First Pony View

by Suomibrony

Consarn Crippling Personality Flaws

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

Chapter 13
Consarn Crippling Personality Flaws

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“Rosy, hon . . . What would I do if I were in a body that's not mine? Why do you ask that?”

‘Okay, okay, okay! She's asking warily, whispering inquiringly, not doubtingly. I can't be hasty. Have to test the waters . . . for impurities? Never mind! I have to restore my rationality real quick-like. It's wavering right now . . . but coming along. Carefully asking, thinking, a shred of calmness . . . careful, careful . . .’ I sobbed out a few coughs before finding my voice. “J-just answer . . . p-p-please,” I requested squeakily. The grand effort almost collapsed my head onto her back. Or withers. Shoulder? Whatever . . . I hoped from the bottom of my heart that she would know what to do if she were in my situation. Or if she knew somepony who had been. I needed advice. Some guidance. Help. Also, a caveat: if I started to spill out everything, Embee would think I was a hysterical crazybrain, and then it would be game over forever! She was silent, not answering my question. That was bad . . . increasingly bad . . . It was becoming harder to assure myself I was doing the right thing. Retreating into my disguise couldn't protect me from my fears and suspicions anyway. In fact, doing that would only make things worse! Was I rational yet?

“I, uh,” Embee began abruptly. I surreptitiously let out the air I had unknowingly trapped in my lungs. She caressed my back to moderately consoling effect. “I would do whatever I can to find out why I'm in somepony else's body,” she said softly. Okay . . . Good! That was a fairly smart and obvious—and relieving—answer. It also implied she had a fair idea what to do if her mind were swapped . . . assuming this was a mind swap. If not, then it was likely my true body had effectively become a corpse! Oh no, no no nononono! Perish those horribly pessimistic thoughts! I didn't want my hopes to die . . . So this was a mind swap! Embee had an idea! Act! But carefully . . .

I drew in a couple of snotty breaths to bolster myself, identifying the scents of dahlia and coffee. “Would you . . . Would you seek help?” I asked frailly. I was a shakily-breathing, clingy wreck, but I had to maintain a sensible mind. Somehow . . .

“Of course I would,” she replied with more certainty.

She was my support. The only one I had. In fact, I'd probably collapse like an empty sack if she let go. “Even when . . .” My jaw was moving, but no sound came out. The stakes at play were dissuading me from proceeding. If Embee thought the truth was nothing but hooey . . . No! Hiding was over! “Even when you . . .” Only a pitifully tiny peep? I had to try harder! “Even when you don't know how to get back to yours, and you . . . you fear nopony will believe you?” I sounded tearful but at least got words out of my mouth, nervously weaving and prodding my limbs in and around her feathery counterparts. Pliable plumes that I couldn't properly feel or grasp. No fingers gently running through them . . . It was too easy to feel forlorn, but at least I siphoned some extra comfort from her. She was warm, yet I shivered like I had bathed in arctic water.

“Rosy? Is that what . . . Oh, ehm . . .” she trailed off with a few stammers, the caressing stopping cold. Her response was a bad omen, and I compulsively wrapped her wing between my appendages. That would stop me from shattering! Maybe . . .

“Hon?”

Frightened. Couldn't breathe. Seconds ticking.

“Rosy?”

“U-uhh, y-y-yes, Emb-b-bee?” I replied apprehensively. This could be it! The breakthrough after which everything would turn for the better. Or for the worse! For the loony house! No no no, had to stay calm! Calm calm calm clam clam clam . . . clam? Bivalve mollusk!

“You . . .” Her solitary word was so packed with confusion that picturing her vacant expression was a no-brainer. I pictured that? Good! My mind was still working like a thing that works! “That's, uh, um . . .” Her wings shifted under my forelegs. Actually, her left wing barely moved since I had it snared between my limbs. “Hey, do you think you can let go for a moment?”

‘Let go?’ A powerful chill snaked up my spine, making my ears stand on end. My teeth clenched as I abated my breath. My eyes opened but were shut in short order by searing tears. ‘Sit on my own and support half of my weight on my horribly weird digits? Is she out of her f-f-fu-feu-feathery mind!’ I noted my euphemism, which I abstained from investigating by considering Embee's gently spoken suggestion instead. The fact that I was thinking with some degree of eloquence implied I was recovering. “Uhh . . . I-I g-guess I c-can,” I mumbled. “No, hold on wait Ichangedmymind,” I hastily corrected in my enervated voice; the intrinsic purpose of my limbs became apparent when its hardest part graced her fuzzy skin. “I mean I mean uh, I have a much better idea.” I tried to will a smile, but failed. I drew a breath that sounded not unlike a prolonged sob.
“Wecouldjustkeeponhuggingbecausethisisthebesthugeverandyoudon'twantthistoenddoyou?”
I blabbered, hoping to guilt her into never ever letting me go!

A small titter came from her. “Don't worry, hon,” she assured, probably not understanding what I had said. She sounded a tad strained, too. “Why don't I let go first, and you just follow nice and easy, okay?” No wait wait wait what!? Was she tempting me? I'd chain myself to her if I could! “Just tell me to stop if you—”

“Stop,” a high-pitched yelp squeezed its way up my throat as I hastily tightened my clumsy appendages together.

“Ah-ahah-alright,” she said coarsely, an unsure laugh in her tone. “Aow.” Her pained reaction confused me, but my distress prohibited further analysis. Recognizing that I was distressed must've meant I was regaining my senses. She tried to wiggle her wing free, but it had become even more constricted than before. “I'm very sorry, I was too hasty.” I felt her sides expand beneath my limbs, then contract when she let it out as a soft but long sigh. Her relaxation had a similar effect on me. There was something I was missing, something I should understand as clear as day . . . “So, uh, how long do you need, hon?” she asked, the wing I was tightly clutching slackening by what little it could. My brain kicked into gear and evaluated the time needed to elapse . . . by providing me an imaginary calendar; I promptly dismissed the unrealistic chronograph.

“I don't know,” I replied defeatedly, my ears slumping. I knew I couldn't . . . No. I wanted to say this. “I know I can't embrace you forever, but this is so wonderfully comforting, I want to believe I can. You can't imagine how much I value your help.” I was nearly thrown for a speech-halting curve by my delicate voice. Any higher and quieter, and I would've been whispering peepy gibberish. Was that how female voices worked, or was this specific to me? It didn't matter.

Embee remained silent, and I was too glum for thoughts; I let her presence calm my mind. After a moment of relative silence, she gave me a light stroke. “Well, I'm glad I can help, but as much as I want to, I won't do anything before you do.” In contrast to her statement, her wedged wing again vainly pursued its freedom, probably due to an involuntary muscle spasm. Oh my, that was it! Her feathery limbs were likely delicate, and my extreme clinginess was paining them. That she was sacrificing her own comfort bestowed me with gratitude . . . and shame.

I tried to untangle my limbs, but they refused to obey as I was short on stolidness. “I only need to prepare, that's that,” I whispered, doing my best not to sound reluctant, or let on that the idea of placing weight on my extremities was disquieting by itself. All of a sudden, the fact that I was currently colling a pony—a pegasus no less—reached my higher consciousness. I was hugging a winged equine! How . . . How ineffably exceptional! Now, I simply had to protract the hug for a little bit longer. Just a teensy bit. The warmth transpiercing her pleasant fur was so nice that I could just forget all concerns—

“Alright, ready when you are, hon,” Embee stated innocuously, cancelling my nascent trance and tiny smile.

Her spasming, twisted wing strongly urged me to quit being injuriously selfish, so . . . self-aimed pep talk commence: ‘I must and can sit on my own! I have the fortitude for it! If not now, then as soon as I do what must be done. So . . . So . . . Fortune favors the bold, and no time like the present! Three, two, one . . . Go!’

With gritted teeth, I released my interlocked limbs, freeing her wing. Displaying even more courage, I concluded that advancing to the next stage without delay was in order. ‘Okay, this will not be too bad, it's not too bad, it's not too bad, not bad at all, not bad, not bad, not bad, not bad,’ I chanted as I lowered my forelegs. ‘Right! Legs on the floor! Four of them. Meaning: no hands. Like that's new! I've been robbed of an essentiality . . . but didn't I put this fact behind me already? Why has it renewed? Come on, I can deal with this!’ I fiercely suppressed an urge to pull my forelegs up. I was so busy denying commands to actuate nonexistent digits that I scarcely noticed Embee taking her limbs off me.

The same didn't apply when her head and mane gently brushed against mine, making me aware of how nonabrasive my hairy cheek was. However, my thoughts were quickly diverted elsewhere by my cognitive cacophony . . . which I had to keep in check! ‘Rationalizing things could help! I'm suffering from the aftereffects of a severe nervous and emotional breakdown and am in shock, but just for a few more minutes and then I'll be fairly fine . . . I think,’ I attempted to assure myself, anxiously anticipating my body to apportion anaesthetics into my agonizing anterior appendages.

I sat with strength gained through plain determination, but the unreasonable inklings of abandonment refused to scatter. Opening my eyes at long last, I confirmed I wasn't alone; Embee's standing—and blurry—form was at an arm's reach. The distance seemed impossible to bridge; I yearned to return to her pleasant embrace with the hope it would do all the necessary talking and convincing. If only things were that easy. I was currently so hypersensitive to all things equine about myself that I was losing the stamina to resist and keep my head lucid . . . could I pass out?

“Ouch,” Embee groaned quietly, impelling me to get a grip on myself; she was gazing displeasedly at her slightly-opened left wing.

I frowned guiltily. “I'm . . . I'm sorry,” I whispered so quietly I wasn't sure I was speaking at all. “I didn't mean to hurt you, but I got absorbed in—” With a tiny grunt, she fully unfurled both feathery limbs. The sight caught me off guard; I squeezed my eyes hard to clear my vision so I wouldn't miss any details of this close encounter of the winged kind. She tested her starboard feather limb, and I gazed at its bewildering oscillations. Repeating the moves with the left made it jolt at its apex, eliciting a wince from her. “Buh . . .” I breathed unintelligently, my attentive eyes obediently tracking the spectacular attraction as its moves began to gradually smooth out and her pained flinches cessated. Then she turned her attention to me with a small sigh. I was supposed to say something. “I'm sorry,” the words rolled out of my mouth like a pair of marbles.

“What? Oh, no.” She shook her head. “You don't need to be sorry, hon,” she said softly, her wings tenting, as if trying to imitate an F4U Corsair. Needless to say, amazement trumped remorse. “If anything, I'm the one who should be sorry.” Her mane swung about as she gave her wings a hasty glance before sticking her muzzle into her left wing like a preening bird.

“Whuh?” I inquired while she gingerly retracted her wings. Why did she poke her wing, and why was she sorry? I had hurt her, not her who I had hurt . . . her? Focus! No, not the car! I blinked my eyes twice to cease the cerebral auto show and reinstate my cognition.

“You see, pulling a stretcher through the gusts developed quite a cramp, but I thought it wouldn't be a problem,” Embee said as she raised her foreleg and momentarily tilted her head—pony body language, I presumed cursorily. “Unfortunately, when you accidentally twisted up my wing, it was like being jabbed with a sharp stick.” Her ears flipped down; I noted that mine were facing her. “I had to stand up and stretch my wings a bit, but I chose to grit my teeth and wait for you to relax instead.” Her smile matched the apologetic tone. “Once again, I'm sorry. I hope I haven't upset you, hon.”

“No, uh, I'm . . . It's fine. You haven't,” I said in a powerless tone, flashing an honest smile. Embee's ears flapped up. “Thanks for clearing things up. I, um . . .” I glanced down at the moderately reflective floor. “I didn't realize why you suddenly asked to let go, and . . .” I slouched a little. “Maybe you were a bit vague?” Was I implying she had made an error? I should soften the impact quickly. “But I was too distressed, so my interpretation was impaired, and, and . . . and . . .” What was I saying? I couldn't think well. Confused. Why? Not sure. Just confused.

“It's alright. You don't need to feel bad,” Embee assured tenderly. A small smile on my face signified I was regaining my senses. “Speaking of which, are you feeling any better?”

“Humh . . .” I vacillated at answering the difficult question, thoughtlessly dragging a forehoof on the wet floor. For a moment, grief reverberated within me, but dissipated just as swiftly—I still had no keys for this biological prison. “Adequately better,” I said quietly, inclining my sights to my hoof as I lifted it. I blinked, and I saw a hand; another blink, and the feminine hoof was back. A vision, I realized. A hoof's location didn't correspond to a hand anyway. I was wistful for my fingers, but on the flipside, magic was probably a sufficient substitute. Bipedalism, however . . .

“Adequately? That's great to hear,” Embee tried to instill positivity. “On the other hoof, I'm still worried for you.” She had tried . . .

“I appreciate the concern,” I said, relinquishing the sarcastic tone for listless sincerity. The limb I gazed at poignantly reminded me how physically dehumanized I was. Nothing I could do about that but absorb it, accept it, and then deal with it. Things would improve soon. Hopefully.

“To get back on track, if you don't mind, you mentioned waking up in somepony's body?” she asked, her right foreleg lifting. I glimpsed it meeting her jaw, but the floor's reflective surface took precedence—whose brilliant idea was it to use shiny floor material? I had almost seen an impression of my unfamiliar visage, which was probably similar to Embee's. Everypony seemed to look the same if it weren't for the mane and colors—and number of eyelashes. “Can you tell me what that was about, hon?” she inquired further, her hoof upsetting the puddle between us.

Dozens of pony expressions flitted through my mind, all of them obviously cartoonish. Were they real, there could've been a terrifying chance they'd replace the faces of those I knew. “Yeah,” I muttered absently, affixing on my raised limb again. I saw the fur yield, exposing human-like skin and structure—another anatomically incongruous vision. I was looking at phalanxes, not whatever an arm was made of.

Anyhow, I was avoiding the situation; I hadn't even thought on how I'd break the big news to Embee. That . . . I had been dislocated across the dimensional borders into the body of a pre-existing mare, my selfdom was in a flux, and I was without a guarantee that either could be undone . . . or even that the truth wouldn't be dismissed as a severe delusion symptomatic of psychosis. No, telling all in one go would be too much for her to digest. In comparison, seeing my equine visage or applying pressure on four hooves should be the least of my concerns.

With slack lips on my inclined muzzle and a metric ton of doubt, I aimed my eyes at Embee. “So, uh, yes, what I, um . . .” I needed to expose the core of my problem right now, but a discouraging fear of mutual mistrust wrenched my carrot-filled stomach. “Hold on a sec.” Levelling my head, I cast a look to my right, from where I began scanning to the left. Hopefully, some of the room's features would serendipitously bestow me with an impeccable solution.

‘Black and white picture of the hospital; wall-length windows behind a warmly-smiling Embee, whose expression I mimic so she won't worry too much; an unremarkable doorway of the redundantly unremarkable kind; the unadorned small rectangle of reflective horror, aka a mirror; the adorably pink brewer that every insecure "masculine" male will denounce and hate instinctually and . . . seems like I'm not getting any ideas. Darn.’ With a sigh of mixed despondency and exasperation, my vision fell to the remains of the water Cessna, whereupon I felt a pang of compunction. ‘I'm in an awful dither. At least I regained my sense of humor, which is a sign of recovery, I think.’

“What is it, hon?” I heard Embee ask; there was a glint of encouragement in her eyes, but otherwise she looked concerned. I bit my tongue, avoiding staring at her. “Please, don't be afraid to speak your mind.” She was right: I shouldn't be afraid. Alas, validating the truth required concrete evidence, which I sorely lacked. Everything rested on how I expressed myself, and I wasn't confident in my abilities.

Dropping the upheld limb with a tiny splat, my ears signaled . . . Wait, splat? My ears rebounded. “Embee?” I said toward the soaked floor with epiphany in my tone. Hearing an attentive hum, I steeled myself and lifted my head. “Can I have a rag or towel, please?” I whispered politely.

“Oh, uh?” She tilted her head in bemusement, a small smile appearing a moment later. “Sure. The cupboards may have something. Let me take a look.”

‘I guess she didn't expect that response,’ I thought as she faced a cupboard to my left, befuddlement on her face. ‘Hmm . . . How about that? I'm looking at her drenched tail and what surrounds it . . .’ She used her mouth to ajar the door, then pushed it all the way open with her foreleg. ‘I guess to some that could be attractive, but I don't feel the much feared involuntary excitement.’ Relief creased my lips. ‘Well, this is outstanding! The distinct lack of sexual attraction means that my libido doesn't associate a mare's behind with a hu—’

“There's a floorcloth here,” Embee announced, casting a look at me over her back. My interrupted thoughts regrouped hastily, bringing to mind that while my primal part was moderately pleased by furtively appraising human female behinds, my intellect never wasted a second to sternly condemn my vileness to beshaming effect. “Will that do?” She indicated a folded white something on the cupboard's upper board.

I blinked my ruminations away, the saline remnants of dry tears stinging around my eyes. “Yes,” I affirmed, renewing my smile. “The floorcloth will do perfectly.” Briefly, I envisioned Embee clothed in one of those hoodies that are long enough to go past the hips; were I a human female, I'd wear that to protect my curves from immoral eyes as well.

“Alright.” She gracefully plucked the cloth with her teeth and brought it to me. Without so much as a thought, I clamped the basic cloth between my hooves. When Embee released the cloth and it fell over my extremities, I was left staring at the assembly in a flummox; should she not have asked me to use my arcane skill? Some kind of song started to play, but Embee drew my attention away from it. “May I ask what you need it for?” she queried while backing a little, puzzlement creasing her brows.

I tipped my forelimbs indicatively at the puddle. “I should clean up the mess I made, shouldn't I?” I explained as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Ah—what?” Embee almost leaped out of her skin. She promptly shook her head lightly, casting off her befuddlement in favor of a mellow expression. “Oh no, you don't have to,” she said in a matching tone. “Let me take care of it.” Her departure from amenability surprised me.

“Um . . .” She had thrown a wrench into my works; I had to yank it out before they fell into disrepair. I overcame my dismay as she took a small step closer, presumably to take the cloth for herself. “I just feel it's my job, not yours,” I objected timidly. My frown, sitting posture, and joined hooves must have made me look repentant, which might've been amusing had the situation not been serious.

Embee studied me for a second, then reshaped her lips with amiability. “Rosy, I admire devotion and sense of responsibility, but I can also sense that you're stressed.” How did she know I was stressed? I hadn't reaffirmed I was. “Why don't I clean up while you relax, and then maybe you can tell me what's troubling you, okay?” A fair suggestion, and tempting . . . “Can I please have the cloth?” She showed no signs of hostility; her intentions were arguably commendable and her demeanor affable . . . but I had to stay on course.

I unfettered the cloth, placing my forehooves on it as soon as it landed. “I have to clean up this puddle, okay?” I insisted, my voice devoid of the courage that had levered me onto all fours. Not a moment later, my hypersensitivity acted up, causing me to heave air and upset my balance. Despite the debilitating flood of tactile and mental feelings, I kept myself upright. A quick glance confirmed that the cloth was still trapped underneath my hooves. “It's really important that I do,” I continued in a nauseated tone. Sparked by a sudden inspiration, I stomped my forehoof. The sharp influx of inhuman sensation exacerbated my unease. Exhaling as I shook my head, I performed the move again with the addition of a listless grunt. Three successive stomps later, I felt like I couldn't breathe, but I couldn't stop there. Acting on impulse, I pushed myself onto my hind legs, my wits a moment too late to get their say.

‘This is a terribly bad idea!’ I thought as I folded my forelegs to my body.

“Rosy!” Embee finally surmounted her puzzlement. “What are you doing?” A combination of incredulity and worry was on her countenance, horror on mine.

“Something utterly stupid,” I replied through unmoving jaws.

I maintained my bipedal stance by continually performing tiny hops, though I was only postponing the inevitable. Pinkie might've been able to stand upright with relative ease, but not me. Apparently I wasn't a perfect analogue of the cartoon rendition, and apparently Embee was the perfect rendition of agog bewilderment. Unless I tumbled onto my back or side, I'd have to let my oversensitive forehooves take the brunt of the impact.

My heart squeezed with anxiety; every passing fraction of a second made the difference between human and pony anatomy excruciatingly apparent. Perturbingly enough, I was sure the muscles articulating my hind legs felt different, too. Same for my spine, pelvis, and . . . As insignificant as the issue should have been by now, the emptiness between the legs resurfaced. It was unbalancing—in more ways than one.

My time was up; gravity got its wish. A strained yelp escaped my throat, and my face warped in consternation. I fell onto the right side of my hip with a grunt, my shoulder on the same side following a split-second later and knocking the wind out of me. The muscles in my neck did their duty, saving my head from an undamped impact. “Oh no! Are you alright?!” Embee's exclamation punched through my daze. I saw her hoof reaching out to me, both wings flared open in panic.

“Sort of, yeah, don't worry,” I replied, gazing at the sideways world, too defeated to care that my ear was squished between my head and the floor. Even my respiration was ready to throw the towel in. That's what I got for trying to attain an essential human characteristic in a pony's body. My eyes misted up as I began to realize the ramifications of my incapacitation. Nonetheless, I scrounged some strength to raise my head and offer Embee a short-term smile. “I'm not physically injured,” I attested feebly, sniffling. My left hind leg was crossed over my right—that didn't feel right. The former's hoof scuffing the latter's hide wasn't any more pleasing, but slightly adjusting my legs was better than letting them be.

Embee sighed sympathetically, her wings retracting. “That stunt of yours really worried me.”

I weighed whether to snark or be serious; the latter won in nanoseconds. “I know you're worried. It's natural to be. I'd be. Well, I am. Anyhow, my injury's just . . .” I looked down at my sprawled-out forelegs. My slender forelegs with arguably shapely hooves . . . “Perfectly encompassing,” I finished with a lump in my throat, my feminine voice exacerbating the estranging isolation. Forming a truce with my voice had been a cold comfort when I was poignantly aware that very little of me was permeating this organic cage.

“An encompassing injury? So you did hurt yourself?” Embee inquired, apparently lost on what I had meant.

“I'm not sore or hurt in the sense that'd require bandages or the like, but I'm suffering nonetheless,” I bemoaned lethargically, glancing at the cloth in the puddle about one meter away. The fur beneath my eyes absorbed superfluous water as I recalled that my current posture echoed my appearance on the gravel road. Hesitantly, I twisted myself longitudinally, simultaneously pulling my forelimbs in tandem, starting with my right. My hind legs, moderately retracted as they were, jutted away from my body. Thus, I was akin to the letter L when all was set and done. My imagination pictured a pair of colorful bracelets above the coronet band of my right hoof. Was it my imagination? Might've been a memory. I couldn't tell. Did I even want to know?

“Rosy?” My right ear spasmed at Embee's gentle call.

I turned my low-held head toward her. “Yes?” I peeped submissively, rolling my eyes up to meet hers.

“What are you suffering from? What's going on with you?” she implored, placing herself prone; I greatly appreciated that equality. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

Besides unquestionably believing every word I said? That was only wishful thinking. I was incapable of blurting out the cause of my agony, but she could push me into a compromising corner. “Have you noticed anything unusual about my behavior recently?” I whispered dourly, hoping she'd get a clue.

“Well . . .” She hesitated. “You've been repeatedly distracted by your thoughts, became agitated by a song, made a miniature airplane out of water, smashed it abruptly before breaking into tears, mentioned waking up in another body, insisted on cleaning the puddle, then reared up . . .” Confusion rivaling her concern, her jaw tried to mouth out words. Shame burned within me. She needed answers, and I was obliged to provide.

“Yeah . . . yeah.” I looked at her folded forelegs; replicating her posture would bestow me with immense discomfort. “What's going on with me is that . . .” I trailed off with a sigh, eyes and ears drooping. Was I attempting to shy away? Was I still a lousy coward who had misgivings about Embee's trustworthiness? Just to show that I wasn't backing down, I placed my insensate hoof on my foreleg and tried to coil the former around the latter. It didn't work, but the sensations incentivized me. “I really thought I was ready to tell you, but my reluctance is irrationally unyielding,” I explained quietly. Or in other words, I was . . . had been a coward. “My only option was to break myself into submission, if you will.” The smile I tried to show was precluded by my indomitable misery.

“Break yourself?” Embee said in stunned disbelief. “What do you mean by that?”

I sniffled, but my tear flow was already ceasing. “Acta non verba.” My smile finally got its fugacious limelight, but Embee was at a loss for words. “Confused, Embee? No need to be. It means: actions, not words. So . . . what better way to demonstrate than by overexerting my fragile tolerance? I would've scrubbed the floor for . . .” I paused to cast another glance at the cloth, imagining myself wiping the puddle slavishly until I'd achieved the debilitating result . . . Or become desensitized to my hooves. “I don't know how long,” I said lackadaisically, refocusing on her. “But hey.” I tilted my head. “Looks like I discovered a poignant shortcut: attempt to stand on two legs and let the outcome do the trick.” I tried to chuckle, but I simply didn't have it in me. I felt like I had been demoted to a good-for-nothing animal, albeit one possessing speech, notable acumen, and—most graciously—an innate ability substituting for my lost hands.

“A shortcut to do the trick? I'm sorry, hon, but I still don't follow.” Embee's commiseration and concern was true. Maybe. How could I know for sure?

“It's fine. I probably don't make much sense right now,” I said torpidly. “I'm confused, exhausted, stressed, crestfallen, anxious, discontent . . .” I itemized, nodding my head minorly at each word; a heavy breath signaled the end of it. “I can't accurately detect everything I'm afflicted with.”

“What's causing those?” Embee whispered. Looking into her eyes, I got the impression that all the info I had given to her, verbal or otherwise, was currently being evaluated. I took a moment to review the very recent events: lacking the willpower to tell my woes, I was so close to making a breakthrough when, sadly, the twisting of her wing caused an interruption, and the subsequent end of the embrace renewed my constraining cowardice. I had to employ an extreme method to wear myself down, yet I was currently avoiding the unavoidable by almost forcibly reviewing my recent . . . Never mind!

“What's causing those?” I huffed irately. “Being beset by an unrequested form that I disassociate with,” I confessed, regret striking me a second too late. If I were a plane, I had passed V1.

Embee tilted her head, and my ears drooped. “Are you saying that you don't identify with your body?” I sensed incredulity in her voice and carrot in her breath.

“Yes, I am,” I replied resignedly. I couldn't deny that exposing the truth had felt good, but there was very little of that relief now.

“Because it's not your body?” Her tone was uncertain.

Suspicion of an unfavorable result urged me to apply the brakes and reverse engine thrust, but that was out of the question. I shook my head, closing my eyes as I said, “It's not my body.”

Thus far, Embee had maintained eye contact; now she slowly surveyed me from face to tail and back. I felt like I was being regarded as a pitiable lusus naturae. That notion, and the accidental actuation of my tail, made my head drop a little with a wince. “You . . . You have awoken in a body that's not yours?” Her question educed a nod and a glum murmur of agreement from me. “Oh, I, that's . . .”

I couldn't say for sure, but there might've been emerging realization in her voice. “That's the truth I've held secret since we met. I'm in the wrong body, don't know how it happened, and I'm clueless on how to undo it.” My situation sounded so disheartening that my voice sank to a mumble. “And just to get this out of the way, I used to be . . . I'm a human, too.” The weight of Embee's potential response was so intense, I felt like I'd snap if she so much as hinted at turning on me.

“What? You're . . . a human?” she said intermittently. She then pressed a hoof to her forehead. “This is . . .”

‘Unbelievable?’ That was it then: Vr achieved. I had to rotate—to take the plane into the air. No turning back, no reason to hold back!

“Well, frankly, I don't expect you to believe me! I mean, mind swapped with a pony? Psh!” I overturned a hoof, casting a momentary look toward the ceiling. “That's just plain outlandish, stuff of fiction, impossible, unheard of, crazy talk. Take your pick! If I hadn't been mysteriously subjected to it myself, I wouldn't believe it, and I didn't, so I convinced myself I was having the most tremendous lucid dream ever. That was the most realistic assumption, and it kept me going quite well. After all, dreams are finite and can be broken with self-inflicted pain. I presumed that if the dream voided its appeal, I could bonk my head and everything would revert to normal. Well, my dream unquestionably voided its appeal when I smashed onto a rock by the riverside and nearly broke a rib. I assure you, absolutely nothing has been normal ever since. You can't imagine the immense horror that came when I realized I was unable to escape a body I never asked for. As close as I was to blinking out of existence under the wheels of a late nineties Audi, I greatly appreciate that I'm still breathing. This body's not mine, you see, and snuffing it out would've been an unforgivable misdeed I'd never be able to live with. Not that I would've been around to feel terrible about it.” I pushed up a humorless chuckle. “Anyhow, this being a mind swap, I think I can safely say I'm not selfish in wanting my familiar form back. My familiar life, actually. Two lives are at stake here, and you can help restore them both. I certainly don't have any ideas what to do myself, and I'm pretty sure you wouldn't ever wish to condemn somepony to live my life, just like you wouldn't want me to live the life of somepony I'm not. While I don't have any proof that you are, I suspect you're not giving much thought to what I say, but rather realistically, speculate what kind of psychosis would delude me to think I'm entrapped in somepony else's body. So, um . . .” I bit my lip; the combination of dwindling hope, a premonition that my talk was counterproductive, and speaking extensively with my debatably selfhood-precluding voice was taking its toll on me. “Just make your conclusion, and I'll . . .” It was becoming very hard to keep my voice steady, but I continued defiantly. “I'll humbly, albeit very reluctantly, accept it because I don't have evidence to substantiate the truth with, whereas your profession not only places you above me, but also has bestowed you with the necessary credentials, expertise, and authority to decisively dismiss my poorly presented assertion.” I ran out of stamina; closing my moistened eyes, I crashed my head over my forelegs with a muffled groan.

‘Yeah, she's going to dismiss everything, just . . . just like my . . . those who are . . . were my friends! They deflected my requests to stop the hurtful jests with some variation of “can't you take a joke, dude?”’ How could my alleged friends do that? Did they not see my increasing anxiety? Couldn't they discern right from wrong? What was my relation to them? An in-name-only friend as a docile and submissive designated driver? I did that service out of principle; it was either sober me or drunk Benny behind the wheel of his gaudy Civic. At least I didn't have to drive that abused automobile after I got my own, but I think their drunken presence offended the ancient econobox, too. Wait, why was I even thinking of this irrelevant garbage? Coping mechanism, maybe? An escape from the ongoing stressors? The stress? That was it! The stress. It was messing up my faculties. I shouldn't think of the bad times. I should think of the good times! I had to discover a go-to topic to soothe myself, something incontrovertibly awesome that wouldn't make me think of a life I may not return to. I needed an optimal passport to . . . My car in its designated parking spot with its windshield wipers moving! Hold on? Why were they moving? I was perfectly certain I had visited my parents—my real human parents—yesterday and it hadn't rained. On further study, the perspective being from outside and before the car, at a height of one meter, not to mention the distinct feeling that I was a pony, tipped me off that this precise memory wasn't mine. There was something significant about the memory, maybe because it was related to my decision to purchase an endemic human-made transportation for—

“Rosy?” Upon hearing Embee's tentative call, my ears and eyes arose and opened, respectively. Reality was reinserted as I segregated the memory, but I felt a twinge of related sadness right before my despondency squashed it beyond identification.

“Here comes the dreaded, or I guess, deserved verdict,” I drawled drearily, letting impulse decide what I said and did. “So what am I? Loony, a basket case, bonkers, some other definition? How about clinically insane? That sounds medically accurate, doesn't it? Maybe I'll come to like it eventually?” My head felt like lead, allowing me only a few degrees of movement towards Embee; I caught a glimpse of her seemingly perpetual concern. Or confusion. Perhaps my erratic conduct was going so far above her head it was knocking a few weather satellites out of orbit. “Hey, I know I'm not supposed to offer advice, but I really don't care anymore, so remember: opinions and feelings influenced by my conduct must not affect your judgement.” I tried and failed to sound nonchalant; I was too sullen to alter my phlegmatic expression and the associated enervated intonation. “It's part of your profession to be perfectly fair and impartial, yet consoling in some manner which may not even be honest, I guess, and just . . .” My speech reduced into mumbles before fading it out entirely.

Time seemed to tick very slowly, and I wasn't thinking much. It was a little unusual, but I was exhausted. A long, gentle sigh emitted from my left. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but you said you woke up in a body that's not yours?” Embee's whisper sounded cautious, perhaps sympathetic. Maybe it was just feigned. Whatever.

“You could say I woke up in a nightmare that doesn't end,” I defined dismally, staring emptily at the wall ahead. I was a little surprised that she hadn't caught some detail from my rant, or assured everything would be fine. Perhaps she sensed the latter's futility, opting to save it for when I wouldn't potentially spurn her helpfulness. Upon that thought, I realized I still held some hope against hope. Raising my head by a small measure, I looked toward her. “You know how I've behaved recently?” I asked.

“I do.” She inched herself a little closer. A supposition of dubitable veracity dawned on me: compared to a male's, my female voice had better odds at appealing to Embee's conscience if I sounded vulnerable and apologetic.

I started with an unintended stammer before I got my act on. “I'm really sorry about the ranting, Embee. I'm just in debilitating pain. Not physical, mind you, but emotional and mental pain. I have so little faith in being taken seriously that . . . that . . .” I paused, unsure how to amend the damage done by my sourness. Shame pulled my visual focus to the corner of the wall diagonally afront of me. “Even when every fiber of me was screaming and pleading for help, I was using any means necessary to keep the mind swap a secret.” With a sigh, I let my head rest. “I'm afraid I've only made things worse for myself . . . I messed up the delivery of all the vital info, maybe irredeemably, but I can't stress enough that what's happened to me is . . . should be by all accounts impossible, yet it really has happened,” I lamented, still minutely incredulous that I had been separated from the inseparable, but the plethora of incessant tactile sensations decisively countered my disbelief. Speaking of countering . . . “Embee?” I mumbled, letting my eyes close.

“Yes, hon?” she replied innocuously. Innocuously enough.

My tongue was in all likelihood as silvery as a half-century old carcass of a forgotten vehicle in the woods; however, trying to learn what was coming could lead to new methods at convincing her. I wasn't going to give up. Not yet. “Are you performing a preliminary diagnosis, perhaps considering disassociative disorder symptomatic of some form of psychosis?” I ventured dispiritedly.

“Those aren't related, hon. And no, I'm not diagnosing you with any kind of mental disorder,” she said, her gentle tone inflected with subtle firmness.

“Why not?” I queried, puzzled.

“Diagnosing you with a mental illness isn't something I'm qualified to do, not to mention I'd never forgive myself for crushing your spirits.” Something touching my foreleg called for my attention. “I'm just a basic paramedic whose shift actually ended about twenty minutes ago. My job is to treat injuries and console those in need,” she continued as I gazed dumbly at the source of the pressure: it was her aquamarine hoof. “And it looks like you're in dire need of the latter.”

I stared in wonder at her peaceable smile. A feeling of tranquility was radiating from her hoof, and somehow I was 72% certain it was her magic at play—although a pegasus with magic was preposterous. I wanted her to explain this, but a greater issue took precedence. “In that case . . .” I started, but I paused to review her statement. Her capability to conclusively diagnose me—a threatening obstacle in itself—was now out of the picture, which meant I could strive for much needed closure; this debacle had run for too long. “I must admit that I have nearly insurmountable trust issues which made me act like a passive-aggressive nimrod, and I apologize if I disrespected you.” I probably had disrespected her. “So please, hear me out. I really, really need to trust you.” Her mellow smile was replaced with a look of seriousness. If she had something to say, I didn't give her the chance. “In fact, I demand raw, undiluted, unrefined honesty, so no hidden meanings, no smooth talking, not even white lies. Absolute honesty.” Despite her placating touch, I struggled to keep myself together; I had demanded her to be unforgivingly straightforward, which was crazy times ten. “Can you do that?”

“I can,” she affirmed solemnly. “I give you my word that you can trust me.” My human side cried for a hand as it tried to stop me from laying my phalanxes over Embee's pastern. She glanced at this briefly with bemusement before her eyes returned to my now pleading look.

“Okay, so . . .” I swallowed. “When I say that I'm in the wrong body, do you really believe me?” I asked, my faint voice almost giving out. The final seconds were upon me. I'd soon know if I had scored a trustworthy confidant . . . or was left to toil alone with my hardships. I couldn't breathe.

Embee opened her mouth, and a cold wave swept through my bones.
“I do.”

“Mwgh?” I squeaked, tension leaving me with cosmic velocity. My heart and body were aflutter, but a tiny speck of doubt remained. “But . . . but . . . I-I don't have anything to back the truth with, I've . . .” A strange cough cut me short; I didn't let it stop me. “I've—” The same cough came again. What was wrong with me? I couldn't stop it. Wait, no. I wasn't coughing. Diffusing vision, convulsing breaths . . . I didn't believe it . . . I had begun weeping.

“Listen, hon. It's okay, everything is okay,” Embee said, her voice reassuringly void of treachery. “I believe you. Well, to be very honest with you, I can't deny or confirm what you said, but I'll take your words as true.” Her unrequested clarification, while a little worrisome, adhered to the honesty criteria. “You don't have to be scared anymore. I'm here for you, hon.” I tried to express my gratitude, but combating my emotions was next to impossible; only whimpers and hiccups passed through my trachea. “It's okay to cry, let it all out. Don't keep your emotions bottled up,” Embee said, having caught my attempts to limit my overflowing sensitivity. I was about to ask if I was crying like a female, but I let the topic wither once I presumed my voice was simply fostering a suspicion, and I didn't want to ruin this immeasurably wonderful moment anyhow.

As I lay there crying unabashedly, I realized I had almost completely ignored the radio and its pony host. ‘. . . my second year here. That's, I think . . . almost half as long as the first ponies here. Anywho—or is that anyhow? No idea. My teacher probably would. Right, right, a song coming up about . . . living in submarines?’

Aside from the upbeat song, a silence had descended upon the room. I was shaking from the abating adrenaline. Her hoof was on my left forelimb, and my right one was still on hers. She wasn't speaking. Nothing needed to be said. It was a comforting wait.

When my tear shedding finally ceased, I was so drained even smiling was difficult. “I can't tell you how happy and relieved I am.” I sounded like Fluttershy with a cold. Not that I knew what she'd sound like if she were to have a cold.

“You already have, hon,” she pointed out. From the corner of my eye, I saw her lean closer—Oh my! A soft poke to my shoulder . . . A nuzzle! To my surprise, a giggle shot up my throat.

“What's funny?” Embee asked, smiling inquisitively as another giggle gained its liberty.

“You nuzzled me, that's—hehehee. I mean, you did that before, but I was in the dumps back then. I don't know why it's making me giggle. I suppose I never thought how weird nuzzling is. It felt weird, but nice,” I explained, the giggles in my tone defying my control like Teflon. “Oh gosh, what's with me? This is embarrassing.” Regardless, I took my right pastern to my eyes, wiping the remnants of my tears into the warm and furry skin. For good measure, I gently wiped my nose, too. Well, snout.

“I don't mind your giggles, hon. I'm just glad to see you're happy,” Embee assured, cautiously rubbing my left foreleg. That felt weird as well. Strange thought: would I feel okay with my limbs if hands gingerly massaged them? I felt a little anxious, but also curious to find out.

“I'm also happy that I'm happy,” I said with a warm chuckle, my mind still a smidgen consumed by the reconciliatory caress. Staring at my limbs, I envisioned a pair of hands meticulously caressing them. It would be like physiotherapy. Concurrently, normalcy was returning to me. Sort of. I'd never attain the normalcy I was used to as long as I was a pony . . . No, I didn't want to dwell on that. I should get something done instead. “I think I should get up . . .” Discomfort twisted my lips when I felt my frog compress, but I refused to resile my foreleg.

“Something wrong, hon?” Embee asked after a few seconds.

I looked at her with a difficult smile. ‘Nothing's wrong. I'm fine,’ I thought of saying, but honesty trumped denial. “I'm not ready to stand on my hooves yet.” My expression and ears fell. “Kinda shattered my tolerance for them when I suffered a breakdown and . . . you know?” Recounting the events leading to my confession was too painful.

“Oh?” Embee lost her smile. “Well, don't rush yourself.” Glints of encouragement were in her eyes. “Take whatever time you need to . . .” She hesitated, perhaps mulling if it was wise to speak her mind? “To feel okay.”

Sensing Embee's caution, I showed her a smile and raised my auxiliary body language communicators—allowing them to stay down would contradict my facial expression. “I'm sure I only need a minute, or two.” The doubt in my tone belied my estimation. “Not long anyhow, so don't worry. Just have to prep myself mentally.” I made a token attempt at a nonchalant hum. Hiding or downplaying my weaknesses—even temporary ones—seemed to be a habit. Had I learned to wear a mask to conceal my true self in fear of condescension and rejection, maybe even violence? I had heard the words. Gay, emo, and so forth. In general, I had been spared from such disparaging remarks myself. Sometimes, I felt like I had to gauge my every word and action, as if the sword of Damocles would fall if I deviated from the established norms. Maybe being afraid of ostracization was one reason for my low stress tolerance? More than once had I wanted to defy the generally accepted masculine norms, but I never had the courage. Some did, and they could help change the public attitude. Maybe they could form a movement? Like feminism, but for males! Then, it would be laughed out of court by other males amidst accusations of sexism against females. How cynical of me.

Anyhow, I shouldn't ponder on prevalent sociocultural values. I should talk with Embee. “Hey, uh, prepping myself mentally doesn't mean we have to sit in silence,” I said a little shyly. Embee seemed lost in her thoughts, gazing at something behind me, but her ears oriented in my direction.

Turning to me with a hum, she asked, “I thought you needed a moment to yourself?”

“Well . . . yeah, I kinda do, but uh, not really,” I dithered, tempted to escape back into my ruminations. “Ugh.” I closed my eyes shut for a moment. “Never mind,” I concluded a little irately. I could think and think, but that wouldn't put me back on my hooves. Still, I wanted to make time pass. “Hey. I um . . . I got a question. Before I told you about my condition, did you make any assumptions?” My imagination came up with a word; it rhymed with grape. Oh joy . . .

I presumed Embee was a smidgen baffled at my vacillation and sudden question. Meanwhile, my tail was doing its utmost to close the gap between itself and my body. “I can't say I didn't.” Compunction creased her lips. “I could only speculate what was troubling you until you began to open up. Even when you mentioned being in a body that wasn't your own, I was unsure what to make of it, but I kept an open mind and patiently waited for you to elaborate. I also must admit that your sudden rant had me confused, and yes, I was a little hurt as well.”

“I'm not proud about the commotion I caused.” My ears drooped in shame as I thought back on my emotional rollercoaster.

“You were under immense stress, so it's no skin off my back,” Embee pardoned me.

I smiled carefully. “Maintaining your amiability and candor was nothing short of admirable,” I complimented her, sensing the muscles behind my cheeks undo the latest ear position. However, my smile was short-lived as I posed a serious query: “Speaking of patience, would you have kept me here for as long as necessary to get me to open up?”

“Of course not,” she answered, which sounded like an objection wrapped in an amicable tone. “I can request and reason, but not force you to speak. You have the right to decline any and all offered aid and leave the hospital at your volition, provided you're capable of doing so.” She paused, sighing furtively through her smile—a hint of frustration? “It's simply how things work here.”

“So . . .” I let that info sink into my cortex. “I could've just uttered a pococurante ‘Thank you for your help, goodbye,’ and then strolled out of here, just like that?” A recollection of a video game with abysmal voice acting and a paltry storyline came to my mind, but on the plus side, it had a fair selection of cars. Blinking my eyes, I again felt the sting of dried-up tears. Brushing the residue away with a hoof didn't seem possible—or appealing. A tissue balled up in magic might be sufficient.

Embee's smile had taken on a puzzled slant. “Pococ . . . uh? Yes, correct.” She nodded. “If you stood up and headed out the hospital, I wouldn't have a binding reason to stop you.” A downtrodden look had overcome Embee. “Though I'd worry myself sick and ask why you're leaving on such short notice.”

She earned my immediate sympathy. “No worries, Embee. It's unlikely I'd leave.” That brightened her up. “Well, not yet, at least. You probably want to help me as much as you can. Besides, sleeping at home is a lot more relaxing than sleeping in a hospital, though I'd prefer to sleep in my familiar body.” I giggled lightly. “Sleeping in my body? That sounded weird, like it's a sleeping bag, but you get what I mean? So, in any case . . .” Maybe I should get up? Tentatively, I dragged my hoof on the floor. Result: my resurrecting optimism was making readjustment easier. Still, as I upturned my limb to gaze at the sole, the pang of loss instantly rippled through me. Signals within my mind tried to find what was no more . . . It was an ineffable feeling. I cleared my throat, renewed my smile, and continued where I left off: “Now that I haven't stupidly traipsed away, you're aware of what I'm afflicted with and have mercifully given me the benefit of the doubt, and . . .” Once more, I had to part the smile for seriousness. “You will help me, right?” I asked emphatically.

“You can count on it, hon!” she replied without hesitation, bestowing me with happiness I had to externalize with more than my wide smile.

I dithered for a fraction of a second before I closed my eyes and . . . “Yay.”

My lips drew to an abashed grin as Embee laughed. “That was adorable!” she exulted, and I was sure my cheeks had become lightish red. “How did you come up with that?”

“Mmm, um.” I was unable to look her in the eye. In fact, I couldn't look at anything but the inner side of my eyelids. “I heard it from somepony . . .” If Embee were to ask, I'd speak the name. Maybe she knew her? Perhaps if her sister really was Rainbow Dash, she—

“Hey.” That and a soft tap to my left limb took me out of my hopeful predictions. “Give my regards to that somepony if you two meet,” Embee wished.

I gasped. “You know her!?” I asked in astonishment, a pulse of feelgood jolting my body. I could've used it to spring up onto my legs. Nächstes mal? Gratuitous German!

Blinking her eyes, Embee looked thoroughly baffled, but I didn't let that break my excited grin. “What? No, I thought you did?”

“Oh . . .” I deflated. “I'm sorry, I don't.” Would be nice if I did. Why did I imagine myself sharing a tea and chatting with her, as a mare? It was only a fantasy. If it weren't, I would've been overjoyed . . . and a little disturbed that I was happily indulging somepony's memory.

Half-lidding her eyes, a gentle look appeared on Embee's features. “Well, it was a cute little cheer, anyhow.” My shyness came back in full swing; it was easier to gaze at my forelegs than her.

“Thanks,” I said with a titter, a little embarrassed that she called me cute. My titter was cute, too.

“You're welcome,” Embee said happily.

As I hummed sweetly, an unusual warmth filled my heart. “I think being cute's nice,” I whispered to myself. But . . . could I really be cute, and like it too?

Nothing was wrong with something else being cute, like a puppy, a kitten, some cars, cartoon ponies, or a cutesy little iguana rubbing its adorable face against a friendly hand. I d'awwed mentally. Anyhow, all of those could be male. Maybe not the car, though. The closest reference of cuteness was Embee's face, which was remarkably expressive when compared to a real pony . . . which she was. Did my face look like hers? I was new to being cute, but that wasn't intrinsically linked to being female. A notion in the back of my mind insisted otherwise. That was the instigator of the conflict! I had been paranoid of appearing unmanly in any context or manner, and that fear was still trying to dominate me. Irrational nonsense! If something feminine appealed to me, then nothing should stop me from reaching for it. In the same vein, if something masculine appealed to me, then nothing should stop me from reaching for it, either. In fact, I was pretty sure a law stated that expressing oneself was a fundamental right entitled to everypony regardless of gender, the exercising of which should never beget discrimination. “Just heard on the radio that it's going to be a sunny day tomorrow,” Embee's voice twisted my ears. What . . . what did weather have to do with anything? Oh, right. Pegasus. “You look like you got something on your mind,” she said at the same time I looked at her wing. Glancing aside, I hummed thoughtfully: were I to heed my old habits, I'd have to concede personal freedoms, including the right to express cuteness. No further exploration of this topic was needed. For now. In fact, I should think less and do more. Acta non verba, right?

“I think I got a forecast of my own,” I hazarded quietly, staring at my forelimbs as I carefully tested their articulation and my readiness with minute movements.

“Oh? What kind?” Embee asked, her tone going from mild confusion to curiosity.

I let confidence shape my lips. “In less than a minute, I will be up on my hooves,” I said, challenging myself. “That's my prediction.”

“Ah!” She smiled widely.

“Here goes.” Inhaling deeply, I closed my eyes and counted to three. Letting my muscle memory do its thing, I retracted my forelimbs in tandem, using my right as a lever. “Okay, looking good so far,” I congratulated myself once I was sitting on my haunches, feeling a smidgen unnerved.

Embee sat up, too. “Well?” she wondered after a moment of inaction.

A muscle spasm arced through my left hind leg. It was like a toe: same bones, but different shapes. “Uhm, I'm just taking a breather.” My confident smile was unwilling to manifest, so I had to fake it with indifference. “I still got, what, forty-five seconds?” I waved my hoof. “No pressure.” A small titter escaped me.

Embee frowned; she wasn't buying my ruse. “How are you feeling, though?” she queried.

“Like the two fingers I have left are highly misproportioned with unwieldly nails that expand a bit when weight is applied on them,” I explained hastily. “Oh, and there's this slightly softer area underneath.” Demonstrating how flexible a pony foreleg was, I showed her an upturned forehoof like the palm of a hand. “See?” I would've pointed at it with my right hoof, but it was busy propping me up.

“Oh . . . yes,” she said dumbfoundedly, my sole attracting her attention for a second. “It's called the frog,” she informed matter-of-factly, accenting it with a wary smile.

“Frog,” I stated lightheartedly. I knew it was called a frog, but why? What made it froggy? Why not call it a toad instead? Maybe the shape resembled a frog?

“It's a shock absorber,” she said, pointing her hoof at it.

“Uh-huh,” I uttered fascinatedly.

Embee gently touched the area with the tip of her hoof. “With each step, the frog compresses and helps circulate blood back up your limb,” she described, lightly pressing the feature as she spoke.

I lethargically drew my hoof away. “That's, ummm, very nice to know,” I woodenly expressed my appreciation, unsettled by the frog's purpose and relative insensitivity. Putting my hoof down with the care reserved for extremely brittle objects, I eyed Embee with wariness, as if she were a crazy scientist disguised in pony skin. “And also very creepy,” I said without emotion in my voice. Ponies have blood? My blood rushes up my leg when I step on it?

Embee seemed to be appraising me plainly, possibly contemplating my response. “Well, in any case,” I recovered half-forcibly, the perturbing info sinking into my conscience like a ship—not that ships invariably sink, “time's running out, and I'm prepared and calm.” My voice box disagreed with my statement. “Sort of.” Still not? Fine. Honesty over honor. “Actually, I'm quite nervous, but I said ‘prepared and calm’ just because I want to give you the impression, hehe.” Embee's look of concern was returning. Without further ado, I sprang up onto my legs. “That was easy peasy! Standing and calm!” I exclaimed with an unintended squeak in my shaky tone, showing Embee a triumphant smile to hide my strife. “So, uh, did I not do this in a timely fashion?” I asked, perfectly aware that she couldn't have kept track of time. I felt breathless. I was breathless. Why was I breathless?

“You don't look too well, hon,” Embee gauged. I didn't know how unwell I looked, but perhaps I had forgone preparing myself adequately, and that was showing on my features. Would I adjust faster if I took a careful step to the right? No, that didn't work. An alarm in my head was urging me to get up on two legs and trade my forehooves for hands at once. But how? I didn't know transformation spells! Besides, if I did, wouldn't it hurt like the dickens when tissue and bone reshaped? Unless said spell also numbed the nerves, that is. “Tell me what's wrong,” Embee suggested, coming to stand before me.

My ears plunged as I began to talk a mile a minute. “I feel like I'm only halfway done that I shouldn't stand on fours that I should—” A reflex made me pause and re-moisten my mouth. “That I should get up but I can't because it's impossible and we both know that and I really really want my human drive routines or whatever to know and accept it too!” I still wasn't able to breathe without feeling like each inhale was stinging my heart. Hoping to attain some shreds of tranquility, I glanced at the drainboard to my right. Then, I looked up at the ceiling above. I was only one meter tall, but the size of the furniture in here tricked my senses. I closed my eyes; none of this was helping. “Why can't I adjust?” I whispered sternly to myself, hoping my nerve endings would stop hating the limbs they were in. The floor was barely more than a muted feeling. Was I unable to attune to the quadruped stance because of some hard-to-define fear? Maybe. “This is how a pony stands. Either I'll do it, or I'll cry and do it.” That logic didn't whisk away my inner anguish. “Why can't I just accept this?” Not a second later, I affixed a dumbfounded stare on nothing as it dawned that my voice had become squeaky. As a human, I had never become squeaky when I was close to crying. Wait, crying? I blinked my eyes hard, pushing out some superfluous fluid rimming them. My ears pricked up and then instantly fell toward my neck. “Oh no, I am so not going to cry!” I said in annoyed disbelief, but my fortitude declared Wir haben keine Verstärkung mehr! I was defiant, though. “I sure as hay can stand like a pony and not—” I hiccuped. A second later, fluid trickled from my eyes. “Darn it!” I grouched somberly, screwing my eyes shut and dropping my head. “This wasn't supposed to happen,” I groaned, poorly masking my misery. I would've collapsed as well, but I had come this far; I couldn't let myself fail more.

“Supposed or not, just let the tears come,” Embee contested softly, but that only increased the severity of my scowl. I had to try harder to curtail my anguish. “Don't bottle your feelings, hon.” My tense outlook vanished, and my ears relaxed. She was right. I was the only one adjudicating my frailness.

I sighed deeply, craning my neck to gaze at the white ceiling panels. “Okay, okay, it's just a few tears, just a few,” I consoled myself, my voice as intact as a shattered vase. When my eyes lined up with Embee's, she offered a sympathetic frown. “I can't believe I'm still a wreck. I was so sure I could just . . .” My eyes closed, and I shook my head, feeling my mane flop about on my nape. “Be fine.” Drawing a snotty breath, I kept my eyes closed; the tears escaped regardless. “I must've broken myself quite bad,” I assumed weakly. Was it really true that females were intrinsically more emotional than males, or was that a mere factoid? Maybe I was in denial? Softy me, even softer as a mare because of a higher estrogen-to-testosterone ratio? I had reformed my stance on crying when I embraced Embee, both of which were good things. However, I thought I had a grip on my emotions. Perhaps my inexperience with assumably higher emotional mercuriality was making me more sensitive than authentic females?

“I hope this helps you pull yourself together.” Abruptly, my eyes snapped open as something warm and soft crossed my neck. Bewilderedly, I darted my vision about, but the only trace of Embee was . . . her back and tail parallel to mine . . . beneath my head?

My imagination, vision, and tactile sense of my nape and the area between my throat and foreleg—I refused to call that area my chest—cooperated to depict a fairly accurate image of what was going on. Technically, my chest . . . I had the equine equivalent, and that was all I needed to know! Anyhow, no arousal from looking at Embee's hindquarters. I appreciated that infinitely. Although now I was curious what would look attractive to a pony, if not a bare bottom. Ponies must have different sexual standards on the account that they're typically unabashedly undressed. Still, was her behind attractive in the eyes of a stallion? This was hardly the time to go off on tangents, though. “Uhm, Embee? What are you doing?” I asked cluelessly.

“Giving you a hug,” her mellifluous voice originated near the base of my right ear.

Her forelegs weren't on me. “Like, um . . .” I observed Embee's tail wag once. “Pony style?” A tiny smile creased my lips. Why did I think of some kind of song? Bon-Bon style? Never mind.

“You could say that,” Embee affirmed, chuckling amiably. “It's a hug.” A few seconds later, she gently started to undo the interlock.

I pivoted my head to the right. “Ergh!” My tranquility was broken with a flinch when her head bent my right ear.

“Oh, sorry!” Embee said instantly, backing away with shock on her countenance. Trying to distance myself from the problem, I tilted my head to my left. Simultaneously, I rolled my eyes toward my audio wave collector, raising my right hoof to brush away the discomfort, but my wits kicked in and halted my limb halfway up. “I didn't hurt you, did I?”

The dual arrays on my head picked up her concerned query. “No, no, you didn't,” I assured tinnily, discerning with a delay that I was adorned with a fixed grimace. “I . . . I've got sensitive ears, you accidentally rubbed my right one, and it's, there's, uh . . . An itchy feeling, like a fly walking over something that I really shouldn't have because what I have sticks up from my scalp. It's a new sensation,” I explained, calming down gradually. “Bhhr,” I shivered in disgust before gingerly resting my leg on the floor.

“Alright,” she whispered as I initiated an accustomization procedure by actuating my ears like airplane elevators. “I suppose I'd be touchy too if I had parts I'm not used to having.” I was gazing at her hooves. Why was I gazing at her hooves? Well, whatever. Would it help if somepony massaged my ears? On second thought, that would just freak me out. “How are you feeling, though?”

I stopped my imitation of a pre-flight check with an insightful hum. “All things considered, quite good,” I said to her, a tad astonished at this.

She brightened. “That's great!”

“It's a definite improvement, yeah,” I mused, lifting my foreleg a few centimeters. A moment later, I let it drop down. After repeating the move a few times, I performed the same cycle with my right hind leg—without looking at it. Standing on fours felt weird enough, so seeing my trailing end might be more than my recovering mind could deal with at the moment. “I guess I could pace for a bit,” I ventured, then surreptitiously bit my lower lip.

Leaning a little closer, Embee raised her right foreleg and frowned slightly. “You sure about that, hon?” she voiced more doubt and concern than I had.

I closed my eyes with a light sigh. “Yes, I am,” I stated resolutely. I was greeted by an uncertain gaze when I reopened my optical sensors. “Don't worry, Embee. Besides, if I wasn't sure and ready, what would you do?” A smirk grew on me. “Pick me up and carry me around like you're a skycrane?” I laughed at my joke, which I wasn't supposed to, but the mental imagery simply was too funny. Well, if estrogens or whatever made my emotions more potent, then what could I do about it? Go with the flow? Why not. Better to make the best of a bad situation after all, and Embee was going to help this situation. Somehow. The plan was still in its infancy.

My best and only dependable support and confidant settled from her wary stance, smiling puzzledly. “What's a skycrane?”

“A heavy-lift helicopter,” I said casually.

Embee blinked her eyes once. No, twice. A third time. Fourth. Would there be a fifth? Behind my anticipatory smile, I felt a giggle creeping up. “Okay, a heavy-lift helicopter,” she parroted.

Her inferred incomprehension amused me, which I expressed with a polite chuckle, unable to quell it further. “Anyhow, I'm going to see if I can walk by myself.” I shot a look to my left. The wall was lined with windows, but a curtain drawn about one third across from the left meant I had a safe area where I could do my accustomization walk without seeing my pony reflection. “If I can't,” I said jovially, looking back at Embee as I gestured my foreleg at her, “you'll be my Sikorsky S-64.” My intonation fluctuated with a laugh toward the end.

“Hahaha.” Her laugh was feigned, probably not understanding the joke, but I didn't hold it against her.

I sighed, reassigning my hoof to its designated role. “You'll airlift me to wherever I need to be if I can't walk, that's what I meant.” I hoped she didn't think I was belittling her from behind my affable demeanor. Although, being hauled around by her like a thoroughly inept foal would do my self-esteem a disservice.

She smiled slyly. “That would be the first time I'd have to carry a healthy pony indoors.”

I narrowed my gaze. “I'm not a pony,” I reminded her irately.

“Huh?” Embee gave me a blank stare. “I didn't say you're not a human,” she placated in a slightly confused manner.

“Of course you wouldn't say it,” I said sardonically, keeping my glare on her for a couple of tense seconds before I relented. “Anyhow, I'll walk carefully, so that I won't transgress my human mind–pony body agreement.” Feeling like my latest uttering was a veiled critique and warning, I faced the curtains and set off. “All steady, all steady,” I muttered dourly as I plodded, my nicer side working in the back of my mind to forgive her. Perhaps I had overreacted? She couldn't possibly afford to look dishonest in her line of work. At any rate, my muscle memory was doing its task excellently. Ef-El, Aitch-Ar . . . I didn't need to recite that. ‘I teared up a little, and that took away the anxiety? Hm? Or maybe my irritation grants me tenacity? How about that?’ I cocked an inquisitive brow at the plain curtains before me. ‘Why are they white? Hmph, don't know, don't care. Ugh, I have to work out this superfluous tension.’ I rotated around, choosing a topic on a whim. “So, this being a pony thing . . . It's a little like a video game, except a lot more immersive. A huge haystackin' lot. As near as I can tell, no video game I've played makes me feel like I'm literally the character itself.” Embee had recovered from her post-verbal gaffe scare. “Not accounting a few exceptions, I never see the character's torso or legs. In fact, even if backlit by something luminous, the player character, meaning me, doesn't cast a shadow. Now, tell me, how lame is that?” I complained as I paced to Embee. I realized this was a topic I had discussed with one of my friends. Which one and when, that didn't matter right now.

“Pretty lame?” She looked a little glum, presumably due to my stern demeanor. “I'm not into any video games . . . except for dance games.” She displayed a careful half-smile.

The mental image of her showing her moves on a dance mat made my eyes widen. “That is sooo . . .” Eye-shutting excitement came to my face. “Awesome!” I did my best Rainbow Dash impers . . . imponification? I didn't get the voice right due to a lack of her characteristic raspiness, but that was only a minor setback. Needless to say, Embee's previous error was fully pardoned.

When I opened my eyes, she looked pleased. “I'm pretty good at them,” she said modestly, but I garnered she was downplaying her boast. Her ears weren't curled down, either.

“I'd just embarrass myself were I to try a dance game,” I admitted through my congenial smile. “My agility is probably minus one, hahahaha!” From the looks of it, I confused Embee again, but that was of no consequence. “I don't know dance games too well, but I'd be thrilled to see you rock your body.” Because seeing a pony play a dance game was more fascinating than seeing Embee win at it. Speaking of contests, I decided to perform a second test walk. “You know, it's great that we've established a fairly casual atmosphere. It's very relaxing.” I met the curtain again, spinning around to discern a happy Embee in the same spot as before. “A moment of unwinding before we get down to brass tacks, if you will.” I sighed contently. “Well, looks like I'm walking fine now. So, what's next?” I started heading back to her, but stopped after a few steps. “The puddle?” I said indicatively. Embee also looked at the mass gathering of H₂O. Our gazes met a few seconds later, signaling the start of a short period characterized by a mutual attempt to deduce each other's blank face.

“I believe the puddle is woefully incapable of taking care of itself,” I broke the silence, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Hmm.” Embee looked to her right. Her facial expression seemed to say ‘oh, what the hay’ as she walked towards the puddle. “Hmh, it's soaked,” she stated flatly, poking the floorcloth like a child would poke a dead rat with a stick. Gross.

A smirk came to my lips. “Hey.”

“Yes?” She aimed her amethyst eyes at me.

“Maybe if I rolled over the puddle?” I suggested subduedly, raising my left foreleg—it was the dirtier one. “I could use a bath, as you can see.” Once again, I failed to keep a collected demeanor. Seemed like I was giggling a lot, and the last one was a bit squeaky even though I had tried to stifle it down to a snicker. On the less amusing side, I was trying not to think about the grime making my skin itch. I'd have to scratch my back with something eventually. Maybe a fork.

Embee, rather remarkably, allowed herself a giggle as well, though the tone of it evidenced she was being cautious for some reason. “Not to offend you, but you did wash your face recently.”

“No offense taken,” I assured, but the reminder of my temporary loss of sanity, and the vague reflections of my face, were making joy a difficult emotion to retain. “But, uhm, just to be clear, it's not really my face. Although, saying that it's this face, these legs, this voice and, uh, so on . . .” I rambled, disquieted and dejected. “I'd start to feel like I'm not myself anymore, and that's, hmh . . .” I placed my eyes on the pink brewer. “Uh, I'll expound more once we're enjoying our coffee, just as I promised.” Something in the corner of my eye compelled me to turn my head. I shouldn't have.

There it was. Quite close. The face that truly wasn't mine, with tousled rose-striped hair that wasn't mine. Sadness and worry were in its emerald eyes, even a touch of dread. I didn't dare move. The face blinked, began to look fazed, and still I didn't move. If I did, then that face would move. I didn't want to associate with that face. If I didn't think of expressions, they wouldn't come to the face. Nothing bad would happen if I didn't think. I wasn't in that mirror. I wasn't thinking it was me. This was a most desirable state, and should remain unbroken. Those unusually large pupils with the green irises definitely didn't belong to me. If I knew how, I'd think of a start-edgy. Strat-dredgy? Oh no! I was thinking! Not thinking was good. Yes, unthinking. I was unthinking, and blinking. Staring at the not-me face. That pony face.

Blink. Vacant pony face. Blink. Vacant pony face. Blink. Vacant . . . female human face?

Blink. Pony female.

Blink. Human female.

Blink. Pony female.

Blink. Human female.

I kept blinking.

“Hey?” Familiar voice nearby.

What I saw in the mirror looked worried. I felt the same way. Why wasn't I breathing?

“Are you okay?” The voice again. Emerald irises shrank. The face reflected my shocked gasp. My eyes instinctively shut. I didn't see any more of what shouldn't be mine. Almost lost my balance too, and thoughts circled, spun, orbited; I couldn't choose one. “What was that?” the voice belonging to the green pony asked. I knew she was green because I had seen her before. The human face flickered in my mind. What had I seen? I had seen me as a human. False false false! It wasn't me! It wasn't. It was . . . her! She had imagined herself as a human, and that was what I saw. I saw her imagination! I had access to what she had thought. I saw how she had imagined herself were she human! “Can you hear me?” A nod, yes, my nodding. “Okay, now try to calm down, and take slow breaths.” Bayerische Motoren Werke . . . Bimmer had good ideas. To hear down, slow me, and calm breaths. Yes, calm breaths! That was it.

“What happened?” the female voice I possessed presented my question as I gazed into Beemwee's second outward wits. Embee's visible spectrum detectors. Her eyes! I knew what had happened, and it had perplexed me greatly. That was what had happened; I had become greatly perplexed.

“I should ask you the same thing,” Embee said as I shook my head so fiercely my pony ears swayed. Ouchies! As I nictitated stunnedly, I discerned that my heartbeat was palpable in my ears and I was perspiring from pores I didn't know I had. “You froze when you looked into the mirror.” That tone . . . An inferred question!

“Uh . . .” Embee's studious stare motivated me to sound like I retained my marbles—before I could ascertain that I had my wits in place. “It's only because I saw a face that's not mine,” I summarized, my eyelids drooping halfway out of exhaustion. “Well, it was more than that. It was haunting. Paralyzing. Mind-addling.” I sighed, trying to figure out something more academic to say. “A complex psychological reaction.” I let my eyes close. “To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what happened, which is frustrating in itself, but as it stands right now, I don't feel inclined to investigate.” I could still see the face. How many times had 'she' imagined this? It wasn't much better than my current face, which felt like a mask grafted in place of my own. I licked my lips, and I couldn't say how, but even they felt somehow inhuman. Ponylike. At least the imagined face hadn't overwritten my familiar mug. “I think I may need to sit down for a moment and let the dust settle,” I murmured as I opened my eyes, feeling a little vexed. Did I really send my mind on a hard loop just by accidentally gazing into a mirror? How fickle could I be? I should've just focused on the cuteness factor, but no, I had to spook myself.

“Sounds like you need it,” Embee said as I quickly took stock of my position.

“No argument from me,” I replied tiredly. I began backing toward the doorway, eyes closed. Seemed like a good mirror avoidance procedure. My muscle memory was doing an outstanding job, too. Hey, wait a minute! I could've just closed my eyes and then stepped away from the looking glass. What a moron I was! I came to a sudden halt, opened my eyes, and grunted, all in a tenth of a second. It was also moronic that I had backed into the doorframe! Indignation and humiliation coloring my face, I cursorily took note of a puzzled—or concerned—Embee before I huffed and took myself out of the kitchen. The lingering sensation of the doorframe on my left rear end was a severe violation to my sense of sanctity.

Passing the radio, I listened with half an ear to Sound Wave's anecdote about some people still being bothered by ponies being unclothed. That was followed by a commercial break. Awaiting the abating of my agitation, I stood by the lime green cushion I had sat on several minutes ago. It had a small depression with patches of thin dirt here and there. I was reluctant to sit down, as I knew I'd receive a fondling—“Hey, can I ask you a few things?” Embee's voice cut through my thoughts and the jazzy jingle of the radio.

She was standing in the doorway. “Sure you can,” I said, mustering a pleasant smile; I didn't want to look crotchety—what an apt word . . .

Her hoof met her jaw for a second before she gestured it at me. “You're not a pony, right?”

I sighed. No, I'm actually an Excalibur Phaeton Series III, I snarked mentally. “That's right, Embee. I'm only physically a pony,” I attested calmly.

“Alright.” Her hoof returned to the floor. “So you're a human?” I appreciated that she didn't use the past tense. Although, wasn't my condition already established? Maybe she was confused and needed to verify a few things before we got to the actual point?

“Correct.” I maintained my complaisant decorum. “I am a human, who is inexplicably trapped in somepony's body.” I poked the cushion, as if that would make it go easy on my dairy-do's. I hated knowing I had those.

Embee's distinct voice flowed through the air: “Which means Rosy Stripes is not your name.” My left ear dropped sideways.

Fluttering my eyes in a mix of annoyed disbelief and puzzlement, the abstract painting on the wall held my momentary attention before I directed an askance look at Embee. “Since when?” The absurdity of her assumption educed a sceptical chuckle from me. “From where did you get the idea to doubt my name?”

“Uh, Rosy?” she asked carefully, looking all around perplexed.

“What?” I replied a little tersely. I got an inkling I wasn't seeing the full picture here.

“You're not a pony?”

“Mhm.”

“That's not your body?”

“Yup.”

“Which is to say, you pretended that it was your body?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Because you thought I wouldn't take your claim of a mind swap seriously?”

At the last question, however, I sighed sullenly and let my eyes roll down in shame. “Yes.”

“So, to sum up, you're not a pony, but a human, who only pretended to be a pony,” she said slowly. “Is this correct?”

She seemed inoffensive and investigative, not doubtful and distrusting, so I stayed polite—being rude certainly wouldn't improve my standing. “Yes, it's very correct,” I affirmed. Still, I couldn't help but feel that I was being treated like I was one sandwich short of a picnic.

She gazed at me from where she stood, as if gauging me. “That is to say, you pretended to be a pony, and took on a feigned name, that being Rosy Stripes?”

I huffed coarsely as I wheeled to face her. “Feigned name? That is my . . .” My crossness transitioned into worried incredulity. “Name?” I began to see it: if I had tried to keep my true identity hidden, then why did I use my real name as a cover? I hadn't? As crazy as it was, that wasn't my name. In fact, my name didn't match my persona nor my past. I was quite certain Rosy Stripes wasn't a guy's name, either. I even recalled writing down that other name, and it was on official papers. A plethora of evidence in my head pointed to that the name being mine, but my intuition disagreed strongly. Oh no . . . How could I have let myself be tricked so easily?

“Hon? Is there something you're not telling me?” Embee queried as she strode forth from the doorway. If I hadn't known better, I would've thought she was starting to mistrust me.

Surmounting my mixture of shock, nervousness, and fright, I tried to give her a collected answer. “Since this isn't my body, it means I don't have my brain.” I didn't sound very collected, though I elicited a curious brow from Embee. “Rather remarkably, I have access to some of the information stored therein, but on the flipside, it has an almost unfailing tendency to take precedence over mine. So, this is tough to say, but Rosy Stripes has become my name. Maybe retroactively, too, as I feel like that it's been my name for as long as I can remember. I don't work myself up about these changes though, because everything will be fine.” My voice cranked to a high-pitched whisper and I shifted my focus to the table's wooden frame. “I simply know everything will be fine, and I refuse to think otherwise. Nothing good will come if I submit to pessimism.” At least I hadn't slumped to the floor, or began pleading for help. I had to maintain some dignity, and I wasn't panicking. Just a little apprehensive. Okay, so maybe I was a little harried. Embee would help me.

“Hey.” She walked close to me.

I inclined my head up. “Hey to you, too,” I said, the touch of joviality scarcely making up for the drop in my composure. Why was I trying to hide behind unconcerned masks anyhow? They wouldn't make my problems go away.

“Don't worry, hon. I'm sure everything will turn out fine,” she assured. As I showed her a hopeful smile, her eyes dropped down for a moment. She was looking at something on my throat? “Just let me ask you, can you recall the name you had?” Was that her primary concern? Why not ask to recap my entire life so she can write it down? Or present any ideas on how to help me? Oh well, she sounded serious enough about the name.

I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, but it was more for show than anything. Still, fake it till I make it. “Yes. I can recall it.” Embee didn't know I was a male in a female's body, and I had a strong suspicion she'd ask to know the masculine name. If she knew it, then there was a good chance she'd (un)knowingly expect me to fit the male mold. I liked some (but not all) of the feminine things at my disposal, which were normally inaccessible due to physical and social restrictions. If Embee didn't recognize me as female in gender, would she pressure me to relinquish my femininity? Would now be a good time to ask her opinion on males who don't adhere to gender norms?

“Can you tell me that name?” Embee queried, just as I had expected. I would've preferred to analyze the gender dilemma by myself a while longer.

“Sure.” I drew a small breath and then said the name out loud.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?” Embee said with a friendly smile. The mumble I had produced would've befitted Fluttershy, though I didn't believe she would've been as liked were she male with that personality.

I turned my ears down. “Oops, my bad,” I said with a giggle in my tone, smiling meekly. For lack of a better term, I felt cute. ‘Tomboys are totally cool and accepted by society, but its male counterpart isn't.’ The laconic insight on double standards had me worried.

Anyhow, I didn't have time for indecisiveness. After composing myself, including righting my ears, I said what I had to say. I truly hoped I hadn't set myself up for disaster. Embee, however, looked fascinated. “Viv?” she repeated in delight.

“Yes,” I affirmed nonchalantly. I was none too happy about my decision, but I wished to avoid the repercussions of being a male who has violated gender norms. “It's short for Vivienne.” Besides, what was so bad about being female? It would only be for as long as I possessed this body. I could still enjoy this.

I could be Rosalinda Vivienne Stripes.

Comments

[VcSaJen]

Finally!
^_^

[Generaal]

It is alive? but how?

[ZEknightJA]

LONGEST CHAPTER YET

YEESSSSSS

NOW FOR THE READING

[Zrix]

It's been too long. As soon as I saw the update I was all like:
"What the hell is this? Oh, yeah. Now I have to stay up until 1am trying to figure out what this story is actually about."

[Pon3]

Yay it updated!

[theunbalancedone]

Heh, I have some suspicions as to what's going on and to an extent why, but I'm not sure if it's against rules/etiquette to just announce them in announcements here.

Either way I'm enjoying this story and can't wait to see how it turns out, also I hope our poor protagonist can get the help needed to resolve this problem.

[Pokelink]

Soooooo... after asking for complet trust, MC doesn't open completely to Ember? C'mon! This is not going to end well, how are you going to find Rosy's mind if you won't look for a male? Now Ember will be looking for a female and that's a disaster.

Anyway, I'm VERY happy to see another update after so long. Those pics are awesome, and is really good to see some advance in the story, even if MC ends screwing things up with that lie...

[Masterweaver]

...Wasn't the dude a dude?

[theunbalancedone]

Also, I am really looking forward to some answers as to the nature of this world and how long ponies have been living in this world and how this came about and whether or not there is any connection with the pony world.

[eillahwolf]

Finally! :D And I had just enough time to read it in between my classes. Now, I just have to wait for the next chapter....

[Buckshot2825]

*Dies of happiness*
*goes to heaven*
*reads the next chapter before it comes out*
Hey, what did you expect heaven was going to be?

[Inara Seraph]

Wonderful, an update!

Your protagonist is so fun to read. I love the clinical observations as a coping mechanism. It's adorable. It's remarkable that this whole long-ish chapter was so engrossing from start to finish while being basically nothing but Rosy and Embee talking to each other.

[Thibi]

Quantum Castaways, Article 2, and now First Pony View?!

[The Thoughtful]

The time has finally come. I am in astounding anticipation for this chapter.

[Kuki-Shift]

2740479 His/her pony side keeps bleeding in and supplanting his thoughts and memories with hers. He knows he's male, but the pony side imagined herself as a human female in the mirror, I guess?

It's kinda awkward to read, though. Then again, that's what you can expect from an unreliable narrator! They're one of my favorite types, to be honest, since you can't take everything they say at face value, and have to think about what they're perceiving. Keeps you guessing till the end.

[bronrg]

So tired , but I must read because I'm compelled to!

[The desert brony]

Quality comes at the cost of patience. Most don't have this fortitude and I have bravely passed another one of its trials. I await the next chapter patiently.

[Moon_Fire]

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!!!!!!!!

it's alive... It's alive! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!

[katarjin]

IT LIVES and what a wonderful chapter it is

[Oh the humanity]

Oh shiver me timbers! Random pirate speak? Nevermind...

That was...interesting...for want of a more precise term. Possibly not quite as mind-wreckingly intense as the previous chapters now that the cat is out of the bag, but maybe that's just me being dulled off by the infernal summer heat out there... Of course in the great context of this epos it feels like a classic breather chapter before things get exciting again, and I can only wonder what awaits us next.... A trip to the nuthouse? Group therapy with a bunch of other poor sods with mind swap issues? A big bowl of extra-sweet pineapples?

Paper pony's plentiful pretty pictures (hooray for alliterations!) were even better than before, but I expected little else after seeing his recent magnum opus. The animated one was a nice surprise, especially since I didn't notice it at first. Can't say much on the music thanks to our ever-loving benefactors, but in any case there still is a Mr. Petty stuck in my head from last time, who politely refuses to evacuate out of my cochlea.

So....uh...to sum this up before it degrades into an infinite flow of heat-induced gibberish: Great stuff, as usual. As I've said, it felt a bit slower than usual, but I'm sure it'll fit in just fine in the greater context of things.

Also: yay!

[Seven Fates]

Glad to finally see this progressing. I'm just a bit disappointed that the protagonist couldn't come completely clean.

[WubsAndCellos]

I love this story, but waiting another 4 months for another chapter is too long.

[Alaborn]

I'm still waiting for more reveals about the universe. Based on the radio announcer, I suspect something brought together the human and pony worlds, sometime in the last ten years. That would mean the protagonist entered an alternate universe.

[j3r034rja34jty]

Its alive!
I haven't even read it yet but I know it will be good.

[Whitespace Only]

Got to say, I really love the use of pictures in this story, and I wish that others would do the same. I particularly like the confused pony/human mirror scene. Just... wuh?

[Sarikano]

This chapter just gave me the weirdest idea. What if Rosy had always been a pony that urged to be human so much that her mind created this new persona that is now in command of her body?

[Shtormovoi]

ITS SOO INTENSE!!!

[Brother Roga]

Before I even start reading this, I just want to say:

THIS IS HOW I IMAGINED I WOULD GET TO BE IN EQUESTRIA!

[twad]

So he's a guy he knows that, but still decides to go with a girl name anyways? Why? What does he have to lose at this point? Especially after telling pretty much everything (except the fact that he is male) and being all "lets be HONEST (except not)".

Its just going to eat him up for AGES again. And considering how smart and analytic he is, he should know better. Why chicken out there? Is the feminine side of him just "taking over"?
And that's pretty much the only frustrating thing i have with this chapter, since the rest is pretty darn good.

I kind of wish to see Embee's POV in this, her sitting while she talk/listen and see a really, REALLY weird mare could be very interesting.

[TMH]

Not to sound pessimistic, but I don't see this turning out well.
Onwards to debilitating insanity!

Carry On

[Red Bomber]

I'm not sure how close things were, but I think any other person would probably losing their patience with him when he's trying to get up, Embee is truly a saint among her peers. Although another problem arises from V (I'm going to just call him V instead of Viv) since apparently that pony is like another version of Lyra and she wanted to be human so bad that she switched places with one, namely V like a few others have suggested here. Especially now that I'm worried that's not his real name even though it could be for real. But if I'm right then does that mean Rosy would probably enjoy being a MALE human if she's really his alter ego.

I'm glad Embee is now a helper for him now, I wonder if she'll stick with him as they investigate his home like some of Phoenix Wriight's partners. Although I wonder if she'll leave once that's done and over with for now. It's been a good chapter of progressiveness now that he admitted his problem to her.

[Thibi]

I couldn't help but note that in the image, Rosy was mussing up Embee's right wing when in the text it was her left.

I'm glad to see her opening up.

[kuledud3]

AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW SHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEIT!!! The story! She lives!

[TundraStanza]

He's alive!
...
Edit: That blinking image made me think of SCP-173 for some reason.
...
Well, if guys can be called Taylor, Ashley, and Pat, why not Viv?
...
You never cease to amaze me.

[Firebirdbtops]

That's a surprise. It was like proclaiming that he is a girl, which was something causing him almost more grief than being a pony.

[kingtwelvesixteen]

...Vivienne?

[tsaukpaetra]

Hmm, so core memories are shifting. Unless he was named Vivienne... We're fairly certain that is not a traditional name for a male human.
Keep going! ;)

[Luminous Lead]

All that long talk and now she does lie.
So paranoid, I could almost cry.

2740479
The dude was a dude,
or so we were told,
but now claims female,
as she isn't so bold
as to confirm the nature
of a mind-swap gender,
fearing inequity
during this adventure.

[Balthasar999]

Aw hell yeah, it's back!

It's interesting how Rosy's gender insecurity has been playing out - Before it was about being desperate not to be feminine, and now that's mutated such that she'd rather be seen to embrace that than to have anypony know she could conceivably be otherwise and just fell into it.

[fuckyoudeletemyaccount]

This character is such an idiot. (S)he just keeps digging him her itself deeper into the hole, and I love every sentence of it.

[DarthMaul22]

I was wondering about this a couple days ago...

And that goddamn water puddle is still there, isn't it?

[CoolBreeze]

"I had been paranoid of appearing unmanly in any context or manner, and that fear was still trying to dominate me. Irrational nonsense! If something feminine appealed to me, then nothing should stop me from reaching for it. In the same vein, if something masculine appealed to me, then nothing should stop me from reaching for it, either."
YOU GO GUY, ERR, GIRL! ERR... WHATEVER JUST DO WHAT YOU DO AND TELL THAT VOICE IN YOUR HEAD TO BUCK OFF!

[coppercore]

2741095

You just reminded me of how this story is the ultimate mindfuck. This just keeps getting better and better!

[Lurker Pony]

First Pony View and Solitary Locust updated? Happy day!

Reading the long chapters of both stories while I did things took a good chunk of my day, but it was totally worth it.

There is a good chance she does believe in what Viv says. After all, there is magic in that world. A mind swap is pretty unbelievable but not impossible in that world. In fact, maybe there's a mental check they can do that mixes medicine and magic together to check things out. If the soul doesn't match the brain, then maybe they'll be able to detect it. It's no guarantee, but it's a possibility!

[Westphalian_Musketeer]

“Hey. I um . . . I got a question. Before I told you about my condition, did you make any assumptions?” My imagination came up with a word; it rhymed with grape. Oh joy . . .

At least the protagonist has shown a modicum of social empathy this chapter, rather than participating solely in navel gazing.

But alas, it was too little, too late. You've dragged us on for tens of thousands of words, promising some greater thing, but now? I find the protagonist positively insufferable, and everyone who's interacted with them insufferable. The character has, since being jolted out of her fantasy moaned, whined, complained, and stumbled their way from their apartment, to a cliff, into a river, onto a highway, into a man's house, then across the sky in an ambulance, and finally through a hospital, in a long-winded angst over gender identity? With species identity set up as a foil?

Your theme was great, it was something I could emphatically support, but you made your protagonist, the force that is supposed to make us want to support the lessons this work tries to portray into something that I, personally, can barely stand to look at as a blubbering oaf that needs others to spoon feed them, lest the fact that any physical sensation remind them of something that's happened.

And then, just when I thought they were going to finally buck up and work out a solution, they have either lied, or revealed that they're in some fantastical dream in order to come to terms with gender disassociation.

I'll repeat, trying to make people understand gender dysphoria as something distressing to those experiencing it is highly admirable, if that's what you're trying to do. I sincerely hope it is, because that's the redeeming feature right now.

The damning feature, for me, that has made me decide to stop reading this fic, is the positively irritating and constantly angsting protagonist, that everyone is stretching themselves out to help.

[CoolBreeze]

2741095 This isn't so far fetched an idea considering the human mind is capable of doing this as a coping mechanism for various mental maladies. Eg; if we lose our memories to amnesia our mind can create entire false lives in those missing periods.

Since the beginning I've been leaning more and more towards Rosy never actually having been human at all, it's interesting that Rosy (before chapter 1) brought a car, a human transport when even with magic it would be difficult to drive the vehicle, she shares many traits with our 'human' friend whom I don't feel is "Vivienne" I think that's part of this mind addling transformation, more interesting is the visage of a human female in the mirror, is it a projection of Viv? Or is it Rosy's whimsical musings?

We know Viv heavily associates with masculinity and portrays many traits to somewhat prove they were a male, but it's not terribly hard to put yourself in the other gender's shoes, some aspects would be missed naturally, we're only capable to a certain extent, but... I just have this feeling, the memory that keeps coming back with Viv's friends seems the most coherent of all the memories... perhaps Viv and Rosy share the same friends and experience with them? I get this inkling that Rosy is as much a loner as Viv is, they both play games (even if they are different genres) both are self sufficient, capable of caring for themself, both live alone secluded from their neighbours, both seem to agree to friends being too hard to keep when they act up and hurt your feelings, both of them agree that being the opposite gender is incredibly mind boggling...

I think I have been mind fucked... Dear lord.

[Castform5]

Not going to bed is the best, oh hey the sun is coming up!
Anyways, this chapter was way longer than I expected it to be, but it was worth it. Finally Rosie spills the beans and actually gets some help with her problem, and it looks like she is evolving into making more meaninful decicions.

When she looked into the mirror my mind went "whatever you do, don't blink. Blink and you're dead".
Idon'tknowwhymyminddidthatpropablytoomuchdoctorwho.

[theunbalancedone]

2741095

heh that's more or less what I've been thinking for a while now. Glad to see I'm not the only one who isn't accepting 'Rosy's' thoughts and words at face value.

[Anubis Nox]

2740474 I agree with every word you have said/ stated.

[Anubis Nox]

2742352 LOL!