First Pony View

by Suomibrony

Through Few Doors, Not To Wards, But Finally, Outwards To Outdoors

Having pressed the play button, I stared at the magic-enshrouded hardware, already planning to investigate if it could do more than just play music. I should— “Hey!” Startled, I looked over my back at Embee where she was doing something to my backside. “What are—Uh-oh.” Noticing the electronic device precariously slipping out of its flickering shroud, I deposited it on the bench before it could flicker out entirely. “Er . . . So uh, what are you doing?”

She blinked a couple of times, holding the comb aloft; my eyes glazed over its curved handle securing it to her hoof. “Straightening your tail hairs, hon.” Her puzzlement was superseded by an amiable smile. “Just breathe easy, I'll get this all done in thirty seconds.” The comb sank into my hairs. “If you let me,” she continued, half-amused a moment after my tail had freed itself from the tool.

“Uh, alright. Sorry.” Wrestling the fifth appendage to a lax position unsurprisingly mandated rigorous self-control. “It almost has a mind of its own,” I explained. “I'm unused to it and try not to do anything with it so that I won't be aware of it. It being the tail, not the mind in the tail. There's no mind in the tail. Well, yes. Or no. No, it's just a figure of speech.”

“I know that.” Judging by Embee's expression, she had gone from sympathy to mild bemusement. Nonetheless, her friendly appearance wasn't gone for long. “And don't worry, you don't have to stress yourself about this. I'll try to be quick, though.” She resumed combing my tail. “It won't hurt, I promise.”

“Yeah, but it's . . . It's new, and weird. I, um, I have to accept it and stay calm. That's, that's, yeah, a good idea. Gonna try that.” I took a deep breath. “Stay calm . . . Relaxed breathing . . .” A small spasm went through my body each time I felt a small tug near the end of my vertebrae. I had to distract myself . . . by starting a conversation . . . about . . . “This song? Um, that's playing . . . What do you think of it?”

“It's good, I don't mind listening to it,” she replied succinctly. Was she unimpressed? Did she subtly dislike it? She said it was good, so it was good. Was it? “Ah, the tail's done. Let me see if I should comb your hair now or . . .” She moved to my side and gingerly combed the hair above my eyes. Was that all? No. She sat down and . . . seemed to unravel knots in my hair. I ducked my head so she wouldn't have to stretch herself. My hair must've been a total mess, though. How she was unraveling knots with a comb and her other hoof was both puzzling and astonishing.

“It's not bad, not awesome. Decent song, I guess,” I contributed, a sweet and fruit-like fragrance with a floral hint wafting into my nostrils. But with all this shampoo and whatnot having been used, I couldn't tell if it was her scent. Granted, she was so close to me that her aquamarine underside occupied the majority of my vision. A little awkward, especially because of the occasional nudge to my ears and horn.

“This is the song Lucek said is like that of Grifpony? The singer's got a high voice, a bit shrill, I think. Not like my sister. Or any of the band members. I hear a resemblance overall with the style. It has the same sort of, 'roughness' Grifpony has, but this is . . . Hmm, I wouldn’t say tame. Less frantic? Sorry, hon, I don't know how to put it into words. I don't understand a single word of what she's singing about, so I don't have much to comment on the vocals.” She stepped back, and smiled before, again, visually scrutinizing my hair. I had kept an ear out to detect signs of disapproval or disappointment, but she had sounded unconcerned and mellow throughout.

“He, uh, Lucek said this is like them. Grifpony, I mean.” I had another good view of Embee now that she was standing beside me on three legs, with the comb in her raised fourth. My eyes were drawn to her brace with a heart on it for a cutie mark. Her musculature was briefly highlighted when she shifted her leg. “Do you like them?” I asked half-absently. How much strength did I harness in my hind legs? Was I comparably physically stronger as a pony? A female pony? That could be a huge issue—if my masculinity was based on raw physical strength.

“To talk and mingle with, sure, and I'm real happy that my sister's doing what she likes. She never felt that our hometown could fulfill her dreams. Always more outspoken than me. My dad, though, well . . .” Embee's laugh gave of a cue of warmth. “He's Ironstring Twang.”

“A celebrity?” I had caught on that he wasn't a no-name. Then I evaluated my behavior and my ears sank. “Oh, sorry, did I interrupt you?”

“Not at all, hon. He's known in town, and in a few others around. But in Manehattan or Canterlot? Maybe not widely. There's a fan club in Spitzburg.” Her eyes widened a tad, either out of incredulity or amazement. “Of all the places. Spitzburg.”

“Humh . . .” This was a moment where I'd rub my neck, clueless, but didn't in spite of the fact that I had the flexibility for it. “Okay.” Spitzburg? Was that in . . . Austria? No, that was Salzburg.

“You don't know what his music's like. The rare records shop here in town may have a few discs,” she hazarded to guess. A dedicated record shop? I knew of only one, and it had closed years ago. “But, ah . . . what was I saying?” Glancing down at the comb, she casually cast her limb into the air. The comb soared off, clearing my back with room to spare, and came to a rest on the bench after a harmless tumble.

“Nice throw,” I commented spontaneously.

“Thanks! So, where was I . . . Oh yeah. My dad, he sensed my sister was going to tread in his hoofprints.” She dug up a hairdryer from within one of the four saddlebags. “He wasn't thrilled about her joining up with a few griffons and ponies who were only passing through, but he's been all smiles about it since they proved to be an honest and friendly bunch.”

“Yeah, um, that's good.” I hushed my voice as I mumbled. “A hair dryer . . .” Anything I'd never had to use for my hair before felt . . . emasculating? It wasn't really, but it felt like it.

Embee left the apparatus on the bench and took the cord into her mouth. “M-hm,” she affirmed belatedly, walking over to a covered socket. She had heard me? Sharp ears. “Hwm mh ght . . .” she muttered. The socket, being above her head, was narrowly out of reach, a fact that clearly annoyed her. A spark of wit glinted in her eyes, and she reared and planted her forehooves on the wall, after which she was able to nudge the cover open and insert the plug. “Anyhow, I admire Grifpony's passion and commitment. They have talent, and their music's well made. It's not really my kind of music. Mostly. They've got two ballads I adore. The Shade That Trails, and Night Sky In Your Eyes. Do you like ballads?”

“Ballads? Hmm, ah, yeah . . .” What kind of a ballad was okay to let her know of? Something that I could admit to liking? Oh! “Don't let this name trick you, they're not actual scorpions, or poisonous, or terrifying, but Wind of Change by Scorpions is really great. You really should give it a listen, and learn the historical context. That really adds to its impact. On the other end of the spectrum is Rock You Like a Hurricane, which is really amazing as well. Truly an amazing, empowering rock-out song. But that's not a ballad, sorry. Got a bit carried away.” I liked some sensitive songs, too, such as Where Have All The Flowers Gone by The Kingston Trio. That one was so beautiful, so tragic, so moving, that it could bring a tear to my eye if I wasn't careful.

Embee hummed. “Rock-out song, you say? That could be something my sister would be all over. I like happy songs, though, with an energetic beat that get my legs into a rhythm.” Our chat hadn't stalled her for long; she wrapped her limb around the hair dryer.

“Yeah, makes sense. You like dancing games,” I recalled.

“That I do,” Embee affirmed.

“Uh, but . . .” I pointed at the saddlebags. “Um, no towel for me, huh?” Flimsy and vague notions about makeovers were trying to excuse me out of the inevitable.

“The towel's in the bag,” she replied without a missing beat. “You wanted things done quick, and a hair dryer is a lot faster than a towel. We'll soon see if it's needed.”

“Hmm, yeah. Maybe it will be.” On the topic of towels and what they could be used for . . . “Honestly, I asked for a towel . . .” My eyes averted. “For modesty.” I suppressed an impulse to paw at the floor. “It's impractical for that purpose, but, uhm . . . shrug?” I said, as performing it was impossible when standing on all fours.

“Shrug?” Embee's brows set into the quizzical position. “Ah, yes. A shrug. Uh, yes, you're right. A towel would fall off in a heartbeat.” She glanced up thoughtfully. “Might stay on if it were fastened with a sash. Like a skirt, if you will.”

“Hadn't really thought of that.” First panties, and now a skirt? What next, a bra? Or not. Those served no purpose whatsoever on this body. Therefore, I had to be thankful I wasn't compelled to wear them. “But the towel . . . It's not a proper piece of clothing any way you slice it.”

“True. I know something that is.” A smirk trickled to her lips. “But listen, aren't we talking an awful lot, hon?” My focus was drawn to the hair dryer as she gently wagged it in her grasp.

“Sure, uh, we definitely are,” I noted sheepishly. “Let's not dawdle. Um, I'm s—” The machine was turned on, the music was drowned out, and I closed my eyes as air began blasting at me. “—orry I was running my mouth and all sorts,” I continued under my breath. The temperature was pleasant, although my ears acting like air scoops disallowed complete relaxation.

“I know what you said about your—this hair not being like yours, but you got any wishes on how it oughta look?” Embee asked over the noise. Her question was tough, because I've never had to ask myself what kind of hairstyle I'd have as a female. Or more specifically, as a female sapient unicorn. In any case, what kind of style could I rock and still feel like I hadn't betrayed my self-image? How to be a convincing female, without being uncomfortably female? Did this question have any relation to something as basic as a hairstyle? “Viv?”

“Uh . . . Well, um . . .” I paused. Not only was I under pressure to say something, I had to aurally overpower the hair dryer. “I'm not sure! It should be okay as long as it's not complex or showy! Or unflattering!” I then reduced my voice to a normal level and began to speak my thoughts. “Like Uma Thurman's bob from Pulp Fiction. I don't get the appeal of that. Maybe it was a nineties thing? Hmh, each decade seems to have examples of popular hair that then looks ridiculous in hindsight. Like the mullets of the eighties, and in the late seventies, women had a dust bunny for hair. Not all, but some. Come to think of it, the mullet looked fine on MacGyver. He also looks a lot my dad. That's actually super awesome. Wow.”

“Oh, he does? Um, wait, who's Mag, uh . . . guy wear? What's a mullet, and . . . dust bunny hair? And who is . . .” A relative silence ensued. “I'm sorry, hon, I caught a few things, but you just made me feel like the bewildered newcomer I once was.”

She heard all that I said? And she had no idea what I was talking about? “Eh . . . Um . . .” The monumental challenge of explaining everything was daunting. I just had to believe I could do it. “So, uh . . . MacGyver was this guy, fictional guy in a TV show who often got out of sticky situations with the, um . . . the ingenious assembling and application of seemingly unrelated items. Mullet is his hairstyle. Long at the back, but short, er, normal otherwise. Dust bunny hair, ah . . . it's a style women had long ago. Kind of a frizzy style. Probably has a designated name. Not sure how popular it was. Uma Thurman's the name of the actress in a movie called Pulp Fiction. Supposedly it's a great movie, but nothing's ever convinced me to watch it in its entirety.” I sighed, feeling like a rock had rolled off my back. “I hope your curiosity is satiated.”

“I may have to learn more about those later. But thanks!” I could tell by Embee's tone that she was pleased.

“Yeah, any time. I'm sure I forgot a lot of important details, but you'll learn them once you do, uhm . . . learn them.” I noticed that the hot air from the hair dryer was going over other areas than my head. My coat was in need of drying as well? It didn't feel too bad. Like a warm shower, but without the wetness. I could've almost enjoyed it if I wasn't acutely aware of being a naked pony. Of course, now that was secured at the forefront of my mind. Annoying! It might go away if I thought of something entirely different, such as . . . a golf ball. I was picturing it, and . . . its aerodynamic properties. A perfect sphere created drag, but a sphere—

“That should be alright,” Embee said, the machine powering down a moment later.

“Oh? Already done?” My inquiry was replied to with a happy hum and a nod. “Well, now we can go!” Excited, I took myself to the door. But there, right as I was about to use the hoof-handle, I realized I had forgotten the key!

“With airy hair like that?” Embee asked laughingly.

“Airy . . . What?” I cast her a confused look, glancing at my tail a second later. It looked tidy—for a tail. As I considered that my mane must be just as neat, Embee set the hair dryer down and approached me.

“Viv, please,” she said, disbelief mixed with mirth. “I know you're eager, but . . .” I faced her without thought, and she promptly but gingerly ran her limb over my head, displacing countless hairs that I could feel waving like sea grass in a lazy current. “You think we gotta do something about this?”

“Undoubtedly,” I replied in mild aghast, having pictured a Koosh ball I had as a kid. “You know what to do?”

“I know exactly what to do,” she said confidently. “I've learned a thing or two from my mother—she's no stylist, mind you, but my grandma was. I have also done my sister's hair on a few occasions.” She procured a small, light-brown bottle with a black cap from the saddle bag. In no time at all, she opened it and applied a clear substance to the comb. Gel? Or . . . salve that prevents the forming of split hairs? I wasn't going to ask. So . . . if hair gel or whatever was a prerequisite for having what Embee believed was decent hair, then so be it. This unplanned extra measure meant I couldn't get my key just yet. “A style that won't turn heads for the wrong reasons,” she mused.

“A style that . . .” The comb's plastic bristles contacting my nape and then parting hair left and right threw my cogitations into a brief flummox. “A wild style, uh, a fluffy mane, yeah . . . it's too conspicuous.”

Embee hummed, acknowledging what I had said. “Let me tell you, that ruffled 'I flew through a storm'-look was perfect for one occasion. That, a lilac aerobatics suit, some eyeshadow and a touch-up of my lashes, and I was the graceful mare of the night and the enigmatic bane of baddies: Serene Wind.”

I pictured Embee in a Wonderbolt-esque outfit, thick eyelashes a la Rarity, and a voluminous, uncombed mane whipping in the wind. “She, um, a comic book character?” Hopefully, Equestria wasn't a stranger to the concept of comic books.

“You can say that, though legends say she's based on a real figure. Make what you will of that,” Embee answered. So I was right? “Hmm . . .” The combing paused. “A natural style . . .” she mused as she began to bring down the hair on my crown. “Yeah, should be no toughie to get done.”

“Alright,” I said noncommittally, levitating the music player to inspect the interface. The symbols were intuitive, so the foreign language posed no obstacle. Finding the minimize button was also easy. “Ah!” I cringed, shaking my head briskly.

“Huh?” Embee stopped combing. “Did I hurt you?”

I gave her an apologetic look. “No, not really. Um . . . My ears. I'm alright with them on a conscious level, but not instinctively. I'm sorry.”

“Don't feel bad, hon, I understand what you're saying.” She gingerly moved my hair past the root of my ears. “I'll try to be more careful.”

“Much appreciated,” I said faintly, placing my eyes back to the floating screen. Evenly spaced icons were laid over a low-altitude photo of a city consisting of colorful but old buildings. A Central European city? Possibly. In any case, what could this gridded ball icon be for? A gateway to a wealth of knowledge, of course! The first thing I'd take a look at would be . . . a text box with more moonspeak preventing access to the coveted treasure? There was an unusual letter in one word that puzzled me. An 'l' with a slanted line at the middle. “Haslo? Hasto?”

“Hasto?” Embee repeated, the grooming progressing unhindered. “What's that, hon?”

“I don't know. It's what this . . . Ohhh.” My moan broke Embee's brushing. “Password.” I gestured at the floating device as she looked at me with inquisitiveness. “It's a password. It's asking for a password.” Frustrated and annoyed, I nearly slammed the device on the bench. “Who locks their web browser with a password?!” This preventing of . . . Denied of information when it was literally within my reach . . . It wasn't fair!

“Huhm . . . I'm . . . I'm sorry, hon.” In spite of her confusion, she was sympathetic. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I am,” I replied with a tiny quiver in my voice, gathering myself before speaking again. “Oh geez. I took that a bit harder than I needed to.” Why was this happening? A number of vague explanations swirled in my mind, mainly related to psychology, hormones and frequent discomfort stemming from this strange form I was stuck in for the time being. But I didn't devote time to analyze them further, as it wouldn't really accomplish anything worthwhile. Best I try to normalize myself. “I could've looked up something of interest, but I guess I can't now,” I said dispiritedly as Embee carefully resumed doing my hair. I could've looked up detailed articles on magic. Or history of Equestria. Maps and geography. Geography? Places. Locations! “Say . . . Embee?”

“Yes, hon?” said the sapient, aquamarine pegasus that by all accounts wasn't a common horse from this seemingly mundane world.

“Where do you come from?” I asked, not turning my head to see her amethyst eyes and interrupt the grooming that would be over very soon.

“Equestria,” Embee replied. She didn't follow it up with anything. So, she had probably cracked a small joke, perhaps to alleviate my anxiety and brighten the mood.

“Color me surprised. I had thought you hailed from Tromsø, the seagull capital of Norway,” I said nonchalantly, but with a touch of feigned disappointment.

“Seagull capital?” She chuckled, incredulous and amused. “You know that from experience?”

“No. It's what I've heard. Never been there, because it's really far away.” The combing stopped. Finally. I may've just experienced the longest five minutes ever. “But where are you from? Please be a little more specific.” Right as I had voiced my query of curiosity, Embee took an oval-shaped brush out of the saddle bag, the sight of which made me frown with dismay. “Oh no, not more brushing . . .”

“Any remaining debris needs to get out of your coat and off your skin,” she explained as she returned to my side and slipped her hoof through the strap. “But if you really don't want to, all you need is to let me know.”

“I will,” I acknowledged submissively, unsure if I could let her know. Ugh. The plastic bristles were crossing over my side to my underbelly. “So, how about my question?” If she kept talking, maybe I would be less uncomfortable?

“Yes.” She was scrubbing my back now. Wait, this actually felt nice. Weird, but nice. “A day's journey from Canterlot, past the Smoothslope Mountains, is the province of Upper Northbottom. Along the road following Ten Crook Creek upstream resides the town of Pending. Funny story, though, settlers couldn't come up with a good name, but that didn't stop them from establishing a town. When any visitors asked, they were told that the name was pending. The name stuck. Of course, an official name was penned eventually. Sure, it's a special looking tree in the plaza, but Roan Oak simply hasn't caught on.”

“That's pretty unusual, and interesting. Don't know any towns that got their name by, well, not having a name.” Contrary to my preconceptions, few, if any, of the names presented were horse puns. “What's downstream?” I asked on a lark.

“Lower Northbottom,” Embee replied.

I was befuddled for several seconds. “How, um, logical.” Oh great. Embee wasn't squeamish about scrubbing my lower back, and . . . well, it wasn't my bottom, per se. Was it? “Have you been there?” I queried in a slightly higher pitch.

“I got relatives there, so yes.” Her voice was so casual, I could almost picture the face to go with it. No way was I going to show her my own disconcerted face. “If you wonder what's it like, imagine small coastal towns, like a chain of pearls, as they like to call them. Beyond the coast are hundreds of islands, the inland is flat plains dotted by farms, and mostly everypony speaks a language you'd hear only on that side of Equestria.”

“I can imagine towns and landscapes,” I commented. How does one imagine a language? I pictured a word book as an answer.

“They're an industrious lot, but they go easy on their weather duties.” Thank goodness, she was done scrubbing! Now the real relaxing could commence. “But they are friendly and unconcerned. Sometimes to a fault. It really demonstrates their . . . Hmm. What was that phrase? . . . Oh, it'll come to me.” She coiled her limb around the hair dryer's cord and yanked the plug out, the lid coming down with a snap; her carelessness made me cringe.

As she began placing items back into the saddlebags, I retrieved my lone key. The application of a brush on my body had left me a little shaky. Tension leaving me, I surmised. I was glad my telekinesis wasn't disrupted in any discernible manner. The last thing I would want was to make something explode. Not that I knew how to do that on purpose . . . But somehow I knew adhesive magic? A fairly simple spell and related to restoration magic . . . and I was again unlocking information from a brain that wasn't mine. Wait, unlocking? The key? This key that was hanging from my neck . . . unlocks doors, starts the engine, and . . . I was starting to see something through a mental fog. But what? Maybe the key to undoing my predicament? If I thought harder, I could see . . . a glimpse of . . . “Ow,” I muttered faintly as a spike of disorientation struck me. What had I seen? Bands of curved, muted colors in varying thickness. Like a rainbow's sick cousin.

“Veeders gaajin andens gaan,” Embee said all of a sudden. I think that was what she said.

Watching her stuff one pair of saddlebags into a locker, I repeated the phrase in my head as I had heard it, unable to make any sense of it. “Excuse me, what?”

“Nja mair. Dja haern mij reet. Ijk speek bitjen laavins,” she said, slipping on the beige saddlebags. Her bright visage contrasted with my utter dumbfound . . . ness? Dumbfound . . . ity? My mind was all twirly whirly feeling. “That's their language.” Embee looked a touch less casual. Maybe partly sorry?

“They? Who? Oh, the bottomers, uh, low ponies? Hold on.” The piece of electronic equipment that might've been more than a mere music player was still announcing its existence. Had it begun to play a new song? Regardless, I turned it off. “Okay, can you translate all that for me?” I queried, eager to learn something despite my confusion. Or maybe due to my confusion?

“First: Weather's going, and then it's gone.” The hairs on my back stood on end as I witnessed Embee take the device into her mouth and place it into her saddlebag. It wouldn't have teeth marks on it, would it? Or did she use her lips only? “Second: Yeah, mare, you heard it right, I speak a bit of Lowerian.” She cast a look around after that, possibly to check if anything was forgotten or misplaced.

“I bet you've learned more than a few phrases.” I cast a cursory glance at the shower, not seeing anything out of place—except the sponge!

“True. For example, 'Beijm' is a common greeting.” As Embee said that, I wordlessly walked to the two-toned sponge, and again exemplified how quick I was to forget that hooves weren't made for grabbing. However, I did pinch the green object between the backside of my hoof and . . . whatever nomenclature the underside of the preceding section of my limb had.

“Beijm? Okay. Sounds like it means something other than "How's it going, mate",” I said, doing a probably poor attempt at an Australian accent. After I had returned the item to the tray, I saw Embee smile. I assumed it was out of gratitude for the little thing I did.

“Pretty nice of you to put the sponge back.” She confirmed my assumption.

“And pretty scummy if I hadn't,” I quipped lightheartedly. Her giggle could mean a lot of things, though I took it as a positive response.

“So, right,” Embee started talking as we finally made our way to the door. “Beijm comes from 'sonnbeijm.' Sunbeam. The pleasure of a warm and sunny day to a friend, family member, or guest. It can also be a farewell.” I waited outside as Embee reached for the light switch, came out from the darkened room and shut the door. I kept myself beside her as we began to make our way to began to make our way back. “Another expression I can't forget is 'mejg,' used to express disappointment or disinterest. I've heard it originally describe a broth that was more water than veggies and flavor.” We weaved past a pair of stallions, one green and the other blue. Feeling momentarily uneasy by their smiles and possibly admiring eyes, I lost track of what Embee was talking about. “The towns are serviced by train.” The topic had changed? “It's a really pretty train, too, sparkling blue, like the sun's rays reflecting on the sea. It's got an official name, but locals simply call it Navse.”

“Navse?” I asked right as we turned a corner and into a corridor with two steel doors on the right. Elevators! But she passed them. Why? Weren't we leaving the hospital?

“I've heard that the trains were notorious for being late.” Embee and I stopped at a windowed corner opposite the elevators. What were we going to do here? “So, imagine, ponies waiting for the train, and when it finally arrives, somepony says "Navs en kamm." Sometimes humorously, or eagerly, or annoyedly if it's really late.” My visual mind constructed a lifelike picture while she turned her head to the open window. “Hey there.”

“Hey!” The mare behind the glass looked up from her papers. Gosh, that innocent and friendly smile and her brown, billowing, batting-like mane. It was oddly familiar! She was . . . like a pony version of the nurse from Wonder Boy III: The Dragon's Trap! “What can I do for you, Embee?”

“Just asking you to forward an item,” she replied, then nuzzled her right saddlebag open. After rifling through it for a few seconds, she looked at me, slightly embarrassed. “Uh, hon. You don't mind helping me out a little, do you? I can't get the thing. Phone, I think it was?”

“Uhm . . .” I was briefly dumbstruck of being asked for help. The nurse pony gazed at us with intrigue, and the two stallions from before had ventured within eyesight. I had to play my part and act like I was just a normal pony. “Sure,” I said as I peeked in. There it was, at the bottom of the bag, beneath some bottles and a brush. I almost went through with using my hoof, but the instance I felt my weight shift to three legs I rethought my plan. A magic globule enveloped the requested item and conversely displaced its captors.

“Much obliged, hon.” Embee smiled. Now she was staring at me. She started to look a little puzzled. “Can you give it to her?” She nodded at the receptionist.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, sorry,” I said, slightly preoccupied. Magic, me-pony, Embee-pony, and receptionist pony, but all in an environment that was very terrestrial. This was somewhat surreal.

The unnamed mare tracked the multimedia device as it floated over to her and onto her papers. “Who does this belong to?” she queried as her gaze lifted.

“Lucek,” Embee answered concisely.

The receptionist’s brows furrowed. “Sorry. I should know, but I don't know who that is,” she said, unsure of herself. I had to think of a name for her until she mentioned it. Or someone asked. Rece-pony? No, not good.

“Don't you remember? He gave you a box of delicious chocolate-covered prunes for your birthday.” If my eyes weren't deceiving me, I saw Embee furtively lick her lips.

“Oh!” The light brown mare's eyes lit up with realization. “It's, yeah, it's that man who was telling me the other day that a cheetah has the fastest bird.”

“What?” I mouthed, tilting my head. Why would a cheetah have a bird—a fastest bird? It made no sense. Had this Lucek guy been crushed under a lobbed menhir or something?

“He's quite the character, isn't he?” Embee said with a chuckle, evidently used to Lucek's insanity. “He hasn't recommended you a cartoon with four kids, one of whom is a zombie, has he?” That insane premise . . . might have the potential of being good.

“Nah.” A smirk creased recept-pony's face. “Well, not yet.” Both she and Embee giggled, while I merely presented a slightly uncertain smile so as to not look out of place.

“Anyhow, he, ah, lost that thing there of his you were just given, and I'm betting he wants it back as soon as possible.” I looked over my back for no particular reason as Embee spoke; the stallion duo entered the elevator as it spewed out two white-coated women and another male pony.

“I'd go myself, but I'm busy right now. I'll be sure to have somepony send it to him.” When I turned my attention back to the receptionist, she had taken the device into her mouth. A chill went down my spine.

“Don't bite it,” I said quietly as she vanished beyond a divider, worried more about teeth marks than saliva.

“Relax, I used my lips,” her carefree voice bounced into my ears, herself emerging a second later. I backed a tad, coaxing a difficult smile to my face in the absence of my mind assembling anything resembling a complete word. “So, anything else I can do for you, Embee?”

“No, that's all,” she declined complaisantly.

“Alright.” The chipper mare's deep blue eyes rolled to me, her smile becoming a little wider. “How about you?”

“Uh, me?” My smile faltered briefly. “Nothing. I'm good.” I glimpsed Embee shut her saddlebag.

“Let's keep going, then,” she casually commanded before looking at the receptionist. “See you, and thanks.”

When Embee walked past me, I made sure to not stay far behind. I bid the receptionist a farewell, too, suddenly feeling a touch bewildered. Maybe I was unconsciously entrenched in a belief that being pony was vastly different from everything I knew, which made me uncertain of anything I did?

“Hold up,” Embee said all of a sudden. I stopped where we had come to. I could still see the receptionist's corner, plus another load of ponies spilling out from the elevator.

“Um, where are we going?” I asked.

“Here.” Embee reached up to push a keypad next to the door we were by. Impressive precision doing that with a hoof.

“And what's in here?” I asked warily as I followed her into what seemed to be a small, darkened storage room. After she had stretched herself to reach a higher position, the lights came on. Awaiting her reply, I watched in silence as she strolled past the two metallic shelves in the center of the room. They were packed with translucent boxes. Acting on a superficial compulsion, I rounded the door and pushed it almost shut before I made my way over to her. She had taken her saddlebags off, opened one, and procured a bundle of keys. With them hanging by her teeth, she approached a nondescript box sitting in the corner among others of its ilk. She unlocked the padlock and nudged the lid open, as my curiosity prompted me to take a closer look. Amidst the packets, folded cloths, and other miscellaneous items was another small, translucent box.

“A cap and protective boots. I expected more,” Embee commented to herself, disappointed. She then turned her attention to me. “Well, these have been here for months, which means nopony's missing them. Or missing them enough to return for them. I guess they'll be auctioned off eventually. But let's see.” She took the small box and placed it on the floor. “Want to see if the boots fit?”

“Eh.” This would've been a perfect moment to shrug. “Why not?” I poked at the box lethargically, flipping the top open after I summoned my disembodied touch. “Protective boots, you said? Looks like the heel of a hiking boot trimmed to a thin sheet, with a hole in the middle and straps on top,” I described flatly. “It's like a sandal? Or maybe it's just a slightly fancier horseshoe.” Thankfully, without nails.

“They're called protective boots since they protect the hooves from hard surfaces, such as rock and pavement.” I saw a glimmer of cautious hope in Embee's eyes.

“It's still shaped like a horseshoe.” I turned the gray rubber shoe around and stuck my hoof in it, then sat down and used my free hoof to bring the Velcro straps together over my coronet band.

Without changing her expression or saying a word, Embee placed the other shoe before me. I repeated the process in equal silence. “Viv, I'm not pressuring you to wear them if you don't like them.” Her words instilled me with a sense of doubt.

“Yeah . . . Why should I wear these anyhow?” I took a look at the sole of the shoe. Or boot. Whatever. “Because . . . these hooves aren't mine, so, um, I have to act responsibly by guaranteeing they aren't damaged,” I answered my own question resignedly.

“You don't like feeling pony,” Embee recalled sympathetically. “But.” She dug up a purple-colored thing from the box. “Maybe this'll be a good counterbalance?” She stuck her hoof into the mystery item, stretching it into the shape of a typical baseball—

“A cap?” I verbalized what I saw. “I hadn't expected that.” Realistically, though, how would it serve as a counterpoint to being pony?

“It's what you'd normally like to wear, right?” Following a few seconds of hesitation, she perched it on my head and carefully adjusted it to fit. “What do you think? Good, or bad? Want to take it off?”

I tried to see the rim, but my hair was in the way. “I, er . . .” The cap wasn't of objectionable style, I had nothing negative to say about the color, and most importantly, it wasn't interfering with my ears or horn, so . . . “Yeah, I'm okay with this.”

“You sound and look a little happier,” Embee noted with delight in her tone and a smile on her face.

“Nonsense,” I disputed, fully aware that she was spot on. “I'm supposed to be perpetually downbeat and . . . and this cap's ruining my wonderfully done hair, too. All that work you did, undone,” I bemoaned histrionically. “Such a shame,” I continued, mimicking the eponymous Talk Talk song. Gosh, now I wanted to hum a few more verses.

Embee blew air past her lips. “You're such a contrarian diva,” she chided playfully.

“Ehm.” I wasn't vain, but saying that I wasn't could ruin the lighthearted mood. “Did you not once say I'm a prankster?”

“Okay, correction.” She cleared her throat and composed herself the face a dulled official. “Contrarian prankster diva.”

Although still in a playful mood, I frowned, aware that we were at the cusp of starting a game where I'd earn titles I wouldn't regard with honest admiration. A small razzberry was my ultimate rebuttal, which consequently caused her to burst into an unabashed, precariously infectious giggle. I held it in as I said, “Anyhow, let's get going.” I stood up and turned for the door.

“Ah, no,” Embee said quickly, evidently caught off guard.

“Huh?” What could we still be doing in this unwelcoming storage room? The answer was Embee prodding two more boots towards my hind legs. My exposed hind hooves. I looked down, and saw an obvious disparity. “Oh. Right. Four legs. Four boots. Or shoes. Or sandals,” I rambled in a careless tone as I put my hooves face to face with the boots. “Uh?” Well, my forehooves were face to face with the footwear. Confused, I performed a full 180 without delay. When I looked at my rear pair, I noted Embee had backed up, rubbing her snout. “Did, um, did something happen?

“Your tail—No, I'm alright.” She sniffed twice. Maybe she had almost sneezed?

So, I had to simply step on the shoes. Except now that I did, I was standing on them and the strap. I tried to free one shoe, but . . . “Ugh. I don't think I'm flexible enough to get it,” I complained as I gave up. “Also, my prehensile abilities are extremely limited, so . . .” I hope she'd catch the clue and give me some assistance.

Embee stared at the squished shoes thoughtfully, then drew a breath as she looked me in the eye. “So, how about using your magic?” she suggested gently.

“Hum,” I commented, feeling markedly witless. “That's . . . that's definitely a good idea.” Frankly, it had genuinely escaped my mind. “Should have thought of that . . . but, uhm,” I said in a fading voice; the cursory hypothesis about natural inclination for utilizing hands and the faulty adaptation to a unicorn form leading to the occasional forgetting of telekinesis wasn't heard aloud. Regardless, the shoes were liberated from their tight spot with a couple of steps, and then given a helping (magic) hand to reintroduce themselves to my soles.

“So, hon. How do they feel?” Embee queried, cautiously optimistic now that I was shoed.

“Well, hmm . . .” I panned my head to get a view over myself. I was certainly aware that I had four legs, but wearing shoes really seemed to make it harder to disbelieve. Consequently, I began to feel desolate. “They feel like nothing,” I said dispassionately.

“Really?” Her amethyst-colored eyes widened in honest surprise. I quickly stole a glance toward the open door, checking that we hadn't gained an unwanted audience.

“I have hooves, Embee. They're insensate. You know that just as well as I do.” Well, that was curt.

“Oh . . . That's true,” she concurred dejectedly. Now she too was sad, and much more open about it than I was. Time to brighten the mood. Somehow.

“But it could be worse,” I continued in a more relaxed manner.

“It could?” I couldn't tell whether she was doubtful or fearful.

“Yeah, I . . .” What could be worse than being a feminine-voiced cuddly pony? I wasn't blatantly feminine, so I could act like a tomboy. But what form would disallow that? “I could be a poodle.”

Embee developed a confused smile. “Viv the poodle?” Then she laughed.

“I'm pretty sure you have a wonderful picture in your mind,” I hazarded, unamused. She at least tried to look sorry. “I can think of better things to be.”

“Oh? Do tell. I'm curious.” I was about to reply with the obvious when she continued. “I don't need to guess what's the best, but if it had to be anything else but that.”

“You cunning rascal,” I chided, but she only giggled.

“A cat?” she guessed.

“No,” I replied firmly. “Is that what you'd be?”

“Mom dressed me up for a special festivity. Maybe you've heard of it? Nightmare Night? If not, I'll skip the story for now. But everypony is dressed up that evening. What was I?” Her aversive gaze was deliberate. “Meow don't know.”

“Hah, clever.” I smiled meagerly. When the silence became protracted, Embee's liveliness waned.

“Well, I told you mine, but you don't have to tell me yours. It's okay.” She began to tidy up, but I felt I had an obligation to fulfill. I couldn't take and then not give.

“Er . . . I, uh . . . feel awkward saying this, but when I was younger, I thought dinosaurs were neat, and I had a game, a video game, with a . . . the avatar, um, playable character. I thought, I think he's awesome and uhm, he's not a dino . . . but . . . I fantasized how cool it would be to be a dragon.” Embee had picked up the keys and closed the box where I got my borrowed (and sparse) apparel from as I talked. “Of course, recent experien—”

“Awh dhwgn?” she said through her teeth as she secured the padlock to the box and locked it.

“Uhm, yeah. I was—oh.” I reminded myself that she might've pictured dragons as fear-inducing, fire-breathing, humongous troublemakers. “It's a different kind of dragon. Purple, walks on fours—is that unusual? I dunno. Uh, it's about . . .” How would I estimate the height when doing that might put my limb at the same height as my head? Wait, that was it! “About my present size, and um . . . not dangerous. The kind you'd be friends with, and think he's cool, and . . . uh . . .”

“And looks cute?” She guessed while putting on her saddlebags.

“Uhm, I suppose?” The adorably cute, or the different type of cute that strongly hints at romantic affections? Could I even pretend to think that—

“Well, well. Never would have guessed it. Viv the dragoness,” Embee commented, giving me a sly look.

“Eheh, yeah, well, no, um, kind of, not really, or maybe . . .” I stammered, my imagination acting on its own accord to visualize a confident, feminized PS1-era Spyro clone in my colors. “I'd rather be a dino,” I finally blurted, bowing my head down immediately after. “A cool dino. Maybe raptor. Dunno,” I added, nearly voiceless.

“Don't feel bad, hon. I wasn't making any fun of you,” Embee reassured kindly.

“I know you weren't. I'm just . . . just embarrassed. Not even sure why . . . it just feels so . . .” I said meekly, my vision wavered for a moment, and I found my hoof half off the ground, uncertain if it should go up or stay down. The past twenty-four hours had stressed my integrity and self-image to their breaking points. Personal revelations, intense emotions, and unexpected female changes were simply building to another climax and throwing things out of proportion again.Or at least that was what I theorized. Could be a really flimsy theory. Probably was. But to prove its flimsiness I'd have to test it extensively.

“You okay, hon?” Seemed like I was giving her a reason to worry. I assured her I was fine and restated that I was embarrassed. Nonetheless, she observed me quietly for a few long seconds. “Alright. Well then. One little thing, and then we can go outside. Follow me, please.” She started for the door and slipped through the gap.

“Woohoo,” I cheered shyly as I followed her. I let her close the door. “Oh . . . kay, where are we going?” I asked, confused that we distanced ourselves further from the elevators.

“Not far.” As soon as she said that, she turned toward a door and effortlessly pushed it open. The room was plain. Windowless, colored in beige, and beside the door was a sole potted plant missing half of one blade, as if bitten. Posters possibly pertaining to healthcare and a couple of paintings framed in glass were on the walls. In the center of the room was a very low particle board table encircled by plaid pillows. “I can't go outside without a few necessities,” Embee explained. A smaller room was to the left, lined with lockers; there was one frame with her name in black on a gray tag. “Normally, only staff can come in here, but nopony's gonna raise a big stink about you being here.”

“Okay.” Still recovering from my general bemusement, I vacantly observed her opening the thin metal door. Figuring I could spend my time on better pursuits than persuading Embee to second-guess herself, I looked back towards the center of the room and spotted a newspaper sitting atop the low table. Adorned with an eager smile, I approached the table.
All was going smoothly, until the floor gave under. Well, the floor hadn't budged; the pillows I stepped on did. Unfortunately, sudden loss of foreleg stability was a relatively recent and startling concept to me. At least my landing was soft.

“Hm?” Embee looked over at me, undoubtedly having heard my ungraceful collapse. “Ah.” A smile spread on her face. “Decided to get comfy?”

Not sure how I was positioned, aside from upright and facing Embee, I stole a quick downward glance without pitching my head. “Mmh, yeah.”

“We won't be here for that long, hon,” she quipped, apparently assuming my plopping down was a nonverbal remark.

“So you say,” I shot back, feigning indifference. She merely laughed through a closed mouth, then pulled a yellow saddlebag from her locker. While she wasn't looking, I gave myself a brief inspection. Forelegs sprawled out on the edge of the pillow, and my hind legs folded almost one on the other. And there was my tail, that I sent a command to by accident. Then I did it a few times on purpose. Gosh, it looked and felt so . . . “We-ird,” I mouthed, half-creeped out. I'd never get used to this shape, would I? Perhaps that was a boon in guise?

Anyhow, the newspaper. I reached for it . . . and didn't quite get it. Too far way. A sigh passed through my nostrils. Oh . . . It wasn't too far away. I had a magical spire on my forehead. I wrapped the paper in a fluctuating telekinetic bubble and dragged it to myself. Now I could turn off my cranial rod and check if the front cover had anything interesting.

A quick glance to the paper's upper side brought to my attention that this wasn't a national publication, but one of those free, city papers that promoted and reported local events. Anyhow, back to the main attraction.

Ads. Lots of ads. Normally, I would ignore them without a second thought, but being in a parallel world created an exception.

20% sale on boat paint and related paraphernalia. A renovated pizzeria offering free pizzas for the first fifteen customers for the entirety of next week. Even an upcoming car expo. Featuring legendary Group B rally cars? How cool was that! Maybe not as cool as the Ponymporium, a retailer of various Equestrian goods. Buggies, fabric, furniture, and more. I'd go there out of curiosity, if it was nearby. The address corresponded to a department store that had been vacant for a couple of years. Wasn't a small place, either. A dedicated two-story building with a roomy underground parking lot.

In defiance of my quadrupedal nature, I tried to turn the page over. The results were far from elegant, but counted as a moderate success, and so, I put my eyes on the written article.

It was something about theater. Theater . . . One of those institutions that never died, yet nopony I knew actually went to them, and certainly never mentioned them. However, I had gone to the theater as a kid thanks to, I suppose, a culturally conscious school. The only significant memory I recalled was people dressed as yellow baboons, one of whom frequently bent over to expel smoky gas with the sound of a foghorn. Classy.

Anyhow, this article exuded enthusiasm. Good for them. Or him. Or her. Who wrote the article? Raspberry Spark? Ponies in radio, ponies in print. Did that name hold a meaning? Related to the Razzie Awards? No, that seemed extremely unlikely. Maybe the name, Raspberry Spark, symbolized that even bad performances can lead to an epiphany? In any case, I only glossed over the article. The next page . . . had a picture of some kind of mammal with a red eye and robotic body parts. It was the headlining picture for what was playing in theaters. Movie theaters, that is.

Lugging a pair of miniguns, this cybernetic cousin of a camel is the face of the off-the-rails action movie spoof Llamanator 2: The Alpaccalypse.

Some other movies were also listed, such as American Jesus, a satirical comedy; Ponyventures 2, a screwball comedy; Odin Ubit: A Dark Destiny, a docudrama; Edgeworth, a science fiction—

“Time to get up, greenbelly.” A familiar voice and something prodding my side brought my eyes up from the literature. I only needed to glance at the aquamarine shape to identify it as Embee's leg, from where I trailed it up to her smirk.

“Okay, um . . .” I did as suggested, although it was made difficult due to the combination of a pliable surface and inadequate understanding of equine motor skills. My higher brain functions initiated once I was on firmer ground. “Greenbelly?”

Embee's smirk had mellowed to a much more approachable smile, which promptly changed into that of realization. “Oh, right. It's what a lazy pony's called where I'm from.”

“Because . . .” I drawled expectantly.

“A lazy pony lays on the ground so much, their coat gets stained green by the grass,” she explained.

“Huh. Interesting.” Always nice to learn things that evidently originated from pony culture, though I was downplaying it outwardly. Not cool to be called lazy, after all. “Well, that's . . . something that doesn't apply to you, being so green and all.”

She chortled. “Wow, you're shrewd, aren't you?”

“Uh, yeah, I can be,” I said, doubting myself just enough to shy away from giving a straight yes. I stole a quick look toward the locker room. “So, ah, we're done here?” I continued as I turned my eyes back to Embee.

“Yes,” Embee responded gladly. “We can go now.” In a few short seconds, we were once again trekking down the hallway, back towards the elevators this time. As we did, I sensed something unusual. Or rather, the lack of something, which was unusual. It was only when we stopped by the elevator that I understood what it was.

“I didn't realize how much these shoes quiet my steps,” I said to Embee, holding my limb aloft. “And you’ve got shoes, too. I . . . hadn't really paid much attention to them.” They were yellow, just like her saddlebags and hair, and with a hard-to-decipher insignia running across the straps. “They look kinda nice. Suits your hair color.” Also, she was wearing a plastic ankle ring.

“Thanks!” she replied to my half-thought compliment, glancing pleased at her forehooves. Then, the elevator doors parted. A sole occupant walked out so briskly that I barely caught a glimpse of her face.

“Ugh,” I muttered, disliking the loud clacking of her high heels.

“Ugh what?” Embee queried. “Something wrong?”

“No, It's fine. I just . . .” Would she need to know? I couldn't think of any harm in her knowing. “I guess sensitive hearing and proximity to high heels isn't a good combination.” I explained once we were within the steel cube. “And I honestly don't like the sound they make in any case. Don't know why, really.”

“Hmm, okay.” She gently struck a button on the panel. Fortunately, it wasn't too high up. “I take it you've not often worn high heels.”

“Not often? Hah,” I sneered. “Never in my life.”

“Oh.” Seemed like my impudent opinion had stumped her. “But aren't there occasions that require wearing them?”

“No,” I said firmly. “They look uncomfortable, are detrimental to the feet and posture, horribly impractical . . .” Wait, I was getting too deep into this pretend-female persona. “I'll cut my tirade short and say that I have nothing good to say about high heels.”

Embee's look was that of pensiveness, whereas mine was that of unshakeable nonchalance. “Well, I guess a woman knows better than a mare.” Ouch.

“Yeah,” I affirmed, furtively uncomfortable, embarrassed, and then ashamed. How could I ever break it to her that I wasn't a true female? Moreover, only now did it dawn on me that I had several moments in privacy where I could've let her know. But then again, did she really need to?

The doors opened, the din of chatter symbolizing how little privacy we had now. It was almost daunting to step beyond the comparative solitude of the elevator into the hallway beyond, but I followed Embee steadily. We ventured past several doors, chairs, people, and ponies on our way to what I assumed was the outside.

We were halfway between the sliding doors and the hospital’s reception desk when Embee stopped and looked at me. “Viv, why're you so quiet all of a sudden?” I didn't reply. I looked down at the lobby floor briefly, then out towards the sunlit exterior, where a short, concrete, multistory parking lot stood on the other side of an empty road. An ambulance was parked outside the hospital doors. The man inside was writing on a board placed over his steering wheel. “Why do you look sad?”

“I'm . . . I'm not sad,” I lied to Embee, but I was actually remorseful. Opposite the ambulance, on the right, a maroon pony walked past, his gaze alighting on me for a small moment as he walked in and went to wherever he was going. The encounter left me a little unsure of myself. Certainly he couldn't see me as what I really was? Could anypony else, though? Could I take that risk? “I'm nervous. Scared. Of going out there.” I realized that the confidentiality of our conversation couldn't be guaranteed in a hallway, so I sidled closer and whispered, “You know, I'm not really a mare.” I shuddered, the confession hitting hard.

“I know you're not,” she said compassionately, curling a limb over me to give me a hug.

“No.” I dodged under the offered hug. “Please, don't do that, not now,” I pleaded apologetically, then promptly moved to a corner where the wall met the vestibule. I needed a moment to gather myself. Crying alone was one thing, but crying in public? I couldn't let that happen. The judgmental stares would devastate me.

“Sorry.” Evidently Embee had followed me to my niche of extremely tenuous solitude. The precise point where the floor, the wall, and glass pane's frame met was free of dust. No point in staring down there, but where else could I look? “If you're really frightened, if this is really that tough, well . . . you can bow out of it anytime, no problem. We don't need to go outside.”

I kept staring at the floor as I quietly said to her, “I can't. Not when I'm so close. But . . . truth be told . . .” This wasn't going to be the truth I wrestled with the most. “I don't know pony etiquette, or how to behave like one. I'm afraid somepony's gonna see through me and immediately tell that I'm not the real thing.”

“Don't sell yourself short.” Her tone was such that picturing a tiny, bashful smile on her wasn't hard “You were able to trick me well.”

“For about ten minutes, and I was doing a pretty poor job at it, too,” I specified sardonically, easily recalling last evening's events in the break room.

“Listen, hon.” Embee's cautious optimism seemed gone, replaced by benign seriousness. “If a poor attempt was good enough, then you got nothing to worry about.”

“I just feel that if I mess up in some way, things will go awry faster than you can say 'tubular frame.'” I checked our surroundings, in case we were being listened to. “What if I'm asked what's the population of Equestria? I don't know the answer to that.”

“Neither do I,” she said, tone unconcerned. “Does that make me not a pony? What kind of trouble will I be in?”

“You can give an estimate, but I can't,” I whispered exasperatedly, ignoring her role reversal puzzle. Or . . . maybe I shouldn't ignore it. “So, er, if you, well, I were to bungle up knowing something that's common knowledge, I . . . I don't know what kind of trouble I could get in.”

“You say if, but I get this feeling you're convinced it's a when.” I was surprised she said that. She couldn't know I was . . . definitely not thinking like that. At all. It wasn't a when, though I kind of . . . No, I had to have faith in myself. I'd counter Embee's deduction by . . . showing her a morose face, and not looking at her, while still kind of doing so. Because I was still right, but . . . not really right. Half-right. Or a smidgen less than half-right. Thirty-forty percent right? “I know you like to be cautious, but I'm pretty sure you want to go outside, too.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Unknown to her, I had mentally acknowledged that I had gotten cold feet and I should do something to . . . warm them up.

“Please don't give into pessimism and think that the worst, whatever it might be, will happen. It won’t. Ponies aren't going to pry for details. To them, you're just another pony walking down the street. Don't forget, I'm with you. If somepony strikes a chat with us, you can play the quiet type and I'll do the talking.”

“That sounds . . . good.” A shred of rationality was persuading me to think sensibly. “I guess I can't really do anything else other than be myself, even at the risk of being, well, unponylike. I mean, I can't convincingly fake being from a completely different culture, and realistically speaking, it'd take forever to learn a fraction of what you know. So . . . alright, I'll do what I can to keep a low profile, like you suggested. That's not really so far from what I usually tend to do.” I would have continued our hushed dialogue, but then the noise started. I turned my head toward the disturbance, my directional microphones seemingly amplifying its intensity. Somewhere out of sight, a terrible sound was being made. Worse, it was becoming louder, and coming closer. There was no mystery unveiled when I saw it being carried from the depths of the hospital. My only solace was a desperate wish that this perturbation was only passing through. “Oh no,” I bemoaned when it didn't come true.

“Oh no what?” Embee queried, clearly not bothered by the noise. The noise. That horrible noise, right next to the reception. It was one of the most reviled sounds in existence, an aural abhorrence that could transform a placid pacifist into a manic murderer.

“Agh, I can't bear it,” I said as I cringed. “I gotta get out, now.” Without any hesitation, I ventured out as quickly as the doors permitted. When I was finally outside, I drew a deep breath, extremely relieved that the torture was over.

Speaking of the outside, it was sunny and quite warm. Some puddles here and there from yesterday's rain. Moreover, there wasn't a crowd out here. Just a few people coming and going down the gradient to the right. The ambulance I saw before slowly passed me, down to the street, where it turned right to merge between a silver sedan and a medium-sized white truck. That truck had artwork on it that evoked my curiosity. Only a few steps and it was clear: A transparent bottle cradled by the vegetation of a yellow field, a gleeful light-yellow pony with a blonde braided mane smiling excitedly at the discovery. Above all that was something written in a bold, descending hue of orange: Trigo Limpio.

“That was a sudden change of heart,” Embee commented as she came by my side. “What convinced you?”

“Ahh, you see, there, um,” I dawdled, unsure of speaking my mind. A momentary glance down at the pavement dug out a random piece of trivia from a dusty corner of my memory. However, quoting Michael J. Caboose for comedic effect would still be too direct. “Appointing me as the caretaker of an infant would be a recipe for disaster.”

“How does that relate to trotting out . . . Oh, you don't mean that, do you?” she doubted, frowning sadly.

“It's hard to stay cool when I'm subjected to one of the most infuriating sounds in the world,” I explained, starting to steadfastly descend the sidewalk, whereas she had become stunned. “Of course, that's just my opinion. Sorry, I guess.”

Her shoes didn't muffle her steps much as she hurriedly caught up to me. “Uhm . . . Maybe motherhood would convince you otherwise?”

“Hahaha,” I laughed flatly, feeling queasy. “Maternity is unconditionally out of the question.” Carrying an unwelcome parasite in my body that I'd have to pass out like a ginormous kidney stone was almost as desirable as contracting cervical cancer.

“How, how can you say that?” Embee's sorrowful demeanor prevented me from opining strongly.

“You may possess everything that's needed to be a good parent, but I know I don't. There's nothing in me that says 'Yay! I want to have children!', and as far as I can recall, that's how it's always been.” I had mindlessly headed right at the junction of the hospital road and the street, and was now at another, much busier intersection. Privacy was impossible here, so I withdrew to the lawn and to the shadow of a towering tree there. Embee followed. “It's kind of a big deal—I've not even spoken to my parents about it. I'm pretty sure they wish for grandchildren, and I . . . Well . . .” I kneaded the yellow and orange leaves on the ground. “I feel genuinely bad for letting them down, but . . . I'm not the type to . . .” Reality seemed to knock me on the head as I realized I was face-to-face with a being that just a day before only existed in fiction. “Why am I . . . Why do I open up to you about these things?”

“Might be because you trust me,” she guessed.

“That seems likely,” I admitted without missing a beat.

“Well, if it makes you feel better, you can talk to me about anything,” Embee offered. I was happy she could offer that.

I contemplated that as I cursorily looked at the cars now that the lights had turned green. One had its window open, and out poured a fragment of a song: “Whenever you need someone, to lay your head and heart upon . . .” How apt.

Thereafter, my attention was briefly held by a billboard erected on the lawn. It depicted a portrait of a brunette on a white background and a puce-colored bottle on her palm. “So, I, um, I'm sorry about being blunt earlier. Some things just don't gel with me.”

“High heels, a baby's cry . . .” she itemized with a slight touch of lightheartedness. “Anything else you'd like to tell me about?”

“I don't have a list readily available, sorry.” I smiled weakly. “But, uh, you don't think I'm wrong in some way for being . . . not excited about . . . having offspring,” I said in a diminishing voice, and with a few pauses so that the few people strolling by on the sidewalk wouldn't overhear us. Possessing male parts would make the experience . . . No, even then I wouldn't engage in the act.

“I admit, it's unusual, but it's how you are, hon. Nothing wrong with that. You're not harming anypony.” That took a load off my mind. “I hope your parents will understand, though, when you tell them.” If I would ever have the courage. “Just don't accept offers of being a foalsitter. Er, babysitter. Alright?” That was a good way to make a serious situation a little less serious.

“I'll be sure not to,” I said with a small laugh. My attention was stolen by an unusual sight on the street. It was the yellow pony and her stoic compatriot from earlier, wearing helmets, and riding a quad!

“Is this safe?” the yellow one cried fearfully, clinging to the driving mare like her life depended on it as they stopped at the lights.

“It's safe as long as you don't yell into my ear,” she cautioned in a collected monotone. That I could hear it was astounding. Anyhow, in contrast to the yellow one's plain white helmet, hers was red with a few black dots on it. Like a ladybug! That was kind of . . . cute? Yeah, cute. Then, they turned to the left and soon were out of sight.

“They were driving a quad.” I said to Embee in astonishment. “Is that legal? I mean, it must be legal. Is it?”

“There's no law that bars a pony from acquiring a license. I suppose there's been no need to, since our bodies aren't much good for driving,” Embee explained.

I eyed her, envisaging her in the seat of several vehicles, many of which ultimately required distinctly human features and dimensions she lacked. However, an exciting exception had already been provided. “You can get a license and a quad if you have the money.” Although, I'd most likely request to be the driver if she did have a quad!

“I got wings,” she said with a flair of confidence.

“But not right now, because your wings are covered by your saddlebags, and I'm flightless, so you and I have to walk.” Unadjusted to my softer vocal attributes, my jesting but innocuous singsong tone afflicted me with a momentary abashment. “To where?” I glanced down the street both ways. Beyond this very intersection was a drive-in burger place and a short, uphill dead end road ensconced by apartments. Unlikely we'd go that way. Across from us was a grocery store and a bank. From the latter emerged a pair of blue, purple-maned ponies, one unicorn, the other an earth pony, each wearing saddlebags.

“I know a place not too far,” Embee replied.

“How far?” I asked, glancing down at my legs with a modicum of apprehension.

She sighed, apparently sensing difficulties. “I'd say a minute if I were to fly, but walking might take about ten or fifteen minutes.”

That time frame didn't expound on the most crucial factor. “Distance?”

“Uh, let me think . . . This wider street we're by, we go to the left two blocks. I think they're called blocks.” When she looked at me with a questioning face I verbally affirmed she got her terminology correct. “Then right another two blocks, and hmm, a left, and . . . It's just by the river.”

“Okay, I get the picture now.” I had retrieved a map from my head and drawn an approximate path to the destination. “That will probably take ten to fifteen minutes, if I keep a good pace.” Another glance at my legs. All four of them this time. “I'll . . . I should do fine.” I was about to embark on a test of endurance, composure, and perseverance.

“You've just got to believe in yourself, and you'll do great!” Suddenly, something drew her attention, her eyes full of surprise and alertness as she stared past me.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked as I looked over myself to scope out what she could possibly be fixated on. There were a pair of ponies on the opposite side of the street, the same ponies who had left the grocery store a minute prior.

“Yeah.” Before I had any time to react, Embee removed her saddlebags in one swift move and unfurled her wings. With a powerful flap she shot into the air, making a beeline across the road to the two ponies. Then I saw what Embee had seen: The earth pony was grimacing and coughing while the other one was looking on, shocked, apparently at a loss what to do. Was this a serious crisis? Was the earth pony in danger of dying?

“Ohhh,” I moaned, feeling very restless as I watched Embee make a landing. Had she told me to stay put? Had she not told me to stay put? Should I stay here? Should I go to her? Could I be of any help? What was I supposed to do? What did my instincts tell me? I couldn't stay here! To stand idly was wrong. Negligent! I should get over to her even if she had the situation under control. No! Stop! I was being too hasty. I couldn't leave her saddlebags here! That meant I'd have to take them to her. By . . . wearing them. Wincing, I leaned down, fitting the saddlebags over my withers. Straightening, I fidgeted against the cloth rubbing through my . . . fur.