I screamed, of course.
So would you. It's something else to have every atom of one's body stretched and twisted by magic, reducing one's essence to a liquified form so it can be piped through a bright-neon hell for a few short eternities. It must have been the wormwood kicking in-- that pink pony wasn't lying about how strong the absinthe was. Still, that knowledge was hardly comforting as the cosmological forces of the universe took a proverbial whisk to my not-so-proverbial soul. Indeed, the pain coursing through my body (or what was left of it) was enough to make me think there was actual justice in the universe, to make a lout like me properly suffer for all the terrible things I've done.
It's something of a long list.
But thankfully, before I could get too repentant, reality coalesced around me once more.
At which point I threw up.
Copiously.
Which, again, is an entirely fair reaction for anypony who isn't used to these sort of magical shenanigans. It's one thing to fly like a proper pegasus, but the terrible and eldritch magics involved in inexplicably translocating oneself from one place to another without crossing the space between are, quite frankly, unnatural.
Thankfully, I was able to hunch over and retch my guts out without getting sick all over myself. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths-- instinctively, intuitively, I knew something was very, very wrong, even if I couldn't place my hoof on it. But, I'd been through enough drunken benders to know that sometimes you have to slow down, drink some water, and take stock of your situation. Provided, of course, the authorities aren't chasing you or anything, but that's another matter entirely.
And so, I wiped a bit of vomit from the corner of my mouth, forced my eyes open, and took stock of my surroundings. I was no longer in Twilight's library-- or even in Ponyville, for that matter. It was still early evening, however, with the sun only beginning to set on the horizon. I'd somehow staggered into (and subsequently puked on) some kind of courtyard, with a large pedestal of some sort in the middle, and a walkway leading up to a large brick building. I didn't recognize the architecture-- though if nothing else, I figured I could get a feel for wherever I was if I found a handy cloud to perch on.
Which is when I realized I couldn't feel my wings.
I would have screamed again, but I'd already run my throat ragged moments before. And so, I could do little but turn and flail about-- which is when, in short order, I came to several more horrifying epiphanies about the current state of my body. I stumbled towards the large building, and looked at my reflection in a window.
I stared into a face that was mine, but not. My normally handsome visage had been flattened, compressed, from a stately muzzle to a vaguely oval-ish shape that was only vaguely reminiscent of my previous good looks. My 'dueling' scars were gone, to boot-- along with any sense of dashing dangerousness they might have provided.
A healed-yet-mangled face was bad enough, but the rest of me was even in worse condition. As in one of the more unique miseries I'd ever endured, my body had been twisted and mutated into that of a ... thing. Some sort of hairless, bipedal ape, by the look of it.
No wings, no hooves, no tail-- there was the only slightest hint of the actual Yours Truly in the coloration of the eyes and hair. And even then there was far too much gel in my sorry excuse for a mane, making me look like the result of a drunken tryst between a drunken orangutan and an overly amorous hedgehog.
Despairing, I ran a hand over my face-- and nearly puked again as I realized that I had hands. I was well traveled enough to meet the occasional Dragon, Minotaur, or even some of the Abysinnian Catfolk-- all creatures who happen to have opposable digits at the ends of their arms. I was also well traveled enough to know that how utterly disgusting such a quirk of anatomy was. Seriously, creatures with fingers are always touching things-- with one's forehooves, whatever one's unfortunate enough to step in (changeling ichor, for example) will, in short time, be wiped away as one walks about (or stomps on a cloudbank, for the pegasus sorts). In contrast, bipedal, be-fingered creatures are left to flail around with their filth-coated digits all willy nilly, until somepony reminds them to wash their malformed limbs.
One can imagine my distress upon discovering I was one of said bipedal, be-fingered creatures.
I gibbered in incoherent terror for a few moments, then forced myself to turn away from my horrible reflection. Which is when I noticed the other hideous primates ambling around the courtyard. Slowly, with an ever-worsening epiphany of horror, I realized that I recognized them. Kind of.
For, you see, many of the two-legged troglodytes shared the same hair styles and colors of ponies I'd seen at the party. I wasn't sure if this was simply just part of an absinthe fueled hallucination, or if the mirror was some sort of horrible, mutagenic doomsday weapon Princess Twilight left laying around. No, that wasn't right-- Princess Twilight was hardly the sort to harbor such a thing. A carelessly secured magical experiment, on the other hoof ... I'd been in Canterlot during that fiasco with the giant centipede, after all.
Still, the ponies-turned-primates ambling around weren't screaming or panicking as any sensible creature would have upon being transmogrified into something so horrible. They just went about their business, chatting and laughing and more often than not staring into strange, glowing, tile-sized devices. That certainly made me think it more a hallucination, if nothing else. None of them took notice of me (or of the mess I'd left a dozen yards back).
But then, hope.
For, amongst the crowd, I was able to pick one figure out in particular. Or rather, a familiar frizzy pouf of orange. Surely, Carrot Top would know what was going on. That was her job, after all. For all I knew, she'd probably invited me to Ponyville that particular weekend on purpose, knowing that this horribleness would happen. Alternately, if I was merely hallucinating, Carrot Top would be the best pony to keep an eye on me until my brain started working properly again.
I managed not to trip over my feet as I rushed across the courtyard, finally coming up to grab the orange-haired young lady by the shoulders.
“Carrot!” I said, not bothering to hide the relief in my voice. “Damnation, am I glad to see you!”
“Flash? Flash Sentry?” She looked up at me with green, bewildered eyes. “Why are you talking like that?”
“Like what?”
“With an accent.”
“What bloody accent?”
“Are you ... feeling alright? I heard you called in sick today.” Carrot Top eyed me, suspicious.
“I've been better.” I said. “But nevermind that-- just please tell me you know what's going on here?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.” Carrot Top said.
“Oh hell, you're not going to pretend this is one of those 'need to know' things, are you? I hate it when you go all Special Agent Golden Harvest.”
At that, Carrot Top's eyes went wide in horror. She stiffened, then looked over one shoulder, than the other, as if to make sure no one had overheard us. Finally, she grabbed me by the blue shirt I was wearing, and yanked me in to whispering range. “You know?”
“Of course I do.” I said, blithely.
“How did you ... oh no.” Carrot Top groaned, releasing me. “Ditzy told you, didn't she? She promised me she wouldn't tell anyone I played Ogres and Oubliettes!”
“Wait, what?” I said.
“I thought you were better than that, but I guess I was wrong. You just had to gloat about it once you found out, huh?” Carrot Top said. I recognized the angry glare she shot my way, but yet, uncharacteristically, there wasn't any physical violence to come with it. She sniffed a bit, and then stepped back. “I guess the 'soulless ginger' jokes weren't enough, huh? Now you're going to call me-- what, a nerd? A geek? A loser?”
“I wasn't—”
“Did Sunset Shimmer put you up to this?”
“Who?”
“Don't play stupid with me!”
“I assure you, Carrot, I'm not playing stupid.”
“Oh just ... just ... shut up!” Carrot Top fumed. She glowered at me for a second longer before she turned her back on me, walking away in a huff. "Go make fun of someone else, jerk!"
“That could have gone better.” I murmured to myself. My mind reeled as I watched Carrot Top stalk off. Or who I had thought was carrot top. She looked similar, and her voice was the same ... but it was like she had amnesia or something. At least a changeling would have gone on about 'true love' or some other sappy garbage before trying to suck my brains out through my eyeballs.
Dazed as I was, I didn't notice the other primate monsters creeping up behind me before it was too late.
“Flash! You made it!”
I tensed, turned, and found myself staring at two of of the biggest ape-creatures I'd ever seen. They wore matching blue tunics, stretched tight over their grotesque musculature. The lead one wore his hair in shaggy, irregular braids, while the other had a chalk-white complexion and a blonde buzzcut.
“YEAH!” said Buzzcut, at eardrum-testing volume.
“I can explain--” I said, stalling for time.
“You don't need to! Showing up to the big game even when you're sick-- that's dedication, man!”
“YEAH!”
“Now c'mon! We don't wanna be late-- The Wondercolts are gonna need their star quarterback!”
And with that, the two brutes 'escorted' me to a locker room on the other side of the building. A good two dozen more ogres were there, strapping themselves into bulky armor, no doubt in preparation for some terrible battle to come. Dry-mouthed, just short of trembling, I followed suit— I saw no opening to pull a runner, not to mention that armor seemed like a good idea right then. And so, I swapped out my strange (and frankly pedestrian) outfit for a stranger one still, but one that at least offered a modicum of protection.
No sooner had I buckled a helmet down upon my gel-shellacked hair, an older ape-creature with mirrored sunglasses and a thick black moustache stalked around a corner, making a beeline for yours truly.
“Sentry!” he growled, “I thought you called in sick! You up for action?”
For the first time since I'd been excreted through the magical mirror, I knew exactly what to do.
“Couldn't keep myself away, sir.” I said, adopting a properly stoic tone. The effect was somewhat lessened when my voice cracked-- just another terrible thing about this new, hideous form I was in. “But don't worry, even though I've been under the weather, I'm still ready. Just tell me where to go.” I tempered my eagerness with the feigned cough I used whenever I wanted to get out of history class as a lad. Reverse psychology. Worked ... not every time, but often enough.
'Coach' eyeballed me for a long, appraising moment, then shook his head. “Dedication, Sentry. That's what I like about you. You're gonna go far, kid.” He clapped a heavy hand on my helmet, hard enough to make my teeth rattle. “But not today. I'm keeping you on the bench 'til you're at one hundred percent.”
I bit back a cry of victorious elation, instead solidifying my position with a plaintive complaint. “But--”
“No buts.” Coach shook his head, his decision final. This done, he turned to start bellowing at the rest of the armored youths, rounding them up for a last minute pep talk.
Coach launched into a bog-standard inspirational speech, going on about “hard work” and “determination” and “so what if Crystal Prep is undefeated this season?” I tuned him out-- I'd heard enough inspirational speeches (and shammed my way through delivering a couple, myself) to know the beats already. Not to mention the fact that an amateur sporting event paled in comparison to the harrowing fiascoes I'd been through. It's not as if things could get worse, I thought.
I was wrong.
I usually am.
They called it a game, but one could be forgiven for thinking otherwise. The 'game' itself was something akin to cloudball, just without the clouds, the flying, or any sense of common decency. The whole escapade reminded me of some sort of gladitorial contest, in which the so-called 'Wondercolts' smashed themselves into a line of even bigger, even uglier brutes in purple helmets. At every charge, a fresh round of cheering rose from the packed bleachers. There were about a half-dozen female primates standing on the sidelines, cheering away in skirts short enough to be somewhat distracting if one was, again, a horrible primate creature. Not a proper set of wings on a single one of them, either.
Lucky for me, my 'brave but wounded soldier' act was enough to keep me on the sidelines, well out of harm's way. I had ample company before long, however-- every few plays, the Crystal Prep brutes would lay out one of ours, to the point where it seemed the purple-clad-primates were trying to win the game through attrition. With dawning horror, I realized that Coach would have to start digging into his reserves-- and when he had to scrape the bottom of the barrel, he'd find Yours Truly.
And so, I waited 'til a particularly violent play on the field drew everyone's attention, and then slowly, silently got to my feet. It wouldn't do to up and bolt (no matter how much I wanted to)-- that would only draw unwanted attention. On the field, there was a jarring crunch of impact, and yet another one of the Wondercolts was smashed to the ground.
I was too slow-- for no sooner had I gotten my feet under me, Coach wheeled around and jabbed a finger at me. “Sentry! You're up!”
“Me?” I blurted.
“I know I said I wouldn't put you in, but Quick Snap's hurt, so you're all we got!” He clapped me on the shoulder, then showed me a clipboard laden with arcane tactical diagrams. “We're only down by two points, and we've still got half a minute on the clock-- you just have to push far enough forward to make a field goal, and then we've got this in the bag. Remember your playbook-- scram right, but watch the pocket. Don't be afraid to use the end-around if you need to. You got that?”
“Er, yes?” I lied by reflex.
“Good! Now get out there, Sentry!” Coach shoved me in the direction of the playing field, and I had little choice but to walk out there. And while approached the field with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner facing the gallows, the crowd at my back certainly made up for it with their own enthusiasm, breaking into wild cheering as soon as my foot stepped over the white chalk line. Of course, they weren't the ones throwing themselves into certain danger, either.
I kept my eyes on the field, and took up what I guessed was my position. I at least had a couple of beefy ape-things between myself and Crystal Prep's brutes, so that could delay my inevitable beating a little while longer.
“Uh. Right.” I said, glancing this way and that. “Let's ... uh, let's do this.”
And that's when all hell broke loose.
One of the Wondercolts threw the strange, egg-shaped ball at me-- it struck me in the center of the chest, and I instinctively grabbed hold of it. No sooner had I gotten a grip on the ball, Crystal Prep's goon squad bowled over the Wondercolts like so many ninepins and thundered down on me.
So I ran.
There may have been some terrified shrieking on my part, but it was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. I retreated a couple of yards, trying to put as much distance between myself and the locomotive’s worth of angry armored ogres, but yet another of the purple bastards circled around from the left, cutting off my avenue of retreat. He dove at me, and I sprang away at the last moment, barely avoiding getting crushed beneath his bulk.
And so, I dug my feet into the turf and ran toward the oncoming brutes, albeit at an angle. Not out of any sense of bravery, mind you, but rather because the most cowardly (and therefore wisest) parts of my brain had registered that the Crystal Prep troglodytes were too massive to change direction quickly. I ducked beneath a swipe of a purple-sleeved arm and simply kept running, leaving the grunting monstrosities behind.
That wasn't the end of it, though. As there were more brutes downfield-- most of them chased after or grappled with their Wondercolt equivalents (handily besting them, in most cases), but the more observant on the enemy side sighted in on me with beady eyes and started lumbering to intercept.
I zigged and zagged across the field, using my instinctive cowardice to steer clear of the purple brutes. Several times, one or another would launch themselves at me, but I was able to spring away just in time. Compared to some of the other horrible monstrosities that have tried to kill me over the years, those brutish, pale-skinned louts were rank amateurs. I ran, nearly in a frenzy-- not knowing where I was running to, only taking confidence in the fact that I was running away from getting my bones shattered beneath the bulk of Crystal Prep's finest.
And then they stopped.
A fresh wave of ecstatic cheering rose up from the crowd, followed shortly by the harsh electric buzz of the time clock. With nothing trying to kill me (at least for the moment), I let myself stop-- only to notice I'd just crossed into the scoring-zone at the opposite end of the playing field. Bewildered, I let the egg-ball tumble from my fingers; through my panicked flight, I'd kept hold of the damn thing without even knowing it.
No sooner had the ball hit the turf, the rest of the Wondercolts were upon me. I would have bolted, but I was still winded and sweating from my earlier performance. My 'comrades' laughed and cheered, soon hauling me up upon their shoulders. The audience came next, vaulting over the railings to rush the field in celebration. I could do little but ride the literal wave of enthusiasm as a horde of hideous ape-things (some of which were even wearing pony-eared headbands to add an even more surreal element to the affair) circled around in frantic joy. The whole thing seemed a bit much, to be honest. I've literally won wars with less fanfare, and here the Wondercolts were whipping themselves into a frenzy all over a stupid game. A game I won by accident, no less. At least the chanting was somewhat flattering.
“FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!”
The more things change, the more they stay the same.