The Slow Mutants

by Doctor Fluffy

03: Moustache Whacks

Slow Mutants - 03

Moustache Whacks

Shouts out to:

Cr0w T R0bot - for editing help and his faith in this concept

Jed - for critique on… a scene… with Shieldwall

Vox - for invaluable help writing… some characters.

---

Date Unknown
Shieldwall's 'Utopia'

“Well,” I say, “this is a weird change of pace.”

I don’t know what made me say that. I don’t know where I am, either. I look around, and see Shieldwall standing above me. He looks like he’s changed – his fur is a darker blue, and he has a black pompadour with streaks of green through it.

How strange. I could’ve sworn I remember him being piebald or an albino. And all the while, his massive, terrifying visage is grinning at me. His mouth is opening ever so slightly.

‘NO!’ I scramble back on my hands and knees, and run.

I sprint away from the massive poster. I’m running down an alleyway, past trash-cans. I can see bullet holes in the walls, burn marks on the pavement. I’m left to think:

‘There must’ve been a war here.’

I make a right, and as I turn the corner, I see that the massive grinning Shieldwall head was just a poster. This whole time. And it wasn’t as realistic as I thought, either.

‘Am I in Equestria?’ I think. I look around, and I see the scale of everything. The tall, thin doors, the windows. ‘No, I think. This is a human city. This is all built to my sc–’

Wait a minute.

I stand up. I feel taller. I feel… strangely off balance, but… I look down, and I see…

I place my hands together and feel the satisfying cracks. I run my hands (‘Oh, how I’ve missed having hands’) over what I see. Over my breasts, my skin, the ratty white ‘TAOS, NEW MEXICO’ T-shirt that’s more holes than fabric, the scraped, paint-stained jeans, the nondescript gray hoodie. And it feels. So. GOOD!

“Oh, thank the Lord,” I whisper, “I have hands! I’m human!”

It’s rare that I even dream about being human, nowadays. But here I am, with hands! And breasts! And legs! And COCKFUCKING RIMJOB FUCK THIS FUCKING WHAT THE FUCK IS FUCK ASS BITCH SHIT BUTT NAZI ASS PUBIC HAIR BASTARD THUNDER THIGHS CHODE FUCK TRIPLE ASS PENIS SUCK C–

Oh, I missed that. I can swear!

“Thank fuck,” I say.

It’s then that I hear music. It’s a jaunty, upbeat tune, with trumpets and drums. Parade music. I’m curious about it, but something keeps me from going out into the open.

The best thing to do, it would seem, is find a good vantage point. So I look at a fire escape. Definitely built for humans, what with its handrails and steep, ladderlike incline. Yes, this is definitely a human city.

Right?

As I’m clambering up the fire escape, looking through windows, I’m not too sure. There’s furniture scaled to human size in one apartment, but through another, I see couches and chairs that are clearly built for ponies.

The more optimistic part of my mind wants to think this is a grand statement of human-pony unity. The more realistic part of my mind would kick it in the balls. If, y’know, personifications of my mind can have balls.

When I see another apartment, one that has human and pony-scaled furniture, I stop dead in my tracks. Something is very wrong here.

There’s a poster of Celestia, all yellow, black, and white, a grin that is supposed to look loving but definitely isn’t. In an apartment shared by humans and ponies?

No.

No no no. This can’t be right.

I have a sudden sense of mounting fear, and I rocket up the fire escape towards the roof. And it’s only then that I see the city.

I don’t recognize the skyline, if only because so much of it looks destroyed. Massive hulks of skyscrapers, broken beyond repair, stab up into the skyline like the ribs of a long-dead carcass. Cranes and what look to be small potioneer ships – the little, nimble bombers dropped from Solar Empire carriers – hover around them, slowly, methodically disassembling them. There’s a Reassembler, a repurposed Solar Empire ship that looks to have been built from Equestrian aircraft parts, human construction equipment, and a gasbag. Its three Seeder beams – massive brass-and-steel constructions with lenses of Equestrian crystal – scan a building, imbuing it with thaums. As far as I can tell, the process is something like a vaccine to the Barrier. It’s been tested with a human boat, the Borealis, which was taken from the ruins of Portland, Maine.

‘No.’

Hanging lazily in the sky is a great metal… thing. I can’t tell you exactly what it is, but I know it’s massive. It has a gasbag like a Solar Empire ship, but it bears more resemblance to a human-made battleship, except exponentially bigger. It’s long enough to look like a skyscraper laid on its side. On its underside are a set of pylons, a purplish rip in space held between them.

A portal!

I stand and watch as, before my eyes, the portal shudders, the air just puckering around it like the skin around a scab. And a Solar Empire skyliner slides out from this rip in space.

I can only guess at what’s happened here. But going from the fact that this is a human city, with Solar Empire ships dotting the skies, I can draw my own conclusions.

I walk to the edge of the roof and look down, suspicious. And below me is a massive parade. Royal Guards bearing assault saddles march in formation below. But it’s not just Equestrians, either. There are humans carrying weapons with wooden stocks that look strange, alien, too smooth to be real. Whatever they are, they reek of the purple serum.

Behind them trot massive tank-like creatures with a greater resemblance to rhinos than horses – the Newcalves. Each wears a howdah, protected by a reddish lightly glowing thaumic shield, and each howdah has a crew armed to the teeth with potion crossbows, paintball guns, and even, ridiculously, what looks to be a giant machine-gun decorated in intricate golden filigree, loaded with purple-tipped ammo. Probably grenades. Then, equines with massive horns the size of railroad spikes, wood-and-metal braces around their legs. The rank and file appear to be humans with those guns, ponies with similar weaponry in their assault saddles, and regular Equestrians with spears. Ceremonial spears? Probably.

Another set of howdahs-on-Newcalves passes me by. And I see that the Newcalves are pulling a carriage. A parade float of some kind. And, sitting on it contentedly, with a self-satisfied smirk, is Shieldwall. One of his hindlegs has been replaced with a pegleg just beneath the knee. Just behind him is a gold-and-white potioneer ship, so decorated it’s a wonder the thing can even fly. To hear him say it, it’s his personal yacht. To hear people like me, it’s pretty much a small battleship that can - and has - wiped out entire towns on its own.

‘Look at me,’ he seems to be saying. ‘Look at what I’ve made.’

The meaning here is clear. Maybe it’s the invaded city. Maybe it’s the PER and Solar Empire forces parading openly.

Or maybe it’s the banner on Shieldwall’s carriage that says:

“CELEBRATING V-C DAY.”

Victory day? Where?

And at his side is a green unicorn mare with a mane in earthy browns and greens, and orange eyes. She’s levitating a machine-gun that is very much of human design.

A Newfoal, definitely.

For a moment, I think that this has to be a dream. Because it all seems so illogical, but it all seems to make so much sense in context, despite the fact that absolutely none of it does.

Something crackles, and I reach for the radio at my hip. Which is strange, because I don’t remember having a radio at my hip.

“You see him?”

“I do,” I confirm. And then, for no reason I can nail down: “He’s almost there.”

I cast a glance over to a gap between two buildings. A gap through which I can see the rebuilt Victoria Bridge, now renamed the Fluttershy Bridge to curry favor with the Solar Empire. The glint of an outbound train, to the very outskirts of the Solar Empire territory that Shieldwall administrates.

I know that somewhere, Eva Nilsdottir is going to be making the shot. This territory – Utopia – is his baby. I know that nobody could hope to administrate it like he does, and that whoever they have to replace him will run this fucking tumor of a puppet state into the ground. And maybe, just maybe, what little resistance is left east of the Mississippi and what’s left of the PHL have some breathing room.

I don’t know where Eva is. All I know is she’s found somewhere to make the shot.

Shieldwall’s parade float passes near that gap through which I can see the train, and then I think I see the slightest little glint.

She’s not going to–

I hear a sound like distant thunder.

She is.

I think for a moment that Eva’s not going to make the shot, not in a million years. It’s like everything has stopped for one incredible moment, and then I see the bullet.

Glowing blue, it hangs in midair against something vaguely pinkish-tinted. Shieldwall’s mouth hangs open for a few seconds, and then…

The pinkish-tinted something flashes, and a smaller round half the size of my pinky explodes forward. And then, suddenly, it hits Shieldwall just above his right foreleg.

He wheezes for a fraction of a second, but he barely looks even winded. And even then, looking winded looks like more of a performance than anything.

The crowd gasps in unison. Screams ring out. There is a flurry of curses.

Shieldwall limps away at as fast a pace as he can muster, which isn’t too fast what with one pegleg, and one foreleg shot. And probably a few old war wounds.

Another bullet hits the shield, but even then, Shieldwall’s already far from the impossibly thin gap. That last one is a Hail Mary and everyone knows it.

“Find the shooter!” Shieldwall yells. “FIND THE BUCKING SHOOTER!”

But I know he won’t. Eva’s on a train speeding out of the city, her attempt at an impossible shot failed.

“There!” someone yells, pointing up to a rooftop. Towards me, even though I know they shouldn’t be able to see me, I was just observing, goddammit, plenty of people-

Fuck

FUCK FUCK FUCK FU–

* * *

Morning
??? 2022

Dew Glow wakes up and walks out of her room for breakfast. She’s very happy to help with whatever Shieldwall is doing.

Always a happy one, that Dew Glow! A credit to all Newfoals.

She heads up to the breakfast table with Shieldwall, and sees the PER all around him. And she’s so happy to be around them. So happy to help out. Oh yes.

As she sits at the table, a wood-and-metal picnic table looted from a campground somewhere, she smiles as she eats the scrambled eggs. She watches, barely comprehending, BARELY UNDERSTANDING WHY DON’T YOU/I SAY SOMETHING, as Shieldwall and Fairbairn talk. Staring at her.

She does not mind, as she chows down on eggs. She hears Shieldwall saying, “I thought something was different here.”

“What do you mean?” she hears Fairbairn say.

As she places her plate in a sink, also scavenged, Shieldwall continues.

“She was… different. Very independent, very determined. She had a number of odd responses to the riot in Quincy. Newfoals with that are…” Shieldwall sighs. “Just too rare. Either that sort of thing is built for, it’s an accident, or she’s older than we thought. That was my working theory. But…”

“She’s being a model Newfoal now,” Dew Glow hears Fairbairn say. “As far as I know, you can’t fake that.”

“Probably not, Pat,” Shieldwall says. “Maybe she’ll be a good lab assistant now?”

“You sure you want to risk that?” Fairbairn says.

Shieldwall snorts. “She’s definitely a Newfoal. What could go wrong?”

Dew Glow nods at that. Smiles. “I’d be happy to help!” she chirps.

“Something still doesn’t feel right,” Fairbairn says, scratching his chin. There’s a little growth of uneven stubble in the mass of scar tissue that is his face, his disgusting APE face made worse by the scarring, unclean, disharmonious, need to purify–

But those kinds of thoughts were unimportant. Fairbairn was one of The Good Ones. The ones that’d seen the light and–

(sold out to)

–joined with the PER.

It was best not to question it.

“So,” Shieldwall says, “We’ll be working in my lab. I’ve got some projects that might do us a lot of good.”

* * *

It is impossible for Dew Glow not to marvel at Shieldwall’s lab. It almost seems to have grown – yes, grown – out from several briefcases. There are several computers mounted inside briefcases, stacks full of CDs, and racks full of USB drives. Equipment seems to have folded out of the cases once, then twice, then thrice, then whatever the word for nearly seven times is. Inexplicable machines that are made of either metal and wires, crystal, even some flesh here and there, and some combination of one or two of those things. Chemistry equipment, pipes and stills and a weirdly out-of-place sleek red plastic and chrome – or not-quite-chrome – coffee machine. A bizarre, fibrous not-quite-translucent thing that looks like it could be a cocoon sits in one corner, interspersed with wires and IVs.

More ponies stand on pedestals, lining the room. Dew Glow thinks that they could be anatomical models, but before her eyes, one moves. It flexes slightly, showing off its muscles.

Dew Glow is unperturbed by this.

“I can fit almost all of this into some saddlebags if need be,” Shieldwall says. “I’m told everything on the computer is replaceable…”

He points with one foreleg to an old, scuffed DISGUSTING, HUMAN device hooked up to hospital equipment, that appears to be measuring something in one of the definitely-not-anatomical-models.

“So if I have to detonate the lab with the explosives I wired all over this room, I think I’ll be fine... But… I just get attached, sometimes,” Shieldwall continues. “Even this space is movable, thanks to Alabaster here.”

Hope Dew Glow does not jump when she sees the tall, rail-thin unicorn standing in one corner, mixing beakers of liquid together. He has a shock of pale green mane, and his expression is impassive. Going by the conspicuous lack of a cutie mark, he was also a Newfoal.

“He can fit all of it into these cases,” Shieldwall says. “Course, wouldn’t be the lab it is without Doctor F–”

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘Doctor Feelgood,’” says a pale purple unicorn mare with a red and black mane, “I’m using iodine next time.”

Shieldwall laughs.

“Doctor Cross Stitch,” the purple mare says, holding out a hoof. “Pleasure to meet you…”

“Dew Glow,” says Dew Glow, because she is Dew Glow and absolutely nobody, nopony else. She does not quite catch the questioning look on Shieldwall’s face. “It’s an honor to be among such brave soldiers of the Solar Empire after so long in human lands.”

“If you don’t mind us asking,” Shieldwall says, “Why were you there?”

Dew Glow feels something that could almost be fear. Her mind races, like a car that’s been automatically inching forward has had someone hammer the gas pedal so hard something is in danger of breaking, no, no, no, that’s too human...

“I can’t say,” Dew Glow says. She could be saying that to create the impression that her agricultural work was important. But then she might have also literally not been able to say.

“Very well, then,” Shieldwall says. “Do you know what we would need you to do here?”

“To help in the lab,” Dew Glow says automatically.

“Very good!” Shieldwall says, like a favored teacher. “What I need is for you, Crossy, and Alabaster to help me with this.”

He points towards the tube at the end of the lab, at the cocoon. “If you may?”

With a precision and happiness to help that Dew Glow can absolutely goddamn not only envy, Alabaster trots up to the cocoon, leveling his horn at it. Behind him, Cross Stitch is maintaining the same pose. But she holds back as Alabaster does so.

Alabaster’s horn lights up the cocoon, and then, Dew Glow sees it.

A human. Except not quite. It is floating in the cocoon, its hands and feet missing... Or perhaps not. Dew Glow sees that they are replaced with hooves. The legs twist forward at an angle not natural for humans (‘And who cares about that?’) but natural for ponies. Red-orange fur sprouts from under the skin in uneven clumps.

“...I still don’t get why you had to have a cocoon,” Cross Stitch says.

“Easier to inject,” Shieldwall says. “Besides, it was that or a giant clear tube. Not only is that a pain to set up, but… what do I look like, a Band Villain? Clear tubes? Seriously?”

“I think you mean Bond Villain,” Fairbairn says, pushing through the door. “So, giving her a view of the freakshow?”

“Yeah, sure,” Shieldwall says. Then mutters. “Bond villain. Whatever.”

Pause.

“You see, Dew Glow,” Shieldwall says next, “the ponification process can be chaotic. Random. Even with the potionshaping process, that’s true. You get Newfoals that’ve been contaminated by this planet. Estimates are that 0.6% of Newfoals come out of the process… ‘half-baked’, is that a good term? May not sound like a lot, but we’ve got a huge pool to work from,” he smiles genially. “What causes it? Whatever magic Earth has, or maybe drugs, or dust, what have you. Sometimes, you get Newfoals that can’t comprehend the gift they’ve been given and try to kill themselves, but other times, you get these powerful, implausible freaks.”

Dew Glow doesn’t know why Shieldwall is explaining it to her, but she listens anyway.

“This is an experiment in trying to tap that same power,” Shieldwall continues. “I’ve been using the same ingredients and enchantments from Reconstitution-variant serum, trying to experiment in shaping a human from the beginning. If this works, I can revolutionize the Reconstitution process, eliminate the need for the camps we set up and create armies worth of Newcalves for the campaigns back home. I can change… everything.”

He stares at the cocoon.

“Now, isn’t that beautiful?”

“It certainly is,” Dew Glow says, ignoring the buzz in her head screaming that it absolutely isn’t.

“Now,” Shieldwall says, “It’s time for some lab work. Would you kindly–”

* * *

Later

Hours or days or weeks later, Dew Glow pushes a cart, loaded with strange ingredients – oil, spare feathers, the ponification serum itself, liquids in all the colors of the rainbow, and something clear that is definitely not water. Along with, strangely enough, a vial of sand.

“...Thermite,” Fairbairn sighs. “Why, in Celestia’s name, are you using thermite as an ingredient.”

“Well, I have a theory,” Shieldwall says. “I think it’s all about abstract concepts. Imperial Creed was created during the Cain Run where we fought the Reavers. A tactical genius from a losing battle. There’s more cases like that, too. I’m trying to see what works.”

“You’re seriously going to try to shape the ponification process by introducing abstract concepts,” Fairbairn says. “That doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

“The ponification process doesn’t always make sense, either,” Shieldwall points out. “No matter how much we try, some piece of humanity always persists. Some small, some large. I’m thinking that more identity can persist through it than we suspect. So what I’m going to do here is use that.”

Cross Stitch chuckles, mixing together several vials suspended in midair by her horn TK. “Some PETN or PER would call that almost heretical.”

“I don’t care about that,” Shieldwall says. “I had a friend, y’know. By the name of Lemon Tarts. And she said this about all the tactics she used ‘What works, works!’ Even as she wasted too many Newfoals to count waiting for that M60 to jam. Even as she refused to use human weapons. And then she died. She was sniped through the lungs, and the Newfoal we had as a medic tried to save her with Equestrian techniques. It didn’t remember anything it could’ve used to help. It got shot too.”

Shieldwall looks downcast, and Dew Glow wants nothing more than to walk over and comfort him.

“I. Am… sorry,” Alabaster says, haltingly. The words feel strange somehow. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t mention it,” Shieldwall says. “I learned something from that. What works doesn’t always work. Some head-in-the-clouds brass like Captain Cactus–”

He practically spits out the word.

“–can talk all they want about doing what works, as long as they have actual successes.”

He casts a Look over to Dew Glow.

“Can you head into my storeroom?” he asks. “I have some burnflower seeds there that I think could come in handy!”

And then Dew Glow hears it.

“...quarantined by order of the PHL,” the radio says. “The crops in Quincy, Washington have been discovered to be tainted with ponification serum. People in the town have randomly ponified, and it is suspected to be due to PER infiltrator who went under the alias of Dew Glow.”

“It didn’t work,” Alabaster says matter-of-factly. “It did not work.”

“Hey,” Shieldwall said. “Far as I’m concerned, there’s still some victory. Fears about tainted food, people getting a little more desperate for new recruits. Just wish I knew Dew Glow was there, she could’ve helped out so much!”

“I’ll be happy to do more next time,” Dew Glow says, and I realize that there’s a tightness behind Dew Glow’s right eye.

‘I could’ve done something,’ she thinks. And she’s not sad, but I am, I’m livid, I’m horrified, and I want to scream and destroy something-–

And Dew Glow experiences the worst pain of my life. Think of cluster headaches, of getting a squeezing, stabbing feeling behind the eye like it’s about to explode out your head. Think of a heavy blunt icicle driven in through a socket.

This is worse.

It feels like my head is about to explode. Like any minute an eye is going to pop out from the immense pressure and splash against the wall. And not both eyes, just one. Somehow, that’s worse.

I can’t scream. Dew Glow really wants to, and I’m Oh sweet Celestia, Dew Glow can’t deal with the pain, it’s everywhere, and she just wants to scream[/s] DEAR GOD THE PAIN, IT’S IN MY FUCKING EYE, THIS IS JUST ABOUT THE WORST PAIN I’VE EVER FELT, IT’S LIKE READING THE VORRH BY BRIAN CATLING AGAIN-!

I vomit on the floor in front of Shieldwall. Which is weird, because as far as I know, horses shouldn’t be able to vomit. Then again, these aliens aren’t your grandfather’s horses. But it’s not like that’s important right now.

“Dew Glow,” Shieldwall says, looking strangely concerned. “Are you okay?!”

Meanwhile, Cross Stitch is weirdly unconcerned. “Clean up that crud, willya, Alabaster?”

My mind races. What would a Newfoal do?

“I’m fine!” I chirp, trotting forward slightly, my hooves in my own vomit. Because I have to look as gross as possible. I have to reply to Shieldwall as sarcastically as I can.

Something is dripping from the side of my eye. I can’t be certain if it’s blood or tears.

I have to look as gross as possible. As barely functional as possible. I have to look like a the stereotypically dumb newfoal from one those comics that feature mounds of muscle who kick Newfoals so hard, they explode like overfilled water balloons full of red paint. And oh my God, I can feel it through my hoof TK, this is so gross, I think I’m gonna–

I throw up again.

‘Well, I guess that works too, I think from some distant part of my mind.

“Dew Glow,” Shieldwall says, disgusted. “What… I… Look, just go to the shower. I don’t even care anymore. Alabaster, experiments are on hold. Lead her up there?”

“Fair,” Alabaster says, and leads me up a set of stairs to the shower.

* * *

When I’m in the shower, really just a pipe jammed into the wall, behind a waterproof curtain which probably leads into the camp’s ancient plumbing, I find out that it was indeed blood.

‘That can’t be good.’

As soon as I’m in there, I hyperventilate. Because I’m back after I don’t even know how long. I… I almost remember being Dew Glow for a few… seconds? Or hours? Part of me feels like I’ve just woken up, and everything’s fuzzy.

No, it’s been longer than that. Much longer. The water from the showerhead rains down on me, and I don’t care that it’s practically frigid, only that I can finally feel it. That I’m me again.

‘I need to get out of here,’ I think. ‘Whatever it is that makes me… whoever I am...’

Oh no I can’t remember my name.

DARN IT.

It still feels almost dreamlike. I don’t even know what day it is. I don’t remember my bucking name! And I can’t even say anything stronger than “darn it!” I mean, I don’t know what’s stronger than that, but I feel like something should be.

“Hope,” I say aloud. “My name is Hope.”

That makes me feel a tiny bit better. But not by much.

It’s only now that I realize how terrible a decision this was. In my defense, it was the only option.

‘This can’t last,’ I think as I turn off the water and walk out. Part of me feels like I should get some clothes. But that would be silly.

Sure, I lived another day. Yet it means being among PER. And that means there’s only so long this can last. I don’t know how long I sit there, stewing in a soup of potential consequences. Drowning in the knowledge that I have no time left.

Until someone knocks on my door. It’s Shieldwall and Fairbairn.

I am so not ready for this. The door opens. It feels as if I’m peering at something off my field of vision. I can’t keep up the illusion. But I guess I have to.

“Hi!” I say, adopting the sickeningly chirpy tone of a Newfoal. It feels… rancid. Sickly-sweet. But, somehow, it’s calming.

That worries me.

“You sound… off,” Shieldwall says. He’s scrunched up his nose, the way ponies do when they’re upset about something. Although, and this is weird, considering we’re both herbivores now, it feels almost predatory. It reminds me of some videos I watched that have wolves scrunching their faces in anger. “Are you okay? You seemed pretty sick. And, your eye was… bleeding? Medically speaking, that seems kinda weird.”

Part of me wants to be honest. The other part of me is throttling it for being so bucking stupid. So.

“No,” I say, stifling a yawn, “I’m just… tired.”

“I see,” Shieldwall says, his eyes narrowing. “Would you prefer some time to be left alone? You were pretty sick, so I understand if you want to stop.”

I freeze imperceptibly. On the one hand hoof, I think I would. But he just offered up the option, so…

“I need to lie down,” I say. “I still don’t feel too good.”

“Very well then,” Shieldwall says.

* * *

Date Unknown

The next day is more lab work.

I almost but don’t quite remember the chores they’ve had me do. Push a cart. Mix these chemicals.

“So, tell me, Dew Glow,” Shieldwall says. “Where’ve you been all this time?”

My blood runs cold.

I’m eating lunch upstairs, now. I’m thinking about my plans to escape. The best option is to volunteer, but do Newfoals take that kind of initiative?

“Still feeling a bit sick,” I say. “Bit out of it. But I should be better soon!”

“I’m sure you will,” Shieldwall says, nodding. He eyes me suspiciously. Does he know?

I put that thought out of my head. I can’t stay here forever, even if I know beyond a doubt that it’s the only shot I have of staying safe. But in this case, f…. Ff…. FFU… who cares about safety.

It’s not like I’d rather die than stay with the PER. Except it totally is, because the thought of dying is much, much more palatable to me than relying on the oh so wonderful traitorous monsters that would gleefully force every human on Earth into a state that makes me look like the lucky one.

I need to get out.

‘But what happens if you leave and die?’ part of me thinks.

‘Then I’m not with these… these… PER, I think, trying to swear at them and feeling miserably. Which doesn’t sound so bad. Besides, it’s not like I’ve survived much on long-term plans. I didn’t have a long-term goal for what I’d do in Quincy, or when I was heading through Italy, or when I made my way up through Mexico to the Pacific Northwest. I can do this.

The only question is how I get from point A to point C. It’s not as if I can just leave whenever, the best thing to do would be to hitchhike out on an op and just quietly disappear. But I have to tell the truth. Nobody expects Newfoals to lie, after all. It’s the perfect alibi.

I just need to think about how to say it. I’m going over what I’m about to say when Cross Stitch walks up to me.

Cross Stitch looks over at me. “Mind looking after the experiment while we eat lunch?”

“Certainly!” I say, smiling. “I’ll do my best.”

Shieldwall just sighs. “Don’t torture the poor dear, Crossy. Come on, you need something to eat.”

As much as I want to keep up the charade, I don’t like the idea of going without lunch. Besides, a natural-born pony like Shieldwall asked me to get lunch. And I get really hungry if I don’t have something to eat. So I say it:

“I’m getting hungry,” I say. “I’d love some lunch.”

Shieldwall nods, approvingly. “Great! That’s great.”

So we head upstairs.

“You felt sick a week ago,” Shieldwall says, and I feel like Shieldwall’s trying to dissect me with his gaze. Scanning for any possible weakness, like… like he’s some kind of machine. “I never asked you why.”

I think back on that. In retrospect, that is pretty strange.

“Stomach trouble,” I say. “I… must’ve inhaled some bad chemicals while working?”

“Like the benzene?” Shieldwall asks.

I nod, as we head up to the mess hall. “Yes, absolutely.”

“I see,” Shieldwall says. “Dew Glow, I know what you must have thought of us back when you were a human. But we’re not monsters. You can talk it over with all of us whenever you need.”

He sighs.

“It just… it pisses me off,” Shieldwall says. “How some people treat their Newfoals. Flash Sentry, Shining Armor, even the Element Bearers at times. But especially Colonel Sparks Tinder–”

He practically spits out the words like they could be a swear word.

‘‘You’re special for wanting to change, become better… except now you don’t get to be special,’” Shieldwall mimes. “By Celestia, it just makes me so ANGRY! They tried to have Imperial Creed sent to a Reconstitution Camp, you know. All for going against the grain, despite the fact that he had less than 15% of the usual casualties. You, Imperial Creed, Razorhail, Cloudstreaker, you all deserve… better.”

I can’t tell if it’s me or the conditioning thinking that almost sounds… convincing.

Imean, he does have a point. Newfoals are, at this point, the bulk of Equestrian military and society. And, well, I’ve already made my thoughts on our their life expectancy clear. They die in droves. Everyone on Earth and Equus has seen something of of the limitless numbers that Equestria can bring to bear, but the nations of Equus especially, with the pike charges that have overwhelmed positions through sheer force of numbers, the sheer quantity of troops.

Of all the things I’d expect a dyed-in-the-wool Imperial like Shieldwall to say, this was not one of them.

“You really mean that?” I find myself asking. “After all, we’re only–”

“Don’t ever talk like that,” Shieldwall says, sounding almost tender. “You’re the whole reason behind this war. A way to better another race, and then ourselves.”

Vomiting again sounds very tempting right now. If I have to, I’m going to get as much of it as possible on Shieldwall.

How dare he.

Left barely functional. Losing my mind. Things I straight up can’t think. And he… is saying. This is a way to better us. AND OURSELVES?!

Shieldwall must have seen the look of shock on my face.

“I know what it sounds like,” Shieldwall says. “But I believe humans can stand as vital contributors, reviving an entire universe.”

I can hear Jack in the back of my mind. Their usual acerbic wit: Are you fucking high?![/i]

“There was a science-fiction writer in Equestria who went by a human pseudonym,” Shieldwall says. “Something Italian? I don’t know or care what bucking language. It was all about how Equestria would fail after taking over Earth. Massive economic collapse, overstretching of resources, us not being able to hold the planet. Of course, not long after that, she got the news that she’d be given a special assignment in the Colonies. ‘Place her expertise in service of the State’, those were words used, I remember. Haven’t heard much from her since. It was a posting in the former territory of Russia.”

I don’t need to ask what that means.

“But I did read her story,” Shieldwall concludes. “And... it made me think.”

He seems… mournful. Almost sad, wistful. I’ve never actually thought of that. I actively try to ignore it. But I think that’s a cool concept. I didn’t know Equestria even had sci-fi, but the idea that one of their authors would write to criticize their government just piques my interest. Shame I can’t ask questions, because I have somany. Some of which are about Shieldwall, because he seems almost r–

“We could do better than that!”

...never mind that.

A story about Equestria failing. About them being overstretched. And he takes it as a way to do better?!

I don’t even have words for that.

* * *

I’m still trying and failing to find the words at lunchtime.

The lunchroom is abuzz. Nimbus is talking about the new improvements she and Arpeggio made for her potioneer ship and the crop duster. Doubtless the same ones they used to ponify the crowd, the one that was my fault–

Focus, Hope. You couldn’t have known You were doing the best you could.

And, off in one corner, I see Honey Dusk. She sits in front of what looks like one of the glass screens from Star Wars that were set up all over Rebel bases. Wouldn’t be surprised it it was crystal, actually. The Imperials are mad about the stuff, and I’m strongly reminded of human LED screens here, when you think about it. And on that screen is…

A foal?

“Honeycomb!” Honey Dusk coos. “How’s home?”

“It’s been great!” the foal says. They sound like a colt. “When are you coming home, sis?”

“Sometime,” Honey Dusk says. “I… I love you, little monster–”

The foal flinches slightly. His eyes widen.

“–but I’m doing this for you. For Equestria. For all of us,” Honey Dusk says. “The things I’m doing with Shieldwall, they’re… we could really make a difference.”

“Sundae Sprinkles said that Shieldwall’s an un-Equestrian traitor who should be brought in by the Loyalty Guard,” Honeycomb says.

“Tell Sundae Sprinkles he can go tell them himself,” Honey Dusk says. “Tell him to send the Timberwolves so they can just come up and get us. Besides, what’s Sundae Sprinkles done for Equestria that outdoes us?”

Honeycomb cringes slightly as she raises her voice. I… I have questions. Because something really, really does not feel right between the two of them.

I walk up to the chef, and that conversation fades out to my ears. I hold out a cracked, chipped plate to the chef, a fat green earthpony Newfoal with a jolly grin on his face, and he pours the essentials onto my plate. Some mashed potatoes, some of some kind of salad.

I carry it with TK en route to the salvaged picnic table, and lift it to my mouth with fork and knife held by through a horn telekinesis spell.

“Ah,” Cross Stitch says, walking up to me, a tray of similar food held in her hoof. “You don’t mind that I sit here.” She has a fork, and an oddly sharp knife with her lunch.

… Something about that doesn’t feel right. Did she… was that intentional? That really didn’t sound like politely asking. Was that… that was a statement. Yes. Definitely.

“Not at all!” I say in the chirpy tones of a Newfoal. It’s… it’s almost infectious to try to be that happy. I almost want to surrender to it, to just–

NO!

It is then that Shieldwall walks into the room.

You could’ve heard a pin drop. Everyone gathered in the room, of both species, stands at attention, saluting. All conversation ceases. On everyone’s face are smiles, almost beatific expressions of duty, and one forced smile suppressing tightly held fear. That’s me.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” Honey Dusk says, looking up from her conversation, immediately saluting.

“At ease, all of you,” Shieldwall says. “I’m just here for lunch. And…”

The fat cook immediately serves him a sandwich with vegetables and cheese. No questions asked. It looks like a Cheese Zombie from Yakima.

“Well then,” Shieldwall says, genuine surprise on his face, “Can’t thank you enough, Iron Pot.”

“Don’t mention it, sir.”

And then Shieldwall walks over, balancing the plate with the monster sandwich on it over his head. Until, of course, Honey Dusk flashes him a smile, her horn glowing as she levitates it and Shieldwall’s walking towards me–

Oh no.

“Think nothing of it, sir,” Honey Dusk says, smiling like a Newfoal. I try not to gag.

“Lieutenant Colonel Shieldwall,” I say. “What’re you doing here?”

“See, Crossy and I are doing some… tests,” Shieldwall says. “We’re going to use our freight portal to transport some of the Newfoals we got from Quincy to Equestria, and we were thinking to try and administer the test here.”

I weigh my options. On the one hoof, doing it in a quiet room with Shieldwall means less escape avenues. On the other, doing it here seems like… actually, it seems too risky to do anything else.

“What kind of test?” I ask.

“Oh, you know. Basic Equestrian Residence Categorization,” Shieldwall says.

‘So the acronym for this sounds like ‘BERK,’ I think. ‘Hey, I can say BERK! Oh, thank… something for Cockney!’

“Administered to every Newfoal sent to Equestria, to see what job they’d be best in,” Shieldwall says. “Gotta make do somehow, so long as the Dearth’s withholding Newfoals from receiving their marks. Amazing how many potential chefs were wasting their time as entomologists, huh? Plus, it helps weed out the odd ones. Consider it our own… Veidt-Camp test, right?”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Cross Stitch says. “It’s… what was the word?”

The doctor swings her muzzle and looks right. At. Me. Is… she expecting me to say something?

‘SHE KNOWS.’

It’s like someone has screamed it in my ear in a death metal growl worthy of George Fisher or Brendan Small voicing Nathan Explosion.

‘Ah, sh… SHI-! SHOOT!’

But she can’t know, can she? I haven’t… I can’t have given away that much! And I can’t prove that she knows.

“Ah, right,” she says. “Voight Kampff.”

“I don’t know how you manage to remember this weak, superfluous tripe,” Shieldwall practically snarls. “Honestly. That gets held up as a pillar of culture, and it’s just humans stewing in their own shit, in a catastrophe of their own making.”

His face brightens.

“I guess in that way, it’s totally a pillar of human culture!”

That monster. Right now, I’m considering it a retroactive triumph, not just for the movie industry’s reputation, but for humanity and sci-fi artists in general, that only a year after Equestria arrived, we still managed to get the sequel… and it was every bit as good as the original, if not better.

Huh, what was up with that dream of the unicorn, anyway? If you ask me, it was wise of them not to touch upon it in the second movie. An answer to whether or not Deckard’s a replicant would only have ruined it.

“So.”

Dreams are one thing, but to me, unicorns are real. And Shieldwall’s voice brings me crashing back into my reality.

“Let’s begin the test.”

He places a set of photos in front of me, then sits back on a cushion in that weird almost catlike or doglike way that ponies have. “We’ll start with simple word association.”

There is a picture of humans in gas masks armed with rifles, one of a jeweled gun, one of a city where a dome of light and fire takes up most of the view, and one of a human skull.

“Push them towards me,” Shieldwall says, “And tell me the first thing you think. It doesn’t have to be more than a word, just keep it simple.”

I push the picture of humans in gas masks. That one’s obvious.

“Death.”

The jeweled gun. I’m tempted to repeat myself, but I can’t push it. Even a garden-variety Newfoal would be checking their mental thesaurus for synonyms.

Already I’m feeling a leaden weight along my forehoof. It’s not even possible for me to glance at Shieldwall, if I don’t want to give myself away. How should I play my hand, when I can’t even let them understand I’ve got a hand to play?

“Gaudy– unnecessary.”

Yeah. That one’s on pure intuition. But it seems to please Shieldwall.

The skull.

“A good start.”

The city’s destruction.

“Triumph,” I say confidently. It could only be a human city, after all.

“An interesting answer,” Cross Stitch says, smiling like a Newfoal. She draws her knife through a mushroom, which oozes ever so slightly. She takes another bite, and as she chews, she says: “Wouldn’t you say so, Shieldwall?”

And for a moment, as she holds the knives and forks suspended in midair, the knife is pointed right at me.

“I would say so,” Shieldwall says. “Now for a question. You are running cleanup duty. You see a human child at the bottom of a well. You can potion them, try to pull them out, or contact your commanding officer. Which do you do?”

“I pull them out and then potion them,” I say.

“Why?” Cross Stitch asks.

“I can’t potion them if they’re not safe,” I say. “What if they turn into an earthpony and have no way to climb?”

“... That’s a good point,” Shieldwall says. “Exactly what I would do.”

He pats me on the head, almost proud. The entire cafeteria is silent. All eyes are on me.

“Maybe too much so,” Cross Stitch says, and points the knife at me.

My inability to react saves me. I stare at it like a deer in the headlights, not able to scream, not comprehending that there is a knife coming ever closer-

“Relax!” Cross Stitch says, laughing as she places the knife on the plate. “I’m joking! It was just a joke.”

And the entire room bursts into either laughter or sighs of relief.

“Don’t worry,” Cross Stitch says, now that the laughter has died down. “I can spot a defective Newfoal miles and miles away. If you were one, you’d be dead by now.”

I try to laugh harder. I don’t know if I’m succeeding.

“Sweet Celestia,” Shieldwall scolds, “Don’t torture her. That’s something humans do.”

* * *

As I wake up the next morning, I have one thought:

That was too close. Much too close.

I want to be anywhere but here. I desperately try to remember the last time I got out of a situation like this. Once, I was captured by HLF in the South American wilderness, and some unit – I won’t go into who – decided that they could try and eat me to receive immunity to potion. Some people tried that on other Slow Newfoals in the Bad Old Days, when the Barrier was coming up against the North African coast. I don’t know if that worked and I’m happier that way.

And there was the other time PER captured me in the desert, along an abandoned stretch of highway.

Both times I got out, I did it by making them think I was giving them what they wanted. I let the HLF think I was leading them into a room in an abandoned butcher shop, then I jumped out a window. When the PER put me to work using magic, I was actually turning the smuggled hospital supplies into an explosive.

… I never did find out what the PER did with that. And maybe it’s better that way.

So.

I need to make them think I’m doing what they want. I need to do something a Newfoal would do, but undertake it in a way that won’t arouse suspicion.

I resolve to sign up for the next away mission. It’s the best idea, okay, it’s the only idea I have.So what I’m going to do is, I’m going to be the most diligent Newfoal ever, and I’m going to throw myself into the opportunity to do away missions. Then I’m just going to slip away. The same as I always did, and always wi–

‘You know, in retrospect, it might have been rude for the universe to let that go unchallenged.’

There is a bang. And then a whistle.

I hear someone banging against a gong, and then a scream. A sound like crackling ice. A wet hissing noise. A scream. Gunfire.

Guns. Human weaponry. An attack. HLF? No. It has to be PHL. Has to be.

‘Well, I guess that’s a decent escape plan!’

I rush down one hallway. There is a dull thud that is totally not explosives, and I keep galloping down the hallway. Until I find it.

‘Laundry!’

Few of the Equestrians here are civilians. And an Equestrian on duty is an Equestrian who wears clothes. So I know exactly what to do. I turn my back to the door and buck it open. The cheap wood crumples under my hooves, and I rush inside. I find what looks like clothes for human children, except it’s been stretched to fit an small equine frame. Shorts, a ratty T-shirt for Taos, New Mexico–

‘The same one from the dream!’

I don’t have time to think about that. So I throw the clothes on, and gallop back out the door. I can convince the PHL, easy. I can make them think I’m a prisoner, then in the chaos I’ll just slip out! They can’t see my cutie mark, so they have no way of guessing it’s me! It’s brilliant!

I gallop towards the cabin that I know is the entrance, and then I see it. Iron Pot is frozen to the wall, an expression of panic on his face. His eyes dart to and fro, and he is clearly trying to move, but he can’t, so encased is he by the ice. With each breath he takes, with each steamy wisp of vapor from his mouth, the ice grows.

It is up to his neck.

‘Strange, I didn’t know the PHL used freeze rays,’ I think stupidly. Then I slap myself. ‘No, silly-filly, this could just be some pony with ice magic. The guns...’

I think about that. I know what PHL assault rifles sound like. And that seemed… different. Too staggered.

How odd.

I creep slowly down the hallway, trying to avoid pools of ice. There’s an intersection ahead. I know from experience that it leads to the cafeteria, then to the cabin. Whatever’s here, I don’t want to make too much noise.

When I turn the corner, the one that leads through the cafeteria to the cabin, I freeze. No, not literally. But almost. In front of me, I see a…

A…

Part of me wants to say pony. But my mind rebels against that. It is too tall, with long, spindly legs that definitely do not belong to any pony. And it has antlers, a nest of bone-white protrusions like the branches of a tree. It blocks my way to the cafeteria.

Reindeer!

An Equestrian one. Definitely. There’s no way to mistake the proportions.

‘Aren’t they extinct?!’ I think, my mind racing.

It turns its head to look at me, and I know I need to run. I gallop away, and almost as soon as I do, the floor behind me freezes. And then suddenly, I’m skidding like I’m on ice skates. I look down at the ice, panicked, and focus energy into my horn. I’m heading towards a wall, and I’m, I’m gonna, I’m gonna CRASH–

Except that never comes. There is a green flash, and then I am down another corridor, galloping away.

‘Good cripes, did I just teleport?!’

I did!

I don’t have time to ponder that as I rush down the hallway. The Equestrian reindeer that should not be alive chases me, a determined look on its face.

I skid along the dirt floor, rushing around a bend, and then I see an open door.

Someone holds out a hoof. “GET IN! GET IN!” they scream. So I slow down ever so slightly, and gallop into the room.

“What was that?!” I hear someone yell. “They were supposed to be extinct!”

I’m still catching my breath, looking down at the floor. Wheezing. I can barely focus on anything, and I feel wobbly. Almost drunk.

That changes when I see who said that.

It’s Cross Stitch.

‘Oh no.!’

And next to her is Shieldwall. Alabaster is unconscious, bleeding heavily in one corner under an assortment of scavenged blankets. He’s breathing shallowly.

“This shouldn’t have happened!” Shieldwall yells. “They’re supposed to be all gone!”

“Well, APPARENTLY THEY’RE NOT!” Cross Stitch practically screams.

I try to force a smile onto my face. “I’m sure we shouldn’t worry about that! You two are some of the most brilliant minds in the Empire, I’m sure the four of us can work on a way out.”

“Correction,” Shieldwall says thinly, “The three of us. You’re coming home in one of the stasis cocoons.”

My smile falters. “What.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Cross Stitch says, sashaying forward. “We know exactly what you are.”

“I almost would’ve guessed you were a different kind of infiltrator, except…” Shieldwall says, as Cross Stitch waggles a syringe full of red blood with purple flecks in her horn’s TK. She’s enjoying this. That bitch.

‘Neat, swearing!’ I think somewhere distantly. ‘Where did they get that?!’

A smile spreads across Shieldwall’s face. And I want to either run or punch that smile just for existing. It makes me feel less safe just for being in the same room.

“There are trace amounts of a very old potion in you,” Shieldwall says. “The Slow Potion. So many things never made sense about you. And your attitudes. Your questions.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, trying to take on the tone of a Newfoal. It doesn’t work. In no world could it possibly be construed as ‘working’.

“The fear in your voice,” Shieldwall says, the smile widening as I tremble slightly. As my voice quavers. He sounds… almost hungry. “The sweating. You’re a Slow Newfoal, Dew Glow. One somehow afflicted with the sickness of remembering their human self.”

He trots to me and I feel frozen.

“I’ve seen them do that,” Shieldwall says. “For days, months… but you kept it up for at least three years. Maybe even more. What I want to know is how you did that. Imagine what I could learn!”

“Shieldwall,” I say, mind racing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! We can go back to lab work, I can help you out, I’ll do anything for you right now!”

“Then do this for me,” Shieldwall says, holding a scalpel against one hoof. “Come on, Dew Glow. Some part of you wants this.”

“I… don’t know if this is wise,” I say. “Come on, whatever you’re going to do, I’m not sure that Queen Celestia is going to approve–”

“Queen Celestia,” Shieldwall growls, “Isn’t here. Now, hold still and stop these stupid little protests. You’re not fooling anyone. Not me, not you. You want this, Dew Glow. Stop lying and SHOW ME WHAT’S INSIDE!”

He bellows out the last four words, and I scream. It’s a high, piercing note that could shatter glass.

I run for the edge of the room, tripping over spilled flasks, screaming my head off.

Shieldwall laughs. “Better! You’re doing better!”

I slam into the doorway before the stairs, only to ram against some invisible thing that covers the door. I slam against it, I pour magic against it, but it doesn’t budge.

“It is just the three of us, you know,” Cross Stitch says. It’s the first thing she’s said since Shieldwall showed me the vial of my blood. “Poor stunned Alabaster notwithstanding. Come on, Dew Glow. Stop struggling. It’s better if you just go along with it.”

“FUCK YOU!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

“Perhaps later!” Cross Stitch laughs. “But we’ll have to do something about that mouth of yours. So unbecoming of a Newfoal…”

“No we won’t,” Shieldwall says. “Because we’re going to find out why, piece. By. Piece.”

He taps the scalpel on the floor, punctuating each syllable.

“And she’ll enjoy every moment,” Shieldwall says, and I feel something at the tip of my tail. Then a stabbing pain, and suddenly I’m flying backwards across the room towards him, the tiles blurring by. “I’ll make sure of it. Oh yes.”

I’m really hoping for whatever is upstairs to save me. I am screaming for it. Begging for it.

“Come on, say it!” I yell. “Nothing can save me now! That it’s the end! GO ON, I DARE YOU!”

Shieldwall rolls his eyes. “Honestly, how dumb do you think I am? You’re coming with us, one way or another.”

I’m submerged halfway into the cocoon when the door explodes outward, brittle and frozen.

They stride into the room. And with them comes a blizzard, a bank of clouds and snow so dense as to be almost a solid mass.

They come in the shape of a stag and a doe. And then I know. These are the ones who have been attacking our PER base this whole time.

“What,” says one, their voice feminine, “Are you doing.”

Cross Stitch scrambles back, a look of fear on her face. But to his credit, Shieldwall doesn’t. He stands his ground, teeth gritted.

“You,” Shieldwall says, “Are supposed to be dead.”

“So was our grandfather,” says the other, one with a masculine voice, “But you wouldn’t just let him rest, would you?”

“There was more work to be done,” Shieldwall says, completely unperturbed. “To have that kind of power, and not dedicate it to the betterment of a world is to waste it.”

“You call this betterment?” the feminine one asks, inching closer to Shieldwall. Cross Stitch cowers behind him, and I watch from my position in the cocoon, almost paralyzed.

“As a matter of fact,” Shieldwall says, “I do. Look at this world, both of you, and tell me these apes haven’t wasted it.”

“Look at yourself,” one of the Reindeer says, “And tell me you’re using them any better.”

Shieldwall scoffs. “You’ll never understand.”

“We certainly won’t,” the other Reindeer says.

“There’s one more thing you don’t understand about me,” Shieldwall says. “I’m not trapped in my lab with you. You’re trapped here with me. See, I know that you did something to disrupt Cross Stitch’s teleportation spell.”

Cross Stitch just raises an eyebrow, has a strange look on her face, and mumbles, “... Let’s go with that.” Her voice is quavering slightly.

“And I’ve been working on a way to circumvent that,” Shieldwall says. “A way I can bring my lab anywhere I want.”

“But we’re not finished te–!” Cross Stitch yells.

Some part of me already knows what Shieldwall is about to do. So in that moment, I force all my will into my horn, and every thought is devoted to NOT BEING IN THIS HORRIBLE THING–

“NOT ANYMORE!” Shieldwall howls, and hammers down on a button connected to a crystalline spike.

Two things happen.

I launch forward, the cocoon tearing against my hind leg. And at that moment, there’s a sphere of purple light around one of Shieldwall’s tables, and a burst of concussive force rips through the lab. Beakers and bottles shatter. A table inexplicably turns to paper and ink. Something is on fire, or… was it always on fire? I can’t remember.

Shieldwall and Cross Stitch are gone. As is roughly half the lab. In its place is a lump of earth and some grass, spread out over the floor.

I lie on the floor, my energy sapped, watching dirt crumbling from the ceiling.

The Reindeer look at me, impassive.

“Another one of them,” the male says, strangely sad. “Should we…”

“This one is different,” says the feminine one. She nods to me. “There’s no need to lie. Tell us what happened.”

“We miiiiight need to hold off on that,” I wheeze. “Seeing as Shieldwall seems to have done something to the structural integrity of the base.”

The male one is… confused. “How do you know?”

“Partly because when he teleported out, he took out some of the ceiling,” I wheeze again. “That, and he told me he wired this room with explosives.”

The male Reindeer’s eyes widen. “Oh. Oh no. You have to get up, we can’t–”

“Funny enough,” I force out, “It’s… really hard to move. I think the cocoon did something to me.” I try to stand up, and my legs wobble under me.

And I feel a tinge of magic all around me, the magic of his touch, as he picks me up in his jaws, without his teeth sinking into me or so much of nicking me, and with an adroit toss he drapes me over his back, and begins to run.

I was right. The base is collapsing all around me. Within hours, assuming the PHL don’t find out about it, there’ll be nothing left.

Flecks of dirt and rock tumble down from the roof of the tunnel. Support beams collapse. Everything that could conceivably go wrong in an underground base dug through the dirt is going wrong.

“What was he even doing here?” the female Reindeer asks me, as they gallop through the crumbling tunnels.

“Trying to make a better Newfoal,” I say weakly. “In the other cocoon, there was a human halfway to ponification, I think he was… I think he was trying to force the process. Turn it into a weapon.”

The female Reindeer wrinkles her nose slightly, as we hurry towards the surface. I don’t give them directions, but then, they don’t seem to notice that. They turn corners practically before they come up, only barely scraping the walls. Their precision is incredible.

“To take such a despicable perversion of magic,” the female whispers, “And to… try to actively pervert it further. What have they become?”

“You tell me,” I say, and I’m surprised at the venom I can muster next: “As far as my experience goes, this is who they’ve always been.”

Both Reindeer are silent for awhile. And, despite the sounds of the crumbling base, I feel myself drifting off. It’s been a long day, after all... doesn’t a woman mare… deserve… some rest...

* * *

I wake up, and scream.

“Calm down!” the male Reindeer whispers, clamping one cloven hoof to my face. “We can’t make too much noise!”

He releases his grip, though not quickly.

I look around. I don’t see much. What sunlight we were getting around these parts is hidden from view by the forest’s thick canopy of pine trees and other plants. We are at the foot of a great birch. I am lying with my hooves tucked beneath myself, while the Reindeer stand facing me, the female to my right, and the male to my left, stepping back from me now I no longer need quieting.

“What…” I feebly gasp. “What happened?”

“You passed out from exhaustion,” the female Reindeer says. “We took the time to channel some magic into you, fix what we could. You should be able to walk, be mostly fine, but…”

I can guess. So right now, I have more important questions. “Who are you?” I ask.

The male Reindeer looks to the female. Their faces are those of brother and sister, that much I can tell immediately. But now I’ve got a closer look at them, I notice something else. Even if they hadn’t started talking the moment they entered that room, I could never mistake them for ordinary Earth reindeer. Something to do with their coats’ colors, for starters. The male’s is a creamy brown, the female’s a color that could only be called ‘chocolate’. Everything a little too… rich, somehow. They’re obviously from Equestria. Their proportions are simply… not-Earth, with big eyes and a large head.

I then realize that’s not the only peculiar thing about their faces. Despite how tall they stand, and the look in their eyes, there’s something strangely childlike to their features.

“Should we tell her?” the male asks his sister. “No… rather, how much should we tell her?”

She gazes back at him. Her face doesn’t look as if it was made for frowning, but that’s just what she’s doing, with an expression that betrays perplexity.

“Why ask now, brother?” she demands. “We took a leap of faith the moment we chose to come to her rescue. If they had any doubts as to us being alive, they’ll have no more, after that stunt.”

“One wrong word, one unfortunate slip back into the enemy’s clutches,” he says quietly, “and they could force more out of her than we’d ever want them to know.”

“Oh, let’s please stop dragging our hooves,” the female Reindeer says. “It’s been so long…”

I can’t stay quiet amidst all this.

“Not too long ago,” I say slowly, but clearly, “I thought I was going to be dissected. By someone with a bit of an overabundance of job satisfaction. And now, I’m here. I just… I feel so lost right now. I need… something. Anything.”

Another look is exchanged between Reindeer siblings. The female just nods silently at her brother. There’s something unspoken going on between them.

He’s a tall stag, this male. Strong enough to take hold of me and carry me off in one move. If I stumbled upon him in the forest, I’d keep a safe distance as much from him as from any wolf. But despite that, I sense that he… is having trouble standing on his hooves.

Like he hasn’t quite got used to carrying his own weight, just yet…

“You’re not like the others,” he says at last. “Or, indeed, like the ones who made you this way. You remember.”

I nod. “Yep. I… I had an early version of the potion. Anyone who took it was pretty much unchanged, at first. Just so it’d look like the potion could solve anything. Like it wasn’t turning people into meat-puppets. And then, all around me, Newfoals started… changing. They lost their memories, things they enjoyed, started hating humans more and more. Until they were the usual brainwashed footsoldiers.”

The Reindeer listen intently.

“And then I was there,” I say. “Just… watching Newfoals I knew, Newfoals I loved start decaying. And I would try to yell at them ‘This isn’t us!’ or something. I… I thought it was all some bold experiment. I thought we were making something new. And then I realized, they’re not the odd ones out. I am.”

The male Reindeer nods.

“And then I have to realize, I was… this was happening to everyone. And while I tried to survive the war, I barely a minute went by while I wasn’t worried if that’d happen to me, too. I saw other early Newfoals, Slow Newfoals, they called us, commit suicide. But… all the minutes I spent worrying turned into hours. The hours turned into days. Then months. Then...” I shrug, as much as a pony can shrug. “I’ve been like this for five years.”

“Five years,” the male repeats. “Almost as long as the time since the transition…”

“And the average Newfoal left to fend for themselves on Earth doesn’t live more than a month or two,” I add. “I’m pretty much ancient.”

“Then, if you’re as ‘ancient’ as you say,” the male utters softly, “you must remember what even the natural-borns seemingly have begun to forget. In those early days, Celestia was more forthcoming about the story of her world and its people. Before she sought to erase it. To remake it. Amongst that world’s people were the Reindeer, and the Reindeer were tied to Equestria by an old covenant.”

At his words, the female glances away, staring into the depths of the forest.

“What happened?” I ask. “Shieldwall said you were supposed to be dead, but…”

“He’d be happy it we were.”

It isn’t the brother who spoke that time. He looks towards his sister, who still doesn’t look back.

“Why?” I gasp. “What could…”

“Our species was guilty of the highest crime in the new order of the Solar Empire,” the sister says, sadly. “Not fitting into Queen Celestia’s vision.”

“I said she sought to remake the world,” the brother speaks. His words are intoned with a harsh, blunt simplicity. “But that is only half true. Celestia wants to remake you, the human race. Us? She cut out the mid-section, and ordered us to be… erased.”

“But… why?” I ask, again. “What could… I just… why?”

“Why?” the brother echoes. His sturdy shoulders sag. “If I could tell you that, we’d have the cure to Celestia’s madness. She wasn’t always this way. Or so we were told, by someone who loved her dearly, and whom she had killed. Our grandfather, the King of Adlaborn. There are still people who remember him, but...” He sighs, the strange youthfulness in his face vanishing, making him look old. “On this world, aside from Lucie and I, the only ones who still speak the name ‘Sint Erklass’ are those who chose fealty to the Golden Lyre’s banner.”

“You mean the PHL?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “And it’s a name you won’t hear from the people you’ve kept company with. Even though...” Here, his eyes narrow. “Lately, we felt a tremor in the world’s fabric. It appears that forgetting him hasn’t stopped them from desecrating his place of rest. And you,” he adds, in a tone that isn’t at all comforting, “know something about it, I believe. Don’t say you don’t.”

“Eadmund,” his sister interjects, now turning back towards us. “She is as much a victim of the Empire as they are. Maybe even more. Our thoughts, our feelings can be called our own. Hers...”

“Even I don’t know how much they’re my own,” I say solemnly. “It’s hard to even think swear words. There, in the lab, where I told Shieldwall to ffffffffff… Frig himself, that’s the first time in too long I’ve been able to swear out loud. I can barely even say what I want!”

The sister chuckles, because somehow, there’s something she finds funny in this.

“I’m sorry,” she says, meeting my eye. “It’s just… in some respects, Adlaborn was like what Celestia wants you to think Equestria is like. So… pristine. And we loved it just as it was, though it wasn’t for lack of enforcement, sometimes. Like, there was that time our mother washed out my mouth with soap, because I’d said a bad word after stubbing my hoof… Ah, memories. But I still had the choice to say bad words. I had the choice to do good. Celestia has taken that away from you, from humans, from so many of us.”

“You said you tried to… help me,” I say. “Did you try to… try to fix being ponified?”

“If only we knew how,” says the sister, her voice laced with pity. “And yet… I believe that’s why Celestia went after us. Our home, our family, our people. If there’s someone who might have been able to reverse what’s been done to you, it was our grandfather.”

“But... he’s dead,” I say.

“Yes,” the sister says. “And with the fraction of the power we have, we can’t reverse what is happening to you. We can only delay it. But we know what, maybe, could stop it in its tracks.”

“What?” I ask, no, I beg. “What can I do?!”

“There are two options,” the male Reindeer says. “Firstly… do you know about ponies’ cutie marks?”

Again I nod, though I still have to gag at the term. “Yes…” I say, hoping he’s not going where I think he’s going, but knowing that he absolutely is.

“Well, it’s… more than just a signifier of talent,” he says. “It is an anchor of self. Of identity. Ponies who earn their cutie marks feel so secure, so happy, knowing that they have discovered something so uniquely them.”

Oh no. No no no. They’re not–

“If you earn one,” the female Reindeer says, “Then you will find your purpose. And your identity will be safe.”

They are.

My jaw drops. No way. No Newfoal has ever achieved a cutie mark, none of them ever make that giant leap of establishing an identity. It is an impossible task, as far as I know.

“What’s the second?” I ask.

The female Reindeer looks downcast. “You already know what the second one is. You’ve already considered it, but you won’t do it.”

I think about it. Yeah, I… as afraid as I am, I wouldn’t drop that far. So, first option it is.

“It’s impossible,” I say. “But I’ll go for it. I’ll find my cutie mark.”

“You think she’ll be able to do it, Lucie?” the male asks.

“It’s not as impossible as you might think,” the female Reindeer says. “You, Hope, you have more identity than any Newfoal that we know of. If anyone can do it, you can.”

“But… but how do I find it?” I ask. “I mean, there’s a lot of things I enjoy. A lot of things that could’ve been a cutie mark. Cosplay, video games, running, hiding, cooking…”

“Then do them, if they give you pleasure,” the male Reindeer says. “Yet all those are the seeds, not the fruit. A mark comes to you in a moment of gnosis, of spiritual affirmation.”

“‘Spiritual affirmation’?” I repeat. “I can barely keep my mind together. How am I even supposed to attempt that?!”

“It does the most terrible things to souls,” the female agrees. “But don’t go thinking you can’t do it. Where there’s life, there is soul, somewhere, hidden beneath all the grot.”

I can’t help it. The frustrations of the last few days have built up in me. I need to get snippy. And there’s something neither of these Reindeer appear to have taken into account.

“How?” I demand. “How do you think I’ve even got a chance? The way I understood it, marks come to you at a certain age, like they’re this crossing over from childhood. I’m an adult. Yes, I’m a Newfoal, but physically I’m still a damn adult. If I had a chance, it’s passed me by.”

The female Reindeer smiles mysteriously.

“There’s something our grandfather used to say,” she tells me wistfully. “There are no adults. There are only children playing at being adults.”

Her words sink in. I have nothing to say to that.

“While the soul is in you, your truest self is in you,” Lucie says. “You only to open your eyes.”

“But you won’t be able to do it here,” Eadmund says gruffly. “You have to go east, Hope.”

My heart sinks. ‘Oh no...’

I never wanted to go east. That’s where the worst possible things always happen. Solar Empire bombing raids, PHL patrols, overcrowded cities, HLF with a seemingly limitless supply of guns and angry refugees, and glory-hungry PER who are willing to burn it all to the ground. HLF-occupied towns, tiny little pocket dictatorships too remote for the PHL or centralized authority to touch.

“East? You’re absolutely sure? Why?”

“I am sure,” he says, to a nod from his sister. “There is a man in the east, not PHL, who is nonetheless allied with ponies and opposed to the Empire. Meeting him could lead to you finding your mark.”

“You said ‘lead to,’ not ‘will’.” I narrow my eyes.

“I certainly did,” Eadmund says, nodding.

“That makes it sound like he won’t cure me, but it’ll set me on the path to getting cured.”

“It certainly does,” Lucie says, impassive.

I think it over. Sure, I could find somewhere else to hole up, I could find another town like Quincy and hunker down until the Barrier comes or until it all fails again, and someone decides I’d make a good target or a cure or no no no stop

Or I could try something new. I could finally dream of having my mind completely to myself for the first time in years. And if I fail, it’ll be a hell of a way to die.

“Alright,” I say, committing myself to this impossible task. “I’ll do it.”

Author's Note:

And now we see the central thrust of this story. I've been looking forward to this part!

Some fun facts, btw -
* 1. The chapter name is, well... it's named after the song Moustache Whacks by SQUIDLID. I spent a lot of time listening to it on the plane when I made this, so it only seemed fair.

*2 . Yes, Shieldwall mangling pop culture stuff is 100% intentional. I wanted him to display a better understanding of humanity than most of his fellow PER or Solar Empire military, but have him get things mixed up constantly. It's meant to show how dismissive he is. Fun fact again, this actually originates from a typo in Snowbound - Shieldwall refers to Alaska as "Sewell's folly," when it is actually "Seward's Folly." This was a typo on my part, but I liked the idea of Shieldwall superficially getting it but also totally not getting it, so I kept the typo.
3. You know, I've tried to build Shieldwall up as a genuine threat for years, but I think this is about the biggest success I've had so far.
4. Yes, the scene in Utopia is the same one that is in Light. Because of course it is.

Comments

[Mr cold ghost]

Interesting that Kraber and Hope share a common hallucination. I look forward to the next update!

[Doctor Fluffy]

10066991
We can only... HOPE