As tired as I was, I couldn’t help but giggle each time Sombra gasped and brought a hoof up to his mouth. Each time he’d do so, he’d turn in my direction with both eyes wide and mouth wholly dropped. When I didn’t pay him any mind, he’d look back to the TV and tap his hooves together excitedly. For a pony that claimed he was hundreds of years old and made entirely out of nightmares and paper cuts, he sure could act like an elated little child when the mood struck him just right.
It would’ve been cute. Honestly, it would have. If what we’d been watching for the last ten hours hadn’t consisted mostly of blood, death, boobs, and midgets.
I flipped off the TV and placed both hands behind my head. “So what did you think? That was the whole first season of Game of Thrones.”
Sombra couldn’t keep his excitement contained as his face lit up in a grin. He placed two hooves to the sides of his face, Home Alone style. “I think that was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen in my life! So much death! So much blood! And betrayal and thrones and kings and kings vying for thrones!” He thought for a moment. “It would’ve been nice, perhaps, if we knew what the race of ponies over there were planning on doing, but otherwise I absolutely loved it.”
The pony looked so joyful, I almost thought he’d squee at any moment. I’m sure if he had, I’d never be able to shake off that misplaced guttural sound for the rest of my life.
I cocked a brow. “I’ve known you for about a day and I can safely say this is the nicest you’ve ever been. Was all that attempted face munching before just an act? Or do you just need to be buttered up before you stop being such a moody grump?”
Sombra’s smile faded as a fresh scowl took its place. He roughly coughed into a hoof and looked away from me. “I only liked what I saw, Steve. Every time someone died, I automatically replaced their face with yours to make it more fun. It also happened to remind me of my old home—castles and battles, crowns and thrones.”
“Don’t forget the nudity. That’s Game of Thrones selling point.”
Sombra climbed off the couch. “Naked Steves do little for me. In my kingdom, I was the only pony that wore clothes.”
I held up a finger. “Humans, Sombra. We’ve gone over this. My name is Steve, but I am not a Steve. I am a human. One of the greatest ever created, if someone might ask.”
“I highly doubt someone will inquire about that.”
Sombra stepped in front of the TV, lifting his chin and closing his eyes. “After careful consideration, Steve, I’ve decided to toss my name into the ring. That throne there looked wonderfully sharp and now I wish to sit on it. Permanently.”
I managed to suppress my giggles. “Come again?”
He crossed a leg over his chest. “I, King Sombra, proud ruler of the Crystal Empire, hereby put forth my name and title towards ownership of the Iron Throne. After watching most of those Steves—humans—bicker amongst themselves about who has the right to rule over that land, I’ve decided it should be me.”
I stared at him. “A pony. Sitting atop the Iron Throne and ruling over all seven kingdoms. I don’t think you’d have much luck. Plus, you have no ties to that throne.”
Sombra snorted. “Bah! I will simply kill all those that lay claim to it until none are left.”
“I think you’d have more luck being the dwarf character’s personal riding pony. Wouldn’t that be a match made in heaven? A pony that won’t shut up and a dwarf much the same.”
Sombra bared his teeth and narrowed his eyes at me. “This is no time for attempts at mockery, Steve! Don’t you understand how this could be beneficial to you, too? If I become king, you could be my—I don’t know—cupbearer! How does that sound? You already brought me some of that bubbly liquid today—”
“Pop.”
“—whatever. So now all you’d do is bring me wine. And bacon. And perhaps a mare every other night.”
“You’re not even part of a house, Sombra.” I held up a hand and started counting. “Stark. Bolton. Lannister. House Sombra? What would your slogan even be? No crumb left unclaimed?”
Sombra balked. “You want your carpets full of fried potato parts? I did you a favor picking those up with my tongue.”
“Chips.”
“Whatever.” Sombra paced along the hardwood. “So will you or will you not get me to Westeros to lay claim to the throne? I will ask only once. Otherwise, I will find it myself and when I claim this small land of yours, I will not hesitate to banish you beyond the wall for treason against your King.”
I chuckled underneath a hand. A part of me wanted to continue the game—make Sombra believe he had a chance of ruling a make-belief world—but the longer it went on, the more I knew the reveal would pain him. Also, the harder it would be to strip the idea from his mind.
I got up off the couch, wincing at the aches in my knees. “Sorry to break the news to you, but everything you just watched was fake. They were all actors reading off a script, based off the books of a sadomasochist. There’s no Iron Throne and there’s no Westeros, either, meaning there’s no king job up for grabs.”
Sombra’s ears flattened against his head and he looked down. “You’re not just saying that because you don’t want me to rule over you, are you?”
“Afraid not.”
“So that wasn’t real, what I saw?”
I shook my head. “No. Taped years ago and saved onto discs for all time.”
He sighed. “A throne made of iron would’ve been uncomfortable anyways.”
I eyed up the wall clock near the kitchen. It was already late and I had to work in the morning. But I also didn’t want to leave Sombra in the dumps after just popping his blood-thirsty fantasy bubble.
I flipped the TV back on. “You want to watch another episode, at least?”
Sombra answered this by uncontrollably wagging his tail.
***
Before I left for work on Monday morning, Sombra and I had ourselves a serious chat. This was to be the first time leaving him alone in the condo and I needed to find out what sort of ground we stood on. Thus far, I’d known him for only a day and a bit and he’d already tried to kill me. He knew my name was Steve (as much as he’d rather call me slave) and I knew his name was Sombra, sometimes with a “King” before it.
He was a talking pony. I was a talking Steve. Understandably, this left a lot I still didn’t know.
“What do you plan on doing?” I asked him, standing in the doorway with my bag slung over a shoulder.
Sombra raised a brow, sitting in front of the TV. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll view more of your image machine, or search for your hidden bacon supply.”
I shook my head. “No. I mean, you can’t stay in my house forever, so what do you plan on doing in the long run?”
He raised his chin. “Take over Equestria, obviously.”
“The place you came from? The place you were before you shot out, piping hot, right out of the toaster?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you plan on getting there again? I don’t even know how you got here to begin with, and I doubt it’s something that can be replicated with a series of toaster-slash-English muffin experiments.”
Sombra scratched the side of his face. “Umm. Maybe there’s a spell I could try, once my powers return to me.”
I shifted my bag’s weight to my other shoulder. “Got an ETA on that?”
“A what?”
“When do you think you’ll get your powers back?”
He sneered at me. “You’ll know it when you spontaneously combust.”
I was tempted to bop him on the snout. “I hope you’re kidding.”
“I never kid.”
My cat Mittens strolled between my legs and purred, so I reached down and ran a hand along his back.
Sombra’s lip curled on one side as he glared at my cat.
I sighed. “What’s your deal with Mittens? Do you have a cat phobia or something?”
Sombra looked from the cat to me. “It’s only your cat is so fat, it blocks my view of your window.” He nodded to the covered window behind me. “What is out there, Steve? Say I should leave, what should I expect to find out there?”
I smirked. “You really want to know?”
“Can’t be any worse than what’s in here.”
I held up a finger. “Inside this condo is one human and one human only. Beyond my front door is another seven billion of them. All more or less like me. A whole planet of them; Steves everywhere you look.”
Sombra gulped dryly. “They can’t all be as idiotic as you, can they?”
“Worse.” I knelt to the floor to whisper to him, cupping my mouth with a hand. “And some of them don’t even know they’re that stupid.” I smiled. “You can leave; believe me, I won’t stop you. But boy, oh boy, will you ever be a sight for eyes that may or may not be sore.”
Sombra took a step back. “What do you mean?”
“The police might try to catch you and put you down; a bunch of bratty children might try and pet you with fingers coated with sticky crap.”
His pupils shrunk and he held a hoof over his mouth. “But I hate sticky crap!”
I stood up and sighed. “Well, just letting you know what’s out there. Up to you what you wanna do. But like I told you last night, I gotta go to work. I’ll be back later, and there’s a plate of food in the kitchen. Just try and make it last all day, all right?”
Sombra chuckled. “Think I have no self control, Steve?”
“Nope.” I went to the entryway and stopped. “Also, don’t touch my cat. And don’t let him out, either. He loves bolting for the door when it’s open.” I glanced at the doorknob in my hand. “Then again, you might actually need fingers and a thumb to work this thing. How goes the re-adjustment to just hooves, Hairy Plotter?”
I laughed. Only to myself. The name was something I thought of last night and waited until morning to say.
My chuckles dried.
God. I’m actually preparing material ahead of time to make fun of my talking pony roommate. Where’s the closest assisted suicide clinic again?
Sombra lifted a leg to stare at. He mumbled, “The moment I have my powers back, you will know. So far, hooves leave a lot to be desired. Imagine balling your hands into fists and trying to properly use toilet paper.”
I opened the door. “No. That’s all right. Have a good one. Try not to choke and die. That might only help our situation here.”
Closing the door behind me, I let the morning sun wash over my face. It was nice to get away from him—even if that meant leaving him alone in my house. I made a mental note to spend that day’s lunch break searching online.
Just how much could I make off a talking pony? If I got him to shut his trap for a few minutes.
***
SURVIVOR’S JOURNAL: THIRD ENTRY
The human known as Steve has finally left me alone. I would like to believe it’s because he’s preparing to inform Twilight Sparkle of how my continued punishment moves forward, but alas, I’m beginning to suspect Steve is just a Steve and nothing more. Meaning…
Meaning that I’m not in Equestria anymore.
Meaning that I’ll need to find a way back to seek revenge.
Also meaning that Steve has kept me here for other reasons than orders from others.
This has me worried, but all that can wait for now. Today is the day I deal with a pest that has become increasingly annoying to me.
Mittens the cat paws at the door Steve just left from. He turns to me and comes over, eyeing me curiously. I display my fangs, but it does little to affect him. This cat is stupid like all cats—also like all things related to Steve.
I have never been much of an animal killer, but my control over my current residence and my control over Steve now rests upon the death of Mittens. Clearly, Steve receives joy from this creature, meaning that I must take that joy away from him—slowly rot him from the inside out until all that is left is a husk of a human, ready to do my bidding and aid me in my rightful return to Equestria.
Steve spends too much time with that cat, as is. Time much better spent with me.
Not that I actually want to spend time with him. No. No, Celestia, no. It’s only… it’s only what needs to be done in order to fully grasp just what goes on behind Steve’s clueless eyes. If I have any hope of taking control, it is what must be done.
I also don’t like it when he pets him. Why would anyone take pleasure in such stupidity? Maybe I should try it—no, scratch that out. Where was I? Oh, yes: Mittens.
In the living room, Mittens sits on the ground in front of me, head tilted to the side. He meows and I giggle in return. Then he walks past me while brushing into my side like he did with Steve.
Granted, it’s cute. But such dirty tactics will not save him today.
***
I go through my short list of ways to devour cat, finding few I truly like. Boiled. Sautéed. Diced. Minced. As a side dish. As an entrée. Raw and warm, blood fresh and hot. Baked. Breaded and deep fried with a lemon wedge on top.
My mouth waters, but these dishes are all out of my range. These were all meals my highly trained chefs were able to prepare for me in my Crystal Empire. Having never cared about how my food made its way to my plate, I honestly have little idea what I’m doing, as I stand atop Steve’s metal heating box.
I awkwardly twist a dial near the clock on top. With just two hooves it takes much longer than I like.
“Come on, damn you!”
I wait for something—anything—to tell me it’s working.
“Steve’s used this thing twice yesterday to make macaroni and now you’re telling me it won’t work?”
A searing pain erupts under my butt and I scream, looking down just long enough to find the metal coil underneath me turn a crimson red. I topple off the metal box and bang my head against the ground, tiny stars shooting across my vision.
I blow on my plot as best I can—which also means not very well.
I lay on the cool kitchen floor for some time, until the pain steadily slithers away. Mittens enters the kitchen and nuzzles his head against my cheek while I grumble about my poor burnt butt. Again, Mittens meows as if asking me a question. I shoot him daggers and pry myself up.
I decide to go with something easier.
***
I squeeze out the forth condiment onto his head and he blinks the mayonnaise out from his eyes. Once he’s properly coated, I place six slices of bread from the counter onto his back and attach them to the ones underneath his stomach using toothpicks. I even stab a pickle at the very top.
I stand back to admire my sloppily-made cat sandwich, who in turn turns to me with a bewildered expression and meows.
I nod in mock understanding. “You’re right. You do look delicious.”
As much as I might’ve wanted a toasted Mittens sandwich, my exploration of Steve’s oven contraption has left me uneasy. I’ve seen him use the smaller metal hot box often enough—the one with the numbers on its front and the one that goes bing! once its contents are warm enough—but there’s no way in Tartarus I’m lifting that fat cat up there.
So a cat sandwich on the floor it is.
I place a napkin on my lap; pour out a sizeable portion of chips onto the floor and fill a cup with some of Steve’s pop. It’s almost a meal fit for a King.
I bring Mittens off the floor in his bread-suit and nearly unhinge my jaw trying to open wide enough. Mittens turns and looks into the abyss known as my throat and meows again, tilting his head.
Annoyed, I close my mouth with a snap. “Aren’t you afraid of anything?”
He snuggles his face into my cheek.
I point a hoof at him. “Don’t think you can escape your fate by acting cute!”
He purrs, nudging further into me. My appetite shrinks.
I sigh and slump. “Well, I can’t let you stay, you know. Steve is mine and mine alone to break. No more cuddles between you two.”
I set my cat sandwich back on the floor and he shakes off his bread-suit. I grab the pickle and eat it, wincing when I forget about the toothpick.
I eat the rest of the chips spread on the ground and ponder.
“You’re getting soft,” I tell myself.
***
Eight-and-a-half hours later, Steve returns home. He throws his bag into the closet and calls for his cat. He doesn’t come. Mittens went out the door several hours ago and I made sure he didn’t come back. Once denied reentry, Mittens spun on his fat heels and strolled his fat ass in the opposite direction. With luck, towards an entity far worse than myself.
Steve sees me on the couch and stops. I’m coated head to tail in something red (watered down ketchup) and bits of fur rest on my lips and muzzle (a few strands of hair I clipped off Mittens’ back). I belch, to add to the scene, then stretch out on the sofa, rubbing at my belly.
“Good afternoon, sla—” is as far as I get before Steve’s hands close around my neck.
Even as I black out due to lack of oxygen, I can’t help but grin.
Steve and I are off to a great start, it seems.