Dr. Stable Mind stepped into his office and closed the door. Now that none were near to see him, his body sagged, and he deposited himself on his own free association couch. He closed his bloodshot eyes and sighed deeply, massaging his forehead with both hooves, worrying about his many, many patients.
Ordinarily, he loved the psych ward's hectic drama. The permanent residents, as used to the hospital's routine as they were, still tended to relapse on occasion, and new patients came often enough that lulls in action were few and far between. Most ponies only needed a little reassurance, some friendly advice, the right dosage, and the right support group to lead perfectly normal lives. Their weekly, monthly, or yearly check-in meetings were more than enough to keep them happy, healthy, and productive. However, some ponies needed more direct care, and those he would encourage to check into Ponyville Hospital's psych ward.
Contrary to the belief held by many ponies, no patient was held there against their will. All of the current residents checked themselves in voluntarily, and while there was a clause in the rules stating that a pony could be checked in by their relatives if they were deemed incapable of making the decision themselves, none in living memory had done so.
None, that is, until yesterday afternoon.
Dr. Stable sighed again, regretting the sleepless night he had spent looking for something, anything, that could tell him what he was seeing. Fifteen ponies had been checked in, fifteen ponies had been deemed incapable of consent, despite every effort on the part of him and his staff to garner a response. There was no precedent that he could find, no description of this set of symptoms, and it defied every logical explanation. It seemed to affect each race equally, which ruled out a magical anomaly, and yet it seemed to have diminished the ponies' magical reserves, which was impossible for any known pathogen to achieve.
At least the research aspect of it was out of his hooves. After scouring his own archives and turning up nothing, he had gone to the local library to check if it was still open. Thankfully, it was, as Princess Twilight Sparkle had been taking advantage of her balcony to do a bit of stargazing. She saw him coming up the road, and invited him in for some tea, explaining that it was official princess protocol to offer any welcome but unexpected guest a bit of tea. Dr. Stable pretended not to notice the textbook on princess etiquette she quickly levitated onto a shelf while pouring the tea to disguise the spell.
He explained his predicament, as it stood at the time, anyway, with only six ponies, two of each race. The Princess patiently waited for him to finish, scribbling down notes as he spoke, then followed up with requests for more detail. How long had the symptoms been present? Did the ponies show any other physical deformities? He answered these questions as best he could, safe in the knowledge that doctor-patient confidentiality, while normally quite restrictive, could be suspended around other medical professionals in the case of a dangerous epidemic. If this didn't have all of the signs of a dangerous epidemic in the making, he wasn't sure what did.
They proceeded to examine every medical textbook Princess Twilight had on hoof, from an odd little volume on herbal remedies dubbed, "Super Naturals," to a complete copy of the ancient reference De Materia Medica. They even pulled out and looked over the DSM, (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) though Dr. Stable had already gone over his own copy a few times. In the end, it was all for naught, though Princess Twilight promised to check the Canterlot Archives for anything related, as well as ask the other princesses if they had encountered it before. Dr. Stable was grateful for her assistance, but in the meantime, he had no idea what to do with the patients.
Now they numbered fifteen, six earth ponies, five unicorns, and four pegasi. Physically, they were completely fine, as far as he could tell, though some sported a few bruises, no doubt acquired due to their other, more pressing symptoms. None of them were capable of speech, and none seemed capable of independent thought. They could respond to simple, direct orders, thankfully, such as, "walk," "sit," or, "eat," which made them much easier to manage, but they did not respond to questions, complex instructions, or any other external stimuli. In fact, when given an order, they took no precautions whatsoever for their own well being. They looked straight ahead, always, and there was a lack of depth to their eyes that chilled him. They couldn't be deaf, yet they failed a simple deafness test; none flinched when confronted by an unexpected, sudden loud noise. Were they blind? There was no way to tell without asking, and none responded to any questions on the matter.
Dr. Stable was utterly baffled. This day had been a long one, and while he was ruminating over all of the information he'd gathered so far, he slipped away into sleep.
Nurse Gentle Mint was having a panic attack. She knew this to be true, as a panic attack is classified as displaying four or more of a list of symptoms, and she was currently experiencing a racing heart, sweating, trembling, shortness of breath, dizziness, and fear of losing control, which was six, more than enough to correctly diagnose a panic attack. Knowing this did not help her.
However, knowing the correct breathing exercises did, and so she inhaled for a count of five, held it for a count of two, and exhaled for a count of five. She forced herself to think of soothing things: her herb garden, filled with the helpful compounds she used to keep herself grounded. Chamomile, the tea she would use to sleep, clover, that replenished the nitrogen in her garden and fed her neighbor's bees that made honey, another soothing remedy for a sore throat, and of course mint, her namesake, and the most soothing thought to her of all.
Slowly, she gathered her disjointed thoughts into a crystal clear image of her orderly garden at home, and her breathing slowed to something resembling that of a normal asthmatic.
Mint looked at the clock. The whole ordeal had lasted a little over 20 minutes, which was understandable, given the trigger. She shuddered, then left the sanctuary of her bathroom stall to look at herself in the mirror. Checking to be sure no other ponies were in the room, she fixed her appearance with a few carefully-placed flashes of green magic.
Feeling a little better, and looking much better than she felt, she stepped into the hallway outside of the nurse's station. She was quite grateful that the nurses had a private bathroom; it made it much easier to keep her little secrets. Satisfied that none would be the wiser, the earth pony mare trotted off to check on the residents.
When Gentle arrived in the ward, things were, on the surface, perfectly under control. Only a few patients were in the common room, and all were quietly engaged in some activity.
Gentle knew, however, that this was only the calm before the storm. Supposedly pegasi could feel a storm coming in their feathers, and while she didn't know anything about weather magic, she was able to read the signs of trouble in the room as easily as a pegasus could tell a cirrus from a cumulus.
Take Tall Order, for example. The unicorn was in his usual spot, as per the written schedule he had given to the nurses. One corner of the commons area was set up like a small classroom, and Tall Order was playing with the scales and weights. His cutie mark, a graduated cylinder, proclaimed his love for exact figures to anypony with eyes to see.
Usually, Tall Order liked to experiment, changing up the weights of different sizes to get them to balance out. There was a game he liked to play, in which he had to get both sides to an exact number without using the same size weights on each side. Today, however, there was no experimenting; each side of the scale was exactly, precisely symmetrical. He was even using his horn to place each weight at the exact same time, rather than feeling each with his hooves first, to ensure the balance didn't even wobble. Usually Tall Order only displayed this level of rigorous focus when a change to his schedule had to be made.
Arbiter was also outwardly calm, though again red flags exposed themselves to anypony who knew how to spot them. Arbiter had truly earned her name and her cutie mark - a peace sign - through hard work and determination. Her MPD forced her to mediate constantly between differing opinions, though hopefully her current medications would take effect soon. Currently she was knitting, a skill she had been taught to help her focus and ignore the other voices. However, while usually her knitting was an intricate, elaborate display of lacy skill, today she was knitting a scarf. A straight scarf, with no purls or yarnovers, so tightly linked that she was using needles three sizes too large for the yarn to keep the gauge consistent. Something was clearly bothering her, and Gentle Mint knew all too well what that something was.
The last one in the room, Haunting Melody, was drawing at a table near Tall Order. She liked to record her visions to better understand them and explain them to others, as sometimes her hallucinations contained meaning, but the content of this page was full of indecipherable black smears. The overtone was clear, though; Haunting Melody was worried.
They all were, it seemed. Prism Rift and Pale Shadow were both absent, though it wasn't surprising considering Pale Shadow's anxiety and Prism Rift's discomfort with his fellow patients. They were right to be afraid; Gentle Mint was absolutely terrified.