//------------------------------//
// For Better and/or Worse 
// Story: First Pony View 
// by Suomibrony 
//------------------------------//


First Pony View
A My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic fan fic
By Suomibrony

Chapter 25
For Better and/or Worse.






During our return towards the hospital, Embee and I had discussed cars in general despite her spotty understanding of them, not forgetting to summarize what a Pontiac Trans-Am and an estate car were. Our conversation meandered, as they tended to, coming to an unplanned stopover at an automotive icon from the land of the rooster. I had already described its appearance in brief, but I had to mention its sound as well.

“Just like how it looks like nothing else, then and today, it also has an unforgettably adorable purr with an undertone of, hmm, a whine?” Shame that only I could hear the sympathetic tin snail in my mind.

“A purring whine, you say?” Embee remarked dubiously. “And that makes it adorable?”

“For a car that was given very little, if any, consideration toward aesthetics, it does, hard as it is to believe. Accidentally adorable? Imagine that,” I said with the warmth of abashment as we walked up to the final pedestrian crossing where we waited for the signal. We were now a street away from the hospital, a monolithic concrete sugar cube that imbued me with both excitement and dread.

“Imagining is all I can do.” Our safe passage granted, Embee cast glimpses at the cars around us as we made our crossing, none of which I could call adorable, much less endearing. Pity.

“Hmhh,” I hummed, wistful for 'friendly' cars. “Well, as many words as I could employ, they won't ever make for a comprehensive image.” I took notice of a sizable collection of water at the base of the sloping road up to the hospital. “I could try scooping up water from a puddle and see if I can recreate it that way. Just like how last night with . . . when . . .” My unconcerned mood eroded as the events of that emotionally tumultuous time reemerged. “But I wish not to think or talk about that.” The brief and partial recollection had already placed an invisible burden on me that weighed my head down. Pushing myself up the gradient felt harder now that an increased awareness of my physical self had resurfaced. I didn't want to devote a thought to that, but it was all around me. This was only temporary, I assured myself. I should hold my head up, and not appear dejected. All would be fine soon, perhaps. Unrelatedly, two ponies standing ahead were having a friendly conversation.

“Look what I got here for you on your special day, to my best of friends!” The red unicorn floated a colorful book out of his green saddlebag.

“Whoa cool! It's I'm a unicorn, and what's a jacuzzi? Just what I wanted for my birthday!” The magic bubble transitioned from deep blue to mallow as the other, sand brown unicorn pony took hold of the hardcover book. “This'll go great with I'm a pegasus, and what's a nacho? You're the best!”

As we passed the duo, I had to wonder if the hug he gave the other was of romantic nature. However, I had been unusually unrestrained in hugging lately without expressing or producing romantic feelings . . .

I hummed, briefly intrigued by the book passing from one pony's magic shroud to the other's. “Having a decent grasp on my magic is incredible when contrasted with the fact that I don't know how to run,” I quietly notified Embee.

“I suppose that is quite the contrast, if not a reversal. You knew nothing of the former and never had to think on how to do the latter.”

“Obviously.” I directed an upwards gaze, slightly irked by her casual summarization of my ineptitude.

I nonetheless saw her pensive countenance, perhaps understanding that she had accidentally struck my self-esteem. “Do you wish to learn? To run, I mean.”

“Wha, oh, weh, uh . . .” Her earnest proposal sent a spasm of shock through my body that would've brought me to a halt if my subconscious maintenanceof my ambulation cycle hadn't successfully repulsed it. It did, however, make the very flexible end of my vertebrae curl skyward for a second. “I-I, it's, I did, err, to tea . . . I taught myself how to trot, so that's something, but uh, running, I . . . I'm not sure,” I stammered. Again, my head fell, and I observed my legs move into view and then trail out of view as I ambled onwards. I rebounded in disgust and mild horror, but nonetheless, I reasoned that knowing additional locomotive modes wascogent, even if attaining them required subjecting myself to psychological discomfort. “Yes, I'm sure . . . I have to know.”

“You have to? Do you want to?” Embee gently expressed her doubt, undeniably concerned for my well-being.

“No, I honestly don't want to,” I said in a droning, sullen tone. “But as much as I hate to admit it and . . . This is hard to say, so please excuse me if this sounds convoluted, but . . . knowing how to be what I certainly don't like being means I won't panic when I don't know how to be it. If I know how to run, I won't panic when I don't know how to run. Or I could just tell myself that I don't need to concern myself with any of that, since this'll be over soon anyhow. But I know that there's no guarantee I won't be . . . this . . . for the long haul.”

“Don't fear, it won't come to that.” Embee was prompt in diluting my concerns. “It's just a day, or maybe two. You'll do fine.”

“I admire and envy your optimism.” I sighed wearily, refusing to form even the simplest predictions of what two days of pony life could even be like. Actually, it wasn't the pony aspect that frightened me . . .

“Finally, we're here,” Embee said joyfully.

“Yeah . . .” We made it up to the summit of the low eminence the hospital stood on. My fate was inside, yet I was beset by arresting trepidation.

“Well, what's holding you?” she queried, giggling lightly.

“Uh, something, I don't know.” I was looking up towards the tallest floor, as if living out here, in uncertainty, was preferable to going inside to learn the brightness—or the bleakness—of my future.

“So, hon, what was that car called?” Embee drew my attention to the topic we had happily discussed a few minutes earlier. Despite my confusion regarding the question, I realized she was easing me out from my sudden petrification. “You once called it two horses?”

“Ahah, yes, 2CV, meaning, two horses, and uh . . .”As I held my gaze on Embee, I suddenly began feeling like I was staring at a mirror; perturbed, I averted my gaze. “I really shouldn't think we are that. You can think so, for yourself, but I certainly don't want to do the same,” I defied with a tinge of aggravation. “I don't, and I'm not, and I won't be, and I cannot . . .” I whispered with defiance . . . and I only needed to hear my thoughts spoken with the wrong voice to know how little it mattered.

“Oh, but I didn't say . . . we both are . . . I see,” Embee's tone changed from mild confusion to contriteness. “I'm very sorry, hon.”

Rueful of my testy decorum, the silent crying I was doing on the inside gave me a soft and, incidentally, conciliatory tone. “Don't blame yourself, Embee. I'm not angry at you. I'm only being sensitive and snappy, for reasons we both know.” I had meant to follow that with more, but aware that I would inevitably expose my inner turmoil in a public space, I sighed deeply instead. “Let's move on.” For saddening her, I castigated myself by taking the initiative of being the first to walk up to the sliding doors.

“Well . . . It's nice to have a sunny and warm day again, don't you think?” Embee asked with nary a sign of the sadness she once had. I presumed she wanted to reignite an amicable mood with weather talk. Hardly an exciting topic, but it wouldn't feature sensitive details to be overheard by uninvited parties.

“After two days of rough weather, sure,” I said neutrally as we navigated through the moderately busy atrium. At least my sensitive hearing wasn't being assaulted by the cry of a baby like it had last time.

“Two?” Embee's surprise nonplussed me, though my attempt to correct her was aborted by the feeling of diminution when a gathering of heedless but chatty people walked past us. “You said two days of rain?”

“Two, yeah . . .” I thought back, checked, double-checked, and triple-checked, and only then was I certain that my memory matched my statement. “It rained yesterday and the day before, though the first rains were lighter.” Another group walked by, spooking me slightly. Being amidst humans. Of average height. At least twice as tall as I was. This really shouldn't be unnerving. But it was because it stood in contrast to what I was and wasn't. I hated this!

“Sorry, hon, but no, it didn't rain for two days,” Embee countered.

“Chalk it up to discrepancies between parallel universes,” I whispered to her with mild difficulty while I subdued my skittishness. I then relocated myself to a nearby, relatively secluded alcove with two doors to . . . storage or maintenance rooms? I didn't care! Embee had dutifully followed me; I faced her. “Maybe the Golden Gate Bridge is green in this realm, I don't know,” I continued, trying to lessen my stress with a modicum of levity, though a spell of curiosity catched at the opportunity. “I wonder what else is different.”

“Wonder about that later, hon, and please wander with me this way,” Embee gestured towards something just a bit down the hallway; a glance that way revealed an elevator.

Knowing that meeting Peachy was prudent, if not belated, I trailed Embee obediently. As the doors parted, we took ourselves into the spacious enclosure of vertical motion. Unfortunately, it soon became packed with humans, which proved intimidating. My instincts were going into an almost primal state, putting me into a mode of a cornered animal trying to camouflage with its surroundings when escape was impossible. I wasn't really that what my instincts suggested, but so much of my body corresponded to that impression that I was unable to free myself from it, though a bastion of rationality held on. I was so absorbed in this act of predator avoidance that I didn't realize I had been staring with a blank intensity at the tiny gap where the floor met the door until the latter withdrew. As the occupants disembarked, I remained catatonic by my lonesome.

“Hey, you coming?” Embee was waiting; like in a trance, I joined up with her.

“I should consider the similarities instead,” I resumed talking as if I hadn't paused at all, my flat tone betraying my disarrayed state of mind. As if on cue, my mind went through a slideshow of matching details at high-speed. “The same home, the same furniture, mostly the same furniture, the same car, maybe the same car, it could be the same car . . . But so many similarities anyhow. Too many similarities. Too many similarities?” A sudden, apprehensive confusion caused my ears to droop and left my mouth slightly ajar.

“Yes, hon?” That was more of an inquiry on my well being than a wish for me to continue verbalizing my deduction. Presumably.

I tried to make sense of what my rhythmically spoken deductions and wildly oscillating feelings told me. “It's disconcerting.”

“Sorry, hon, I don't quite follow. What's disconcerting, and how so?” she asked, but a glance around her surroundings seemed to give her second thoughts. “Actually, try to think about it and have it figured out once we're with Peachy, okay? Can you follow me there?” After a moment's deliberation, I nodded my assent. Not many people here, but ponies instead. Less unsettling, fortunately, but I was still a bit on edge.

As we journeyed toward my fate through the corridors and past living creatures, I occupied myself with the cerebral challenge of converting abstruse emotions into apprehensible elocution. However, we arrived at a door sooner than I had expected; Embee rapped it gently.

“Peachy? You there?” Embee called out, with no response. “No?” Sidling over to the keypad adjacent to the door, she deftly tapped in the buzzer. When that too yielded nothing, she looked at me with a sigh. “We have to wait then.”

“Greeeaat,” I complained, annoyed that we'd now have to wait out here, where confidentiality was difficult.

“But we don't have to wait here.” Embee produced a mischievous smile and began playing with the number keys on the keypad. I felt nothing but demoralising inadequacy as I raised my own limb up for a brief evaluation. Seemed like taking this limb to my face-level, much less higher than that, demanded willpower equal to that of stepping over a campfire naked. “Huh, it wasn't that?” Undaunted, she attempted again. “Ah,” she breathed with composed delight, shortly followed by her pushing the door open. I didn't wait around to follow her in.

I was immediately intrigued by what I saw inside, least of which was the absence of Peachy. “What's with the, uh, new furniture and the cardboard boxes?” I counted six of them, a few closets, a few chairs of small size, and a bed that bore some similarity to that of a dentist's. “These weren't here the last time.” The door shutting with a noticeable thud earned my undivided attention. When my startled prey animal instinct faded, my eyes gravitated towards the far side of my back. That sight acted as a catalyst for my disorderly thoughts to coalescence.

“Maybe you don't remember, but this room was looking really sparse. Sometime around midday yesterday, many hours before you arrived, a pipe started leaking above her office, so she had to move to another until it's taken care of,” Embee explained, having put herself by the desk at the far end of the office. “This one happened to be vacant. Maybe it could become hers. It's only a few rooms over anyhow.” She then stared out one of the windows to the right of the desk. “I was sure we'd be late, not her.” A smirk drew on her as she shot a look my way. “On the better side, now we won't be late.”

I failed to reciprocate; a much more pertinent thought had taken priority. Alas, in my rush to speak, I made a vocalization that my mixed-up mind hadn't formed into coherent language.

“Yes, hon?” She ambled to me.

Rationality asserted itself and restored my ability to speak. “Disconcerting, ah yes, that I said, and with disconcerting I meant . . . I mean, if this were some random pony's body, rejecting the unfamiliar and unrelatable much like I do with the body itself would be almost instinctive. But if this is not that, but is . . . ahm . . .” Apprehension struck from the shadows and nearly disabled my speaking skills. “Is something closer . . . in terms of being identifiable.”

Embee's brows were knit tight. “You're talking about her being this universe's you?” Her deduction was astonishingly poignant and unexpected.

“You said what I couldn't bring myself to say.” However, now that she and I had broken the proverbial ice, I found an ounce of courage. “To be so physically disparate that it's often uncomfortable, yet being almost the same individual . . . That's unsettling. Disconcerting. I don't want to and can't be her. But the absence of one barrier between our identities is giving me a serious cause of concern.”

“Consider this then: you and she are completely different, but only a select few aspects stand out as a match due to their striking similarity.” Embee's voice of calm and reason once again set my fears aside just enough for logic to assert itself.

“So, instead of two close parallel lines overlapping, it's the intersection of two oblique lines, and I'm focused on that crossing because it's producing the brightest color?” I theorized.

The bemused look on Embee evidenced that the mental image I had verbalized wasn't easy to transmit. “Putting it that way, yes, I think so.”

My supposition, albeit cursory, motivated thinking on it further. “Those commonalities were then perhaps sufficient to blur the distinction between our realities and cause the swap of minds.” Embee's puzzled look again indicated she wasn't quick on comprehending the presented concept. I sighed lightly and decided to go and peer out the window while she caught up. Much to my chagrin, my stature meant I couldn't look down to the street. I'd have to actually brace myself on the window sill, though first I had to believe that the u-shapes at the end of my limbs didn't have or wouldn't gain the adhesive properties of wet soap.

“Ahh,” I heard Embee breathe in shocked surprise in reaction to my minor lunge.

I showed her an assuaging smile whilst I was technically standing upright. While still on all fours. With care I straightened my forelimbs while taking the necessitated steps with the other pair. “This is the only way I can get a good look down at the street. Normally, I would've pointed, but I don't feel like taking the risk of . . . of becoming unbalanced,” I explained, hiding a tinge of emerging sadness hidden behind annoyance. All these unnecessary complications just to satiate a speck of curiosity—“Aow!” Startled, I recoiled from the window, almost collapsing backwards onto my back. Reflexively having found my footing, I bit my tongue, subduing my flurry of emotions.

“Are you okay, hon?” Embee asked, having already come to my side. “What happened?”

“I, eh, ufh . . .” I drew breath, briefly dropping my head to meet a raised part of my limb. “I forgot I have a horn,” I told her with irritation in my quivering tone, then rolled my eyes up, whereupon I saw the two colors of my forelock. Mane. Hair! “It's just . . . I don't see it, the horn, so I guess I forgot it was there. Having it. Stupid really.”

“Not stupid. Understandable.” Embee gave me a gentle nuzzle. “Did it hurt, though?”

Comforted, I sighed. “No, it only felt weird. It has nerve connections, and having it slightly pushed into my skull . . . Egh, that makes it sound far worse than it felt. It was only a tiny tap, but I'm so not used to it. So yeah, I'm okay now. I'm only being awfully emotional over . . . kind of small things.” That was a prompt to analyze myself, but I didn't trust myself to make objective deductions when I wasn't calm and collected. I gave an indicative glance at the aperture to the sunny world outside. “I'll . . . I want to try again.” Undaunted, though heeding the words of caution spoken by Embee, I put myself back to making a reattempt at gazing down at the street. Maybe I'd spot a rare car by chance?

“Mind swaps, you were saying something about that,” Embee drew attention to an earlier but interrupted topic. “Uh, could a mind swap happen by itself?”

“It seems so unlikely, that it cannot be anything but impossible,” I said to Embee, who had relocated to one box, perhaps out of curiosity; I continued gazing down many floors below as I parsed together a more substantial guess. “Interuniversal mind swaps would be a common occurrence if all that was required is a few matching parameters from their respective universes.” A woman with a pram passing by a corner store below sparked an idea. “But if it received a push of some sort . . .”

“By what?” Embee said inquisitively, her saddlebag inadvertently sliding atop a cardboard box that then halted her approach to me.

“By what . . . Or whom, and if by whom, why?” I said while she effortlessly freed herself from the bind and, soon thereafter, her saddlebags, whereas I had begun feeling like I was playing the central character in a detective story. “Who else could've been there two nights ago at the perfect time and exact place to alter our respective fates? The evidence points at you-know-who.”

“That's a considerable leap of judgement, hon, and also a bold accusation you're making,” Embee, to my surprise, said disapprovingly. “For all we know, she may've had just as little to do with this as you do. It could've been an accident, or a completely unrelated event that affected you both. You shouldn't ask why, but how, and certainly not pass judgement so quickly.” Dumbfounded, I faced away from her in shame. She had spoken wisdoms I would've expected out of myself. “I know that you regard her with anxiety, especially fearing that her identi—”

“Don't say it,” I cut her off snappily, then immediately receded into staring at nothing in remorseful melancholy. “I already know. But I wish I didn't.”

“I'm sorry, but it's better to know, even when that in itself is frightening. Trying to ignore the danger doesn't make it go away, after all. It only makes you more vulnerable to it.” Embee's reason delivered in a dulcet voice helped my head up. That's when I saw in my peripheral vision a cap resting on the floor near the door. How and when . . . It must've fallen off my head when the door had spooked me. “Perhaps that fear also makes you associate undue blame on her? Whenever you speak of her, or refer to her, it's never by name, and with resentment and apprehension. To put it in another way, you're depersonifying her. Maybe you haven't noticed that you do, but I have.” Resisting obstinance, I had to ignore the contrived distraction of collecting the desolate cap and ponder on Embee's insight. If I was antagonistic toward . . . her . . . It seemed plausible that I was disposed to disagree with anything related to . . . or might it have been the other way around? Regardless, Embee was correct, and I'd be doing myself a pernicious disservice denying it. “Think for a moment. What could she possibly gain by, well, taking over your life and leaving you with hers?”

What would anypony gain from—Darned idiosyncrasy! “I don't know!” I cried out, frustrated and disturbed. Just to give myself a short breather, I decided to actually scoop that headwear off the floor. Alas, I was again not in the best of moods and tried to literally grab the item. Miserably, I sent it sliding across the floor to Embee. She beheld me with an empathetic gaze, then grabbed the cap with her teeth and laid it on a box. Enfeebled by my ineptitude, a bout of apathy engendered consideration for a risky endeavor. “I could know if I . . . If I try to think back to two days ago and learn what she knows.”

“You what?” I was numb to Embee's gasp. “Oh no, you should not do that.”

“I'm sure I won't, or I didn't do, or um . . .” Hold on. To where was that sentence leading to? I was trying to reference something I did? Or didn't do? “She did . . . didn't do . . .” Of course, now I recalled! I had assumed blame for my predicament rested on me. “I wasn't at fault,” I defended myself, as I . . . felt like my thoughts weren't here and confusing? Okay, what?

“Now listen to me and don't think on it further.” I was aware, I believed, that was my alarmed friend. I hadn't had any cause for alarm myself though.

“Okay.” Switches, levers, buttons, dials, and so on. All okay. Everything that was within physical reach had been connected and was functioning as intended. The wheels turned, and so did the pedals. All that was left was the awakening of the engine, and then I was ready to do a tentative test drive around the parking lot. But then . . . an anomaly? “Why . . . Why did . . . it do that? It wasn't supposed to . . .”

“Viv, Viv,” somepo . . . No! No? Oh-ne . . . van . . . two, three? “Vivienne?”

“Eh? Who?” That name . . . was for me? Mine? Name? Who said that name of mine that I associated with myself more than with the other . . . was showing me her hoof? Why was Embee—Uh-oh!



“Ah!” I yelped, having received her hoof into my face.

“Viv, Viv? Vivenne?” Embee called out while I was beside myself with embarrassment and exasperation. I couldn't do anything about having a light and high female voice, but I'd gladly prefer not to sound that feminine. “Are you okay now?”

“Yeah, um, t-thanks. I . . . I think I deserved that.” Collecting my composure—and as much as I tried not to—I rubbed my not-actually-injured snout. “It was a bit forceful, though.” Or was it a muffler? That was what ruminants had. Muzzle! That was what it was . . . what I lamentably had.

“Oh, well . . . Sorry?” Embee laughed nervously. “I'll try to be gentler, if there is a next time.”

“There will be, I just know it.” Caught in a spell of curiosity, I poked gently at my very visible nose, only to flinch when I realized the strangeness of this thing was too much for me to bear. That it was an integral part of my face only added to my stupefied disbelief. “And I'm not sure there really is a gentle way.” Regardless, explicitly aware that she might receive this next revelation unfavorably, I nonetheless had to at least test the waters. “Anyhow, I saw it, Embee, I saw it. I mean, I think I saw something possibly important.”

“I'm afraid to ask.” Embee sighed, raising her limb as if to take a vow. “What did you see, Vivienne?”

I could feel my muzzle protesting already. So, I too sighed, and decided to forge ahead despite my reservations. “Remember I said it rained for two days, and you said it rained only yesterday?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Alright, so,” I continued cautiously, “why use the windshield wipers when it's not raining?”

“Excuse me, but what are those?”

“You don't know?” I reacted snappishly, incredulous at her ignorance. However, I quickly saw the error of my temperamental behavior. “Sorry. It's those narrow components, often found in pairs, typically on the car's foremost window, but also as a single unit on the rear window on some cars, displacing accumulating water from rainfall but also to remove grime and dirt.”

I was interrupted by a gentle laugh. “Alright, alright, Vivienne, I got it.”

“So . . . Well . . .” Alas, I received a sudden pause, as I was seeing the windshield wipers of my car—or its counterpart in this realm—from multiple angles, both outside and inside. Thinking deeper on it despite my wariness, these visions seemed to be a collage of memory snippets and imagined and inexact extrapolations, and unlikely to provide a solving clue. “The, um, the wipers worked fine when I, sorry, she tested them earlier, but then seemingly activated by themselves right before she was to do a preliminary drive. Now, the question is, why did they do that?” I was frustrated but also puzzled by this aberration. Then it dawned on me! “Because it was raining when I had driven, er, uhm . . . from . . . I don't know. I can't recall . . .” I held a moment of silence for that loss of recent memory. “Moving on . . . It rained for me, but not for her. My car, when I had arrived, then occupied the exact spot as hers, and presumably and inexplicably combined with it during her run of the pre-drive tests. I saw, and can still see the stalk, er, the control lever for the wipers moving up by itself all of sudden into the active position. Perhaps her car was correcting itself to match mine. But unlike hers, my car isn't augmented with driving-assisting magic, at least to my knowledge, ruling it out as a probable inciter of this merger.” A major hole in my searching supposition became apparent. “However, if that's when this swap happened, how didn't I realize I was no longer in my own form? I would've immediately noticed it, wouldn't I?” I looked to Embee for answers. “Is it possible for two realities to become entangled, and then be unbound after an unknown duration, and that only once unbound were we displaced from our respective realities and bodies?”

As she blinked in silence, I realized once again I had delivered her a topic beyond her expertise. “Possibly?” she hazarded.

Disheartened, albeit undissuaded, I carried on. “While they, the realities, were um, locally interlocked, I was, err . . . we were unaware of anything being out of the ordinary, but only up to when they finally parted, which I guess to have happened when we were asleep . . . But what caused that separation then? And how come this ostensibly began with the windshield wipers? That doesn't make any sense.” I had an urge to scratch my head but . . . not with these things. I could've stepped on something dirty and then I'd transfer it to my mane. “But I'll make sense of it. I have to.”

“Not to bring you down, hon, but maybe it's not you alone who can make sense of it?” What was Embee on about, trying to discourage me like that? I might be on the cusp of discovery here if I just kept analyzing further! “She may not have known anything was seriously amiss. All what she did, and you did, could've been wholly unrelated to whatever caused this.”

“But I really need to know. I mean, I must know. By some means, somehow, I guess, I'll just think it, and that'll make it . . . then I'll know . . . because I kept thinking . . .” My determination faltered as I sadly realized that correlation didn't equal causation. I could put myself through the wringer and analyze recent memories again and again in an endless pursuit of answers where none could ever be found. “Embee, you know how hard I . . . I really wanted to know,” I lamented, crestfallen. “How am I to . . . Where do I go from here?”

“Giving up isn't easy when you've convinced yourself not to,” she wrapped rationality into a consolation. “To learn what truly happened must feel like the only question you have in your life, but hard as it may be to accept, you alone cannot answer it. Neither can I, though my joy would be boundless if I could. Don't take all this too hard though. Be proud of yourself instead. In little more than a few minutes you put together terrific theories that I'm sure Peachy would like to hear as well.” The door made an unlocking sound, betokening its opening. “Speaking of whom.” In walked a cream brown mare with a red, long, feathered mane. I was immediately shaken by nervous excitement.

“Ah, morning. Nice of you to finally get here—while I wasn't here.” She gave Embee a small, questioning smirk, who rolled her eyes in pretend innocence.

“Good morning to you as well,” Embee reciprocated as Peachy walked herself over to me.

“Hi,” I said proactively—with a thin whisper.

“Well hi to you as well. I'm very pleased and thrilled to meet you again.” Though no words escaped me, I too felt the same way—and also a little apprehensive. That glimmer in her eyes was of wonder in seeing a human stuck in the wrong body and a sincere desire to help me, not delight for having an experiment to play with? “Now, without any delay, and as the phrase goes, let's get down to brass tacks,” she took herself to her desk; Embee and I congregated at it as well. “I've gone over the notes I wrote, to get back up to speed on this matter, but it goes without saying that any new information you can provide can advance the resolving of your situation.” She opened a laptop computer I hadn't consciously paid attention to. “Embee told me of you and your believable arguments of your humanity. I feel it's fair that I'm up front with you: I must admit to you my doubts, anticipating your case to be symptomatic of some form of severe disillusionment or stress-induced dissociative fugue. However, Embee's statements along with her observations, and the peculiar magic signature in you, strongly corroborates you having told the truth.”

I gasped, awe-struck. “So that means my humanity's been verified! That's great news, yes!” I felt like I had come airborne by the elation and relief. “What else did you discover about me?” I asked with excited curiosity, right before a flash of dismay filled with an intense dread of losing face. Could she have discovered my true gender?

“Not much else, I'm afraid. Magic signatures can tell what you are, but not who you are or what you know.” She chuckled lightly. The magic signature couldn't tell my gender? That was a very close bullet dodged. “I cannot read your mind.” Was I in the clear, though? Had she been able to read my physical features? The image of a mare poring over a male body, even if it were to be mine, was certainly unwarranted, however. “I took the liberty of checking you for ailments, just to be sure. All signs pointed to you being perfectly healthy.”

“Cool.” I was still in such a tizzy that my reaction was flat.

“Embee told me a little about you. Perhaps this is kind of a formality in that regard, but I'd like to hear it from you.” Peachy looked at me kindly. “Your name's Vivienne?”

“Hm,” I affirmed hesitantly, unsure of if I wanted to go down this path with her as well.

“Last name?” Peachy said affably, creasing her lips to an expectant smile when I remained mute. “Vivienne?”

A feeling of despondency hung over me. “Uh, it's . . . hazy.”

“Alright. Vivienne Hazy,” Peachy shifted her attention to her computer.

“No, that's not it,” I interrupted, sensing my limp ears rebound.

“Oh?” she blinked confusedly. “It's not Hazy?”

“No. The name's not hazy. I mean, it's hazy in that . . .” I huffed slightly. “I feel like I should know, but I'm confused by a number of names. One of them is correct, but I can't tell which one. Point is, I don't know my last name.”

“Not at the moment, hon,” Embee consoled.

I should've been optimistic enough to vocalize a meager hum. Her bright smile, helpful as it might've been, was subdued by my wall of defeat. Peachy had put her attention back on her machine. “First name. Vivienne. Last name. Unknown, for the time being. Gender. Female.” Once again, I felt conflicted about this propagation of a false identity that conversely granted flexibility in the expression of emotion and anything and everything feminine, accidental or deliberate. “Well, no. I shouldn't assume,” she gently criticized herself. Was she tipped off by my unease? Paradoxically, I was exceptionally averse to surrendering my alias, even though doing so would be a significant relief. “Do you have a differing preference? Non-binary?”

I had a poor understanding of the spectrums. “Ah no, uh . . .” I said haltingly, bringing a smile to my lips even though I felt I was about to do a self-betrayal. “It's a bit silly, but I always feel uneasy drawing attention to it, but, yeah, I'm female.” The chance to set the record straight had been set so close I could smell it—and I had been too fainthearted to take it.

“Alright.” Peachy took the lie at face value. “And your age?”

“Don't you know not to ask a lady her age?” I said with a hint of sullenness, angry and disappointed at myself.

“A lady can ask another, can't she?” Peachy half-joked; I nearly groaned. “But in all seriousness, I don't mean to offend.”

“Twenty two, I think,” I guessed. “It could be her age.”

Peachy's left ear canted sideways. “Her?”

“You know, her.” Peachy's continuing bemusement convinced me to briefly hold up my limb to my sternum. “This, her. I don't want to say her name, and I expect the same from you.” Catching myself becoming perhaps a bit demanding, I softened my disposition. “If I may make such a request, that is. Be that as it may, I know what her name is, and it's not mine. It's not supposed to be, but it wants to feel like it is. I'm afraid that were I to be called by her name, I'll react to it like it were mine, and I'm really trying to keep our respective identities and personalities separate, even though that seems as futile as segregating pigments in water. I can tell red and blue apart with ease, but I'm most anxious about the shades of purple. Does the mallow belong to me, and mauve to her? I don't know, and not knowing . . .” I dropped my head momentarily as I sighed, having heard developing fragility in my tone.

“Try not to think about it, hon.” Embee comforted. “Everything will be sorted out in the end.”

“This is perhaps the worst kind of an identity crisis to have. But I digress. Twenty two. That could be my birthday, or her birthday, or a number associated with it. I really don't know.” However, it suddenly came to me that I was old enough to own a driver's license. “No wait, forget that . . . Let me think here.” A figurative drawer opened up that ejected images to my mind's eye. “Okay! I received a bottle of wine as a birthday gift from my parents and this feels . . . not many years ago, but . . . They know I don't drink, but I wasn't mad about the gift either, though, neither were they, I think. Maybe they had forgotten that I don't . . . But I felt bad, like I was being ungrateful when I was only being true to my principles.” This recollection came with unexpected emotional baggage. “I feel too sad about this, I'm sorry.” What was with me?

“Who are you saying sorry to?” Embee asked with a tone of gentleness that seemed to convey a congratulation. Bafflingly, I didn't have an immediate answer. I had . . . apologized for my behavior? For being just a touch sad? My relationship with my emotions must be poorer than I thought.

“Well, I'll put twenty two here, with a question mark,” Peachy stated soberly; however, something soon seemed to weigh on her mind. “Please forgive my oversight. I should've asked you the instant we met: how are you feeling?”

After the very recent failures of my own, I felt . . . “Exhausted, conflicted, dismayed, bewildered, distraught, frustrated, humiliated, embarrassed, and indisposed,” I summarized, feeling like even my voice counted as an enervator.

“Oh . . . my.” Peachy's hoof moved up to her chin. “Indisposed as well?” Of all the things she could've taken concern with . . . “Is it because of something you ate?”

“No. Funny though, as funny as it can be anyhow, is that all the things that I've had to endure, nothing's made me throw up,” I remarked sardonically, then exhaled resignedly. “Oh well, I should look forward to it with aplomb.”

“But Vivienne,” Embee so wonderfully reminded me that I had subjugated myself into portraying a female character. “You forgot one feeling.”

“Just one?” I said numbly.

“Hopeful,” she said with cheer, and much to my initial bemusement, laid a limb over me to gently rock me. “Actually, you don't need to rely on hope alone when that comforting feeling is supplanted, perhaps superceded, by knowing the anticipated outcome is assured.” She nodded at Peachy, who nodded affirmatively back at me.

“Careful with that kind of talk,” I warned Embee. “You'll make me feel better about myself.”

“And that's exactly what you want,” she said pithily, seeing right through my defensive reproach, and I couldn't counter her argument due to the simple fact that she was perfectly right.

“I see you two have formed a friendship.” Even Peachy seemed to read me better than I did. “That's great, honestly. It's doing wonders for your mood.”

“Well uhm . . .” Bringing this to my vocal cords shouldn't involve so much internal resistance. “In fact, that's putting it quite succinctly. That I haven't had to be by my lonesome has been a lifesaver, and made my life, as it is, a lot less arduous.” If I had more to say, it didn't materialize; Embee gestured her appreciation by laying her wing over my back. “Don't do that,” I whispered, “I might start crying.” She withdrew respectfully, perhaps knowing me well enough not to become bemused.

“To get back on track.” Peachy eyed her computer briefly. “My report summarizes most of what we know of your situation and how it came to be, mostly retold by Embee I must note.” I noted Peachy had a rubber shoe with a thin, peglike protrusion on its lip, perhaps to assist in using the computer. When she had donned that, I didn't know. “Let me begin by saying that transformations are not unheard of, Equestrian species to another by magic or enchanted items, accidental or deliberate.” While she quickly glanced at the screen, I tried to ascertain if she had insinuated I had been transformed. Or maybe I was simply misinterpreting her words. “Mind swaps, however, are rarer, as transferring minds swiftly and intact requires more magic than reshaping a body does, and this applies to cross-species transfers as well.”

“That's great and all,” I spoke up, feeling just a tad impatient, but also desiring to know if she could answer a question of particular interest, “but just to make a guess here, an imperfect transfer can lead to memory loss and . . . other selfhood-related irregularities?”

“That's a fair and astute assessment, yes,” Peachy said, astonished and, albeit reservedly, delighted. “You're a clever girl.”

“Yeah, I'm a raptor.” At least I could counter the unintended insult with pert humor. It did leave both Peachy and Embee confused. So confused, in fact, I worried they had taken it literally despite their confirmation I was human. “Gosh, it was a joke. I'm obviously not a raptor. I can't believe I have to say that.” I thought I'd follow that by jokingly saying I was actually a dragon, or a fox, but it'd only deepen their confusion. Although . . . I should've considered that they might've not known what a raptor was in the first place. Or maybe they did know? It was a bird as well, if I wasn't mistaken . . .

“Okay, uh, carrying on.” Peachy recomposed herself and perused her computer for a few seconds. “A mind transfer cannot be, or should not be partial. It's all or nothing. If the transfer cannot be made in full, the spell cancels itself. This is inherent to all magic, including spells, by the way. That the transfer has happened regardless is suggestive of a deliberately broken spell, or an unintended, though highly rare side-effect caused by another, unknown spell or magical event.”

It was like I had won an anti-lottery—without knowing I was a participant. “To have that kind of luck is astounding, to say the least.”

“It truly astounds me as well.” The disbelief in Peachy's tone was undeniable. “A seemingly accidental pony-human mindswap across the universal divides, the kind that's befallen you no less, is what I would've easily dismissed to be all but impossible.”

“I'm living proof of it not being impossible. But I grow weary of this debate over the whats and hows and assorted intricacies. It's not providing any sort of resolution.” Recognizing the effect my eroding patience had done on my decorum, I drew a breath to reassert my tranquility. “Let's skip to the point. Embee had told me you can't, but I want to hear it from you: can you reverse this cross-dimensional mind swap?”

“I hate to disappoint, but Embee's absolutely right. Sending you back is far beyond my capabilities.” With dejection I looked over at Embee, who unfortunately gazed back with sad compassion. “Determining your point of origin isn't what I can do, either.”

“I hadn't asked to know that, but, um, thanks anyhow.” While I was perplexed by the receiving of additional but unrequested information, a thought ventured to the forefront of my mind. “What can you tell me about her passive presence and what it has to do with me. Or what it does to me, I suppose.”

“Yes. Her passive presence is like a repository of her memories, personality, and traits. It's her essence, if you will. Naturally, in the absence of her active presence, you've become the active presence, with the benefit of your own, unique memories, personality, and traits. A mind transfer's supposed to seclude the passive presence so that it cannot be accessed by the new host. Since it hasn't, along with the transfer possibly being partial, identity conflations are sadly to be expected.” Peachy's serious but calm tone changed when she put on a positive smile. “However, you and her being different species is a dissimilarity that heightens rejection, making the overlaps, regardless of duration, temporary.”

I was, however, not reassured. “Clearly, that means the similarities are the ones that stick.”

“Unfortunately.” The look on Peachy was that of sympathetic dismay, as if she had hoped I wouldn't have made that deduction. “But if she likes strawberries and you do as well, then it's not so bad, is it?”

“Ughr,” I huffed, less disgusted by her downplaying of my anxiety than by my personality being tampered with, and much more fearful of any changes, no matter how minor, being permanent. “It's the principle of it.” A second later, a faint ember of hope convinced me to ask: “Are there any others who share my unenviable predicament? Would make it a bit easier if, you know, I had some . . . one to talk with . . . slim as the odds are.”

The sad look on Peachy's face gave me time to prepare. “Not as far as I know, I'm sorry.”

With my wish to be with someone  who'd be able to perfectly empathize with me dashed, I had very little more to say. “I'm . . . I'm all alone then.”

“But I'm here,” Embee offered sympathetically.

“No, Embee, you're not here,” I rebuked. “You cannot understand and relate to my anguish and confusion because you haven't been inexplicably removed from your normal life and locked within a strange form that has virtually nothing in common with your own self.”

“You're right, and I'm sorry, hon, I haven't,” Embee admitted. “I don't have the frame of reference that you do. Though, if I may kindly suggest, consulting transgender support groups—”

“This is nothing like that and I don't care what you suggest! My predicament is absolutely not comparable!” Much to my horror and chagrin, her pitying but undaunted visage telegraphed just how wrong I was. Defiance petered on even as shame became stronger. “Well, fine, it's body dysphoria, I get that, but they're in disagreement with their sex, whereas I'm not!” That statement regarding myself was true on the account that I wasn't the sex I was now—and that made perfect sense. Having said it without the slightest falter was equally perplexing. However, with my indignance subsiding, and an uncomfortable silence hanging over us, another tone emerged. “Look, I'm . . . I'm sorry, about that, ah, that outburst,” I said peaceably. “You're the closest thing I have to a friend here, and I should not be so . . . brusque. I'm easily stressed and behaviorally confused, and I don't even know what you meant to suggest and assumed that it would be what I wouldn't like. But now I think I see what you might've tried to say, and I suppose it would've been really nice to have some others to commiserate with, but a group for transgenders isn't the right one. Even if I were just an unseen observer in an online environment, they ah, their, the issues are similar, but not identical, and I wouldn't feel a sense of belonging.”

“If you say so, and well, if things start looking grim, at least don't forget that you're never alone. You have us,” Peachy said, first carefully, but with developing gusto. “Now, if we may continue . . .” She then retrieved a plastic box resting at the other end of her L-shaped desk and put it before her. “You were able to earlier, I've been told, but are you able to use your magic at this moment?” she asked as she pried the box open.

“Yes,” I replied, nonplussed. “I actually should be overjoyed that I can use it at all. I mean, I was more than elated to do something as simple as lift a pillow by thinking about it. Magic's such a strange thing, too. Seeing and feeling without using either senses, like a continuous but soundless echolocation with tactile sensation.”

“That's an interesting way to put it, Vivienne.” Peachy then demonstrated her own ability. “I can pick up this pen and sense the wall behind me. It's not a true tactile sensation, however, but merely the magic relaying information.”

“Hmm, it has a range limit, about fifteen or twenty meters, at least for me. It's an impressive reach, but, well, I'm sure it could be farther . . .” And if I thought about that further, I might accidentally lose track of myself. “As important as magic's become to me, in all honesty, I can't help but feel bereft of what I can't use. There was an immediacy to them. Magic's more of a command that's issued and then performed, and I've yet to learn how to reliably reduce the latency to an acceptable level. Also, body language cannot be done with magic.”

“Excuse me, if I may interrupt, but what precisely can't you use?” Peachy didn't get what I meant? Had I been too vague?

“She means hands,” Embee helped her unicorn colleague.

Peachy let out a small moan. “Sorry to hear that.” I could not ignore her casting a glance down at my forelimbs. “You must be missing them an awful lot.” She certainly meant well, but I genuinely felt sickened by her directness.

“Do you have any idea of the immeasurable comfort I would've given myself so many times if I could've just buried my face in my hands? I don't have that now, and so I have to figure out other means, but there aren't. So I have, I have . . . nothing. That's what I have, and I'm feeling confused, anxious, and insecure.” I suddenly became aware of my voice breaking. “Excuse me.” I drew a breath and let it out as a sigh. Embee brought my eyes to her when she gently nuzzled me. “I should be grateful that I at least have and can use magic. I would be so utterly lost if I had only these useless hooves to . . . err to, um, to . . .” The irony of my now aborted rant following Peachy's poor expression of sympathy became unpleasantly apparent. I was in the presence of a pony who didn't have a spire of spellcasting on their head. “I'm sorry, Embee, I didn't mean to offend, but please, try to understand my plight,” I expressed my remorse, albeit defensively. “And I'm kind of emotional, and carried away by it, and that's not an excuse, but just an explanation as to why it happens, and uh, I kind of hate it because I'm not sure I'm supposed to be like how I am, but the circumstances are extraordinary and . . . huh?” Oddly enough, Embee's gentle giggle was comforting, halting my babbling temporarily. “You know, I envy your ability to do so much with hooves and not think of it as strange or insurmountable. I sometimes feel debilitating alienation and disconnect—”

“Stop stressing yourself out again, hon,” she said tenderly despite everything, with little effect however. How could I even believe to be on par with these magical ponies from a realm I had believed to be pure fantasy when I was more of a thinking and talking animal! Four feet and not doing so well with or on them!

“All those fundamental mannerisms and gestures that I couldn't and can't do and . . . and I have these big ears that signal my emotions by falling and rising, and turning towards every sound I hear and I cannot properly reconcile with them and I can feel those muscles right behind my jaw, and my spine extends to a long-haired protrusion that swings side to side when I'm annoyed and tucks itself between my legs when I'm scared and . . . and these are not things I, as a human, would have any reason to perform, which means they're instincts, and are also the most evident signs of the changes I've undergone and that makes me question how much I am truly myself anymore!” And then I stopped breathing. A primal flight reaction fostered by the feeling of heavy peril began surging through my veins. If I knew how, I'd run, though where would I run anyhow? There was no escaping from any of this and, and, and . . . and I had to stay calm, stay calm, stay calm . . . stay calm. A deep breath, and . . . okay. I was okay. I did well. Just a little shaky, and almost teary-eyed.

“Don't let your fears take control.” Embee was a little slow in taking me into a brief, soothing embrace. “It's not good for you.”

“A mild sedative can help with your anxiety.” Peachy's suggestion was enticing, but when a whiff of fabric softener could make me feel giddy, altering my behavior with pharmaceuticals seemed like a gamble rather than a guaranteed protection. I only agreed with coffee, and the occasional painkiller for when circumstances required it.

“No, no thanks, um, uhm, egh . . .” I let my tongue go across my lips. “I feel like even my mouth doesn't feel like it used to. I know I don't have the teeth of a human, but I'm talking about the tongue, the lips, and shape of my mouth. If . . . If I just . . . If I just had something that I could look at and feel comfort in knowing that it is me, an entirely unchanged physical connection to myself, then maybe I wouldn't be so stressed all the time.” My sense of self-awareness arrived to slap me in the face with a fish procured from Unhygienix's stall. “Or become so easily stressed, I mean, it just happened more than once within the past few minutes.”

Peachy held a thoughtful gaze on me, letting a careful smile emerge slowly. “If it's of any consolation, you're still female.”

I cringed, then laughed nervously. “I would've gone crazy if that had been taken as well.” I seriously hoped I wasn't correct.

“Don't be so sure, hon. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for.” Embee assured.

“How can you say that? I don't need my dysmorphia to be worsened by, well, ehh . . .” Expressing what I felt was most objectionable in being female was impossible when I was pretending to be safe and secure in being one. Further compounding my hesitation was that I'd turn my predicament on its head if I presented a convincingly earnest argument from the hypothetical perspective of a woman turned stallion, and I genuinely had neither the insight or resolve to do that. But I had to say something believable, that I myself could believe in, too. “Sometimes I have thoughts of fancy, small what-ifs, flights of curiosity, sparks of fascination, and, admittedly, mild but momentary disillusionments, but never to the extent where I think my life would be better if I weren't . . .” Unable to go against myself, I clenched my teeth behind closed lips. “In all honesty, I prefer not to ever find out what being of the opposite sex would do to me. Not long-term, anyhow.” A few days might be endurable. Any longer than that and I'd become genuinely afraid for myself—and I didn't want to think of that! “Can we please get back on track now?”

“By all means.” Putting her face to the box before her, Peachy pulled a long and transparent item hanging at the end of a thread. “Are you able to take this vial with your magic and open and close its lid?”

“Yes, I can, am able to, I mean. What's it for?” Unsure what it was for, I refused to do as asked.

“I was getting to that,” Peachy said with a small laugh. She had rested the questionable item on her desk. “It's so that we can get a magic sample.” Despite that simple reassurance, I had to thwart my own distrust and convince myself that she wasn't tasking me with self-harm. Wrapping the vial in a shroud, I labored briefly with its unplugging and plugging. “Hmm.” Peachy briefly scrutinized the vial as I disengaged my magic. “You did very well. Thank you.”

Unimpressed by the congratulation, I . . . Why was the vial glowing white? “Oh, wow, the magic's there inside?” Mesmerized by seeing a piece of my telekinetic force contained, I stared at the vial as Peachy carefully took it by the string and lowered it into a small envelope she had opened while I had been occupied with amazement.

Peachy laughed again, cocking a brow. “Yes, I said what the vial's for, didn't I?” she said as she sealed the envelope, “I'll have it delivered to the lab shortly for analysis, so we can learn what it can yield about your condition.”

“Uh, I hesitate to ask . . .” I raised my limb tentatively. “But will you also need to take a blood sample?”

“No, but I don't see any harm in it.” Her succinct answer came as a bit of a shock.

“Wehll, uhh . . .” My voice developed a tremble. “I-I don't like n-needles. J-j-us-s-st say-saying.”

“Relax. Contrary what you might think, we don't have any here. We'd have to go elsewhere to take a blood sample. But even so, the needles we use are of a special kind. Looks much like any needle, but it's a hollow tube with two microneedles attached to what resembles a downsized electric toothbrush. The needle drawing blood is serrated and gently vibrates itself through the skin, and the other administers a local anesthetic. It's practically painless.”

“Really? Aaah, ooohhh.” I shook as the tension left my body. “Incredible. Genuinely incredible.” Those kinds of needles must be invaluable to diabetics and others who must puncture themselves daily. “Anyhow, um, getting the, my results from the magic might take a day or two, right?” Just as I could surmise that to be true, I had to now surmise I'd have to live as a pony for that duration. Female pony. Such joy . . . but endurable. Yes. Endurable.

“It might be ready by day's end. If not, then yes, tomorrow or the day after at the latest.” She began tapping at her computer again, whereas I struggled with accepting that I no longer had to surmise the duration of my condition. This was concrete now, and I should try not to be afraid.

My head wanted to fall, but I couldn't bear the thought of seeing my feet. Even though the air wasn't moving, I was sure I felt it cascading down my sides like a dense fog, as if to make my form explicitly incontrovertible. “But . . . but how long must I wait to get back to living my life?”

“Not too long,” she assured, but the lightness in which she said it made it feel like it was a throwaway line. When she saw my scowl, she took on a placating tone. “I had contemplated keeping you here in the hospital from hereon, but as gracious and accommodating we can be, this place's a poor substitute to the soothing comfort of a home. True, I'm aware that it's not your home per se, but nonetheless, I feel safe permitting you the freedom to go there. In fact, it's crucial that you look, if you can, for a schedule or a calendar and ensure that all, if any, commitments, meetings, and events, with friends or family or otherwise, are circumspectly cancelled. This goes without saying, but I recommend that you ask for Embee's assistance. She'll be more than happy to help.” Embee took that as a cue to give me an empathetically confirmatory nod. “We can all agree that mingling with "long-time friends" you don't actually know would be unbearably stressful. I'll check if any appointments show up on this end and have them cancelled, too. Now, I know that waiting can be extremely trying, so I sincerely encourage you to remain patient, calm, hopeful, and perhaps most importantly, find ways to be happy and entertained.” Peachy made some inputs on her computer. “If it's not too much for you, I'd like you to later recount what's transpired since this unfortunate experience began. Just giving you a heads up about that, and as always, it's fine if you decline. I understand it's not been a pleasant time. On a brighter note, Embee might've told you this already, but I've messaged a friend I know who in turn knows a specialist on—”

“How long must I wait?” I interrupted, having become dissatisfied by the instructive monologue that I felt was avoiding answering a most crucial question.

Embee went up to the desk. “Excuse me, but I'd like to humbly ask you to be fair to her,” she implored.

Peachy bit her lip, but with a sigh, she steeled herself. “It's with much regret that I must say I don't know precisely how long the wait will be.”

Embee looked at me sorrily, expressing dismay at the response her persuasion had garnered. “Then make an educated guess!” I demanded. A terrified voice in the recess of my mind was trying to convince me that I didn't want to know.

Peachy's ears wilted. “Please, stay calm, and listen. I was very explicit in letting him know this was most urgent.”

Infuriation, a defense reaction, threatened to rise to the surface, but in a moment of clarity and understanding, I tempered, then quenched it. Belligerence and confrontation had no place here and served no meaningful purpose. Instead of sealing myself up with an erupting blaze, I laid myself open, and implored: “I cannot live in uncertainty. I won't survive living in uncertainty. I absolutely need and deserve an estimate, if nothing else.”

The silence that ensued could've made the vacuum of space noisy, and how she looked like she wanted to be anywhere else but here was a dreadful omen. “ Ah, well . . . fifteen, maybe only ten days,” she said, uncharacteristically timidly.

“Oh that's um, some two weeks abouts . . .” I said in a voice barely above a whisper. I meant to thank her for her sincerity as well, but nothing audible came out. I felt empty . . . Sad, crushed, hopeless? Oddly unmoved and tranquil, as if my emotions had been deactivated.

“Are you okay, hon?” Embee's queried.

“I don't know,” I replied, feeling like I was in a place of mystifying peace within the eye of a storm. It'd pull me in if I touched it—safer to stay here then then . . .

“My friend's in a distant part of Equestria and mailing him takes time, and then he has to contact the specialist. That takes several days, but I'm willing to admit that my estimate could be wrong, very wrong. That, and the exigency of this matter means the wait could be significantly less than ten days,” Peachy said. Explained? To inspire hope?

“Okay,” I acknowledged. Was she frowning? Out of worry? Why was she worried? I was fine.

“When I get the return message, I promise you, I'll send news of it to you immediately, even if it's in the middle of the night,” she continued.

“Mhm.” I still felt emotionally numb. I wasn't sure that was good, or going to last. This must've been a defense mechanism. A lull before the inevitable turmoil. Strange how cognizant I was of it, yet so resigned.

“Can you be so kind and take the sample in my stead?” Embee looked at me after having spoken her request. “She will be needing me.” I had a feeling that didn't portend well for me. But I was okay, just okay. Nothing was wrong.

I watched in silence as Peachy took the box and left. Now it was only me and my flight-capable friend here. In this quiet place with a sterile odour. What was next? Embee neared a bit, and I sensed she was about to give a hug or something of the sorts—and I receded instinctively. The storm ejected cold water on me before I knew why I had distanced myself from her. If she had touched me, then I would know that . . . I couldn't do this anymore. I'd have to accept it, and, no . . . NO! “I can't do it.” I looked away, trying and failing to put a familiar limb to my eye.

“Do what, hon?” Embee said softly but with urgency. “Tell me.”

I turned around, looking for a portal through which I could escape this all. But all I saw was the storm that I'd have to go into. “No, I don't . . .” I turned once more, and instantly recoiled when I looked down, frightened that the reflections of light on the floor were mirrors. “I can't . . . can't I . . .” I could reclaim peace if I braved the winds and made it to the other side . . . but it might not be the kind of peace I'd want?

“You can't what, hon?” Embee said empathetically, directing me to face her with the softest of dabs. “Can you tell me? I'd like to know.” Her gentle request was compelling, but . . . if I said it, then I couldn't unsay it, and that'd make it real. But it was real, just less so now. Kind of. Or not. I was scared. “I want to help, hon.”

“What's there to help?” My bitter repudiation was but a spark of skepticism betraying the nearness I was to despaired sobbing. I faced away from her once again. “It's . . . could . . . two weeks . . . and I . . . don't want to . . .” I hated and feared that I'd have to. “I'm . . . not this.” But I was—and I wasn't! For almost two weeks? “I can't do it.”

“Of course you can do it, hon, I know you can.” Embee had repositioned herself to facilitate face-to-face talking. “Listen, you have more tenacity and fortitude in you than you realize. You can and will make it through the hardships and sadness, even when it seems like it will crush you. Even if it were two weeks, don't think about that. Think this way: tomorrow will be one day less to wait, and with each passing day, the wait becomes shorter. It won't be so bad when I'm here with you, for you. You'll do alright.”

“I would, I had, afh, a few d-days, that I, coast it okay, b-bht,” I explained, my words overlapping with themselves. I was a mess about to happen. No, worse. I had a concern she'd have to know of, that I might articulate without breaking down if I tried. “But igh . . . idh . . . gham . . . don't . . .” Had to try harder and not hyperventilate. “Know, how to be, I'm not, want to, don't, no, I don't, not know, this, be, no, I don't . . .” This wasn't working! I was barely coherent.

“Try to relax, hard as it may, I know, but I also know you can do it.” Embee too had come to the same realization. “Now focus, hon. Collect your thoughts, and speak them to me.”

Yes. I had to get a grip on myself, if for just one sentence. A deep breath, and try to get this imploration through a duct that felt as narrow as a straw. “I need to, ah, to know . . . I don't know how to, and I . . .” That ended with a miserable squeak and a salty rill reaching my lips.

“Keep going, hon.” She laid her wing across my back while I stared fixedly down as a trembling something overladen with fright and anxiety. Something this—that I—wasn't, and I wasn't who I didn't belong in, in the form that made it impossible to be who I knew I was and what I was, and so what I was trying be and what I could be couldn't be who and what I was, meaning I was . . . what? “Don't stop trying.”

I glanced at her, but immediately closed my eyes and shook my head in rejection of what . . . I almost was. I was so afraid of . . . I couldn't force myself to be willingly ignorant! The truth was all around me at all times and I could feel it and I'd hear it, and I hated that I'd have to know how to and I was scared that I'd come to know and I was scared scared scared scared scared scared scared! But it wouldn't be in mind. Only in body, not in identity, only in body, only in body, and that was, that was . . . that was all? Maybe? Acceptable? Maybe? Hopefully. Maybe? I was reasoning with myself. Yes. I'd need help to . . . to be . . . something that this I was . . . and not speak it as a whimper. “I . . . don't . . .” No whimpering, no! No sobbing, not even the smallest of sobs. Had to keep it together. Steel myself, and get this pain voiced. “You know what you are and I know what I'm not, but I need help with that.” The vague wording did not dull the message I knew myself. It hurt so bad I gasped; a prelude to sobbing. But I reined it in. If I had actually begun to . . . then I wouldn't need help anymore. I would already be it. Or would it? No or yes, no or yes? I didn't know, but I was too frightened.

“Help with what . . . Ah, I understand. Yes, I can teach you how to be a mare.” That was terrible! Why did she say it? I knew she might say it. I should have expected her to say. I knew what she said was right. I'd need the help. Being this, having to be this, learning how to be this, knowing how to be this . . . but only for a while! It would hurt nonetheless. It was hurting now. I was afraid it would never stop hurting, and afraid it would stop hurting. If the former . . . I'd never be at peace, and the latter . . . I'd die. “Hang in there.” Too debilitated to resist, I let Embee take me into an embrace. “If you think it's two weeks, it'll be over before you even know it, you'll see.” When she said that, I moaned pitifully. How would I ever have the persistence and tenacity to stall, hinder, resist, stop . . . No, I wouldn't die! I'd be me, whatever happens . . . but not the me I was? Would I ever be? Was I now? I was scared. “But don't despair, hon, it can very well be less than that. The lab results might provide you the most wonderful surprise! Also, Peachy could be terribly wrong with her estimate, she said so herself. Since it's an urgent matter, I'm sure every step is taken to make your wait as short as possible.”

Her optimism had no effect on me. I was on day two of . . . Her optimism had no effect on me. The thoughts and memories of the prior day filled my head . . . and I didn't want that! Couldn't they leave me be? This was a bad day, much worse than yester . . . Was today really that bad of a day? Could it actually be less bad? Could I think day two was better than day one, and it'd improve from there? But yesterday . . .No? Yes. “I was in a bad way yesterday,” I said in this currently raspy, fatigued Fluttershy voice that . . . I was afraid to accept as . . . a normal trait.

“You were, but not anymore,” Embee said in her consoling, dulcet voice.

I wished I didn't, but I was recalling the wetness, the stinging cold, the stones digging into my skin, the intolerable, unending anguish . . . “I was in a really bad way. Truly awful . . .”

“Don't dwell on it, hon.”

“I was found.” And I hadn't been happy that I had . . .

“Yes, you were.”

I sniffed. “I could've died.” The light that had pierced the darkness, heading toward me . . . could've done it for me.

“We're very happy you haven't.”

“I was doing a terrible thing. I had given up. I regret it more than anything I've ever done . . .” I hugged Embee tighter, almost whimpering.

“That's all in the past now. You're getting better.”

“Because I have you.” I receded from her so I could look at her with somber appreciation. “More than once have you saved me from the maw of despair. Thanks to you, I have hope.” Right when my optimism was about to be rekindled, a horrifying reality threatened to snuff it out. “But, but . . . but she doesn't.” In mounting panic I gazed deeply into Embees eyes. “Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasesendhermessageanywayyoucantoletherknowtoholdon . . .” Her silence . . . a sad silence . . .

My life was crashing down with more heartrending effect than a flaming airship, and the untenable uncertainty . . . Up to two weeks of waiting just to learn that I'd have nothing to go back to? “Waiht thath lhnh . . . I can't, khn . . . can't . . .” I fell. Curled up. Sickening anguish. “Nnnnnnnh . . . Nohooo . . . no, no, noooo . . .” Why this . . . to me . . . Nothing I could do . . . I couldn't . . . couldn't . . . breathe right . . . Was . . . bad . . . No . . . no . . . no . . . end . . . End . . . this . . . please . . .