There's nothing! No water, no cider, no cola. Nothing! Not a single drop of liquid anywhere that you can use.
You try to swallow the lump in your throat, but even your spit is cheesy. You have no choice but to give the speech as you are and hope the High Commission is understanding.
Your speech. The speech you prepared? That you spent ages researching, drafting, practicing?
What was your speech?!?
It's gone! Completely gone from your mind! Like you never even wrote it! Spitfire just told you the topic and you still can't remember a single thing you're supposed to present!
"I—"
Maybe it'll just come to you? Just... start talking and let muscle memory take over.
"Ta bagin..." You cringe at your own voice. It sounds like your tongue's gone numb! You can feel the weight of all their eyes on you, waiting for you to get on with it. Some of them are getting impatient.
Your eyes snap to the movement of one of the accountants leaning over to whisper to her neighbor. Her words don't carry but the second pony frowns and nods. Your stomach sinks into your hooves and you start to sweat. What are they saying?
"Ah, tha prablm ees..." You try to start again but another set of whispers snags your attention, this time along with a badly concealed giggle. It's a pair of young stallions, two of the rising stars, the kind that would absolutely love to use you as a stepping stone in their own advancement. One of them shoots you a grin. He knows. He knows you don't have this.
"Get on with it already!" Spitfire hisses, her anger visceral enough to kill.
No! It's—it's too much! You can't do it! You can't speak, can't think! No words, no voice! You have to get out of here! Yes! That could work! Just run! Run away and then get injured and use that hospital time to relearn your speech then try again.
"E'kuze me!" You turn and bolt for the door, heedless of Spitfire's shouting after you. The door buckles under your push, but refuses to open. You slam your hooves against it, buck it, body slam it, but nothing works!
And then the murmurs from behind reach you.
"...I knew she couldn't handle it..."
"...waste of my time..."
"...embarrassment to the name..."
"...demotion enough? Maybe full expulsion..."
"...such a disappointment..."
Their harsh words circle you like harpies, striking at your weakness and ripping what remains of your pride to shreds. You cry out as a shuddering wave of utter failure rips through you like the claws of a mighty beast, to which you receive naught but more words of condemnation and more laughter from the ponies that'll use your failure to elevate themselves.
This is it. You're finished. The last thing you'll ever do as a Wonderbolt is get yourself thrown out for sheer bald-faced inadequacy.
And it's all your own fault.
[The worst trials are the ones we feel unprepared for. Add one (+1) to your Fear Meter]
You find yourself in the foyer of the haunted house, emotions still in turmoil, but muted. The memory of your utter failure to make a presentation you hadn't heard of five seconds before is still there, but it feels distant now. Less real. Like a nightmare whose details are already beginning to fade. If only there'd been a Princess Luna around to help you out of this one.
"Did you enjoy your entrée? How do you feel about a second course?"
You glance to the balcony where you spy—who else would it be?—Trixie, dressed in a fancy chef's uniform and serving up a sly grin.
You don't want to dignify her with a response. Poking at such a personal fear like that was uncalled for, especially after the fake-out making you think it was just a thing for Twilight. It may be petty, but at least you can nit-pick her right back. "You know, the Wonderbolt High Commission isn't going to be nearly as intimidating to most ponies, especially nonpegasi."
"Is that what you saw?" she muses. "It's designed to change to fit whoever enters. Twilight would probably see Princess Celestia or, I don't know, the department heads from CSGU. I know Starlight sees Twilight and a bunch of ponies from her old village."
"Who do you see?" you ask, honestly a little curious.
"My fa—that's none of your business!" Her face goes red as she turns away so quickly it makes her hat go askew (though it somehow fixes itself a moment later). "Just keep going and stop asking silly questions!"
You shrug and turn away. She answered enough for you to figure out the answer. Though a deep dive into Trixie psyche is not something you have time for. There's more exploring to be done. Hopefully in rooms with less traumatic situations.
There doesn't seem to be anything to interact with in this room, but there are three hallways that branch off that head LEFT, FORWARD, and RIGHT.
If your Fear Meter is full, you must select the fourth option.