A collection of scrapped fanfiction and other miscellany.
A selection of scrapped fan fiction works I never finished. There are author's notes for individual story descriptions.
Note: Contains no clop, despite tag implications.
Story Ratings:
Template (3 chapters) - Mature, for very heavy material. Wish Fulfillment (1 chapter) - Teen, for not making it to the heavy material yet. Guilt (2 chapters) - Teen You Think They Don't Know? (1 chapter) - Teen Exploited (1 chapter) - Mature
"So, sir, are you looking for a stallion or a mare?" A casual, masculine voice is the first thing I hear as I wake up. I open my eyes, feeling terribly groggy. My head is full of angry hornets with mallets, and the world is an unpleasant mess of harsh colors that only makes the pain worse. I screw my lids tightly shut, trying to focus on other things. I feel cold, I can taste rubber, and there's a draft from somewhere that touches the middle of my back and makes me shiver. My body feels oddly bare, and I don't want to risk the pain of opening my eyes again to find out why, not just yet.
"What sort of a stallion do you take me for? I - " This voice sounds irritated. I'm not sure I like it, and I'm glad the first one cuts him off.
"No offense, sir, this is a sex shop. It's my job not to judge preference just by somepony's appearance. I take it you are here for a mare, sir?" How did I fall asleep in an adult store? I crack one eye open, but the world is still painful, nebulous blots of color, and I have to shut it again.
"Yes." The reply is stiff. I try again to look around, but again, it hurts too much, and my view is far too incoherent. Resignedly, I try to focus on hearing and feeling.
"This way, sir." The voices come closer, accompanied by the sound of hooves. I go to stretch. I should at least get up; how negligent of me to fall asleep here. My legs, however, won't move. I swallow hard, testing myself. Nothing will move. "Until recently, I'd have to tell you we're out of stock, but as of last month, our latest policy is a free demonstration of our new Template magitechnology, a brilliant process that grants you the power to customize your order in nearly every meaningful way. Ah, here we are."
The hooves stop in front of me, and I feel myself moving. I'm being carried forwards on something metal, and I can feel its bands holding me around my ankles, around my knees, around my neck and head and trunk and ... everywhere. I'm completely restrained. My head, in particular, can't even twitch.
"This is a stallion."
"Indeed, sir! Our only slightly-dated Model 94A, one of the most successful male frames, manufactured right here in Fillydelphia. However, recent Template innovations allow easy modification of any model back to the old 72." I can hear the whirring of machinery from the voice's direction. It only takes another split-second to realize that between their discussion and my restraints, they are talking about me. "If you would humor me, sir, and press this button?"
"Wait! What are you doing? Are you doing something to me? Why can't I see?!" I try to ask. I feel my mouth fail to move against interior filling of some sort, and a probable exterior restraint, but that's not all that's wrong. Something is keeping me from so much as grunting. I can't make a sound, and opening my eyes still hurts.
"What does this symbol mean?"
"It means your wish is the machine's command. It means you can have anything you want. It means, most importantly, that you should press it, sir." I can practically hear the eye-rolling, even though I'm not paying much attention. I'm busy testing my restraints, but they hold extremely well. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen, and I'm trying not to wet myself in anticipation.
"Whatever." The... I have to think of him as a customer. The customer sounds less than impressed by the sales pitch, but I hear a clack from his direction anyway. A powerful wave of magic washes over me, and reflexively, I try to activate a counter-spell. Nothing happens, except that the wave of magic turns aggressive. It feels like a thousand hammers pounding every inch of my body, and I try desperately to scream. My eyes shoot open as I strain in the effort to make just a sound, move just one muscle, and the pain of incoherent sight is a welcome distraction. My everything hurts like nothing I've ever known, and I have no idea how I'm still conscious, especially with the blunt, throbbing pain between my legs. My body almost feels like it's shrinking in all directions, the bands restraining me hissing over the rush of blood in my ears as they contract to hold me perfectly still. I can't focus on anything, much less understand words. Things blur together in a haze of agony and wishful screaming.
When I can hear and think again, the voices are just arguing over numbers, so I focus on myself for a moment. I still can't move, beyond my involuntary spasms from the lingering pain. However, I can finally see (albeit still painfully), which is good. The first thing I notice is my muzzle. It is a hairless pink, and far smaller than it ought to be. As for where I am? This place is definitely some sort of smut parlor. Ahead of me is a very clean glass wall that provides no reflection, and beyond it are some very interesting toys on racks. Straining my already-aching eyes, I can make out a shelf of books as well, but not any of their titles. I'm sure they're pornographic, anyway.
Rather more important, though, are the two unicorn stallions standing next to some sort of control panel. One is light yellow with a mahogany-and-white mane and tail; he has a mustache and a black bow tie. The other unicorn is gray, with a well-groomed black mane. While the first pony seems casual and comfortable in the role of silver-tongued salesman, the second carries himself with a very stern and serious demeanor.
"Why yes! And for another two hundred bits, you can customize her with our fullest feature set, at the deluxe terminal," the salesman is saying. This seems to elicit a roll of the customer's purple eyes.
"No. No more of this flim-flammery. I will make do with the basic options. I am not paying extra to get gold leaf on my hooves while I build my mare." The salespony shrugs.
"Suit yourself. I have re-shelving to do, so have fun with the controls!" he says, starting to trot away. "Oh, and don't take too long. The 94A has a tendency to set early after initial exposure, fixing all your changes in place after the current settings are automagically invoked by our safety protocol. You'll have as little as fifteen more minutes if that happens. Anyway, call me if you need anything, or when you're ready to finalize your excellent choice of purchase!"
"I don't buy for a moment that you can't feel this," the gray stallion says, once the other is gone. "I can see the tears and suffering in your eyes. I think I'll keep that." His purple magic reaches out towards the panel in front of him, and starts muttering to himself. It must be to himself, since I can't possibly reply.
There's a ticking sound, and magic assaults me again. Instead of just hammering on me again, though, I feel the lingering pain suddenly escalate. It feels like it's happening all over again, and all I can do is tremble and take it. After moments or hours, though, it finally fades again. I can see the gray stallion, still alone, muttering to himself as he plays with what sound like buttons and dials. Nothing further seems to be happening, at least not yet, so I close my eyes and try to clear my mind.
I'm not given much time to think, however. The stallion abruptly curses, and I feel like every hair of my fur, mane, and tail is being yanked out at once. It's not as bad as the hammers, but when my skull starts to crack and twist, it's too much. I see white, forcing out breath in what might once have been a scream. I'm soon distracted from the pain by something worse. It feels like my mind has been turned into a series of filing cabinets, and snakes and clawed monstrosities are slithering and picking through them. Everything is categorized, then either put away, rewritten, or erased. I... I can't... wap dh weiapt Wpagnenyyi gnh Kawprnga -
The static filling my mind leaves, and I can think clearly again. It's not over soon enough, but it's over. Whatever I was thinking about is gone, and I know it's gone for good. I ache everywhere, and I can't see anything distinct through my tears. I realize I'm crying, but I can't stop - I don't even particularly care to. That strikes me as wrong, somehow, bringing more mute sobs.
I almost don't notice when I start moving again. A gentle, feminine voice above me says, "Please go to the front desk to finalize your order. Thank you for choosing Template Technologies: bringing you together with the partner of your dreams." The stallion who apparently just... just bought me... he curses, this time at me, as I am drawn backwards. My body is moved sideways as he begins to storm off; then I am turned and pulled through a dark tunnel that smells like dust and urine. After a few bumping and jolting minutes, I am thrust into the light again, and squeeze my eyes shut against its sudden pain.
"...joking, correct? I'm not paying full price for that. Your 'process' took over before I was finished, and the result is not what I wanted!"
"Good sir, I would be most happy to ensure the fulfillment of your any and every desire. However, you agreed to pay, and I did warn you of the setting time. It isn't my fault you chose to spend that time masturbating - which, by the way, is not allowed in the store. The only reason you are permitted to remain, instead of being removed from the premises, is that you did not ejaculate on my floor or merchandise." I manage to open my eyes, and though it still rather hurts, I can see the two stallions again, and a counter. On the near side is the salesman from before, and on the other side, the gray stallion is giving him a look of stammering, mortified shock.
I notice other things, too. There's fur on my muzzle, a very slightly yellowish off-white. My mane, hanging into my eyes, is a two-toned blue mess, and something about the colors seems... off. Though the lot is tangled and matted with what feels like sweat, the colors still seem too... vibrant.
"Hey, Brute!" the shopkeep yells. A door opens somewhere nearby.
"It's Bulk, Boss." The new voice is definitely a stallion's, deep and rich.
"Yes, well, I need a hoof. Please put this mare up on the counter."
"Sure thing, Boss." A moment later, part of a wall of white-furred muscle fills my view. I'm lifted, restraints and all, and it feels like one smooth and easy motion. This stallion must be made of raw physical power. "Got it, Boss."
"Good, good. Now, sir, this is the 94A you were working on. Here are the papers. This is the agreed price. Any questions?" I start to cry again. I'm not just some piece of merchandise. I'm not! But... here I am, on a counter, and very obviously being traded for money like some kind of livestock.
"No," the grey unicorn says with a defeated sigh. "But I still insist upon a discount. I never switched its blindness off, and it can clearly see. Look." He steps over to my end of the counter. "Watch my hoof," he orders. Not knowing what else to do, I obey, tracking his foreleg as he passes it back and forth in front of my face. "You see, it clearly isn't blind, even though the procedure and your own charts say that it is supposed to be."
"Hmm," the other stallion hmms. There is some shuffling of paper beside me. "Let's see... voice, yes; obedience, seven-point-five of ten; intelligence, two - ah ha! Vision: blind. And you've satisfied me that this doesn't match the actual model. Very well; a hundred-bit discount for the trouble."
"Seven hundred fifty." They haggle over me for a few minutes, and I desperately wish for the freedom to tuck my tail and hide my face in my hooves to shield my sobs and humiliation. I'm not a toy. I'm not a toy. I'm not -
"Very well, three hundred it is. You drive a hard bargain, sir. She will arrive tomorrow, after I've given her the routine examinations described in your papers. Brute, take her back to the shipping room and prep her."
"Sure, Boss." I am lifted again, and once more feel like I weigh no more than a pillow or teddy bear to him. "It's Bulk, Boss."
"Yes, yes, now go on." The voices of the other stallions are muffled after the first door, and gone after the second, as the one apparently called Bulk takes me to a back room. Before I can glance around - as much as my fixed field of view will allow - I'm swiftly set down in a simple cage. The floor and ceiling are solid metal, and in front of me is a series of iron bars in a square grid. There's an opening, but I can't move, and besides, a door quickly swings shut into it.
Ahead of me, the white stallion I presume is Bulk mutters to himself, looking over a slip of paper. He is magnificently muscular, and his perfect, powerful wings accent his figure beautifully. He has red eyes, and his golden mane flows over his neck like a river of the actual precious metal. I feel a tightening in my belly that isn't unpleasant...
"Step one, remove the gag and neck brace," he mutters, coming closer. He reaches in with a screwdriver, and though I can't exactly tell what he does, the metal bands drop from my neck and face to clatter on the floor, forcing me to pin my ears to my skull against the noise. He takes the former restraints, then places a toweled hoof, frog up, in front of my chin. "You can spit that out now."
I try to work my tongue around the object lodged in my mouth; eventually, it gives a little, and I am able to push it out with a "ppt." He takes the mouth-plug away, and I try to thank him, but I still can't seem to make a sound. My mouth is horribly stiff, anyway, and it takes several moments to force it shut.
"Step two, a bit of food," he reads off the slip. I watch him as he does... something. I'm busy tracing his muscles with my eyes. He's amazingly buff, and - and oh my, is it getting warm in here. I know I've been at least a little attracted to other stallions forever, but wow.
"Hope you like oatmeal," he says, opening the door and placing a steaming bowl in front of me. My belly abruptly informs me that I haven't eaten in far, far too long. I know I'm blushing, and I know he can see it, but he doesn't say anything. He just watches me, seemingly waiting for me to eat, and so I do. The plain oatmeal is slightly too hot, and I end up burning my tongue and throat a little as my hunger drives me to ignore it, but it's satisfying. Just as I finish, Bulk drops an apple into my bowl. I glance up at him, trying to make sure I look inquisitive.
"From my dinner, 'cause you don't try to make my job hard. Thanks." He mutters at his paper again. "Step three, water. Ah. I'll be right back, don't go anywhere."
"Bastard," I try to growl, even though his face and even his tone hold no hint of a smirk. Nothing comes out, of course. Despite myself, I find my eyes trailing his arse to the door. Stupid, beautiful bastard.
It's quiet for several moments. I look around, and am not really impressed. There's a workbench across the room from me, maybe twenty feet away, and it's covered in tools, I think. It's hard to tell since it's just slightly above eye level. There's not much else - the door I came in from, a door I can feel drafts from that probably leads outside, a locker that probably holds the rest of Magnificent Bulk's (I know he only said "Bulk," but Magnificent suits him) dinner and maybe a uniform he hasn't been wearing, and a few other cages, spaced at regular intervals along the same wall as mine.
The one directly to my left holds a sea-green unicorn mare, her even lighter-green mane and tail streaked with white. On her flank is a golden harp, and around her body are silvery steel bands that I assume are identical to the ones holding me. Remembering my freedom to look around and move my neck, I confirm that with just a glance. I also notice she hasn't touched a bowl of oatmeal in her cage; it seems to have gone cold, or at least, it isn't steaming anymore.
I look to my right. Near the end of the row - near the drafty door - another mare is sleeping in her bonds, this one plum with a pink-and-lighter-pink mane. Her cutie mark seems to be -
"E-excuse me..." The stammer from my left interrupts my train of thought. I turn my head to see the green one staring through me. She's clearly spent time crying, too. "I seem to be lost. Could you d-direct me to 12 Celestial Circle? Dreadfully sorry about the f-frog in my th-throat."
I stare back. Does she honestly think...? Well, it's not like I can say anything.
Ever.
I stare at the floor, and struggle not to burst into a fresh round of tears, myself. The thought that I shouldn't be crying this easily, that I'm supposed to be a stallion, just breaks the dam.
"W-was it, erm, something I said?" I shake my head. It's not her fault I can't stop crying.
Of course that's when the door to the left opens again! I shoot the unicorn salesman a tear-stained glare, and he shoots a dry, condescending one right back.
"Enjoying the pity party, are we?" There is no sneer on his face, but I can hear one in his tone. I can't explain, but I can scowl. He is unimpressed. "Have I struck a nerve? No matter. Come in and lend me a hoof, Bulk Muscle."
"It's Bulk Biceps, Boss." That magnificent stallion enters again when called, and I actually feel a little better for seeing him again. Without even being instructed - he must be used to this part of the routine - he comes over, pulls me out of the cage, and moves me to the workbench. He clears a large space on it with a powerful sweep of a wing before setting me down, my body parallel to the wall and my face towards the exit door. "Gonna clean the Template machine, Boss. Kinda messy."
"Stay, stay. I took care of that already. You need to learn this part, Muscles, so at least stand by and watch. It's a simple procedure, and I doubt you'll need to see it more than five times to pick it up." Bulk grunts, and I'm not given more than a moment to watch or think before a stack of papers is slapped onto the bench behind me.
"Now, let's see. Item one..." The 'boss' mumbles to himself for a few moments. I pick up bits and pieces, but even what I catch sounds like technical terms that don't make sense. After a few moments, he moves to my front side, and levitates a popsicle stick in front of my face. "Say 'aahhh.'"
I open my mouth and try, but of course, no sound comes. That doesn't seem to bother him, and he continues to examine me. It feels almost like a regular physical at first - until he turns me and spreads a measuring tape across my rump. By now, he's humming casually to himself, jotting something down on his papers between measurements and-
I try reflexively to yelp and move away. Neither happens, of course, and I can do nothing but clench as best I can. That does nothing to stop what I pray is just a measuring device from steadily pushing into me. I can't comprehend the sensations I shouldn't even have, as the thing continues to slide through my...
...my...
...
Even though I quiver at every slight inward push, and even though I can feel my tail flag and my throat try in vain to voice a moan as the object is pulled back out at what must be a deliberately slow pace, I can't think the word. All I can do is hang my head and let tears course down my muzzle.
"Lucky mare. My client has made you quite the sensitive one. Not everypony is so thoughtful." I fail to ignore the salespony's taunting, though his voice has to compete with the rush of my own thoughts.
How in all the Planes of Stars and Tartarus does it feel good?
I know ponies hate being ra--being attacked like this, so what in Equestria is wrong with me?!
Stop! Please! Please please please please let it stop...
I'm back in the middle cage, though I really don't see the point of it with my legs still firmly bound. I hear a door shut, probably signifying the stallions leaving, but I don't bother to raise my head. It's over, and it's all I can do to make myself feel nothing. Staring into the growing puddle of tears at my hooves, I desperately wish for my tail to drop and the warmth and emptiness in my lower body to disappear, but if wishes were fishes...
"It's okay. They're gone." The gentle voice comes from my right. I glance over and see the plum mare is awake. I don't know how long she's been watching me, but the way she looks at me - it's more than sympathy. From her expression, I'm certain she knows where I am, and I can't decide whether I'm glad to not be alone, or angry that I'm not the only one.
"I'm sorry I can't do more," she says. "I just... I'm sorry."
I do the best I can to reply: a heavy nod.
The mare's demeanor shifts abruptly to one far more upbeat, and she takes a deep breath. "So! I'd love to have met under better circumstances, but I'll introduce myself anyway. My name is Cheerilee; and you are?" She pauses, blinking several times. "... no, that's not right. My name isn't Cheerilee! It's Cheerilee."
Her pupils rapidly shrink, as she spends several moments stammering. I want to go over and give her a gentle touch on the shoulder to break her focus, but without a voice and within my cage, I can only watch helplessly as not-Cheerilee continues to work herself up. Her breaths turn rapid and ragged as she tries to tell me her name again and again, and the only one that will come out is "Cheerilee". It doesn't take long for her to start screaming her denial at the top of her lungs; my ears pin themselves against my skull reflexively, and since I'm utterly incapable of helping her, I simply endure. The distraction is welcome, and maybe somepony will hear her and come to help...
Nopony comes, and not-Cheerilee finally runs out of steam after... I don't know how long. The only sound, for a little while, is her heavy panting. The quiet is music to my ringing ears.
"Okay," the plum mare finally says, hoarsely. She looks away from me, towards the wall. "I'm sorry for screaming. I guess my name is Cheerilee, now. I'll try not to think about that too much." After a minute, she faces me again. "What about you?"
I can't talk, I try to say. I'm not surprised by my silence anymore. My name is--my thought stops abruptly. I try to summon the next word, but draw a blank.
What is my name?
"Are you angry with me?" Cheerilee's tone suggests she might actually be afraid that I am, and I shake my head.
My focus turns to my thoughts and memories. I try to remember my parents, but their names and faces are gone. I think one is ... white? Maybe the other is blue? Did I have siblings? This is going nowhere - what about my friends? They blend together in a sea of white, gold, and gray. I can't remember my school, my teachers, or anyone else who might have called me a name, no matter how hard I grasp at my own mind. I catch myself crying again, and no longer fight the tears.
"It's a bad name, isn't it? You don't have to say." Her tone is gentle again, though still hoarse. "I'd just be glad to talk to you. That mare on the other side of you, who says she's headed for Celestial Circle? She just keeps repeating herself. I don't think she's actually here."
Sure. I'd love to talk to you, or be able to. I glare bitterly at the floor of my cage. There are a lot of things I would like, right now.
"You know, before... this, I think I wanted to be a teacher. Education is the currency with which we'll buy the future; do you get what I mean?" I nod, though my thoughts are still on... whoever I might have known in the past. "Do you think that maybe, wherever we end up, we'll be able to live the lives we want?" I don't answer; I might not have an answer, and the question changes my train of thought. What did I do? What did I want? Trying to reach into my memory again for answers is like trying to joust without legs or eyes: I can't even find the tournament, and even if I did, what then?
"You're not gone too, are you?" I shake my head and shut my eyes. This dim light is tolerable, but I still need a rest from it. "Can you please say something, then? I don't enjoy feeling like I'm dominating a conversation."
I shake my head again.
"No, you won't? Or... or is it no, you can't?" I barely have time to figure out how to answer before Cheerilee speaks again. "... you can't." I don't nod; I don't want to think about it. I don't really want to think at all, but she keeps asking me questions and making guesses. Eventually, one provokes my curiousity.
"So, you're a unicorn - is there anything you can do to magic us out of this?" I cross my eyes, looking up at my forehead. Sure enough, the tip of a horn still (still?) hovers at the edge of my vision. It feels like a familiar sight, so I give mental thanks to anypony or anything that will listen for at least one thing not changing. I open my eyes to glance around for a suitable test target, and find it in the form of a pen left on the...
...Table...
I whimper mutely and turn my head as far away as I can, eyes screwed tightly shut against not the light, but the few memories I know. I'm still held fast, and I can feel that horrible pony pawing at my rear--
"Hey!" Cheerilee snaps. She speaks more gently again when I give her my attention and blink away the tears. "Stay out of that place, okay? It's not just for you; it's for me, too. If I have to be alone again, I don't know if I can keep myself together, and we have to stay in the present to get through this."
I nod. I was supposed to be testing my magical ability. I resume my search for a suitable target, and find it: a heavy jacket draped over Bulk's locker. Simple enough to levitate and--
Everything goes white, and it feels like my head is exploding in slow motion while my horn inverts and drives itself into my brain. I can't hold on to consciousness. I don't want to.
When I wake up, my head is still throbbing, especially around the base of my horn. That's twice now that trying to use a spell has brought me nothing but pain, and I get the message: No magic allowed. How? That, I don't know. Even the most strict magic inhibition devices, used for only the most dangerous and malicious unicorn criminals, don't hurt the wearer - they merely cause the power of the spell to dissipate harmlessly into the air. They're also bulky enough that I would feel one, if it were on me.
Regardless, that was definitely a failure. I turn my head towards Cheerilee--
Her corner is empty. Not even her cage is left. I look to my other side, but the light green unicorn is gone too. I'm still in the same room, though - The Table is more than enough to grant me a shuddering certainty. I can't tear my eyes from it until, out of nowhere, a wall of magnificent white pegasus is suddenly blocking my view. My thoughts do an abrupt about-face, from desperately trying to forget that to worrying that he might have seen my blush before I hid my face. Why does he have to be so handsome?
"Time to go," he says, holding up a wide soup mug full of water. "First, drink up."
I do as he says - in the process discovering a thirst that had been buried by other priorities - while trying to avoid his gaze. He saw, and I don't want to know how he thinks of me now. My own thoughts and... needs... are quite enough to deal with; the image in my mind of everypony seeing my whorish squirming and attempts to moan draws a mute sob.
"Sorry."
My head is too heavy to raise, and trying to look at him to share my confused expression is like trying to put the wrong magnets together. With the cup taken away, I let the floor of the cage fill my vision. Bulk doesn't elaborate as he forces my gag back in, and I don't resist - I couldn't if I tried. He lifts me clear from the cage and the floor and places me on his back, restraints and all. I am set down so as to straddle him, and he spreads his broad, beautiful wings to keep me balanced as he walks out the back door.
We emerge into a narrow alley surrounded by buildings so high that though it is day, the entire place is cast into shadow - still too bright for my eyes, and still painful, but I have to see where I am and what's happening. There are no windows in the walls above me, and behind is a dead end; between that and my pointless gag, I realize ponies could be taken in and out here at any time, and nopony would ever know.
Towards the end of the alley, and in the direction Bulk is walking, a carriage waits - a black silhouette against the brightly-lit street beyond. I try and fail to whimper as something in my belly sinks, telling me that carriage is the last place I want to be. Everything in Bulk's strength and my bondage says I'm not getting a choice. With my head free, I'm torn between head-butting him in the back of the skull - putting up what little fight I can - or burying my face in his luxurious mane, inhaling the crisp apple scent of what must be his shampoo, and trying to shut out the world. I do neither, and fight the chills crawling up my back alone.
The coach has a strange configuration - it is nearly as wide as the alley, and it features a rear entry door, which seems to replace the typical side-entries. It takes me only seconds to realize that it must have been custom-ordered for the purpose of moving ponies around without a fuss. It is also only a few seconds before the door opens and another pony steps out.
I shudder. It's the yellowish salespony again. Thankfully, he only spares me a glance before giving more orders.
"Alright, inside with her, Muscles. Chop chop."
"Got it, boss. It's Biceps." Bulk carries me into the coach, and sets me down on the front seat, facing the rear seat opposite me. The seats are couch-style, and made of what appears to be a very plush material, considering how deep my metal-encased hooves sink into it. Of course the side windows are covered by heavy curtains; they can't have me seen like this, I suppose. The Guard would be on them in minutes - even less, if I were in charge.
Bulk shuts the door and takes a seat in front of me; I quickly turn my eyes to the floor. It's only when we're moving that he speaks again.
"Sorry. I wish I could have avoided being part of that. I hate this job." I hate that you did it anyway, I think. "I'd have told Flam to shove off if he didn't decide this was how I was going to repay him. I think he was planning to have me stay on. That damned silver-tongue can sing ants into buying a pet aardvark, but it won't work again." Where I come from - wherever that is - ethics are held higher than money. Is this really what the city does to ponies?
"If it helps, this is my last week working with him. Then I'll be paid up and gone. Maybe he won't be able to continue without an assistant. I really hope you're the last." I still can't look at him, and he doesn't say anything more. What am I the last of? These... transformations? How is that supposed to help? I'm still going to be in whatever situation I'm about to be in, and given my bonds seem more secure than the toughest dungeon, it's not one ponies would enter willingly. And how many of me are there already? From what the salespony - Flam, apparently, and I briefly ponder what a flam is without a flim - has said so far, and from how casually he acts and speaks about his work, it seems that he's been doing this for a while.
Whatever "this" really is, anyway.
The ride drags on and on, with Bulk probably still watching me and my head still too heavy to lift. At some point, I hear Bulk eating something crunchy, but I don't pay it any mind until he pops my gag out again.
"At least you make the work easy. I think you can do without this, just don't talk too loud. The soundproofing isn't perfect." I flex my jaw until it pops into its proper place again, and a white hoof holds three slices of apple between my face and the seat. "Now eat some. Got a hunch you'll need it. I'm not supposed to give you anything, so don't tell the boss."
I'm not interested in food, but find myself eating without really thinking about it. Off of his hoof, like some kind of animal. I try to gather the willpower to protest, but maybe I'm just too drained from The Table and my imploding spell - the only result I can feel is a flush of humiliation burning my muzzle as I finish the last slice.
It takes another hour or so of silence - save the muffled rumble of the coach's wheels on the road - for me to finally pull my head up. When I do, Bulk immediately turns his eyes towards the floor. He spends the rest of the trip like this, one corner of his mouth occasionally twitching downward. It's only when we finally stop that he pushes one of the curtains aside to look out, then faces me again. It's my turn to look away again.
"We're here. I'm going to get that metal off you. Don't scream, fight, or run." I don't even need to imagine what will happen if I try any of those; I simply nod once, and he sets me on the floor to undo a couple of screws I had overlooked between my shoulders and along my chest. The metal frame that has encased me for what feels like years opens up along the front, and I'm easily able to step out of the leg braces and out of my restraints. My knees are stiff, but I'm able to catch myself when I stumble - catching my face with the wonderfully soft seat cushions totally counts. Glancing over my shoulder, I see my former bonds split vertically, joined only by a set of hinges at the back.
It's a couple of minutes' wait before the door opens, revealing Flam's smiling face in front of a stone wall. "Bring her out, Bulge." When his eyes settle on me, he frowns, and I quickly find a plush seat to stare at. "Why isn't she secured?"
"She's not a risk, boss. Easier this way."
"Yes, I suppose. I do recall something like that from the spec sheet, now. Much less suspicious if we get seen. Good thinking." Flam clears his throat. "Alright, then. Come out and follow me."
I'm not sure what else to do. My hooves are moving as soon as I hear him, anyway, and they carry me out and onto a stone path, barely wide enough for the coach, set between a tree and a massive stone wall. I walk in the stallion's hoofsteps, keeping my head down to minimize the pain in my eyes, but he leads me into direct sunlight in what might be a front yard. I screw my eyes tightly shut against the bright, nebulous shapes and colours, but not quickly enough to stop an explosion of white pain.
"What are you standing there for?" he demands. "I told you to follow me!"
I try to follow his voice, keeping my steps slow and careful from the stone path onto crisp grass. I immediately trip over something and barely stay on my hooves. I have to keep my eyes open to follow him, or at least the yellowish blob that is probably him, and every second feels like having nails pounded into my face. Protective tears form to defend against the overwhelming light, but they're simply not enough. I'm glad when the probably-Flam blob comes to a halt next to a gray blob, and I can finally stop and shut my eyes, sending tears rolling down my muzzle.
"Here she is, sir, and here is your second receipt and the specifications of your order," Flam says. "Our delivery is on schedule and your mare is ready to go. Any questions, sir?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Of course not; everything you need to know can be found in the instructional packet you left with yesterday. Thank you ever so much for making your purchase from our services, sir, and have a wonderful new life together!"
With that, his hoofsteps trot away, ignoring a shouted protest from the familiar voice of the gray unicorn from what Flam said was yesterday. The coach's wheels rumble on the stone driveway as it hastily retreats less than a minute later.
"Come with me. Now," the... the customer snaps at me. Reluctantly, I open my eyes. Being better-prepared for the agony doesn't make it hurt less, and I nearly close them again, except that I have to follow the gray blob. And I do, stumbling when he leads me up a short set of steps; I nearly lose him against the slightly darker-gray background before we arrive at a wood-coloured blob that must be a door.
When I am finally out of the sun, I stop to shut my eyes again; they feel dry and scratchy against their lids. The pounding in my eyes has become a pounding through my whole head, and more tears flow down my cheeks. So I'm just going to cry whenever I hurt, now? I want it to be wrong. It must be wrong; I was a stallion!
And yet it's starting to feel almost natural...
"Good afternoon, father." I open my eyes and search for the source of the gentle, melodic voice. It's not quite as painfully bright indoors, though it still makes my eyes smart and my head throb more painfully.
It turns out the voice belongs to a filly, no older than 13 or 14. No younger, either; her cutie mark has revealed itself, an elegant purple treble clef. She has the same gray coat, purple eyes, and styled black mane as the stallion standing next to me; she even wears the same white collar and light pink bow-tie. I shudder at the resemblance. The differences are scarce; she's younger and an earth pony, while he seems to be approaching middle age and is a unicorn. His cutie mark is two pairs of musical notes, each joined at the top, while her mane is much longer, going all the way down to her shoulders.
"What are you doing downstairs, Octavia?" her father says with a growling undertone. "I told you to practice in the study until supper."
"I'm following your orders, sir. It's five-thirty, I've prepared supper, and the table is set for two." Her words are smooth and practiced.
The stallion's tone doesn't change. "You should have said so to begin with! Fine. You," he says, turning to look at me. "Heel." I fall in line to his right and just a hoof or two behind him as he leads me down a hallway. I let my head drop as I go. What am I, a dog? Glancing to the side, I find Octavia in the same position, except to his left. She doesn't look anywhere but straight ahead until we arrive in a brightly-lit dining room; I have to shut my eyes and try to follow the sound of her father's hoofsteps, which is easier on what feels like a smooth wooden floor than the ground outside.
"Octavia, bring out dinner and sit across from me. You, lie down under the table, in front of me." I assume the latter is directed towards me, and crack open one eye to help find my place while he seats himself. At least it's not very bright here, with solid wood overhead and a long table-cloth hanging nearly to the floor, but is this really happening? Am I really letting myself be treated like a dog? Why? I lay my head down and close my eyes again. Maybe I do it because I'm okay with it, just like on The Table.
I shudder, and shed a few more tears in silence.
A minute later, the filly's hoofsteps return, and with them comes the mouthwatering aroma of roasted vegetables. There is definitely onion and garlic in there, overpowering other scents.
"Your plate, father." It is set down above me, and there is no sound of gratitude. "And mine." Another plate touches down above and behind me. "Thank you for the meal, sir."
"You're welcome," the stallion says. His tone is devoid of emotion.
The next sound is the clink of silver against porcelain - followed by spitting and sputtering. Too much garlic?
"Octavia!" her father snaps. "What have I told you about over-cooking the spinach?!"
"No more than five minutes, sir. Or else," the filly says, stammering. The stallion gets up and his hoofsteps move around the table, I open my eyes to follow his movement. Only three of his hooves are on the floor by Octavia's chair. "Daddy! Don't! Remember the agreement!" This seems to be enough to stop him for a moment, and she speaks quickly. "The one where my tutor is the absolute best but she's still going to the police if she sees one more bruise on me!"
Four hooves are on the floor again. I sigh silently in relief, letting out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
"...yes, of course. How could I forget." My tail is surrounded in a pale blue magical aura, which drags me out from under the table; I wince as my body knocks a chair out of the way and reflexively shut my eyes against the light. "Stand." I do, but I'm barely on my hooves when one of his hooves comes out of nowhere, slamming into my face so hard that I spin around on my way back to the floor.
"Stand." It's difficult to get my hooves back under me when I'm so dizzy, but with enough struggling, I manage. Immediately, another hoof slams into the other side of my face, and I meet the floor again. This time, I taste blood.
"Stand!" A kick in the belly; I vomit what little food I'd had.
"Stand!"
"Stand!"
"Stand!"
There's nothing else I can do. I keep getting up on command, only to be beaten to the floor again, and repeat the process over and over. After a few minutes, the blows fade into a distant drumming and faint ache all over my body.
It's still too bright when I finally open my eyes again, and I shut them immediately. I do catch a gray blob hovering over me, though, and hope it's not the stallion. Or at least, I hope he doesn't start hitting me again. My everything hurts like I got hit by a hundred trains, and trying to uncurl from around my aching belly is as futile as trying to stop my silent tears. The last time I hurt so badly in so many places, I was... I was... what was it? Did it have something to do with the police? Was I a criminal?
"You're awake." Is this my punishment? No, it can't be. I'm certain the sentences passed in Equestrian criminal courts aren't this bizarre. Or, for that matter, this painful. Isn't the usual sentence community service, and maybe a few re-educational classes?
Is this community service?
"Can you move your mouth?" Thank the stars, it's just the filly. The distraction of a job to do is more than welcome, and I test my jaw, opening and shutting it and grinding my teeth together. The taste of blood returns, but it doesn't hurt too badly. I nod. "Good. I brought you some water." She holds the rim of a cup to my muzzle. I roll onto my belly, and drink when the cup follows me. The foul-tasting brew nearly comes right back up, and it takes a lot of swallowing to keep it in.
"You can't talk, can you? I don't think anypony can get hit like that and not make a sound." I shake my head and sip away the last of the water. Octavia sighs. "I wish you could. Oh well. I put medicine in the water, by the way. It might help a little with the pain." That accounts for the foul taste. Gross, but if it helps with the hurting...
"I'd better not take too long - I'm probably going to be in trouble already. Come on, I'll take you to your room for the night."
I have to open my eyes to follow her, but fortunately, it seems most of the place isn't lit as well as the dining room. On the whole, while there is very little decoration, the halls and rooms themselves are elegant and roomy; Octavia's family must be incredibly rich just to have a place like this. That explains how they can afford to buy a pony... I briefly ponder just how much it cost to purchase me, before shaking my head and banishing the topic to the moon.
"Through that door and down the stairs," the filly directs. I open a heavy door of richly-coloured oak and walk into the darkness, watching what little I can see of my hooves to avoid tumbling down the steps. Octavia comes down behind me, and when I stop and look over my shoulder, I see her head up and eyes forward. She makes it to the bottom without missing a step.
"Here is your bed." There's no furniture anywhere; at least, none that I can see. Nevertheless, I step forward to, as best I can tell, the spot on the floor that she is pointing at. It's just a big, empty basement; with no windows and apparently no lights, it's hard to see anything. At least it doesn't hurt my eyes.
"Okay, hold still." Cool metal embraces the ankles of my forelegs. I shiver, but can't pull away; my hooves stay rooted to the floor. Whimpering mutely, I tuck my tail between my hind legs and feel my ears droop. Octavia walks back up the stairs and stops at the top, her silhouette casting a shadow over what little I can see. It takes a few moments for her to speak.
"Daddy also said it's nice to have somepony who can take more of--than--than--" She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry."
The door shuts behind her, and full darkness settles in. The lock clicks, loudly enough that it has to have been designed for the sense of finality and foreboding that ties knots in my throat. I can do little besides stare at the invisible wall in front of me, and wait.
As I take my quiet, measured steps down the hall, my thoughts turn from the white mare towards Father. The distraction is a relief. I stop at the door to his bedroom, knock gently twice, and stare up at the tower of finished hardwood while I wait for him to respond. Though differently cut, and though designed and styled with far greater elegance, it is the same wood with the same finish as the floor and furniture, and as many of the would-be decorative items throughout the house. Everything here is as hard, but tonight is special. Tonight, the manor has lost much of its rigidity.
Today, for the first time, he bent to my will. I linger in the memory--his hoof, for once, stopping at my plea. Mine was not a dignified victory, but it was a victory. It would not be the last. I smile at the engraving in the wood in front of me. Slowly, but surely, I will thwart him. Slowly, but surely, I will overcome him. I know my smile is unpleasant, and I am fairly certain I am late and will be punished again, but I do not care.
The door swings open, and I hurriedly let my face relax back to its placid mask. It's not good enough.
"Stop looking at me that way, Octavia." I'm not certain what he means, as my expression feels as empty and bland as I can make it, but I quickly turn my eyes to the floor. There is too harsh an edge to his voice to brook any question or argument.
"Sorry, sir. I won't do it again." Once I figure out what I did wrong, anyway. Though my eyes are averted, I can still feel him sneering and looming over me.
"See that you don't, filly. Why are you bothering me?"
"I'm feeling a bit lost. I don't know where you want me to sleep tonight." This is true, at least. The new pony's arrival had to be met with a lot of changes around the house, he'd told me, and I had been the one to do much of the work. My former bedroom was hastily re-purposed in the process, to my immense but carefully-hidden joy.
Father pretends to consider the question. I know he's already decided. But decorum, child, decorum, as he has always told me. Even he bows to its tedious rules. We both wait the appropriate amount of time, and he must be the one to break the silence.
"You will sleep in the room I allowed you before," he says. My blood chills, and I can feel the frostbite creeping through my coat. No. I thought I had seen the last of that place! The tiny measure of pride, that little glimmer of hope I had scraped together in the wake of that suddenly-inconsequential triumph at dinner, deflates, leaving only a horrible tightness in my chest. Why? What did I mess up now?!
"But--"
"But me no buts. Go to bed, foal." I nod, let my head drop, and shudder as I turn back towards the stairs. My hooves are leaden, and my best efforts barely lift each one as I go. I thought I had rid myself of that... place. I had grown accustomed, even up to last night, but its return... it's like somepony saved my violin from a fall, only to smash it against a rock for laughs.
"Where are you going?" Father snaps.
"To bed, sir." Thankfully, the cold in me begins to fade into a creeping numbness that lets my tone stay steady and demure. It's when my heart is muffled like this that I think and do my best; I was stupid to allow feelings - like vindication or fear - to take over.
"Other way." That's all Father says before stepping back inside his room and shutting the door. His hoofsteps recede as I pause. What room could he mean, if not... that? I don't have a room on this upper floor, and there's no other way back to the stairs.
It's a day like any other, except for your latest e-mail. It's not another rejection letter from a minimum-wage job. It's not telling you they want someone with experience, or that you're too late and the position is already filled. It just says, "Yours?" There's an attachment, and your antivirus says it's clean. A picture of your OC pops up when you open it - one that you remember. A friend of yours drew it for your deviantArt account, and it actually turned out pretty well. That really brings you back, and you spend a few minutes reminiscing.
It's been a couple of years, but you used to be pretty active on the MLP:FiM boards, the chans especially. Pony Transformation General was a frequent favourite, especially when someone introduced a story prompt:
>So like, a bunch of popular bronies get a plushy of their OC, and after touching it, they slowly turn into their OC over the course of a few days or weeks. Hilarity ensues, and shit happens
Boy, did that ever speak to you. You weren't popular, but you were a brony, back then. You were into everything to do with the show, with the fandom, and with the merchandise. Your bedroom wall is still a morass of Princess Luna-themed wallpaper that you custom-ordered, back when you could still hold a job. Of course, its lack of subtlety probably has something to do with your success in bed since then, and you'd remove it to re-paper the wall - or maybe just paint - if you could afford to. You're already between jobs and living on ramen, corn flakes, and peanut butter straight from the jar, though. Your budget doesn't stretch that far, but shaking your head, you return to more pleasantly nostalgic thoughts.
The responses to that story prompt got you thinking. Eventually, you got to writing as well. The digital adventures you had through the lens of your OC fascinated you, even if nobody else really cared. You drilled words into cyberspace, and as he came into an abstract kind of existence, Night Shift the black-and-purple alicorn danced to their tune - but over time, you made changes. The fandom didn't really like alicorns, so he became an earth pony; you wanted to write an F/F clop chapter, so he became a mare; readers complained about the colors of your "overpowered" character, and you revised away what was left of the original completely.
The pegasus staring back through your computer screen with grinning confidence is pastel-blue, and her mid-length mane, swept forward almost into her face, is a brighter shade of pink. You'd even renamed her - the caption, written finely in the same colored pencil as the rest of the drawing, reads "Candy Crash." As far as you've written or roleplayed, she isn't particularly special. She is just a touch small for a grown pony, she loves to try out daring aerobatic stunts - which she has no knack for, so she usually ends up breaking something - and she has a sweet tooth the size of Manehattan. That's what ended up driving her to discovery of her special talent: hard candies. She makes and sells them in all kinds, and enjoys sampling her own product. Her cutie mark is a pink lollipop and a butter toffee, along with a white tablet you added as a joke when someone told you "candy" was street-ese for Ecstasy.
Who would still have this, though? And how would they associate it with this address? You took down your DA months ago, and this e-mail account is for job-hunting only. You suppose it couldn't hurt, though, and you might get a little information back. You send a reply:
>>Yeah, that was me. Did you have a question about her? Mail back and we can talk.
You wait a few minutes, but all that comes is another rejection letter - it's starting to feel like even the local grocery wants ten years' experience and a Master's degree in bagging. Bed calls, and your dreams aren't any worse than usual - something about showing up to a job interview without your clothes, but the only reaction these once-nightmares elicit anymore is numbness.
Days keep blurring together, and sometimes it feels like summer is passing you by. Revived memories bring you back to old MLP forums, and you end up posting an unfinished chapter of Candy Crash's story. Maybe one person remembers her and is happy to see the story updated. Whatever, you kind of enjoyed it. You start re-reading your story to date for nostalgia's sake, and that leads you to browsing other FiM fanfiction between job applications.
Over the course of a few weeks, you notice a curious trend. Pony transformation stories were always a big thing in the fandom, but a lot of the authors with the most popular ones seem to have disappeared completely, without notice and with little fuss. The readers, as always, move on, but you decide to investigate. The more you read through their old blogs, the more you pore over brief discussions of their absence, and the more personal details you dig up - these people really need to learn to protect their identities better - the more common themes emerge, and the more you're convinced something is happening.
You start tracking the current big-name transformation authors. It's late Fall now, and you have to organize your search time around your hours working a register, but you press on, and talented young writers continue to disappear. The ones you follow are vanishing one by one, approximately three weeks apart - every third Sunday, one will stop logging in, like clockwork.
It's mid-Winter, and you're letting yourself shiver in front of your computer to keep the heating bill down - you can't seem to keep a job in this economy. But you've built a story that's plain to see on the spreadsheet in front of you. The people who are disappearing aren't just popular. They're all easy to dox (almost all of them are in the eastern United States, or they were), they all became popular for their passionate self-insert stories, and they're all (as best you can tell) age 16-26. Nervously, you build one more author profile out of what you can find on the internet.
It barely takes twenty minutes to put together.
It's your profile.
It's all too easy to look up your fanfiction username, reverse-image-search your avatar, and find several of your older profiles on social media. If someone wanted, they wouldn't just know your name. They would know your age, your relatives (except those grandparents who disowned your dad's side of the family), your unemployed status, your address - even your banking company and a few of your exes you'd given "in a relationship" status on Facebook.
And one time, you wrote a short side-story about turning into Candy Crash.
You immediately drop a private message to the fanfiction account of your best friend. If this is real, you need to react quickly.
>>I have to show you something. You're not going to believe this. When can you come over? It's urgent - I think. >>Also, don't write that story you were planning. Seriously. You know I believe in you and your ability. It's not about that.
With the message away, you lean back in your chair - and you jump right out of it when someone knocks heavily on your front door. "Too late" and "Wow, that was fast" are the first thoughts to rush through your mind, but three deep breaths later, you can reason with yourself. Life is full of funny coincidences, and it's probably neither your friend nor the mysterious source of disappearances. A glance at the date and time confirms that it's been nowhere near three weeks yet - you're safe. By the hour, you guess the person who just knocked a second time is just carrying the mail.
You hoof it to the front door, and open it just in time to see a brown-shirted man give you a friendly wave from his big, boxy UPS truck as he pulls away from the curb. You scold yourself, and move the package he left behind - it's a light box about the size of a duffel bag - to the kitchen table.
Maybe, you guess, it's just all the searching and profiling getting to you that gave you a scare. And the more you think about it, the less your own system makes sense. Sure, you know the kinds of people who are going dark, but you don't know anything about why - maybe it's a quitting agreement among elite authors who have gotten tired of the fandom, like a suicide pact except pony fanfiction. You also don't have anything to profile the sort of person who would be responsible for their disappearances, if anyone but the authors themselves is even responsible.
"It's probably nothing," you mutter to yourself. You can't un-send that PM to your friend, and she probably won't let you live it down for a while, but as you cut the tape to free the box's top flaps, you wonder if you should just forget your crazy theories. Sure, there's a pattern, but people see patterns in everything. Even string theory
Ugh, your head is completely full of fuck. You haven't had a headache this bad since your first hangover. You aren't sure if you're moving when you try to cover your head - your everything hurts like you've just been run through a wood chipper and haphazardly slapped back together on the other side. You've just woken up and you're already screaming from the pain.
There is a cool touch to your neck, then a weird pressure. It takes you a moment to recognize the feelings of being given a shot and register the pain - it feels almost pleasant compared to everything else right now. You don't have time for guessing whats or hows or whys before the world drifts away again.
You dream.
Your mind is floating in a medicinal haze; thinking is difficult, and the collection of blacks and dark grays around you makes no sense. Wherever you are, everything is spinning, or maybe you're spinning. A voice splits in two, then eight. What it doesn't do is make coherent sounds. It has plenty of incoherent ones, though, and it seems to be directing those at you. A fleeting thought whispers that you wish you could understand, and then it's gone again.
You retch. Where did the sick feeling come from? Why didn't you notice it earlier? You retch again, and this time, black filth streaked with red pours from your mouth. Blood and what? You keep throwing up, again and again; the vile substance you bring up is as often green or yellow as black.
Finally, the needle comes back, taking it all away again.
The cycle repeats seemingly endless times - though, as your thoughts feel like they have to be forced through a pea-soup fog, it could be twice and still feel like years.
At last, however, order and coherence returns to your world. You still can't see much - there is no light wherever you are, besides a faint glow in what might be the crack under a door. It isn't bright enough to illuminate anything. However, you don't feel everything spinning, and your belly isn't forcing strange substances up and out of your mouth and nose. You have a good idea of whether you're facing up or down (you're face down on your belly), and as you remain laid out on the floor, you can feel cold, smoothed concrete under you. When you sniff the air, everything smells like mold and feet. Possibly moldy feet.
You're not sure when you woke up, but you're definitely awake.
That doesn't count for much. The moment you try to move, you feel something over the back of your neck and each of your limbs, pinning you to the floor. All you can do is sit in the darkness and wait.
Or, you realize, you could yell for help. You're just opening your mouth when you pause. Getting attention might not be the best idea - surely something like this can't be a mistake. What if you've been kidnapped?
You wait, and you wonder. What happened? How? Where are you now, and what can you do if someone comes in with hostile intentions? Have you been sold to a mango farm down the river? You swallow a hard knot in your throat when every question you ask yourself comes back blank. You don't know anything, and if someone did this to you on purpose, there's nothing you can do.
It seems like it's been forever since the world became coherent. You're still pretty much alone, since hunger and thirst are such poor company. Finally, your thoughts turn inward. What happened to lead to this? There are some flashes of awareness in a nebulous haze, but they don't make sense. The most recent thing you remember clearly...
Is it not normal for a pony to be kind? There was a time I would never have asked. I didn't like to bother other ponies pointlessly, and I thought I knew. I thought kindness was a constant in every pony. Now I can only keep vigil over the ruins of my home. I stand and doubt, I watch as nothing happens, I try to track the days.
Ponyville sleeps the sleep of ancients, the facades of blasted buildings staring in unending torment across streets devoid of the bustle I remember, devoid of any pony at all. For what must be decades, I've prayed to any who will hear the pleas of an unworthy pony whose only wish is to see a living creature. I would die to see anyone, even Gilda.
I thought the first few years were the worst, those years of looking out on a dying world. Ponies struggled or gave up - it made no difference. I watched those lucky enough to survive the beginning of the end die horrid, lingering deaths. I watched vultures descend from the gloom of the sealed skies to pick the bodies, only to fall prey to the same sickness. I had desperately wanted to scream, to cry, to go and give the dying ponies a little comfort before I, too, succumbed to my deserved fate.
I watched when the last of the carrion birds fell from the sky over Ponyville, vomiting its organs. I watched as stillness rolled over the town like an oppressive fog, and wordlessly, I begged everything I could think of for any sign of life. Where there is life, there is hope, and I lived in a dead world.
I thought those first years were the worst, those years of looking out on the Reaper's crop. I was wrong, for long after I lost track of time, I saw life return to Equestria.
~*~*~*~
I was beyond loneliness. Ever since my poor Angel Bunny succumbed to the glare of a cockatrice, I was the last sentient creature I knew was alive. I knew Applejack's family was headed to a Vault, but she was the only one of my friends who was likely to survive the first few days - and the endless march of years must have taken her. Every pony died - when the megaspells hit or in the Vaults, it didn't matter; none lived to care where the bodies fell, and the whole world was gripped in the darkness of my folly.
And so I was suspicious of the ponies I saw in the distance. Mirage, or delusion, I chose not to care. I didn't know then that a tree could not experience psychosis, so I chose not to care when the trio passed through the blasted remains of Ponyville.
"Do you guys mind?" Spike said with a growl. "I was up early fire-roasting those snacks you're all eating and I'm pooped!" Of course he had been. I'd been in the kitchen section of the dining car, helping him prepare. The day had passed to late evening, and I'd guiltily watched Spike try to sleep despite the endless conversations all the other ponies were having. I'd wanted to say something, but he was Twilight's assistant, not one of my many animal friends. It wasn't my place, and I couldn't have brought myself to interrupt or speak over the others anyway.
But Rainbow Dash, well, nopony can help who they are. She couldn't help being Rainbow Dash.
"Ah, speaking of - some of these popcorn kernels didn't get popped," she replied, her casual tone indicating the degree to which she had missed the point. I wondered how she even knew - the theater box she had been eating from was still full above the brim with poofy, buttery delight, but uncooked rejects always cowered together at the bottom. Thus they hid the truth as long as they could, and thus they doomed themselves to be discarded all at once. I didn't say anything, of course.
"Okay, fine," said Spike. I could tell his resignation was faked for effect, and I wanted to warn everypony off from further antagonizing him (no matter how oblivious they were to the fact of their doing so), but he was readier to act on his frustration than I first thought. He expelled a gout of bright green flame that Rainbow Dash ducked aside from just in time, but her popcorn wasn't so lucky. Where once stood buttery delight, a little tower of charcoal that had formerly been kernels looked down on the seared remains of the box, and on the still-burning corpses of their fluffy comrades.
The kernel at the top, glowing bright red, popped as Rainbow leaned in to inspect the damage, and hit her squarely in the face.
"Good night!" Spike told her, before disappearing completely under the covers. At that point, Twilight intervened to prevent any further trouble. She said that Spike was right, that we needed to sleep anyway. Then she enforced lights-out (much to Pinkie and Rainbow's shared chagrin) by putting out the quaint oil lamp, which happened to be right next to her bunk.
I made an honest attempt to sleep, but that was the night I learned how Spike snores. None of us could sleep, except for Applejack, who I assumed was in the car set aside for her tree. Dash and Pinkie were always less patient than the others, and I wasn't surprised when they started barely-whispering to each other from halfway across the car.
"Psst! Pinkie Pie! You asleep yet?" The snoring stopped, and I braced for the worst of what a sleep-deprived baby dragon could do, but nothing
"No! Are you asleep yet?" I stifled a giggle. Pinkie was endearingly ignorant - in both word and action - of continuity.
"If I was sleeping, how could I have asked you if you were asleep?" Rainbow Dash had found a candle somewhere and was out of bed, holding the flickering light too close to where Spike was sleeping.
"Oh yeah!" Pinkie Pie joined her "pranking buddy" in the candlelight.
"When we get to Appleloosa, do you think we'll have to carry the heavy tree all the way from the train to the orchard?"
"What tree? You mean Bloomberg?"
"No, Fluttershy." I must confess, despite the darkness, that I blinked in confusion.
"Fluttershy's not a tree, silly!" The more I thought about it, the less I thought I'd mind. Trees were never asked for much, only space to build a nest, leaves for shade, or sap for delicious syrup. Ponies protected them from things like fires and insects. When they died, they would be useful parts for all kinds of buildings. And of course, they never had to talk. But if I were a tree, I'd never be the Element of Kindness, or have friends, or - I shuddered - ever be able to take care of all my animals.
"Did you say she was a tree?" Twilight's voice reminded me I was missing the conversation.
"No! Well, yes, but not exactly - "
"You know she's not a tree, right?"
"She's not a tree, Dashie!" I finally decided to join in the joke. A little crack at my own expense never hurt, not compared to the simple pleasure I could give others by making it. I leaned out of my bunk and looked down at the others.
The Boutique had never been tidier. Dress orders were lined up on mannequins in order of their deadlines, and each had a selection of fabrics and decorative gems set aside for the finishing touches. Larger bolts of various cloths, common and exotic, were sorted by color and quality in their cabinets. The floor was tidy, mopped, and even polished until it could be used as a mirror.
But Rarity didn't need a reflection to know how she looked. She knew her mane was frizzy and tangled. She knew she walked with heavy shoulders, the usual grace gone from her steps. She knew her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, though a trip to the sink had at least washed out her running makeup.
"I don't want to go to school anymore."
Rarity pulled a small stool up to her sewing machine, sliding her cloth back into place for the tenth time that morning. The humming and clacking started up again as she pumped the pedal with a hoof. The noise was familiar, and with the right spin, the coarse patterns she sewed into the thousand-bit cloth might pass for art.
"Imagine," she muttered. The whirring of the machine as it pierced the fabric faded from her ears. Already, she could hear the awestruck crowd gawking, her work on display at Canterlot's Museum of Fine Art. The eyes of high society were on her once again.
The plum-coated monstrosity just raised an eyebrow at the accusations. She wasn't angry, or scared, or even smug. She was bored.
"Imagine!" she cried out dramatically. She was the center of attention, her grand and sweeping gestures caught in the flash of a dozen cameras. "The cheap thread, the crude patterns, woven through the perfect fabric of our city, of our nation!"
Newspapers flew past behind her dreamy eyes, headlines bleating their grovelling praise of the week. "Extraordinary Talent in Ponyville!" one read, below a picture of Rarity modeling the bizarre outfit herself. "Fashion Now On Par With Modern Art, Say Canterlot Elite." One, beneath a particularly daring cover that even gave her wings, declared, "Rarity Crowned Princess of Fashion!"
"The princesses? Really? You think they don't know?"
Rarity tried not to let herself be distracted by the jingling of the bell over the door, or by the timid hoofsteps that approached her. Buried in cloth and inspiration, she pre-empted the intruding filly's questions.
"Supper's whatever you like from the pantry, darling."
"Please, Rarity, can't you - "
"Not now, Sweetie! I'm very busy with my latest inspiration, and cannot be disturbed."
"Okay." She didn't hear Sweetie Belle's defeated sigh, she didn't see her sister's awkward and almost cross-legged gait, and that night she slept well for the first time in a week.
I'm barely awake when there's a knock on my door. On cue, I break into my one comfort - a small nightstand that takes up half my living space - and retrieve a brush, fixing up what I can of my dingy mane and tail. I'm not afforded much in the way of cleanliness, but what little I have is comforting. Sometimes I'm reminded of the big sister I'll never see again, and I miss her fussing over the slightest suspicion that I got myself in trouble. I can't afford to dwell in the past if I want to stay sane in the present, though. Missing home hurts too much, but fortunately, I've almost managed to forget. I imagine the strokes of the brush pulling away loose hair and memories.
A second knock. I'm taking too long - but I can't seem to pull myself out of my own head. My mind wanders with each comforting pull on my mane, and I remember when I wasn't allowed even this. There was a basement, a cage, no windows, no lights without visitors. Sometimes they would talk to me while they did it. I didn't understand their language, and I still only know a few useful words, but it was better than being alone. They were disgusted, but I was disgusting - I had nowhere to do my business, and would lie in my own...
... it's better now, so long as I can hold it until I have a chance to use someone's toilet.
One final knock. A lock clicks, letting the door to my stall swing open. I drop the brush and step out of my barely-pony-sized stall, blinking against the daylight. Immediately, a hoof to the face knocks me right back onto my haunches, and while I don't understand the words being shouted at me, the angry tone is obvious. I whimper what I've learned is an apology to appease her, though I barely feel it; a day when nopony hits me - or I should say, no zebra - is simply a miracle. I just don't want to risk--
A tuft of poofy red hair left in the dirty straw. Broken glasses, rimmed with blood. "Pleathe, jutht tell me what I did wrong!" she says. But the shovel comes down on her forcibly-shorn head, and we all know.
I shudder as I follow the unfamiliar zebra along the dusty side-street, around a dozen others of her kind too busy to notice a stripe-less filly. A few others leer in at the fillies and colts who live in the same row of stalls, window shopping for... for ponies like me. Though I'm usually trusted off a leash now, it's only because I know there's no point in running, or crying, or begging for help. The only zebras who care - and understand Equestrian - are the customers and investors, and we learned that too well from the fillies I wish I could forget. But as long as I behave, as long as the worst I get is a kick in the face, I think I'll get by.
Dear Diary, Today I Met: ... A Magical Pony Princess
You ever get that weird feeling, when you're alone, that someone could still walk in and see what you're doing at any given moment? It's been a decade since I moved out of my parents' place, and I still can't shake it. Especially not after a day like today, gosh. I'd ask where I should even begin, but the obvious answer is "at the start."
Well, Diary, brace yourself - because here goes.
I was in the shower this morning, when - yeah, yeah, laugh it up - when I heard someone walking around. Totally not creepy, especially 'cause I live alone and keep the doors locked, right? So I shut off the water and grabbed my towel and trusty toothbrush, ready to defend myself.
Hey, my toothbrush is the only hard object I keep in the bathroom, okay? I didn't exactly have a lot of options!
Anyway, without all the noise from the water, I could actually hear two people moving around! So when they started coming towards me, you can bet I locked that door in a hurry. Seriously, you could. You'd win maybe five cents because the odds are really, really good, but yeah. I was getting back behind the shower curtain to hide, because that works in every slasher movie ever, when the doorknob glowed yellow and the lock clicked open on its own! Then the door did, too.
I totally did not breathe in several flies while I stared! What's that supposed to mean, anyway?!
The intruder stood in the doorway, looking straight back at me. She was pale, tall, beautiful, regal - the epitome of good looks, and grace, and quiet dignity. Her long, perfectly-dyed pearlescent hair seemed almost to flow and ripple in the wind, even though there wasn't any inside my apartment (oh gosh, my landlord and I would have such a talk if there were). Also, she was a cartoon horse, and spoke Russian. At least, it was probably Russian, because I didn't understand any of it. Then again, with all my wet, messy hair, I looked like an alley cat who'd just lost a debate with a garden hose, and I sounded like a sputtering fish, so I guess I shouldn't complain.
Then her horn - yes she had a horn, and it was as long as my forearm, and yes that makes her a unicorn, but one step at a time, okay? So her horn got that same yellow glow, and she asked, "Can you hear me now?" I could totally hear her before, but that's probably not the point.
"Um, yes." Pop quiz: What do you tell a talking unicorn who appears in your apartment out of nowhere? Anything she wants to hear.
Not much farther, now. Home isn't much farther, and there, I can rest.
I felt so heavy, and all of my insides hurt, but I could have made no other choice. It was alright. Just a short walk through a few scattered trees, and across a short expanse of open grass, and I would be home. I wanted to fly - don't we pegasi always? - but I was just too weak. I repeated my silent mantra, and kept putting one leaden hoof forward after another.
Then a small bird darted in front of my face, making me stop. I smiled at the body held up by the hovering, almost-buzzing wings. At least, I think I smiled. It wasn't easy, but I was happy to make the effort for a friend.
"Hello, Hummingway," I said, too quietly. He flew closer, and I could tell he was concerned. A hummingbird's features have no room for emotion, but the raw feelings were plain to me, and had been ever since I fell from Cloudsdale. He knew something was wrong, and that I hurt, but I couldn't bear the thought of sharing the burden - I would only feel his pain in carrying it. Summoning what energy I could, I made a show of clearing my throat to speak up. Relatively, at least. I was never a very loud pony.
"If you don't mind, I'm just going to go straight home. I've had a very tiring walk." I must not have been very convincing; maybe it was the sun's height indicating it wasn't even mid-day yet. Hummingway flew around to my right side, pointing his long beak accusingly at a thin red line that cut through my fur and sliced one of the butterflies on my flank neatly in two. I smiled at him again, though it took more effort this time, a sign of my waning energy. I couldn't afford to stand there talking.
"I'm sure it's not as bad as it looks." What little strength my voice had wavered as I spoke, exposing me even before the words had finished tumbling from my mouth, but I had to make the attempt. I didn't like to... deviate from the truth, but it was so often the kinder thing to do. Over and over I would feel the relief of a suffering creature, or even see my friends relax and change the subject, and know I did the right thing. The little bird was no less worried, but he flew off again, at least. He would likely bury his head in a flower somewhere, and forget me for a moment of sweet nectar; I was free to continue my plodding journey in peace.
Check on ponychan, check on derpibooru, enjoy the best new MLP porn, have a stiff drink, fall in bed. That was my Saturday evening routine, and I was just about ready for the alcohol when someone spoke up behind me.
"Step away from the terminal." I didn't have a roommate. I spun my computer chair around, preparing to deck whoever had broken into my apartment, and... openly stared at the speaker. Friendship is Magic was supposed to be fiction. It was supposed to be lighthearted and fun (not to mention sexy!). It was supposed to be a number of things, but it was not supposed to be in my bedroom! Not outside the computer, at least! Did my brain finally melt from too much brightly-colored cuteness? Was I hallucinating ponies now? I could see it already: Myself, drooling in a padded cell, convinced I was talking to Nurse Redheart.
"Pay attention when I'm pointing a gun at you!" said the pony, whose tone was anything but lighthearted. She was a pale blue unicorn, and she wore some kind of black armor that covered her up to the chin and concealed her mane, leaving only her face and horn exposed. Floating a couple of feet from her head, wrapped in a soft pink aura, was the pistol that would make good on her glare's promise of imminent death. Faced with this, I gave the only sane reaction I could.
"And so they're coming to take me away, ha-ha!" I sang, and threw my arms open for effect.
So she shot me. A red beam pierced my left shoulder, burning in a way my sheltered existence could never have conceived, and melted half my monitor into sparking slag.
"What the fuck?!" I screamed, clutching my shoulder. The mare continued to glare at me.
"I am real. I can and will hurt you, especially if you don't do exactly what I say. Do you understand?" Her tone had become calm - a dangerous calm my friends could get just before punching me in the face, except I was going to get punched by a gun. I whimpered out a 'yes' through the pain of what my brain refused to accept as a laser burn. "Good. Your cry will have other inhabitants of this settlement coming to investigate. Lead me to the safest part of the building."
"You shot my arm!"
"I didn't hit anything important. Probably. Would you like a matching set?" She turned the pistol slightly, and I cringed. What the fuck is happening, why is this happening?! Since when do ponies have laser guns?!
"No!" I stammered out, and shot up to my feet. Giving her a wide berth, I walked around the unicorn to the door, and closed it. "This is the safest room I have. Please don't kill me," I said with a whimper.
My job was tough - I had to know the worst of this superficially idyllic world, and I had to protect my charges from ever seeing it. Sometimes, when it was very dark and quiet, I used to have the rare pleasure to sneak out and enjoy our Night Princess's starry domain; sleep, however, was something I couldn't afford, and my job got a lot harder when she came along. Suddenly, I was forcibly back-seated by some misguided lust for adventure, for danger, for the tail of some raver junkie at a club that was half "music" and half dirty Apple Puff. I could still work behind the scenes, give subtler hints and warnings, keep us all out of trouble, but sometimes it seemed like everypony was blind and deaf.
Failure was inevitable.
The day I failed started off the same as too many others. Octavia woke up alone in the junkie's bed, her teeth laced with a few long, bright blue hairs. Spitting, she held one hoof up towards the window across the room, trying to block out the sun while covering her face with another leg. Her whole body was racked by aches and shakes from what I kept trying to tell her was withdrawals, but she ignored my warnings and stumbled out across a minefield of dirty clothes, empty orange bottles, and used syringes. She insisted to herself that it was just dehydration from sleeping with her mouth open, and the pills kept next to the bathroom sink were just a soothing, herbal pain-killer from Zebrica - or whatever that mare told her.
I wished a city pony could afford to be so willfully naive. I wished a lot of things, and while Octavia threw up in the sink, I wished she would at least listen to me, at least understand her sex life didn't have to be something better drug-blotted from memory than savored. Somehow, she still thought her cares and the highs were worth the scar she hid with a bow-tie. Somehow, she still wondered why she would cry herself to sleep, muffled beneath a pillow, when her "lover" was done with her.
There was another black eye marring her image when she finally stopped retching and faced the mirror. She stopped and stared for a few moments - just long enough to get my hopes up. Maybe, with the proof literally staring her in the face, she would stop fighting the truth of--
"I probably banged it on a bedpost while I was sleeping. Of course." There was a nervous edge to her tone, barely marring its practiced calm. Once, I would have screamed, argued, and fought her - we both knew she had slept on nothing more than a mattress in the middle of a trash-strewn floor - but I had become weary. Nothing could part her from this other mare.
Octavia turned away from the evidence in the mirror and poked her head back into the bedroom, calling anxiously for the one she thought she loved. There was no answer, and there never was during daylight hours.
