//------------------------------// // 02: Release // Story: The Slow Mutants // by Doctor Fluffy //------------------------------// The Slow Mutants 02 Shouts out to: Jed R (I don’t know what he might’ve done here, but he deserves my thanks anyway. I mean this is Jed we’re talking about. He’s just great in general) Cr0w T R0bot (For helping me edit this, and for years of being a fan!) April 9, 2022 I used to know so many swearwords, but when I try to think of any of them my mind goes blank. PER! Every alarm in my mind is blaring, every instinct I’ve developed tells me I need to leave. Because I am not their average glassy-eyed smiling newfoal. I am, unfortunately, the Last Slow Newfoal. The noseless man looks out the window at nothing in particular. “Didn’t even know we had an agent out here,” the noseless man said, and holds out a hand to me. “I’m Patrick Fairbairn. Heard of me, have you?” I somehow manage to keep myself from shivering. Yes. I have heard of him. Wanted for hundreds of ponifications, and Shieldwall’s best friend. And a key player of the Sagwon Disaster, where PER and Solar Empire forces made an incursion into rural Alaska, only being stopped by a ragtag group of PHL. Word was, he and Shieldwall had ponified an entire town, nearly gotten another one and come close to stonewalling the pipeline of fuel from the north in Alaska. “It’s almost suspicious,” says an indigo unicorn with a green mane. He has musical notes for a cutie mark. “You could almost say-” “No, that wouldn’t make sense,” says a woman sitting cross-legged in a nearby seat. “Look at her flank. Her marks are smudged, that’s…” And before I know it, she reaches for my flank. I recoil in the split second that her fingers are on my flank, but the damage has been done. “She’s a newfoal,” the woman breathes, looking at her fingers. “A deep-cover newfoal?!” Fairbairn gasps. “WHAT?!” gasps the woman in the front seat. “Aw, hay yeah!” adds a yellow-orange earth pony mare. “This is the kind of thing I love to see.” “This is next-level of the next-level,” says a lanky teenager or twentysomething with a southern accent.  He’s scrawny, looks like he hasn’t eaten in awhile. “Pat, did Shieldwall make this one, or-” “No, Freddy,” Fairbairn says. “I’d remember that. So, maybe someone else. Perhaps.” Deep-cover newfoal? I guess that’s the closest to what I am. But it’s the only thing that makes sense to them, which means I live a little while longer. The only thing left to do is sit, bide my time, and wait for them to heal up my leg. Then, then I can get out of there. “So,” Fairbairn asks, almost conversationally. “What’s your name?” I try not to look too closely at his face, which looks like it’s been taken apart by wild dogs and put back together. Except - and this is a bit odd - some of the bite marks I can see look like they’re human teeth. What happened to this guy? For a second, I almost say I’m the Last Slow Newfoal. But then I just go back to the name of my cover identity: “Dew Glow.” “Well, Dew Glow,” says the unicorn, “Glad we found you when we did. The town would’ve lynched you otherwise.” “No need to remind me,” I say, all of a sudden, and I freeze. Newfoals don’t say stuff like that. Newfoals aren’t that assertive. Unless they’re Slow Newfoals like me, and oh God, oh GOD oh no oh- “I like her,” the unicorn says, a big smile on his face. “I’m Arpeggio. The lanky human’s Freddy, the woman in the driver seat is Aviva, and the woman who just touched you inappropriately is Jessica.” “Sup,” says Jessica, flashing me a gesture that’s not quite a fist, one that’s likely meant to resemble a hoof. “Nice to meet you,” I say, weakly, raising one hoof to her hand. “And finally,” Arpeggio says, pointing to a yellowy earth mare. “Honey Dusk.” “Charmed,” Honey Dusk says, a smile on her face. And something about that made my skin crawl under my fur. “What was your assignment?” Fairbairn asks. I freeze. My mind races for a plausible excuse. But the thought occurs they’ll probably accept anything at this point, so I say: “Classified.” Fairbairn whistles appreciatively. 2017 In the beginning, there was the Slow Potion. The way everyone talks about it, everybody knew that new foals were monsters from the beginning. You’d think everyone was a PHL or HLF supporter from the moment of the CERN incident. You’d think that every newfoal came out as such a barely functional zombie that only the most braindead imbeciles wouldn’t notice anything. You’d think that they swan-dived straight into the uncanny valley screaming “HENLO HU-MAN FRIEND! I AM A PER-FECTLY NOR-MALL PO-NY NOW, YOU SHOULD BE-COME A PERFECTLY NORMAL PO-NY AS WELL!” Like heck it was. To take it, they had to wheel me to the Conversion Bureau, I was so weak.  I sat in my wheelchair in front of the doors, apprehensive. Mabel was right next to me, confusion on her heart-shaped face. “You’re sure this is…” She let her voice trail off as the orderlies brought me to the door of the Bureau. “Well, what else can we do?” Stan asked, his broad, flat face etched with concern. “It’s either that or Hope dies.” Never one to mince words, Stan was. “It’s just,” said Jackie, running a finger through their unkempt mane of black hair, “You heard about Jazmin Carter, right? The comic artist?” Of course I have. Jazmin Carter is the rallying flag of the HTF and every anti-ponification activist there is, on the lips of everyone who has questions about this strange and alien process. She’d been a transgender woman who took the potion and came out as male, apparently completely comfortable in her new body. Saying she was who she was meant to be, and how happy she was. The doctors had tried to pass it off as “the potion repairs the body, any physical changes! We didn’t mean to-” And at that point Carter’s family had become belligerent, to the point the police had been forced to escort them out. They’re still making trouble because of it. Still campaigning against the Potion. “Nothing like that will happen to Hope,” said Sunny. “She’ll be fine, I’m certain of it. Just… think of it like cosplay.” We all stared at Sunny. Mabel looked like she wasn’t sure whether or not she should be offended, Jackie just looked confused, and Stan looked almost contemplative. “Well, back when Hope cosplayed, she always went as animals,” Sunny said. “Like Kyubey. Heh, remember Kyubey?” I remember that. I remember being in a group cosplay for Puella Magi Madoka Magica. Sunny had planned for me to cosplay Madoka, only for me to reveal that I’d made a Kyubey costume. Jackie had instead cosplayed Madoka. He’d looked… surprisingly good. Almost unsettlingly good. It was almost a struggle to get him to stop wearing it. It was just before I’d been diagnosed, too. So I was left with this conflicting memory of both happiness and despair. “So it’s like an animal cosplay, always,” Sunny said. “Except I don’t have hands,” I muttered. Maybe not the best thing to say, but I was depressed, I was sick, and I had to say something. “Some of them can use keyboards, or doorknobs, or hold things to their hooves like they’re glued there,” Jackie said. “I’ve seen it.” “With luck, I’ll learn,” I said, as they wheeled me in there. 2022 “Anything you can tell me about your mission?” Arpeggio asks. “Afraid not,” I say. “Classified.” On the one hand, I’m kind of happy I’m not dead. On the other hand, this can’t be good. I’m already aware that as what is probably the only sentient newfoal, as a newfoal in general, I’m already persona non grata. Or equus non grata. Whatever. I try to take the long view of survival. But the thing is, this was the only view. The van rumbles along the old road. I stare out the windshield. We crest a hill and then I see it. There’s a roadblock ahead. Far as I can see, a line of vehicles - HLF technicals with mounted weaponry, the PHL APC, and a line of peeved-off (What’s the word I would’ve used normally?) farmers, businessmen, shopowners, children even, all armed with rilfes and shotguns. Oh no. “They’re gonna kill us!” Jessica yells, panicky. “Got any weapons on this thing?” I ask. “Nothing that can take that,” Fairbairn says. I bite my tongue. I mean, I actually physically bite it - I know what it’s going to sound like if I  say exactly what I’m thinking. ‘What do you mean, nothing that can take this?! We’re all going to die! There’s a bunch of pissed-off farmers with guns, maybe some homebrewed explosives! “Thankfully,” Fairbairn said, clicking a button on a walkie-talkie he’d taped above the dashboard, “We don’t have to. Hacksaw One, get ready to make it rain.” Make it rain. I cringe. I’ve heard PER say that phrase before, and there’s only one thing it can mean. A loud, drowning hum rang out above us, and I saw it. A blinking red light - an airplane! I squinted and looked up towards it. Maybe I have a spell that let’s me see that far, maybe my vision is just that good, but either way, I know I can see it. A yellow, three-motored plane rumbles and rattles through the air, and I can see two pegasi flying along behind it. There’s a buzzing noise, and I see that the plane appears to be blazing away with a minigun. The blockade scatters. They dive for cover - behind cars, rocks, anything they can find. And when the gun stops, the pegasi dive down towards them. I bite back a gasp. They’re not going to - but they are. There’s only one thing they’re about to do. Some of the blockade aims up at the plane - they’ve got weaponry that really, really should not be legal. I can hear a heavy machinegun, and I think I see a rocket launcher. But the plane doesn’t budge. The rocket harmlessly explodes about eleven feet from the plane, and sparks glitter all round the plane. The ponies are similarly unharmed. ‘Oh, no.’ The ponies pull tabs on their flightsuits, and trails of purple spray out from their saddlebags. They’re a few feet above the blockade. One pegasus takes a bullet through the wing. They scream down to earth in a purple death spiral, flapping their useless wing, and then ram into the hood of an HLF technical armed with a machinegun that looks like a smaller M2 Browning with an old rifle stock jammed onto the end. Red and purple ooze out from under them, down on the pavement. The damage is done, though. I see some humans screaming, diving into cars, throwing on gas masks, or running as fast as they can. I can see the people in the blockade screaming. I can see a unicorn throwing up a barrier and a wind spell, trying to blow the purple gas away. It’s not enough. There’s some people ponifying before my eyes. Some of them shoot themselves. But not all of them. Not enough. With that, the blockade becomes a battlefield. Newfoals throw themselves against the unicorn’s shield. One newfoal, a look of mad glee on its face, jumps up to the machinegun in the back of a truck and opens fire on the humans fleeing from the deadly gas. There’s humans and PHL, pulling out pistols and melee weapons against their enemies, back to back with newfoals - until they realize and turn on each other. Fairbairn smiles approvingly. “What a senseless waste,” Arpeggio sighs, as we watch the pandemonium ahead. I feel a phantom pain in me, from nerve endings I don’t have anymore. I bite back the pain, though it’s so intense I can almost feel my eyes watering. 2017 I thought I blocked out how it felt to be ponified? But sometimes, I see it in my sleep. I wake up, fur drenched in sweat and tears, screaming. What all the other Slow Mutants (like they called us) said was that they trotted out on unsteady hooves, not certain how to respond. But in the nightmares, I remembered: Unimaginable pain. Like knives digging into every part of my body. Pain like the moment I broke my collarbone, except in every part of my body. I feel like clay that’s been flattened, pushed into a ball, and flattened again. The burning sensation of skin splitting. Dull, throbbing pain under the skin. A sensation of being stabbed - but in the skull - when the horn sprouted from my head. Hearing my body cracking, my bones unfusing and fusing back together. The fact that I got nightmares (which no newfoal did) probably should have been a warning. But at the time, I didn’t care. I was cancer-free, I had superpowers, I didn’t have to adjust to the loss of my hands, and people would stop on the street to pet me like a dog, run their hands through their mane. A natural-born - a big stallion by the name of Aegis, almost the size of a small Earth horse - said it was a bit offensive. I didn’t mind. 2022 And then thankfully, a phone rings. “...I gotta take this,” Fairbairn says, as we speed towards the blockade. “Honey Dusk, take the wheel.” He holds up the phone to his ear. “Hey.” Honey Dusk pushes her way up to the driver’s seat, and Fairbairn sits next to me. Strangely, the car doesn’t slow down or lose control. And I’m left looking over at a yellow-orange earth pony mare in the seat, her hind legs not even reaching the pedals, her forelegs just sort of… sticking to the steering wheel. “Yeah, I know it’s for you,” Fairbairn says, completely unperturbed as bullets pock against the van. “We’ve… we’ve done that punchline before.” As Fairbairn listens intently, I look over to Honey Dusk. There’s an unsettling grin on her face, reflected in the mirror. It’s the kind of vacant glee you see on a newfoal as it’s beating someone to a pulp or watching someone scream as they’re potioned. The kind where you can’t quite tell if that’s their default state or they’re enjoying the pain. She turns the van towards a young man that doesn’t look to be more than a child. The tires leave the pavement, and my head bonks against the wall of the van. The young man doesn’t splatter against the grill of the van. He falls under, and the van shakes for a little bit. Christ. Hey, I used a human swear! Good on m- And then, Honey Dusk does it again. She swerves to the other lane and punches through a woman in gray-brown fatigues. And she laughs. Her grin is so wide that I’m seriously concerned her face might split in two. Well. Now I know the answer to that question. No, she is definitely enjoying this. “No, we didn’t potion all of it,” Fairbairn said. “What? No, we weren’t discovered. That…” A pause. “Okay, okay, it didn’t go as well as we could’ve hoped, but there were complications.” Another pause. “Such a waste,” Arpeggio sighs. He looks out the rear window of the van, and just seems so forlorn. I blank. Of all the things I expect to hear from PER, be it misanthropy, resignation, barely-concealed loathing, or sexual frustration, whatever I just heard in Arpeggio’s voice is not it. In fact, the emotion I hear in his voice is so uncharacteristic of PER that I can barely believe I heard it. “We’ll still help them out, yeah, and cleanup crews are on standby. You’re sure this project thing will work?” Fairbairn asks, unconcerned with us. “What do you mean, Arpeggio?” I ask, despite myself. “Ohohohoho,” Honey Dusk says. It’s not quite a laugh. “You are in for it! Mouthing off like that to a newfoal!” “I didn’t mouth off,” Arpeggio says, tightly controlled anger in his voice. “Freddy, Aviva, come on. Back me up here.” Freddy just shrugs. “If you want to say it,” Aviva says, “Then just get it off your barrel.” “Or don’t,” Honey Dusk adds, “You can keep your stupid opinion to yourself. At least-” She swerves towards another human with a Kalashnikov, and splatters him against the hood. She’s still smiling. “At least we’re making them happy, really happy for once in their lives,” Honey Dusk said. “Giving them pure bliss.” I watch Freddy nodding, a smile on his face. “God willing, it’ll happen to me and Jessica one day.” “I’m curious,” Arpeggio says, “Why haven’t you taken it?” “We believe we’d do better if we blended in, stayed human until the time that Shieldwall brews our custom potions,” Jessica says. “Freddy and I… we talked about it a lot.” “Wait till Equestria sets up portals behind the Barrier, then do it,” Arpeggio says. “You’re going to make them put it off for two years?” Aviva asks, concerned. “I have to admit,” Honey Dusk says, “That sounds… hard to swallow. I mean, think of how happy you’d all be- “For all of an hour until some HLF killer or PHL pig shoots the both of them dead,” Arpeggio says. “That’s just alarmist,” Honey Dusk says, dismissively. “I’m sure they’d-” “Honey Dusk,” Arpeggio says, “The average newfoal’s life expectancy can be measured in hours, maybe even minutes. I am not putting my friends through that.” “That’s PHL propaganda,” Honey Dusk says. “Well in that case,” Arpeggio says, and I can just hear how livid he is, “I’m curious to meet all these newfoals you know that survived so long!” “Arp,” Aviva says, trying to be conciliatory, “We’ve worked with newfoals before that’ve lasted longer than an hour.” “What, did they last a month?” Arpeggio asks. “They must be super long-lived! Because most newfoals I’ve made get used as cannon fodder, maybe wander around a few months… and then….” He draws a foreleg across his throat. “We ponify people,” Arpeggio sighs, “And they barely get a minute to enjoy it before they’re gunned down.” I go rigid. This isn’t out of shock or outrage - this is so I can keep myself from flying off the handle. And I feel that way because he’s absolutely right. I am, as far as I know, the only newfoal on Earth that’s lasted all these years. We don’t exactly last long. The average newfoal I’ve seen ponified - the few I’ve even ponified - usually lasts all of twenty minutes before they die a pointless, avoidable death. It’s not biological. It’s just a consequence of who we are. We’re not some bold experiment in transspeciesism, we’re not a hopeful boundary-breaking race. We’re just bits of people that’ve been beaten into tools. Like someone making a knife out of bone. But the sad thing is, I do remember a time when this could’ve been something good. Birmingham 2017 The Cavalry Club - the ‘Cav,’ as we called it - happened in Birmingham because it had to happen somewhere, I guess. Jackie had just come off stage, in a costume that evoked a horse - a unitard, a horse head worn like a hat over his head, and strands of yarn that mimicked a mane and tail. He’d been performing alongside a brown unicorn mare by the name of Reclaimed Beauty, who’d somehow mapped their movements to a projector, leaving swirls of light on the screen behind the two of them as they danced across the stage. It ended with them placing hand to hoof in a show of solidarity. I always remember that night. “I think you killed it out there, Jackie,” I said, raising up a hoof. He gently bumped it with one fist. “I hope so,” Jackie said, a smile on his face. Jackie  had just come back from the Cav’s stage, dancing while wearing a horse costume, on account of that just being the kind of person they were.  Jackie was the kind of person whose sexuality and gender identity weren’t so much “male” or “straight” as “Yes.” He just went with male pronouns on the basis it was easier for him. “Everything good?” he asked, looking me over. “It’s been fine,” I sighed. “The same way I’ve been fine for the last few months. I’m still the same old Hope inside.” “I’m not sure that’s true,” Jackie said. “Hope… I don’t know if I’ll ever go pony.” And it’s at this point I have to wonder how much of it was me talking to him. But that's beside the point. “Why not?” I asked. “I’m so much happier this way! I have magic, I have-” “How long did it take you to learn how to use your body?” Jackie interrupted. “Well, they had me do some exercises for an hour, but-” “Look,” Jackie said, “The potion obviously does something to your mind. Remember when my uncle Norman was in that ski accident?” I nod. Of course I remember. “And do you remember,” Jackie added, with a concerned look on his face, “How often I’d go over to his house to help his physical therapist out, do some nice things for him?” “Yeah,” I said, “You were doing that for…” “Eight months,” Jackie said, scribbling in a little black notebook. We didn’t speak for a moment as we watched the people and ponies of the Cavalry Club - the newfoals and natural-borns clambering onto high barstools that put them near eye-level with some of the humans. I guess that is weird, I thought. He’d been wanting to go pony for some time, but he wanted to hear my opinion first. I don’t know what kept him from doing it. Mabel, on the other hand, looked out of place like a sore thumb, wearing a solid gray shirt and jeans. “Eight months it took him to completely relearn how to use a body he’d been born in,” Jackie said. “Meanwhile, you get turned into a completely different species and learn how to use it in an hour.” “What does that mean?” I asked. “I don’t know,” Jackie said. “I mean, considering that… and what it did to Jazmin Carter… we know it does something to the mind to force them to adjust. And it’s done something to you. I mean, what about all those murderers that were potioned? Especially that mass murderer from Norway, remember him? The trial and all...” I thought back to that.  In lieu of severe imprisonment sentences, the Solar Empire had offered to ponify a notorious far-right terrorist from Norway. To provide proof that the potion could heal even mental disorders of the worst kind. He drank the potion, he screamed - of course - and then, in his place, there was a happy, smiling little Newfoal. All indications were that he regretted what he did, that he was happy, and he was psychologically healthy enough to be sent to Equestria to a rehabilitation center to integrate him into pony life. Of course, I'm not entirely certain that was a rehabilitation center - the speed with which the Solar Empire took to terrorist attacks and bombings was quick enough for me to wonder if they didn't take inspiration from certain human... experts. “Sure, it seems like it fixed them, but… what if… what if...” “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Is it?” Jackie said. “Because I kept a log of your behavior here.” He held a notebook out, and I read through a page. “You wrote down everything?!” I said, aghast. “Jackie, this is…” “Brilliant?” Jackie asked. “I was going to say astoundingly paranoid and a serious violation of trust,” I said, and I yanked the little notepad out of his hands, flipping through the pages. “And some of it’s not even noticeable sh… stuff! ‘Decided not to use the Akvasto, almost exclusively used Pandero in Warframe?’ ‘Can’t enjoy those Will Ferrell movies we used to love?!’ ‘Doesn’t remember quotes from terrible horror movies anymore?!’ ‘Doesn’t swear anymore?’ Jackie, this is nothing, people change their minds all the ti-” “My notebook,” Jackie interrupted, “One or two changes I can buy. But Hope, you’re on page eighteen.” My blood ran cold. “Eighteen pages,” Jackie said, “Worth of little changes. Nobody overhauls all these small behaviors so completely and at such a scale.” “But it fixed me,” I say. “No cancer! I get to live a healthy life, I get magic, I’m happy!” Jackie looked guilty. “Jackie,” Mabel sighed, “Maybe… maybe you shouldn’t bring it up. Are you really going to…” “Look,” Jackie said. “One more thing. And I’ll stop. I won’t bring it up again.” “You mean, you won’t bring it up until you decide it’s important enough to violate our privacy,” Mabel said. And I found myself nodding. Jackie looked uncomfortable, then sighed. “Sure. That. I mean, I’ll do my best not to bring it up. To not talk over you. I just want to get this off my chest, then…” “You sure you’re not just using ‘straight talk’ to talk over us?” I asked. “Positive,” Jackie said. “You know what I think? I think. It’s. Doing. Something. To your. Mind.” “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “Hope,” Jackie says. “We just talked about how Uncle Norman needed months of physical therapy to even remember how to use his body. And that’s when the connections - the instincts -in his brain that tell him how to use it were already there.” “I’m not sure that’s how it works,” Mabel says. “You’re probably right, but I don’t think I’m that far off,” Jack says. “It gave you new muscle memory for a body you weren’t born in. If the potion didn’t do anything at all to your mind, you’d probably be experiencing a laundry list of psychological, ah… problems due to being a different body, and you’d also be tripping over yourself all th etime. And all these changes I saw in you, and… and what it did to Jazmin Carter. Logically, this doesn’t make that much sense, and what if...” “What if what?” I asked. Jackie looked down. “That… that really would be using straight talk as an excuse.” “And what?” Mabel ask. “Go on, say it. Say whatever the hell-” And it’s at this point that I remember flinching at the swearing. Of course, I’d later find out what he would’ve said: ‘What else is it doing to you? What if it’s overwriting you? What it did to those criminals… It made their personalities do a complete 180. We just didn’t care cause they were psychopaths.’ But, well, I didn’t think about that. Maybe the potion worming its way through my brain didn’t want me to - assuming the Potion can do that. It wouldn’t surprise me. Jackie and I are watching her. “She’s beautiful,” I said, as we watch her glide across the stage, on four hooves, then three, then two, then one, then back to two. She pirouetted and swayed from hoof to hoof, and I fell in love instantly. “Who is she?” I ask. “Her name,” Jack says, “Is Demi-plie.” I look a little downcast. “Well? Talk to her!” Mabel says. “But…” I start. “What if it goes wrong?” “Hope,” Jack says, “If you tried and failed, at least you tried.” 2022 There’s really not much to say about the rest of the drive. Cause we keep going. And going. And going. Before I know it, the scrubby high desert and farmland is gone, and we’re surrounded by craggy peaks, rocks everywhere, and thick forests. I don’t want to ask questions. I don’t want to play my hoof. So I’m left wondering where, exactly, they’re taking me. The van is off the road, now. It’s bumping and juddering over a gravel path, and the trees feel like they’re on the verge of scraping it apart. ‘Where are we?’ We’re going deeper and deeper into the forest, now. And I have no idea where I am. It looks like we could be in the middle of a national park, but it’s hard to say for sure. “Inverted Want-It-Need-It spell,” Arpeggio says. “Makes this van harder to notice - and, considering how thick the tree cover is, they couldn’t even if they wanted to.” I nod, as if I understand what a ‘Want-it-Need-it” spell is. As if I understand what these PER are thinking. And I don’t. I have absolutely no idea how I can possibly get out of this. It’s almost merciful what happens next: ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!’ The radio screams. Not a burst of static. Actual screaming. My horn throbs with pain, and I feel like someone’s taking a hammer to it (which has happened) or like they’re jamming a railroad spike into my head. “Je…” Jessica starts. “Celestia, what-” The noise starts back up. It’s nigh-impossible for me to describe - it’s like for a moment, the words cascaded over each other. An incomprehensible torrent of random syllables. I think for a second, I can almost hear words. Then I backtrack - no, of course I can’t. Or can I? Jag kan inte sova “What was that?!” Freddy asks, forcing himself against a wall. Meanwhile, Arpeggio is cringing. Aviva looks… mostly unperturbed, actually. Fairbairn and Honey Dusk are about the only ones who seem to know what just happened. “I’ve never heard anything like that!” I gasp. And immediately regret it. It’s a reaction any sane person would have, except I’m a newfoal so I’m not entirely certain that I can reasonably be expected to do that. “This one is great!” Honey Dusk cheers. “Oh, I gotta kiss whoever potioned you, you are just a gem.” I laugh and hope that it doesn’t sound too nervous. “Me, Honey Dusk, and Shieldwall heard it in Alaska,” Fairbairn says. “We didn’t know what it was at the time, but we’ve heard it several more times.” “Yeah, it picked up right after we lost that totem-prole,” Honey Dusk says. They’re talking about the Alaska Incident! A lot of the details of the Alaska Incident are, at the moment, classified. All I know is: A group of PHL were sent to investigate something far north in Alaska. There’d been something the PER were looking for, some kind of…. Escapee? A fugitive? A borderline-godlike being of some sort. And whatever happened, they’d ponified an entire town to get it. I’ve heard a lot of weird stories from around that time, too. Sudden, violent snowstorms that bring all traffic to a halt. People having strange dreams. “Pat,” Honey Dusk says, “Is Shieldwall any closer to finding what it means?” “I wouldn’t say so, but if it’s any consolation then neither are the PHL,” Fairbairn says. “Course, it doesn’t seem that important to him.” “But… this is an unexplained phenomenon,” Honey Dusk says. “If anyone’s brilliant enough to research it, it’s probably him.” “Well, that’s just how Shieldwall is,” Fairbairn says. “Him and his projects. I’ll have to ask him about it.” The van draws to a stop, and I’m left to think about that. ‘Him and his projects.’ I don’t know where I fit into that as the Last Slow Newfoal, but it’s not like I can ask. I look around the place the van has come to rest. It looks like, once upon a time, it was an old logging camp. There’s some ruined wooden houses, and a set of rusting rails leading into a mine. And I know I’m being watched. I can see people hiding behind trees, inside the skeletons of ruined houses. I can hear somebody chambering a round in a bolt-action rifle. Fairbairn steps out, and we all draw in a breath. My eyes are wide open as I stare out the windows, waiting for something, anything to happen. PER are, despite what you’d think from their treatment in the wartime propaganda, surprisingly hardcore. If they think any human could compromise their operation, they’ll ponify them. If there’s a pony… Well. I don’t want to think about that. Fairbairn gives some kind of hand signal, and - I cannot say how I know this - the rifle is lowered. “Clear,” he says into the car, and we walk into a rundown building, with weatherbeaten wood that looks almost blackened. My guess is it was a cafeteria of some kind. Or whatever the equivalent for miners is. A mess hall? When we cross the threshold, I see a man - tall, rangey, wearing a military crew cut - standing by the window. He’s got a thin metallic green rifle that looks… well, “stretched” is the first word that comes to mind. It looks so light that I almost think a strong enough man could crush it like paper. My best guess is that it’s a tranquilizer rifle. And the ammo smells like Potion. Meaning this is a man with a ponifying sniper rifle. He’s wearing an outfit that looks… almost military. Like a costume imitating an outfit that was already costume. My best guess is, it’s store-bought forest-green kevlar and camo. He’s got sunglasses and a helmet… But there’s no rank insignias. Nothing to say he’s part of any military. The whole thing should make him look silly, but somehow, it doesn’t. “Will,” Honey Dusk says, and sighs, relieved. “It’s good to see you.” “Good to see you too, Honey,” ‘Will’ says. He sounds American. Somewhere from the deep south, maybe? “Don’t see why I couldn’t have gone out there with all y’alls.” “We need to keep someone with a good grasp of tactics,” Fairbairn says. “Aww heck, Will. You know you’re irreplaceable,” Honey Dusk says. “Without you… well, I don’t know what we’d do. Besides, you still can’t put too much stress on your leg. Not since Yellowknife ...” “Don’t see why I couldn’t just go pony and be done with it,” Will says. “Cause we still need you as you,” Honey Dusk says. “The sniper. Simple as.” “Until my Cocktail’s done?” Will asks. I’ve heard of that. As best I can tell, Shieldwall’s PER get specialized Potion they use to make themselves into anomalous newfoals. That’s a Cocktail - a Potion made from super-specialized ingredients, tailor-made for one specific person. “Yeah,” Honey Dusk says. “Until then.” It’s then that a trapdoor swings open in the floor, just under a rug. A woman with frizzy hair pokes out her head. “Get in!” she hisses. “You don’t know who could be listening!” “Joan,” says Will, “Camp Rockhoof is the safest place Shieldwall has found yet. I think we’ll be sa-” “That’s what we said about Camp Mistmane,” Arpeggio adds. “Joan has a point.” So we head down the trapdoor. Down a set of… of stairs? I suppose it makes sense. Despite the fact that Hoof TK is a thing that exists, ponies don’t do too well with ladders. When the stairs end, we find ourselves in a room paneled with wood, sheets of metal, cardboard - anything that’ll probably keep out a flood of dirt. It’s got a surprisingly high ceiling, and the lamps hanging overhead (Some are bioluminescent algae, some just glowing crystals) wash a surprising amount of the room in blue light. I see that Joan, the woman who welcomed us in, is quite visibly pregnant. Which is... jarring, to say the least. Pregnancy… and a cult of people dedicated to pretty much zombifying the remnants of humanity. It just doesn’t make sense when I think about it. The PER here have made quite the little base. Even with the blue light, I almost forget that we’re underground. A pegasus in various shades of green rushes up to Jessica (I’d almost forgotten she was there) with tears in her eyes. “I’m so glad you’re back!” “Oh, Nimbus,” Jessica says, “As long as I know you’re here… I’ll always come back to you.” There’s more people filtering into this room, from various doors and alcoves. And I’m left wondering The people all around me look like the dregs of the dregs. “How’d it go?” another pony asks. “It went perfectly,” Fairbairn says. “The Potion-seeding has begun - with the special battle variant that Arpeggio requested.” “Doesn’t make me feel right, turning them into those walking weapons when we were promised peace,” said Joan. Arpeggio gives her a Look. Like he’s annoyed but trying (and failing) not to be.”Then what?” he sighs. “Sure. Leaving them as… us… is what they all want. What I’d like. But when I tried that back during the Purple Winter, they died in droves. They need some amount of survivability.” “It’s true, Brother,” someone says, stepping into the room. “While they won’t truly be able to enjoy the pony form, quite likely, they need to be able to survive.” “What about living?” Arpeggio asks. “In Equestria?” Honey Dusk gasps. “Arp, that’s your superior officer!” “It’s quite alright,” the voice says, and I see them. Finally. It’s a youngish piebald earth pony with a white coat that’s almost but not quite bluish, with a wholly incongruous blue mane and tail. And I bite back a gasp. It’s Shieldwall. Probably one of the most infamous PER out there. As best I can tell, he’s something like Equestria’s equivalent of a member of Delta Force. His “projects” are infamous among…. Well, everyone. In the early days of the war, he made a name for himself (And racked up quite the bounty, too) making potion-bombs of all kinds in Europe and Africa. If there was anything people would gravitate towards as they fled the Barrier - shelter, a car with enough fuel, medicine, supplies - then Shieldwall would find a way to make it ponify people. I was running from the Barrier, once - before Standard Evac Protocol (the SEPsis, we called it) was in place. I’d found a group of refugees who either didn’t know or care that the Slow Potion would inevitably take control, or just wanted a unicorn to help with… whatever you need a unicorn to do. They’d ask “Hope, can you purify this water for me?” or any other odd job that could be helped with magic. And, even though I didn’t know a spell to purify water, I’d improvise something and do it. It’d been after I fled to France during the Purple Winter, and we were heading for the Italian border. We were far enough from the Barrier that we thought we could rest. So we broke into an abandoned school that still had power, still had running water, and still had heating. At 4 AM, every fire alarm went off. Woke us up. And over the PA system, I hear Shieldwall. Saying we’re going to be so happy, how he’s glad to help. Then the sprinklers start spraying potion everywhere. So if ever you see refugees that’re too skittish to sleep somewhere with lights and power, people who build their own towns like Defiance in New Hampshire, that’s probably why. There were more like that, too - railroad accidents, car bombings during mass evacuations, a series of targeted non-potion terrorism that served to lock people in, to ponify them more efficiently. Of course, those aren’t the projects I’m talking about. Shieldwall, for whatever reason, loves working on newfoals. Building anomalous newfoals that can fight humans on equal ground, somehow. Not just the grotesque, barely-equine things you see - the brainfoals, the newcalves, megacorns, Avalanches. No, what Shieldwall does is make freaks on the same level as Imperial Creed, outliers with strange and unnatural abilities - like a pegasus with terramancy. Earth ponies with little pieces of unicorn magic. And he’s here. “After all,” Shieldwall says. “That’s what Project Fillydelphia is for.” “But… the collateral damage…” Nimbus says. “I know, Nimbus,” Shieldwall says. “But it’s necessary.” Project Fillydephia. I think on that name. Isn’t that a city in Equestria? Or - no no no, I can’t, I wont, I won’t think more pony! Oh. Wait. There’s a Philadephia in America and a Fillydelphia on Equestria. Huh. Well, now I feel silly for panicking. “We have a room for you off to the left,” Shieldwall says, and for a moment I can almost see the pony that told me not to take the Potion once. What happened to you?, I wonder. “I think I’d like that,” I say. “I’m exhausted!” I force a smile onto my face. “I’ll lead you there,” Shieldwall says, “Wouldn’t dream of not helping one of ours! We’ve had an open bed ever since Nathan and Percival…” He looks downcast. “Well. Better you don’t know about that,” Shieldwall says, as we trot through an earthen hallway. He looks downcast, and I’m left thinking that whoever Nathan was, he must’ve been important to him. I almost feel bad. Almost. Don’t forget, I tell myself, This pony is dangerous. He thinks that making more of you, with barely anything left of their minds, is inherently good. H’s responsible for the ponifications of countless people. And he wants all of them to be erased backwards and forwards in time. I’m not even surprised that I said ‘them’ instead of ‘us’ anymore. “Is there any way I can help?!” I ask, taking on the sickeningly chirpy tone of a newfoal. I always want to throw up when I do it, or start brushing my teeth, or both. But Imperials just drop any suspicion when they hear it. “Not for now,” Shieldwall says. “As I understand it, you’ve been through a lot. You deserve some rest.” As he says this, we walk through a room with a set of what looks like statues at first glance. They look like ponies, but there’s… an energy of sorts that I can see in them. It’s like they’ve been magnified by a slight percentage, so they’re a little bigger than they need to be. “Oh, don’t mind them,” Shieldwall says. “They’re in stasis. This area isn’t exactly conducive to experimentation, so I had to keep them in storage.” And I see that they have no cutie marks. Which means, naturally, they’re newfoals. Who keeps a collection frozen newfoals? I think. Refers to them like that? That’s… that’s pretty screwed up. He taps a hoof to one door, pushing down on a metal handle that looks like it was taken out of a hotel, and I- “Thank you,” I hear myself say. “Shieldwall. Thank you so much. I thought I was going to die out there!” Shieldwall seems to blush. “I, uh… thank you.” I look over the room. It’s great! I’m so glad that a natural-born has given it to me. I’m so glad they’ve done so much for me! As I look to Shieldwall, I see how happy I am that ponies like him have made me happy. Better. It’s hard to believe it is, in fact, Shieldwall. The pony responsible for the Rain on Algiers. For a long list of ponifications during the And yet, here he is, smiling at me, willing to help. A pony that I know, from experience, would ponify a human on the spur of the moment or beat to death anyone he considered a Betrayer. Why, when he closes my door and trots away, I no NO NO NO NO NO NO I’m frozen. I try not to breathe. And so, calmly, methodically, I put one foreleg in front of the other. And then I have moved forward an inch. Another inch. I take a breath. I count: One. Two. Three. Four. I exhale. Another inch. The bed is a foot away. can’t do this One. Two. Three. Four. Another inch. Then another. Then two more. Then four. Then I jump. And land on the bed. It’s the bottom of a metal framed bunkbed, but there’s only so much PER can afford. And this… this is pretty good. I lie on the bed. I breathe in. I breathe out.  In. Out. In. Out. And I bawl my darned eyes out as I collapse on the bed that Shieldwall gave me. It’s not the first time this sort of thing has happened.  Sometimes when I wake up. Sometimes in the middle of the day. Once in the middle of a crowd. Twice. More than twice. It happened to all the Slow Newfoals, you know. One day, one moment, they could be like any other person, maybe a bit happier. Then they’d… See, we all knew Equestria was no more welcoming to us than Earth. They didn’t want humans with useful skills. They didn’t want artists like Demi-Plie. They wanted soldiers. Shock troops. Which is why I had Demi-Plie, once Annabelle, happily bucking people’s bones so hard they cracked. Headbutting them. Crushing people’s wrists when they tried to crawl away.  Then potioning them with a smile on her face. Corner Piece, once known as Patrick Wyckman, who’d gone from making puzzles to making bombs that closed like bear traps on the hands of bomb squad members. Me, on top of Opaline - literally, on top of her, trying to keep her from punching through the door until her legs broke (and she would have!) even though she’d sworn she’d never harm anyone. Even though I wasn’t sure if she was begging me or her own mind and body to sop. “Don’t you see?!” I remember her yelling. “I meant I’d never hurt something sentient! But they, they, they’re less than sentient, so it checks out!” I don’t know if I’ll end up like that. I don’t know if it’ll grip me like every Slow Newfoal I’ve ever known. But I do know that being surrounded by PER won’t do me any favors. And at the same time… What else am I going to do? This is, at the moment, my best bet for safety. But on the other hoof, I don’t want to be here. Not in the least. My choices are either a: Surrounded by PER. At a secret PER base. In the middle of nowhere. Being a newfoal. Or b: Try and somehow escape, at which point they kill me or try and reconstitute me with a specialized potion, then I really will be a newfoal. Well, I’m fucked. NEAT! I SAID A SWEARWORD!