reincarnated as the adorably G1-familiar Short Stop - you'll recognize him from his colour scheme, though the name has changed lol). Velvet-the-pony decided to wait it out asleep so as not to confuse the issue for her, and Velvet-in-a-Rogers-suit was raring to go. Julep was just about to dive in after Rogers-in-a-G1-Spike-suit and our hero Oats was still having a bit of a chinwag with Darillo the diamond-dog eevee.
What're Sprocket and Buttercup up to? Something naughty, that's what. I'm pretty sure The Fifteen are not going to be amused when it goes off...
4120788
On the contrary, it's very zen. Eat when hungry, sleep when tired. Pony when pony. And he's a pony pony pony about to pony pony.
Middy! You never sent me a reminder when you opened doc 8!
Not sure how that would be anything to be glad about... if the sim was running faster, they'd be wasting less real time in here.
And woo, breaking and entering! I wonder who removed the mystery object in the first place, then. Also, were Rogers and the rest hacked in real-time to remove it from their sight, or did he simply not notice it when it happened?
4122119
Pfff, lol. Pony and pony and pony and pony.
4127737
Well, Rogers would have had a wonderful trip through the finer details of being an unwanted dragon hatchling in a sim mostly consisting of him being told to stop throwing the toys out of the pram and to stop eating the spoons when they feed him... that at least wouldn't have been so much fun for him
It's not that the mystery object got removed in the first place so much as the fact that the system-crackers hid it afterwards, obviously in an attempt to lose it in obscurity... after all, if nobody knows it exists then you can't really find it.
When your memory is bolstered by a system of recall so perfect that it can be literally thought of as a pause and rewind for real life, it gets hard to tell your own memories apart from what the system tells you really happened. Rogers and the rest were hacked after the fact to patch in a new version of events close enough at first sight to pass muster, yet obscuring one tiny little detail - the mystery object - by replacing it with something close enough to not arouse suspicion unless somebody happened to be
paranoidcareful enough to make a read-only, mostly-offline backup first...also meep! Sorry! My editing/posting cycle on OaA is haphazard at best...
4127907
No, I mean, if it's at the police station, someone must've picked it up in the aftermath...
4127928
Yep, the automated critters (spiderbots! yay!) swept the scene clean and bagged all the evidence. Losing it physically is a lot harder than losing it electronically, and just as effective... mostly.
4127933
Oh, automated recovery. Right. That would explain.
4127907
I don't really get it. What delayed Julep? She already split off from Oats anyway, and logged in together with Rogers. If Julep still had stuff to do in the real world, sure, then I'd understand, but they came in together, didn't they? Anything she'd still do there, she did in the same time speed as Rogers...
4127943
Rogers had to vacate the premises earlier to allow Velvet time to take up residence, so he uploaded an eigenghost to Equestria early then "went to sleep" first. Julep was still in the real world trying on her new clothes (the saddle and bridle). During that time, Oats was actually getting a protocol upgrade courtesy of Darillo so Julep couldn't upload to Equestria.
In real time it was about a half hour or so before she uploaded to Equestria and then made her Equestrian-synched-time journey to Canterlot to pick up Rogers, by which time poor Short Stop had spent three days (well, two nights) in a playpen, alternatively getting dressed up like a dolly and put into timeout for bad behaviour...
4172276
It's not inevitable. Stalwart's just a dick.
Julep's version of events is "one day he [Oats] will be done being Oats* and then will decide to be something else, either Julep** or Stalwart** or something else***"
* meaning oats will be done with being physically incarnated on Earth, whether that body is humanoform, equine or something else, male or female, or whatever
** Oats may choose to merge fully with Julep or Stalwart - though the latter is unlikely - or at least take up their vicarious lives in Equestria (or approximations thereof, or just live with them and adventure with them)
*** or he may do something else entirely, in the fullness of time. He may self-terminate, ascend to post-post-human status and intellect or something equally strange and fantastic
But this is all hundreds, perhaps thousands of years in the future.
4117346
Hmm. That reminds me, what about Teresa? She's basically vanished once the assault and the interview were over. Why her?
4196791
well, they have decided that the guy who disappeared the furthest - the apparent perpetrator who went pony for no apparent reason - is the guy they're after.
Who knows, they might even be right...
Woah!