The Conversion Bureau - Synthesis

by FatesEnd

When Life Gives You Lemons

“Make... make Equestria take the Barrier back. Get mad! I don’t want your damn serum, what the hell am I supposed to do with this? Demand to see Celestia’s manager! Make Equestria rue the day they thought they could kill us! Do you know who I am? I’m the man who’s going to blow your country up! With the Barrier! I’m going to get my researchers to invent an exploding Barrier that blows your country up!”

Last words following the potion bombing of Reynald Johanson, founder of the HLF, prior to his suicide.

Doctor Alan Crowley was called many things by his fellows in the Human Liberation Front, the least of which was "Doc". Maniac, visionary, psychotic, pony lover, brilliant, mad scientist, idealist, quack, unhinged, and, in the case of a recruit who was told to hand over any intact unicorn corpses to him, necrophiliac. Of course, less than half of them were true, although they frequently argued as to which half.

Regardless of the rumors, Dr. Crowley was extremely valuable to the organization, despite not being an actual doctor. This wasn't very surprising, and even a little reassuring, as it had been decades since anybody unsupported by a Corporation managed to get a PHD, and the Corporations were less than competent before Equestria began to influence some of their leaders. Crowley's specialty, researching the interaction of technology and magic, despite giving even more reasons for the other HLF members to mistrust him, was also exactly what made him such an asset, as he was one of the few people both willing and able to attempt to combat the ponyfication serum. As such, his fellows had to tolerate him, though they didn't have to like him.

Tonight, the doctor was alone in the lab of an HLF facility. His colleagues had gone to sleep hours ago, but he gave no sign that he noticed or cared. He was injecting a silvery fluid into a confused rat, electrodes stuck onto its head and strapped to the table. Glancing at the steady pattern being printed onto a strip of paper, he nodded and carefully uncapped a nearly empty vial of thick purple liquid. He sucked it up with another syringe, discarding the vial as well.

This time, after injecting the rat he quickly stepped back as it began to convulse. The rat's occasional bemused squeaks escalated into squeals of terror, and its body bubbled and churned as if its flesh were boiling beneath its skin. Its fur rapidly began to change colors, from white to violet to green, and its limbs haphazardly changed shape again and again.

Just as suddenly as it had started, it had ended, leaving a bizarre deformed yellow and blue polka-dotted corpse. Rather than tending to it, Crowley turned off the ticking machine and tore off the paper. Glancing back and forth from it to a nearly identical strip in his other hand, a smirk creeped onto his face. Perfect.

After cleaning up where he had been working, he walked to a safe in the corner of the room. Dialing a combination into it, he opened the door and took out a worn notebook. Flipping to the relevant part, he scribbled down the results of his experiment and tore out the pages relating to his work on neutralizing the serum, placing them on the table. He wouldn't need them anymore, so he might as well let someone else finish the job. Unzipping a bag, he stuck the notebook inside. Reaching farther into the safe, he retrieved three machines that he had made using materials he had acquired under the pretense of the serum project. Had any of his fellow researchers seen him building them, he would probably have been killed, asset or not. Thankfully, his habit of working late left them out of their prying eyes.

Sticking them into his bag, he walked back to the table. Grabbing the vial filled with the same gray liquid he had injected the rat with, he silently debated whether he would really go through with this. Reaching a decision, he added the vial and a disposable syringe to his bag. Zipping it up, he left the lab.

Jerry, the night watchman, started awake as Crowley passed.

Directing bleary eyes at him, he grumbled, "'Nother late night again, doc?"

"Yes. I've reached an important stage in my research," Crowley huffed

"Well, ya better get that goddamn cure done soon or I'll beat your ass," sneered Jerry.

Reaching the facility's exit, Crowley muttered to himself. "You won't need to worry about that much longer, Jerry."

---

Alan Crowley had lost his marbles. At least, that was the only explanation he could give as to how he was even considering doing this.

And yet, here he was, less than a block away from a bureau, clear of mind, and injecting his nanites into his arm. A chill ran down it as the minuscule robots spread throughout his bloodstream. Tossing the empty syringe and tube into a trash can, he hefted his bag as words of doubt ran through his head.

'Don't do this. It's not worth it. What if it fails? You'll be dead, and they'll have yet another obstacle out of their way. They'll kill everyone in the facility and it'll be all your fault, Alan. Go back and just keep working.'

'You've spent so long perfecting it, it'll work. You have to do this. If the HLF wins they'll destroy all of it, and you'll never reach your dream. You know this. You work with them. They hate anything to do with ponies. This is the only way.'

Dr. Crowley was snapped out of his brooding as he nearly walked into the transparent door that separated him from that place. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched open the door.

The first thing he thought of upon entering the room was a toddler's playroom. It was painted in obnoxiously bright colors, and gave the impression that it was decorated by a blind clown, bubblegum pink clashing with mint green and day-glow orange. Taking a ticket from the reception desk, he sat on a striped couch and looked around at the other people that were there.

The receptionist was beaming as she filled out a form of some sort. The doctor wondered how anyone could be that cheerful that late at night until he saw the slightly vacant look in her eyes. A newfoal. Her coat was cream colored, and a glowing horn peeked out of a lime mane. He sincerely hoped he didn't end up a unicorn. He knew from experience that their horns were filled with nerve endings. A pegasus would likely be the best outcome.

On the other end of the couch he was seated at was a girl that looked to be in her late teens. She had a defiant look about her, as if she dared someone to try and stop her from doing this. Probably acting out against her parents. He dearly wanted to talk to her, to try to convince her against it, but he couldn't risk looking suspicious, and besides, he wasn't very good with teenagers. Across from him was a bearded man with clouded eyes and stains covering his tattered clothes who was mumbling to himself. The homeless were the most common converts, desperate to leave their situations as they were. In fact, when the first conversion bureau opened in Los Angeles, a riot broke out as vagrants fought to get in.

Only a few minutes had passed when his number came up. This was another reason he came during the night, to minimize the risk of his nanites being flushed from his body. The newfoal receptionist practically leaped from the chair. Leading him down a hallway, she gave him a bright grin as if nothing could be more fun than brainwashing people and fundamentally changing their bodies.

"So why did you decide to make the change, mister?"

Crowley averted his eyes. "Family problems."

The receptionist gave him a frown. "Oh, you poor thing! Well, everything will be right as rain when you're a pony!"

He gave her a half-hearted grin.

The garish rainbow soon broke into sterile white, and for that he was glad. At least he wouldn't have to deal with a headache on top of everything else.

The conversion room greatly contrasted with the waiting room, in that it was barren and colorless. The only things that occupied it were a bed, some cabinets, and a lemon colored earth pony with a syringe on his flank. This pony obviously did not share the receptionist's zeal for the night shift, as he had bags beneath his eyes and his speech was monosyllabic. The receptionist skipped out as the earth pony directed his weary gaze at Crowley.

"Lay down."

The bed was stiff and thin, chosen more for practicality than comfort.

"Drink."

Crowley eyed the cup of thick purple serum held by the pony. This was his last chance. He could say that, no, he didn't actually want to convert. He could go back to the facility and pretend this never happened. He wondered how his life had lead up to this point.

He downed the serum.

At first, he thought that the sickly sweet grape-flavored potion had failed to work at all, but then he was engulfed in pain.

He felt like his skin had been ripped off, his nerves exposed to the open air. He wanted to scream, to cry out bloody murder, but it was as if the fire engulfing him had welded his lungs shut. He was dying. No, he was already dead and he was in hell. Why did he choose to do this? Why why why why why why why-

---

Alan's vision slowly trickled in. It wasn't at all clear, though. It was like he was staring into a television between channels. Objects flickered in and out of focus, and parts of the world seemed to be missing altogether. Looking down, he didn't seem to have a body.

He seemed to be in some kind of garden. He couldn't see anything but static past a certain point, though. Walking (or, well, it would be walking had he anything to walk with) forward, he came upon a pile of light gray rocks, somewhat scattered across the ground. He could start to barely make out a voice amongst the buzzing that filled the air. It sounded masculine, and had a tone of both confusion and hope.

"Who.........ou......What.....ent...all th......Please...help....find...castle.....sisters.......head....."

Crowley strained to discern the voice. "Who are you? What are you?"

The voice seemed not to hear him, as it continued without pause.

"not....I........magic.......to stop....chance..."

Alan began to yell, trying to break through the static. "What chance?! Answer me!"

But his only response was for the buzzing to get louder, and the world blurred more and more before darkening to black.

---

He slowly lifted his eyelids, squinting at the sunlight.

Living, check.

Climbing out of the bed he was on, he came face to face with the floor as muscle memory competed with muscles that simply weren't there before. Deciding to wait before pushing his luck again, he examined the room he was in. It was similar to the conversion room, although it was smaller and only contained a bed and his bag. Turning onto his side, he saw that he now had a bluish silver coat with a circuit board emblazoned upon his rump.

'Pony, check. I suppose that I could always pass it off as a sliced emerald, but it would be better to cover it up.'

His mane was the same deep brown it had been as a human, without, he confirmed with a hoof, a new protuberance. It looked like he was an earth pony. Well, there was only one thing left to try.

"Princess Celestia is a psychotic ass harmonica," he muttered.

Not a twinge. Check and check.

Crowley settled his front legs in front of him and carefully lifted his back legs into position. Shakily, he raised all four of them at once, teetering at his full height. After a few wary steps, he began to speed up...

Only to end up on his back next to the bag. Well, at least he could grab his cloak.

---

An hour later, he had managed to relearn how to walk and was lamenting the loss of his fine motor control. Why oh why didn't ponies have thumbs? He was carrying his bag upon his back, his magically strengthened leg muscles effortlessly carrying the once heavy container. He quickly navigated his way back to the lobby, and, with what he hoped was a reasonable facsimile of the overexuberance exhibited by newfoals, approached the receptionist.

"Thank you for coming to the Bureau. Have you decided on your pony name?"

He thought. What would be a name that sympathetic ponies would recognize and loyalist ponies would shrug off?

"Call me Solenoid," he said with a wide grin.

Author's Note:

This is my first story here, so I'd appreciate it if you pointed out any mistakes I make so that I can fix them. Thanks!

Comments

[du5k5h1ne]

sounds good to me

[ninjaguy77]

I only want celestial to be turned into a shoggoth like blob of flesh

[Waterpicker]

3834511 That would be an insult to the old ones. :P

[H550]

Is he making a magical railgun? It would fit his name.

[Dr_Tornado]

Yes,! A portal 2 reference