//------------------------------// // Chapter 4 // Story: Words of Power // by Starscribe //------------------------------// Eric faced Adriana, frozen in place. Except for the tail, which swished nervously back and forth. His ears moved too, both entirely out of his control. "Did someone let an animal in?" someone else asked. "What do we do, call animal control?" John stepped forward, lifting his safety glasses away from his eyes. "Sure is dressed like Eric. I thought I was losing my mind, watching him one line over. But I can see it. That purple thing on his face..." "Help me," he pleaded, abandoning all semblance of imitating his old voice. "I don't know what happened or why. I need... something. Adriana, what do I do?" "Not the hospital." She backed away from him, muttering under her breath. "Maybe a prayer. You believe in any gods strong enough to do this? Looks like you pissed something off." "What if it's contagious?" Mike asked, catching John by the shoulder before he could get closer. "Adriana, rinse your hand off, isolate! Did you touch any blood? God, we should all be wearing masks." "We should lock him somewhere!" someone else said. "Seal the doors, call the CDC, the government, somebody!" They reached for him, a pair of strong arms wearing safety gloves. Something snapped in his mind. Eric broke into a run, dodging past Adriana and into the hallway beyond. He nearly tripped on his socks, but something hard ripped free as he started to fall, shedding fabric behind him. Eric might not know what was happening—if it wasn't a hallucination, then that tore down his most plausible theory. But whatever was happening, he wasn't going to curl into a ball and depend on the mercy of his coworkers!  He rounded the corner, passing a terrified secretary finishing up lunch at her desk. She dropped her tea onto her keyboard as Eric ran, screaming in shock. But there were heavy footsteps behind him, boots pounding on vinyl flooring. He couldn't slow down now. "Eric, please report to my office," Kent's voice echoed over the announcement system. Did he not know? Eric didn't slow down, smashing his shoulder against the door a second later, and stumbling out onto the parking lot. The sky was gray again, though today it was gentler, a steady drizzle on his face. He'd been late, so his own vehicle was tucked all the way at the back. He would have to run in the open, with nowhere to hide. His other sock tore through onto the wet parking lot, and this time he had a clear view of what was beneath. A purplish hoof at the end of a joint that bent the wrong way. No wonder he was having so much trouble keeping his balance, without feet or toes to support a body much too large. He ran anyway, stumbling and swaying with every step. His new feet weren't exactly quiet on the pavement either, making a loud, repetitive staccato for his every step even over the rain. "He's leaving!" Eric wasn't sure whose voice it was, and still didn't care. All that mattered was reaching the truck. He did seconds later, though he had to scramble onto the running board to make it to the handle. The interior was just as intimidating, opening into a space much too large, with pedals he couldn't reach while also turning the wheel. Somehow he got his stiffening fingers to turn the key in the ignition. The engine roared, and he smacked the door shut behind him.  The footsteps slowed, and he heard John's voice outside, muted by the glass. "You probably shouldn't drive like that, Eric. Whatever is happening to you—you can't even reach the wheel properly."  He adjusted the seat as far as it would go, but even that wasn't quite far enough. He had to slip his legs down beneath the seat, so that he could see only a narrow sliver of the sky over the wheel. The one time I wish I had a little sedan instead of a truck. Eric had been last into the parking lot. There were no cars near him, no obstacles to hit except for John, who backed out of his way. "Don't let anyone follow me!" he yelled back. "I'm going to get help!" The vehicle jerked forward, and he nearly slipped out of the seat completely. His pants came off again as he scrambled up, leaving only his boxers, but there was nothing he could do about that. Instead, he switched on the cruise control, leaning forward over the wheel to see.  God help whoever caught a glimpse of him going the other direction. But the road out of Livingston was deserted in the afternoon—there were no shift changes at the factory anymore, and few other reasons to be out here. If the rain got much worse, anyone without four-wheel drive might get stuck in the mud. He didn't pass a single car as he sped into town. His mind raced with dark possibilities as he drove. Maybe Kent would order the other employees to follow him home, throw him hogtied into a trailer and drag him off to the woods to disappear... It was absurd, obviously. But was it any worse than what had already happened today? It can't be real. Except it was. His fingers finally lost whatever free range of motion they had left, sticking together into a dark purple lump. He couldn't investigate further, not when it took all his attention to keep on the road. Even when he felt a brief, sharp stab of pain between his legs. His eyes watered, but he didn't look down. It wouldn't even help, anymore. At first Eric had been leaning forward over the wheel. But the further he drove, the more it felt like his spine was actually in its natural position. That made it a little easier to keep his balance, as suddenly he could brace his legs right onto the seat, and almost stand up. Instead of driving through town, he took a sharp left onto a fire road as he got closer. He almost made the turn, but his wheels went violently off to one side, tearing through shrubs and grass before he made it back onto the road. But he couldn't lower his speed below thirty miles per hour, or else the cruise control would shut down, and he'd roll to a crawl. His phone rang from in his pants, several times. The vibrating shook the seat, but of course he could do nothing to answer it. He just kept his eyes on the road, muttering to himself. His voice was entirely unrecognizable now. Not just too high—it belonged to someone else completely. A young woman, with impossible smoothness in every word despite his panic. He didn't have hands anymore, but his hooves were shaking on the wheel. "It's not a hallucination. So what could cause it?" There was only one obvious answer. It all came from the accident, and the impossible creature he'd helped. Hadn't he seen an image of some creature a little like what he looked like now on the book? He'd almost forgotten about it in the flurry of other important things. But without an obvious cause to trace back his transformation, he could think of little else.  It was either drive back to his apartment, or try to make it three hundred miles down to the family farm, and trust parents who wouldn't even recognize him to somehow have the answers. "The only answers are waiting at home." Arriving at lunchtime would hopefully mean he beat Gus back. Enough time to reverse this and make all the evidence go away? What if someone at the factory called the police? Fear pressed down on Eric with every mile, driven with both arms wrapped tightly around the wheel. That terror brought no answers, just an explosion of other questions. At least the strange sensation that came from slowly melting began to fade. Whatever was happening to his body finished up during the drive. It left almost nothing familiar—but he couldn't get a good look. If he pulled over, there was a good chance he'd never be able to get the truck moving again. Not without modifications to fit his radically altered body-shape, anyway.  He would just have to make it home, and figure things out from there. Before Gus got back, or the authorities showed up. Iron Feather knew one thing with certainty: he wasn't in Equestria anymore. The strange house waiting for him had no other ponies—no occupants at all, other than a few dead houseplants in the windows. Its size suggested luxury, but the paint was peeling and the decor was covered with dust. The worst part by far was the musty smell, one that clearly belonged to no pony. Or any other familiar creature, for that matter.  Iron could have made his escape if he wished—this was no prison, no matter how inconveniently the place was arranged. But what little he saw out the windows only amplified his fear, and deepened the sense that he was missing something critical.  He found his charge first—thankfully that wasn't difficult. The ancient tome was resting on a table in the next room, propped open as though it had recently been studied. But there were no unicorn scholars around, and the only place he smelled even a whiff of magic was in the shower. Faint, mixed with abrasive soap and blood. In the end, it was not fear that kept Iron Feather trapped in the house. He might be a new member of the guard, but he had still volunteered for the most dangerous position in Equestria. He would show the princesses his bravery, recover the Book of Searing Gale, and return it to its proper place in the Canterlot archives before its ancient binding spells came undone. What kept Iron Feather trapped, ultimately, was his wing. With a splint and thick bandages binding him, and the aching pain underneath, he knew there was no chance he would be able to fly. Without unicorn magic or a healing potion, it could take weeks to mend a broken wing, maybe months. But somepony had been here, long enough to tend to the wound. Their bandages were clean, if inexpert. Whoever they were, they weren't a thief of lost artifacts to steal the book, since they'd left it behind. At worst, they were curious enough to flip through it. He couldn't say he was much better or more focused than they. He was in enough pain that Iron Feather didn't fight particularly hard to escape at that moment. His memory of the night before was still a blur, punctuated only by two facts. First, a monster out of the night, blinding him before it struck him down. And not long after, the pony who came to his rescue. They'll be back, then I can figure out where the book took me, and how to get back to Equestria. So he found a comfortable spot on the couch to wait, with the book closed and in clear view. He found a sink to quench his thirst, though reaching it was a challenge. His hunger would have to wait for help—whoever cared enough to save him wouldn't leave him to starve, right? At least he still had the spear. It would make a poor weapon against the creature contained inside the artifact he guarded. Sharpened metal would do him little good against her powerful spells, or the heat of her flame. He wasn't kept waiting long, really. A gentle rumble echoed from outside, as a shadow passed before one of the windows. He looked up, and saw the space beside the building was now filled. A strange metal shape rolled forward until it tapped the wall, then jerked to a stop. The windows were too high to see much of what happened next, but he heard doors opening. Iron Feather climbed from his perch, and made his way to the door nearest the metal cart. Everything in this part of the world might be totally unknown to him—but a carriage with a pony inside was simple enough to understand. They would make everything make sense. The door rustled, and for several minutes he stood stupidly right behind it, preparing the speech he would give. Iron would thank the brave pony for saving him, warn them of the grave danger they were in, and ask for help getting back to Canterlot. He just needed to make it seem patriotic and important, and they would surely agree. Then the door swung open, and it wasn't a pony he saw standing on the other side. He wasn't sure who started yelling first—but Iron was the loudest, backing away, but keeping himself between her and the book. He balanced the spear on his good wing, gesturing out into the rain. "Don't get any closer! You can't have your phylactery, Searing Gale! Your evil rule is over!"