//------------------------------// // Chapter 3: Remembering the Past, Building the Future // Story: Improbable Truth // by Charon the Chronicler //------------------------------// I didn’t want to wake up. Waking up meant finding out whether or not the previous day was a nightmare, or a delusion. I didn’t want to wake up, but I already knew. My eyes were clenched closed, but I could feel a pair of wings on my sides, I couldn’t feel my fingers, and my tail twitched nervously. This can’t be happening. Not again. NOT AGAIN! I sighed and got up. Surprisingly, my ramshackle teepee survived the night. The previous day, I chose to ignore the sensations my mind made for my body, hoping it was just a nightmare. Figures I would be wrong. The ground felt muted underneath my hooves, and I could feel the air current bristle through my feathers. As I walked out of the tent, I smirked, remembering how to walk on all fours again. It was truly like riding a bike; once I had walked a few meters out of the hospital, it came back to me. Both left, both right, repeat. A habit I’d picked up by turning into a dragon in my first delusion. My smirk fell. How did dad see it as? He had to work two jobs while taking care of a crazy eighteen year old. Working hard in one job nobody wanted that exhausted him physically, and another he found mentally draining, only to come home to find me, eyes unfocused, arms flapping around, and babbling nonsense. Only the nonsense was dark and grating, and he watched as my personality changed from my delusions. From a happy teen, with little instances of violence and a misplaced sense of optimism, to a paranoid, cynical, wreck of a man. I may have been twenty, but those two years of delusion that only passed in six months had changed me. I think it was the stress that killed him. Or desperation. Tears finally began to run down my face. And for the first time in years, I sobbed, I cried, I wailed. The nightmare that I was stuck in for two god-damned years was repeating itself. Worse yet, I knew there were people around that I could hurt, but I couldn’t bring myself to find an asylum to protect them. Because that’s where I woke up. And I almost wished I had died from my disease. I may have been insane for six months, but I was stuck in that dreaded asylum, surrounded by condescending and ridiculing staff and others, even more insane than I, for four months. I had regained sanity after a month in, and was subsequently ignored, mocked, derided, and beaten, all for simply claiming reason, or just being in the sights of employees that were best avoided. It was only after a nurse had been caught experimenting on the patients she thought nobody would miss that an investigation revealed I was, at the time, lucid. They learned from her notes that, due to my unique condition, I was to be her next ‘volunteer’. I felt as if my return brought more pain to my father. He wasn’t scared of me, as my ‘potential’ employers would be. He was scared for me. My records were public, and it was nearly impossible for me to get a job, so I had to do things that people didn’t want to do. I may have been a cynic, but I knew to appreciate a stable job that paid well enough, despite how gross it may have been. I also knew he was scared that another episode might happen, because it may be more public. He never told me, but I knew. I suspected, but after a little digging, I had found the truth. I killed a man. Dad knew I got out of the house sometimes, no matter how much he tried to keep me home. I guess that explains all the dungeon escapes I made in the delusion. And one night, I came back covered in blood. Naturally, he was terrified, and he tried to placate the authorities. The deal with the judge was that my charges would be dropped, but I had to be sent to an asylum. They call them ‘mental facilities’, but it makes it seem like something it isn’t. When the asylum was disbanded due to corruption and negligence, after more effort on the part of the families of those wronged that was duly right, I was sent back to live with my father. He was so happy to see me, but I could see the guilt in his eyes. Life got harder from then on. Dad got laid off one of his jobs and I was taking night classes in biology, so very little time was left for sleep and ourselves, between work, school, and job hunting. Yet we held strong. We still had all of our meals together, and we still talked, we still laughed. We still remembered better days, but father was there for me, and I was there for him. Sometimes I had to force him to eat, claiming I wouldn’t eat if he didn’t. He tried it more as the holidays approached, but I wouldn’t let it happen. But somehow, he managed to scrounge up enough money for an e-reader with fifty books I hadn’t read yet. I fixed the car he got with mom, made it look as good as the day he bought it. The day they learned my mother was pregnant. When he saw the old girl shining in the Christmas morning dawn, he cried and embraced me. We visited her grave that day. My dad was happy for a time, but his health declined. It was harder for him to get up in the morning, and our bi-weekly jogs grew shorter and shorter. Dad was fifty, but his hair was already completely gray. Caring for a troubled child, just above the poverty line, was starting to wear him down. In spite of this, Dad refused to back down. He still came to our meals, he never slacked on his jobs, and he never, ever complained about his condition. A few months later, a cruiser found the red 1995 Ford wrapped around a telephone pole. And my rock, the only one I could ever trust, was gone. The doctors said it was painless, and the crash was probably from dozing off on the road. The autopsy also revealed he was missing a kidney. A kidney apparently worth one e-reader and forty-nine books that I’ve never read. The last was looked over because of the simple title; “Fatherhood”. But it was the author that caught my attention as I was flicking through my father’s before-last present to me. Fatherhood, by Amadeus Green. It was a biography, telling me how he met mother, how my birth was the greatest present she ever got the both of them. He joked that the car, the first ‘baby’ was jealous, and despite my grief, I chortled. He told me of his sorrow when Mom died, how he held me in his arms at her funeral. He told me how he got in a fistfight with three men, and won, because they said my mother was stupid for getting pregnant. He told me how proud he was of me, how my thirst for knowledge reminded him of his wife, and how my optimism reminded him of himself. He told me he admired me. Admired me. My father, my hero, admired me. He told me that, even though I had a rough start, he knew I would be important. I smiled wryly at that, but it still made me feel better. He told me he was proud to have a son who would not give up, regardless of the false friends he had, regardless of a debilitating condition that nobody else in the world had. That’s why he always got up, why he refused to give up. He told me how he wished he would see me grow up to become the man he knew I would be. He told me he didn’t have enough time. Whether it was the stress, the subpar job conditions, or even from being in contact with mom for long periods of time after work, Dad was going. He told me he would give his life for me. He told me about his life insurance, his last present to me. And my heart felt, once again, an ice cold hand grasp it. I couldn’t cry. Dad wouldn’t want me to. I sold the house and everything in it, save my books, our shared computer, and all of our pictures. I spent a portion on refurbishing the wreck so that I could drive away in our family car. I couldn’t continue my life there. Too much pain. Too many memories. I got another job in Washington, and continued my studies, narrowing into avian biology. I bought a small flat in a nice enough neighborhood, and I began to amass books. Every meal, every free moment, I would read. And my existence would continue. Wake up, jog five kilometers, eat and read, drive to work, eat and read, go to the next job, eat and read, night classes, sleep. Repeat. And when the walls were lined to the ceiling with books I’ve read, I turned to the internet for knowledge, for stories. And one day, as I walked across the street, I sneezed and I found myself in a tree. When I was done wallowing in self-pity, the sun was high in the sky and I could no longer cry. I still felt the weight of my troubles, but a bit of it had lifted. I walked out of my clearing and set out to the river. When I had arrived, I stared at my reflection for the first time. I took a deep breath, and staring into my reflection’s reddened hazel eyes, plunged my head in the water. The cool water rushed all around me, and I felt my burdens wash away. I will get through this. I will not cry again. Dad believed in me, and I trust him. I looked down at my reflection, and began to contemplate how I perceived myself. A dull turquoise coat covered my body, with lean musculature that seemed to translate from how I saw my human body. Daily jogs and a rigorous ̶ albeit smelly ̶ occupation contributed to a healthy body. A body that I deemed necessary to maintain. A flawed mind in a flawed body could only lead to failure. My mane was also similar to my own hair; messy, slightly curly pitch-black hair, inherited from my mother, with a lock of white that reminded me of a beam of moonlight in the night. A pair of ears poked through my mane, twitching about at the smallest sound. Hazel eyes, the only feature that I truly admired of myself, looked through the soggy mane clumped to my head. Different lighting revealed a change in colors, from green, to blue, to gray. But up close, one could see a dark blue ring surrounding a light green iris flaked with bright gold around the pupil, as if the ocean was reflecting an eclipse. I looked backwards ̶ I don’t know how I was flexible enough to do so ̶ and observed my wings. An extra set of limbs would take some getting used to. Again. Looking past them I saw my 'cutie mark'. An open book graced my buttocks, with a white quill overlapping it. I looked back at my wings. So strange, yet so elegant. I willed them to move, and jumped in surprise when they flared out. Sensitive…I moved them around, exploring the full range of motion. Oddly enough, they were as well muscled as the rest of my body. Maybe they are ‘translated’ from a set of muscles on my body. Maybe my hands? No, there’s a larger range of motion, though not as much dexterity. I gave an experimental flap, and felt myself rise off the ground slightly, and dropped after a second. I frowned. As expected, despite my wingspan, I can lift myself off the ground. Screw what I’ve learned about avian biology…I wonder if I’ve got air sacs for more efficient breathing at high altitudes. I gave another flap, and concentrated on my wings. At that, I noticed a flow of something. At each flap, it was dispelled through the air, holding me up longer than a single flap should. Upon further investigation, the flow seemed to come from my core, and did not stop at just my wings. It streamed throughout my body, but cascaded through my wings and flowed a bit less through my legs, and thus my hooves. I continued flapping, rising higher ever so slowly. I guess this is the pegasus magic that allows me to fly and push clouds around, huh? I snorted and rolled my eyes. Moving masses of condensation particles as if they were large cotton balls. Impossible. And that thought brought me to an important revelation. I stopped hovering above the ground and landed on all four hooves with a thump, feeling no pain from dropping two meters. That’s exactly what I am. But I think, therefore I am, so I am not impossible, but improbable. So was life coming about on Earth. Given enough time, it is possible, however improbable, that one can be transported to a universe almost exactly like one produced in fiction. VERY improbable. But never impossible. The universe cannot be defined by how huge it is. And theoretically, the multiverse is infinitely bigger. There are bound to be flaws. I looked down at my forelegs, bending them in ways my arms could not. I held a hoof up to my face and moved it about, testing what I could and couldn’t do. Now that I was conscious of them, I could feel them, although without the sensitivity human hands and feet had. It felt extremely dulled, like I had leather shoes on my hind legs and leather socks on my front hooves, with a somewhat stiff, but pliable sole. It felt real. Just as real as the rest of my waking life. But just as real as my life in delusion. Sensations and memories of such times could be manipulated, and I could never be sure of reality or falsehood. Improbable, yes. I grimaced as I clenched my hoof. And very unlikely compared to the chances that this is another delusion. I turned away from the river and headed back to my camp. I took one of the spare tarps and draped it across my back. It would help me carry the stones I needed. I had a long day of heavy lifting to do. <><><> The sun began to set on the horizon, and I lay in my teepee, satisfied with a job well done. I felt guilty about going to a nearby farm and nabbing a few carrots that lay on the outskirts, but I hadn’t eaten since my stay at the hospital. I would pay the owner, who I may see as Carrot Top, when I got the money. I hated being indebted to anybody. I looked at the trenches I had filled carefully with stones found in the river, carefully placing them together like puzzle pieces. They were halfway filled, and I had a pile of stones about as tall as I was and twice as large, but not enough to build the hut I planned. I pursed my lips. For me to get more good stones, I would need money, and I wasn’t sure my teepee built of garbage, foliage, hopes, and dreams would hold out until I found out where my employer lived. I watched the sun kiss the horizon and admired the variety of bright colors dancing across the sky, oranges clashing with blues of clouds, as the violet night began to overtake the heavens. And as one star slipped away, the other, more subtle ones, took its place. What I see is unlikely, improbable. But so am I. I saw the last of the sun’s rays dissipate as the night began to embrace the world, like a mother does to a child as she sings a lullaby. I smiled. It may be improbable, but it is still beautiful. And possible. So I have to act carefully, treading between accepting this insanity and denying the possibility that it is real. I closed my teepee and set myself down on my makeshift bed of mosses and cloth, noticing the earthy smell that pervaded the tent. So the best thing to do is avoid social contact, continue designating everyone/everypony by nicknames, and feign ignorance due to seclusion or my disorder. If there is something I interpret as dangerous, I should save myself, and if others are threatened, it would be best to help them out. If I end up helping the wrong person, I could fall back on my disorder, but it should ‘translate’ threats well enough. Should I feel particularly apathetic, I should seclude myself, because apathy may lead to a lack of care of others’ lives, which leads to psychopathy. Mention medical condition to all I see for extended periods of time. I smiled as I furrowed down in my cot. That should cover everything… And I drifted off, not into the realm of dreams, but of memories. <><><> It was the first day of high school for the teen. He walked through the hallways nervously, hoping that nobody would notice his odd hair. This hope was dashed as he noticed the strange looks from some of those he passed. He swore he heard someone mutter “Faggot”, but he chose to ignore it. He and his father had just moved into the state, and he expected some friction, but not to this extent. He settled down in his first class, dropping his bags by a desk near the front. The muscular student on his left sneered. “Sit somewhere else, freak.” “Lay off, Ed.” A young man said as he sat behind him. He turned to the newcomer. “Don’t mind him, he’s just a grouch.” He gave a toothy grin and held out his hand. “Name’s Benny Rogers.” “Windell Green,” said the student as he shook Benny’s hand. “If you don’t mind me asking-” he pointed to Windell’s hair “-what’s with the freaky hair?” “Contrary to what you might think, it’s not dyed. Just an odd genetic mutation.” Benny rose an eyebrow as more students settled down into their desks. “Neat” \/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/ Veronica and Windell had been going out for some time now. She was a bit raunchy, but he loved her nonetheless. They spent afternoons together, simply enjoying one another’s company, but Windell always saw a little glint in her eye, one of…hunger. He thought nothing of it, and thought it was simply another one of the things that made Veronica, well, Veronica. Benny’s circle of friends had welcomed him with open arms, from Glenda, a sparky girl with a temper as fiery as her red hair, to big Ferris, the portly, silent teenager. But all was not perfect. There was some unseen friction somewhere. Windell wondered why Roland was getting distant, why Scott stifled his laughter when he approached, why Jessica shifted nervously in his presence. Only Benny seemed to be truly at ease with Windell. Windell just assumed it was typical high school friend dynamics. <><><> It had been a week of filling the ditch with the remaining stones by day and lucid dreaming by night before my abode was mercilessly slaughtered. “You know,” I walked over to the writhing pile of sticks and tarp “I know I have a tendency to oversleep at times, but I don’t need somebody to come crashing into my tent to get me to realize that it's morning.” “GET IT OFF!” a muffled voice yelled “IT SMELLS SO BAD!” Sighing, I grabbed a corner with my mouth ̶ eugh, she’s right, maybe I should wash it ̶ and gave it a quick jerk, spinning the teepee tipper like a monkey in a centrifuge, and threw the remains behind the abode abolisher. Lo and behold, a familiar cyan face greeted me. Of course, her eyes were still spinning, but the prismatic mare managed to recognize me. “Hey! You’re that stallion I crashed into last week.” Rainbow shook her head violently to clear the stars from her vision. “Yeah, there seems to be a trend.” I looked over her withers to see the tattered remains of my teepee. “Thankfully, you only ‘viperized’ my home.” “Oh…” she looked backwards and rubbed the back of her head with a hoof. “Sorry about that. It’s just ̶ Aw, hay, I gotta get to Twilight! She’ll fix this curse!” She jumped…and proceeded to flap back into the ground. I guess upside-down wings aren’t that good for flying. As I watched the blue dot get smaller as it moved erratically towards the library, I couldn’t help but feel giddiness. I was going to meet my future boss soon. I prepared to follow the six mares I knew were going to go through the Everfree. I’m finally going to have an income! First, food, then debts, then materials for my home, and when all that is said and done, books! I skipped over to the knapsack I had prepared a few days prior. What was inside would be the equivalent of a resume. Now I sincerely hope the person my mind ‘translates’ as Zecora needs rare roots and plants. Else my ‘resume’ would be as impressive as the dirt I found it in. Following the girls was pretty easy. Satchel around my neck, I flew just above the canopy of the Everfree and below any inclement weather, following four mares blunder through the forest. As for my flying, I decided not to think too much about it, like whether or not I was actually wearing clothes. For all I knew, I was a naked, twenty-year old man, jumping from building to building, following four young women. Or I’m in the loony bin again, I thought grimly. ‘Flying’ was quite easy to grasp, consisting of mostly flapping in rotary motions while leaning forwards. I guess my ‘knowledge’ from turning into a flying reptile actually came in handy, but the ‘flow’ actually seems to provide considerable lift. I wonder if I could add more flow to my wings. The effort proved fruitless, and I maintained the same speed. Grunting in exasperation, I decided to go about the problem in a different manner. So I can’t push more flow into my wings. What if I redirect it? Concentrating, I searched my core for a way to change the flow. After a few minutes of simply flapping, following, and willing, the flow slowed down ever so slightly in my legs. Almost instantly, my legs felt a bit weaker, as if I had been holding something up for some time, and I felt my ‘flow’ output from my wings increase. My flaps dispersed more magic, and despite not changing my pacing, I sped up a bit. Interesting. Finally, the girls arrived and confronted Zecora. After bearing witness to their shenanigans, and watching them walk back to Ponyville for a bath that would restore them to their normal selves, I landed by the hut and waited. Don’t think about the fact that you may be seeing your employer as a naked man holding a bag full of plants and roots with a crazed look in his eyes. Don’t think about the fact that you may be seeing your employer as a naked man holding a bag full of plants and roots with a crazed look in his eyes…Crap, it sounds like I look like a drug dealer. Maybe Zecora is a drug dealer? As I was wondering the ethical implications of a crazy guy working for a drug lord, I failed to notice a zebra approach. I heard someone clear their throat, and I turned to see the maybe-drug-lord in question. “Hello young stallion! I hope you come as a friend rather than a ruffian.” Zecora gave a good natured smile. I stammered a bit and took off my satchel. “Hi, I know I may seem a bit off,” I gave a nervous grin, “But I need a job, and because of a mental condition, I need a more…secluded occupation, so when I heard about you, I thought that working for you might be a good way to earn money away from others.” I took some herbs out of the satchel. Watercress, stinging nettle, wild mint, elderberries, and all sorts of stuff Dad pointed out to me when we went camping. And not just plants I recognized. In the past week, I had taken morning jogs throughout the forest I lived in, carefully making note of the rarer and more exotic plants. Strange, twisted, yellow flowers that smelt of honey and mint, red brambles with vivid orange thorns, indigo fruits shaped like cubes, and a flower I recognized from the show, Heart’s Desire. “I know I’m not the most…stable… of pe-guys, and for some reason, I believe you will give me a job because I found these herbs, but I’m willing to get dirty for work.” Zecora walked over to my organized piles of herbs and roots, and seemed mildly impressed by quite a few. “You don’t have to worry about the plants I picked them from,” I continued “I left the roots and quite enough of them so that they may grow again.” The zebra nodded. “Although quite odd, it is obvious you are not a clod.” She picked up the indigo fruit and the red brambles. “These are all native to the Rambling Rock Forest to the north. Many useful ingredients have been brought forth. I admit I may need your aid, if I wish to continue my trade.” Zecora nodded, and gazed at my wings, “Additionally, with your wings, you can obtain many important things.” “So, I got the job?” “Of course!” Zecora smiled and nodded vigorously “I insist with force!” I returned her smile. “Should we discuss technicalities?” “You should visit every other day. It is the proper way. My income that is new, will make it easy to pay you. You will be rewarded fifteen bits per task, any questions you may now ask.” “Honestly, I have no idea how much this money is worth,” I admitted, “but I’m quite frugal. I just need money for food and lumber so I could build my house.” At this, Zecora’s eyes grew wider. “Surely you can buy a home, so you no longer have to roam?” “Sorry, no.” I shook my head. “I need seclusion for my mental well-being, and the well-being of others. Plus, I’m poor as dirt, so I can’t buy a house if I wanted, or pay to build one. Literally no money in my possession.” Zecora’s gaze softened. “I understand the need to be alone, and your plight, in part, is known.” She placed a hoof on my withers and stared into my eyes. If you need any help, even a bit, you need only ask for it.” She smiled warmly, then paused. “By my grandmother’s shame! I didn’t even ask your name. That is something I must inquire before I retire.” I held a hoof out. “The name’s Windell, boss. And since I’m a bit crazy, I’m going to be a bit forward and call you ‘Ze’, because my brain refuses to give me anybody’s real names.” Zecora raised an eyebrow, but shook my hoof nonetheless. “That is truly an odd affliction, but one that I cannot fix, or so says my intuition.” “Sad, but true. Should I see you tomorrow or the day after that?” “After-tomorrow will be fine, for the schedule of mine.” “Neat,” I beamed “I’ll see you then.”