First Pony View

by Suomibrony


What Goes Up Must Come Down

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

Chapter 12
What Goes Up Must Come Down


‘Best carrots I have ever tasted!’ I thought as I ate, a small smile pricking my lips. I felt content champing my food, but what I was prepared to tell Embee limited my joy. Had I been a pathological liar, I would've felt proud of cooking up the fairly plausible tale. Nevertheless, I laid my hopes on her unconditionally accepting my yet unspoken cover story. If she didn't, then . . . it really wasn't worth keeping up my ruse with further lies. Instead, I'd do my best to submit . . . Apologize with sincere remorse, and from thereon, be as honest as Applejack without much regard for my continued safety. But what would the outcome be if Embee still mistrusted me? So much for honesty being my salvation. I was clueless on what would happen afterwards, or what I'd do. Would I just sink into despair? Maybe . . . or maybe not. It really depended on whether the demurely eating pony—or anypony—knew of any prior incidents of transdimensional mind dislocation into a pre-existing body. I couldn't risk asking before I had exhausted my alternatives first. One such alternative was the extensive perusal of the Internet—like a library, but so much more immense, accessible, and extremely . . . advanced? How odd. For a moment, I had begun to marvel about an everyday thing.

At any rate, Embee was a slower eater than I. The last of my meal traveled down my throat, and the empty bowl became the second most prominent white attraction in my vision. The winner was part of my face. I sighed, my nostrils flaring visibly. As I gazed bleakly at my protruding facial feature, my brain suddenly cranked out a positive note: since stallions had a larger, stockier muzzle, perhaps I should consider myself lucky that my vision was less obstructed. A spontaneous itch at the top of my snout compelled me to gingerly rub the spot. The feeling of a huge fingernail meeting facial bone where it shouldn't be was almost too strange to comprehend. The nasal bone being underneath a soft layer of furry hide just added to my confusion. Sighing, I returned my hoof to the cushion. I hadn't thought of it before, but there were two distinct aromas in the air. One was coffee, the other . . . sharp and strong, but with a hint of refined sweetness. Floral. A flower in the second room? Could be.

Anyhow, the white ware before me beamed a message of success: I had just dined like an earth pony or pegasus. Or a magic-inept unicorn, I considered wryly. I surmounted most of my unease once my stomach got its third delivery of sweet and juicy nutrition. In fact, its well-deserved satiation was now countering my woes to some degree. With a few faint smacks, I slowly licked my lips, savoring the remainder of succulent carrot juice on them. I was a bit saddened that there wasn't a little more of the orange delicacy. They were only simple vegetables, yet they were so good that I seriously began to consider including them in my regular diet from here on. Chicken and carrots in rice and moderately spiced sauce? Or maybe I'd eat them as is, like a quick snack?

“Sooo, how did you like them carrots?” Embee's mellow query drew my gaze to her. Carrots, not apples. That was sort of funny, and I would've chuckled if I wasn't on a knife-edge. Furthermore, my less-than-stellar prognosis of the coming storytime over coffee was impeding my food-induced delight, painting me with a pallid expression. Embee sported a tender smile, empty bowl before her.

Despite myself, a mischievous sensation developed. ‘Should I let it happen? It might entertain me during this dire moment, but would it go against the role I'm portraying? How would Embee react? What's not okay for a female to do . . . Oh? Is she worried?’

Embee raised her right hoof and leaned slightly toward me. “Are you feeling alright?” she asked, a modicum of distress on her countenance. I nodded once with an affirmative hum. “Okay”, she sighed through a smile, relaxing her posture. “Speaking for myself, these carrots were great.” She glanced at the empty wares. “How about you? Did you enjoy them?”

That was the green light: I chose to air what I had vacillated about as a predictably poor imitation of Big Macintosh: “Eeeeyurp!”

Embee's eyes dilated as reserved amusement creased my lips. I hadn't expected that the structure of my equine throat would alter the pitch of my belch. As bemused as I was, the sound pulled me out from my mood pit. I chuckled to myself, pausing for a second before a quick and light laugh escaped me: “Hehaha!” Even that sounded—Oh, wait, did I just . . . giggle? My smile remained intact, but my ears curved back and my coat gained an insulation boost, corroborating that my indubitably feminine laugh qualified as a giggle. I had breached my self-imposed femininity parameters, I believed . . . but no! Rejecting this minor female-pertinent attribute, as easy as it would've been, was simply impermissible! For the time being, I had a female voice, so naturally I had a female laugh as well. If it had a tendency to come out as a giggle . . . then so be it!

My inner argument lasted no more than a few seconds, during which I cursorily noted Embee's flat look. “I'm sorry, that was really crude,” I masked my discomfiture with an apology. “But I thought it . . . uh?” I quieted, my auricular muscles directing my ears down. Only now did I start to interpret her expression: incredulity combined with a trace of disdain. “Would be funny . . . to, er . . .” I found my voice again, but only as a mumble before it faded to nothing. Dismayed, I gazed downwards over my snout, wishing I could sink and disappear into the cushion.

“You . . . thought it would be funny to belch?” Embee guessed doubtingly.

I hummed as hesitant confirmation. She didn't sound much disgusted or insulted, so that was a little reassuring . . . but I was ashamed. Disappointed, too. It went without saying that what I had done was indecorous and, considering my earlier demeanor, very unexpected. I further surmised that belching wasn't regarded well among females. I had presumed . . . I had anticipated otherwise? I would've moaned in dejection, had it not died in my throat. I only wanted to have some fun before I started weaving my web of lies . . .

“Hey,” Embee said softly. Save for my autonomous ears trying and failing to align themselves upright, I was unresponsive. Still, I had to be a little thankful that she interrupted my pensiveness. I was at the brink of a worthless intrapsychic pity party anyway. “Rosy?” she tried again. An indiscreet flinch caused my eyeblink to be a tad tenser than normal.

‘Okay, I have to be clear here: that's not my real name. It just seems like it really is,’ I reminded myself, starting to fear that my original name was in danger of erasure if I accepted my name. Her name! More worry crept in. ‘Right! I also have to prepare for an honest path. Make sure that I don't slip up. So, my name's not Rosy Stripes . . . and now I feel like I'm telling myself a blatant lie. Although, my name's not bad, per se. It's just a female's . . . but I have to be adamant here! My actual, human male name is—’

“Rosy?” I almost let out a grunt of frustration at Embee's inquiry. Hastily, I retrieved my original name (and that name felt disturbingly extraneous), then recited it in my mind at lightning speed a few times. With worry-easing success attained, I languidly raised my head toward the aquamarine medical mare. Her face wore a frown of obvious concern, an expression that was much more welcome than presumed irritation.

“Uh, yes, Embee?” I replied with a glimmer of forced joy in my listless tone. ‘So, do you want to hear my not-entirely-fake story now, later, or never? Please say never. I'll be so happy if you do, and I'd be even happier if I could just go home, no questions asked. My life's most important mission awaits there.’

Abruptly, a bunch of memories spilled into my mind, only to vanish a second later. Something remained, though. I saw a vague semblance of a parking lot. Thinking harder, I recognized it as the one near my home. An older guy, almost twice as tall as me, was standing by a familiar light blue sedan. A keyring with two keys hanging from his index finger above my head. They were for the car, and he was offering them to me. His name was Oscar, and . . . I wrapped the keys in my magic, since I was now the new owner of said vehicle. This all felt normal, as though I had been there, because . . . I had actually experienced all that? The old, spry guy, he was . . . a proprietor of a used car dealership, Oscar's Cars. Wasn't he? I had a plethora of human memories that stated he owned something else. Now I . . . had two recollections on how I had acquired the car. Most perturbingly, my . . . No, Rosy's . . . How odd. We shared names. No, wait, what!? The name . . . Just like my name did, my . . . her memory felt more authentic. That was a nasty omen! If her memories took precedence over mine, and I unlocked more of hers, then who and what I was could degrade . . . Be usurped . . . Fade . . . Cease to exist? Oh no! Nonononono! That'd be bad! Really, really bad!

“Hey? Hello?” Embee drew me out from my confounding consternation—confusion in her voice—and her face was the picture of worry. I proceeded to do my best not to hyperventilate, or look like I had seen a ghost. “Are you feeling alright, hon? You seemed to zone out as soon as you replied.”

Oh ponyfeathers! I had been so absorbed in my memory mix-up and subsequent fear for my existence that I was jeopardizing my guise. The guise that could be the end of me? Hopefully not. Thankfully, I wasn't trembling, but I was close. “Uhm, yeah . . . I'm-I'm okay,” I said mutedly, inadvertently sounding somber; given what I had just experienced, why wouldn't I?

Embee's frown eased a tad. “I truly hope you are,” she whispered warily. As much as I would've loved to lighten our respective moods with a chit-chat, I had a very crucial objective to tackle.

I performed a review of my psyche, which swiftly yielded an anxiety-attenuating result: my most significant defense against identity death was my perpetual discomfort at inhabiting a mare's body. ‘I suppose I'll do fine if I can protect myself from marefication, maybe reluctantly accept the change if it's inevitable but perfectly reversible. However, there's absolutely no conceivable way I'd ever want to be a mare forever!’ My vehemence was highly assuaging. Additionally, the events of today served as a very powerful reminder of what and who I was. And I might've overreacted about identity erosion. My cool was regenerating, allowing me to concentrate on the here and now.

“Don't worry about me, Embee. I'll be just fine, alright?” I said, my weak smile contrasting with my tepid tone. ‘That sounded more defensive than I had intended,’ I thought remorsefully as I placed my hoof on the bowl. “Anyhow, I can't thank you enough for the carrots. They were simply lovely. Unmatched by any other variety I've ever eaten.” My smile withered when my shame reemerged. “But how I expressed my gratitude . . .” I couldn't keep my eyes on Embee's appreciative expression. The illegible comic felt easier to look at. “I offended you with my improper . . . I'm sorry . . .” my glum tone dwindled to an indecipherable mumble. I was also afraid that I had clued her in that everything wasn't right with me. She'd probably inquire about my ordeal now.

“What?” she uttered. “No, you didn't! You don't need to feel sorry. I wasn't at all offended.”

Blinking dumbly at her compassionate protest, I asked in disbelief, “You weren't?” My tone was tinted with wary hope.

“Nope.” She shook her head, her pleasant smile almost persuading me to believe her. “Did you zone out because you thought I was mad at you?”

“Yeah, that's precisely why,” I responded, intuitively taking the opportunity to save my skin. Then, I collected my courage to confront another quandary, my vision drifting from one table corner to the other before refocusing on her. “But you . . .” I tilted my head. “You weren't even a little offended?” I asked, certain she had disapproved of my conduct.

Embee's lips twisted into a perplexed smile. “Wh-why . . .” She broke into a short but friendly laugh, then raised a foreleg as she said: “Now why on Equestria would I be mad at you?”

“Uh . . .” My rueful expression froze. Had I just received proof of the existence of Equestria? I was faintly aware that it was real, but . . . No, not now. My protracted ruminations would renew Embee's concerns, maybe even alight her suspicions about my rationality. Or dig up more memories with undesirable effects. “I, uh, um um, because I . . .” Dejection was still on my countenance as I distractedly fixated on the purple cushion underneath her. Hoping to reduce my light nervousness, I tried to wring the edge of my cushion, an act that was impossible to accomplish with a hoof. “What I, uh . . .” I cleared my throat and my confusion. “What I did was a tremendous faux pas that should earn me appalled looks and scornful comments,” I analyzed despondently.

Embee's giggle was sufficiently lighthearted to cause my ears to finally perk up and cast off some of my dismay. “Relax.”

“I'm honestly trying to,” I said, my lips barely moving; Embee didn't seem to notice my optimistic whisper and continued to talk.

“Perhaps a strict pony would be cross with you, but you can trust me, hon. I'm not a strict pony.” Her easygoing nature brought a smile to my face, and I raised my head to look at her half-lidded amethyst eyes, relief flowing through me.

‘But you can trust me, hon,’ I echoed her words, earnestly wishing I could simply overcome my fears and confide in her. “It's great that you're being so understanding and friendly,” I said shyly, the appreciation in my tone almost succumbing to a constrained imitation; it wasn't easy to ignore the suspicion of Embee's unending goodwill driving me into an inescapable corner. Maybe I could compensate for my pretense by being honest about everything else?

“Thank you, I do my best. You can bet your farm that laughing about a little belch doesn't even come close to tangling my tail.” She drew a hoof to her mouth, her warm chuckle circumventing it with ease.

“Hehehe, ahh, yeah,” I tittered atypically, aversively casting a glance at an abstract painting to my right. “It just seemed like a fun thing to do,” I admitted sheepishly, shifting my gaze to the potted plant in the corner as I pawed the cushion with my forehoof for a second. A sudden pang of sadness made my smile diminish. Adjusting to my relatively insensitive and maladroit extremities would take a while, but I was confident that my bodily discomfort would never subside. Not when I knew the perils that could entail. However, I had to drive into my mind that no matter what occurred, being a mare was only temporary. If I couldn't solve this predicament by myself, then I'd absolutely have to seek help. One way or another, everything would be fine. I had nothing to worry about.

“Listen,” Embee intoned politely. I promptly placed my attention on her. “If it's not clear already, I agree with you. It was funny.”

A boulder fell off my withers. “Oh,” I breathed. My smile regained its integrity. “It . . . was?” I asked timidly.

Embee smiled calmly. “Definitely.”

I was a smidgen puzzled. “Thanks,” my shy tone pitched with a trace of glee. “I was so worried that it was anything but funny.”

“Ahh,” Embee sighed sympathetically, her ears flicking backwards for a second. “I'm sorry I upset you, hon. You confused me; that's all.”

“O-okay,” I acknowledged, shrinking a little. “Well, that's very nice to know, really. Thanks. Again.” All things considered, I felt mellow, and I hummed happily at this development. “And, uh, I of course accept your apology,” I continued quietly. “I misunderstood you, thinking the worst . . . It was shamefully presumptuous.” I paused for a moment, recalling something called "confirmation bias," but I didn't think deeply on it. “But please accept my apologies as well. I mean, if that's okay with you.” I almost grinned at recognizing and then deliberately abetting my accidental Fluttershy impression: a tiny pitch alteration, some softness, and voilà! It was just too easy. I liked soft things, and my voice was no exception, although I still preferred my true voice.

“It's okay. I'll gladly accept your apology if it makes you feel better,” Embee said with candor. Was that her angle? To do everything she could to ensure my comfort and peace of mind? With admiration warming my heart, I concentrated on the table.

“Yeah, it does, but I'm already feeling better . . . Thanks anyway.” I felt that I was receiving more respect and attention than I deserved, something that not many had done for me, in retrospect. Then again, I couldn't recall more than a couple of instances when I had wanted or needed respect or an apology. I guess my life had been smooth in that regard. That could be one explanation for why being a sudden mare was so hard to cope with. Somepony who was less finicky and stress-prone would probably do well. Somep . . . one who had toughened up through flight training; I couldn't be a pilot if I unraveled at the seams when the stinky stuff struck the propeller. And I as sure as hay would be a pilot! Not for big aircraft or fighter planes. Just the smaller craft. They seemed more inviting. However, the topic of piloting brought to mind that the Marcus guy looked a lot like First Officer Jeffrey Skiles. He and Captain Chesley Sullenberger safely landed a severely damaged Airbus into the Hudson River without casualties (Canada geese notwithstanding). Maybe one day, I'll be just as amazing as my idols! Except without the loss of engines and subsequent emergency ditching. At the least, I should consider hovering a Cessna. I've seen videos of it being done, and read a little about how to do it. I also read how to recover from a stall. Maybe I should just play it safe, and not try anything crazy. Just like I should do now? A fake story or the sincere truth? Which one was the crazier choice? Which one guaranteed a return to my home? Was Embee trustworthy?

I was reluctant to dig up a sore issue, but . . . I needed to make sure I hadn't lost a memory, even one I'd rather not have. If I had, then that was solid proof of impending identity loss.

I had entrusted Thomas not to tell anypony of my fascination when he found out about it due to a mishap with my browser tabs. To my great relief and surprise, he seemed nonchalant. ‘Hey, whatever floats your boat, man.’ Then, two weeks back, we were hanging out with other friends. Their habitual drunkenness was getting on my nerves, so I recommended that they should try to go easy on the stuff, that I very much preferred our joys to be sincere and not perverted by a toxic substance. Thomas saw fit to expose my secret, and things turned very sordid. I tried to keep my cool. I tried to be civil. I defended my stance, my opinions, myself. My friends questioned my sexual preferences and identity, trying to "save me" and to "be a man" by offering drinks. I didn't need to be "saved", and intoxication didn't equal masculinity! Just because I liked a cartoon about magical ponies and was secretly creeped out by drunken people, I was treated like dirt? What the hay was their problem? I didn't make fun of them or their hobbies; I couldn't stoop down to their level . . . I just didn't like them drinking so much . . . I cared for my friends, but I was afraid of saying that. It probably would've served as another source of mockery . . . I tried to play the ignore card, but that only escalated my belittling, and sadly . . . I complimented the jerks with some very nice words before leaving the immature and insensitive morons in a rage.

I almost crashed into a bridge support on the way home . . . I was speeding, took a corner badly, and the rear tires lost traction. After one full spin on the wet asphalt, I was miraculously driving forward again, as if I had done a daring stunt. I could've died. I could've lost Jim. My parent's would've lost me . . . If only my friends hadn't been intoxicated out of their minds! They would've never said and done what they did if they were sober; I was sure of that! I was also sure they were sorry and wanted to make amends, but I was done with them. I couldn't believe I felt regret about that decision. Thomas was . . . used to be my best friend. I had known him for almost ten years, and he blew it all away for cheap giggles! He betrayed my trust! How could he do that to me? It still hurt a little, even after two weeks. Maybe I was at fault, though? Maybe I took their jests seriously, let them get under my skin when I should've deflected them with ironic remarks. Geez! I was a forgiving, pitiful, soft-hearted guy who longed to regain a lost friendship with a bunch of jerks . . .

Could I trust Embee, then? She wouldn't betray me, would she?

“Sorry to disturb you, hon, but you look like you're absorbed in your thoughts again. Have been for the past two minutes, actually.” Her calm voice made my auricular muscles twitch in attention. Coincidentally, I realized I automatically gauged sounds to determine in a split second if I was under the threat of impending harm and what decision or action I should take to ensure my safety. Pryer reflex, I recalled. I had no idea where I had learned that from. I had a hunch I had read it from a book when I was young. Or when she was young. Be that as it may, the adoption of at least one equine instinct was a little creepy. Fascinating, but creepy. Anyhow, I had just explored my persona and memories, and hadn't encountered anything that was missing or distinctively ponylike, so . . . despite the touching recollections, I was relatively good. As I focused on Embee's gentle, inquiring expression, I assured myself that if I kept some form of recursive loop active in my subconsciousness, then I'd prevent a possible personality death. A disparity between body and mind was good.

“Uh . . . Yeah, I did get lost in my thoughts. Sorry,” I admitted belatedly, smiling bashfully at Embee. There was a hint of worry in her eyes, though. Sooner or later, she'd ask the toughest question of them all. If I could just be fearless enough to rescind my planned cover story. From posture, to voice, to the increased vividness of colors, my current physiological status maintained an underlying sense of confusion, constantly affecting my demeanor in ways I couldn't fully prevent or even detect. Embee must've noted my unusual behavior by now. Speaking of behavior, my voice alone was in all likelihood guiding me towards femininity without my deliberate intention or even knowledge—“Oh great!” I thought out loud, my tone rich with factitious abashment and honest shock. “I think I'm doing it again. Uh, getting lost in my mind, that is.” The situation called for a titter. Talking: okay. Very feminine laughter: not yet okay.

“Don't worry about it.” A sad but sympathetic look washed over her face. Seemed like I had convinced the mildly mannered mare, thank goodness. “You must've gone through a lot recently. Please, take all the time you need to sort it out. We'll talk if and when you feel ready, okay?” Or maybe I hadn't. Her unassuming statement was foreboding; I had to stop my plaintive expression from frowning.

“Thanks for trying to understand me. You're right: I've been trying to sort things out,” I confessed diffidently, willing a ghost of a smile. I poked my bowl idly with the tip of my hoof, pushing the ware by a few centimeters. I couldn't feel the ceramic. “It's . . . just so complicated. I don't even know where to begin,” I lamented, my focus affixed on my snout and the insensate hoof resting on the bowl. ‘Look at that. A trifecta of white. That's not complicated at all,’ I noted joylessly in a futile attempt to cheer myself up. ‘And my inner voice is male. Imitating the Team Fortress 2 Sniper got a few laughs from Peter. He loves that game, yet he's not a brony despite all the overwhelming pony content modded into it. Or maybe that's exactly why he's not a brony. Well, goodbye sniper, welcome Fluttershy. I hope we'll meet again.’ I sighed dolefully. Soon, I'd tell my story, which was nothing more than blaming my panic and muddy looks on a can of pineapples, but . . . I kept getting odd flashes: Tin. BPA. 'Rapid ingestion may cause temporary disruptions to the thaumaturgy system.' What was BPA? What was a thaumaturgy system? Whatever it was, I apparently had one now, and I had disturbed it when I scarfed the pineapples.

“Rosy, it's okay. We'll go at your pace,” Embee reaffirmed softly, and I managed the composure to look at her. Once again, it occurred to me that I was in the presence of something impossible: a sapient, self-aware pony. That cheered me up a little. Feeling a smidgen privileged, I watched in mild awe as her lips moved with a perfect imitation of human suppleness: “When you feel ready, then you can talk, but only if you want to, remember?”

Her intelligent eyes accompanied an incredibly compassionate smile; I gently closed my own to avert a brain-locking cuteness overload. “Yes, I remember,” I whispered. Ignoring what I had seen, I pondered if I could simply . . . shut up. Nothing and nopony was forcing me to say anything. Still, I felt obliged to provide . . . I couldn't just be stubbornly enigmatic to her. Could I?

“By the way,” Embee began in her smooth voice.

With a wary but curious “Hm?” I opened my eyes. She still looked cute, but luckily my brain didn't bust its circuit breakers. Maybe I was just a tad too rational to allow that.

“I did a bit of thinking myself, and you know what?” Embee's smile changed to a friendly smirk, bestowing me with much needed optimism.

“I know what? Well, that depends if I know what this 'what' you speak of is,” I replied, eliciting a small chuckle from her, though I suspected she was only being tactful about my offbeat humor.

Nonetheless, an amiable smile spread across her face, which I assumed was due to kindness and vivaciousness mixing in her mind. Not that I could really know. “Believe it or not, you remind me of my sister.”

My ears folded towards my nape, but I kept my smile. “Oh, um . . .” Was I like her sister? That was . . . great? “I'm . . . I'm honored, Embee.” My eyes dipped down as I ended my supposition with a contemplative hum. Part of me regarded her innocent comment as accidental derision to my self-image, another as firm evidence that I was behaving like a female without my knowing . . . but I was determined not to fall prey to those preposterous insinuations! I was safe. My demeanor hadn't become involuntarily feminine. I was still a guy. I was only pretending not to be. There was no cause for alarm! Sustaining calmness . . .

“Going deep into your thoughts again, are you?” Embee asked, chuckling lightly. I was a little busy to answer yet. Calmness . . . sustained! Ears uprighted!

“Aahh, well . . .” I drawled deliberately, directing my eyes at the ceiling. “Since you said I'm like your sister,” I said to Embee with a hopefully confident smile and tone, “I've decided to utilize my limited intellect to conduct a full introspective analysis on our shared aspects, disregarding the obvious similarities, such as, uh, such as . . .” No, I couldn't titter at what I was about to say. I could do this with a straight face! “Such as both of us being female ponies,” I said a little uneasily. “Hehehe!” Darn! I broke into a titter, and I almost tittered about breaking into a titter. It was kind of funny in hindsight . . . “Uhm, to perform my research with sufficient exactitude, please grant me a moment of relative silence.” The grin I flashed brought to mind Applejack's attempt at dissuading Pinkie Pie from entering the barn in "Party of One."

Embee's face was the perfect picture of befuddlement. “Uh . . .” Her brow arched slowly. “Okay, Rosy. You do that,” she said flatly, as if unaware she had spoken.

“And so I will, thank you!” I proclaimed with a raised fing . . . hoof. That minor disappointment washed away my nervosity. I stopped myself from trying to lean on a nonexistent wrist. At least gazing towards my mane wasn't impossible while in this form. Anyhow, I had bought a little more time to deal with a topical problem: being compared to Embee's sister was not a strike at my voluntarily displaced and potentially threatened masculinity, because she was in all likelihood a great and reputable pony. Like my favorite: Rainbow Dash! Who wouldn't want to be like her? I kind of was now since . . . I had the matching anatomy (including the—ugh—unspeakables). Except I had a horn on my head instead of wings on my back, a non-raspy voice, different colors in my coat and mane and . . . Actually, I wasn't at all like her. Perhaps not even in personality. Oh well . . .

“Meh. I'm drawing blanks,” I submitted with mock disappointment. With a click of my tongue, I cast off my pseudo-contemplative look. Rather surprisingly, Embee was smiling. Was it an honest smile, or only out of politeness? Had my humor been that strange? Oh, never mind!

“So, tell me Embee, what makes you think I'm awes—” I covered my fumble with a small (and an accidentally adorably demure) cough. “Sorry. How exactly am I like your sister?” I queried with eager curiosity in my tone, even though I was averse to being compared to . . . an assumably outstanding and respectable mare who was probably totally awesome! Maybe Embee's sister really was Rainbow Dash? That'd be even more totally awesome! Totaliest awesomest?

An unsure grin grew on Embee. “To be honest, it's a little embarrassing.” Her ears curled back. “Maybe to us both, but, uh . . .” Her gaze fell toward the table's rim.

‘. . . my sister is THE one and only Rainbow Dash!’ I excitedly finished her sentence. Then, I realized something even more astonishing: ‘That'd mean she's real?’ I almost gasped. While only a few seconds had passed, I already felt my patience ebb. “Oh, come on! Don't start second-guessing yourself now! You're making me sweat in suspense here,” I complained lightheartedly. Embee's ears rebounded in minor surprise as she locked her startled eyes on me.

However, my urging sparked a thought, and thus, I raised a forelimb to my snout. A short whiff was followed by a prompt increase of distance between the two features. “Ew.” I grimaced in disgust at the origin of loam and pony sweat. “Thank goodness I'll be clean before I go home,” I murmured. Embee understood my sentiment, if her curled lips were of any indication. “So anyway, your embarrassing tale?” I queried, flatly appraising my unfamiliar limb a moment longer before I gently placed it on the cushion. “I'm sure it's great, and not because you'll implicitly make fun of me, which I'm sure you won't,” I encouraged, my tone pitching up toward the end. “You're way too gracious to do that,” I complimented sweetly, finishing with a wide grin. Hopefully, I had now succeeded in replicating the cutest expression I could envision, minus adorable squeak sound effect. I reminded myself that I had forgiven Embee's tactless laughing fit while I had believed I was dying of a brain injury.

The equine gambler, who up until now had forgotten to look bashful about the unspun yarn, sighed lightly. “Right, uh . . . How you reminded me of my sister, well . . .” She paused to clear her throat from behind her hoof. “When we were just fillies . . . and please, don't take this the wrong way,” she said timorously, shaking her head.

“No worries, Embee. I'll take it the right way!” I said merrily, using that and a diabetically cute expression to cover a suspicion that I was about to be compared to a filly. A young female, the four letter g-word, the antithesis of me. Oh, wonderful . . .

A reserved giggle slinked into my acute ears. “When we drank soda, she'd, uh, I can't believe I'm telling you this . . .” She hid her face into her hooves for a second. “Sometimes, she'd goad me into a burping contest, and I, well . . . do I even need to say more?”

My brain cogs halted. ‘She . . . What?’ Befuddlement tugged my lips to an uncertain smile. “Ah, uhm, that's some, uh, thing, hum,” a few poor attempts at speaking my mind rolled out my mouth, as Embee's cheeks began to turn pink. How the hay does fur turn pink? I'd have to contemplate that later. “You, uh . . .” I finally got a disbelieving smirk onto my face. “No. No.” I shook my head slowly, then smiled slyly as I cast the uneasy pegasus a diagonal look. “You know what I think? I think you're only playing a joke on me,” I posited, bending my right foreleg up, my analytical side telling me I was basically pointing a finger at her. Didn't feel at all like a finger, though.

Mane swaying, she shook her head, the trying smile on her lips discernibly fighting an embarrassed grin. “I'm not joking, hon.” My hoof met the cushion, and I ignored the numbness to the best of my abilities as I stared blankly at Embee.

“So . . . Okay, I'm not offended, but . . . let me get this straight,” I said slowly, my tone full of incredulity. “My burp made you think of belching contests with your sister?”

“That's right,” Embee vouched, her tone wavering with a titter. “She was, and still is . . . Oh, what's the word?”

While Embee absorbed herself in browsing her internal dictionary, my imagination created a reenactment of the sibling scenario. As ridiculous that mental image was, a memory of Need for Speed: High Stakes—a game I played as a kid—provided the sound effects. Whoever had coded the background sounds for the food joint at the starting line of Redrock Ridge must've had a tremendous laugh, because that plain white building was the source of frequent belches. In fact, they were so frequent, every virtual patron there might've been a professional competitive belcher! Placing my hoof before my mouth failed to conceal my smile, let alone prevent a snicker from becoming audible. Two females trying to best each other at burping? Now that was outright absurd! My preconceptions about the prettier sex—specifically them being elegant and above the immaturity of unabashed belching—were crumbling fast. “I'm sorry, Embee.” I lowered my hoof onto the table's wooden edge. “But I think the word you're trying to think of is 'unprecedented', because never in my life have I heard of two fillies dueling with belches,” I said amusedly.

Embee chuckled. “Well, now you have,” she affirmed abashedly. My imagination assembled a vivid vision, which expedited my composure's downfall.

“No, no no no!” I exclaimed, trying to contain my laughter, gesturing my forelimb at Embee. “No way! You have to be kidding!”

The blush on her cheeks told me otherwise. “As I said, I'm not!”

“Okay okay! You leave me no choice but to believe you,” I conceded, my hoof slipping to the cushion. “But I hah-have to admit, I have, hahahah, ahh, no idea why this is so funny. Haha, just . . . b-b-bfftwhahaha! Burping f-f-fillies! Geez! No! Hahahahahaha!” My laugh was disconcertingly female, prompting me to get a hold of myself. “Hahahaha! Hahaha, haha! Okay, phew. Hah! There! All okay! I'm okay!” My imagination acted up once more, coaxing me to snicker lengthily, followed by a few disobedient giggles, which my self-image and pony façade wished to denounce and ban, contrary to my earlier approval.

Not counting a few short laughs from both of us, a relative silence permeated the room; our only guests were the muffled sounds of presumably ordinary hospital activity penetrating the door and the soft noise of the air conditioning vents above. Embee was smiling widely, the red on her cheeks diminishing. Meanwhile, I was thinking on how to laugh without sounding too feminine.

“One time, my sister said, ‘I'm famished’,” Embee recounted casually, glancing a few degrees to her left. Formulating a tolerable laugh had to wait.

“Alright,” I said through my nonplussed smile, a half-cough, half-chuckle ascending my throat a second later. I was so close to laughing again. “So, what's—”

“With a belch,” she interjected abruptly, facing me with a wry grin. My breathing stopped, my brain stopped . . . and then I lost it.

“Pffffhahahahahaha!” The sheer power of my amusement made me collapse onto my right side. “Hahahahaha! Hehe-hehe-help! Get me hahahahaha! A doctor! Hahahaha! I'm dying, hehehehihihihi! Of-of-of laughter! Hahahahaha! Hihihihi!” I tried to get up, but a strength penalty had been imposed on my muscles. I squirmed in mirth, tears leaking from my closed eyes. I sounded so strange, wheezing and squeaking between bursts of laughter, but it also felt so good. I could hear Embee laughing with me. Shared joy was the best joy! I surrendered to revel in my well-deserved mirth, finally accepting that giggling, while unquestionably abnormal coming out of my mouth, wasn't at all bad. Giggling was strangely hilarious in itself. So perky! Despite my voice being unfit to imitate her, I was able to produce a few passably Rainbow Dash-like laughs. That was both amusing and adorable!

After a minute of positive debilitation, I began to collect myself, with the occasional laugh and giggle setting me back a little. I didn't mind. Pony physiology being what it is, and laughter-induced weakness affecting me, I had some difficulties rolling prone and sidling towards my lime green cushion. ‘Left foreleg to my left, push with the right, then repeat with my hind legs.’ I was very glad I didn't have prominent mammaries on my chest like human females do. Otherwise, my sideway movement would've felt absolutely dreadful with the squishing and the tugging and the utter dismay. Seriously, possessing such inconveniences would've felt dreadful regardless. Why human females put them on display and what made them attractive to human males was almost alien to me. I never cared for them. Then again, my libido was like a Citroën 2CV in a world of sports cars.

Back on my cushion, I pushed myself to a sitting stance, a posture that my restive human condition found easiest to comply with. “Thank you, thank you!” I exclaimed breathlessly, waving a forelimb weakly. Embee looked drained, having spent a good while making her sides ache, too. “You've been a wonderful audience, Embee,” I said, thinking I was an actor who had just performed a play and expecting a round of applause. Not including begrudging participation in elementary school plays and my current masquerade, I had never acted.

“My pleasure,” she replied with a wide smile. “But I think it was you who played the part of the audience.” Her eyes closed as she giggled. “Or we had a duet!” That earned a brief and casual giggle from us.

“Maybe we did.” I carefully wiped my appreciated tears into my fetlock, followed by a happy sigh. “To be honest, I'm very grateful for the food and the laugh. I really needed to unwind after what I've gone through.” Oh darn! I accidentally insinuated that my ordeal's been awful. Not that she didn't already have an inkling. “Speaking of which, I'll tell you more about it soon,” I said to keep her curiosity at bay, clinging hard to my smile as I forced my ears to stay propped up.

“There's no rush. Take all the time you need,” she reminded sweetly, almost apologetically. Was she afraid that her presence alone was pressuring me to explain?

“Yeah, I know,” I whispered, my smile slipping away briefly. “I mean, I shouldn't be too eager, haha,” I said lamely. The icicles of apprehension were poking at my back. I really didn't want to tell a lie. Or the truth for that matter. However, I had to stay calm above all else. Everything would work out in my favor. Somehow . . .

“Well, I think a cup of soothing coffee will help us put our concerns to rest.” Her gaze drifted toward the second room. “Unless the coffee has evaporated by now,” she joked bashfully.

“If so, then we can't drink it,” I said gloomily, but before she could reply, I smiled half-amusedly. “We'd have to inhale it.” I surprised myself when I was actually able to giggle, though Embee's reciprocation sounded a lot more natural.

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that.” She reached over for her bowl. “Anyhow, I'll take these—”

“No, hold on!” I raised my hoof.

“Why?” She stopped, setting an inquiring gaze on me.

Assisting her and following her to the other room could help me relax better than the coffee. “Uh, I got this thing, you see?” I gingerly tapped my horn, trying not to grin awkwardly when I felt a tiny pulse marginally in front of my forehead. ‘Darn unseen unicorn rebar and its sensitive stand-by magic,’ I complained as I lowered my hoof. “I think I can help you this time.” Assuming I could get my magic to work . . . I really hadn't thought this decision through, had I? Oh, super . . .

“Oh?” A gentle smile grew on Embee; I did my best to replicate it. “I'd greatly appreciate that! Thank you.” Withdrawing her hooves from her bowl, she sat down and beamed at me, which made me feel terrible behind my unworried mask because I didn't want to let her down. I didn't have a second to rehearse, either. Wait, I did have a few seconds!

“Embee, I know you care for me, but you don't have to watch over me. It's, uhm, actually making me a little nervous,” I said with hopefully believable meekness, idly rubbing my forehoof on my hind leg. The sensation of a big fingernail running over my narrow and elongated metatarsal evoked bewilderment, wistfulness, and even some curiosity. This was a good sign; the recursive loop was functioning.

“I'm sorry.” Embee frowned contritely. “I didn't know I was bothering you.” Her demeanor educed a pang of guilt to downflap my expressive directional microphones. “I'll give you some peace and pour us some coffee in the meantime.” She stood up, and I made a quick note on how, in case my equine intuition malfunctioned.

I brought my ears up, suppressing the minor flinch of my inflexible humanity. “If it's still in a liquid state, that is,” I chirped forcedly, hoping to ease our respective worries. Her amused chuckle verified that I had at least achieved success on her side. My foreleg now back on the cushion, I fixated on my bowl before she turned around; sighting her tailside now might ruin my inchoate concentration.

‘Okay! Just have to stare intently at the bowl and think really hard that I'm moving it with an innate and mystifying power! I'm sure I won't have any problems at all. Nope. Nothing can go wrong with my ethereal touch,’ I thought frantically, doing my best to prevent perspiration leakage. ‘No, wait. I have to think differently. More confidence, less worrying!’ My tongue stuck out the side of my mouth in determination. ‘I think I can do this. Yes! That's right! I have to do this, I can do this . . . I will do this!’ Suddenly, an epiphany brought my head up. ‘Why can't I?’ I stared at the wall ahead in puzzlement. ‘I was the second pony in magic kindergarten to learn the basic levitation spell.’ Next thing I knew, I felt something odd within my forehead. Subsequently, a tingling, shimmering glow encased the bowl, and it ascended a dozen centimeters. This sight, coupled with my vague flashback, almost rolled my eyelids past their maximum operating limit; the magic vanished, and the bowl capsized before it fell with a grimace-inducing bang.

“What was that!?” Embee yelled in shock from the room over.

I stared aghast at the luckily undamaged bowl. “Ponyfeathers,” I whispered through my teeth.

The sound of hoofsteps impelled me to frown fearfully. Not a second later, Embee appeared in the doorway. Wearing an alarmed expression, she glanced toward the table, then at me. “Rosy? What happened?”

My eyes darted between the overturned bowl and her. “Uh, I, um . . . I sneezed,” I fibbed guiltily, then inhaled congestedly a couple of times before using my fetlock to wipe my snout—carefully. Equine cartilage, epidermis, and hair where thin air should be just didn't mesh with me. “And I lost my concentration.” As my posture wilted, I hesitated. ‘I can't act this way. It's too feminine . . . But didn't I recently giggle uninhibitedly? Oh, what the hay, I can do this, too.’ I realigned my ears toward my neck and pouted ruefully. “I'm terribly sorry,” I said, like I had been caught thieving cookies from a jar.

“Oh, don't feel too bad, hon,” Embee soothed, encouraging my ears to perk up. “But . . .” She cocked an eyebrow. “I didn't hear you sneeze, though.”

I glanced aside, recalling my very unbridled sneeze from earlier. “Well . . .” I rubbed the soft hairs on my chin with my pastern. “It was a tiny sneeze, you know?” I brought the soles of my forehooves to my snout and imitated a dainty sneeze; it'd be a frigid and cloudless day on Venus when I did that for real. “I had to dampen it so I wouldn't lose my focus.”

“I think I understand, but still . . .” Her questioning glance towards the table felt oppressingly allusive.

“It's not an infallible technique,” I said remorsefully, hoping Embee wouldn't examine my rubbish explanation.

“Hmm.” Her gaze lingered on the bowl for an agonizingly long second before she smiled warily. “Well, good thing nothing broke. Just be careful, okay?” I couldn't help but smile now that I was off the hook. Also, I felt confident about summoning a levitation spell, which was remarkable given how uncertain I was just moments ago.

“Oh, I will,” I intoned peaceably. “Now, uhm, maybe I was wrong about being nervous. Let me try again.” I zeroed in on the bowl, then expected it to do what I wanted . . . No, for the bowl to do what my magic needed it to do: the ceramic ware had to arise. A tingle in my forehead told me that magical energy had begun to spool up in my body, and would transmit its signal from my horn as soon as it . . . calibrated itself with Earth's unique background magic. After a small delay, a white aura enveloped my target, immediately bestowing me with a feel of its ceramic construction. As if every square millimeter of it was covered with my tactile sense! Another second later, the vessel began to ascend. I grinned widely at this, and the bowl flipped over without so much as a conscious command to do so. This was intuitive! I wasn't even straining myself! Moving the bowl was as easy as holding it in a hand! “Ta-daa!” I pointed an outstretched foreleg at the bowl floating an arm's length above the table. “My mundane ability is working mundanely! Yeeeeey!” I cheered energetically. Was my perkiness affecting my voice, or was the voice making me act perky?

“That's, uh, amazing, Rosy,” a bemused Embee inserted, eyeing the lightly bobbing bowl. My hoof, the white vessel, and my exuberation settled in tandem, ending with my flat stare on her. “Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your fun,” she continued apologetically.

“Eh,” I sighed nonchalantly. A want to shrug began to travel to my shoulders, but I thwarted that signal: shrugging entailed moving the shoulders upwards, but with my forelegs supporting my body, shrugging would actually cause me to lurch downwards, which would look abnormal in my current physiological state. “I was overdoing it anyway,” I said dismissively. Truly, why had I been so exuberant? I had known the basic levitation spell for years. Well, not really . . . Darn memory mix-up! Suddenly, I caught sight of something fascinating, and my lips creased to a smile. “Although, you know what would be really fun?” I asked amiably.

“No. Tell me,” Embee said, tone tinged with curiosity, but I chose to keep my lips sealed. Since I'd have to walk to the second room soon (and walk in general), I levered myself up. Thus, I was reintroduced to the unpleasant standing-on-my-nails feeling. My attention was quickly drawn from the lack of hands to my tail falling between my . . . cheeks. I was fairly okay with the extra appendage providing modesty, but the 'receptacle' itself evoked nothing but abhorrence. Still, out of sight, out of mind. “Well, are you going to tell me or not?” Embee urged affably.

I circulated several ideas in my head on how to tell her, but I abandoned the whimsical idea of speaking in a sensual tone. The remotest concept of flirting—even by accident—as a mare to a mare who was apparently days short of being married was highly unbecoming and boorish. Moreover, it would be reprehensibly irresponsible to defame the pony whose body I inhabited. What I did do was lower my head slightly and whisper (unsensually), “So, what I think would be fun is . . .” Embee lowered her head, and her bemused but expectant visage nearly made me giggle. Deliberately, I curved my head toward her right. As I expected, Embee mirrored my gesture. “Music,” I finished, allowing myself a smirk.

“Oh!” Her head sprung up, mine following at a slower rate. “The radio!” she exclaimed in joyful realization as we exchanged glances.

“All we hear is, radio ga ga,” I sing-songed, my head tilting lightly as I made my body sway from side to side. I would've trotted in place, but the incurred forces on my hooves and equine joints could've upset my restrained and wounded human condition.

One of Embee's ears drooped sideways. “What?” She looked at me, visibly lost on what I had referenced.

Smiling, I rolled my eyes with an inoffensive puff. “Never mind,” I said jovially. Aside from her ear lifting up, her outlook remained unchanged. “Let's just have some sweet tunes drift into this cozy place.” I cast a look at the table and colorful carpet. Along with the cushions, it was like an oasis of soothing vibrancy among the dull brown walls and floor.

My attention returned to Embee as I heard her distractedly utter, “Radio gaga?” A second passed before she shook the confusion away. “Oh yes, music,” she said awkwardly. “What the hay is a radio gaga . . . ?” My acute auditory sense detected the puzzlement under her breath as we both took a few steps to the radio. So much for shaking her confusion away. She even studied the radio's brand; it definitely didn't provide the answer. Her confusion amused me, but I didn't want to make her feel any worse, so I half-heartedly tried to stifle my giggle when she looked at me cluelessly.

“Don't worry your head about it,” I reassured happily. “They were only lyrics to a song I've heard,” I summarized.

“Ohh-kay?” She nodded, the glimmer in her eyes hinting that she absorbed the trivia without immediate comprehension. Nevertheless, anticipation drew her lips to a smile. “Well, if we're lucky, that song might be on the radio right now!”

“That'd be great!” I said eagerly as Embee faced the radio, my tail surprising me by flicking to my right. ‘Joy can do that to my tail? Gotta be careful, then. Wouldn't want anypony to glimpse the unmentionable,’ I thought uneasily behind my gleeful smile, then lightly swayed my tail a few times to improve my understanding and control of the caudal muscle. Meanwhile, Embee placed her hoof on top of the radio to manipulate a switch. The garbled noise spewing out made her sigh in discontent.

“Sorry, hon. This thing was brought here only a few days ago, and this is my first time trying to use it,” she said, presumably to vent her frustration. “But I understand it works like any normal radio by, uh . . .” A thoughtful frown came to her as she started scanning the various buttons and dials on the radio's coal black shell. “Tuning into frequencies?” she continued slowly, as if sparing no attention to what she was saying. I was quick to spot the tuner dial. With an oblique glance and an ear-levelling sigh, I chose to grant Embee the full delight of finding it by herself . . . which meant I also got to delight in boredly observing her meticulously inspect each and every feature on the radio but the correct one. Finding it after several long moments, she decisively placed the tip of her hoof into one of several accommodating grooves on the dial's side and gave it a light twist. I took note of that deftness. “Ah! That did the trick!” she exulted when the radio finally began to air something intelligible. Instantly, both my equine instinct and my curiosity reoriented my ears toward the speakers.

“So what's it playing?” I wondered impatiently.

“. . . almost night,” A male voice spoke, “Two minutes to midnight? No, not yet folks. Anyhow, sounds like we got a caller.” Was this a talk show? I almost gasped in excitement at the surprise. I could learn a lot about this world, especially if the topic in question pertained to ponies! Or better yet, if a pony called in! That'd be so awesome!

“Uh, yeah . . .” The caller, a female, hesitated. “Most horrible movie scene?” My blood curled upon hearing that. “Definitely that scene in The Machinist where Miller . . . That was just awful! Just so awful! It gave me horrible nightmares for days! Even my boyfriend said he—”

Unwilling to hear more, I latched my ears to my skull (and for once, I was very thankful for their suppleness). “Embee, this isn't music. Change the channel, please,” I beseeched restlessly. Oh no, imagery was incoming and I had to think of anything else, but I was too late . . . Oh gross, oh gross, oh gross! If I had the power to eradicate one memory right now, it was that scene. I hated gory movies! Couldn't Thomas have chosen a "softer" movie to rent, like the director's cut of Das Boot as I had recommended? In his defense, he probably didn't know what was coming. I could still taste the cheese puffs crawling up my throat, and I had seen that movie years ago! Even he stopped gobbling his snacks after witnessing the horrifying event, although he did try to joke about his discomfort. I was of lesser integrity and made no effort to hide my nausea. We should've just played a video game since those don't make me sick to my stomach. And this . . . was a fond memory I had of him. I felt both happy and sad. I liked the times when I didn't submissively tag along with him into a disheartening carouse . . .

“Hey, are you okay, hon?” My acute ears discerned Embee's voice amidst the currently playing rock song.

“I'm sorry,” I said weakly to the frowning pegasus mare by my side, righting my ears to make the music sound clearer.

“Sorry about what?” she queried, a little confused. A bunch of memories regarding happy video gaming moments cajoled for my attention, but I sent them back to the recess of my mind with a small sigh.

“That movie the caller mentioned . . .” I was leery of going into details. “Umm . . . Well, it has a really disgusting thing in it . . .” The sickening memory flared up, making me gag. “Trust me, you don't want to know,” I said, hopefully dissuading her from prying to know what damage a horrendously unsafe drill press could do.

“That kind of movie, huh?” A look of understanding dawned on her. “I have a pretty good reason to favor lighthearted comedies myself.” That I could agree on, but I'd probably regret my curiosity for half an eternity.

“That reason being?” I whispered apprehensively, feeling cold despite all the insulating fur I had.

Embee swallowed visibly, horror shrinking her pupils. “The reason, uh, was a movie my sister wanted to see. It was unique. A space movie, uhm . . . Alien,” she divulged.

“Yeah . . . seen that one.” I moaned feebly as a shudder slinked through my entire body, wishing I could take my barrel into a tight and protective hug without flopping down in doing so. I could sit on my haunches, I realized, but I decided not to; I could tough out my transient nausea. “Anyhow, let's not think about the awful things, shall we?” I suggested, trying hard to eradicate the unease from my smile. “To allay our filmography afflictions, let's focus on the music for a moment.” I could forget the sickening scenes if I listened to the music instead. I hoped.

“There's no easy way out, there's no shortcut home! There's no easy way out, givin' in, givin' in can't be wrong, no! There's no easy way out, there's no shortcut home! There's no easy—”

I had hoped. “Oh, shut up,” I grumbled quietly at the inopportune song, and with remarkable precision, I poked the dial just like Embee had. I took no notice of the new song that began to play, but in the corner of my eye, I saw Embee looking at me in puzzlement. “I didn't like that song,” I said offhandedly.

“Why not?” she asked, meeting my flat stare with a peaceable smile. “I thought it was nice.”

“It didn't fit my mood, that's all,” I replied shortly, my ears revealing my subsequent dismay. ‘Didn't fit my mood? What the hay? That was a stupid reply!’ If I had spared a moment to think, I could've spoken a white lie instead of being disadvantageously sincere.

“Didn't fit your mood? What do you mean by that?” Embee said, her face mixed with confusion and worry. I was in a pinch. I actually liked the song, but it simply . . . hit too close to home. Did I really make that pun? I was oh so laughing. “Did the song upset you?” Embee interrupted my cogitations.

My ears pricked up, and I almost tripped in my haste to turn myself perpendicular to her. “I'm not upset!” Subsequently, I winced in guilt, my ears turning down. “Well, kind of, but not really, uh, I'm sorry for snapping at you, but, uhm . . .” I mumbled apologetically, unable to look at her. Everything had been going well. I could've just let the song play and done nothing, but I just had to let it get the better of me . . . What was I going to do now?

“What's wrong, hon?” Embee queried tenderly. I hesitated before directing my eyes up to hers. “Is this about what you've experienced, before you were found?” She had a studious but sad glint in her eyes. As my silence continued, she turned to face me. “Rosy?” She took a trepidatious step closer, and I quickly doubled the distance, nearly bungling my stability as I did so.

‘Horseapples! Can't I even move right? Of course I can't! It's almost impossible to be a pony when I have no idea when it will end—if it can end. Oh no, wrong thoughts, wrong thoughts! It will end, it will end, but . . . I think I've only built mental barriers to keep my anxiety in check. They can't hold on forever! In fact, my computer providing the ultimate solution could just be another barrier—a desperate, hope-inspiring delusion!’

I really wanted to come clean and not soft-pedal everything, but honesty was forbidding; not only was the likelihood of profuse weeping very high, there was no guarantee Embee would believe me. However, I believed she was sincerely worried and wanted to help in any capacity she could. Was she trustworthy, though? Could she console me in a time of extreme crisis? I hoped so. “It's okay, you can talk to me.” Maybe she was right. Maybe I should get the planned pineapple excuse out of the way before I shied away from it.

“Ah, what I did . . .” The words stopped in my throat and my face scrunched up with emotion. No, I couldn't do this yet. I blinked away the unwanted tears rimming my eyes, whispering in a pitch so high it was almost a whine: “Okay, yeah, I'll tell you soon, I promise.” I wasn't particular to how my feminine voice made me sound even more fragile; I cleared my throat to sound more collected. “Uh, haha, but I can't abscond from helping you first, right?” I said lamely through a strained smile. I struggled with an onslaught of discrepant sensations as I balanced on three digits, pointing the fourth at the table to my right. “We can enjoy coffee and have a nice talk once I've gotten those things where they need to be.” As I looked at her, I understood that she knew I was struggling to keep my powerful discontentment under the lid. She stared at me with a face full of pity, almost pleading to know why I was behaving like this. I couldn't smile any longer.

“Alright,” she assented warily, almost regretfully. I had to blink tears away again.

I was marginally thankful for the respite, and I summoned my magic to place the wares onto the tray. Without any kind of pleasure. I simply . . . couldn't; my mind was in disarray. I barely took notice of encasing the tray in a white aura. White aura? Not green . . . like my eyes? Well, whatever. In a few seconds, my task was done. The tray floated off the table and gracefully flew into the next room. I followed it with shaky legs, dumbfounded at the effortless manipulation. However, the pining for my real form was making my breaths heavy; I had to stop after a few steps and a forty-five-degree turn to my right towards the sink. At least I could take stock of the room from the doorway while my distress abated. Remarkably, my magic was still keeping the tray aloft and safe, despite my inattention.

The initial impression of the room was . . . white. The ceiling was white, the walls were white, and the floor was . . . grayish? Several light brown cupboards, breaking the white monotony, lined the walls from my right all the way to the far corner, where the sink was. A black and white picture hung on the left wall, but apart from recognizing it as depicting the hospital, I spared it no further attention. Adjusting my sight to the right of the sink, I saw a white mini-fridge in the far right corner, a dishwasher to the left, and a bouquet of flowers—mauve dahlias—in a glass vase beside the fridge. Next to the fragrant flowers were a microwave and the coffee machine. The distinctively aromatic coffee was waiting to be poured into two cups with detailed landscapes depicted on them. Of all the colors in the world, the machine was pink; I almost chuckled at that. Admittedly, the uncommon color made it look quite lovely. The one in my home was just a boring grey. ‘Pink: the color that once was considered masculine is nowadays the exact opposite,’ I deadpanned mentally. Tucked in the far corner of the room was the sink. Excluding the appliances, everything was scaled for ponies.

I placed the magic-shrouded tray on the steel drainboard, and the minor tingling in my head faded at the same rate the white and wavy aura did. I had wanted this levitation performance to feel even a little special, but instead, it had been disappointingly anticlimactic. Maybe later it'd feel exquisite again? Maybe I was simply too preoccupied at the moment? I sighed dolorously, my ears dropping as I stared at the waxed floor. A few seconds to settle my nerves would do me well. The sheen of the fluorescent lights on the plastic floor was easy to focus on. My attention was drawn to where my petite hooves met the floor, a reflection of something white and vague extending forward. It began to sharpen into something recognizable.

I tilted my head, and the shape moved. My brain was assembling the details into a distinguishable image. The face was one of the most central parts of an individual's identity, and to see an unfamiliar one . . . which could replace mine? I wanted to look away before it was too late, but my neck was as unyielding as a girder. I felt strangely curious, yet apprehensive.

“Hey, how are you feeling, hon?” Embee said caringly, my semi-independent ears telling me she was standing on my right. Simultaneously, I saw two protrusions extend on either side of the reflection beneath me. Those were my ears, and I started to recognize . . . I didn't want to see this!

Stopping a frightened gasp in my throat, I broke out of my daze with a start. My sight lingered on the unimpressive plastic tapestry between the cupboard and sink for a moment before turning to Embee. I thanked my lucky stars I hadn't discerned my foreign visage while she had been gazing at me with a frown. “What was that, Rosy?” her whisper slinked into my ears, which twitched marginally as I reminded myself of my real name. It felt meaningless, like the name of a character from a book or a video game.

In spite of my best attempts, the radio wrenched my ears toward it, capturing my attention. “Aw-right! You're on Nostalgy Radio with Sound Wave, and do I feel energetic! I just luuuuv the music you wonderful humans delight my ears with! Mmm-mm! So, all of you two-feets and four-hooves still awake, don't go dozing off yet, 'cause now it's time to fly! I would fly, but I'm an earth pony, hah hah hah! Have some good-goodness by a wonderful fella who, contrary to his name, isn't petty, hahah!”

Embee's amethyst eyes continued to scrutinize my blank expression as I tried to make sense of why I was estranged by what was once my name. “I'm getting really worried now. Are you sure you're feeling okay?” Her increasing concern for me brought somberness to my face, and I closed my eyes.

I inclined my head, hastily surmising that the stress was playing tricks on me. “I need a minute to clear my head,” I said humbly, intentionally avoiding her question. I faced the sink; however, if the gleaming floor wasn't daunting enough, something more intimidating was between the doorway and the pink apparatus: a looking glass. Sure, it was no larger than a laptop screen and served as decoration, but . . . What kind of a smartflank mounts that kind of torture device in a kitchen!? Oh, right . . . they wouldn't know an extremely fraught pon . . . person like me would come across it. I definitely didn't want to see my present face. Not only could that become my 'primary' face and erase my real one, but I could risk a repeat of the two earlier viewings. The second one nearly traumatized me . . .

“By all means,” Embee said conciliatorily, followed by a single, soft prod on my right shoulder. I was initially floored by this, but when I realized the touch was too soft for a hoof, I suddenly felt moved. Embee had done something I could've never anticipated . . .

‘A nuzzle is apparently a non-verbal method of communication to impart compassion, inspire mutual trust, and mollify the recipient,’ I summarily analyzed the fundamentals of Embee's gesture as I plodded the short distance to the sink, avoiding the looking glass. ‘But that's not a reason to start sniveling like a miserable foal!’ I berated myself, shivering minutely from the sheer power of the emotions I was curtailing. I had to distract myself. It was . . . a little funny that I felt like I was in a miniature-scale kitchen. The ceiling was high, but the sink and cupboards were low enough that an earth pony could reach them with ease. While my vision was aimed at the microwave, I saw the aquamarine and blonde shape of Embee in the corner of my eye. Turning my head completely around—an achievement only my equine neck could permit—I saw her tilt her head with a supportive smile. I smiled back weakly, and only briefly; the glimpse of my trailing end was highly dissuasive. Luckily, I didn't become involuntarily excited, only confused. I wasn't even sure why I might become aroused by a mare's flank, especially my own, but I was afraid to risk finding out. Then again, under these tormentous circumstances, arousal was impossible anyway.

My composure was crumbling, and I became immersed in dismal disbelief. I didn't want to comprehend that I was standing like a pony—as a pony—but the unceasing sensation at the ends of my remoter limbs wasn't telling any merciful lies. My mental barriers were falling like dominoes, and I had to fiercely repress a desire to sit my shivering form on the floor and cry my eyes out. I wanted a respite from all the horrors my mind and body were pushing onto me . . . and that's why I was by the sink! I had to do something besides succumb to my emotions, even if that would feel good . . .

A current rushed to my horn, and a second later, my ethereal grip twisted the handle to bring about a pillar of water from the faucet. I reached my right han . . . hoof in a desire to cup water . . . once my left hoof would do its part? Darn. It was obvious I couldn't hold a significant amount of water in my hooves, and supporting part of my weight on my equine elbows didn't sound appealing. The sole was concave, but the triangular shape—the frog—was a channel that'd allow the water to run out. Stupid, ungainly . . . I couldn't even cup water properly . . .

I let the water run over my dainty hoof, but I couldn't feel it. Warm water running between my fingers? Never thought I'd miss that. I'd get it back. I'd get everything back!

A memory came to me as I gloomily watched the water run over my hoof. I had singed my hand one birthday when I tried to put out the candles on the cake with my fingers. It was a crazy thing to do, but I was . . . How old was I back then? Wait? This . . . When was this?! I frantically racked my brain, but I had no idea when I had burnt my hand . . . or when my birthday was. I couldn't even narrow it down to a specific month! How could I forget something so important? Horrible dread and loss filled my heart, and I began to pound my mind harder. No, wait! I did recall more details! I had accidentally set the fur behind my coronet band on fire when I had tried to douse the candles by clapping them with my hooves. I had disregarded my mom's warnings, but I was very young and thoughtless. No . . . wait, what was this? What was doing this to me? What . . . But . . . I had two conflicting memories again? No, no no no no no nonono! This wasn't happening! If . . . If I cried just a little bit, maybe I'd feel better about this shocking development? Better about losing myself? No, I could stay collected! If I didn't, I would frighten myself into hyperventilation and subsequent sniffles and tears!

Acting on an impulse, I began to collect water into a magical bubble. As some form of therapy? I wasn't really sure right now; I couldn't think straight. As my magic collected the water, I noticed that while I could "feel" the temperature and shape of the water, its lack of contact with skin meant there was no sensation of slipperiness or coolness. It was strange, but I latched onto the peculiarity as if it were a lifeline. The bubble, it was like . . . a rippling plastic bag with water, and the plastic was my slightly lacking tactile sense. Now, what could I do with this bubble? Wash my tears, I concluded in a fraction of a second. The magic bubble opened gently as it met my face to spill its contents over my closed eyes, my muzzle dividing the soothing cascade into two torrents that poured into the steel sink below. I was breathing shakily and my teeth were clenched; I needed a second bubble of warm water to cool my nerves. As I was gathering more water with my magic, I got a better idea. A little fun. Just had to concentrate a little harder than normal!

I used my hoof to push down the handle, before getting to work. The irregular blob of water began to smooth out until it was a perfect sphere, thanks to a primarily purposeless trick I learned about three years ago. Huh? Oh, right. That tidbit belonged to her. A victorious smirk visited me for catching the inconsistency. I was not done with the bubble, though. I turned it into a cube. That was easy . . . Too easy. Just like the sphere, this light-refracting cube looked neat. Meticulously, I began to stretch it, flatten it, give it protrusions and curves. Excluding the resculpting of a few details, it was like perfectly projecting my imagination into reality.

With a touch of pride beneath my melancholy, I floated my piece of art to the middle of the room. Embee and I stepped forward to examine it more closely, sadness stiffening my joints. Embee's eyes were glued on my magical sculpture. “I've seen things like that in the air. They're usually at a much greater altitude than I am, though,” she said with wonder in her tone. When I didn't reply, she looked at me. “But you creating that with just magic and water? I'm honestly impressed, Rosy. It's very beautiful!” Despite her praise, I gazed pensively at my beautiful scale replica of a Cessna 152—the wingspan seemed about right at 35 centimeters—as I raised it to hover above us. I've lived near an airport most of my life, so I saw airplanes fly over our home often and at a low altitude. They were so incredibly bedazzling . . .

“One of these days, I'll fly a plane,” I said with a voice full of longing, sending my sufficiently accurate reproduction on a clockwise holding pattern. A few laps later the plane had brought a smile to my face. “Look at it fly. Isn't it just so incredible?” I found myself sounding depressed, which I had to rectify. “Airplanes are so super awesome . . .” I cheered, trotting sluggishly on the spot. “Heeheehee . . .” my giggle came out splendidly: full of energy and ending on a doleful sigh . . . Embee ignored the soaring plane to look at me with undeniable concern. I heard her speak, but I wasn't paying attention. I kept watching the plane wistfully. I had to think . . . on how to make the best of a bad situation! Plan ahead!

I could do quite okay in this body for a few days, if the circumstances demanded it. Maybe my identity would degrade a little, but I'd get it back in perfect condition once I was in my body. Right? I hadn't changed or lost anything permanently, had I? I could save myself from being flooded with this mare's experiences, couldn't I? On that note, where was she, then? Maybe she was in my body? Maybe she couldn't take it and had gotten herself killed . . . like I almost did. I felt so horribly guilty about the harm I had placed her body in, and I was so sincerely sorry. But . . . if she wasn't in my body, was she here with me? If so, she was witnessing my irresponsibility ruin her life the very moment I left my home. I was so sorry about that, too. I hoped she'd forgive me . . . Or maybe it was worse? Maybe my existence in her body had killed her, and her memories and traits were now being passed on to me? Maybe my body expired when I was torn from it? Then I'd have nothing to return to—a most horrifying thought! I'd be trapped in this body, fighting a battle I couldn't win! Little by little, I'd lose pieces of myself! Experiences, feelings . . . memories. Those I cherished most: my parents, my joys, my aspirations . . . Those that inspired me to be free from the bonds of earth itself . . . The ones that made me . . . me! I'd lose them all! I'd lose everything! For over a decade, I dreamt of flying a plane, and when I was weeks from making that wish turn real, this happens! I'd lose that too, and . . . and . . . I couldn't take this anymore!

“Or maybe I'll never fly a plane!” I shouted mournfully, my eyes turning misty. The Cessna entered a steep dive and crashed between us, violently shattering into countless droplets scattering in every direction. I . . . I didn't mean to kill it . . .

“Rosy!?” Embee yelled in shock, but I couldn't look at her. I stared in open-jawed despair at the wet puddle—the allegory for my life and future—as tears blurred my vision. “What did you—” A somber squeak escaped me with a cringe, and I crumbled to a sitting stance. The weight on my forehooves made me realize I didn't have palms to hide my face in, and that horrible loss almost persuaded me to shrivel up into a quivering pile. “—do that . . . for? Oh my . . .” she continued emotively. I struggled to weep silently, which would be okay, but . . . I was inconsolable, and the cork on my bottled emotions was loosening.

“Rosy?” Embee asked softly. “What's going on? What happened to you? Talk to me, please,” she implored. I was trembling fiercely and could hardly breathe. I tried to read her expression, but everything was a fuzzy blend of colors. She was close. Sitting before me? In the puddle of water that once was a resplendent replica of an airborne beauty? “Rosy. You're safe and you can trust me, I promise,” she spoke rapidly, tone dripping with sincerity and compassion.

“I can . . . trust you?” I whimpered hopefully, tears blending with the water in my soaked facial fur. “Really?”

Solemnly, she said, “Yes, you can.” That was all I needed to hear! “I give my word—Uhmh!” I had reached over to her and pulled us together. Squeaking several thank you's in a pitch higher than I had ever anticipated I'd be able to, I wrapped my limbs over her back and wings, embracing her like my life depended on it. I held my breath as the last of my restraint withered and my full sorrow began to find its way out in an anguished bawl.

“Everything will be okay, hon. Everything will be okay,” Embee soothed, stroking my back with care as I cried profusely. I didn't care anymore how wrong it sounded to cry with a female's vocal cords. I didn't care that all my life I had believed guys weren't supposed to cry! I wasn't bound by that stupid, oppressive, and ridiculous constraint anymore! I couldn't be and wasn't afraid of my own emotions. I just wanted to purge all of my sadness and my anxiety . . . To shed tears until I had none left. That would help . . . Weeping was helping. Sweet release. I had so needed this . . . and I really wanted to say I believed her now, but all I could reply with were sniffles and sobs. I was glad she was here, being consolingly warm and soft. I wasn't enduring distress alone this time, and I . . . I didn't want to be alone! There had to be others like me, there had to, there had to! Please please please please . . .

“Em-m-m-bh . . . Emh . . . I-I-Igh . . . th, nhj . . .” I gibbered miserably, overwhelmed with so much emotion I might as well have aphasia.

“It's okay, I'm here for you,” she whispered. I tried to feel her wing, but a hoof and fur-coated skin were no analogues for hands. Even the small acute area in the back-center of the hoof was insufficient. It was better than nothing, though. The little I could feel, along with her presence, was gradually calming me. She was my relaxant. Thank goodness, thank goodness, thank goodness . . . But I had gone beyond a line I hadn't considered crossing. Now I couldn't hide anymore, and I didn't want to! I had to do this.

“I . . . I . . . I have . . . a que . . . a question,” I said between my hiccuping sobs.

“Yes, hon?” Embee asked hushedly.

“What-what w-w . . .” I choked on my own tears.

Embee rubbed my spine consolingly. “Take your time. It's not a race.” Was she crying too? Maybe. Just the thought alone that she was affected by my intense sorrow bestowed me with gratitude. I respected her. I trusted her! She could help me! Maybe she knew something? Maybe she could save me?

“What would . . . would you . . . would you do . . . if you . . .” I stammered raspily, trying to stave off my persistent crying just long enough to squeeze out one sentence. I was too frail; I broke into a new bout of sobs with a gasp.

“I'm here for you, Rosy. Don't worry,” the only friend and support I had right now reassured.

Breathing raggedly and rapidly a few times, I recovered a fraction of myself, then spoke tremulously but resolutely: “What would y-you do i-if you w-woke up in a b-b-body that's n-not yours?” There was no turning back now. ‘Please know what I mean. Please don't betray me. Please don't do that to me! Please help me . . . Please help!’