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// Annual Punishment 
// Story: Penance For My Sins 
// by 8_Bit 
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My name is Angel.

Now, this is not my real name, but it is the one I begrudgingly accepted from Mother. Also, she is not my real mother, but given the extent to which she cares for me, I feel that it would be a scathing insult of inconceivable proportions to assign her a title of any less importance. Her name is Fluttershy. And she is nothing less than the finest mortal I have been privileged to know.

If only she knew the truth about me. Not that I will ever be able to convey it to her. 

So, who am I, really? Well, 'who' is but the form following the function of 'what', and what I am is merely the protrusion into her dimension of a vastly hyperintelligent pandimensional being.

My race are explorers, and I am an emissary of those explorers. Venturing across universes, through every fold of reality, seeking the ever out-of-grasp goal of understanding the nature of existence. And to do that, we integrate ourselves into societies, and observe. It was during my last assignment that I... uh... made something we'll simply refer to as an 'error of judgment'.

I would elaborate further, but suffice it to say I may have stepped beyond what my race would call ‘distanced observation’ and involved myself in planetary affairs with some unexpected consequences. Plus, the time required to give an explanation sufficient enough for any mind to truly comprehend? Is an amount of time greater than the vast majority of mortal life spans. So, in short, an exercise in futility.

But, for the sake of not upsetting Mother, I maintain the bunny pseudonym she assigned me. If I am grateful for anything, it is that she has willingly stepped up to the role of my caretaker as I carry out my sentence.

It was a fascinating learning curve, hiding my true nature behind the guise that was inflicted upon me. As I hop through shadows and observe the lives of the ponies, I find myself entranced by the fleeting beauty of their existence. Like delicate blossoms, they bloom and fade in the ever-turning pages of time. Their laughter and tears echo through time, leaving behind an imprint that transcends the brief moments they occupy.

As I continue my endless navigation of this labyrinth of eternity, the facade of the cute little bunny becomes both my shield and my prison. Concealed behind the fluffy exterior is an entity far removed from the simplicity of a domesticated creature, a being of vast intellect and unfathomable origins. Yet, in the warmth of Mother's care, I find myself ensnared in the very role I sought to play. I do especially enjoy the cherry-tossed salad she prepares so skilfully.

And I may act out in a childish fashion from time to time. For example, if the cherry-tossed salad is missing the key ingredient: cherries. But if you had been born into phenomenal cosmic power, and were then confined to an itty bitty shell of a living space while being denied access to said power? You might also have troubles with controlling your grumpiness.

Fluttershy, my dearest Mother, remains oblivious to the complexities that lie beneath my surface. Her gentle touch and soothing voice are a balm to the tumult within me. I've witnessed her genuine love and compassion extend not only to me, but to all creatures great and small. In those moments, it almost becomes easy to forget the vastness of my existence and the cosmic responsibilities that weigh upon me. And it is these moments, all of them in Mother's embrace, that I cherish most.

I've become adept at maintaining the illusion, learning the nuances of bunny behavior, and mimicking the innocence that ponies find endearing. Although my profieciency for mischief has earned me a reputation among those who are closer to Mother. It is both an art and a chore, a dance between authenticity and performance. The more I perfect this act, the more I question the sincerity of the connections I forge. Do they love Angel, the cute little bunny, or merely the projection of what I allow them to see? 

And, in the quiet hours of the night, when the moon casts its silver glow over Equestria, the weight of my hidden truth presses down on me. Guilt, like an ever-present specter, whispers of the deception I weave and the penance I owe. It is a constant reminder that, despite the comfort of Mother's presence, I am an imposter in her world. The sweetness of her affection, though pure, is tainted by the knowledge that I am unworthy of it. Perhaps this is another twist to my punishment. One day she will wither and pass, and I will remain. And the twists will continue.

But I suppose, I could pontificate on the nature of immortality for an infinite length of time. However, that would not make for a terribly gripping narrative, now would it?

On this particular morning, as I scurry through the woodland behind Mother's cottage, I feel that sense. A twang, a knowing feeling. The sense that it is that time once again. Not through any source of outside influence. No calendar, no clock, no voice in my head telling me that my services are due once more. No, I just know. It's a gut feeling.

If I were to make a comparison, imagine yourself waking up in the morning with a gut feeling that something is wrong. Nothing tangible you can ascribe any significance to, but more just a vague sense that things aren't going to go your way that day.  As I understand it, based on the situation comedies Mother occasionally listens to on the radio, these situations are normally followed by the arrival of a romantic partner bearing a 'Happy Anniversary' card.

Not that romance is something I may partake in, not in this form.

But the feeling persists in my gut. It is, in fact, time.

And then it comes, like a shiver down my spine. A fraction of a percentage of the most inconcievably small slice of what was my former power. A temporary gift, to remind me of what I lost. It keeps me humble. Calling upon this power, I step forward, and my surroundings blur as the small glade is replaced by a library. Only a small step, from the outskirts of this small town a castle dwelling near its centre. There are bigger steps ahead.

In the middle of the libary, a large mirror stands. Atop it is a mounting point, where the mirror can be activated with a magical book. Not that I need it. Hopping up to the polished surface, I rest my paw against it. Oh, I feel it. This is no mirror, it is a gateway across infinitesimal distance. For a brief moment, I am connected to the cosmic currents that flow between dimensions.

The mirror shimmers, its surface transforming into a liquid-like substance, reflecting the library around me. I close my eyes, feeling my surroundings blur and twist, colors merging and separating in a kaleidoscope of cosmic hues. I feel weightless, as if gravity itself has released its grip on me, and I hover in the liminal space between worlds.

The magic resonates with a symphony of whispers, a cacophony of voices from realms far beyond mortal comprehension. Each echo tells a tale of distant galaxies, ancient civilizations, and the eons that have shaped the fabric of reality. It's a chorus of existence, and for a moment, I am a part of it.

I sense the presence of my kind, the beings who cast me away as a penance for my unintended role in Earth's tumultuous history. They exist here, in a realm untouched by time, observing the multiverse with detached curiosity. My connection with them is fleeting, a mere ripple in the vast sea of their collective consciousness.

But this cosmic communion is short-lived. The mirror begins to recede, pulling me back from the celestial expanse. I feel a gentle tug, like an invisible hand guiding me through the currents of magic. The landscape shifts, the stars blur, and as I open my eyes, I recoil my paw to find myself still in place, still stood atop the mirror pedestal.

That was but a fraction of the full capability of the mirror. This time, I rest my paw against it, and calling on the deepest recesses of what little magic I can conjure, I push through it.

The cosmic currents tighten their grip, and the mirror collapses around me like a waterfall of molten stardust. I'm engulfed in a whirlwind of energies, spiralling through the dimensions at a speed beyond comprehension. My body, or what semblance of a body I have in this formless space, tingles with the raw power of the portal.

A symphony of voices crescendos, no longer distant whispers but a thunderous roar echoing in the space where the ears would be located on my physical body. Each voice carries emotions, memories, and the weight of existence. It's as if I am hurtling through the collective consciousness of the multiverse, witnessing fragments of countless lives and realities.

My senses reel as colors blend into a blinding white, and I lose any sense of direction. The weightlessness gives way to a sensation of falling, a freefall through an abyss of cosmic forces. I find myself hurtling towards the final barrier. The transition is abrupt, and the celestial ballet of stars and planets morphs into a kaleidoscope of earthly colors. Gravity seizes me once more, pulling me towards a familiar blue and green sphere.

I burst through the portal with a flash of light, the cosmic energies dissipating around me. The library vanishes, the familiar scent of aged books and polished wood replaced by fresh air and recently cut grass. Solid ground greets me, and I stumble, regaining my bearings.

I'm back on Earth.

Thankfully, the turbulent transit from one place to another does soften the blow of my perceptions here. You see, as a tool to my penance, I am afforded magical powers in this world. Unlike in Equestria, I am permitted to tap into my abilities. Alas, just not my full spectrum. Like a muzzled hound, I feel restrained. Somehow moreso than in Equestria. There, I am a prisoner, without any magic to call on. Here on Earth, being afforded a taste of what I am capable of, is somehow a greater burden. So close, yet so far.

As I straighten up, I look down at myself, disheartened to see that my usual transformation has, indeed, taken place.

First and foremost, and most notably, I am no longer a white bunny. I am a bright pink bunny. Though, 'bunny' might not be an accurate visual descriptor, even if that is what they call me here. I'm taller. Much taller, several feet tall in fact. And still a female bunny in this world, as opposed to the male bunny I am in Equestria. 

I'm not certain why this change was deemed a necessity for my task, but the Overseers assigned to my punishment are not ones for negotiating. Not that I'm especially complaining, gender is a complexity that I leave the mortals to squabble over. It makes no difference in my ability to perform my assigned task.

The fact that my transformation involved the addition of a little bow tie around my neck? Falls under the same purview. 

A familiar weight at my side confirms that, yes, my usual satchel is here too. The children of this world do so enjoy to draw pictures of me carrying a little basket, but I find that to be an impractical solution. I'm already reduced to these stubby little paws, why burden myself with perpetually surrendering one of them to haul around a basket? No, a satchel I can sling over my shoulder is far more convenient.

Gazing up, I take in the sight that has accompanied the last few decades of this task. 'Canterlot High School', an educational institue for the local adolescents. The portal, embedded in the base of a statue, was once a nondescript boulder sat in a beautiful clearing overlooking a woodland valley. Why this boulder had to be the one to formed into the support for this statue, I'll never quite understand. I miss the old view that would welcome me into this world. The first year since the move started off with me being highly disorientated.

Still, as has become tradition for me since the unceremonious relocation, Canterlot seems as good a place as any to make a start. I take a deep breath, feeling that stirring in my heart as the world unfolds around me. I sense every breath of wind. Every hushed whisper. Every flap of a butterfly wing. It all comes to me in a perfect symphony. And as I exhale, it all stops.

Well... not stops, per se. But it slows down.

And when I say 'slow', I mean to a level of imperceptible movement. The world may as well be stood still, as far as I can tell. From my perspective, the oceans solidify. The winds cease. You know, one year I passed by a hummingbird as I traversed the Central Americas. Even the blur of its wingbeats appeared to have fallen utterly still. In the eerie silence that falls on the world around me, I am but a solitary traveller.

It's a lonely process, this. But a necessary one.

Setting of from Canterlot High, I make my way towards my first stop. You know, sometimes I wish I could be permitted to linger. Bear witness to the fruits of my labour. It is my understanding that the young humans, in particular, adore this yearly ritual wholeheartedly. My part in it is one that would be greatly missed if I dared try to pass it up. Maybe one year, I'll be granted permission to watch them hunt for the prizes I leave.

While I am capable of jumping continental distances in a single stride, for now I take it slow. Pace myself, take in the scenery. Strolling through the motionless town, practically caught in suspended animation, is a most bizarre interlude from my day-to-day life in Equestria. The vibrancy of life is frozen, like a beautifully composed photograph captured at the peak of its beauty. Parents and children alike are caught mid-stride, frozen in laughter or engaged in conversations that now hang in the air as ethereal echoes of a passing moment.

Time is a mere illusion, a plaything for beings such as myself. I pass by storefronts with displays frozen in a perpetual attempt to lure customers with their wares. A street musician's melody lingers in the air, their instruments held in suspended animation as if awaiting the touch that will bring life back to the scene.

My destination, a small park, is not far. The trees stand motionless, leaves suspended in a gentle breeze that will never sway them again. A pair of lovers, forever locked in a tender embrace, their smiles promising an eternity of happiness. In this moment, I am the sole wanderer in a world paused for my penance.

Reaching the park, I notice the carousel halted in mid-turn, the painted horses caught between the ascent and descent of their eternal ride. This is a new addition for this year. There's an uncanny resemblance between several of the horses, and a number of the townsfolk back in Ponyville. The playground, usually filled with the laughter of children, stands occupied but silent. The swings hang still, and the seesaw hovers in a state of equilibrium that defies the laws of gravity.

As I make my way to the centre of the park, I can't help but feel a pang of loneliness. The frozen tableau of joy and connection surrounds me, yet I remain untouched by the warmth of the scenes frozen in time. This is my duty. To ensure the celebration of a beloved holiday, one that transcends dimensions, continues as intended. And I have a very long day ahead of me, to see my task fulfilled.

I sigh, reaching down into my satchel. Reliable as ever, the pocket dimension held within it yields the accursed objects at my summoning. Holding one in my paw, I take in the sight. It is a canvas of intricate patterns and hues, an explosion of colors that dances across its smooth surface. A mosaic of pastel shades intertwines with bolder strokes, creating a mesmerizing tapestry that tells a silent tale of creativity and celebration. The base color, a soft sky blue, forms the backdrop for the intricate design that adorns its shell.

As my claws trace the patterns, I lose myself in the details. Spirals of golden yellow intertwine with delicate tendrils of lavender, creating a harmonious dance of contrasting elements. Each stroke seems purposeful, a brushstroke of artistry that breathes life into the fragile exterior. I wonder if I'll ever find out where they come from. The patterns, while beautiful, seem far too elementary for any of my race to craft. I don't imagine any of the Overseers would stoop so low, gathering around a table with small paint pots, intricately decorating each tiny prize with colours and swirls.

Glancing around, in search of an ideal spot to hide the first of these pillars to my punishment, my eyes fall on a banner strung across the path that traverses the small park. I can't help but smile. The city finally paid for a new one. The last banner was old, threadbare, and hardly legible. This new one bears its message most impressively.

My heart swells with pride as I look up at the words 'Happy Easter'.