//------------------------------//
// Chapter 12: Disposition and Dress 
// Story: Onto the Pony Planet 
// by Admiral Biscuit 
//------------------------------//

Onto the Pony Planet 
Chapter 12: Disposition and Dress
Admiral Biscuit

Lyra felt a twinge of disappointment as Dale's hand left her shoulder, but she could tell that Fancy Pants was more comfortable when Dale wasn't touching her. I should tell him that he needs to interview Ka-th-rin, she thought darkly. See how he feels then.  The thought brought a faint smile to her face.

But she couldn't do that; he was her best hope of getting through the trial unscathed, and it would be incredibly foalish to antagonize her barrister. Instead, she smiled politely when he asked her to go through the whole thing again.

It seemed like a year ago—she'd gotten in a tiff with Bon Bon the night before and then hadn't had time to make up in the morning, instead leaving Bon Bon asleep in bed. What if I hadn't made it back, she thought. What if the last memory she had of me was our silly little argument?  What if . . . but it was no good thinking of what ifs.

“Dale met me on the beach," she began. "He was there when I arrived."

She'd hardly gotten to the point where she'd taken off her saddlebags with the buckle that always pulled her hair out—not that she'd ever have to worry about those saddlebags again; they were now forever out of her reach—when Fancy Pants interrupted her.

"Tell me about casting the spell. The Princess taught you the spell, is that correct?"

"Yes, and she also gave me a magical boost. I'm not strong enough to cast it on my own," Lyra admitted. "Not very many unicorns are. Twilight probably is, maybe her brother."

Fancy Pants nodded. "And you cast it exactly right?"

"Yes." Lyra snorted. "That spell has so many fail-safes if I hadn't, I wouldn't have gone anywhere at all. It's elegant, but clunky—does that make sense?"

Fancy Pants nodded. Unicorn magic was generally considered to be in one of two disciplines: earth or sky. It was widely believed that a pegasus' best trait was her grace, while an earth pony's was her strength, hence the names. Most spells displayed one attribute or the other, but certain spells combined both. It was, in fact, a signature of Starswirl's spells to be both strong and elegant simultaneously, like a farm mare in a fancy dress. "Very well," he said. "What happened next?"

"Well, Dale was waiting for me on the beach," Lyra repeated. "He'd arranged the peace signs himself—the ones I brought to the first meeting and left."

“Peace signs?”

“Deliberately broken weapons,” Lyra said, explaining how Twilight had come up with the idea.

“I understand,” the stallion replied. “Please continue.”

While she continued recounting the day, Fancy Pants scribbled down notes, frequently interrupting her for clarifications on what seemed the most minor points, often causing her to lose her train of thought and repeat something. He didn't seem bothered by the disjointed narrative, but her voice was becoming a little hoarse from the constant talking. Lyra wished she had one of the water-carriers like the one Dale had been wearing on the beach.

She looked over at Dale. He had dozens of sheets of parchment spread around him, and was sketching pictures of them at the beach. As crude as his drawings were, she could easily recognize what he was illustrating—he was currently sketching one of the orange and silver boats, with people in it. Each of them had an exclamation point above its head.  She noticed that his drawings of objects were more recognizable and more detailed than his simple people and wondered if that was significant.

Dale noticed that she was watching him, and absently stretched out his left hand, brushing it through her mane. She sighed happily—this was almost as good as a massage at the spa.

Fancy Pants cleared his throat and she spun to face him again, causing Dale's hand to slip off her head.

"So you went back to his home," he prompted her.

"It wasn't a home, exactly," she said. "A camp, really. Although I didn't know it at the time—I didn't figure that out until later that day. See, he had this pavilion in the center, which was supported with spindly poles, and a small domehouse on the edge."

"Domehouse?"

"I suppose you haven't seen the book," Lyra remarked. "It's a hemispherical home. There are drawings of it in the book he gave me—Bucky Fuller told Twilight what they were called."

Fancy Pants scribbled down a note. "I suppose he would know what they were called if anypony would." He scanned the paper for a moment. "So, tell me again why you went to his home—excuse me, his camp."

"It was raining," she said. "I already told you that. Why are you taking notes if you keep asking the same questions?"

Fancy Pants set down his pen. "Miss Heartstrings, my one desire is to have you walk out of the trial a free mare. Whether or not that happens is entirely dependent on two things: Princess Luna's verdict, which we cannot predict, and your behavior when you give testimony—which we can. I do not know who will be cross-examining you on behalf of the Royal Guard, but if he is as aggressive as any decent prosecutor, he will keep asking you the same questions in the hopes that you contradict yourself or become agitated. Should he discover his line of questioning is getting under your skin, he will press on, in the hopes of you giving something away you'd rather not."

"Aren't you going to speak on my behalf? Isn't that how trials work? Don't I just tell you everything now, and then you tell the judge?"

"In a civilian trial, yes. But since you were acting under the purview of the Royal Guard, and are being tried under their laws, you have no choice but to speak, or else be ruled in contempt." He pointed to Dale. "He, on the other hoof, does not have to speak or present evidence, although if he is willing—and if he is able to provide testimony which will prove useful to our case—he may be allowed to present evidence.  Of course, should I make a motion to have his testimony brought before the court, it may be disallowed, as you are his sole interpreter, and there is a potential conflict of interest.

"Now, if you would please tell me why you decided to go to his camp? You could have returned home instead, isn't that so? Why did you not not feel uncomfortable leaving the safety of the spell's anchor behind?"

Lyra slumped in her chair. The truth was, she'd never really thought about the risks in leaving the safety of the bubble behind. The way Princess Celestia had explained the spell to her, she thought she would be returned to Equestria if the spell were to fail, regardless of where she was at the time. In hindsight, she wasn't sure that was actually true. She thought she'd crossed over the boundary before the spell collapsed, but she wasn't certain. "He . . . we'd spent enough time together, Dale seemed harmless," Lyra finally said. "He hadn't done anything threatening, even when he’d had the opportunity: I fell down on the beach, and he caught me, but he didn’t do anything aggressive. So I followed him into the woods, back to his camp."

Fancy Pants nodded, and let her continue without interruption. She gave him a description of the camp, as well as a summary of their meal together. He raised an eyebrow when she mentioned sharing food, but didn't say anything.

Once she'd ended her tale, he nodded. "And that's the last thing you remember before waking up in the hospital?"

"Yes," Lyra said. Fancy Pants didn't speak right away, but began flipping through his notes. I hope I'm done, Lyra thought. Her ears perked at an odd drumming noise, and she looked over at Dale, who had set down the pen and was pounding his fingers against the table in a strange rhythm. Her eyes narrowed—they were moving in a wave-like manner, but what did it mean? She'd seen Spike tap a single claw on a table when he was irritated; did that mean Dale was four times as irritated? "Is Dale—" she began, struggling to think of the next word.

"Yes," he replied, and her heart fell. Of course, it was hardly surprising; it felt like she and Fancy Pants had been talking for hours; he must be so bored. He slid over a pile of drawings. "Dale is done."

Lyra looked at the sketches with interest.  He had wasted a lot of paper with his large sketches, and clearly had no sense of composition, but they would serve to get the message across. Maybe they would contain a clue how the spell had failed and brought Dale and the girl to Equestria.

“Why don’t we take a little break before we get to these drawings?" Fancy Pants suggested. "I’ll see if I can find a nurse to bring us some drinks.”


•        •        •


Dale took the opportunity to find his way to the bathroom.  Lyra, remembering his solitary preference, waited outside until he was done before going in herself, then the two of them walked back to the conference room together.  Fancy Pants had already returned with a tall pitcher of juice, from which he had already poured three glasses.  Lyra took hers gratefully, before taking a seat on Dale’s right, where she could watch over his shoulder as he showed the drawings to Fancy Pants.

"Dale, Lyra," Dale began, pointing to the drawing. "Is leave Dale not-home. Is now when Lyra go Lyra home." He moved another drawing close; this one was a map of the end of the island, showing the camp, the woods, the beach, and the boats. He pointed to a small trail drawn through the woods. "Dale, Lyra go."

He traced his finger along the path, moving it toward the beach. "Dale see . . . see. . . ." His voice trailed off.

"There were boats on the beach," Lyra told Fancy Pants, pointing a hoof at the drawing. "One of them was up on shore, while another was a little bit offshore. The boats made a growling-buzzing noise from their sterns, and there was a small tribe of humans aboard each one. Dressed in blue, like Ka-th-rin was today."

"Is bad," Dale said when Lyra stopped speaking. "Is maybe bad," he corrected. "Is like . . . when Lyra came then, twelve." He pointed toward the door.

Doors? Twelve doors? She shrugged. "Not know."

"Has. . . ." His voice trailed off and he took a fresh piece of parchment, and quickly sketched out a pointed shaft. Below it, he drew the same thing, but broken in the middle.

Spear, Lyra thought. The guard! Twelve guards. Broken spear, unbroken spear. "He's drawing one of the peace symbols," Lyra told Fancy Pants. "The broken spear means peace, the unbroken one means war."

"Is this, maybe this." Dale pointed to the two spear-drawings in turn. "Dale not know. They have gun, they have radio, can make words to radio, more is go here. Dale think Lyra is home, then Dale make words with—" he pointed to the figures in the drawing— "after.

"He didn't know if they were hostile or not, so he thought it would be safest if I were to return, and he would learn their intent on his own," Lyra translated.

Fancy Pants raised an eyebrow. "How would he not know? If they're Royal Guards, who would disobey them? They serve the Princess . . . what manner of pony would defy them?"

"They could make a mistake," Lyra reminded him.

"I don't think that's relevant."

"And yet here we are," Lyra said, turning back to Dale and nodding for him to continue.

"Dale tell Lyra run," he said, and showed a drawing of her running across a pair of squiggly lines to a cluster of half-timbered houses. "Lyra run home. But Kathrine there." He pointed to the drawing. "Kathrine have gun. Dale think Katherine hurt Lyra, so Dale stop Katherine. Dale run." His shoulders slumped. "Dale not run enough. Katherine use taser."

He revealed another drawing. It showed a stick figure with a hat, holding out a weapon. Small lightning bolts were coming out of the weapon, and traveling towards the second figure, who was lying on its back, with birds circling over its head.

Below it, he had drawn a similar picture, only this time there was a small ball moving from the weapon, and the figure on the ground had exes over its eyes. "This, not this," Dale explained, pointing first to the top picture and then the bottom. "Dale not know, but not matter. Lyra must run home. Not safe."

"A lightning spell in a wand—or maybe a machine that makes lightning," Lyra mumbled. "Clever." She looked down at her side, at a small patch of missing hair. "And that must be where it struck. Overly potent, but weapons often are—no point in making a wand that doesn't always work." She turned to Fancy Pants. "The mare—Ka-th-rin—has a weapon which shoots invisible lightning bolts to disrupt spells. Dale tried to stop her."

"He keeps mentioning a gun. What's that?"

"I'll show you," Lyra said. She opened a drawer and pulled out Kate's sidearm, levitating it over the table. She didn't notice how warily Dale was watching it, or how he relaxed when she turned its profile towards him, allowing him to clearly see that the slide was racked back and the chamber was empty. "This is a gun. It is filled with small pellets, which come out the end, here. Kind of like a miniature cannon. If a pellet hits you in the right place, you die."

The stallion looked at it cautiously. He didn't sense any kind of magic to it, so it was simply a machine. It was probably more advanced than the guards' spears, but seemed less useful: certainly, it wasn't much to look at, so would hardly be a visual deterrent. "May I examine it?" he asked.

Lyra shrugged and set it down on the table in front of him. Fancy Pants reached out a hoof and picked it up. It was heavier than he'd expected, so it could also be used as a club. It was quite intricate; a lot of thought and craftsmanship had gone into its design. Such an object would probably be quite rare—only elite guards would be likely to have them. He wondered if he could get permission to make copies. Once Dale became a public figure, ponies would be clamoring to get their hooves on anything uniquely . . . Dale. Copies of a gun would probably fetch a good price in Canterlot. He could commission metal ones for the well-off, and cheaper painted wooden ones for ponies who didn't want to spend as much.

You're beginning to think like Filthy Rich.  He set the gun back on the table, and focused back on the task at hoof. Maybe later, once Lyra had walked out of the courtroom doors a free mare, maybe then he'd work on marketing human artifacts. Now, it was too soon.

He noticed that Dale relaxed after Lyra closed the gun back in the drawer. Perhaps they shouldn't have been moving it around so freely—after all, Dale would have reason to fear such a thing. "What happened next?" he asked Lyra.

She turned to Dale, who revealed the final drawing. Lyra was lying on the ground on one side of the page, while he and the girl were on the other, their arms wrapped around each other. Dale pointed to the picture. "Dale is stop Kate, but too late. Lyra is hurt. Dale not soon enough. Dale make mistake."

"It's not your fault!" Lyra nuzzled Dale's side, eliciting a surprised squawk before he wrapped his arm around her head and pulled her close and buried his head in her mane. A moment later he released her.

"I sorry. Dale sorry."

"It's okay," she reassured him.

Fancy Pants watched the pair. For a moment, when Dale had grabbed Lyra, he'd thought he was about to do something . . . predatory, but it had just turned into a hug. He considered how he might use that. Ponies were wary of creatures who were bigger than them, so that was one angle he could play.  Everypony knew bedtime stories of a monster who had a change of heart and saved a poor lost foal. On the other hoof, Dale was clearly capable of becoming emotional; that might also work in their favor. As long as he could make Princess Luna believe that Dale or the girl had been the cause of whatever went wrong, Lyra would be home free. He smiled—that was the angle to play. Dale or the girl had made the spell fail in an unexpected manner, one which Lyra could not have anticipated. It might be a blessing that there had been no other witnesses, for who could say that was not what had occurred?

A moment later, he frowned, imagining what the prosecution's rebuttal would be.

"Let me ask you a few more questions," he told Lyra. "Then we'll be done for the night, and you can get ready for your big day tomorrow."

"My . . . oh, right, the embassy." Lyra's ears flattened. "Will I have to give a speech?"

Fancy Pants nodded. "I suggest wearing something nice, maybe do something with your mane. If you find yourself lacking in inspiration, you could speak with Rarity. She has a clothing shop in town, and a very good eye for fashion. Fleur has a few of her dresses—she and I have been fans of her style since we met Rarity in Canterlot."

"Yes, I know her," Lyra said. "I have a couple of her dresses myself."

"Excellent! That will be just the thing." He picked up his pen again. "Lyra, are you now, or have you been during any of your trips to visit Dale's home, receptive to a stallion?"

"Are you asking if I'm in estrus?" Lyra's face reddened.

"Yes."

"No! What kind of question is that to ask?"

"I would like to ask one of the nurses to verify," he said.

"Fine, let her," Lyra spat. "It won't change the truth."

Fancy Pants nodded. "Has Dale promised you anything at all? Wealth, property?"

"No. What kind of questions are these?"

"Why did you volunteer to go back to see Dale a second and third time? Why not somepony who is more qualified?"

"Because I'd already approached him once. We all agreed that he would be uncomfortable if another pony were to arrive in my stead."

"Who made that suggestion?"

"Twilight Sparkle, I think. We were talking about it, and I'd expected that Princess Celestia would ask her to go, but that night she asked me."

"Has Dale made any advances toward you?"

"What? No . . . I don't think so."

"And have you made any towards him?"

"Of course not!" Lyra's face flushed. "It—I don't. . . ." She turned towards Dale, who was glaring at Fancy Pants. He saw her looking and put a reassuring hand on her head, resting his palm just behind her ears.

"I see." Fancy Pants began gathering his notes. "I believe I have an understanding of how I shall defend you. I look forward to your speech tomorrow, and I will see you at the embassy afterward. If you have any further thoughts about the matter of the trial, I will of course be more than happy to discuss them with you.

“Should we not have a chance to talk again before the trial, I would like to offer a few more bits of advice.  Stick to yes or no answers—don’t volunteer information.  If you feel a point needs to be clarified, we will have a chance later, after the prosecutor has finished.  Try not to get angry; if you do, he’s sure to use it against you.  Watch out for him making a leading statement.  If he does not ask a question, you do not have to answer, no matter how inflammatory his remark may be.” He looked at Dale, who was examining the felt-tip pen again. "You can tell him that he may keep the pen if he desires—I have more. Good evening, Miss Heartstrings."


•        •        •


Once the stallion had left the room, Lyra let out a long breath and leaned into Dale. She'd felt like she’d been under a microscope the whole time Fancy Pants was questioning her, and it hadn't helped that he'd left her worried about tomorrow and worried about the trial. She should have realized she was going to have to give a speech—it was so obvious; a pony didn't just get a position like this without thanking everypony and shaking a few hooves.

She'd have to get to the spa first thing in the morning. Tonight, she'd have to pick out a formal dress, even though she'd be more comfortable without.

"Lyra happy/sad?" Dale asked, his hand stroking her mane.

She nodded. Happy/sad was a good way to put it.

"Lyra meet Ponyville tomorrow. Dale meet Ponyville tomorrow." She sighed. "Then Dale go new home. Dale not here after, Dale is go new home. Soon, Ka-th-rin new home also. With Dale."

He nodded absently, before covering a yawn. "Dale is tired," he told her.

"Lyra is tired also." She considered for a moment just laying her head on the table and falling asleep under his hand, but knew that if she did, he'd get no sleep . . . and she'd pay with a stiff neck in the morning, if she got any rest herself. "Now Lyra is go Lyra home, Dale is go Dale home."





Dale groaned as he felt his shoulder being prodded. He cracked open his eyes to see the stern visage of one of the door guards.

He practically bolted out of bed—the guards had never touched him before, nor had they made any real attempt to communicate beyond the occasional pointing. He immediately began to consider what might have gone wrong during the night; the first, and most obvious conclusion, was that Kate had taken a turn for the worse. He fumbled for his glasses and looked over at her bed, expecting to see that she was gone, or covered by a sheet. However, she was still there, and there was still a trace running across the monitor. A slow rise and fall of her chest confirmed that she was still breathing.

His next thought was that something had happened to Lyra. After all, she had been his nearly constant companion, but she wasn't here now. He was trying to organize his jumble of thoughts into enough command of the language to ask the guard, when he was handed a piece of paper with a simple drawing on it: it showed him in a bathtub.

I took a bath yesterday, he thought. Isn't that good enough? But they might have more demanding expectations of hygiene, and a refusal would make him seem like a petulant child.  Furthermore, if it was that important, and he refused, there was every possibility that the guard or the nurses would hold him down and bathe him against his will—if the somewhat common sniffing behavior he'd noticed was an indicator, they might be very sensitive to body odor.

Yet, if that was the case—if they relied on scent for identification—why would they want him to mask his scent with soap? Unless it bothered them for some reason. Lyra had indicated—at least he thought—that his smell wasn't bad, just different. Still, she might have been more accepting than some of the other ponies. She'd have to be, to be making contact with alien species.

Dale kicked his legs out of bed and stood up. He grabbed his pants and pulled them on, then followed the guard out the door. As he entered the hallway he remembered he should probably have grabbed the rest of his clothes, but it was too late for that now.

The bathroom was nearly deserted when Dale arrived: Redheart was in front of the makeup desk adjusting her cap. She smiled broadly when she saw him enter the room, and when she stepped away from the vanity, he thought she was going to come over and do an examination of him right there. Instead, she nodded politely as she passed him and continued out the door, undoubtedly getting a start to her rounds.

I'm apparently cured, Dale thought. He looked at the nurse as the door swung shut and then back at the guard, and chuckled. Being cured meant that his nurse had been replaced by a taciturn guard . . . maybe he could convince them that he was still in pain, and get the nurse to wait on him again.

That plan was likely to backfire, though. The nurses probably had effective ways of dealing with malingerers, and it would be best if he didn't discover what that method was. He moved over into the small changing area, his guard following him. Dale grabbed a towel and headed over to the bathtub; the guard stayed put. Was he briefed, or was he the same one who was here before?

Dale started the water, twisting the knobs to until the temperature was satisfactory, and then went to the soap cabinet to get his bathing supplies. He set them beside the tub where he could easily reach them, then went over to the mirror while the tub continued to fill. He hadn't looked at himself in a mirror in . . . well, it was hard to say how long it had been.

He looked terrible. It was just as well he hadn't known how terrible he looked, because he would have been tempted to have Lyra find him a paper bag that he could wear over his head.

His face was an unnatural pink, no doubt the result of the flash burns he'd received. There were dark patches under his bloodshot eyes, and when he grinned it looked like the face of a corpse. For a moment, his eyes were drawn to the jars of beauty supplies scattered across the desk, and he wondered if any of them would improve things. Could he really go in front of a bunch of ponies looking like this? True, they wouldn't know it was abnormal, but that made it even worse. What if they thought all men looked like he did? Granted, he was no George Clooney, but he normally looked human, at least.

Dale dragged his eyes away from the mirror and went over to the bathtub. At least I can smell nice for them, he thought as he undressed. He folded his clothes and set them on the floor close to the tub before climbing into the warm water.

He bathed as quickly as he could—his right shoulder was beginning to feel normal again, with only a dull, easily ignorable pain when he moved it. As he was rinsing off the soap, he glanced over at the showers, wishing that they were taller. He could have been in and out in five minutes if he hadn't had to fool around with filling the bathtub.

A flash of movement caught his eye, and he looked out the window. It was still fairly dark outside, and he couldn't see anything, so Dale finished rinsing himself off and hoisted himself out of the bath. Naturally, he'd forgotten to bring the towel next to the tub, so he had to walk all the way over to the cabinet that contained the soaps to get it. He moved slowly; the tile floor wasn't anti-skid. Four legs and a short stance made it all right for ponies, he figured, but a little risky for a human.

As he was drying himself off, he thought he saw a pink blur at the window; again, by the time he managed to get a good look, it was gone. If it had even been there to begin with.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and went to pick up his clothes, which were still lying by the bathtub. He ran his hand across the stubble on his chin, and looked over at the vanity. If there was a razor there, I'd shave. But of course there wasn't; what use would a pony have for a razor?  But what about that stallion from yesterday?  He had a moustache . . . even if it’s a hairpiece, this is a hospital.  They can’t do surgery without shaving the area first, I don’t think.  The wound would get contaminated, so there must be razors or clippers somewhere in the hospital.  Maybe when I have time I’ll see if I can borrow one.

Looking at the mirror gave him an idea, though. He casually moved around the room with his back to the outside wall until he could clearly see the window reflected in the mirror. Dale stepped into his pants and pulled them up to his waist—under his towel—all the while keeping a close look on the mirror. As he leaned over to pick up his shirt, he'd begun to think that he was wasting his time, but then he noticed a pink muzzle slowly moving into view, and a half-opened eye above it. He almost laughed; it was like watching a puppy try and be sneaky.

He lost sight of her when he pulled the hospital johnny over his head, but when the fabric cleared his vision, he saw that she was still there, her eye now fully open. If she'd stayed back a few dozen feet, I'd have never seen her, and she could have watched as long as she wanted, he thought. For a moment, a feeling of agoraphobia washed over him—what if there were other ponies further back? What if there were hundreds? He shook his head. That was unlikely; he'd noticed that there were more guards now, and they'd probably move to disperse a crowd. If she really was the gardener, they would have let her through.

Since he was clean and dressed, he picked his towel off the floor, looking in the mirror one more time for the pink pony, who was now gone.  He walked back to the storage area, where the guard was still waiting patiently, his face a mask of detached professionalism. Dale nodded at him, and the guard led him out of the bathing room.

The route was becoming familiar to Dale. He followed the guard to the conference room and pushed open the door. There were two nurses and the doctor at the table, and he saw a flash of grey as something dove under the table. Since there was a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of a vacant seat beside Nurse Redheart, he surmised that the grey blur he'd spotted was the foal who the nurse had brought to see him yesterday.

"Hello," he said uncertainly. "Good afternoon."

The pink nurse and the doctor looked at each other; Redheart smiled broadly. "Not afternoon," she told him gently. "Good morning."

"Morning," he repeated.

She motioned to the table, and then to the breakfast. "Okay." Then she leaned under the table and began speaking sharply.

Dale took a seat across from the group of ponies—there was no need to alarm the little one needlessly—and grabbed a bowl. It was a let-down from his last two breakfasts, but more along the lines of what he'd have made for himself at home. He scooped a ladleful of oatmeal into his bowl, pretending not to notice the teeth-marks in the wooden handle.

As he ate, the grey foal finally reappeared and resumed eating its breakfast, but it kept regarding him with suspicious looks, occasionally looking towards Redheart, as if to get assurance that she was still there.

Once it had finished its oatmeal, it leaned over and nuzzled Redheart's side. She turned and bowed her head down, nuzzling its forehead gently before speaking what he imagined were inspirational words. It nodded and kissed Redheart in the cheek. As it climbed off the chair, Dale noticed that it was wearing little saddlebags, and suddenly realized it would be heading off to school. That would be something to see; a whole school full of little foals.

It stopped by the other two ponies, kissing the doctor and the pink nurse in turn, before it headed out the door, blithely ignoring the guard.

Dale scraped his bowl clean and pushed it away—he hadn't learned how to say he was done eating—which got the doctor's attention. He got up and came around the table the long way; while Dale was watching him, Redheart sneaked up behind him.

A moment later, the doctor had a clipboard floating beside his head, and the nurse had her hoof stuck up Dale's shirt. He made a token protest, but he knew when he was outclassed. He let them finish their examination, which fortunately was quick and cursory. The doctor set the clipboard back down on the table with an expression that spoke volumes: Dale was cured.

Redheart trotted out of the room cheerfully, followed shortly after by the pink nurse. The doctor levitated all the bowls off the table and placed them on the counter, then poured himself a mug of coffee.  He dropped a couple of sugarcubes into it, then opened a hatch in the counter and pulled out a glass carafe of milk, which he added to his drink before putting a tongue depressor in the cup as a stir-stick.

He looked at Dale thoughtfully, and then handed Dale a mug, too, before returning to his seat.  Dale got up to get some milk for his own coffee, but paused when he noticed that there were two hatches side-by-side on the countertop.  Puzzled, he opened the one on his left first, revealing a large block of ice.  He closed the lid and opened the other, where the milk resided, along with several earthenware jars of jelly.  I haven’t seen an honest-to-goodness icebox in decades, he thought as he poured the milk into his mug.

The doctor turned his head and floated a newspaper over, holding it in front of his face while taking occasional sips of his coffee. Dale looked at him thoughtfully—if he ignored the glowing green field around the newspaper, it was very much like being in the break room at the machine shop. Cleaner, yes, and there weren't any pinup calendars on the wall, but otherwise very similar.

I want to see a machine shop or factory or something like that, he thought. Someplace where I can really get my head around how it works and what everything does. He savored his coffee, forgetting for the moment that soon enough he was going to be paraded in front of the town. Instead, he wondered what the guard's reaction would be if he offered him a cup of coffee, and he wondered if the ponies had invented pinup calendars, and if they had, what they might look like.

Reality came crashing back with a vengeance, as it always does. The white unicorn who'd fixed his clothes—Rarity—came in, accompanied by a blue stallion who was dragging a large trunk. At the sight of the musical notes on his hip, Dale swallowed a lump in his throat—was he going to have to sing? But Rarity spoke to him and put a hoof on his back, and he promptly departed with a smile on his face.

As soon as she turned back towards him, he spotted the eager look in her eyes, and a sense of foreboding fell over him. No longer was Lyra around to help defend his personal space, and unless the guard was willing to intercede on his behalf, she'd have unfettered access to his person.

She began by scrutinizing his face, moving around to consider it from different angles. Every now and then she'd tap a hoof on the ground nervously, or close her eyes for a few seconds. Finally, her face lit up and she opened the box.

A moment later, the table around Dale was littered with bottles and jars in a pattern not unlike the vanity in the bathroom. When Rarity slipped on a red-framed pair of pince-nez glasses and picked up an applicator, Dale cringed.

You were considering putting on makeup when you were in the bathroom, he reminded himself. Because you look so bad. You're about to make a first impression on a bunch of ponies, so you want to look good. You want them to think well of you, not that you've got one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. If you have to suffer through a few minutes of makeup, it'll be worth it in the end. She’s got a permed mane and tail, and eyeshadow, too, so she must know about makeup She fixed your clothes, and did a fine job of it; you can let her fix your face. You've survived worse things.

He flinched as the applicator touched his cheek—the foundation was cold. Rarity gave him a stern look over her glasses and tried again.

As she worked, he did his best to ignore the implements flying around his face. It seemed a lifetime ago that he'd first seen Lyra lift something, and now he was allowing a stranger to paint his face, which just went to show how quickly a person could adapt to a strange situation. Ever since he'd seen the doctor threading needles with an aura, he had a lot more confidence in the precision of their fields, which meant that as long as he could override his body's natural instinct to shy away from the shimmering blue eyeliner brush, he would probably be fine.

It felt like she was working for an eternity, but it couldn't have been more than a quarter hour before she was done, and stood back to admire her handiwork. She darted back in, made a couple of corrections, and moved back again, scrutinizing his face. Dale wondered if he'd get any say in the finished product—or if he'd even be allowed to see it. So far, she'd failed to produce a mirror.

She went to the trunk again and proudly pulled out a bundle of maroon fabric. As she moved it to him, she let it slowly unfold. She held it in the air in front of him, letting him get a good view of it, but he'd already seen enough. The heavy fabric reminded him of movie theatre curtains, and the shape was unmistakably a toga. Dale groaned inwardly—she'd undoubtedly drawn some false conclusions from makeshift bedsheet toga, and gone and sewed him a proper one. He'd been planning on wearing just jeans and the new shirt she'd made, but the look of expectation on her face was too much to refuse.

Well, they say that when in Rome, do as the Romans do, Dale thought. And what's more Roman than a toga? All the senators and emperors wore them, if the movies were to be believed.

There was a line of decorative trim on one end; if Rarity was holding it like it was meant to be worn, that was the bottom. He pulled it over his head and wormed his way through it, expecting to find a head-hole, but instead the whole tube was the same diameter, and taller than his body.  He held the top of it in puzzlement, until he noticed the large golden buttons on the inside.  Rarity watched him struggle to fold the top down and fasten the buttons with puzzlement.  She probably thinks I wear these all the time . . . no wonder she’s confused that I can’t figure it out.

Once he’d gotten it buttoned, it made more sense: the top part draped over the bottom, giving the upper part a more voluminous appearance.  It was still too long, though.  He pulled up at the bottom, trying to figure out if there were any more attachments, when he noticed that she was pointing to a belt on his bed.  He grinned and grabbed it, cinching it around his waist, just above his hips.  When he pulled the fabric above the belt, it gave him good freedom of movement.

It actually looks pretty good, he thought with wonder. The overall color, while not his first choice, spoke of wealth and sophistication without being pretentious. Had togas still been in fashion, this would have been a perfect outfit for a church service or even a wedding.

Rarity was looking at him hopefully, so he smiled at her. "Dale happy," he told her, scrambling to remember more useful words in their language. "Thank you, Rarity," he said.  He briefly considered hugging her, or putting his hand on her shoulder like she’d done with the stallion, but Lyra had said something about that.

She beamed at him and reached into her trunk again. Dale hoped that she would bring out a pair of shoes; instead, her aura was carrying a small furry mass.

Dale moved back, memories of a dead woodchuck coming to the fore. He thought he'd made himself perfectly clear about that, and Lyra had probably set the yellow pony straight. There hadn't been any repeats, at least.

But this wasn't a dead animal. Rarity straightened it out and fluffed it up, and he realized it was a hairpiece. She set it on top of his head, and started tweaking it to straighten it. Dale winced—it felt like a dentist's drill running wild across his scalp. Rarity stopped what she was doing, and the feeling vanished instantly.

How come I didn't feel that when she was putting on the makeup? But that was obvious—the business end of the brushes and pads hadn't been covered in the blue glow. The unicorn made a displeased humph and looked at the wig critically. Dale reached up and began adjusting it, a process made simpler when she finally produced a mirror from the trunk.

He stopped working on his hair long enough to admire himself in the mirror. While he still wasn't any more handsome than he had been before, he at least looked respectable and non-threatening. True, she'd managed to soften his face enough that he looked slightly feminine, and the hair on the wig was longer than anything he'd ever sported—even back in the sixties, he'd never felt the need to grow his hair out like a hippie.  Still, his mom had always told him that beggars can’t be choosers. His grandmother had had similar advice, although it was slightly more colorful.

"Thank you, Rarity," he told her again.


•        •        •


Once Rarity had gone, Dale was left to his own devices. He was sure his guard was still outside the door, but he didn't feel the need to bother the stallion. He paced around the room nervously, wondering how soon Lyra would show up, and how soon he'd have to go out and meet everyone. On top of that, his scalp itched, but he didn't want to mess up his wig. He was sure that Rarity was going to be among the crowd of ponies welcoming him, and the last thing he wanted to do was annoy her by mussing up his outfit.

The door opened to admit four guards. One of them, Dale was certain, was the one who'd been stationed at the door, although he was impossible to positively identify. Two of them stopped just inside the doorway, while the other duo came towards him.

The one on the left looked up at him and pointed out the door. Dale swallowed and nodded. Why isn't Lyra here yet? It had to be getting pretty late, although the drawings Twilight had shown him yesterday hadn't given a timeframe for him to depart. It was slightly worrisome that his guard contingent had been beefed up: assuming that the door to their hospital room was still guarded, that meant that there were at least three new guards now, and a guess at how the military mind worked made it pretty certain to Dale that there were in fact more than three new guards; there were probably over a dozen.

I'm sure Twilight had this all arranged, he thought. They wouldn't do anything without her orders, and she's fairly trustworthy, I hope. She can't be mad that I looked at her hoof, can she? That was a pretty petty thing to risk an incident over, and she could have not put it on the table like that if she was uncomfortable. He walked to the door; the two lead guards turned and filed out, with the remaining pair of guards keeping close to Dale's heels.

They led him to the stairs and marched up, but instead of going back to the second floor, they stopped at the first, where another pair of guards were waiting. One of them held open the door, and the other passed through, well ahead of his group.

As soon as they got into the hallway, Dale saw the tail of the lead guard disappear around a bend, and realized that they were leapfrogging him somewhere. He wasn't entirely familiar with the process of bodyguarding, but got the impression that the first guard was making sure that the way was clear, the four guards were to protect him if somebody got past the first, and the final guard would keep a rear position, making certain nobody came up behind them. They weren't subtle, but if they had a good enough reputation, they wouldn't want to be.  That begged the question of what they were supposed to be protecting him from.

They marched him into the lobby, where the pink nurse was sitting at a desk. She gave him a friendly wave as he passed. Dale returned the gesture, his heart sitting a little more easy—if the guards had hostile intentions, they wouldn't have let her stay at the desk as a potential witness.

As soon as the front doors of the hospital opened, Dale snickered, rapidly masking his mirth with a fake cough. Sitting in front of the hospital was a beautiful carriage, with four of the guard ponies hooked to the front. Until that moment, Dale hadn't imagined that they would have even considered horse-drawn carriages, but obviously they had.

The door was open, and it would have been obvious to even a child what came next. Dale walked across the short-cropped grass in front of the hospital and ducked his head to climb into the carriage: while the hospital had been built with high ceilings, the carriage had not.

The inside was luxurious, with deep upholstered seats and brass brightwork. A pair of oil lamps were mounted in brackets on the wall, although they were not lit. The back window was closed off with a curtain, while the side windows had been left open.

Dale leaned back in the rear seat, stretching his legs out across the floor. He expected one or two of the guards to join him, but instead the door was closed, and the wagon suddenly jolted forward.

Outside the carriage, the other guards had fallen into formation, trotting along either side. Dale kept his face glued to the glass, watching as the hospital moved out of his view and the town began to become revealed.

He felt a slight jolt as the coach began descending a hill. They crossed a stone bridge over a small stream, and soon there were buildings on either side of the street.

All the ponies he saw had stopped whatever it was they were doing to watch the carriage go by, so it clearly wasn't a common sight. He would probably done the same if he'd seen a knot of police cars accompanying a limo.  And he still looked out the window whenever he heard the sirens of emergency vehicles, even if the days of trying to follow a fire truck on his bicycle were long behind him.

The buildings seemed very medieval; his earlier observations from the hospital were confirmed in that regard. The street wasn't paved; wasn't really a street, even, just an open swath of grass. That didn't seem like it would handle much traffic, but maybe this wasn’t a busy part of town.

Most of the buildings had Dutch doors and large windows on their ground floors. He saw a couple of ponies with their forelegs braced on the bottom half of the door, watching the procession go by with interest. They crossed by a narrow alleyway, and Dale found himself looking into the open entrance of a wagon shop, where two ponies were holding a board against the side of a flatbed wagon, while a third held a mallet in her mouth.

It's kind of like riding the train, he thought. I'm just passing through these ponies' workdays, and in a moment they'll go back to what they were doing, as if I were never there. He saw a mare look up from a small vegetable garden, while a stallion walking a dog paused as they went by. A second later, the absurdity of what he'd just seen registered, and he banged his head on the glass to get a second look, which was still unmistakably was a stallion with a leash in his teeth walking a dog.

The wagon lurched as it moved onto a cobblestones and went past a fountain. They turned and headed down another street, this one lined with stores on both sides. Dale was puzzling over what the sign over one shop meant when they came abreast of an outdoor cafe with tables shaped like mushrooms. It was nearly deserted, but for a deep red mare with a blonde mane and a bright yellow unicorn stallion with a light purple mane seated together at a table. They both looked up from their meal as he went by.

The procession passed through a collection of stores, until it finally came to a stop in front of a modest stone structure. One of the guards stationed himself by the door, but he made no move to open it. Dale guessed that he was waiting for instructions, and watched as one of the many guards detached himself from the group and walked towards the front door.

Dale couldn't see who was inside, but after a minute the guard walked back down the brick path and approached the carriage, then nodded at the pony who was standing there.

The door was swung open and Dale stepped out. This was nothing like the picture Twilight had drawn. Am I being Shanghaied? That didn't seem like the kind of thing they'd do . . . but, he would have thought the same about whatever brought him here. Lyra hadn't known, and he didn't, either. All the time they'd spent the night before going over drawings, and explaining what had happened on the beach for the benefit of the fancy white stallion, and there still didn’t seem to be an answer—or if there was, they weren’t sharing it with him.

Dale was bracketed by a pair of guards as he made his way down the path. The building reminded him of an English manor house, although on a much smaller scale. It had an air of nobility to it, and it was easy to imagine that some important pony lived here. I wonder if this is Twilight's house?

The wide front door still stood open, and for better or worse, it was large enough to admit Dale and his two guards simultaneously.

The room was spacious, and nearly devoid of furniture, although there were several marble busts of ponies on pedestals, and a large tapestry depicting a pair of white and blue winged unicorns chasing each other around a half-sun, half-moon.

In the center of the room, a light tan pony with a grey mane and tail was waiting for him. She wore a white collar and green cravat, and had a pair of half-glasses perched on her muzzle, and was obviously sizing him up. Finally, she nodded and extended a hoof.

Dale moved closer to her, squatted down, and extended a fist, pumping three times before pulling his hand back. She seemed a little surprised that he knew this gesture, but recovered her composure quickly.

She waved a hoof, before turning and walking down a hallway. Dale heard his guards shift and begin walking, so he followed her down the hall, glancing through open doors as he went by.

The first room he passed looked like a small sanctuary—there were rows of benches facing a podium, and a smaller version of the tapestry was hanging on the far wall. On the opposite side was an office of some sort. A stallion was leaning over a desk with a pencil in his mouth, busily scribbling away. He didn't even glance up as they passed.

They continued down the hallway, going by several more unoccupied offices and a bathroom before the tan pony opened a door and motioned for Dale to enter.

He broke out into a smile when he saw Lyra; she was standing next to one of the benches, and he could see why: she was wearing a dress. It was white with gold trim, which encircled her forelegs, swooped down her back in a saddle-like outline, and had a golden girth-strap, holding what he supposed would be the bodice on a normal dress in place around her belly.

She wore a thick golden torc around her neck with a blue- and yellow-striped tie in the center; under that was a golden lyre broach that matched the mark on her flank. Her hooves were covered in golden slippers, and her mane was tied back, with a golden comb holding the hair in place.

Her cheeks reddened, and Dale realized he'd been staring. "You look really pretty," he said by way of an explanation, remembering a moment later that she might not know all those words. "Lyra look . . . good-happy," he tried.

"Thank you," she said. "Dale sit?" She pointed to the bench next to her. "Dale sit here?" He nodded and moved beside her, remembering to pull his toga forward before he sat down, so that it wouldn't tug against his neck.

"Dale, Lyra wait here, then soon go meet Ponyville," she informed him. "Lyra make words, then Dale make words."

"Dale make words?" He shrugged. "Do I have a speechwriter?"

She gave him a confused look. "Lyra not know speechwriter."

"That's what I thought," he mumbled. "Not important. Dale will try make words." He reached out and gently touched the back of her neck. He felt the muscles in her neck tense for just a moment before they relaxed, and she took a half-step backwards to press herself more firmly against his hand—an unambiguous signal that the contact was welcome.

He began to hear voices that were carrying into the building. He felt Lyra shift under his hand, sidestepping until her cheek came into contact with his knee. I think she's as nervous as I am, he thought. That wasn't reassuring.

The door opened again, and Fancy Pants entered, followed by a slender unicorn who was a half-head taller than any one he'd seen before. The stallion stopped in his tracks, causing the unicorn to bump into his back. He didn't seem to notice; his gaze was locked on them. It took Dale but a moment to remember that his reaction yesterday had been the same when he'd touched Lyra's shoulder. It belatedly occurred to him that he was probably sending some kind of signal he probably shouldn't be, but Lyra didn't seem upset, and he was more concerned with her feelings than offending Fancy Pants.

The tall white unicorn came around his back and looked at the two of them, her eyes cold and appraising. It was the same look the tan pony had given him earlier; just like with the tan one, her expression softened quickly, and she chuckled.  She leaned over to the stallion and spoke; he replied while casting a surreptitious eye at Lyra, who gave no reaction other than a quick ear-flick.

The pair of them moved over to the benches opposite them. The stallion remained standing, while the mare climbed up on the seat and folded her legs under herself and watched him and Lyra with an amused smile on her face.