//------------------------------// // Wayward // Story: Daily Equestria Life With Monster Girl // by Estee //------------------------------// Fear wears many masks. The existence of the centaur has inspired a number of such disguises, and her presence makes every last one drop away. The emotion often tries to operate from concealment, because so many of those experiencing it don't want to deal with what truly lurks at the core. There are ways in which this is similar to the sapient response to pain, and this may be because fear is supposed to be an avoidant measure. But fear, like pain, can be seen as a flawed system. Pain is meant as an alert signal: there is something wrong with this part of your form, and now you must think about how to fix that. And that's how it works -- at the lower levels. When the degree of wounding has mere aches left far behind, with lightning searing across nerves and cells twisting against themselves... that's when pain drowns out thought. You can't work out a plan for how to respond. You can't focus or direct. Existence becomes something spent thrashing useless limbs in a flailing attempt to kick away inner fire, and any partial thoughts which surface on the sea of lava will be nothing more than a desperate wish for the final end. Fear is, in many ways, the mind's way of trying to prevent pain: physical, emotional, psychological. You stay away from the things which can hurt you. But the system is flawed, because fear can be an emotion of shame. Even for a herd species, so often reacting as a collective entity, there's a need to account for yourself -- at least once the concept of 'self' returns. And admitting to fear? For some, that feels like a confession of weakness. What kind of sapient are they, unable to master such a base reaction? So fear disguises itself. The adjustment of lips into a sneer, the stomping of a hoof: anything which makes it look like some other reaction is taking place. That's how the sapient justifies their actions, because they're not afraid at all: it's clearly something else. Something which would be more acceptable -- if only to themselves. But in the presence of the girl... Fear tries to hide, making itself invisible to the one going through it. A different exterior appearance can be adopted -- but the scent remains the same. It doesn't matter how the disguise tries to come across: it's all terror at the core, and that distinctive odor will cut through any visible shielding layers a sapient might construct. Imagine what it's like, trying to conceal fear in the girl's presence. Recognize that no matter what you might try in terms of bluster and steadfast stance, it just doesn't work. That she'll know. She'll always know. Now imagine what it was like for the girl within her herd. To live in a society where everyone always knows. The gap had need of formality, because words were another way to attempt placing shielding layers over scent. There was also a demand for certain herbal concoctions: things which, applied to skin and fur, could neutralize the body's natural scents for a time. However, those were seen by the mares as a double-edged sword: if improperly brewed, they would have a scent of their own, the only thing anyone could detect from you for hours -- and how weak were you, so unable to master your emotions as to require that level of concealment? And yet the concoctions were brewed. Any meeting between herd leaders (so infrequent during the centuries of hiding, with travel almost impossible across the great distances) would likely see them used on all sides, because negotiations of pacts and trade didn't benefit from having the other side recognize how you were really feeling about the latest subclause. But for the girl... for the filly... Imagine it. That you're afraid of coming in second yet again, of disappointing your parent in the best way you know how and can't ever seem to prevent. You're at the starting line for the race, or waiting to begin the fight from your corner of the arena, taking a place in the line which shuffles towards the newest of contests -- and you're afraid. Straighten your spine. Lock the shoulders. All tail movement is stilled. None of that matters. You're afraid, and everyone around you knows it. Do they decide you're already beaten? Is there a moment of sympathy which none will dare to voice? Or are they simply seeing you as being weak, nothing worth associating with... And when you lose again (because you almost always do and when you win, you're immediately shunted into fighting against those you can't hope to match), when you face your parent... she knows how you feel. The air is saturated with your failure, and that's the way it will be for every last moment of your life. All of the time spent within the herd. The filly was afraid, and so there were those who always saw her as weak. Because they could scent the fear -- but not the reason for it. And when emotions are so readily apparent, there are those who dismiss anything so petty as cause. And still... ultimately, fear is all about how you use it. Or for those wearing the disguises, how it uses them. Pain prevents thought. Fear distorts it. When the terror is thinking for you... The sisters are watching the protests again. It's becoming a routine: something which disturbs elder and younger in equal measure. They try to share as much time as possible, during the period of waking overlap. First and last meals together. Consultations. Every so often, pursuits through marble hallways because each not only knows exactly how to irritate the other, but recognizes the sibling need to occasionally knock somepony down by a few hoofheights. A reminder that no matter what others might believe, they are simply ponies. Things they do together, and some of those activities are enjoyed. Even bureaucratic drudgery becomes easier when it's being confronted by a pair. But for the last few days (and twice in each cycle), they each find themselves making their way to the balcony. The meeting generally takes place somewhere along the hidden passageways. There will be a pause for the younger to cover them in illusion, and then... they witness what their kindness has wrought. The younger is fully immune to all but her own magical cold: the elder forever serves as a source of heat. And yet there have been times when both have shivered, because winter will be brought into their nation soon. The coldness of the protesters' hearts serves as an early frost for the soul. Each has whispered dark jests, watching from the tower: the most recent was about how the increasing chill may be about to finally prove the existence of windigos. But there's no real humor in it. The words fail to serve as distraction for the mind while the eyes search for the spread of symbols. Ears pick up on the latest version of the chants. And the scent... in this kind of population, it's easy to pick up on the emotion behind all of it. The real one, even as those who march and shout refuse to recognize the true source of everything. More members of the general population show up every day. Those with real jobs just put in a few hours when they can spare the time. Some parents have been bringing their children. CUNET is still there, of course. But in terms of both proximity and what almost looks like actual communication, the sisters are starting to perceive the beginnings of a very strange alliance. Mrs. Panderaghast is at the head of a unicorn superiority group. The siblings know it, and each has enjoyed a mirthless laugh when that mare screams that anypony openly saying so is demonstrating the only real bigotry. But all of the pony species host those who feel themselves to be superior. There are pegasi who will do anything they can to avoid descent, believing that the possession of wings has truly put them above it all. Some earth ponies decide that coronas and techniques mean nothing compared to one solid kick in the snout, followed by spending the rest of their lives seeking opportunities to demonstrate. When looking at those groups who believe themselves to be better, CUNET is simply the loudest, among the largest and, at least when it comes to fundraising, the most organized. And they have a few earth pony and pegasus members, all suffering from a near-fatal combination of low self-esteem and horn envy. But when it comes to the other clusters which float atop the sea of ponies in a manner similar to pond scum... you wouldn't normally expect them to associate. There's a certain fundamental disagreement in core philosophy which nopony among them can get past without casualties. The sisters are familiar with all of the major groups: trying to maintain harmony means keeping an eye on those who wish to break it. Each can spot the leaders from a fortieth-gallop away. And that's why they know that some of those ponies are now in direct proximity. Talking. The next dark jest comes from the younger, and concerns the remote chance for a permanent improvement in relations. But they both understand what's happening. The pegasus representative exists in a self-imposed state where he's better than any earth pony or unicorn. The earth pony knows him to be wrong, and the unicorn has Proof that they're both idiots. Everypony in that triad hates everypony (and usually everyone) else -- but each has told the others that they loathe the centaur. They have agreed that Equestria is for ponies. They'll just work out which ponies later. The sisters have studied such groups, and done so across the course of centuries. They used to be more prevalent, especially during the Unification. The vast majority of settlements which emerged from the Discordian Era were single-race, saw the others as competition, raiders, and thieves -- something which wasn't always false -- and so had some natural objections to being Unified. But in modern times... There was a question as to how such groups brought in new members. They investigated, and found certain commonalities in the majority of fresh recruits. They were ponies who didn't have friends. They were ponies who didn't have much of anything at all. Quite a few of them were poor. They generally wouldn't have outstanding looks: those who did usually lacked personalities to match or had been especially unlucky in love. Their marks were among the most common icons, which meant their talents weren't anything which wasn't duplicated over and over again throughout the rest of the population. They were ponies leading the sort of lives which faded into the background: still the main character in their own play, but it was one which nopony else cared to watch. They were discontent with their lot. Few of them would understand why anypony's life should be better than theirs. Some refused to put in the effort required to improve themselves: others had simply failed too often to try again. They were often dreamers, and the younger knew that what they dreamed about was respect. Finding some way of making others recognize their greatness, when the world itself had not. They wanted to be special. And then somepony would see them, because they were so easy to spot -- at least for anypony who knew to look. And that pony, their friend, the first friend they'd had in so very long... would tell them they didn't have to do anything to be special. Because they already were. They were an earth pony (or a unicorn, or a pegasus). That was what made them special. More than that: it made them better. They were so often ponies who had nothing: friends, resources, rare skills, or intellect. And here was somepony who told them they'd had the only thing worth possessing all along. Wings (or a horn, or raw strength). Look at all of those ponies (and others) who don't have that! The new recruit was better than all of them! They were born better, and it was something which took no effort to maintain... It was all they had wanted. To be special. And now they could exist in that state, knowing that roughly two-thirds of a nation had just become their lessers. It was also something like believing that you were superior due to the birth hue of your fur, only with a lot less public laughter and a total lack of ponies dousing you with dye. The sisters did whatever they could to remind each other that in the end, they were but ponies -- and part of that came from the fact that in form, they were two out of what was currently an all-time high for the alicorn population: four. They had access to every category of magic but that of the crystals (and both were wondering what would happen when the inevitable emigration from the Empire truly began). Power which no other ponies possessed, along with living without aging and a responsibility which felt as if it might never end. Something which could so easily set them apart. Which had the potential to make them think in a different way. Believing themselves superior. All of the groups were a reminder of what would happen if their minds began to gallop down such channels. It was usually enough. Still... they had wondered what it had to feel like, believing such things. They were each thinking about it again, staring down with worried eyes at that strange alliance. To exist under the faith that the most important thing about yourself was your race. It didn't matter if others were smarter, stronger, faster, wealthier, because all of those things were either transient, falsehoods, or conspiracies. You didn't have to be educated because you were a pegasus. You didn't need to be skilled because you were a unicorn. Mere social niceties were useless compared to the status bestowed by the body of an earth pony. Perhaps it was the only notable thing about you, and that made it all the more important. And for all of them, it was something they'd always had. There was nothing in the world which could take that self-imposed superiority away -- -- except for the touch of a blade. Strength would vanish. Wings drooped. Coronas winked out. That was what had brought the groups together. There were so many times when fear passed itself off as hatred. The centaur understands that the old stallion isn't afraid. Not of her, at least. She's fairly sure that he's capable of experiencing fear, but also feels that he mostly does so in regards to what might happen with others. His recruits, after all, and there's a certain degree of possessiveness to that. She recognizes that what he's doing on her first day back at the training grounds wasn't born from fear. It still doesn't make the experience any less excruciating. He hasn't asked her about Blitzschritt, possibly because she was expecting him to do so and he seldom works with what she perceives as natural timing. Instead, the day began with a rather thorough, expert chewing-out and with the flat teeth of a pure herbivore involved, that left her ears feeling as if the remnants had been flattened against her skull. The Sergeant wanted to know why she'd kept her olfactory capabilities hidden. This was followed by not letting her get in any degree of excuse for it, which was also the point where 'expert' began to nervously step aside so 'epic' could have the floor. And once the mountain stopped bouncing back the echoes... The Sergeant doesn't smile. It's almost impossible for the girl to picture him as ever having been young, and Nightwatch went further than that. In the little knight's opinion, the old stallion was never born: he simply rasped his way into the world. But once the yelling stopped and the newest round of exercises had mentally wearied her to a new level of perception, she started to see an aspect of youth in him. As far as the centaur is concerned, the Sergeant is (in his own way) acting exactly like a colt with a new toy: eager to find out what it can do through pushing it to the breaking point. It's just that in this case, he's on the verge of breaking her nose. There was a brief discussion about the pony sense of smell, because he wanted her to understand where the baseline was -- along with where the edge cases had to stop. The majority of ponies could, under normal circumstances, pick up on the scent of emotion -- if those feelings were present in bulk. Somepony approaching a herd which was under the sway of a single mood could probably figure out what that mood was, in the last second before they potentially fell to it. Some monsters had their own reek which was detectable by anypony with functional nostrils, and a number of marks provided a magical enhancement to the sense: trackers could manifest that kind of capability, but it was more often seen in cooks. She's beyond all of that. (Any centaur qualifies there and in her own herd, she would have been no better than second.) And as far as he's concerned, it's a weapon. The training grounds have been set up differently today. The wind changes every few meters, because he wants to know what her range is. How well she can detect from downwind, if there's any trace odors which get through against an upwind current. Various sources of scent have been placed in the area. Some of them are subtle, and he needs to find out what the least she can detect might be. Others are foul, because he saw how the scent bomb disabled her and so he wants her to fight against that: get as close as she can while still maintaining control, then hold her ground while he adds something worse to the mix... The Sergeant believed her when she told him about odor discrimination and how she'd trained herself to fight against the stink of the human world. (It was the first time she'd ever really told him anything about humans.) He just claimed not to understand why she'd ever relaxed. The most recent order has her approaching, one forced hoofstep at a time, something dark and bubbling. She can't quite find a way to tell him that he's just about replicated the stench of freshly-coated blacktop, mostly because she'd probably have to explain blacktop. And as she approaches, he asks questions. What the most subtle scent she's ever detected is. Whether there's anything where registering presence would set off an instinctive gallop. How much she's identified when it comes to the emotional reactions of ponies, which means he also needs to know which gaps have to be filled in. She feels she understands why he's demanding to know all of it, along with the reason he's postponed the first team exercise for a day. But it'll be a long time before the girl recognizes why he's truly so angry about her not having said anything, and won't take anything like 'It's natural for me...' as an excuse. There can be another side to such questions. This was demonstrated by the creator of a false documentary, who had endless queries regarding how she slept, why she had adopted a traditional Japanese style for her room instead of bringing in a rustic French look, and... how her anatomy worked. He kept telling her that the best way to make humans relate to her was to show them what was most human about her form. All of it, because he also wanted her to take off the blouse. Others wanted to know how fast she could gallop. Could she outrun a motorcycle? A car? What would they need to use in order to catch her? How strong was she, and how much would be required to overwhelm her? Humans would ask liminals all sorts of questions. Some of those inquiries came in public, no matter who was around them or how loud the objections were. A number decided to simply acquire the information through physical contact. The centaur had been groped. One had wanted to know how firmly Papi's feathers were attached, and made the determination through yanking. (The harpy had been cradled against her for a while after that, until the sobbing stopped.) And all of it had happened while the humans involved knew the liminals weren't allowed to anything which could be interpreted as fighting back. It was easy to hear the words which lurked beneath the questions. How different are you? What's the best way to stop you? Is there any means of destroying -- Ultimately, that was why she didn't tell him about the Second Breath: not just the need to keep something to herself, but because she was listening to the echoes which still resounded in her ears from Japan and France alike. But there are many possible reasons for questions. And in the time to come, the girl will recognize why the Sergeant acted as he did. He needs to understand what she's capable of because he's trying to keep her alive. Some of the humans were trying to figure out the best way to kill her. Fear can masquerade as curiosity. It's quiet in the classroom. It's... been quiet for a while, and the teacher still isn't used to it. There should be failed attempts at subtle whispers, notes being poorly passed between students. She knows her class, because she teaches in one of the school systems which felt that children might have an easier time learning without a constantly-changing babble of voices in their ears. It means that as they advanced, she moved with them. It's been several years with the same group now and considering just who that group contains, most of her trips to professional conferences eventually wind up listening as a number of her peers try to apologize. She can't claim to love the chaos any more than she can say, with any degree of a straight face, that she's capable of fully controlling it. There are those on the school board who felt that meant the ongoing disasters of the Crusade were her fault, and the blame eventually turned into a prod: out of Ponyville East, reassigned to the North schoolhouse because they weren't completely sure about their ability to fire her either. The transfer lasted for all of ten days, and it mostly got that far because after a trio of substitutes quit during the first nine, the lead board member personally stepped in on the last because keeping reign (and reins) on her old class couldn't be that hard. The teacher got a raise out of that one, although she mostly asked for it because it was the only way to make the stallion temporarily stop begging. In truth, it's become easier over the last sixteen moons or so. The Crusade ended, because... because it had to end: like so many futile enterprises, it contained the seeds of its own destruction from the very first day. That did a lot to lessen the number of disasters, although the count hasn't exactly dropped to zero. Some of her students will be connected to the Bearers through bonds of blood and love for life, and with the rest -- it's still Ponyville. Even so, things change. It's the nature of both time and simply growing up. She can look around the too-quiet classroom from behind what so often feels not so much like a desk and more like a barely-anchored raft, looking at those changes whenever she likes. Wider wingspans here, an increase in height there. Somepony's trying to style her mane again and doing no better than the first few times. Truffle's lost weight. It started as something she was glad to see: the colt (and so much closer to stallion now) had been approaching the point where the extra mass could be unhealthy. But the tenth-bales continued to drop away, and now... she's been watching him during the lunch break. Seen how he just barely picks at his food. There are times when Silver's body jerks upon her bench. Others when it's more of a start. Glasses and wood jump in concert, and one crashes down after the other. Sweetie and Diamond now sit at adjacent desks. That happened on the first day of the new session. She lets them choose their own desks, because it's her first chance to see how the social strata is settling: she can always separate troublemakers later. But even after the Crusade ended and Diamond began to find some degree of truce with the world, there was a distance between the fillies. Something which felt as if it might never be bridged. School began again, and did so even after everything which had happened during the summer. They all trotted in, and then... Sweetie and Diamond sat next to each other. Without a glance, without a word. Those are held back until recess. They talk now, although the tones are low and tend to stop whenever anypony else gets too close. Rest close together in browning grass, within beams of sunlight which never seem to warm their fur. The teacher knows what young love looks like. Crushes, the times of first experimentation. This isn't any of it. They aren't attracted to each other, and they aren't quite friends. They shared an experience, and it pushed them together. United under the crushing weight of guilt. She can't claim to love the chaos, and the same could be said of the fillies... ...before. That's where some of the guilt comes from. She's spoken to Mr. Rich a few times. The Belle family, Truffle's parents. All of them. She knows exactly how many of her students are currently seeing therapists, along with the number who should be. Her class is too quiet because the youthful joy which creates the typical level of wondrous disturbance (it would be wondrous now, if only it would start again) has yet to fully recover. They need help: something she recognizes on the level of her mark. A way to heal. But the one who stepped in may never do so, the source of their pain is locked away, and... The letter from the Princess is currently in her desk. She spoke about it with her class, because there are some orders which the teacher cannot give. (In the end, it was a request.) As it is, she won't be bringing all of them. Some came to her after that session, waited for privacy and then said they couldn't face it. Two more were willing, but -- if there's ever a situation which required parent-signed permission slips, it's this one: the same drawer also hosts a pair of furious NOs, along with one demand for her immediate resignation just for having asked. But the rest will be coming. They're just waiting on arrangements, and the setting of a final date. There are other classes of students who could have been the first, all over the continent. It might be possible to find another group which was just about equally wounded, especially in the capital. But these are her students, and they need to heal. Her desperate hope is that this is what allows bleeding souls to finally stop the flow. That's her motive for going. She should have spent more time asking about theirs. Fear can disguise itself as confrontation. It's not that news doesn't reach the mountains. Current events are just typically regarded as being unimportant. The ibex exist in a history which slips across the slopes of time, and that means they really don't have much regard for minor pebbles captured as ink. There are boulders which don't necessarily get much of a reaction. When Sun was hours late in rising? There's a level of gratitude for the existence of the Princess because the majority of sapients both appreciating waking up in the morning and having a morning they can wake up to -- but they don't think much of her as a person. The Princess has always made an effort to gallop with the times, fearing that retaining all the beliefs of her youth would lock her into a statue made of outdated perspectives: still flesh on the outside, but with stone having paralyzed the brain. To the ibex, this makes her dangerously changeable. Unreliable, and they continue to hold that view even after nearly thirteen hundred years of relative orbital stability. (Relative. The annual Return Day eclipses, created through a unique effort of sibling teamwork, are seen as a bad sign.) More time spent in the dark would have led to the panic which gripped nearly all of the world on that too-long night. But for the duration they experienced -- they felt they understood what the cause was, which made them choose to simply wait it out. The Princess was unreliable, and so all the absence of Sun indicated was somepony who didn't understand why she wasn't allowed to sleep in. (The reaction to finding out the real reason wasn't much better. A thousand years with one ruler, and now there were two? Some nations just didn't know how to maintain stability.) By contrast, the signs of Discord's escape didn't quite reach the mountains -- or rather, would not have gotten that far without personal attention. The barricade points of the Discordian Era were, in part, created by the presence of sapient populations: the sisters believe that the gathering of thinking minds in relatively large numbers created some collective ability to resist weaker, purely passive changes. It's different for the ibex, because their magic is rooted in stability. The draconequus could have taken the mountains, at any time he desired to do so. It's just that... he would have had to work for it. Just a little (in his opinion), which made it into the sort of thing which he'd decided to wait for. Having fun elsewhere, easy mirth erupting from the ground itself just before soil converted to sea... there was so much more of the planet where that could be accomplished with relative lack of effort. The ibex were simply being saved for later, because there's nothing quite like the humor found in watching the faces of those who thought they were safe. So during the escape, there was blue sky over the peaks -- and, off in the distance, surrounding purple. The ibex recalled their history, checked the records as a form of backup, reconciled to the long haul for something which didn't really affect them, began the preliminary process of eventually considering the possibility of debates on what to do with any potential refugees -- and by the time the first potential subclause had almost been checked off, everything had been restored. They never noticed the changelings, because no member of any hive has ever tried to infiltrate ibex society. A species with the call for a personal twisting built into their very being recognized a certain difficulty in pretending to be the opposite. Besides, the appearance of altered hooves doesn't work on the slopes. And with the most recent event... As a rule, ibex don't really keep up with current events, because they don't see pebbles as distorting the flow of time. Some of the boulders can even be worn away. But there still has to be some tracking for what's going on in the rest of the world, just so a few of them can explain the things which are in no way important. It means that every so often, a designated reader will go down the slopes until they reach the level where the rest of the species begin to consider crude attempts at mountaineering equipment. It'll take a few minutes to empty yellowed missives from the waterproof box, and then some level of review will occur. If there's anything regarded as being vaguely interesting, it'll be mentioned to the herd queen. Tirek never reached the mountains, and part of the reason was the entity in the palace's tallest tower, forced into what he would regard as insulting stability through the forced stillness of air. But the ibex learned about that centaur. They came to understand what Tirek had done, and decided that it wasn't important. He had been defeated: that alone meant he couldn't have been that much of a threat in the first place. Besides, if he had reached them, they would have stood against him. They had maintained in the face of Discord. What could Tirek be, compared to that? One who had not been able to face their collective power, against one who would have simply -- -- taken it. ...no. They could have withstood him. They maintain. It's been a few moons. Winter is coming, and while ibex have no trouble moving in the snow (which sometimes refuses to crunch under their hooves), truly heavy quantities of missives, newspapers, and the very rare package ordered by someone who decides there's a need for outside goods... it can become damp while being dragged. So it's time to bring the next load up, just to have that much less for the next time. There's news. There always is. No portion truly affects the mountains, and that means none of it is important. But there's also another centaur. The designated reader mulls that over for a while, and then switches into a sort of mental rumination. After a while, the cud of consideration decides it's something the herd queen should probably know about. So the articles are packed away, the bundle is hauled to a proper elevation, and after those few who received boxes drag them away in shame, the reader heads off to the briefing. The new centaur is discussed. It takes very little time to decide she is in no way important. She didn't reach the mountains, and being in the custody of the foolish palace means she will likely never come anywhere near the ibex. She has no reason to approach. And if she did... they would stand against her, steadfast and unyielding. As they have stood against everything across the centuries of sliding time, as they would have stood against that which drained magic and now, if necessary, the one who -- -- negates it... ...she isn't important. The rest of the world is trying to deal with something new: their eternal mistake. A change. But the mountains remain. It could be said that the ibex are afraid of change, and there are times when fear disguises itself as dismissal. And ultimately, that effort will fail. The centaur will come to the mountains. The little knight is becoming fed up with her bed. She misses her old mattress. She'd never realized just how thoroughly the springs in the lost apartment had become molded to her form. There were probably faint divots off to the sides, because she's been known to flare a wing during an especially-active dream. And as for the blankets... it's sort of a galloping joke among the Guard that no matter how spartan the government service life is supposed to be, every last pony among them permits themselves some form of luxury. (Nopony has ever been able to figure out what the Sergeant's is. The best guess is that he occasionally allows himself to sleep while prone.) Acrolith spends a good portion of her salary on exotic spices. Squall collects graphic novels, and has never quite been able to explain the why. And in retrospect, the pegasus liked to snuggle under the deepest, thickest softness available. (She'd even been considering saving up for a Cumulus: a miniature cloud squared off for bedding and saturated with techniques to the point where anyone could sleep on it. And as for the company's pillows -- pegasus heat-shifting, enchanted into that part of her bedding, would mean never again having to flip anything over to the cool side.) But now she's living in the palace basement. It's made her realize that there's something to be said for support thicker than a single hoofwidth. When it comes to the blankets available in the barracks, she's starting to suspect the last resupply of anything bedding-related was performed while the palace was in the middle of an ancient budget crunch. The current projected thread count of any local sheets has a high end of 'one.' It's something which encourages thoughts of moving. The Princesses have offered her advances on her pay: the implied interest rate for any such grant tops out at zero. Anything she might need to help her find a new place in the capital. But she doesn't feel like it's safe. No Guard has much of a problem with risking her own life, but the little knight feels as if she's currently a danger to everypony around her. It's not impossible to have the same faction strike twice, and the last time... She asks for updates on the foal's condition, as much as she can get away with. The answers never change. Moving has to wait until the world is a calmer place, and she doesn't know how long that might take. So for now, she's reconciled herself to the barracks. At least the bathing area is good, and... ...if she could find a place -- she doesn't feel as if she should. Not just yet. Because she sort of has a roommate, at least as far as that term can apply for two sapients whose schedules don't share all that much waking overlap. And the girl... She's wondered what it was like, in that strange household. If the centaur was more confident there, or... if the presence of five live-in rivals made everything worse. A game which never declared time-out, where one opponent was something very much like a sister, another was at least cared for, and only a single female could ever win. Dining, laughing, living with those you were forever at war with, in the battle for a single heart. The pegasus isn't even sure if any of them could have won. Interspecies marriages, outside of the three main pony races... there are a few in Equestria. Crossing Guard once mentioned there were four extant griffon-pony unions (something much more common in Protocera), along with the fact that he was sick of the non-jokes about how the omnivore of the pair had just decided to stock a live-in snack. It's somewhat easier for ponies and zebras, at least in avoiding the need for an adoption agency: those unions are cross-fertile. And anypony who works in the palace long enough will see the Bearers pass through, along with getting the chance to witness how the little dragon stays so close to the white unicorn mare. There are times when the interest is there, and a few where those desperate hopes find themselves fulfilled -- but only a few. And the hardest requirement is finding that other who's not just interested in exploring the social and sexual possibilities offered by another species, but who loves you. An experience for a night can be located more readily than the union for a lifetime. And the human... was he simply intrigued by the possibilities created through having so many females pursuing him? Were his tastes so wide-ranging as to find potential contentment in any one of them? Or would he have... tried them for a while? A touch of fur, the brush of feathers, and... whatever the other three could offer, followed by a return to his own kind. Perhaps he had been better than that. It was possible that he had loved the girl in all ways but the physical. The pegasus doesn't know, and when it comes to the centaur... ...the little knight can't leave the barracks. Not yet. The girl needs somepony who listens to her. Somepony who doesn't run, who can tell her that... she's better than she believes herself to be. When there's an attack, a crisis, something which threatens to hurt or worse -- Guards get in the way. And the pegasus believes that right now, it has to apply to a girl who's forever on the verge of attacking herself. The fear has departed. The pegasus will not. For the filly, it is as if every square centimeter of the gap has turned into a watching eye. She understands about cameras. They are one of the things she's been taught to fear, at least when wielded within the hands of a human. (Years later, it will become another reason for her to distrust the one who falsely claims to be making a documentary, along with yet one more source of loathing towards those who record her morning gallops from smartphone lenses which peek out around the edges of curtains.) There are a number in her gap, but... they're hobby items, and expensive ones. The difficulty of smuggling anything in becomes compounded when supply drops, and just about every bit of electricity her herd can reliably tap is provided by batteries. Additionally, chemical compounds aren't just difficult to transport: they stink. It means that for those few mares who take an interest in photography, the best recourse is instant film. No reeking darkroom isolated from the rest of the herd, no desperate hoping to somehow acquire one of the few digital models which are powered by flashlight-suitable batteries alone: just point, shoot, hold your nose while the internal chemical load does its work, and they're done. But technology marches on and as digital photography continues its conquest, the availability of such things drops. By the time the filly's plan truly begins to work towards its conclusion, liminal gaps around the world make up nearly a seventh of all such orders, and when the supply finally runs out... The filly has been taught about cameras, which includes why the herd doesn't have access to most of them. She knows a little about micro-lenses from articles in magazines years past their prime, and while she seldom leaves the literary realm of knightly glory for the even more distant dreams of other genres, she does recognize the existence of monitor walls. Screens relaying information from dozens of rotating units to a single observer. She also understands that electricity is a short-term luxury in the gap, and so such setups are locally impossible -- -- but she's planning to commit a crime. And for a filly seeking to break the oldest of rules, every part of the gap feels as if it's watching. There are cells buried within the soil. There was a time when standing in the right place would let her hear the confined, because the prison has to be ventilated and so sounds travel through passages designed for air. The centaur voice was made to sing: an endless concert of pain has very little trouble rending its way through the octaves, and a mind which can no longer think about anything but the walls cannot care about what those sounds do to a quavering filly's heart. To be caught... her family is one of the oldest, her mother among the strongest, and that is why the filly believes that being caught will make her into the next occupant of that echoing cell. Because her mother will surely decide that as with everything else in the filly's life, the other way to prove that the parent is fair would be through treating the daughter more harshly than anyone else. It terrifies her. There are times when she has to isolate herself until the scent of her own fear can fade, others when those terrors make her retreat to the bathroom for relative privacy and the protection created by billowing steam. The herd does have hot water, the filly is an adolescent now... long bathing sessions are easier to explain. The bathroom also gives her an extra place to plan. It's harder than she ever thought it would be. She has to memorize every last patrol route, and memorization is the only option. Any privacy created by the implications of a personal bedroom only exist until her mother decides they don't any more: the filly's room can be searched at any time, generally under the pretense of cleaning. (Or rather, checking the results after the filly has cleaned, because personal examination is the best way to determine how inadequate those results were. The white glove test exists and with the mother's unfailing vision in play, is mostly redundant.) She can't sketch maps, because there's no safe place to hide them. Her home is out of the question, and when she moves the quest for a safe spot outside... every part of the gap has been explored. There isn't a single knothole in a tree which isn't excruciatingly familiar to someone. It feels as if any difference she creates, the smallest disruption to the earth where a stockpile has been buried -- it would have to be noticed. And once those supplies were found, there would be a chance of backtracking everything to her... (The easiest solution would be asking a friend to hold things for her. She... can't fulfill the central requirement.) She's familiar with the means of eliminating scent from objects: the best ways to cleanse those smuggled items which arrive while still radiating the stink of the human world. The filly has been using whatever she can get away with -- but even those stockpiles are limited, and if her mother notices that she's taking too much... It feels as if there are too many moving parts to the plan. The majority of those are created by patrolling mares, and all it will take to destroy her is a single adult wandering slightly off-course. It's unlikely, because the routes are so well-established as to have hooves moving on a level between instinct and autopilot -- but it could happen. The filly has been wondering about the best ways to watch for such deviant routes. The construction of a homemade periscope had initially felt like a possibility, but it's one more thing to carry and the tube itself would likely be noticed, especially if light flashed off the upper mirror. It might be more practical to just find a way of -- watching for a longer time. Eventually, she will have to turn and gallop: there's no helping that. But perhaps if she could find a way to gallop backwards... It's hard to find a way for the plan to work, and becoming more so with every passing week. There are endless opportunities for everything to go wrong, and too many arise from her own skin. When it comes to the day of enaction, she has something to try -- but there's too much time before that, and every last minute in her own household could see panic drift away from her fur as something very close to fog. Her mother cannot be given the chance to scent the trepidation. Nervousness. Anything. The filly has to master herself, because anything else might have her own body betray her. Sorrow is shameful. Angst is shameful. She cannot allow herself to feel, not in a way which others can detect. She has to appear normal, for as long as she can. It's the only chance she has. (Nothing about her existence is normal. The filly has no knowledge of her own state, and the young mare has yet to even partially reconcile anything. It is recognition buried on a level below dream.) (It is rising.) She can't draw maps: one more thing which could be found -- but accompanying patrols has allowed her to also memorize that much more of the terrain: that was part of the point. Storing supplies remains a problem, but she won't be carrying all that much to begin with. She simply has to account for every factor she can because that way, when she fails, she can at least tell herself that she tried. It's something she'll have to tell herself, because no one else will care to hear it. Especially as a poorly-chosen defense. Perhaps that will be what she screams from the heart of the chains, the last echo to bubble up from the soil which surrounds her cell. That she tried. She's afraid of the prison, of being confined forever. That fear has to be hidden, masked, made to look like nothing more than devotion to the herd. But the filly does not fear that she will die in the gap. She knows that to be the totality of her future, just as it's been for every one of the herd in all the generations which were lost. That's why she's leaving.