I’d awoken that morning in an odd state. I was pretty sure something had been in my bed just a minute ago and after I’d been jostled awake, I found myself coughing on something smoky. Either I’d just miraculously saved myself from some painful face-munching by Sombra, or something even worse had just been going on.
I got out of bed and ran a hand through my hair, finding it soaked through. (This wasn’t all that bizarre, mind you; I’ve had a reoccurring dream where that happens.) When I stepped out into the hall, I almost impaled my foot on a pair of keys left on the floor. Further up the hall sat a half-dozen discarded, greasy wrappers from the closest fast food joint.
“What the hell?” I mumbled.
I hadn’t gone anywhere last night—hadn’t even gone to Burger Bonanza in the last week. So just what had happened here last night?
I went to the living room and found the front door open. Standing on the balcony, I spotted my car, parked at a slant with a brand new dent on the front bumper. It didn’t look as if I hit any other cars belonging to any other condo owners, though.
I went back inside and glared down at Sombra, snuggled up on the couch and snoozing peacefully. More discarded burger wrappers littered the coffee table and floor, amongst a small army of thrown-around fries.
Instantly, I could tell Sombra wasn’t actually asleep, but just pretending to be. I’d spent enough nights listening to his ragged snores to know when it was the real thing. Still, even knowing that, I didn’t feel like bothering him yet. Also, why did his face look so wet?
I really needed more sleep before I got to the bottom of all this.
SURVIVOR’S JOURNAL: FIFTH ENTRY
The mind is a fragile thing; soft and malleable, controlled by basic emotions and different chemicals within the body. If one is stressed, the mind and its accompanying thoughts can turn into a blur, whirling around ideas both bad and good in a desperate effort to elevate such stress. If one is happy and joyous, the mind can think clearly and push all negativity aside. If one is scared and afraid, they often do anything to get rid of such feelings.
Tonight, I want burgers. Several of them, in fact.
To get to said burgers, I must go through Steve. Use Steve as the simple tool he is. I could have asked him hours ago to fetch me my food, but I fear he would put up a fight over it. Money, time, gas, the fact that he hates my guts and everything that surrounds my guts and lets me continue to exist and annoy him—he’s used these excuses before to deny me what I want and I’m sure he’ll use them again.
I thought my rediscovered powers would grant me ownership over the human. It seems his spirit is not yet broken enough to submit defeat. Maybe I’ll ask him next week to sign over his soul.
I creep into his room in the darkness of the night. Each evening, he leaves me on the couch and barricades himself inside his bedroom, locking the door and blocking it with heavy furniture. With a mere thought, I turn into smoke and drift under the door, becoming whole once on the other side.
Steve sleeps a sleep without dreams.
I could kill him now—end both of our suffering—but, from experience, I’ve always compared physiological torture to that of a fine wine. The longer you let it sit, the greater the final product.
I direct my horn to him, giving it the faintest of glows. I open his mind and find a never-ending sea of black inside. Within this space, I place a cluster of unease and misery, a swirling vortex of paranoia and terror around a ball of fear that only wishes to grow and consume, to devour and drive the human to his knees.
Once I release the growing emotion inside his head, Steve turns to his side and whimpers, clutching at his covers. Now I only need to attach that fear to what I want—make it a life or death scenario.
Less than thirty seconds later, Steve leaps out of bed and we begin our journey.
***
“Holy shit! I need to eat six burgers in the next ten minutes or else I’ll die!”
I turn to Steve, one hoof covering the ear closest to him. I mentally make him lower his voice and stare out the large curved window in front of me. What flashed in Steve’s brain after grabbing his keys was the metal traveling device I currently sit in—something called a “car” or “vehicle.” As he pulls out of his condo’s parking lot, an image of fire and twisted heaps of metal enter my mind through Steve’s. I return a modicum amount of control back to him and he pulls a length of fabric across his chest and connects it into a slot with a click.
A “seatbelt.”
Since anything that’s good enough for a human should go doubly so for a pony, I grab my own seat’s “seatbelt” and do the same. Then I lean back and enjoy the ride.
Back in Steve’s bedroom, I turned the fear that I’d lodged into his cranium into a horrific notion—that Steve had been poisoned by something most foul and the only cure was the swift ingestion of burgers and fries and greasy bits of meat.
It’s been weeks since I ate my first burger. It hadn’t been meant for me, mind you, but when Steve left the couch to use the washroom, into my mouth the meaty morsel went and in my heart blossomed a memory not to be forgotten anytime soon.
Steve whips his head in my direction, the tips of his hair wet with sweat. “You think I should go to the hospital? They might have burgers there. Maybe they have a standby burger supply incase someone gets poisoned and needs them and—”
I silence him with my horn. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Steve. Your only hope now rests in the assured hands of those working the overnight shift at…” I take a moment to peruse inside his mind. “…Burger Bonanza, just as long as they have those burnt potato pieces, too. I’ll definitely be having some of those.”
I lick my lips. The thoughts of warm meat and salty potatoes was already causing me to salivate.
I tighten my hold on Steve, directing his attention to our destination. He presses his foot against a lever near the floor and our vehicle lunges forward. We weave in and out of oncoming cars; the blast of horns and the squeal of tires sounding off all around us.
Since we’d left the condo, I’d allowed Steve enough mental freewill to guide our vehicle himself. As he watches the dark road ahead, he barely blinks—hitching in small batches of air as another drop of sweat falls from his head. He really thinks he’s dying, doesn’t he?
I almost feel bad for him. That’s why he gets to eat some burgers, too. It’s only fair.
Steve spots a red-and-white building to the side of the road and his mind informs me that’s the place. I guide him to the side a little prematurely and our vehicle bumps into a piece of cement. I try to shrug it off. It’s been a long time since I’ve controlled someone mentally.
As we enter the “drive-thru,” Steve slows our speed and stops before a large box of metal with colorful pictures adorning every inch of it. Burgers and potato pieces and bowls full of lettuce are placed alongside a list of numbers. As I view over the massive selection of burgers, some with meat stacked on top of meat with bits of bacon barely held inside, I drool onto the floor and I find my thoughts hard to control. Without telling him to, Steve rolls down his window.
“I wasn’t ready for this,” I whisper, eyes zooming from one meaty creation to the next.
Do I want all of them or just several of one? Which one did Steve have that other day?
“… phppph…ph…phphpp….phhph…please…”
A voice speaks from inside the metal box. Metallic, barely comprehensible.
I remove my seatbelt to stand on the armrest, leaning over Steve.
Steve pushes me out of the way. “Hello in there! Oh, god, I need some burgers quick! I’ve been poisoned and—”
I put a hoof to his lips, silencing him. “Allow me, Steve. You’re in no state to be making such big and important decisions.”
“...did someone say they’ve been poisoned?” the metal box inquires.
I chuckle. “No. All is well. Ignore my foolish human here. We are after burgers. Many of them, if you’d be so kind.”
“You want, like… a meal? If so, which meal?”
I’m momentarily stumped. “The one with the most meat.”
“I’ll give you a number seven, then—the Meat-nificent Burger. You want fries with that?”
“You mean burnt potato wedges?”
The metal box is silent for a time. “It’s two in the morning and you’re asking questions like that? You’re stoned, aren’t you?”
I frown. “No. Not at the moment. My subjects tried to stone me once during a short revolution, but I saw to the end of that pretty fast.”
They sigh. “You want that super-sized?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means everything gets bigger—burger, fries, drink… stomach, love handles.”
I gasp. “Everything? Could I get more meat, too?”
“If you’re willing to pay for it, sure.”
What a fantastic world I’ve found myself in; talking metal contraptions that dispensed warm meat-filled meals with just a command.
“I also want twelve of those meals.”
“So was that a ‘yes’ on the being stoned part?”
***
I make Steve pull our vehicle to the side of the burger building, next to a sliding window. Before we left the talking metal box, they gave us a total cost and I searched through Steve’s mind to make sure we’d have the correct amount of funds. At the moment, Steve’s wallet is full of green bits of paper I’m informed will grant us access to burgers and most everything else on Earth.
As Steve gives over the money silently, I sense a pang of regret emanating off of him. In the blackened void known as Steve’s brain, the words “Grandma” and “birthday” spring forth. Perhaps that stack of papers in Steve’s wallet was supposed to go to them.
Too bad. Burgers trump whatever the hell “Grandmas” are any day.
A younger human far thinner than Steve hands us our bounty of food in four grease-stained bags, then looks up in wide-eyed alarm as he notices me in the passenger seat. He rubs at one eye and blinks repeatedly.
He places a hand on the edge of the window. “You sure you should be driving with that thing in the front?”
I chuckle deeply. “I wouldn’t worry too much about him. This human is well trained and very obedient.” I smirk. “Thanks for the meat, thin human! When I conquer all of Earth and enslave your race, I shall remember your quick and pleasant service. Good night!”
Steve puts the car in drive and we inch out of the drive-thru. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the thin burger-serving human turn around and shout to someone else.
“Mr. Ferguson! I’m going on a break! I’m seeing talking ponies over here!”
***
I find the art of human studying slow, but fun.
After departing Burger Bonanza, I instruct Steve to take us home as I unwrap my first burger and give it a tour of my gut in two sizeable bites. It causes my heart to lurch for a moment, so I pat my chest to get things moving again.
It seems my body has yet to adjust to such high doses of meat.
“Stop! Hold on! I want to see this!”
While chewing on some salty potato pieces, I spot a couple of human males sharing a brown paper bag between them. They both stand at the front of an alley, both with torn up pants and jackets in need of repair. The one closest to us looks more off balance than the other.
I roll down my window and watch them for a while. The stumbling one brings the bag to his lips and drinks from it, sighing contently. When he hands it back, he does a little dance and giggles.
I prop my head on a hoof. “Humans… fascinating. They’re all so very, very stupid.”
I turn to Steve, who’s still chewing on a large mouthful of “antidote” burger.
“What type of humans are those?”
He doesn’t even look in my direction. “Bums. Alcoholics. Homeless. Degenerates. Smelly.”
I nod. “I see.” I stick my head out the window to yell at them. “Hey! You smelly, homeless, alcoholic, degenerate bums! You want a fry?”
The one closer to us looks our way. “What did you just say to me?”
“I asked if you wanted a fry!”
I say to Steve, “You didn’t tell me they were deaf, too.”
When I turn back, the dirty human is standing right outside the car. Like the burger serving human, he rubs his palms into his eyes as he gives me a once over.
“Whoa. A pony. I didn’t think I was that far gone yet.”
I hover the box of fries towards him. “Fry?”
He shrugs. “Well, I haven’t turned down a talking pony yet, so I guess I’m not about to start.”
He takes two fries and I smack his hand with a hoof.
“I said fry, you imbecile! Not fries!”
He holds his wounded hand. “Man, you’re one mean little pony. Captain bringdown over here.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Try again. One fry.”
He takes one and eats it, closing his eyes. When he’s done, he holds his paper bag to me. “Want a sip, pony guy? I promise it’s the good stuff.”
“I think I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.” I sniff at the glass bottle in the bag. Whatever’s inside has a sharp, bitter quality. “Alcohol?”
The bum smiles brightly, neither pupil staring in the same direction. “The finest! Alley-made absinthe.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
He shakes the bottle. “And after you take a sip, you won’t have a clue what anything is anymore!”
I look to Steve, who even under my control shakes his head. Since so far I try to do the exact opposite of what he wants, I think it best if I drink from the smelly stranger’s bottle of unknown liquid.
This is a mistake.
***
I watch as Steve strolls along a street, the edges of the frame blurry and unfocused. He’s much shorter than usual—perhaps ten or twelve years old at most. This is a dream from his childhood. From what his mind is telling me, this is a dream he has quite often, as much as he’d wish he didn’t.
After conversing with the man with no home on the street, Steve and I returned to the condo and gorged ourselves on burgers and fries. Twice my heart told me to stop and twice I told my heart it better stop disobeying me and start loving the meat I was treating it to.
Burger gathering accomplished, I put Steve to bed and unhook him from the spark of fear I first instilled within him. He’s unconscious almost instantly and grabs at his covers. Curious if I’d find myself in his nightmares already, I pry him open a bit and take a look inside.
If my head wasn’t floating around in a shot of mystery alcohol, I might’ve rethought about my actions.
I don’t like what I find inside Steve’s dream.
Traveling alongside Steve’s child-sized counterpart is a large black dog, almost the size of me. He runs close to Steve and nudges into him until he hooks a hand around his head. From the touch, the dog lolls out his tongue and buries his head into Steve’s side.
I get a minor flashback to the evening Steve invited Mr. Roland over to the condo. To annoy Steve, I’d jumped up on his friend and he’d patted me in much the same way.
Inside Steve’s dream, he and his dog are halted on the sidewalk by another group of kids the same age. By the spike in fear I feel inside Steve’s head, I’m told these are not his friends.
Steve’s dog lowers to the ground and growls, baring his teeth.
Words are said between the two groups, but the dream only offers me visions, hazy as they are.
The dream leaps forward in time and Steve has a bloody lip and bruised cheek. His dog has his jaws clamped around another kid’s wrist, twisting it from side to side as specks of blood drip down his arm. As the other kids flee, Steve tries to pry his dog away. The only problem is the dog is much bigger than he is.
The dream goes black and just when I think it will not continue further, I’m given a sight of a young Steve, alone on a small bed inside his house. His face is stained with tears and he’s holding a picture to his chest. Inside his head are conflicting emotions—heated and pained, angry and sad.
A moment ago, Steve’s father had spoken to him, tried to explain what had happened and why it had to. Steve did not see it the same way his father had and now he hates him almost as much as the bullies that had attacked him and his dog.
I search through the vision and find Steve’s dog nowhere to be found.
I exit the dream and stand before Steve’s bed. Tears have escaped his eyes and he whimpers softly. Soon I find tears of my own on my face and hurriedly remove them.
I wouldn’t include this next portion into my journal, but since I highly doubt anyone besides me will even read it, I’ll include it anyways.
After thoroughly checking the living room, washroom, outside steps, parking lot, storage room, and scan the condo for both extra humans or ponies or spirits from beyond the grave, I climb atop Steve’s bed and lay down next to him. I use my horn to stick his hand on my head like Mr. Roland had before and find I can’t stop from tearing up again.
I hold little pity for Steve—his dream has not changed my mind about the human. It’s only being so swept away in the emotions of the evening that have caused me to act in such a pathetic way. Each emotion I’d forced into Steve, I’d also felt in return.
Fear.
Fear that I may never return to Equestria. Fear that when and if I do, I may not be able to regain control of what I’d lost. Fear that since my defeat, all respect I may have commanded had effortlessly been stripped from me. Fear that I may not be as powerful as I think I am.
Sorrow.
Sorrow that when I was thrown out of Equestria by the doings of six colorful mares, I had been thrown away because of hate. Burning, passionate hate. Ponies hated me. They loathed me, and for good reason. So why was it that I felt such sorrow now by that same overwhelming wave of hatred? Had I finally become sick of it all? Sick of having no one on my side? No one I could talk to or laugh with or to be happy with?
It’s hard to be hated by everyone all the time. Even for someone like me.
Lying next to Steve, I remember the first few days here—the hours spent watching his image machine and snacking on delicious foods. Hadn’t I found a type of joy then? A small type of happiness—albeit a different kind than any before?
When you spent all your life trying your best to push ponies away, you become especially good at it. Was it finally time for me to try something else?
I rub Steve’s hand through my mane again and sniffle.
“But who would ever be friends with you?” I ask myself.
The hand on my head stops suddenly.
“…Sombra?” Steve asks sleepily.
I yelp and disappear into smoke, retreating from the room and reconfiguring on the couch. As Steve exits his bedroom, I try my best to appear asleep.
I can still feel the tears under my eyes. I hope he doesn’t notice.