//------------------------------// // Contact: Equestria // Story: A Song of Transformation // by Honey Lavender //------------------------------// It was about 4 months ago when I started having these dreams about flying. The feeling of the wind rushing by my face, the strain on my wings as I perform tight loops and graceful maneuvers, the feeling of weightlessness as I dive towards a lush field at breakneck speed… it’s all so surreal. And enjoyable, no less. But sooner or later, you always have to wake up… That fateful day started like any other. Cycle down to the flight school, shower and shave in the locker room, morning briefing. Preflight inspection, cold and dark startup; the boring stuff. As my instruments calibrate, I check the briefing sheet; my eyes locking onto the weather forecast, which says that there’s a storm just off the runway. I shift in the pilot’s seat, uncomfortable with this development. Today was not supposed to be an instrument flight. I’m ready to taxi after a short couple of calls to confirm the accuracy of my paperwork, and a lecture from my instructor about how I need to “…man up and fly the damn plane.” Cute, but ineffective at boosting my confidence. I have my clearances, and I’m lined up on 28 Left. I throttle my engines to 25% thrust, and they take a few minutes to stabilize. Then 50%, and I release the brakes, my engine runup procedure complete. The plane lurches forward, shoving me back in my seat. 75%, I’m picking up speed. 25 knots, then 30. I reach full thrust, and I’m a quarter of the way down the runway. 45 knots, then 50. I feel alive; every bump in the pavement, the intense vibrations as the engines pull copious amounts of air through them, I feel it all through my seat. The plane seems to have a mind of its own, with only one objective: fly. The plane calls out to me: “V1.” I can no longer abort takeoff; not safely anyway. I move my right hand away from the throttle so that I cannot accidentally abort takeoff. “Vr,” the computer intones, as vortices begin to noticeably trail off my wings, condensing the cold, humid dawn air. My nose begins to lift on its own, and although my computer doesn't acknowledge it, I mutter "Vlof" under my breath, one of my nervous habits from when I first started flying. 95 knots, three quarters of the way down the runway, and I vaguely hear the call out “V2” come from the speakers. I pull up and the plane leaves the ground, a feeling of weightlessness taking over momentarily. I switch my radio to the Approach controller’s frequency, even as a plate with my call sign and tail number is sent down a tube from the tower to a cold, dark, sterile room that serves as the work space for the controllers that my flight now rests in the hands of. All commercial aircraft, and some private ones, are equipped with an instrument called the Traffic alert and Collision Avoidance System, or TCAS, although it is quite limited - even after the implementation of ADS-B in 2020. The controllers that I'm being handed off to can tell me more than my own instruments are capable of, and they make the big bucks for no reason other than the stress of handling all flights in this most dangerous phase of their journey. In my headset, I get a faint inquiry: “November Charlie Delta one one four five Zulu, Portland TRACON. Radio check.” “TRACON, November Charlie Delta one one four five Zulu. I read you five-by-five,” I respond, before making my request. "Requesting heading one zero five to avoid weather for the next, er..." I pause to check recheck the radar overlay that's come up on my display. "... fifty knots.” A few moments later, after a short tone as another pilot blocks the controller by trying to broadcast at the same time, my heart sinks: “That’s a negative, four five Zulu." The signal cuts for a moment, overwhelmed momentarily with static before the controller is audible once again. "...available flight path. Maintain current heading, ascend 2000 feet, over.” "I need you to repeat that, TRACON. You were breaking up." "Denied as requested, four five Zulu. Any storm vectoring would impede the only other available flight path. Maintain current heading and ascend 2000, that is two zero zero zero feet." I have no choice; I read back my instructions, “Wilco. Maintain heading, ascend 2000 feet, four five Zulu.” I engage the autopilot, and not a second later I’m in the clouds. I have no visibility, the true definition of flying blind. The entire plane shudders, tossed around in the ever-shifting winds like a ragdoll. Suddenly, my plane is struck by lightning; it doesn’t bring me down, but I’m scared out of my mind. I take my hands and feet away from the controls, ensuring I don’t do anything stupid. I’m struck 3 more times, after the last of which the aircraft is engulfed in a blinding light. This isn’t right, not one bit at all. The plane jolts, and I pass out; my last words, “oh shit” not even able to escape my lips before I’m pulled into the warm, black embrace of unconsciousness… When I come to, my plane is falling- fast. Alarms wail urgently. A loud, incessant chirping noise is coming from my plane’s computer; an overspeed warning, my brain sluggishly recognizes. I can barely breathe from the sheer force of my dive, and I slowly realize that whatever air I am able to inhale is not supplying nearly enough oxygen. Suddenly, TCAS begins to complain: “Glide slope. PULL! UP!” I strap on my positive pressure mask, anxious to be able to breath normally. “TERRAIN. TERRAIN. PULL! UP!” I disengage the autopilot, pulling up and reducing thrust to forcefully reduce my speed. A siren blares for a few seconds while I perform this maneuver; the computer wants me to know for sure that I had taken control. The aircraft groans loudly in response to the sudden stress, protesting at the abuse that it is receiving. All alarms cease. I reprogram the autopilot, and re-engage it. Somehow, I still have no visibility. Suddenly, I break through the clouds, and I can see blue sky. I key up the mic, intent on reporting my experience to Approach; if I went through that, I can only imagine what other pilots of smaller planes are experiencing. “Portland TRACON, November Charlie Delta one one four five Zulu. I think you need to close that flight path.” Silence. “Portland Approach, November Charlie Delta one one four five Zulu. Can you read me?” Still nothing on the other end. I begin to panic. Checking each frequency one by one, and without regard for proper phraseology, I repeat the same statement over and over: “To any aircraft and controllers on this frequency, this is November Charlie Delta one one four five Zulu. Please respond if you can hear me. Unrecognized location, and possible damage to my aircraft. I need assistance immediately. Somebody, anybody, respond.” Nothing on the radio, anywhere. I’m now shaking out of fear. What if I’m dead, and this is what the afterlife looks like? I’m screwed; none of my instruments read any real change. I have a decision to make; land, and figure out what happened, or continue to fly. I have about 5 hours of flight remaining, in terms of fuel; after that, I have no choice but to land. If crashing can be considered equivalent to landing, that is. I can see the headlines now, and a fitting epitaph they would be: “Local Eagle Scout found dead among plane wreckage / NTSB report names airborne scout as pilot flying in fatal crash.” That’s it, I’m landing. I key up the mic on my radio: “Pan-pan, pan-pan. Any aircraft on this frequency, be advised. This is November Charlie Delta one one four five Zulu, declaring emergency. I’m landing in a field, just west of the small town approximately 8 nautical miles east of my position.” I’m aware that nobody can hear me; or, rather, that nobody will respond to me. At this point, announcing my intentions is but a formality of habit. It’s possible that my radio is malfunctioning… or worse. I reach over to my transponder unit, dialing in the number 7700- the universal code for an emergency. Any nearby pilots and controllers will receive my 'squawk' code, and will be able to respond appropriately. It takes me most of my descent to realize that there’s something… off… about the landscape below. It’s too vibrant to be central Oregon, and there are no settlements this small in such close range to Portland International, where I had taken off from. But I have committed to this landing, and I can figure out my next course of action after I’ve removed one variable from the situation. I switch on my strobes, and deploy flaps and landing gear. My radio altimeter sounds off to me: “Two thousand, five-hundred.” I begin another orbit, the last one in my descending loop before I commit to short final. “One thousand” the plane calls out helpfully. “Five hundred.” I line up for landing, a good half mile from the beginning of the clearing I intend to use. “Approaching minimums.” I disengage the autopilot, intent on hand flying this makeshift landing. I also arm the auto brakes and spoilers. “Minimums.” My charts are useless; this is clearly not a landscape that corresponds to an existing chart in my collection. “One hundred.” I clear the tree line. “Fifty. Forty. Thirty. Twenty.” I pull up slightly, flourishing the nose of my plane. “RETARD. RETARD. RETARD.” I simultaneously kill the thrust of my engines and set down the front landing gear. There’s a lever on the front of the engine controls; I lift it, and pull the throttle back behind idle; the spoilers deploy, and the brakes apply, even as a set of flaps open up on the engine cowls to apply reverse thrust. I use full reverse, just to ensure that I don’t impact with any of the buildings. My plane comes to a screeching halt, and I quickly power down; the cockpit is cold and dark once more. I grab my pilot’s bag, and the small survival kit that’s packed in the forward bulkhead. Time to figure out just where this storm has sent me… The terrain is very smooth, almost cartoon-like. I muse at how much care this place’s parks service must put into caring for the plant life, noting how lush and green the grass is. Back home, most people would kill to have grass this green. And the sky is a perfect azure hue, unmarked by the contrails of passing aircraft- except, of course, for where my plane had so rudely interrupted the flawless background. How rude of me, I find myself thinking, this must’ve been some sight before I made a mess of it. Truth be told, my abrupt landing had made a rather rude mess of the meadow I had landed in. Tire tracks could be seen for the whole three quarter mile it took for my 737 to come to a stop, and the thrust reversers had sent several small plants and rocks flying forward- a testament to the power of the machines that Boeing produces. I can smell the unadulterated scent of the forest, something I have not experienced since… I can’t remember the last time I experienced it. Has it really been that long since I went camping? My thoughts are interrupted when I run into the first sign of intelligent life aside from myself. I find myself eye to eye with a purple unicorn (that also has wings? Dammit, is this a unicorn or a pegasus?!), with a darker purple mane that has two streaks of different shades of purple running through it. Its tail matches its mane, and its deep, purple eyes speak a wisdom that no mere human can understand. I can see its mouth move, and I hear a female voice in the background, all auditory input drowned out by my study of its appearance. With a start, I realize it’s talking to me. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I ask her, realizing that this unicorn/pegasus is a mare. She's disheveled, almost as if she hasn't had a decent night's sleep in weeks, and there’s some kind of tattoo on her flank, a purple star overlaid on a white star, surrounded by 5 smaller white stars. This mare looks familiar. Suddenly, I realize that’s not a tattoo, but a cutie mark. Ergo, it’s almost as if- oh, no. This is NOT happening. “I said, hi. My name is Twilight Sparkle, and I was wondering if you would be able to explain the loud screeching noise that came from this direction about 15 minutes ago.” Yup, this is happening. “Wait… you said Twilight Sparkle? As in…” I fix Twilight with an incredulous look, unable to finish my sentence. The pieces begin to slot together, forming a narrative that I hesitate to believe to be possible. If this was Twilight Sparkle, then my original assumptions about this pony’s species was flawed; the term is alicorn. Further, as I begin to feel a pit in my stomach, I realize that the lush, unrealistically pristine and colorful landscape should’ve tipped me off to where I had landed sooner. But first, I needed to confirm my suspicions. “You don’t honestly expect me to believe that-” I swallow, the rest of the sentence caught in my throat. Finally, I manage to choke out the end of my question: “That this is Equestria, do you?” Twilight studies me for a moment, uneasily adjusting her folded wings, and I get the feeling that she’s gauging my reaction to what she will inevitably tell me is the truth. “Yes. This is Equestria. Does that surprise you?” I can’t even answer; I just collapse to the ground. “Holy shit…” is all I can manage, and then I’m once again greeted by the sweet, dark embrace of unconsciousness… When I awaken once again, I’m in a tree. I wish I could say I'm joking, but I'm distinctly reminded of a hollowed-out tree I spent a decent amount of my early childhood in. And I don’t mean “in a tree” as in I'm in a treehouse sitting in the branches, I mean “in a tree” as in literally IN A TREE. But how did I get here? I can feel a throbbing pain in the back of my head, making concentrating difficult. So, for lack of anything better to do, I return to studying my surroundings. The deciduous plant has been transformed into a library of sorts, and colorful volumes fill the shelves to the brim. Either I'm hallucinating, or... I look around, trying to make sense of my current location, and my pilot’s bag catches my eye. It has been sifted through, undoubtedly by the talking pony mare that calls herself Twilight Sparkle. I’m not surprised; a human like me can’t be a common sight in Equestria- assuming, of course, that I’m actually in Equestria, and not hallucinating as my precious 737 still hurtles towards certain doom. Speaking of my aircraft, because until I land in Portland once again, it IS my aircraft, I doubt this Twilight Sparkle character would find anything upon searching it; she wouldn't know how to open the plug door. Granted, this can’t actually be happening; Equestria is the setting of a children’s show… that I happen to enjoy on my free time. A guilty pleasure, if you will. It’s fake, the brainchild of some random writer who doesn’t even seem to get proper credit anymore. “Gah!” I release a shout of pain, as I pinch myself in a vain attempt to wake up. Nope, not dreaming. But still… this shouldn’t be possible. I hear the clip-clopping of hooves as Twilight enters the room, her assistant...- oh yeah, Spike!- following close behind. I turn around in the chair that I had so kindly been placed upon while unconscious, to get a better view. She’s ascending a staircase, which I presume leads to the front door; seeing as there is no obvious door anywhere in this room. With a start, I realize I must be in Twilight’s private study… “Oh, good. You’re awake,” Spike observes. He seems to be barely containing his excitement, almost as if I’m the most interesting thing he’s seen this week. “So, Twilight tells me you came here in some kind of flying machine! Wanna tell me about it? Where’d-” He tries to continue rambling off questions, but Twilight gives him a mouthful of her now-halfway-groomed tail. She's cleaned up a bit, but the tell-tale signs of sleep deprivation (or, now that I think of it, a state of insanity) are still present in the eyes of those who know what to look for. I look at her, uneasy at the realization that she’s probably figured out that I know I don’t belong here. But from her point of view, it would not be HER that’s physically impossible; it would be ME. She fixes me with an icy stare, one that seems to be analyzing my soul. “You caused quite the mess on the way in,” she remarked. Yup, she's mad... although, which definition of the word applies here is yet to be determined. A small voice in the back of my head reasons, if Twilight is actually in front of you, then it stands to reason that the rest of Ponyville would also be in play. “But first, your…” “Plane,” I offer. “Its called an airplane.” “Right…” Twilight makes an odd expression, as if she’s taking a mental note of the strange terminology I had just thrown her. Of course she’s taking a note, dimwit, the voice in my head chimes in, that’s what Twilight does. You should run before she hooks you up to a bunch of wires to run tests on you! Stupid voice, not helping in the slightest. “Your… plane… appears to have taken some serious-looking damage when you arrived here. Not nearly as much as that meadow you landed in, which I can assure you it was not fun talking down the townsfolk over that one, but in the meantime, you’re going to be stuck here. Not like you belong here in the first place…” Twilight spits, clearly unhappy about something. Noticing my visible flinch at the harshness of her tone, she seemingly changes character and adds softly, “Anyway, what’s your name?” “Steve,” I reply. “My name is Steve Axios. And honestly, I don’t see how ‘here’ is possible; in my world, Equestria is part of but a work of fiction.” I say the last part slowly, gauging Twilight’s reaction. For an a supposed-to-be fictional mare, she has a real (in both senses of the term) amazing poker face. “Well, Steve, there are quite a few ponies you’re going to have some explaining to do to. Quite frankly, everypony went crazy when your… plane just appeared out of nowhere.” Twilight is clearly unused to the new word that she now has to use, given the way she paused before saying it. "But is it really so difficult to make peop- I mean, ponies panic?" I counter. "All it really takes is the unknown to reveal itself... way I figure, I count as the unknown right about now." On my own stumble in vocabulary, Twilight loses all forms of seriousness. With a stifled giggle, she remarks, “Well, it seems I’m not the only one that has to learn a new way of speaking!” Suddenly, Spike starts gagging. We both look towards the purple and green baby dragon, as he burps some emerald flames and a scroll materializes- a letter from Princess Celestia, I imagine. Spike breaks the seal, and begins reading: “My most faithful student Twilight, it has come to my attention that a strange object arrived near ponyville with a creature that is not of this land inside of it. Please come see me at once, and bring the creature with you. Yours truly, Celestia. P.S.- if your friends want to come, I also have some news for them that I'd be more comfortable discussing face to face.” Suddenly queasy, I turn to Twilight. “Canterlot?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “Canterlot.” I’d always wanted to ride on a train. And something tells me that the experience would’ve been more enjoyable if it were a human train. As it was, the benches were designed with ponies in mind; not people. I had spent most of the ride conversing with Twilight’s friends. Applejack was, for lack of a better word, accepting of my story. In her words, “If Twilight trusts you, then I believe you’re telling the honest truth!” She had then proceeded to shake my hand with both of her front hooves, nearly dislocating my shoulder in the process. Rainbow Dash was incredulous towards the fact that humans had invented a self-powered machine that allowed them to fly. I guess she figured we were content to live our lives on the ground, unlike the earth ponies who had created ha-- no, hoof-operated contraptions for the purpose of defeating gravity. I like her; she speaks her mind. A little tactless at times, but straightforward. And, apparently, all over the stories I had of attending airshows when I was a little boy- especially the ones about watching the Blue Angels perform. I guess that anything comparable to the Wonderbolts is instantly 20% cooler in her mind. Rarity had been fascinated with my flight school uniform, asking all kinds of questions about why we had them (“OH, darling! Looking the same is so BORING; why not have a little individuality?”), who designed them (“This is just simply disgusting! I MUST teach them how to design PROPER fashion!”), and everything else. I’m pretty sure she knows more about this shirt and tie than I do, and I’ve been wearing it every day for the last 2 months… but I guess that's why I'm not a seamstress. Fluttershy was initially reluctant to speak to me. For that matter, she still is; I guess I'll just have to wait until she decides she's ready. She’s extremely kind, although a soft spoken mare of very few words. And I mean VERY few words; she says less than the ground controller does to any single pilot at the most busy of airports. Not much else to say until I've had a chance to get to know her better. And Pinkie Pie… words cannot describe my first encounter with her. While the others had stopped and stared at the human that had somehow made his way into Equestria, Pinkie had simply said “Hi Steve!” as she bounced on by and into the train car. I looked at Twilight, expecting an explanation of how she had known my name without being told it, but all I got was a shrug which was backed by the nods of the other 4 ponies that remained outside. Although, Pinkie HAD been the only one to think of bringing a snack to share; when I had started opening a protein bar to make up for the fact that I had not eaten since Breakfast, close to 5 hours ago, she had insisted I had one of her cupcakes instead. I tell you, she may be creepy AS FUCK on first impression, but she’s an AMAZING baker; there were no words to describe the heavenly taste of that cupcake. And I would give everything to be back on that train, because Celestia is being a right pain in my ass. From the moment I had gotten to a knee, dipped my head, and intoned “your highness,” she had been out for my head; most likely, preferably on a pike. Of course, I would be surprised if she WASN’T pissed; I HAD just landed an uninvited plane in her kingdom after all. But then again, I also hadn’t expected to be treated with the same hostility that she would likely show Queen Chrysalis of the Changelings. At the moment, she is ripping me a new one about the amount of effort that would have to go into repairing the damage I had done. Apparently, the plan is now to move my plane to the Wonderbolts HQ for safekeeping, as well as to attempt to send me back where I belong, since it is the only location in Equestria that has a paved runway. She’s been ranting for the last 10 minutes about the “magical process of maintaining such a serene landscape..." and something about my jet's exhaust, or... something. Quite frankly, she could be speaking to me in Latin right now, and she'd be making more sense in my mind. I've found myself lazily watching her flowing mane, trying to discern some kind of pattern. That is, of course, as soon as I had cataloged the gold shoes she wore on her hooves, and the elegant gold yoke on her chest for the anomalies that they were. Apparently she has figured out that I haven’t been paying attention, though, as she’s stopped talking and is staring bemusedly at my blank expression. “Something on your mind, Steve?” she asks coyly, apparently having deduced where my mind has gone. My cheeks flush red with embarrassment. “Yeah,” I stumble out a reply, trying to hide the break in my emotional wall. “The fact that there doesn’t seem to be any pattern to the flowing of your mane, the fact that you might as well be speaking horse Latin to me with all this stuff about magic, and the fact that you haven’t even taken the time to ask my side of the story, preferring to assume that I INTENTIONALLY found a way here, despite my arrival here being my first clue that Equestria is more than a fictional place in a Children’s TV show.” Celestia appears taken aback for a moment, then resumes a rather irritated composure. But at least she hears me out, so that’s something. I start at the beginning, when my passion for flying had originally been found; the Hillsboro Air Show, in the Summer of 2029. As I described the perfectly timed maneuvers of the Blue Angels, (much to Rainbow Dash’s delight), Luna had walked in and taken a seat to hear my story. I got to the dreams, and the Princess of the Night has her own question: “Do you ever get to see yourself in these dreams?” Her voice is smooth as silk, calming yet authoritative. I think I like her more than her sister, personally. “No, I don’t. I only feel the wind, the strain on my wings, and the sheer joy of flying. The scenery has always seemed a little too lush to be real, but at the same time it’s a dream. I don’t really know what I should've expected.” I explain. Luna doesn’t seem satisfied (is it possible she’s seen my dreams since before my little accident?), but she lets me continue. I describe the events leading up to the inadvertent portal hop, including my request to ATC that I be redirected around the storm, and the quadruple lightning strike that had been my observation of the portal’s opening. “I’m not sure that my aircraft can handle another journey like that, and either way I only have a limited supply of fuel; unless, of course, you have a spare tank of Jet-A lying around somewhere that is,” I glance at Celestia, who simply shakes her head. “Then we need to figure out a real plan, first. However, just so you understand, if my plane can’t make it home then I don’t go either. I don’t feel like trying to explain to the owners of that 737 that their 45-million-dollar investment is lost to another world that’s not accessible except by freak accident. That means we need to have a backup plan in case I’m stuck here,” I add the last part, just to reduce the rage that I’m sure Celestia will react with. But she’s perfectly calm, studying me through narrowed eyes. “We’ll see what we can do,” Celestia offers, “but no guarantees.” I nod in agreement; it’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing. And I get the feeling that I’ll be glide-landing an empty, dead airliner by the end of this… “And you expect me to just sit here and be okay with this?!” Okay, I admit. I could’ve been a LOT more tactful with how I explained the situation to Spitfire. The golden pegasus mare, with her fiery-colored mane and para-military dress blue uniform is glaring at me over the brim of her blue-tinted aviators, having taken a break from the pacing back and forth in front of me. I stare straight ahead, memories of my couple years in the Army coming to mind; Spitfire is comparable to a pissed-off Drill Sergeant. “No, ma’am!” I reply involuntarily, and rather loudly. I feel like a private all over again. “I just hoped that we could discuss this in a civil fashion, ma’am!” Spitfire stops cold, staring me in the eye (having taken a hovering flight in her office to do so at my eye level) as she crosses her forelegs over her chest. “Oh, so you figured that you could waltz into my office and talk about using MY landing strip in a fashion that shuts it down to MY team, and that I wouldn’t be pissed about it, huh? Tell me, why DOES my airstrip need to be closed off to the Wonderbolts whenever you’re taking off and landing?” She asks me, her muzzle mere inches from my face, daring me to make a move by sheer proximity alone. Yup, Spitfire as DS confirmed. “First off, ma’am, I didn’t just waltz in- I knocked. Second, I expected you to be pissed; it’s kinda the most reasonable reaction to being told that a higher level of the chain of command has commandeered your property for other use- even in my world’s military and paramilitary organizations.” The golden pegasus is turning a shade of red that I would normally back off from. It’s true; Celestia had sent a scroll bearing orders for Spitfire along with me. Spitfire was not impressed in the slightest. However, I press on. “As for why it needs to be closed off, ma’am, that’s a matter of safety. I don’t imagine you want any of Equestria’s best flyers getting sucked into one of my engines, now do you?” Spitfire stops cold; I’ve clearly struck a nerve. Honestly, if Rainbow Dash hadn’t been in the back of the room, I’m sure that Spitfire would’ve resorted to blows right then and there. When the officer finally comes to a point that she can speak coherent words, her voice is colder than dry ice. “No, I wouldn’t. But let me be clear; one mishap, and you WILL be thrown in the brig. Do I make myself clear?” She asks it in a tone that’s kind, but by the expression on her face I can tell that she wants nothing more than my sorry ass on a silver platter. She has nothing but contempt for the way that her hooves are tied, and the fact that my hands are similarly tied so that I cannot release her from her responsibilities in this bat-shit crazy plan. I’m not even comfortable with it, since the creation of the lightning for the portal requires 4 brave pegasi to put their lives in the path of my 737-4, and its all-consuming fans. At the moment, though, I’m reading every bit of material I brought with me on maintaining a 737-400, which is admittedly not much. Apple Bloom, Scootaloo, and Sweetie Belle have all volunteered themselves to help me with my attempts to repair the most important damage to my aircraft (“Cutie Mark Crusaders, Aircraft Mechanics! Yay!”), and though I didn’t have the heart to tell them that this was likely the only aircraft of its type they would ever encounter, nor that the art of repairing such a craft was something many humans spent years learning how to do properly, nor even that I wasn’t well-enough versed in the material to be sure that the plane would even fly after we were done fixing what we could, I still welcomed their help. These ponies, the young, the old, and all of them in between were willing to treat me as a friend; save for Spitfire, that is. She may not be what I consider a friend, but I still respect her. It takes a lot of time and effort to run a unit like the Wonderbolts; something that I doubt I could do if I had to spend a day in her hooves. My number 1 engine had taken a heavy load of debris; I could not start it until everything had been cleaned out and the intake blades checked for damage. And even then, that's not an ideal situation; ideally, it would be replaced with a new engine that's in pristine condition by a mechanic, who would know the structure of my aircraft forwards, backwards, and in high heels. In its current state, I have no clue if it will even be able to spin up again. My primary radio was fried by an electrical surge from the lightning, although my secondary still worked. A stroke of luck, thank Celestia- and that’s something else. These ponies act like their ruler is some kind of goddess, although with the whole “living over 1000 years” thing I kinda understand why. And the curses are rubbing off on me, possibly not for the better. After doing the math, and allotting for fuel usage in an engine test, Twilight and I come to figure that at the adjusted weight for consumed fuel, and for the difference in air density between Earth and Equestria (this had been brought to my attention when my altimeter had read me at 4000 feet below sea level, despite being on a cliff at roughly 8000 feet above sea level), I had all of 2 hours of flight left in my tanks. 2 hours, and then my 737 would be grounded forever… the prospect is actually rather daunting. Although I’m sure life in Equestria can’t be too bad, I already miss the aircraft noise from living on the flight deck. Twilight has offered to let me stay with her, at least until we can get some other arrangements figured out. I’m meeting with Mayor Mare tomorrow to make more suitable plans, as well as to apologize for the commotion that my arrival caused yesterday. Turns out that there was no wind, so when I had anticipated the best landing direction, it had been for naught; Ponyville got a dose of full-volume, unabated aircraft noise from my twin engines and thrust reversers. Oops. Having disassembled the first turbine (with some uncertainty as to any degree of success), and laid the parts out neatly as Twilight obsessive-compulsively mapped out every component's location, right down to the tiniest of screws, I decide it’s time to call it a day and inform the CMC of the news (“Aaaaawwwwwww, just a bit longer? PLEASE???”). They haven’t realized that this is going to be a several-day-long project, at minimum. I have a lot to do to clean up my mess... “Spitfire?” I hesitate, knowing that my last question could very well land me in a place I don’t wanna try and get out of. “If you have such a problem with this plan, why are you helping?” The pegasus officer hovers, thinking about the best response. “Because a certain pony, who you seem to have befriended, recently reminded me that it’s the duty of the Wonderbolts to help a pony in trouble. And even though you’re not a pony, and even though I don’t particularly care for your personality, you’re no exception to that rule.” And then, before I could so much as thank her, she flew off. And I was standing in the middle of an empty airstrip, with the sun setting behind me. For a mare who’s as abrasive as they come, Spitfire sure has some real wisdom behind that cold demeanor of hers… It’s been 5 days since I arrived here. 5 days of supervising hyper-enthusiastic young fillies in their fruitless efforts to conjure their cutie marks by working on my jet. 5 days of Twilight absorbing every square inch of the overly simplistic schematics, a gag gift from an old friend once upon a time, that I’d packed for no reason other than being prepared for literally ANYTHING (as if I could’ve imagined I would get stranded in Equestria; my money had been on a remote part of the Mojave Desert), and being the usual bookworm that she is. 5 days of incessant “Omigosh omigosh omigosh” from Rainbow Dash, every time we had returned via balloon to the Wonderbolts HQ to continue repairing my jet; she may be a part of that outfit, but I can't help but wonder if she's fully come to terms with that yet. And worst of all, 5 days since I’d slept on my own bed, and had a full-course meal with food from every food group. Don’t get me wrong; hay fries are edible. But they don’t replace other, more delicious foods in the long run. Back home, I can only wonder what my flight instructor is thinking. Or what the owners of the jet that was leased to the flight school I attended was thinking. By now, the NTSB would be searching for the pair of orange boxes that recorded everything that happens mid-flight. Of course, they would never find any trace of the plane, or its “black box” recorders. For all they knew, I could’ve disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle. On the plus side, I’ve finally managed to repair my radio; all it took was little creativity involving Spike’s fire breath and a pair of long metal rods, and I was able to solder a few bad connections together to jury rig the radio into working. As for my number one engine, however, no such luck. We’ve had to craft replacements for some of the parts from scratch, a solid 3-day delay from where I’d (admittedly unrealistically) hoped to be by now. Spitfire had not been happy to hear about the delay, but at least she’s starting to come around. I think she’s realized that the sooner this gets fixed, the sooner I’m out of their manes. At the moment, however, I’m dealing with a rather predictably unpredictable annoyance. It seems that Discord has taken a rather… unique attachment to the fact that a human had somehow made it into Equestria. In the form of constantly teleporting in front of me at the most inopportune moments, that is. POP! “You know, I find it quite fascinating that you haven’t figured out what’s wrong with your own plane yet,” the draconequus muses, “it’s almost as if you can’t recognize the answer is staring you straight in the nose!” Upon this declaration, the bastardly little abomination reaches out from the arm of my sunglasses, which he has wrapped himself around via simultaneous teleportation and resizing spells, and boops me right on the nose. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to stay here and irk the living apples out of Celestia…” I pinch the tiny Discord between 2 fingers, and remove him from my face. Staring into his jaundice-yellow eyes with those solid red pupils, I deadpan my reply. “Actually, I’d prefer not to irk the living anything out of ANYONE if I can help it.” Discord shrugs, and snaps his fingers as he disappears from my grasp. And good riddance, too; I can hear Twilight calling me over to let me know that the engine is reassembled and ready to test. Unicorn telekinesis, apparently, is more handy than any specialty tool set I could ask for. The ponies back away as I start up the APU, and send bleed air to engine number 2. Motion occurs, and as N2 hits 30% rotation speed I open the fuel valve to spin up the rest of the machinery inside that cowl. The already high-pitched whine of the APU and bleed-air driven engine grows louder and higher pitched as the N1 turbine blade spins up, and the engine begins to self sustain. Ignition in number 2. Adjusting the bleed valves, I begin to send air between the engines. Motion. Ignition. And now, I get to do something that I would lose my license for back on Earth: I toe up on the rudder pedals to set the brakes, and run up the engines to full power; the sound is deafening, and I can’t maintain this activity forever, so I quickly idle the engines and power down. “Spitfire!” The golden pegasus looks my direction, confirming the source of the unmitigated aircraft noise. “Alert anyone who’s helping; the attempt to get me out of your manes is a go!” Spitfire allows herself a small (if not smug) smile, then salutes and takes off with gusto. I’m glad something’s finally moving the right way. Tomorrow, we’ll have one shot at duplicating the conditions that sent me here. One shot to open a freak portal, that we don’t even understand how it happened or how to replicate it. This is an insane plan, but I trust it. I’ve come to trust these ponies with my life, if necessary, and it just so happens that Princess Celestia has every intention of making sure that this plan works perfectly...