• Published 7th Mar 2014
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The Conversion Bureau: Setting Things Right - kildeez



When a portal to another world appears outside Canterlot, the ponies' initial reaction is of enthusiasm, hoping to greet these strange aliens with open hooves. Too bad this world was already visited by another Equestria...

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Chapter XIX: Change

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1200 HOURS
BETHLEM ROYAL HOSPITAL (AKA BEDLAM)
LONDON, ENGLAND, UNITED KINGDOM
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Twilight Sparkle was not an unstoppable badass, she knew that. She was not the type of pony who leapt into the midst of a battle, single-hoofedly changing the odds with a few well-placed bolts of magic. Sure, she could hold her own in a fight, years of magical study; her ascension into her role as the Element of Magic, and her rise to princesshood had seen to that. However, at the end of the day, she was quite comfortable with putting her hooves up for an evening with a good book and perhaps a friend to chat with. Let other ponies go off on adventures to the deepest parts of the Everfree on quests for artifacts of horrifying power: if she wasn’t needed, Twilight Sparkle was perfectly fine with staying in her own little village in her own little room in her massive and all-too-large palace.

Of course, Twilight wasn’t trying to think about any of this. Right then, she was trying to think about everything she and the Princess had learned about this place. Ever since Ainsley had told them about it, they had studied everything they could, gathering books and newspaper articles from a library that made the Canterlot Archives look like her old treehouse library in Ponyville. Though she had drooled over the prospect of spending an entire night among those shelves, the Princess had insisted they could only take what they needed, spending as little time as possible in the city proper before retreating to the tiny cave dwelling they had found on the outskirts of town. And again, Twilight didn’t focus on that, and instead focused on what she had learned.

Bethlem Royal Hospital: one of the oldest mental health establishments in the world. Formed some 800 years ago, when its time as a prison for the insane earned it another, less savory nickname with the locals, the place’s name had become a word synonymous with chaos, confusion, and general discordance (for lack of a better word, she thought with a roll of her eyes, imagining what Discord might have to say about such a place). The hospital itself had actually moved sites and held many names in its long history, and though its early methods of treatment for the mentally ill would have made even the witch doctors of ancient Equestria shiver in their grass skirts and voodoo necklaces, it had come a long way to becoming a home, a place where the mentally ill could find some form of actual treatment and perhaps even a way back to sanity.

Then the Newfoals had arrived. Suddenly, humanity was inundated with drooling idiots, barely capable of lifting their own heads out of their pillows or sitting upright, good for little more than staring out windows with blank, empty gazes, their minds shells of what they once were. Most families just weren’t equipped for handling that, but who was? Mental hospitals. And so, many of the planet’s asylums had become dumping grounds for these poor souls, these former humans turned into something so, so much less. Twilight had shivered at the newspaper clipping proclaiming the first batch of Newfoals to be mentally deficient, back in the days when a bright future of pony-human cooperation had appeared actually possible. The worst part had been the caption showing a “Newfoal,” a former human that had once been a renowned mathematician, now sitting on a chair, staring at the camera with the most hauntingly empty gaze Twilight had ever seen on a pony. Those eyes had been more like doll’s eyes; that smile practically sewn on. If it hadn’t been for the text explaining that it was, in fact, an actual pony, she might have thought it some creepy stuffed toy.

These thoughts went through her head as she crawled through the ducts of Bethlem Hospital, formerly St. Mary’s, most well-known for being the inspiration for an entire new synonym to chaos. Her every step was muffled by the little booties she and the princess had crafted and imbued with as many noise-cancellation spells as possible, which were effective despite being an ugly brown that probably would have sent Rarity into palpitations. As she crawled along, it occurred to her how curious it was that an institute meant to contain ponies would have such a nice, pony-sized ventilation system, but then she remembered those eyes and realized this place was less of a prison and more of a dumping ground, a spot where Newfoals got loaded off and probably forgotten. More a permanent daycare center than an asylum or a prison

Well, there was an uplifting thought.

Twilight? Her teacher’s voice hummed from her horn, the spell allowing them to communicate crackling to life. Twilight winced and decreased the flow of magic going into the spell.

Right here, Princess, she sent back. But please put less magic into the messages you send. It’s like having another voice screaming in my head, and that’s very disorienting.

A few seconds later, Celestia’s reply came back, but at a much more tolerable volume: Apologies, my faithful student. I am still getting used to this method of communication.

Yeah, Ainsley was good for one more thing. This spell we found will probably throw Equestria ahead by decades! It’s a shame we had to dump her, she was very useful.

And almost certainly being tracked, if those electric pulses were some indication.

I know but stiiiiIIIIIIILLLLLL… Twilight’s mind froze as the ground suddenly vanished beneath her and she tumbled, head over hooves, down a nearly-vertical vent, slamming face-first into an aluminum wall. She groaned as the sound of her muzzle colliding with the thin metal reverberated through both the vent and her skull.

Twilight!? Celestia gasped, her message somehow transferring every single bit of the panic she felt. Twilight would have smiled at the thought of the regal pony dancing on her hooves like a filly waiting for the bathroom were it not for the pain shooting through her snout.

I’m alright, Princess, she sent back, even as she picked herself up and spotted little flecks of blood on the steel. She moaned, turned over on her back, and ran a quick healing spell. Not enough to repair all the damage, but enough where she could crack a grin without nearly gasping with pain. She would need to focus on that later.

I’m okay, she reasserted. Just got distracted and forgot about that 70-degree angle in the building layout.

Ah. Celestia replied, and again, Twilight could just picture her nearly dropping to the ground in relief. Perhaps we should refrain from communicating while you’re in those vents.

Agreed. It’s absurdly distracting. Twilight groaned as she slowly pressed herself back to her hooves. Celestia above, while the spell was fantastic, she could just imagine dozens of idiotic ponies crashing into each other both on the streets and in the air, their thoughts distracted. She chuckled at the sheer absurdity of the idea. As if ponies would be that stupid; walking around, so distracted by conversations with somepony who wasn’t there that they slammed into each other. Fortunately, further communication probably wouldn’t be necessary. If the plans they’d found were at all accurate, the opening she was looking for was perhaps fifty yards away. She could only hope that her stupid little trip hadn’t alerted any of the humans in the building. Noise-cancelling booties could only do so much when you played drums on the walls with your face.

Fifty yards later, and still no signs of a human alert, Twilight peeked through the grating. She nearly sank to the floor with relief. She could just glimpse a colorful shape sitting up on a bed with plain white sheets. With a thought, she teleported down to the bed, a hoof primed and ready to cover the Newfoal’s muzzle. To her surprise, it wasn’t needed. No, because the moment she landed, the only thing the Newfoal did was smile…and stare…with those…empty eyes…

Twilight?

Shaking off the chills going down her spine, Twilight turned away, realized that having those empty little eyes staring into the back of her head was way worse, and opted to pull the Newfoal’s blanket over its head. It didn’t react. This time, she allowed the shiver to pass up her spine, dancing away as if the Newfoal had just become radioactive. I’m here, Princess. Go ahead and teleport on my magical signature.

Thank you, incoming, and in a flash, Celestia was standing right at the head of the Newfoal’s bed. The sheets promptly fell away, revealing those empty little eyes again, and Twilight suppressed another shiver at the Newfoal’s widening grin. She had read the reports of failing IQ tests and lost memories, but to actually be here, standing with one of them, knowing what they had once been…well, it made her grateful to still have the capacity to shiver, to look into those eyes and have the capacity to know something was wrong.

“Princess…” the fake pony started, but Celestia clenched a hoof around its muzzle.

“You need to stay quiet,” she whispered quickly, holding her other hoof to her lips and speaking as she would with a foal. “Your princess requires it, understand?”

The Newfoal nodded, its massive eyes lighting up with a hollow semblance that might vaguely be called joy. Twilight turned away. To think somepony thought this thing was a preferable alternative to the intelligent beings she had interacted with on the ship…

Celestia pulled her hooves back, and the Newfoal remained silent. Just as planned, though it bounced in its bed and made the old springs squeak. Both princesses exchanged sighs of relief. So far, so good, now they just had to get out of here before those “Tacky-one Inhibitors” picked up the magical spike and alerted the humans. Celestia touched her horn to the Newfoal’s forehead. “Remember, quiet,” she whispered again, diverting her attention to her magic. Twilight held her breath. In a few minutes, they would know if these creatures could be saved, or if they were lost forever.

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Mrs. Bradford was not an extraordinary woman. She had grown up just south of Essex in a little cottage outside of town, having lived a completely unremarkable childhood before moving to Sandford Village. There, she had staked out a small slice of life for herself in the form of a used bookstore, which had become something of a local landmark over the years, and had provided more than enough income for her to survive in the two-bedroom flat she lived in upstairs. In addition, it was where she had met a young man named Jonas Bradford on a rainy day, when he had ducked in using his briefcase to shield himself from the rain. After discovering a shared passion for books and reading (though he was more a lover of fanfiction, to her endless dismay), the two were wed that same year at a perfectly standard ceremony at the Parish Church of St. James. They had embarked on a honeymoon to one of the Scottish Isles, where they had not only consummated their love, but she had talked him into wearing a kilt for her camera.

The next thirty-five years had been the exact same standard fare, not to say that it was always boring. The pair had their ups, their downs, their days when some stupid little quarrel over who’s turn it was to empty the garbage devolved into night-spanning arguments (though never shouting matches that would alert the neighbors), and their days when they might just sit in their reading room, books in their laps and hands wrapped tightly around one another. Life had been perfectly standard for Mrs. Bradford. Just about the only thing that was odd about her now could be that she was legally considered a widow, though her husband was still very much alive. Even if the legal system claimed that he was as gone as the dodo.

No, Mrs. Bradford would have none of that legal jazz, and had even fought tooth and nail to keep her marital status as “married.” She’d lost, of course. Too many “conversion bureau widows” that just wanted to move on with their lives when their loved one had gone out one night and come back as an empty shells with four legs. Not her. There was no way she could ever leave her Jonesy. So after checking him into the infamous Bethlem Hospital, she had made it her weekly duty to see him at least once. Always with a bouquet of daisies, and always with the framed picture of that one glorious weekend in the Scottish highlands where he had worn a kilt.

Currently, Mrs. Bradford was walking past the receptionist’s desks, towards the comfort-care sectors of the hospital. A hospital which, when she had first approached it, had filled her with both relief and disappointment. Relief that it wasn’t the massive, gothic structure she had seen in her mind’s eye since a child reading about it, but disappointment that the structure looked closer to a high school built in the 1950s than a world-famous medical facility. Sure, it was nice that her Jonesy had such a quaint setting in which to live out his life with his “condition,” but still…

She was babbling in her own mind now, filling herself with meaningless chatter to keep her thoughts off the task at hand. She sighed, straightened out her sun hat, “taking a breather” as her Jonesy would have called it. She didn’t cry. Not any more, at least. At her age there just wasn’t any more room for tears. No, she just kept her attention on the here and now, looking around at the receptionist’s area.

A child sat in one of the seats next to his solemn-looking mother, holding a balloon declaring “MISS YOU DADDY” in big, block letters. At the desk next to her, two men chatted amiably, yet frantically with the receptionist. As if something was wrong, but nothing her fault. Like a couple professionals trying to work with somebody towards a common goal. It struck her oddly: a Sikh Indian with one of those turban things wrapped around his head working with a nice-looking young man in a coat much too bulky for the weather. Who was that other young man, a yank? Accent sounded like it. She tried to listen in, but could only overhear so much gibberish about “Tachyon Inhibitors” and “fluxes in the particle field” before she tuned out again. Much too technical for her, thank you very much. Leave jargon like that to the youngsters.

“Emily Bradford?”

She perked at her name, staring up at the slender man in the doctor’s coat standing next to her, peering down at her through thick, bottle-rim glasses perched on a massive nose. She sighed.

“Just Mrs. Bradford would do, Jerry,” she said. “You know that by now.”

His lips curled into a thin smile that faded almost immediately. “Follow me, please.”

“I know the way.”

“Standard procedure. You know that by now.” He replied, turning to walk through the nearest door. She sighed, gathering up her tiny bundle and following him. She couldn’t blame the young doctor for being so curt. There was no way this was the highlight of his day. Still, a bit more courtesy would certainly be nice.

The usual bustle of activity that apparently filled every hospital dropped off as soon as they stepped into the comfort care unit. Despite the bright colors on the walls and the natural lighting pouring in through the windows, she couldn’t help but feel her heart sink with each step that echoed off the long, lonely hallways. Her nose gained a few more wrinkles at the stench of antiseptic heavy in the air. Around her, the only sounds were the beeps of the EKG monitors and clicks of whirring machinery. No shuffling about or snoring for the patients here. In a way, that was so much worse. Knowing that there were people (sort of) here and still being so quiet…

She shook her head again as the doctor led her to the receptionist’s desk, where a nurse that had obviously been playing solitaire scanned them with alert, hazel eyes.

“Badge?” The young guy asked.

“No need,” the doctor said, waving his hand.

The nurse smiled sheepishly, a smile that seemed to light up his entire face. He’s so young, Mrs. Bradford mused. I wonder how long he’ll stay that way, working in this place?

“Sorry Doctor, new security measures,” the nurse said. “After Detroit, the UN’s not takin’ any chances.”

“Of course,” the doctor grumbled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small piece of laminated plastic, which the nurse happily scanned before waving them along. The pair nodded their thanks before continuing down the corridor, a walk Mrs. Bradford was becoming only too familiar with. They completed it in silence: everything that needed to be said between the young doctor and the old woman had been said long ago. Now, there was just the same farewell.

The Doctor nodded to her as he held the door open, and she nodded her thanks back as she shuffled inside, the fresh bouquet of daisies in one hand and the framed picture in the other.

“I’m going to try and give you the usual full hour,” he said. “But with the UN coming down on all the Newfoal colonies like this, I might not be able to bend the half-hour limit this time.”

“I understand,” she said. “Thank you.”

He nodded, starting to close the door to leave her alone for her weekly ritual, when a loud thump sounded from the end of the hallway.

The Doctor lifted his eyes as they widened with surprise at the sound of the male nurse’s voice: “Hey, you can’t go in…

UNCDI, bullshit we can’t!” Came the reply, followed by the heavy thudding of shoes on tile.

“Wha…” the good Doctor managed to say before nearly being knocked right off his feet by the large man in the turban she’d seen in the lobby. Nearly falling back in fear, she almost didn’t notice the American when he bustled in behind him, his hands wrapped around…was that a gun!? Saints preserve her, she didn’t know he was that much of an American!

The pair shuffled into the room, their eyes darting around every corner, scanning every surface. She steadied herself against the wall, watching them circle the room methodically. Then, that old British stiff upper lip kicked in, and she glared.

“Is there a reason you two gentlemen have just barged into my husband’s room unannounced!?” She barked, standing up to her full height, which only came to the turban-wearing man’s chest.

Both men paused, then looked to her, as if seeing her for the first time. They both blinked, then the American hid his gun away (and thank goodness, bloody things always made her nervous) and the turban-wearer’s fingers shifted strangely, as if shoving something into his sleeves.

“Er…sorry for the intrusion, ma’am,” the American said calmly, raising his hands. “We just detected a magical fluctuation originating from this room, and…er…”

“…after Detroit, the UN doesn’t want to take chances,” the turban-wearer said with a million-dollar smile.

Unimpressed, she cocked an eyebrow at them. “And did it occur to either of you fine gentlemen that this could be because this room contains a Newfoal unicorn?” She asked dryly.

Both men noted the little teal body curled up in the sheets, staring with eyes half-closed at the blank television screen at the foot of the bed. They each shared a quick glance. “Er…right ma’am, but if you’ll recall, it was a Newfoal unicorn that aided the pegasus behind Detroit.”

“Does my Jonesy look like he’s about to attack anyone?” She asked, still politely.

Both men sighed, the American rubbing the back of his head. “Ma’am, with all due respect, I’m quite sure that unicorn in Detroit didn’t look like it was going to attack anybody.”

“Well, I’ll give a shout if my husband does anything untoward,” she said dryly. “Until then, I would appreciate it if we could have our weekly meetup in peace.”

“Er…of course, ma’am,” the American said. “Sorry.”

“Our deepest apologies, madam,” the man in the turban bowed, then followed his partner back into the hallway, the pair closing the door behind them. Mrs. Bradford was alone with her Jonesy at last.

She sighed as she returned to her weekly ritual. That had been quite enough excitement for her that week, and now hopefully she could finish things here in peace. She noted the empty vase on the bedside table and felt momentarily grateful that somebody had had the courtesy to throw away last week’s daisies at some point during the week. Perhaps this generation hadn’t completely forgotten its manners after all, or so she thought as she arranged the flowers in their place.

“What do you think, Jonesy?” She sighed as she set the framed picture on the table, freeing up both her hands so she could make the final arrangements for the flowers. “Do you suppose this generation might be completely hopeless?”

She was so absorbed with the flowers that she didn’t notice his head turn to the side and cock slightly, his cartoonishly-large eyes gazing up at her. Then they traveled down her body to the picture frame on the table, and the Newfoal grimaced. “Well, I don’t know about the current generation,” he said, a hoof extending towards the picture. “But bloody hell, Emmy, do you have to bring that damned picture everywhere you go? You know how I hate it.”

The vase tipped and bounced off the floor, spewing water and scattering the flowers. Mrs. Bradford didn’t pick it up.

Author's Note:

I was so tempted to call this chapter something stupid, like "Jonesing for a change."

Also, Mrs. Bradford does reflect my views on Bethlem. Place does look like a school from the fifties. That's nice and all, but dammit, is anyone else disappointed that it ISN'T a castle perched atop a cliff with a constant thunderstorm flashing behind it?

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