//------------------------------// // Nightmarish // Story: Daily Equestria Life With Monster Girl // by Estee //------------------------------// From the edge of nightmare, she watches the centaur run. So many of the dreams have centered around running, and there are several reasons for that. The ongoing imprisonment is not the least of them, for to confine just about any sapient will eventually lead to a nightscape where the captured can run free -- if only for a time. And with ponies... there has always been a part of the pony mind which longs for the gallop, demands that cold air enter lungs which feel as if they're catching fire, hooves pounding against the solid world as a constant declaration of my path, my will, my home. Even pegasi aren't immune, and those who never descend below the vapors will still find their nightscape selves racing across a dream of pastures. Everypony visits that pasture eventually, and perhaps it serves as a preview to what awaits them in the shadowlands. The last pasture. The final fields. Some part of a pony always wants to gallop and in this aspect, the dark mare suspects the centaur isn't the least bit different. She longs to run, and so part of the observer's mind notes that they have to find a way for the girl to get some exercise. To release a tiny portion of the stress, for to confine a pony for too long... well, perhaps centaurs suffer from their own version of Stable Syndrome: the reason why the primary aspect of so many punishments starts with confinement. After a while, some ponies will do just about anything to be free again, and most of them start with lying about a personal reform. In other dreams, she has found the girl running because the cell door only exists in the waking world. Running because she wants, needs to run. Running because she's lost, she doesn't know where she is or how she got here or if there's any way home, but if she just runs, home will eventually appear. All she has to do is spend the rest of her life running through everything which isn't her home and whatever's left is where she belongs. It took a while for the dark mare to realize where that dream was truly headed. That the girl was trying to run down infinity, and the intruder managed to twist just before everything would have gone wrong. She is watching the girl run, and is doing so from concealment. Not that the girl would know to look for her, or have any concept of how the intruder might manifest -- but concealment nonetheless, for some are more attuned to their nightscapes than others, more readily sense intrusion, and a near-secret of the nightscape is that while only the dark mare may wander, all have the potential to manipulate. Some more than others, yes: anypony fully lacking in imagination generally just recreates their waking time all over again, and those would be doing well just to deliberately change the color of a pebble. But for those who are aware they are dreaming, who realize somepony is there... if they think to do so, they can fight her. Not well, most of the time: she has the benefit of both power and experience, can usually spot a potential attack simply because she's seen that tactic before. But some fight, and -- she's still not completely sure what the girl is capable of. It's best to be cautious. Just about everything is mutable in the nightscape, for those aware of the dream -- but to purposefully alter one's appearance is one of the hardest things there is. In dream, the true self-identity tends to emerge: without a setting to encourage and stabilize the change, the dreamer generally appears as they truly perceive themselves. (Even now, after so much time, it takes a minor effort of will for the dark mare to appear in the form everypony expects.) It can make concealment difficult, and so the dark mare tends to use the environment. In this case, it's simple: the girl has not thought to look up. She has -- other concerns, and it lets the observer use a piece of dream-woven cloud as both support and camouflage. The vapor keeps pace overhead, as the girl runs. And there are so many reasons to run, for the joy of it, the need, the desperate search for home... ...but this is a nightmare. The girl runs within the mobile window created by shifting fog because oblivion chases her. And if she stops, she will die. The road changes again under pounding hooves, and the girl nearly stumbles. There have been too many surfaces during the mad gallop, and the dark mare doesn't understand what some of them are: the cruel-seeming black which both captures and radiates heat was especially nauseating. But it's easy to recognize trestle ties, and the girl tries to make her hooves land on the railroad's wooden planks, does her best to do so without losing speed, and the wall of nothing just keeps coming. It is currently ten body lengths behind her and where it crosses, the rails do not evaporate. They simply are not -- or worse, never were. She is running because there is no other choice. She is running because to stop moving will mean she ceases to exist. Her hooves shift across a changing landscape, and the body racing across a new kind of chaos terrain sees some of its anatomy vibrate, while other portions shake, bounce -- -- twist. In dream, the true self-identity tends to emerge. The way the dreamer might forever perceive themselves at the core, no matter how many centuries of tarnish build up on the exterior. And in dream... the girl is not as she appears in the waking world. The world around her is unstable, changing from instant to instant, and the girl... She loses a step to a shift in the road, and the body sheds muscle tone. There are times when she is too thin, almost sickly. Another stumble finds her visibly overweight. One instant shows dimmed eyes, another finds twisting ears which will never hear the doom approaching, the sickening hiss of air meeting its end. The girl gallops, and it's not good enough because while the nature of the flaw might vary from moment to moment, there is always something wrong with her. Something which renders all her efforts into a joke, and yet she runs because her failure will serve as the final punchline -- -- and yet she runs. And now she is running towards something. It takes the dark mare a second to recognize it, that the forward edge of the fog is beginning to part. That there's someone standing there, a being she can't quite make out. A biped, possibly, one with dark hair, and she can see those arms moving forward, hands palms-up, reaching for the girl, who puts on a final effort, leaning forward, trying to touch -- -- the insect legs erupt from the fog, nearly as tall as the biped and moving so much more quickly. Smooth chitin scoops inwards, presses against ribs and stomach as a low-pitched female giggle shakes the world. The biped is pulled backwards into the fog. Vanishes as the giggling becomes a chorus, joined by lower tones, and the dark mare wonders if the last expression she saw was meant to be a smile. The girl stops moving. The body is sickly and overweight and half-lame and completely still. She stands with slumped shoulders and closed eyes, simply waiting for oblivion to reach her, for there is no reason to run anymore. And the vacuum surges forward, the girl refuses to move and the dark mare twists. It takes too much: it always has. Slow, subtle changes, or simply working with what the dreamer has already provided -- that's second nature now. Suggestions generally need a channel: perhaps this road goes where you wished to be, or the scent (for the mare has already noticed that the girl's dreams include scent) will remind you of something important. But to take an entire nightscape and wrench it... that is like redirecting lightning, and doing so at the moment of impact against the mare's own body. Feeling the first instant of electrocution and doing anything to keep it from becoming the last. The intruder nearly loses the supporting cloud in the tremendous effort, has to find room in the silent-yet-half-screamed instructions for reminding herself that gravity is purely optional here. The rest banishes the fog, turns the road into a narrow path between familiar trees, sends the nightscape to a fully natural spring in a world which has never known the gentle care of pegasus weather control or the encouraging song which earth ponies send through the soil. It shreds the danger while shedding years, and the girl's form stabilizes as it shrinks, for the self of memory had yet to trick itself into such levels of distortion -- -- and then there is a filly standing in too-familiar woods. The dark mare collapses across what little remains of the false vapor, presses a forehoof against her aching head and is momentarily surprised at contact with the horn. You are home. The nightmare fades, for you are home. Safe. Let yourself be home... The filly, whose blouse and arms are now dapple-tinted by sunlight moving through leaves, abruptly looks up. The dark mare curls her body (which seems to be somewhat smaller now), tucks into a tight ball of what may be about to become rather unwelcome life. For to twist still takes too much, and turning nightmare to dream is the sort of thing which can alert a dreamer to intrusion. Make them recognize not only that somepony is present, but that there might be a means to fight -- and the first strike would come in an instant when the dark mare has yet to center again, is still trying to recover her strength. If a battle begins now -- -- but then the filly turns her attention back to the trees. To an adult who's just barely visible through bushes and branches and foliage, an adult who has no idea the filly is there. You are home, the dark mare softly reminds the filly. Home... And now the filly is moving. Hooves step carefully, trying to make every impact land on noise-absorbing soil. She's tracking the adult from a distance, watching her move. And the dark mare holds the dream together as long as she can, but the rhythms of the sleep cycle move on and she can just barely keep the girl in her own past long enough to get some sense of what might be happening. The filly isn't just observing the adult, and tracking might only be part of it. She's -- looking for something -- -- but then the trees shake. The ground vibrates, the sky begins to dissipate, and the intruder is in her throne room again. Thinking about everything which was seen, trying to make sense of it. It could be argued that there was no need to twist. The nightmare would not have killed the centaur. (It is almost impossible to craft a killing dream, and the exceptions are things which should never happen again.) But the waking would have been harsh, a mind recoiling from the edge of what would have felt so much like death. Trauma added onto trauma, and... the girl had stopped. Completely stopped. Knowing what was coming, what would happen, and she'd -- stopped. The intrusions will continue. Cerea was staring at the huge stack of unreadable forms and the paperwork, using the dark power which came from having that much bureaucracy concentrated in one place, appeared to be staring right back. It didn't help to have at least two of the symbol-heavy characters resemble eyes. "Um," a worried Nightwatch said, which really didn't accomplish anything. The centaur sighed. "I just did this," she quietly observed, mostly to herself. "And at least they were written in French." Technically, anyway: it hadn't taken all that long to realize that the exchange student program application forms had actually been composed in Bureaucrat. "I don't even know how to start..." "I can read them to you," the pegasus offered. "And help you fill it out. But some of it... um. I don't think we can do all of it together. There's another pony involved, or there should be. He'll be the one who gets you through most of it. I think the Department just sent this over in advance. Because the palace requested the forms, and the forms arrived before the pony. But..." Silver eyes had focused on the top sheet. "Some of the requirements can't apply to you, not without some help." "Like what?" If nothing else, she was vaguely curious about the exact nature of the approaching disaster. "Birth paperwork from a recognized nation, as proof of identity. Um. It's not like you were carrying any..." Cerea sighed. "I had an --" and wondered how the disc would translate it "-- identification card. Something which showed that I'd filled out all the forms already. It was supposed to substitute." Her herd had kept written records of all births and deaths, and such had been official enough to be accepted by some of the human governments. "But it's somewhere in the forest." "And your nation isn't recognized," Nightwatch went on -- stopped. Feathers awkwardly rustled. "Um. I know you have one, but it's not a good idea to make anypony think about that for too long." Dark legs reluctantly shifted a little closer to the writing desk, with wings flaring out in alarm as the old wood creaked under triplicate weight. "But we've had residents get through without that before. Yapper did, and the Princess intervened on her behalf." "Yapper?" She wasn't entirely sure how the disc translated names: there seemed to be a good chance that 'Nightwatch' was just the original root definition of whatever the pegasus was truly called, or that Cerea was just getting part of the little knight's title. 'Yapper', however, seemed to imply a certain set of traits, none of which would ever stop talking long enough to let anyone ask what they were. "Um..." The Guard took a slow breath. "She's part of the palace staff. Maintenance. Usually on the Lunar shift. You'll probably see her eventually. I..." and even for the pegasus, the pause felt exceptionally awkward "...think that should wait for a while." Okay... But she trusted the little knight. "So not having papers is a problem, but you think the Princess --" wait "-- which Princess?" "Princess Luna," Nightwatch clarified. "It's her dominion. And usually when somepony on the Lunar shift says 'the', it's her. The Solars mean Princess Celestia. It's just -- how we talk." The dark tail shifted slightly. "Anyway, she should be able to get you past that, because she's done it before for someone else, so there's precedent. But there's trickier parts. Like..." and the pegasus swallowed. "...communication. Anyone who's going to be staying for -- a while -- needs to understand the language and be capable of responding." More quickly, "That doesn't always mean speech. There's a sort of language which some mute ponies use, but it... um... it's built on foreleg gestures, tail movements, and --" with a very reluctant look up "-- ear positioning. And your ears are in the wrong place to start with. Plus not all that many ponies understand signing. But right now, you're relying on magic, and if anypony challenges you, or the palace needs the device back..." Cerea took a slow breath, felt the shirt pull against her again: the sensation increased as she raised her right hand towards her neck. All right. It was something like -- "...I mean, nopony expects a new arrival to be fluent when they cross the border! Um. Well, some ponies do. Not... very nice ponies. So there's time to learn. But you're... you're not..." Another, deeper gulp. "...Tirek. You're not him. I have to remember that you're -- anyway, he could speak Equestrian. But just because he could doesn't mean you can. I don't know if --" and the silver eyes finally focused on what was happening. "-- don't take that off! We can't --" But the overlay of meaning vanished as the metal lost contact with Cerea's ear, leaving nothing more than a frantic whinny and a little horse who was staring up at her, one foreleg now desperately gesturing towards the freshly-removed disc. Cerea shook her head, because they had that in common. Took another, deeper breath, placed the palm of her left hand against her own throat and felt the faint vibrations of her own pulse. Opened her mouth. Tried. The pegasus blinked. And after that response repeated three more times, Cerea replaced the disc. Almost desperate, "Did you understand me? And what did I say?" Because that was a subject of some concern. "It's something I've heard outside the door a few times, before I can get the disc on, usually when there's hooves getting close. I thought I had it memorized, but I couldn't be sure --" "-- um," and the undertone was pure amazement. "You said... that you were coming on shift. Roughly." More quickly (because Cerea's expression was already beginning to fall), "Roughly for meaning. You had the sounds right, but that's not the exact words. It's just how we announce that we're taking a turn. Something Guards say to each other. You --" and the pegasus was staring again, with the silver gaze growing bright "-- you can speak..." "...I can mimic," Cerea softly countered. "Our foals make sounds like yours when they're young, before their first words in our language." Doing so as an adult was regarded as having kicked all civilization away, but it wasn't as if her mother was going to know about this particular bit of disappointment for a while. "We don't lose the capacity. So I can make the right sounds, but if I don't have the disc on, then I don't know what any of them mean. And it's not always easy to connect them when I'm using the magic, because I don't know if the disc is rearranging your syntax. Like if... every sentence in your language starts with the verb, but I hear it in what would be my normal place because that's just how the spell works." "But you could learn," Nightwatch quickly said. "You just need a teacher, and time. And... um. Did you know that you sounded a lot like Balistraria just then? Like almost exactly? Because she always announces when she's coming on shift, every time, so if you picked it up from anypony --" "We're good mimics." Although that was a generalization and when it came to herself... she was no better than second. The dark tail abruptly twitched. "Um. You've been listening." Cerea nodded. "With the disc off," the little knight added. Again. It was the only way to hear the full complexities of the natural sounds. "...what did you hear us say?" "I don't know," the centaur girl rather reasonably replied. "The disc was off. Why?" "Because there was this thing with Bulkhead and..." Another twitch, with this one coming a little closer to lash. "...um. It was early, so maybe you were just getting up. And didn't have the disc on yet. And heard it." Black ears went straight back. "Um..." But that was when the hoof rapped on the cell door, and both females stopped. A second later, Acrolith pushed it open. "We've cleared a path," the layer-hued earth pony mare told them. "The Princess wants their first meeting to take place away from the cells. Follow me up." And then she was waiting in what felt like a rather informal sort of conference room, something where the padding on the benches showed a few old food stains and the paintings... well, it wasn't as if Cerea had the background to truly appreciate pony art. It was possible that having the frames set at those askew angles was actually supposed to mean something significant, or at least something other than 'the decorator was tipsy.' Which stood in not-quite-contrast to the artwork, where she was almost certain the painter had just been drunk. The room smelled somewhat of old herbs and drinks which hadn't quite been finished. There was a mug on the center table, about one-quarter full with a creamy yellow fluid. It let her identify a source, for some of the Guards walked around smelling like -- well, like the liquid. Usually at the beginning of a shift or near the end. Or towards the middle. Plus there was one who, in retrospect, must have been bathing in it. The scent told her that it was safe for her to consume, and she left it right where it was because it was only a quarter-full and she didn't know who'd had the rest of it. Additionally, it was possible for someone to walk in on her while she was finishing it off, and that was why her ears were twitching forward. Listening for the sounds of approach. She was meeting someone. Someone important. She had to make a good impression, insofar as that was even possible. She couldn't help looking like a monster. She could keep her hands off the leftovers. Cerea stood and waited, fully aware of Nightwatch's presence on the other side of the closed door. Tried not to shuffle her hooves too badly and, after the delay stretched out a little more, switched that to an equally non-successful attempt at preventing her fingers from clenching. Trying to hear anyone who might be getting closer, figuring out what she could potentially say or do to calm them, give herself that much more of a chance... The curtsy seemed to be doing fairly well so far. At least, no one had run away from her screaming on the two previous occasions when she'd performed one. As opening gestures went, that seemed to be fairly encouraging -- "-- just a little suspicious." A stallion's voice. Somewhat gruff, more than a little irritated and making no effort to suppress any of it, which added an element of shock when she instantly identified the next speaker. "And what," the dark mare lightly said, "could possibly be making you react with suspicion?" "Previous experience," the stallion instantly replied. "This isn't the first time you've summoned me to the palace at night, Princess." "Ah. But this time --" and there was a lilt in the mare's tones "-- there are no butcher shops involved. Nor has there been any other degree of culture clash or misunderstanding which we must discuss, preferably before the opinion columns can do the same. Your charges have been exceptionally well-behaved this moon, and so you are clearly performing your task at the level I would expect from you." The only thing darker than royalty's eyes was the unseen stallion's voice. "And you still summoned me to the palace." A pause. "True," the Princess casually replied. "A very empty palace," the stallion added. "I haven't seen anypony since we came up the second ramp. Why is that?" "And now you have," the Princess countered as hoofsteps sounded on marble, the sound less distorted now that the corner had been rounded. "For there is Nightwatch. Have the two of you met? I find first meetings to be rather important. Nightwatch, this is --" "-- we've seen each other," the stallion interrupted. "Princess, you brought me here at night." "Yes." And lilting had nearly become levity. "As you are under my dominion, and so you can be summoned when the need arises, because I am your Princess and so promptly responding to my summons is generally seen as both a sign of courtesy and a rationale for retaining employment. That you generally work the Solar shift simply requires an extra degree of need --" "-- into an almost-empty section of the palace. When there's been rumors flying and galloping around --" The levity fell away. "Rumors," the dark mare repeated -- and then her tones shifted back. "Well, I am certain we will be discussing that shortly. For now, I have summoned you here to perform your duty. The one under my dominion, which you retain because you are the pony who is most suited to fill that position. All I require is that you do so again, to the best of your ability, with an absolute minimum of future Moon-lit conferences because absolutely no problems will have arisen." The door opened. Just a crack, just enough to let Cerea see a fraction of the dark mare on the other side. Nothing else. "So simply step around me," the Princess stated, "and meet your newest charge." A pause. "Oh, and close your eyes first." What is she...? "Princess," the stallion said, and there was something other than deference in that voice, "if I hadn't been suspicious before --" "-- this is an order," the dark mare told him. "Close your eyes. Step around me. Go inside. Open them again." Light moved across the wood, pushed it open a little more. The Princess stepped aside, and the stallion, eyes squeezed shut in something very close to pain, entered the room. There was something about the unicorn which reminded her of Ms. Smith, but it did so as an opposing aspect. The government employee who theoretically supervised the Kurusu household generally possessed an aura which suggested that the effort required to make a single phone call on anyone's behalf justified a three-week vacation just for recovery. The stallion moved in a way which directly stated that if he were to suddenly fall into a coma, it would simply be to catch up on sleep. His fur was an exceptionally dark blue, with the exception of a few graying hairs near the muzzle: Cerea, who could only equate such things to horses, guessed that he might be middle-aged. The icon on his flanks displayed a rather plain octagon, albeit one of a fairly bright red. The black mane and tail looked as if they either hadn't been groomed for a week or had been groomed in a hurry by somepony who'd been awake for the majority of that time. He stopped. His nostrils twitched. Eyelids shot open, revealing a brighter blue than his fur. Something almost sky-hued, the color of the warmest summer days. Cerea instantly dropped into a full curtsy. It was a rather low version, one which put her outswept right hand about two feet from the pony's face. As far as showing deep respect went, it was about as deep as her knees would allow her to go without buckling and sending her crashing into the ground breasts-first, which really wasn't the best way to make a good impression. This version was professional, expertly executed and, when it ended, left her staring almost directly into a slightly-opened mouth. There was a new scent of fear in the room, and Cerea had expected that to happen no matter what she did. But it was the secondary layer. "As I did not gain a chance at the earlier introduction," the Princess said from her place within the now fully-open doorway, "allow me to perform this particular version. This is --" "No," the stallion said. The dark mare ignored it. "-- your newest --" "No." And he began to turn. "No. No, no, no. No-no-no. No." The black tail was lashing. "No, no no, no-ho-HO. No no no, no no, no no no no, no, no, noooooooo..." Heading directly for the doorway, hooves stomping into marble as if trying to crack it, head and horn lowered to an angle which seemed to identify his ruler as nothing more than a temporary obstacle. The Princess' horn ignited. Dark light projected forward, surrounded the stallion, lifted his body about three inches off the floor and performed a precise 180° rotation while all four coated legs futility marched on air. "NO." the stallion declared, and did so almost directly to Cerea's still-lowered face. She straightened: there didn't seem to be anything else she could do. It let her see the Princess over his back, and... ...Cerea still wasn't completely sure what the equivalent of a pony smile looked like. She was very much hoping that the dark mare's expression wasn't it. "Centaur --" the Princess began. "No." "-- allow me to introduce Crossing Guard, who is the current head of our Immigration Department. And if he wishes to remain in that position, he might be well-advised to cease his protests --" "...no..." the stallion half-whispered, perhaps just to put it on the record. "-- and greet his newest charge." The unicorn twisted within the corona and found that while his legs remained confined, his neck was perfectly free to turn enough for a degree of desperate eye contact with his liege. "There were rumors," he frantically said. "Rumors that you'd captured it --" "Her," the Princess calmly cut in. "You have dealt with sufficient species to recognize the rather prominent signs of a female." Cerea fought back most of the wince and none of the blush. "-- after the fight, that it -- she was being kept in the palace while you figured out what to do with her, but... but..." He couldn't seem to get his mouth to completely close. "Princess, I -- you know what's going to happen, there's only one thing which can happen --" "You brought in Yapper," the dark mare almost placidly said. "There are warrens all over Equestria living in relative peace with adjacent settled zones! There's even some trade here and there! It was time for Yapper!" "Something we only recognized in retrospect," the Princess countered. "But she's still had problems, she's always going to have some problems, and..." He turned away. Forced himself to face Cerea, and that bright blue gaze roamed over her, losing the last degree of warmth as it crossed the repurposed tablecloth. "I trust you," he told the Princess, and did so without looking at her. "I trust that you weren't tricked. That you wouldn't be doing this if she didn't deserve it. But you have to know what's going to happen. It's going to be every headline, every time. It's going to be everything. They're going to focus on her and they won't stop. Princess, there has to be some other way --" "-- several," the dark mare cut him off. "And yet this is the one which was chosen, for imprisonment and exile do not suit one who deserves her chance. You are at the head of Immigration. You have seen butcher shops introduced into the Heart, helped to rewrite the rulebooks for sports which suddenly need to accommodate a single kudu's twisting horns. This is a sapient. She is peaceful, and will remain so as long as no violence is directed against her. She has recently arrived in our nation, and it may be some time before she is able to return home." Her head lowered slightly, with the dark energy around the horn showing the faintest hints of tiny spikes. "One might argue that she qualifies as a refugee -- if one does not simply label her as the victim of a foalnapping, for her arrival was involuntary. We are trying to send her home, Crossing. But until that day, she has earned her chance at a new one. And making that chance fully legal and supervised is your duty." Her volume had never changed. Only the intensity of words and that singular stare. The corona lowered the stallion, gently placed him back onto the marble before winking out. "There's going to be riots," Crossing Guard stated. "We will do our best to avoid them," the Princess calmly replied. "I will be rather disappointed in you if the count reaches too far into the plural." "Organization/conspiracy/CUNET's going to go after her. All of the opposition papers. Everypony." It felt as if he was talking about someone who wasn't there. "Mr. Guard?" Cerea tried. The disc, after rapidly passing through several terms which threatened to blister the tips of her ears, eventually rendered the resulting sounds as "You wait." Cerea shut up. "This has been discussed," the Princess said. He turned to face his ruler. "And the reason you didn't tell me I was being brought here to process a centaur?" "Well," the dark mare shrugged, "if we are to be completely sincere with each other, especially as I recognize that you have been speaking with something less than full decorum towards me... there is no living pony of your generation who possesses more experience in dealing with the other sapient races. You have done your best to understand them, to bring them into our society, to defuse the conflicts which arise when cultures inevitably clash. There are times when you have managed to think as they do. A rare talent, Crossing, and one which the palace needs more than ever. And as the pony who not only possesses so much experience, but one who thought he was sacrificing his magic by drawing Tirek's attention so his department's staff could escape... I wished to see how you would deal with a centaur on first sight when you knew, simply based on the fact that I had brought you to her, that she was no threat." He took an exceptionally slow breath. "We've known each other for a while now." "Nearly two and a half years," the Princess said. "Since I resumed that part of my duties." "We've had a few meetings." "Yes. With and without soy." "You also just wanted to see my face." Cerea was really hoping that wasn't a smile. "I believe I said that," the Princess stated. "I will expect you back tomorrow, at whatever hour your duties permit. To assist her with the paperwork. Fully legal, Crossing. I wish this to be tied with a full/unbreakable/," and then, much to Cerea's surprise, "latigo knot." The stallion tightly nodded. Turned to face Cerea again. "Tomorrow," he said. She managed to nod back. "Tomorrow," the Princess said. "For now, return to your family. Please pass on my best wishes to Tarter." She stepped aside, freeing the passage, and so the last view Cerea had of her new supervisor was of a hard-lashing tail. The Princess stepped into the room. "A strong first meeting, I think," she said. "In all truth, better than I had expected. However, the fact that rumors have reached him..." She slowly shook her head. "One could see it as a chance for those who hear the stories to consider the thought in advance. And one probably should not. So. Shall we move on to your second meeting?" Cerea blinked. "Someone else? Tonight?" "Yes," the dark mare said. "As we are trying to prepare you in all aspects. Follow me, centaur." I don't think he likes me. It wasn't a good thought to have about the individual who was effectively going to be in charge of her. But then, she'd never gotten the impression that Ms. Smith liked her very much either. Admittedly, that was because the household tended to create a lot of work for someone who claimed a medical allergy to responsibility... "This particular meeting," the Princess said, trotting slightly ahead down the marble corridor, "was actually the more difficult to arrange." "Oh," Cerea said, mostly because she hadn't said much of anything during the first meeting and, given the way she'd been discussed, was feeling the need to remind herself that she was still there. "We actually have a preference in the matter," was the oddly disgruntled follow-up. "But as it so happens, there is a mission, and we have no way to know when it will end. So rather than wait for the return of our first choice, Princess Celestia and I have been scouring the ranks for a worthy second. Somepony flexible. Open-minded. And who could, of course, be sworn to secrecy." "Oh," Cerea tried, mostly because it had worked before. The next words were so chill as to drop the temperature in the hallway by five degrees. "Being willing to actually follow through on their claims was also seen as a positive." Cerea looked closely at the lashing tail, along with the way some of the stars within it seemed to be rearranging themselves. "I don't --" "-- generations," the Princess irritably declared. "There have been generations of them, and they all possess the same false battlecry. 'I can work with you!', they will declare. 'You are an inspiration to me!' Keeping in mind that they do so without ever having been in our presence. Most of the declarations emerge at parties, and float into the air on a sea of drink. And when they are challenged to prove themselves? Brought into the palace to confirm their boasts? What happens then, I ask you?" She didn't even know what they were talking about, and the temperature was continuing to drop. "I'm --" "-- one claimed hysterical blindness." "...what?" "The inability to see. Or rather, the inability to see us. In fact, for the rest of his life, he declared that only a single rather narrow range could still be registered by his vision." The dark mare snorted. "You might find it rather interesting that his work had already been reflecting such." In lieu of response, Cerea's arms moved to cover her chest. A glance up found icicles beginning to form on the ceiling. "Oh, and there was that one who said she simply needed some privacy in order to work. Which I imagine she eventually found after crossing the third border and changing her name for the sixth time." "Um..." "I would be neglectful if I failed to mention the pony who found a means of mistaking us for parade floats." "Er." The air felt as if it was thickening in her nostrils. There was a mild burn entering her lungs, and she wished it would relocate to her skin. Scenting anything was starting to become impossible, and the olfactory world blurred blue. "And I continue to do my duty to history by never mentioning her name," the Princess spat: the globule bounced off the floor. "Although at the very least, her efforts were put on public display prior to the age of photography." "Oh." "Regardless, I will not rest until I find that one painting." Cerea swallowed. Her hands briefly rubbed against her goosebump-covered arms, then quickly went back to where they had been. "However," the Princess said, "in this case... we found somepony who has experience in the other nations. And lacking in her own label, which appears to help the process." Label? A dark suspicion began to move on hoof edge through Cerea's mind. The primary effect was to make the chill spread faster. "A humble practitioner of her craft," the dark mare added. "Which in this case means that all the space generally occupied by ego has instead been devoted to talent. And so I am confident in her ability to work with you." The air was actually beginning to warm again, which was mostly indicated by the little patter of meltwater from above. Cerea, whose frozen sensation was now fully internal, didn't notice. "I --" "So. This door..." The dark energy opened it, and an elderly bespectacled unicorn mare jumped roughly a meter straight back before falsely recovering into a weak, frantic smile. One which fully ignored all of the supplies which had just been jolted from her saddlebags, which included the pins and spools and needles and everything else which Cerea's desperate eyes was sending as direct alert signals to all four legs. Everything except the worst of it, which only needed an extra horrible second to appear. "Hello," the quavering voice managed, and pale yellow light unfurled the measuring tape. "So where would you like me to start?" There were several ways to regard what instantly followed. For starters, from Cerea's perspective, logic happened. The Princess disagreed. "...and that's the arms done," the elderly mare said. "Raise them, please." Both of Cerea's bare arms went up. "Thank you." "You are welcome," the Princess said from her place at Cerea's side. Her eyes were tightly closed, and the dark head was facing away from the centaur girl. "Are they raised sufficiently?" "Yes..." The tape slowly floated forward. Cerea's eyes watched it approach, at least for those moments when she could focus her gaze at all. Most of her time in the room had found them rolled partially back or, as with the current case, treating every levitated object as it it was the most recent shark to emerge from an endless frenzy. "You are fortunate," the Princess softly said. Cerea didn't say anything. "In that I am rather uniquely qualified to recognize a phobic reaction." And, in fact, couldn't. "Even when it manifests in the body of a centaur. The commonalities help, of course. The rearing back, the attempt to pivot on a single hoof, the desperate blind gallop for any available exit... clearly a phobia in play. As I explained to Corsetiere Garter, at least once the screams had stopped." At all. "The majority of which were yours." No matter how hard she tried. "Admittedly, the exact reason why you would display such a reaction upon learning that somepony wished to clothe you remains a mystery. Regardless, we proceed." The measuring tape moved close enough for Cerea to see the symbols on it. She assumed some of them were numbers, and knew the results were about to be humiliating. "You could stop struggling," the Princess quietly suggested. "I can feel you straining against my field. I am also perfectly capable of holding you perfectly still for a very long time, with the exception of when I am asked to move some portion of your undressed body. Nor can you blush hotly enough to burn your way out. And since the evidence suggests that we are best off getting this over with..." The evil, accursed, horrifying tape dropped down. "So let's do the bust measurement," the seamstress said. "Underbust first, of course. Lift, please." The dark corona focused. Intensified. Please let me die. She didn't get her wish. "And overbust." The old mare squinted. "Let's see. Fullest part..." Please don't let her say it out loud. She didn't get that one either.