//------------------------------// // Estranged // Story: Daily Equestria Life With Monster Girl // by Estee //------------------------------// Afterwards, there was a certain difficulty in reconstructing the final series of events. Some aspects of the issue were based in microscale geography. Others were sociopolitical, and there also tended to be a certain overlay of species. At one point, after the sisters had returned to the palace, Luna irritably noted that they hadn't so much been laboring to assemble the details of a mystery as they'd laid the groundwork for what was probably going to be somepony's thesis paper. Because there had been a confrontation, and then there had been fear. Or rather, there had been more fear. Things could happen to the pony mind when rationality found itself clamped in the jaw grip of terror and as far as the siblings could determine, the conclusion of the party had involved every last one. The sort of panic which triggered survival instinct -- that could create a sort of hyperfocus, where a pony was aware of everything which might hurt them -- and very little else. It was a state which effectively discarded sapience in favor of something faster and when a pony came out of it, they would often have trouble recalling the exact details of what had set them off in the first place. And there was a ready solution for that kind of confusion: if you weren't sure as to just what you'd seen, then you turned to your neighbor for a second opinion. If witnesses could be quickly separated, isolated long enough to let them truly plumb the depths of memory -- that was when you had the best chance to get the truth out of a group. But if you put enough recently-terrified ponies in a small area, it created a sort of free-roaming improvisational story troupe. Anything which had truly taken place would rapidly be replaced by what they thought they'd seen: for some, this would automatically include anything which made their own actions more excusable. The siblings sent Lunar staff members and extra Guards into the disrupted area, then personally joined the proceedings: if nothing else, there were still ponies who had trouble holding on to self-imposed delusion when being glared at by angry dark eyes or worse, patient purple ones. And it was possible to discard some witnesses immediately: in particular, both siblings had no interest in learning what Jet Set's brilliant-but-sadly-unexecuted plan to save everything had been, especially when he was still trying to figure out what it was. But they also joined the questioning because it was something which needed to be done quickly. The facts had to be sorted out before the stories took over, and when it came to the spread of lies... it was quickly acknowledged that fiction had gotten a major headstart. You had to work fast, when it was ponies. Fortunately, there were other options available. They didn't get all of it, not on that night, and... perhaps it would have changed something, if they'd acquired just a few extra facts. But Celestia never really had the chance to speak with Fancypants, not when it came to what the confrontation had been about. The noble had been too distant when everything had started, hadn't picked up on all of it, and... he was trying to look after those who had been his guests. The Solar Princess knew she could trust her friend to provide whatever he could. She also believed that she could allow that to take place after Sun had been raised. So the noble went his own way for a while, and when that was combined with the way in which the party's conclusion had dampened just about everything which had happened earlier... it meant certain details were initially missed. The most the sisters heard from the other attendees was that the centaur had seemed upset about something. Words like 'orbital mechanics' were lost in the flood. Of course, that was for those who were still willing to describe her as a centaur -- -- you had to work quickly, when it was ponies. With griffons... herd mentality never got involved, and predatory tracking instincts could offer certain advantages. Under most circumstances, you could easily trust a griffon to tell you about how someone had been moving. The centaur had been in a clear space, bordered by living bodies. Most of them had been trying to shift with her, and one hadn't quite kept the pace. The kick -- purely accidental. One of the senior griffons readily described how the centaur had turned to check on the impacted party: the lower torso had effectively been humped, pulled inwards as much as possible in order to minimize the radius required. (Celestia, whose centuries of existence among a population of much smaller bodies occasionally mandated making herself into a four-legged curve, had managed to suppress the wince.) The tail smack... in their opinion, there had been nothing deliberate about it. But when it came to the bite... A pony who'd been hit in the face was probably going to take a snap at the offending party. The siblings were aware that the politician's reaction could easily qualify as instinct. There was just a certain difficulty in granting Puff any benefit of the doubt. And it wasn't as if they could ask him, because the Night Court representative had already checked himself into the protection of a hospital. (No one was sure if he'd actually taken a tumble from the table after the centaur had shaken him, but it wasn't as if injury was a requirement for medical examination. If there were no actual wounds, then he could always fail to be treated for emotional distress. Celestia was darkly confident that Puff was carefully having himself checked over for anything which might have been caused by the never-before-suspected toxins in centaur tail hair. But until the doctors cleared him, he was effectively shielded from investigators. All Puff was currently permitted to see were those who might make him feel better: namely, his physicians -- and, in Luna's opinion, any reporter who was guaranteed to agree with him.) It could be easier to interview griffons, at least if you got the right ones. In its most ideal state, the chain of domination wasn't just about power. It also asked for the strength to use it responsibly, to lift up those who could not elevate themselves. And with the ones who had seen it all, who had reacted... In some situations, a griffon could be held legally responsible for the actions taken by their victim, because the status of temporary insanity had been inflicted from the outside. It could often be a difficult thing to prove, and any number of ponies had tried to excuse their actions through claiming to have made eye contact an hour prior. But with those who had attended, who knew what would come from honesty... they dipped their heads, curled their tails against their bodies and with a simple, open admission, truly earned their links. None of them were sure as to just which one had gotten through -- or if that had been anyone at all, and the centaur's reaction was simply the effect from having resisted so many in such a short span. Two had been openly surprised that anything had happened: a rumor in the Aviary claimed the centaur was immune. But all admitted to having reacted on instinct, and all were ashamed. A griffon could potentially be held legally responsible for the actions of those affected by their magic. This came as a disappointment to most of those who'd been outside, as they'd been collectively planning on suing the centaur. When it came to what had happened inside the mansion, right after it had all gone wrong? Fancypants wasn't available for a full interview because the duties of a host included tending to minor injuries -- none of which had been directly inflicted by the centaur. Attendees had pushed to get out of the way, and several of them had pushed into each other. (One argument-prone gaming table had fully missed almost everything, only noticing that something was happening when the wind kicked up by fleeing pegasi scattered paper tokens everywhere.) And Torque had merely been thrown to the side, something which had happened in a way where he hadn't actually landed on anyone: the big bull was mostly embarrassed, and kept asking about whether everyone else was okay. So within the building... some bruises. Sapients had been knocked around by fast-forming shields. There were a few small cuts because multiple fleeing species possessed horns and hadn't been keeping exacting proprioception track of them. And -- that was it. Events would conspire to prevent the siblings from truly discussing the matter for quite some time. But when they finally did get to talk, each would find the other had reached the same conclusion: for the results of the centaur's escape, when it came to the portion within the walls -- it could have been so much worse. Someone of that size and mass, moving so quickly through a crowd which hadn't fully managed to scatter in time? Multiple tramplings were the least of what might have been expected. Even when brought down to a base level of what might have been fight-or-flee, the girl had shed no blood at all. A priority which, for her, potentially existed at the level of instinct. But when you followed the trail outside... Go outside, and the sisters could rely on the reports of Guards: those trained to separate themselves from the herd. Observe, reach a conclusion, and act. And according to the protestors, it also left those in undeserved power listening to biased accounts from those who were essentially being paid to make the real citizens of Equestria look bad. Plus if you were talking to non-pony species about what had happened, then that was the surest proof of being a bigot -- against your own kind. Why hadn't the protesters managed an effective offense? Luna was the first to note the irony of the true answer: centaur panic. They had told themselves that the only sensible response to the girl's existence was fear -- and at the moment she'd come through the shield with sword unsheathed, she'd given them something to be afraid of. There had been no perfume or bubbles of pegasus-created atmosphere, nothing which could try to isolate the reaction. The protesters had worked themselves into a state where they almost had to react with panic, and the majority had chosen to use it through putting everything they had into speed. Too much of the herd had been dispersed, and for those who had attacked... they hadn't been able to organize. It had left them attacking as individuals. And she'd stopped them all. Instinctively. Of course, every last one of them was already claiming that the centaur had attacked first. If approached by police, the protesters usually claimed they had the right to remain silent, immediately followed by steadfastly refusing to use it. They wouldn't answer all that many questions, but when it came to the fictions which had already been written, they were more than happy to support each other with a series of positive reviews. Should the queries arrive from the Lunar staff, then the exact offering of non-silence would change: the palace could feel free to speak with their attorneys. Which they were absolutely going to acquire any minute now and for some, the delusion of exactly what their rights were somehow extended to having the palace pay for legal representation. Because that was obviously how the law worked and, for those who'd made it all the way to their fifth year of primary education, how civics studies hadn't. And if it was the sisters trying to speak with them... They only tried that with two. Both turned their heads, stared at their own flanks. Talked about their rights again because somehow, being approached by an alicorn apparently violated all of them. And then they demanded an attorney. A number of them could claim injury. Emotional trauma from having one's magic negated was probably a matter for a massive civil suit, but physical injury was assault and besides, they'd clearly been attacked first. The Guards did verify that the centaur had moved a number of them, always with the flat of the blade -- something which had still led to a rather impressive launch distance. It was easy to see when a fast-rising bruise had been produced by the sword. It was even easier to spot the patterns of cobblestone dirt in fur, most of which had been produced by those who'd dropped to the street over and over again: the exact equation involved was Pain Now = Paid Later. None of those would allow their injuries to be inspected by any but that overdue attorney, whose lack of medical degree would only help. A number of hurt protesters, plus some minor wounds among the party's attendees. And... one injured Guard. There was an option to issue pardons and when it came to the griffons, that was tempting. But the acceptance of a pardon could be seen as an admission of guilt, with the issuance declared to be an abuse of power. (And that was just with the griffons: trying to use those tactics with the girl would be worse.) Anything the sisters did through the courts would see multiple newspapers claiming manipulation of the system. And no matter what happened, there were only so many preemptive moves they could try to make. The best way to deal with the fallout was through first seeing what all of it looked like. There were going to be lawsuits. The protesters would talk to the police, to a degree. It was the best way to try and press charges against the centaur, along with giving them somepony to scream at when no chained body was dragged past them. And the centaur wasn't there. By the time they returned to the palace, the elder had reached that point of the night when it was already far too late for her to be awake -- and still knew she was going to have trouble sleeping. The younger, in what should have been the heart of her hours, still felt as if she had undertaken the sort of ill-advised temporal voyage which had only existed in the ancient days before the manifestation of her mark. The dark mare knew there was too much to resolve before Sun was raised, and she needed to remain active accordingly. But somewhere not too far away from her core, the ghost of a filly was hoping to deal with all of it through going to bed and hoping the grownups sorted it out in the morning. They silently entered the Lunar throne room, for it was the younger's hours. Both carefully arranged weary bodies upon the floor, faced each other. Twin surges of corona closed the doors. "Well," the elder quietly began, false lightness failing to suffuse her voice, "if you're looking for signs of progress..." The white head dipped. "At this point, I would welcome a failed jest," the younger softly stated. Her wings unfurled, refolded again. "If only to know that there was still enough levity for an attempt to have been made. Finish, sister. Please." "Only three Guards broke when she came through the shield," the elder dejectedly finished. "Progress." Each stared at the floor. Then they both raised their gazes to the ceiling, because pegasus magic had a way of interacting with dark moods and every so often, you had to check for the more external variety of storm cloud. "I have been pondering," the younger eventually announced. "I don't think we can rewrite the pardon system either." "Not that, Tia." Evenly, "We all agreed that this night was, to date, the strongest opportunity for the summoners to make an attempt at acquiring her. We were watching for that. And she was in the open, fully exposed within the streets for the first time since her arrival in Canterlot. Guards and police present, but -- the fear was spreading, too many ponies moving to be truly tracked -- that was their chance. Why did they not take it?" The elder ruffled white feathers. A half-tangible tail slowly shifted across the floor. "Too many witnesses," she offered. "Caught up in the fear: they couldn't focus. Didn't have enough of a presence after the scatter to be sure of taking her. They might not have believed they could deal with her when the sword was out --" "-- or they were not present," the younger interrupted. "We search for them, and we find no signs. When it comes to the centaur presence in our nation, the only magical conspiracy our spies have uncovered is a rather poor and decidedly uneducated attempt to invent something which might banish her." With the smallest of snorts, "I understand that they have done little more than manage to drain the charges on a number of enchanted gems." "Not before the enchanter tracked them to the proper tent," the elder sighed. "There were no fatalities," the younger noted. "They got lucky. When it comes to finding thieves and reclaiming their property, most dragons aren't anywhere near that calm." Another sigh. "Getting to take everything else they were going to drain for the attempt probably helped." "Still," the dark mare pondered. "Your offered possibilities are valid -- and yet, I was expecting something. A level of fanaticism which had reached the point of summoning would be rather unlikely to stop --" A hoof awkwardly rapped against the exterior of the Moonset Gate. The sisters glanced at each other. Mutually stood up, then arranged their forms to face the doors. "Announce," the younger ordered. "Moonstone," just barely managed to breach the throne room. "With the report from the Doctors Bear." Another glance. "Enter," the younger declared. The earth pony Lunar Guard didn't quite make it. The doors shivered, and then a silver helmet pushed its way through a slowly-increasing gap. The rest of his body elected to stay outside: the head just got it over with. "Nightwatch is grounded for a few days," he told them. "The bone-glow screen says no fractures, not even hairlines. But the bruising from the tumble is severe enough to keep her out of the air. They were getting ready to release her when I left." Both nodded. It was all they would allow themselves, at least while a Guard was watching. "And Cerea?" asked the elder. "She... wouldn't let herself be examined," the stallion reluctantly told them. "Not while Nightwatch was in the room. She's just been pacing back and forth in front of the office door. For... a while. It's..." He forced a breath. "...down to staggering. I think she's exhausted. And she wouldn't go in. I tried to talk, just for a minute, and all she said was that... she was waiting for the two of you. For debriefing. And that there was something she had to tell you." "And by 'you', the full Diarchy has been indicated?" the younger checked, and the Guard nodded. "Very well. Return to the medical area. Tell her that the doctors must be permitted to examine her. Once that is done, her only assignment is to enter the barracks and rest. We will speak with her after she wakes." One more nod, and the silvery-white head withdrew. "After she rests," the elder checked, doing so at the moment when the doors were completely shut. "Are you sure?" "Let her recover, as much as she can," the younger quietly said. "Spend time in the presence of a friend, who will try to tell her that no part of the blame can be locally assigned." A little more softly, "I may claim a portion, once she is in our presence. It is not as if I informed her regarding the properties of the thestral armor. But when it comes to what happened with the griffons... I feel the Sergeant falsely reported her as immune. Or perhaps there is a limit to her resistance, or --" The left forehoof almost made it all the way to the dark mare's chin. "-- the hairpins, sister. I suspect she did not don them on this night." The younger sighed. "Something we can add to the inquiry. But until then... I retain a potential means of gaining the initial recounting." "One she doesn't have to be awake for," the elder concluded. A small nod. "To your own rest." And with just a little less force, "Please. The latest crisis will still be present in the morning." The elder forced the smile, started to trot away. It was true. The disaster would still be waiting for her when she woke up: that prediction was safe enough. It would also be plural. The girl, forever obedient to the voice of authority (and all the worse with it when that voice is parental, imaginary, and rises from within) chooses the oddest times for insubordination. Several of them have taken place in the last few hours. She refused to remove the dress before the doctors examined her, she wouldn't stay in the office for longer than it took for a cursory inspection, she didn't want to talk about what happened with the griffons and insisted that anything she said regarding the topic would have to wait for royalty... Coming from her, that's a surprising amount of disobedience. And it was immediately followed by disregarding multiple orders from a superior officer. She wouldn't look at Nightwatch. She refused to talk about what had happened. It was an hour of that, with both of them in the barracks. The pegasus washed up: the girl kept the now-dirty dress on because it was a reason to not share that room. And once the pegasus had departed from the pool, soft moans fading as the pain medication had truly begun to take effect... There can be side effects, when the potions are fairly strong. The girl assumed her usual position within the thin nest of blankets on the floor. The pegasus looked at her own mattress, glanced at the girl, tried to close in... It was something like a dance: one moving forward, the other shifting away. But the medication won in the end, and so did the girl. Her only victory of the night, staying away from the pegasus until the potion had put the wounded equine to sleep. The pegasus is on the floor, covered in blankets. The centaur is as far away as the barracks will permit. She took nothing with her, not when it came to fabric. Not a single layer offers the illusion of comfort. It's the girl, a dress whose seams were never asked to go through so much, and a sketchbook. She opens it. Looks at the partial image on the first page, then closes the book again and slings it onto the nearest mattress. The dark mare receives all of this as a series of flickers: a film with most of its frames missing. She tried to make the girl review her day, and the process began at the end. The refusal to speak with her friend, the isolation, the tears which only seemed to run out when there was no water left to offer. But emotional exhaustion can be every bit as real as the physical. Eventually, the arms folded, the spine locked, and the girl slipped into dream. A place where a new order was given, and she began to obey... ...stopped. The full dream is forming. But it is not the one which the dark mare tried to direct her towards. Because the girl fell into the nightscape on the sliding debris of a crumbling thought. It isn't just an echo, it's just about the whole of her now, it seizes the reins of memory -- -- and the dark mare, who watches from hiding, lets it happen. There are inquiries to be made. But the dark mare has been observing the girl's dreams for moons. Watching, hoofstep by hoofstep, as they approach something which feels as if it might be crucial. Something about the night has brought the girl to this. The centaur, as with most sapients, will dream multiple times in one night. If the first one brings them here, then there will be other chances before Moon is lowered. For now, the dream is forming, that repeated thought is directing it... She went out of bounds. She went out of bounds. She went out of bounds. She's out of bounds. It's the single best feeling of her life. The filly is making her way through unknown territory. Every hoofstep is planted into soil which no centaur has ever -- -- all right, she has to be fair about this. The gap didn't always exist, not as a place of lifelong confinement. There was a time before the liminals went into hiding and during that era, it's possible that centaurs trotted across this part of the land every day. She may just be the first to touch it in a very long time. The date of her temporary escape was designated in advance. She had backups, placed on the calendar in case of patrol route changes or exceptionally poor weather. As it is, the sun is pleasantly warm, and she can get a good view of it at any time because the sky is almost completely clear. There's just the one cloud -- -- why is there one -- -- plus she's got a bit of breeze dancing under her nose, and that leaves her trying to sort out new scents. Some of the plants are new. And the trail? That only exists because she's making one. The filly is fully aware that she's off the map: a situation which calls for some degree of improvised cartography. Dead branches are carefully bent in new, subtle directions: quickly-harvested fruit creates stains on selected trunks. It's crucial that she be able to find her way back, and just about as important to have one good rainstorm wash away any evidence that she was here at all. She has to pause rather frequently, making sure the blazes are visible enough for her to track them, while sufficiently subtle for anyone else to miss. It slows her down. But with every step, she goes further into the new. And it doesn't really matter that the new mostly resembles the old, because she hasn't gone far enough for things to change all that much. What counts is that she's here. A here which isn't anywhere she's been before. There are still certain difficulties ahead: things which aren't so much lurking in her future as camped out next to designated signposts on a new road. For starters, she's fully aware that she has to clean everything. The filly is noting every single stream (and she never thought there would be so many little ones in the area, all of which seem to be flowing a little outside of their normal banks) and plant with a scent-masking property. There's a hidden cache' of cleaning supplies and replacement clothing near her designated reentry point for the gap (plus another for a secondary route, because you never know), but... she has to anticipate that she might need to improvise. That's just proper planning. It was her planning which got her this far. Which got her out. And the sunlight feels new, the air is so fresh as to make the Second Breath into something automatic, the soil caresses her hooves and the air has a taste, it's sweet and welcoming and it calls out to her, tells her to keep going forward... The girl had her first taste of wine when she was six. Her gap makes its own, because they're French. With mares, it's mostly used for flavor. Even fillies have enough body mass to absorb a little alcohol without consequence. It's hard to become drunk -- although stallions always seem to find a way, and some of the older colts are trying to join them. But the filly has never been even slightly tipsy -- -- until now. Her original sip of wine was nothing special. The first taste of freedom is heady, intoxicating, and instantly addictive. She's only had a little. She wants more. She's sure she can arrange for more. If a first trip out was planned, then how hard could be a second be? Why live for only one day? And yes, extra voyages will come with a returned burden of risk plus she's hardly back safely from this one, but -- the more she does this, the more she'll gain experience. She'll know how to work around the hazards. New excuses for not being present can be constructed. As long as she limits herself to, say, once a year -- -- maybe once a season, and that presumes being incredibly careful about the weather in winter -- -- she moves through a new forest. There's plenty of gaps between the trees, but there's also a lot of bushes: she has space to move, but she can also drop her body behind concealment in a hurry. The leaves are spotted with raindrops: it probably rained here overnight, a storm so small that it never touched the gap. The air is wine and every breeze is song. The gap is ancient, the world is new, every hoofstep comes as close to dancing as the filly may ever know, and she's happy. It may be the first time she's truly been happy since she felt the trap of her set future close around her hocks. (The observer has never seen the filly like this. Not once.) (What would the girl look like, if she was actually --) It could also be argued that she's a little bit drunk. There's laughter in the forest. It isn't hers. The filly freezes. The laugh rings out again and it's a chorus, something young and vibrant which emerges from multiple distant throats in a wave of joy, vibrates the leaves and makes the air dance. A current which, for scent purposes, is moving the wrong way -- -- she forces herself to stay still. Waits for the next burst, twists her ears -- -- she's okay. She heard the laughter before she saw the source. Before anyone saw her. They're not that close. Somewhere off to the west, and there's enough greenery in that direction to hide the filly, at least when taken in bulk. No one can spot her. All she has to do is turn back. She's very aware of her heartbeat. The filly almost glances down at her chest, because any heart which is going that fast almost has to be making her breasts vibrate a little. There's enough there to do that now -- -- the laughter sounds again. Purest joy. The filly has to stay silent. Move quietly, especially until she puts some distance between herself and the source. And step carefully, because it rained here at some point and the earth will hold a hoofprint -- -- wild horses in the forest. Everyone knows that -- -- they're laughing, they sound so happy, so free -- -- so far away... ...there's all of this greenery. She's shielded. If she just approaches very carefully, keeps her body hidden... The filly is young. Inexperienced. She doesn't know how to deal with that first rush of the most intoxicating thing she will ever experience. And on some level, she's aware that she may be making a bad decision. Drunks often are. And then they make them anyway. She moves. The bushes are thick around the borders, at least along the direction she used for her final approach. But they're not that high. The greenery is too tightly clustered to see through, broad leaves thick with the strength of the season. And when it comes to height -- a meter and a half, or a bit less? The girl is already taller than that, and centaurs aren't really meant to crouch-walk. It puts her low, she can barely shift forward because her legs shouldn't be moving this way, she's sliding along in the soil and it's a little painful, but there's laughter and shouts and the odd burst of cursing, she can hear it all but she can't see... ...the bushes are too wide. She can't push enough aside to get a sight line, because her arms won't reach through: not without a lot of scratching and worse, the sound of wood breaking. The filly hears an impact. Something going into -- rubber? (It makes her lean closer to the bush, and all that gets her is the feeling of her breasts being poked by wood. Persisting adds the sensation of long falls of hair trying to tangle up in the branches.) And then there's a cheer, a shout, and one really loud curse -- but the focus of those sounds has moved. They're all reacting to something happening in a single location. Something which took place well away from where she is. There are times when the intoxicated are aware that they're making the wrong decision, and then make it anyway. Others when no true thought is involved at all. Simply action. The filly stretches, from where she rests on the ground. Just enough to get her eyeline over the top of the bush. The clearing is larger than she'd expected: one of those natural hollows which a forest offers up every so often. And 'clearing' is the proper word, one which has seen a little extra work done: small plants pulled up, rocks removed, with the approach path on the opposite side kept open. But later in life, on the rare occasions when she thinks about it at all, those scant moments before she once again finds a way to stop -- the filly will use another term. It's not a clearing. It's a sylvan glade. The place where you encounter something fey. Capricious. And it looks something like you. Enough that you start to think there could be a connection -- but they're nothing like you. Their minds don't work the same way. They don't understand. They don't care to make the effort. Something in a sylvan glade will destroy your life on a whim. Without regret. While laughing. It's a place for monsters. The monsters she's been taught to fear across the short span of her life mostly look like colts and fillies. ...if you start at the upper waist and move towards the head, they mostly look like -- --there's only one waist... (She shouldn't be doing this.) (She has to leave.) (She has to --) How old are they? She's not sure. Within a few years of her own age, perhaps, but -- how long do humans live, compared to centaurs? The filly can't quite seem to recall that, or when they're supposed to start puberty. By her standards, the three girls among the eight humans would all be late bloomers. But right now, that's something which lets them run all the faster. Brown hair is flying on the quickest, something worn long and without anything in the way of bindings. It should be getting in her eyes all the time, and somehow it never quite does. That girl can always keep sight of the goal, and the hardest part of that may be the choice. The approach path had to be widened enough to bring two of them in... ...football. They're playing football. Two teams of four. There's no identifying colors: they know who they are. And they run and jump and don't use their arms unless they think no one is looking, and they laugh... She can mostly see their upper bodies, except for when they jump. One of them manages to launch himself high enough for the filly to glimpse sandals, which seems like one of the worst possible choices for the game. And that lets her see feet, which immediately turn into the worst possible choice for evolution to make about anything. How do they even stay upright? Just two legs, and those for support... Her hands automatically come up to cover her mouth. She presses herself more tightly against the bush, misses the sound of wood crackling. They're playing. The things she's been taught to fear are just having fun, and... ...they're so close. Less than ten meters to the nearest goal, and the colt -- boy? -- who stands within. And it's fascinating. She's looking at a legend. At monsters, when they have no idea she's there, and -- they're playing. She's read their books. Become familiar with so many of their stories. But she still doesn't feel like she understands them. The filly is watching something half-alien -- mostly the lower half -- and... is this how you come to know someone? Through watching them play? The rules of football are familiar to her. Centaurs don't really play: older mares have trouble tracking anything right in front of their forehooves, and the stallions pledge allegiance to American football because it's another excuse to hurt each other. But old magazines are full of stories, pictures, diagrams, and a lot of calls for various people to be traded or fired. She can track a game, especially one with this few players. No one is looking in her direction. She can just watch. She's never seen a live game -- -- she's never seen a game. Understanding the principles involved isn't the same. The filly has never had the chance to personally recognize certain truths of the sport. An awkwardly-angled, poorly-designed foot goes into the ball, and it takes a funny bounce. The sphere ricochets away from the point of impact. Goes off to the side, towards the filly. And she starts to pull back, but it's low, it's already rolling to a stop, it vanishes from her sight line and she only hears it come to a halt, she's safe -- -- the ball took a funny bounce. It stayed in the clearing, but for purposes of the crude field, it went out of bounds. The filly had to raise her eyes above the top of the bush in order to see anything at all. And wherever the ball is moving is where everyone looks. The brown-haired girl has green eyes. All four of the filly's hidden legs are frozen. No breath seems to reach her lower torso. Her arms can't move. Fingers clench tightly on wood. Her fingers are becoming stained, her blouse may already be marked beyond hope... ...her body won't respond. The terror is flooding through her. Nearly every signal sent through neural pathways drowns. Only three things move: her chest heaves (and she's pressed so tightly against the bush that it hurts, the blouse stains are spreading) and at the moment she realizes the brown-haired girl is looking at her, the filly's ears slam backwards and down. Covered by her hair. No one is moving. There's more children looking at the filly now, but -- they're not moving. The filly can't move. The monsters have seen her. ...there aren't any screams. No shouts. They're just looking at her. She got her ears out of sight in time. As long as they don't see her ears... ...as long as they don't come any closer... ...she has to move -- "Bonjour?" And as the little brunette offers the uncertain word, she takes half a step forward. The filly has to move. She has to... "Êtes-vous nouveau ici?" the girl asks. "Je ne te connais pas..." Yes, she's new here. None of them know her. She has to move. She has to move. She has to move. A slim arm is raised. The hand is palm-up, and then the fingers carefully curl in. "Tu veux jouer?" Do you want to play? The filly's body will not obey her. Neither will her mind. A single thought rises in response to that innocent question, surges forward with speed and hope. And if not for everything which came after, feeling that thought burn through her on a level very close to instinct would have been the worst moment of the filly's life. Yes. ...she could stand up. Slowly. Find a place where she could step away from the concealment of the bushes, let them see her, and she could just... come out... ...billions. There are billions of humans and between all of the gaps in every part of the world, there might be thirty thousand centaurs. Add all of the liminal populations together and there would be an outside chance to reach eight million. Billions of humans, and all extinction ever requires is for one of them to make a decision. More timidly, as if afraid of what the answer might be, "Tu veux jouer?" And the human girl takes another step -- -- the filly shakes her head. (The bases of her ears are starting to ache.) Then she realizes that the gesture might not be visible enough, raises herself up enough to make her mouth visible, lets her lips frame Non over and over while her arms finally respond. Both hands come up over the greenery, palms out and fingers spread wide, frantically waving outwards to the sides and then inwards again. As much negation as she can express without getting hoof stomps involved. It's supposed to make the human girl back off. Leave her alone. But there are so many eyes watching her, too many, and yet all the filly can see is green... "C'est bon," the human tries to tell her. "Vous ne devez pas être timide..." It is not okay. She has more of a reason to be shy than the brunette could ever imagine. And there are eight human children, eight, her pressed back ears just heard another one of them move, they're coming forward -- -- there's still a gap between the filly and the humans. With the closest, it's only a few meters across. There has to be a gap. It's the divide between life and death. The brunette takes another step -- -- there are ways in which centaur double-jointing helps her. Other times when it doesn't seem to do enough. In this case, it lets her stay low as she desperately twists her upper torso, almost falling to the side as she pushes all four legs in a way which nearly creates a level backwards lunge, and then she's out of sight in that she can't see them any more, but that just means she can't see and her aching ears are trying to spring free, she has to hear them and she can hear them approaching, the filly's palms are in the dirt and it's as if the upper torso is trying to drag the lower through the full turn, they're too close and it's too much too much too much -- -- all four legs jerk. Hooves plant, push. Knees stay bent, and she lunges towards trees and thicker greenery, keeping everything below the upper waist out of sight, but she can't move like this for long, she has to straighten up before she falls and she has to hide -- -- and she's running, she's up and the forest is blocking any direct view of her and she's running, she's going to be okay, everyone is going to be okay, she didn't -- -- in the replay of dream, the only direct truth comes from the senses. If the filly didn't directly experience something, didn't live through it, then imagination fills in the gaps. She can't know what happened next. She will never truly know. But there are things she believes. The filly looks back. It had rained, before she made her mistake. (The sky is clear now, but for one cloud.) The earth was wet. The soil was muddy. And her blouse is stained, her skirt is fouled with dirt, her legs are crusted -- -- she gestured at them. She pushed off from the ground. Four perfect impressions in the soil. Hands or hooves. Never both. Both is evidence -- -- and she gallops and she listens for pursuit and now the sky has become her enemy, she's still in the forest but there's another clearing up ahead and how foolish was she, to make her path go through a clearing when airplanes exist? But she has to backtrack exactly or her next subtle blaze might be missed, but she's exposed to the sky and she has to look up and there's clear blue with one lonely, oddly-low cloud -- -- it was a clear day -- -- it was a beautiful day, the most beautiful and the worst of her life, the sky was perfectly clear and she knew that because she had to keep looking up all the way back and she never saw anything but pristine blue and every time she's looked up, there's been one cloud -- The dark mare is watching the filly run, 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 -- -- it has been mere hours since griffon magic tried to force its way into the girl's mind, over and over. Something which has put every part of that wounded psyche on edge, on guard against further attempts to invade. And a near-secret of the nightscape is that for those who become aware they are dreaming, who realize somepony is there... ...it happens all at once. The filly's outline blurs, acquires mass in all directions as height surges, curves push outwards, and there's a bag slung next to the girl's left foreshoulder, a hand pushes lengthening fingers through the opening, extracts a slightly-cracked sphere, squeezes just before it loads the ball into a freshly-manifested sling -- -- and the dark mare becomes the victim of a story. One she tells herself. She knows what the sphere is. Her own mind brings that knowledge into the nightscape, laces it into the dream. She's also read all of the Sergeant's reports, knows about the girl's accuracy -- all things she places within the setting as freshly-sprouted facts, because dream logic in a shared nightscape can consist of what the dreamers see as true. The dark mare recognizes the drydust, and does so at the moment before the cloud is pulled into falling gel. The dark mare is falling. There's enough time to spread her wings, to smooth it out into a glide, but the girl's other hand is going for the sword and they both know the sword is a weapon -- -- the girl leaps -- -- the alicorn made a number of inquires about the sword, on that first night. She listened to the stories, some of which were just things which ponies had already decided to tell themselves. Sorted out the facts. But when you put facts into an internal book, all you've done is bind the historical account. It's still a story: it just gets filed under non-fiction. The dark mare has never directly been on the receiving end of the sword's strikes: a corona was disrupted, and nothing more. But she's been told what it feels like. She's imagined what might happen, if those blows were to impact somepony who carries so much more magic than the usual. It's something she brought with her into dream. The centaur leaps. Swings. And the alicorn feels the impact against the base of her right wing, a new kind of chill spreading from the strike, something she cannot fight, the wing sags and her feathers seem to be on the verge of evaporating and the alicorn slams into the ground. The centaur lands. The alicorn tries to roll, gets some distance between herself and the girl, starts to scramble to her hooves -- but the girl is too fast. The gap is already being closed. And the alicorn manages to ignite her horn, repeats something she knows will work: a primary bolt meant to be deflected, with a follow-up close behind. Aimed at the wrist, forcing the girl to drop the weapon -- -- the girl's arm shifts, blocks the first attack. Then it warps, joints twisting across unnatural angles, the sword jerks down to deflect the second bolt and the dark mare's last thought before the centaur fully closes the gap is that the palace always wants to find Guards who can learn... The centaur hits her: the flat of the blade into the left side of the alicorn's head. It jerks the dark mare's body, moves her sight line, and part of her registers that the girl's form, aged up to the present, is only now beginning to further distort. The white fabric over the left shoulder falls too far inwards: a suggestion of missing tissue beneath. One eye starts to go dim. But the girl is still attacking, and the alicorn hasn't been able to separate tale from nightscape. Every time she starts to go on offense, the sword hits her again. Again. The girl is right on top of her, swinging over and over and it's then that she sees the flicker in dimming eyes. Recognition. The girl has been attacking because there was something intruding and she wanted it gone. Striking on instinct. This is the first moment when the centaur has realized just who is present. The girl hesitates. In the waking world, the alicorn is still learning how to read the girl's expressions. In the nightscape, the very world twists, darkens into shame, burns with self-hatred, the sky is black and the bushes are on fire and something in the girl's face hardens as she brings the sword up and back, muscles about to commit all of that hideous strength into one more strike -- "CEREA!" She stops. Her left hind leg goes limp. Tail hairs begin to fall out. But the sword remains raised and ready. "How long?" The forest shakes with the scream, the flames surge. "The Mare Of Dream! That's what they called you, what you called yourself! It's just like everything else: it was right there! How long have you been in my head?" "I --" The alicorn almost jumps forward, because the forest is on fire, the heat is surging through her hooves and tail and there's a moment when that tail feels solid. Tangible enough to burn. Everything is crackling around her. Breaking from the heat. Smoke is rising, and the girl's eyes blaze with fury and loathing. Something which always has a target. "-- Cerea, listen!" She has to talk quickly, needs to explain before -- -- ignore the sword, the sword is a dream, it does no harm, no damage, I can exit her nightscape at any time I might will it -- -- unless the girl tries to block her. That's possible, with the proper effort of will. It's hard to hold the alicorn for long, but -- some have been able to do it for what was almost just long enough. The centaur is new to dream combat, and is proving to be entirely too good at it. "Listen to what?" And now the hands are palsied -- but the shaking sword remains held. "What kind of excuse is there for -- for just --" "-- you had just come into the world! When all we knew was Tirek! You might have been the enemy, one who would tell any lie if it would bring her that much closer to us!" The flames are forcing her forward, and she tries to summon Moon's chill, to send the heat elsewhere, but there's so much of it, the world is red and orange and fur which feels like a million tiny wicks waiting to catch. The darkened sky howls with a furious wind. Cinders burn holes in the false night. "But few can lie within dream," the alicorn forces out. "In defense of my nation, I needed to investigate. To scout. To recognize the soul within the form." And the flames begin to fade, even as the tendons on the girl's clenched hands gradually sink back into the flesh. As the sword slowly comes down, with the end pointed towards the scabbard. "To... make sure I was safe," the girl slowly says. "I can understand that. But why would you come here after that?" Steadily, bringing the coolness which refuses to fully manifest in the nightscape to her voice, "I -- know that you see it as intrusion, Cerea. Invasion. And on this night of all nights, to find somepony within your mind, uninvited... you have every reason for anger --" Just barely a whisper, "Why?" "I wanted to understand you," the dark mare continues. "To learn who you truly were. Because that would make it all the easier to make others recognize that soul." The sword is slipping back into the scabbard. "If I could somehow make the public accept one monster, then they might accept --" -- and the world is fire and her hooves are scorched, splitting, melting as the girl's skin blackens and cracks, blood runs out from between the fissures on a face where no feature is recognizable, arms twist in six directions at once, the centaur's hooves rot the earth and the breasts harden, soft curves transmuted into forged edge so that every breath cuts. There is no hair. Razor wire falls from scalp and tail. The eyes are blind coals, unable to see through their own burning heat. The ears are clogged with lava. The nose simply falls off. Every time the centaur moves, something bleeds. There's always a target. And the target is the girl. The monster. "GET OUT!" The alicorn vanishes. One in the barracks. One in the Lunar throne room. Two souls on fire. Both collapse.