//------------------------------// // Thymine // Story: Mancala // by Schismatism //------------------------------// As one might imagine, I was not in the world’s greatest mood when I stepped out of the hostel, nor was I particularly given to listening to anyone but myself. ‘How dare she?’, I thought to myself, as I stomped off into a corner, one well away from the ponies who were making use of their pony street, in their pony town, in their pony bodies. ‘I’d, I’d paid up front, in advance, and she thinks she can take me for a ride, just because I...’ It’s been said that rage focuses the mind, and this is true. But it’s like a laser: certainly, it’s razor-focused, and certainly, it can result in spectacular effects... but that’s all it does. A mind doesn’t work that way. It can’t hold that narrow beam for too long, and if it tries, well... crystals are the end result. And that doesn’t turn out well for anybody, least of all the person who’s fallen victim to that illustration of unbound order. For all my certainty, for all my surety, a part of me recognized that I was wrong. What person, given the opportunity to help a high-class individual with proprietary material, wouldn’t immediately leap to the conclusion that this person would tip well? What person wouldn’t do their best to assist this VIP with everything they could? The proprietor of the hostel wasn’t being overly greedy, wasn’t being a Threnadier. She was just... doing her best to be a kind and good hostess to some stranger who had come into her hotel, and displayed signs of being a very important pony. And if she could arrange that into being paid very, very well... that was just part of the job, wasn’t it? And I’d dismissed her like a servant, just... run out, as certain a sign of disrespect as you could imagine. And that self-subsuming part of me slammed into my conscious mind like a battering ram, tore it apart, and flung me into the brick wall like an unthinking toy, as though I was nothing more than a doll, played with by an unrepentant child’s hand. I’d accepted it. I’d wanted it. And a huge part of me desired nothing else than to take me away from this fantasy wonderland I’d been dropped into, because I didn’t deserve to be a part of it. ‘That’s not how life works.’ What was this Equestria? A happy little playground for my fantasies? A cute little land of particoloured impossibilities where I was the odd one out, and could be accepted in time, because that’s how the world was meant to be? An illusion, a scam, a coma, a spell, a seizure? How many ways could this not be real, compared to the merest, slightest possibility that it was... but it was real. There was no way I could have ever come up with this, no way anyone could have constructed this from whole cloth. And if it was real, what was I? Just a little smear on the face of the worldline. Every opportunity I’d found, I’d stomped on it, discarding it like a chunk of garbage. And... Not caring who saw, not minding the pain in my left shoulder, I set myself against the cracked brickwork and began to cry. Manehattan... she began to see, here, truly see, that the big city really wasn’t the place for her. Looking about with new eyes, she saw the streets of Ponyville with a glance that truly understood the smaller town. For the ponies who walked through the streets, this wasn’t merely a small villa on the edge of a wild zone. This was a home - no, this was their home, one which they’d spent so many years creating, and which they’d go to the end of the world to preserve. This was the place where ponies had grown up, where they’d made a new life for themselves, and from beginning to end, her family was a part of it. Even the Everfree was a part of Ponyville, she realized: that wild zone where ponies had set themselves nearby, and where they’d told the impossible forest: this here, and no more. The ponies had taken that as a point of pride, ever since her grandmare Granny Smith had set up the first fields, ever since her father, Johnny Seed, had taken it upon himself to seed the trees themselves. We’re not afraid of you anymore. Not in the same way. We’ll plant our seeds right here, and you can just deal with it. That was the song a hundred, a thousand ponies had sung, over the course of so many years, and while she’d never understand how or why, that was the song another race had taken to heart too, in another time, in another place. ‘We’re here now’, sung the tune, and almost all the strings in Ponyville resonated with that melody. ‘We’re here.’ Almost all. The young filly might not have been the most worldly mare, and she most certainly didn’t have the capacity to understand exactly when somepony was being untrue to themselves... but when she heard the heartfelt sob from around the corner, she knew that somepony was hurting. And it would have been a betrayal of everything her Apple family had ever taught her to deny that pain. I couldn’t begin to tell you how long I rested against that cracked brick wall, how long I took it as a microcosm of my life. It can’t have been that long: someone must have heard me eventually, and I wasn’t that circumspect. It could have been as long as two minutes, and as short as an hour. I know that it felt like an eternity, nonetheless. Minutes turned into hours turned into seconds... well. You get the point, I’m sure. I might have lain there forever, the Sobbing Mare, eventually becoming stone and turning weathered and cracked, if it weren’t for the sudden influence of a hoof upon my fetters. “Miss? Y’kay?” Those few words managed to pull me from my reverie, and I turned my attention to the orange filly, blonde-maned, young as a bush - with three red apples upon her flank. A jolt ran through me, immediately before realization set in. And the combination did more for my state of mind than anything yet. Mind, that wasn’t just the fact that this was Applejack, per se. Nor the fact that she’d gotten her cutie mark already -- ahem, Cutie Mark -- but... Empaths are weird. I don’t mean that in a derogatory sense, I literally mean that natural empaths, like me, are weird. We don’t look at people in the same way. We feel ponies, we almost taste them, more than we actually look at or touch them. Most natural empaths get weirded out by the fact that the vast majority of folks rely upon sight, or smell, of all things. It’s just plain strange. Call it a cultural abstraction if you want. None of that makes much of a difference, except... when I looked at that young filly, and I actually heard her words, and knew what she meant... the shock, the palpable shock, meant I let down my shields. Vibes will be able to tell you all of what this means later, but for the briefest moment, I could feel everything she felt. Every quantum of worry, every ounce of self-involved despair, all of that came crashing down in a heap as I looked at that filly and realized that she was worried about me... because I’d made her worried. Not a hint of her concern was due to the fact that I looked like a ridiculous bugpony -- she was just concerned because all of the lies I’d told myself had hit me like the suddenly not-so-proverbial pile of bricks. Before I knew what was happening, she was clinging to my forelegs, and I was holding her, and we were both sobbing out heartfelt declarations of home - me, with illustrations she’d never hope to understand, and her, with a certainty that she’d never really leave again... and we were both in that same state, wailing and hoping that someone else would understand, when a red stallion walked down the street and pointedly cleared his throat. “You know, you’re already classified as an B-class Anomaly.” “I know. I signed the paperwork.” “If weird events like this keep up around you, we’re going to mark you as Princess-Class. That’s been done once. It led to the resignation of three guardsmen, the impeachment of the Captain and the rehabilitation of six more. It’s already being discussed.” “Do it.” “And those discussions are going to become reality i-wait. What?” I took a moment to give Shamrock the gimlet eye. She recoiled, but I think that must have just been the red around my irises from lack of sleep. “Do it. I walk into your lives with weird technology, more knowledge than I should have, an emotionally unstable state, and a willingness to undergo psychiatric evaluation. Oh, and have we forgotten these things?” For a moment I waved that bangle of mine, all twelve of the gems flaring for a moment due to some pseudoconscious reaction. I think I took Shamrock by surprise there, as she actually stopped in her tracks, giving me not one, but two raised eyebrows. “That takes a lot of paperwork to do. You’ll have to actually warrant it before I can even start, and hugging a wayward filly isn’t quite enough.” Even before I’d been let out of the jail cell into which I’d been very carefully placed after the attempted kidnapping of the child of one of the Founding Families, my already salty mood had taken a turn for the worse. My crying jags had left me emotionally drained in more ways than one, a very unhealthy state, not least considering where we were headed. The Wild Guard had been tasked with my care, a particularly unpleasant situation only lightly mitigated by the fact that I was willing to pay for their meals. The Sergeant had been none too happy to see my face again, and all too happy to sign the paperwork which would take it away from her. I wasn’t quite under lock and key, but it had been presented in no uncertain way that should she catch a glimpse of me once more, she would make arrangements to ensure that she never had to do so again. My status as an Anomaly was merely a happy codicil on that agreement. As it stood, I was now under the watchful eyes of the Wild Guard, and, in very precisely capital letters, Their Responsibility. If they got a wild hair, and I pissed on a toilet seat without then cleaning it up, they could quite happily have me shipped to Canterlot, with or without my personal belongings. That latter option was enough to keep me on the straight and narrow, though. “So, why are we going back to the public library?” That from Cobalt, who was at least slightly less annoyed at the three-pony guard I’d been assigned. He was floating around on a repurposed cumulus, recoloured towards a sky blue to show that it wasn’t just your average fluffy bed. “Something in there resulted in me passing out and damned near having a seizure,” I reminded him with a small sigh. I couldn’t get too upset at the colt: he was doing his best under the circumstances he’d been handed. “If it can be used against invading Changelings, in the unlikely event that they would care to do so...” and here I paused, letting out a moment of derisive laughter, however hollow it sounded to the lot of us. The Changeling invasion wouldn’t happen for half a decade. “Then all the better,” I finished. “Otherwise, it adds to the collective knowledge of ‘bug ponies’.” Crimson remained as poker-faced as ever, though I could feel a wince from her nonetheless, as well as a much larger one from the other two. With a greatly put-upon sigh, I noted, “I don’t blame any of you for this. And despite my issues... I wanted to deal with this too. Just... not right now. I’m hungry, I’m tired, and I really wanted to deal with other things.” With a momentary groan, I turned to Shamrock. Okay, I liked these guys, and I was fed up with the attitude of distrust. Not only was it unhealthy for me, but... it wasn’t right. “I don’t know if this helps... like, at all... but you can get me reclassified as a Princess-Class Anomaly in seven words.” In one fell swoop, every ear in range turned towards me. Well, that was only six ears, but that’s still something to behold. Crimson in particular went very, very still, as though she were listening to something beyond the scope of my hearing -- could she have a lie detection ability? Either way, she gave a tiny nod, and asked, “Is this something you can tell us out here?” I slowly shook my head, and closed my eyes briefly. “No, this is a one-time thing. I could do it in three, but those words aren’t even for your ears. I promise, I will tell you when we have the opportunity. A closed space, thaumically shielded.” It would close a lot of options, but... open a few more, perhaps. “I’m going to hold you to that,” replied Crimson, looking forth on the path we’d taken. “And we’re here now.” I began to shake as I beheld the sight of the Golden Oaks library, and the door creaked open.