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// Chapter 2 Part 1 
// Story: Magical Medicine 
// by yellowbastion 
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Many facts brushed across your mind like tiny snowflakes during a gentle winter’s night snowfall. You are, thankfully, still the only human in Equestria. When you first arrived many years ago you forsook your Earthly given name and took up the Equestrian moniker of Anonymous. And now you have just woken up. From what you last remembered, you didn’t lie down and go to sleep, and you certainly don’t remember falling asleep. Right now you’re wide awake, which never happens, and not hung over, which was unusual for a Wednesday. You’re also standing, which you almost never willingly do if there was something even reasonably soft to sit on. Whatever was going on was a real head-scratcher for sure.

You’re wearing the finest clothes that you currently own. An extremely stylish, white, cotton t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. The shirt front is sporting your favorite smiling internet meme frog because you and other true meme believers know that internet memes will always be relevant, funny, and will never, ever get old. The back of the shirt says “Pepe” in your best attempt at using fountain pen ink to recreate Comic Sans because, as much as you love that frog, you hate having to explain it to every pony who asks. Now you can just turn your back to them and point, saving you precious seconds that you could otherwise spend doing anything else. It's not your fault that they can't read American. You can't read their dumb pony words, so it's only fair, really.

Your legs and legbenders are covered in god-tier relaxed-fit stone washed denim jeans which you refuse to let Rarity mend because the rips and holes make them more comfortable and the warm summer breeze feels good blowing across your freshly shaved bikini line. Covering your manly piggly wigglies you’re wearing simple white cotton socks, capped with proper shoes and not sandals because you’re not some sort of barbarian, and for some reason pony society refuses to see the sheer brilliance of Crocks. It’s your average, totally normal, fancy formal wear, basically. You could even wear a black stovepipe hat to finish your classy ensemble. Not that you actually own one, but you totally could, and it would look great on you. 

You peep your dazzling facelookers at your surroundings. You appear to be standing in some sort of volumetric haze that a lazy game developer might have used so they didn’t have to bother modeling an entire world beyond a few hundred feet, and not meters, because you are a gentleman and scholar. There’s a glittering field of stars overhead because paying five dollars for a store asset featuring blue sky and clouds would have been too expensive. The same sky was reflected in, what looks like water, at your feet. Probably because making grass look realistic would have been too difficult. You gave the watery ground an experimental couple of taps with your ensneakered foot to see if it rippled, which it didn’t. Despite the game developers being too lazy to even bother to program water physics, IGN would still have given it nine out of ten and called it Game if the Year. You give it a solid two at best. The water wasn’t even wet. Pretty much a fail right there, in your humble opinion. There could be some who would call it the most humblest of opinions, in fact. There wasn't anyone here that could disagree with you anyway.

Of course, now that you put that thought out into the world, the world decided to shove it harshly back in your face by immediately proving you wrong. Off in the distance a familiar shape emerged from the nondescript white void.
“What the actual hell,” you say to the smartest person in the room, which is you, obviously.

You’re clearly no longer alone in wherever this place is. They could disagree with your opinion on your most humble of opinions but you'll never ask them, especially not that person. The number one pony on your ’Top Ten Worst Princesses’ list is also here, wherever here is. Upon recognizing you she immediately opens her God damned mouth. As it turns out, this isn’t the usual dream where her mouth is full of millions of ever-moving razor sharp teeth, her gaping skull hole buzzing like a Vitamix® Plus+ blender full of Africanized murder-hornets that have been horribly mutated to be extra aggressive. Rather than the expected attempt to leap at you like a hungry house cat would a field mouse, in an attempt to eat your face like she would do in your usual nightmare, she speaks, which is somehow even worse. Women, am I right?

“Oh, hello Anonymous. Of all creatures, I didn’t expect to see you here. Weren’t you supposed to be on your way back home by now?”, Princess Celestia asked you.

That's when your forgotten memories came flooding back to you. You remembered where you were before you had arrived in lame-space and you wish you hadn't.