• Published 3rd Nov 2011
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First Pony View - Suomibrony



Some dreams you might never want to end… …but what happens when the dream really doesn't?

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Make Believe

First Pony View
A My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic fan fic
By Suomibrony

Chapter 18
Make Believe


Something blurry, but recognizable, then darkness. A voice asked why was I here. A female's. I mumbled something, and tried to think, but neither went too well. She would help me in. In to what? Would find Embee? For what? I was gently pushed or guided. I wasn't sure. Everything felt out of place. Something soft was on me. I wasn't sure what was going on or where I was. Maybe I was on a cloud in the sky? That made sense. Kind of. I thought again, but thoughts were escaping my grasp like a wet bar of soap. Was I thinking? Hold on. I thought I was thinking. So I was thinking. I felt something? I was feeling something. Not a cloud. Not cotton. Not a cotton cloud. Harder. I was on lying on something, sideways. Everything felt oddly normal, but when I opened my eyes . . . A pair of legs and feet, a pair of arms and hands, and a pair of . . . unwanted surprises.

While I was undoubtedly disconcerted, I nonetheless realized I was in a well-lit but windowless room with white-tiled floors and walls. A row of lockers and a long, wooden bench were across from me, and the bench I was on was set against a wall of lockers as well. This wasn't the hospital. Somehow, I knew this place was a spa hotel. Why I was here? What had happened? I tried to think, but no answers came to mind. I wasn't even sure how much time had elapsed.

Bewildered, I sat up stiffly. Next to me was a plastic bag along with a set of folded clothes: navy blue jeans, a black track top with orange stripes down the sleeves, and a t-shirt in a color I wasn't sure whether to abhor or accept. “Hon?” a voice said, grabbing my attention. A slender, young blonde was standing to my right. “Are you okay?” The moist and uncombed hair, the aquamarine shirt, gym pants and canvas shoes; there was something familiar about her.

“I think I'm okay,” I said numbly. Feeling exposed, I wasted no time putting on the t-shirt. Once done, I rested my hands on my thighs. “I don't remember a few things.” I reached for the jeans. At least their color wasn't typically associated with femininity, although that had not weighed much on my mind when I put on the pink shirt. Still didn't, for that matter.

“Oh? That's an unfortunate side effect of the spell,” the woman informed ruefully.

“Spell?” I asked with a bit of apprehension, nevertheless focused on getting myself into the jeans.

“Peachy isn't a magician, but we were in luck when she was able to cast a transformation spell. While you still do have Rosy's body, the spell provides a high identity protection. Amnesia and some memory leaks may occur, but it's only short-term and infrequent,” she explained, then seated herself next to me and laid her arm on my shoulder. “You don't need to worry, hon. Everything's going to be fine. I'm here for you.”

Her hair, her half-lidded look, those amethyst eyes? She was Embee! How? Why? I was utterly puzzled. Not just by her humanity. My humanity. I slowly flexed my fingers and looked down my arms to my elbows. There was something different in how they looked, but not as appreciably as it was with the entirety of this physique. This shape was right and wrong, and I was both delighted and distressed. I shouldn't be; I should only be grateful that I had this much.

“I know everything will be alright,” I said optimistically as I put on my socks and sneakers, trying to forget my relatively unimportant grievances.

“You know why we came here?” Embee asked softly. “I remember. Do you?”

“Yeah, it's coming back to me.” Like a poorly edited clip show. “You visited me this morning, and immediately you could tell I hadn't showered in days.” That was embarrassing, but I had my reasons for abstaining from showering.

“That's right.” She chuckled warmly. “Coming to this spa was your idea. A crash course, you said. I don't know why you were so awkward, though. I got the feeling you were afraid to be seen.” I wrapped my arms over my midsection, slouching a little. “Do you have a body image issue?”

“This isn't quite how I used to look like,” I admitted. “But don't worry.” I hastily smiled at Embee. “Aside from a few trivialities, I'm okay with this. Just a little self-conscious, that's all.” That was putting it lightly. So many people in the spa, such implicit pressure to behave normally, and I hadn't been in full agreement with my apparel. While now out of sight in a plastic bag, they nevertheless evoked recent feelings of humiliation and discomfiture. The crash course! It was sparked by a sense of boldness, not unlike dipping myself into cold water just to prove to myself that I could. Much like the iciness sapping my warmth, my courage had also dwindled when put to the test. Determined not to go back on my decision, I had undertaken a very harrowing trial. Yet, I couldn't believe I had chosen to experience that by my own accord.

Embee suggested we get out of here. I put on the track top, but left it unzipped. Would be too constricting otherwise. As a silver lining, there wasn't much to constrict. I then happened upon a mirror, where something anthropomorphic stared back at me. The clothes matched mine, and to whom the head on my shoulders belonged to was immediately apparent.

“Are we going or not?” Embee said laughingly as she grabbed my arm. I didn't resist her pulling me away. As we walked, I scrutinized my hands. They weren't covered in white hair. I physically checked for prominent ears on my head; I didn't find any. I had a nose, not a muzzle. I was so glad I wasn't anthropomorphic. That would just be too freaky and draw unwanted attention.

Through a red-carpeted hallway with mahogany walls, we came to an open and fairly lavish lobby, sporting maroon recliners and brass-lined glass tables. Embee leisurely recounted how I had been meek and withdrawn. I didn't need any reminders. I was still meek and withdrawn, but slightly less now that I was clothed.

After Embee did something at the reception, we ventured out into the spacious parking lot that was ensconced by trees and bathed by the afternoon sun.

Many cars were here. I remembered where mine was. I had a weird feeling now that we were inside, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I did put my right hand on the wiper stalk. Embee inquired if something was wrong. I had set the wipers into motion, and I was captivated, as if I was seeing a message meant for me in a language I didn't understand.

“Nothing.” I turned the wipers off. Everything worked excellently. Lights, engine, transmission, clutch. Everything. An old, reliable car without bells and whistles. A purist's wish? Some guy, who might've been named Oscar—I wasn't sure—was retiring and had put his business for sale. This car had been the cheapest on the lot and had been there for a very long time. It also looked kind of lonely, so I took pity on it. A pony looking for a car was such a surprise that for some reason Oscar offered to drive the car to my home with me as a passenger after the purchase. That was exceptionally nice of him. Wait? Did any of this actually happen? It seemed improbable, yet . . . My memory seemed muddled.

“Careful. Don't wake her up,” Embee whispered suddenly and tensely, much to my confusion. I asked her what she meant, but she seemed oblivious.

I heard another voice, but maybe that was from the car radio. “. . . leap to conclusions . . . substantiate her humanity.” That came from the radio? I was sure I had heard that female voice before. A song was playing, but while it sounded familiar, I couldn't tell why. Was it from Mario Kart?

Inexplicably, I was by myself next to a river estuary, or some kind of body of water in the grassy lowlands. A road curved here, hugging the sandy embankment. A boxy-looking green car crossed the median and flew into the water, sinking in a matter of seconds. I was saddened, but also angered. How could someone mistreat a vintage Volkswagen Polo! Or was it an Audi 50? They were practically identical. Despite my fear of water, I considered diving to the car and checking which one it was, maybe even rescue the car somehow. Or not maybe. I absolutely had to! To leave it there wouldn't be right!

Before I had time to act on my plan, I was interrupted by a hand on my shoulder. A guy in a flannel shirt and brown trousers with slightly graying dark hair and a thin mustache was behind me. Puzzled, I faced him. “Your mom does what she thinks is best for you, but doesn't always ask for your input.” She had convinced my dad to rearrange my room when I was in school one day. That had really ticked me off! “You're not as distant with your dad. He's got a kind heart, but he's a pushover and not the sharpest pencil in the drawer.” It was discouraging that I didn't think I could engage in a deep and meaningful discussion with him. “They love you, but don't really show it. Your friends are great at video games and like fun as much as the next guy, but a thoughtful bunch they are not.” Sometimes, I felt that their minds hadn't matured much since their teens. “I get the impression you're the sensitive type.” I had the impression that sensitivity was not an appreciated trait. “A hair over sixty, widower, no kids, no grandchildren, no family to speak of. Did I ever tell you I had friends? I believe I didn't.” The man's hand slid off my shoulder, and he smiled sadly. “I kept my enterprise afloat for nearly forty years. That's how I lived my life. But time has passed me by. I guess loneliness got to me, and I saw you as a child I never had.” That was a tad creepy. He chuckled, then speculated that I might be right. He placed a car in my palm. Hearing sloshing from the body of water, I turned around to see a light blue four-door sedan of European design slowly rise from the water. “It's not much,” the man said humbly. “Just a thing that has served me well.” The car was shedding pearly droplets, approaching me at a crawl, its wheels spinning lazily as they elegantly cleaved water. It traversed the incline and came to a rest on the road, being so clean it might as well have been self-luminous. It was eerily otherworldly, yet beautiful. Mesmerized, I knelt down by the front and ran my fingers slowly over the gray bumper. It was coarse. “Treat it well.”

“I'll try,” I said, but I became puzzled when I realized no one was here. Although, the green car was now on the beach, its entire front end a crumpled and depressing mess. I wished I could've helped it somehow. Now it was too late. It was a dead car.

When I looked back at mine, I saw moisture on the headlights. “Are you crying?” I inquired softly, gently wiping a little of the fluid off. A silence dawned, its duration unusually hard to calculate. “Why were you crying?” I received no answer. Then I realized how absurd it was to talk to a car.

Embee was waiting inside the car. I wasn't sure if she said anything, or if I said anything. Next thing I knew, I was behind the wheel, passing apartments of various age and design. Shops, a few parks, even a cathedral. Very recognizable locations, but none of them seemed specific. Then we stopped by the roadside for some reason. There were only trees here, and the vacant road was slanted just a bit as it curved to the left. Embee had gone into the woods, and I was leaning against my car, gazing in boredom at the rural thickness. Another car was coming from ahead. Strangely, it looked precisely like mine. It was going a little fast, and the road looked wet. Not too surprisingly, the car spun out of control. “No,” I commanded tersely, as if the car was a misbehaving child. It regained traction and sped past me as if nothing had ever happened. However, as bemused I was by this sudden event, I felt like I had done something remarkable. I pressed my mind, and gathered that the bumpers were unpainted plastic, and a car was composed of hundreds upon hundreds of parts. What had that to do with anything? Regardless, Embee and I were soon back on the road. We ultimately arrived at a gas station that also housed a supermarket and a diner. It was by a freeway, and grasslands stretched out as far as the eye could see. The gas station was colored in orange and green, but otherwise was a plain, white concrete building with large windows.

I had to remind Embee to lock the car doors. No central locking in this car. I had parked next to a modern, silver gray sedan. It was shiny and streamlined, but also bulky with sharp, intimidating headlights. Like many other cars, I thought it looked menacing. My simplistic and somewhat smaller car looked placid in comparison, amplified further by its round-edged, gently trapezoid headlights. It was such a cutie! But I'd be careful of saying that, because deviations from the normal were socially unacceptable.

I asked what her plan was as we walked through the sliding doors. She stopped and looked to the left with a hum; that was where the supermarket was. She then looked to the right, toward the diner. “I could grab something to eat,” she said and headed to the right. Naturally, I followed. The furniture here was made out of dark wood, with a floor composed of brown tiles. Quite a fancy diner. Maybe it was a restaurant? Why was I so unsure? Did I not know?

Positioning ourselves at the tray rack, we took stock of the displays ahead. ‘Sandwiches and baguettes in plastic wrap, doughnuts, muffins, pies,’ I itemized, easily identifying them through the plexiglass covers. ‘Water, juice, milk, soda, tea, coffee.’

“There's a lot to choose from. Even meals.” A backlit menu was above the row of counters ahead, although most of the displayed goods were for omnivores. Maybe Embee wasn't interested? I gestured at a separate sideboard. “You can make your own salad over there, if you like.”

“Hold that thought.” She leaned close, whispering, “I got a womanly need demanding my attention.”

“Oh?” I didn't need to think twice to infer what she meant. “Well . . . Gonna take care of it?” I whispered back.

“Right away.” She opened the beige shoulder bag she was carrying, procuring from within a sky blue package, then handed me her bag “Can you take my bag and find us a seat in the meantime?”

“Certainly.” I slung it over my shoulder and willed a smile. “I'll choose a window seat.” With a thanks and an acknowledgment, she strolled off toward wherever the restrooms were at. I envied her positive attitude, but I couldn't believe she was going to cheerfully push one of those things into herself.

I made my way to a secluded booth in the corner, sat myself on the green sofa, and let the bag's strap slide off my shoulder. Speaking of straps and shoulders, I stuck my fingers underneath my shirt collar. “Stupid things,” I muttered, finding and then returning what had slipped off to its intended place. Considering my proportions, perhaps the piece of clothing was unneeded. Resting my elbows on the table, I held my head on a bridge formed by my fingers, feeling a little despondent. I cast a glance to my right, and as luck would have it, my car was not far beyond the glass. It seemed to project comfort to me. Strange.

A sudden voice nearby drew my immediate attention. A slightly stocky young guy in a gray hoodie was standing by the table, his dark hair featuring a gelled tip dyed red above his forehead. I recognized that person, and I hoped he wouldn't recognize me. “Pink highlights? That's funny. Perfectly natural, am I right?” His affably sarcastic comment drew my gaze upwards for a second.

“Pure one hundred percent natural, guaranteed. I've had them, well, since always. Can't get these anywhere, since rosy pink hair dye is unheard of and impossible to manufacture,” I replied in kind.

He smiled slyly with a chuckle. “That's funny.” Funny? No, I was nervous. He was one of my disputable friends, after all. “Know what's really funny?”

“Off-hand, no,” I said plainly. Benny didn't look or sound intoxicated, so perhaps he would behave himself.

“You see that light blue car?” He pointed at my car outside.

“With my two Mark I eyeballs,” I affirmed, trying to act cool.

“My friend has the same kind of car,” he informed.

“That's neat.” I held my eyes on my car as I waited for my frown to vanish.

“You know what else is really funny?” he asked confidently. I remained silent, giving him a stoic stare. “My friend's got the same kind of track top you do.”

“Okay.” My eyes slowly rolled toward the window, whereupon they snapped back to him. “What a coincidence.”

Wearing the most self-satisfied smile his face could handle, he sat down opposite me, laid his arms on the table, and crossed his fingers. His index fingers unfurled to point at me. “What's even more funnier is that you look a lot like my friend.” I was speechless, but I had plastered a look on my face that was somewhere between astonished and nonchalant. “But my friend's not a chick.” I felt that word was disparaging, and not just at me. “Never thought he'd look cute as a chick, though,” he remarked complacently. Was he playing with me? I had a feeling he had put two and two together already. “Are you like his identical twin sister or something? That's funny. I thought he had no siblings.” Feeling like I had no recourse out of this mess, I placed my face into my palms with a sigh. “So, what's it like?”

“What's what like?” I said from behind my hands.

“Come on, don't play dumb. That car and the clothes, and the face that's like yours but prettier.” So, the cat was out of the bag. Finally. I didn't look him in the eye, though. “The smart guy is now the chick, huh? Got a dandy new name for yourself? Please don't tell me it's something dumb, like Kelly.” His smarmy attitude convinced me to hold my tongue. “Okay, be like that. So, how's it like to have . . .” He did rubbing motions on his chest. “Had a lot of fun, eh?”

“Fun?” I was so appalled that I felt queasy. “Graft a pair of bean bags to your chest with duct tape and try to go about your day as normal, then tell me how much fun that is. You'll quickly discover them to be inconveniences without any redeeming qualities. In fact, I sometimes feel like I'm deformed.”

Benny said I shouldn't think of myself as deformed, adding that I was a fine looker. He missed the point completely, but I was so dismayed I couldn't bring myself to enlighten him. “So, bean bags, huh? That's what, B-cups?” Barely, fortunately. I remembered seeing myself in a mirror, in my underwear, with a deranged grin stuck on my face. There was no doubt I had suffered a massive emotional breakdown soon after. “Hehhey, round domes are better than pointy cones!” What was that supposed to mean? Then I saw that his gaze was aimed below my neck; I tucked the sides of my track top closer. “Don't hide 'em, sexy.”

“Don't call me that!” I snapped. “And I have every right to hide them. They're not your eye candy.” I turned askew, starting to feel unbearably self-conscious and somber. “I don't even particularly like them.” They were an affront to my person.

When Benny uttered another idiotic remark, I left my seat with an urgent want to expunge my bad mood. Spotting a metallic door behind myself, I promptly opened it and walked through. To my astonishment, I found myself in an iron-clad room with a wooden desk at the far end. Between me and that, however, was a bulky robot with a powdered wig on its glowing dome of a head. Presenting itself as Button Gwinnet—which I raised a brow at— he stated that my assault into his well-defended fort was daring and brave, but that he wouldn't surrender the Declaration of Independence without a fight. Utterly confused, I thought it best to not say a word and go back through the metallic door. To my annoyance, I had reverted to a pony form decked in leather armor and a bandana. I hated to know that the leather armor was quite figure-hugging. I assumed it couldn't be any different for ponies. But I was more agitated by the fact that the lever that opened the door was wholly unusable with hooves! Thwarted, I faced the malfunctioning bucket of bolts and imitated dialogue. Passing the speech check to convince the robot I was Thomas Jefferson on a mission to ensure the DoI's safety seemed all too easy.

Button-bot chuckled. “My dear girl,” he spoke to me with affable disbelief in his aristocratic voice, humiliating me when he ruffled my mane with his three-fingered robotic hand. “I'm sorry to say this, but you are not Thomas Jefferson.”

“I don't understand this. My success chance was one hundred percent,” I complained, incredulous and dismayed. Enunciating a decidedly feminine grunt, I used my foreleg to gently push Button-bot's limb out of my hair. After he happily remarked how preposterous it was that a "fair and dignified young lady" attempted to impersonate Thomas Jefferson, I sighed in defeat. I didn't have the audacity to attack a fundamentally harmless robot, so I chose to do this quest the hard way. “Okay, I'll hoof it to the library and bring ink so that we can make a forgery of Declaration of Independence to give to the Brits.”

“Deliver the redcoats a forgery? That's astounding!” He was so awestruck that he jumped on the spot. Quite impressive for a robot who resembled a metallic avocado with legs. “I can not believe that ingenious scheme did not come to me first!” I had a vague inkling that the idea was his, not mine. He ruffled my mane again, the humiliation of which created a ball of loathing within my chest cavity. “Without a shred of doubt in my mind, I must profess that you are a very clever girl.”

Although disgruntled by his compliment, I plastered a demure smile on my face. “Yes, I am a very clever—” I cast a look over my back, catching a very unobstructed view of my tail. “Pony,” I finished flatly, feeling that attributing the g-word to myself in any capacity was equal to self-betrayal. “Can it apply to my physical self?” I placed my hoof between my eyes as I screwed my eyes shut. “It's just a harmless word,” I reasoned as I opened my eyes. I was back in the seat of the gas station/diner/restaurant place, opposite Benny, and best of all, I had reverted from a leather-clad mare to my previous self. That I was still female put a damper to my joy, however.

Benny was holding a piece of cardboard in his hands with “Shall we continue?” scribbled on it. I think that was what was scribbled on it. A wireless game controller was on the table; I took it and pressed the start button. He promptly threw the cardboard sign over his shoulder. “So, do you like some sausage in your pie?” he asked, sporting a wry smile and twirling his index finger on the table. He then became utterly flabbergasted when I expressed my surprise at him being a chef. His brief stint as a burger flipper and pursuing a career as an electrician couldn't be conducive to cooking. But what kind of pie has sausages? Seemed like he only became more confused, and that was starting to confuse me.

Our staring contest ended when he asked if I could stand up and turn around. When I wanted to know why, he replied that he needed to assess if I was blessed with beautiful buttocks. I rolled my eyes with a huff of disgust, then in no uncertain terms outlined that I was tired of his debauchery, and suggested he acts like a civilized and responsible adult or leaves me be. He defended himself by saying that teasing was an essential part of friendly banter. I pointed out that his teasing and banter was anything but friendly.

He crossed his arms, leaning back leisurely. “Okay. I'm sorry. I think I got off to a bad start.” I assumed he had taken my wish with some seriousness. “You're a girl now, huh?” he posited.

“Not mentally. Only physically,” I clarified, uncertain of his trustworthiness.

“But girls are girls, and guy are guys, so that means you are a girl,” he said with a happy smile, as if things were that simple.

Sighing, I momentarily buried my face in my hands, unwilling to believe he was being genuinely obtuse. “No, think for a second. My body is female, but my mind is male. That doesn't mean I'm female.”

“If you're not, then you gotta act like a man,” he said plainly. I looked at him, perplexed. He then started talking about how a real man would derive every form of pleasure out of possessing a female form, sexual or otherwise, then segued into how men and women have exclusive and distinct interests, roles, traits, and hobbies, and that the lines shouldn't be blurred or crossed. Then he started juggling glowsticks. This somehow demonstrated that it was okay for males to act like a female if it was to make fun of their stereotypical behavior, but totally uncool to genuinely behave effeminately or like feminine things. I gathered he was rambling about what was socially unacceptable and what wasn't. I interjected by querying why something had to be socially unacceptable. “It's just how it is, and nothing good comes out of questioning it.” That sounded ominous, like a threat veiled in an impassive tone. Apparently done with ranting, he produced six pony figurines that he lined up on the table. “So, let me ask you: which one of these do you identify with the most?” The figurines were instantly recognizable, and my eyes were quickly drawn to the rainbow-maned mare. Was that what I identified most with? Rainbow Dash was what I felt I must strive for. With my arms tented, I held my thumbnails to my lips as I began reconsidering the yellow pegasus to be the closest match to my personality. “You know, the pony you choose decides what you are.” Benny's smug smile was off-putting, and he seemed to silently revel in letting me see it, leading to the inference that I was playing into his hands. “So, what kind of a girl are you, hmh?”

“My identity is not female,” I insisted. Then I hatched an idea so brilliant that my exasperation was instantly replaced by face-blanking astonishment. I eagerly placed six figurines of my own before his, each identical to his, save for one notable detail: my lineup consisted of males. “So, which one of these do I identify with the most? You think it's this one?” I pointed at the male Rainbow Dash. “Well, sorry, but no.” I slowly shook my head, as if Benny's unspoken guess was wrong. “I have a bit of each, but if I had to choose one, and only one.” I gingerly placed one pony on my open palm. “This is the kind of a guy I am,” I said self-assuredly, yet softly, as I raised my palm to my eye level.

“You gotta be joking.” Benny frowned, dissatisfied. “You want to be a wimp?”

“Oh no, now you're misunderstanding him,” I said calmly. “For starters, he's sensitive, empathetic, and sweet.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Benny said tersely. “You should've picked this one.” He pointed at the male Rainbow Dash. “Or that one.” Now his finger rested on male Applejack. “Maybe this one.” Male-Twi's turn to receive a light tap on the head. He regarded Pinkie to be unbearably lively and "too pink". “That yellow disgrace doesn't deserve to call itself a man, and neither do you if you don't wise up and choose something better.”

Withholding my resentment for his derisive assertion, I returned male-Fluttershy to the line, then studied the counterparts of each pony like it were a chess game. “In your opinion, you believe it's perfectly fine for women to be like any of the six mares?” Benny's reply was a firm yes. “Even these two?” I pointed out Applejack's and Rainbow Dash. When Benny replied with another yes, I knew what the natural follow-up question was. “Is it perfectly fine for men be like any of the stallions here?”

“Nope,” he said, his tone unchanging as he then claimed that the white one with a poised expression and stylish mane was playing for the same team due to his grandiloquent decorum, lifestyle, and appearance. I wasn't convinced sexual orientation was determined by those factors. Obviously, I was heavily opposed to the double standards he espoused, but I had to maintain my civility, and above all else, refrain from personal attacks.

“I believe in equality, which means that men and women deserve the same opportunities and freedoms in their private and public life,” I stated. “Or in other words, men can be feminine and women can be masculine, without fear of prejudice and judgment. The world would be pretty boring if we were all the same. Therefore, diversity is a virtue. By your admission, however, you're fine with tomboys. From this I draw the assumption that you don't try to shoehorn them into a narrow and archaic role, telling them to "woman up" when they exhibit traits typically associated with the opposite gender. So, with that said, it's not too much to ask that you refrain from "correcting" men who exhibit femininity, right? I mean, how does it affect your life if a guy is not the epitome of masculinity?”

Benny was looking like a kid sulking for not getting his way. “Bah! Why you gotta try to outwit me? You're the chick, not the smart guy.” His petulant retort didn't upset me one bit. Actually, I laughed a little. His expression changed instantly. “Dang,” he said with a dead serious tone. “You're like you, but a girl. It's kinda hot. That giggle, though? It's too girly. So yeah, don't do that again.”

“Oh?” I was surprised, even somewhat worried. “Are you imposing an arbitrary femininity limit on me?”

He replied affirmatively with an expletive added for measure. “Your voice's also too girly. All that perkiness and softness. Quit it.”

His draconian demeanor was like that one time when my friends and I, him included, were transformed into ponies with the exception of that I got hit with the sex swap stick, and my bemoaning of my predicament had been met with disheartening belittlement and ridicule. “If you had this voice for a few days, you too would realize that it becomes the new normal. It's unsettling at times, but I just have to live with it.” I found a faint smile. “It does draw out my feminine side. That's not inherently bad. Every guy has a feminine side. Even you.”

“Shut up! That ain't true, and stop trying to be two things at once.” He enunciated a shallow insult spiced with curse words, evidently peeved. “It's like that cake thing. You can't be girly and call yourself a guy, too.” Was I getting under his skin by not conforming to his concept of gender norms?

“Okay then.” Intimidated and unwilling to agitate him further, I chose to drop the topic. “Um, but you don't have a problem with my figure, do you?” I asked reluctantly. His reply was an unwavering no, and his gaze dipped. He smiled a little, as if not sure whether he should smile at all.

“I'm sorry to say this, but I like to imagine you in something more flattering.” He nodded indicatively toward a blonde. Her attire consisted of a blue low-cut top, a miniskirt, and high heels. She then saw us, gave us a smirk, and started to spin slowly around on the spot while twirling her hand as if waving a lasso above her head.

Next she came to me, placing her hands on her knees as she leaned down, she introduced herself as Naughty Nighty. She sultrily asked if she was exciting me. I replied with a no, and added that I would rebuff her romantic or sexual advances. Benny wanted to know if I had interacted with my lady parts. “It was horrible and I'm never trying it ever again!” I cried out. They both stared at me in disbelief. Naughty Nighty called me frigid, as if that was something I should be ashamed of.

When she stormed off, Benny commented, “What a fine looker she is.” I expected her to trip on her high heels. That didn't happen. “Kinda like you, huh?”

“I know, I'm a total hottie,” I chirped jauntily with a subtle touch of sarcasm to camouflage my shock and contempt. He then went on to say that I would look great if my outfit was more titillating. Producing a pencil and a sheet of paper from literally nowhere, he quickly made an illustration of a young woman casting a confident look over her shoulder, wearing a denim vest, shorts, and leggings. Despite my reluctance to give him an ego boost and a small victory, I had to admit that making a lifelike illustration with only a pencil was extremely impressive. However, I held my tongue when he, with salacious word choices, opined that the intriguing apparel emphasized the attractiveness of the thighs and posterior. As he colored the hair copper-brown with rosy-pink stripes, I allowed myself a disgruntled huff and a frown. I made it clear that I preferred my modest and nearly gender-neutral outfit.

Curiosity got the better of him and he wondered if I was wearing women's undergarments. I saw no reason to tell him a lie, although I was embarrassed to confirm his suspicion. “That's hot,” he said happily. I couldn't be sure if he was joking or not.

“If you think about it, being attracted to a female who identifies as a male makes you attracted to the same sex. Sort of. I mean, I'm still me, just with a cuter face, higher intonation, more curves, and longer hair with these vivid highlights.” I grabbed my hair and gently let them slip out of my hands. “Say, if I were to cut my hair short, would I resemble myself then?” I pulled my hair back behind my head and held it by one hand in a ponytail so as to create a more boyish appearance. “Oh, but hey.” With my jocular side taking a stand, I applied a deliberately feminine slant to my intonation. “It's no secret you have the hots for me.” I rested my head on my bridged fingers, casting him a sidelong look as I fluttered my eyelashes. “Even once I'm back to being physically male?” I undid my little pose with a demure giggle. He had an uncertain look about him. “Still think of me in my undergarments, hm?” I placed myself on the sufficiently spacious table, supporting myself on my elbows and folding my legs up as if to read a book in bed. My smile was so catty that I was close to sprouting whiskers. I did sense that I had gained a hairy skin, expressive ears, and a lively tail—par for the course to an anthropomorphic unicorn. “I'm a guy at heart, and I'll make sure you won't forget that.”

“Okay, that's not funny.” He pushed me back into my seat. “You put an awful image into my mind that I have to eradicate, pronto.” He stood up, then started dancing and chanting "guy stuff", spawning bottles from his person like Sonic the Hedgehog with unlimited rings trapped in a hurt loop.

However, I was in for a rude surprise when I learned that I had reverted to a (clothed) pony form. With my mischievousness all but gone, I looked at myself with apprehension. “No, I don't want this. This isn't me.” So frightened that I was at the brink of tears, I hid my eyes behind my hooves. “Take it away, please. Take it away.” I felt appreciably human all of a sudden, and visually confirmed that I was—with unmistakably female characteristics. “Not perfect, but better.” Despite my palpable disappointment, my sangfroid returned in seconds.

Benny ended his strange ritual and glanced pityingly at the beer can he held in his hand. From where and how did he get that? “Girls don't have the faintest clue of what it's like to be a guy.” Was that addressed to me? Did he assume my physical sex invalidated my experiences as a male? That was too ridiculous to take offense to.

“Well, drinking isn't exclusive to guys,” I said, half-amused incredulity creasing my face. “But you do know that I think getting wasted is decadent, and that I find it extremely difficult to relax and have fun with inebriated friends, right?”

“I get it. You're a boring, no-party girl,” he retorted, the bottle turning into streaks of light that projected upwards before fading away. I chose not to remind him of my true gender, as I believed he was well aware of it already. “Doesn't surprise me, since you're a naive and idealistic wanna-be intellectual. I bet you even have oh-so-smart debates in your dreams.” He then presented an argument that masculinity was gauged by how much a guy was into sports. Ridiculous! No one thinks like that anymore. He must've been joking. “And why do you stay by yourself at home when you could be getting a good buzz and be doing all sorts of fun stuff with us guys?” He held his arms out before me. “You really gotta learn how to let your hair down.”

“My hair's already down.” I was puzzled by the sudden change of topic. “Down to my shoulders, as you can clearly see.”

“Why you gotta be like that?” Clasping his temples, he did a full spin on the spot. “We're trying to save you from your boring life by inviting you to our fun times. We have fun every weekend! Do you think it's fun being all by yourself?” I replied that I didn't need saving, and that I can enjoy being alone. “That's not normal.” When I stated that it was normal for an introvert, he shook his head in pity and implied I was being an obstinate misfit. Why was he being so judgmental and narrow-minded? “Maybe you should've been born a girl.” Where did he derive that from? Did he think females were inferior? Certain he had tried to push my buttons, I chose not to respond to his thoughtless quip.

“Well, I don't have to be what you think I should be,” I stated, a little timid, but resolute. “I can be different. Like an AMC Pacer! Anyhow, there are many ways to be a man, and femininity and masculinity aren't mutually exclusive. So, a man can be as manly as he wants and be crazy about sports or whatever that's typically associated with males, yet show a softer side on a regular basis. Or whatever that's typically associated with females. Or prefer solitude to socializing.”

“Whatever you say. I'm gone,” he said wearily, then began making his way past people whose presence I hadn't noticed before.

“Hey!” I stood up. “I thought we had a good thing going here. Come on, don't go! Let's keep talking, friend to friend, um . . . man to man.” He didn't heed my appeals. I sighed, folding my arms after seating myself. “What a quitter,” I muttered, disappointed that he had actually bailed out. Had I been too heavy-handed and driven him off? Speaking of which, I held my hand at an arm's length and eyed it with mild curiosity. They were slender and the nails were short, so at least they couldn't be literally heavy-handed. I was glad I hadn't inherited my parents' big hands. On a whim, I thought of nail polish and extensions. “Blegh. Those are so lame.” I balled my fist, cracking a mellow smile as I felt like I had channeled a bit of my inner Rainbow Dash. “Au naturel, that's the best.”

“Hehheh! You showed him who's boss!” someone with a raspy voice complimented. Hovering aside the opposite booth was the prismatic mare herself, looking characteristically cocky, as she often does. “But I got places to be. See ya, sport.” Her exit was so swift I had no time to surmount my bewilderment.

“What and how?” I said dumbly.

“Isn't it obvious?” A white mouse with copper brown hair adorned with pink stripes stood on the table, a look of nonchalance on her face. “That conversation was fairly cohesive, but otherwise, very little makes sense here.”

Something in me insinuated that this mouse, who wouldn't be out of place in a Don Bluth movie, was Rosy. That couldn't be, though. I knew for a fact that she was a pony, not a mouse.

“Just look at that.” She indicated to my right.

A horse sharing the same colors as the mouse was nearby. “I'm not a horse!” the horse informed, as if I had insulted her. “I have a horn, and I'm smaller than a horse. That makes me a unicorn pony. Thankfully, I'm not a G1 pony.” I was sure I heard the Metal Gear Solid alert sound effect when consternation appeared on her face. “Or a G3.5 pony!” she exclaimed in shock.

“Or that?” The mouse indicated to my left. “Does that make sense to you?” Outside was my car, except with a pair of wings with an engine on each, and its roof and trunk extended into a v-tail.

I laughed amiably at the silliness. “Oh Jimmy, you can't fly. You're a car!” His aircraft parts retracted after a moment, and I sensed I had taken the wind out of his sails. For that I felt bad. My apology seemed to restore his spirits.

Embee tumbled through a hole that opened in the air, nonchalantly straightened herself, and took a seat. Immediately after, a cartoonish rendition of one of The Beatles grabbed the hole's corner and made it vanish into itself. Soon after Embee's return, another person appeared. He was a humanoid in overalls, but with a gray pony head with a red mane and dark blue eyes behind rectangular glasses. On his palm were three pristine diamonds. The finest he had to give to his favorite niece so that she could live comfortably, and had some insights on how to get the best out of their value. Then I had afforded myself a place of my own and some tech for entertainment and practical use.

The humanoid pony left, and Embee hadn't been fazed at all. Even I wasn't so much. It was just my uncle. Or was it? Although, wasn't he a pony? No, a human? This was unthinkably confusing.

Something light blue was zipping around the floor in erratic patterns. When I identified it, I gasped excitedly as I joined my hands with a clap. I crouched down to meet the blue marvel, but it zoomed past me; however, it came back. “Hey,” I whispered sweetly. “You're a cutie.” It seemed curious, and was the size of an RC car—because it was an RC car! “Can I pick you up, please?” I lowered my hand for it. Daunted by my presence and stature, it hesitated for a while before taking itself to me. Exercising utmost care, I gently picked it up and held it in my arms. “Look, Embee! It's a baby car!” I gingerly put my cheek to the baby car. “Isn't it just so adorable?”

Embee agreed, expressing a desire to snuggle the little car and make d'aww sounds. Then the miniature machine escaped from me, growing a pair of antennas and translucent wings.

“Okay, what are you trying to be? A butterfly?” I asked laughingly, eyeing the hovering baby car with intrigue. “No? Hmm, a dragonfly, then?” The wings became avian and the antennas changed into tufts of prismatic hair. “Oh sure, you and Rainbow Dash are like two peas in a pod,” I said with playful sarcasm. The flying not-Rainbow Dash then landed on the table, its wings and hair becoming dozens of tiny white sparkles that fleeted off with a faint tingle. Then, a paper cutout of Rainbow Dash's face covered up the little car's fascia. “That would work if we weren't on the same team, you know.”

“Oh my gosh! It's Rainbow Dash!” Embee let out an uncharacteristic squeal, her hands on her cheeks. The little car seemed nonplussed by this, discarding the paper mask soon after. “Oh . . .” Her delight faded. I was a little amused by her disappointment, although I felt I shouldn't be. Something about the car caught my eye.

“You got some smudges. Let me take care of them.” I applied a napkin and some car wax to diligently clean him up. Once done, I gently rested my hands on his fenders, glad that he was sparkly clean now. “Hey, I never asked your name. Do you have a name?” When he gave his name, I reacted with delighted surprise. “No, really? Your name's Jimmy? That's so strange. I know someone named Jimmy, too. Well, he's actually Jim, but, eh, you know. He's outside, right there.” The baby Jim turned around to face his bigger brethren. “It's like you're his smaller twin. That's so cool!” Baby Jim was overjoyed. He wanted me to give him a kiss? As compliant as I was to grant him his wish, I couldn't forget my adoration of and loyalty to his bigger brethren. “Oh, I love you too, Jimmy. You're my snookie wookums.”

“Who's Jimmy?” Embee asked, amused and curious. “Is he your boyfriend?” She laughed warmly. The restaurant disappeared. Embee disappeared. Everything disappeared. Even baby Jimmy was gone? Next thing I realized was that Embee had rematerialized, but she looked very blurry and very pony.

“Mmmhyeah . . .” I mumbled, starting to doubt she had spoken at all. And if she had, what had she said? “Where's Jimmy?” I sounded weird. I tried to find him, but all I saw was more brown and some intense brightness to my left. I was on something soft. Some kind of fabric. I was in a bed? Since when?

Embee laughed softly. “Good morning, hon. I came as soon as I could.” A short pause followed while I tried to clear up my vision with a few blinks. “Well, I guess I could've let you sleep a little bit longer,” she said with a hint of apology. “But it's nine in the morning and . . .” She sighed. “I'm really sorry about last night. When I reached Peachy's office, I realized I had left you behind in my hurry, but then I got stuck thoroughly explaining your situation to her. And she was hard to convince. Then Nighty came by, and I asked her to find you and help you to a bed if you were tired. She later told me you had struck up a chat with a patient and then dozed off.” A small smile of amusement graced her features, as if she was cautious of finding my misadventure funny. “Anyhow, Peachy and I came to look at you, and she did a preliminary inspection. She said that she's quite certain of your humanity. However, just like you and me, she also needed a good rest. Now, don't worry. She should be here in a few hours to run some tests.”

Now it was my turn to smile. “Oh . . . Okay, that's great news. Really amazing.” I sounded groggy, as if I had porridge in my throat. Nor were my thoughts forming smoothly, but good things had happened and were coming. I wasn't sure how I was positioned, but after a moment, I realized I was prone. “I'm gonna get outta bed . . .” I pushed myself up. My mind . . . came to a sudden halt. It remained halted for . . . a while? When my thoughts began thinking again, I chose to do as I had said. Something didn't go quite as I had expected and I slumped on my side.

“Oh?” I heard Embee utter quietly. “What happened now?”

“Uh . . . Dunno?” I was stupefied and disoriented. Rolling over supine, I began staring at the ceiling. The blanket that once was on me was now underneath me. Something was off about how that felt. Then I extended my arm and saw that it wasn't an arm, but something white with a hoof. “Oh, right.” I folded my foreleg over my forehead with a sigh. “That explains it. Kinda forgot . . .” Then I started becoming aware of my ears denting the fabric. I groaned in exasperation and discomfort.

“Forgot that you're a pony?” Embee whispered carefully. I could sense she didn't want to upset me. Or maybe she didn't want to alert anypony.

“Eh . . .” I lazily looked around to see if we were alone. We were. “Joints and skeletal system and whatever else that's pony,” I said dispassionately. “To reconcile—” I yawned, stretching a bit. “Takes a moment.” That I was in a hospital bed and still in this weird body fostered a question. “So, hey, am I a patient again?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Embee replied.

I wasn't sure how to feel about that at first. “Well, spare me the details.” I raised my head, staring down my barrel. Past my folded forelegs and my anterior legs with their upended hooves, my tail was splayed about. All of this was such a really strange thing to see, much less be confined to for the time being. I looked so smooth all the way to there, because female anatomy was kind of like that. Except for the two bumps I now had. Gross. I wasn't oblivious to what was further down between my legs, but thankfully, they were beyond my direct line of sight. Although, the nubs being down there and not up here was a silver lining. Out of sight, out of mind? A dainty muzzle at the bottom of my vision helped obstruct my view, though.

Once was up and walking, I wouldn't see or feel my intimate female anatomy, anyhow. Although, then I'd be aware of the emptiness . . . How important was that part of the male anatomy to me? I wasn't truly wistful for it, but I didn't want to be without it, either. I wasn't sure what to make of it, but frankly, I felt—

“How are you feeling, hon?” Embee asked. “You don't seem so happy,” she continued when I remained quiet.

I didn't want to say I was feeling despondent. “I just woke up, so uhm . . . brain is slow.” I gazed at the footboard, but it didn't hold my attention for long. “I'm clearly still dirty, and a little itchy, too.” I wiggled to resolve the latter nuisance. Even a full day after being introduced to this form, I was so unused to its dimensions and structure that it took me over five seconds to do something as simple as get on my side and squirm the itch away. Could I have reached for it with my foreleg? If it bent that way. Probably did. I didn't care to try it now. For no specific reason, I looked toward the window. I squeezed my eyes shut with a grunt, mentally complaining morosely about the brightness and the windows refracting sunlight directly into my sensitive retinas.

“Did you at least have a good sleep?” Embee asked, evidently concerned. “Seemed like your dream was pleasant.”

“Yeah. Or most of it was,” I gave her the very short version, and a small smile. “Funny thing about dreams is that most of the details aren't retained, leaving me with an abridged version. Not always, but sometimes.” My drowsy tone was giving way to my normal voice through a phase of squeakiness. Well, as normal as it could be. “But yeah, things were better in my dream. You know, human, and . . . stuff.” I hardly believed the part of my brain that conjured my dream had ranked being human above being male.

“I'm sorry that I woke you up,” Embee apologized.

“No need to feel bad. I would've woken up eventually and learned that I was just dreaming.” It occurred to me that Embee's mane wasn't as rugged as it was yesterday. She must've combed it. The relative silence of last evening was contrasted with the discernible din of life emanating from the corridor beyond the ajar door. “You know, I could do with something to eat and drink. Maybe even go outside for a while?” I brightened up a bit. “Maybe there's a café or a diner or something nearby where I could get a cup of coffee and breakfast?” I suggested, inspired by my dream. ‘Apple pie laced with cinnamon and vanilla sauce.’ My fantasy was so intense I felt the flavors on my tongue.

“Hmm, ah . . .” Was she going to support my idea, or shoot it down? Perhaps I needed to improve my odds?

“To celebrate the good news, you know? Humanity almost proven and upcoming tests, and . . . We never got to our coffee, so perhaps . . .” Then I had second thoughts. “Perhaps it's wiser to stay here, eat some hospital food. I can keep myself occupied while I wait for Peachy, no problem.” I hummed thoughtfully as I took stock of the inactive TV. Perhaps I could lie in bed and numb my mind with something remotely interesting? What was broadcast during mornings, anyhow? Talk shows? Banal cartoons? Bottom-tier soap operas? Prosaic documentaries? I felt so negative about being cooped up in bed that even my ears couldn't feign enthusiasm. Although, traipsing about among ponies and people meant that I'd have to actively confront and swiftly overcome the challenges of this body.

“Well, might take an hour or so before Peachy's here.” Embee's estimation gained my attention. I rolled over prone, but now I faced the wall instead of her. I tried to rotate while prone, but my hind legs weren't responding to my inputs in the manner I had expected. Sitting did not present a solution. “Uh . . . what are you doing, hon?” she asked quizzically when I poked my hind leg a few times out of curiosity. The lone, inhuman digit touching another, lone inhuman digit gave me the shivers.

“Turning around,” I answered flatly, using my forelegs to twist myself around on my axis. “Clumsily.” I sighed, a smidgen self-conscious. “So, you said Peachy will here in an hour?”

“I did. It's enough time to do something other than wait around idly—if you get yourself cleaned up.” She sported a tiny smile as she leisurely raised her foreleg. Knowing that I was grimy didn't stop me from casting a look down my side and back. Still so easily taken aback by being a pony, I blinked, dumbfounded. “Then we can see about going outside,” Embee's voice drew my eyes to her like magnets. “I've heard of a quaint place that's just around the corner.”

“Aaaah,” I uttered, stuck staring at her sideways. Then I comprehended what she had said. “Really?” Her congenial expression and affirmative hum and nod strongly supported the notion that a little treat in a café was now much closer to reality. “That's wonderful!” My face flushed and I put a hoof over my mouth. ‘I'll be blushing like mad if I don't get used to how feminine I can sound.’

“Don't get too excited, hon.” Embee laughed warmly, apparently delighted by my joy and unaware of the cause of my embarrassment. “I must get some paperwork out of the way first so that I can be your pony-in-charge.”

Now I was puzzled. “Pony-in-charge?” I said from behind my hoof, wary of my voice. “What does that mean?” I continued haltingly, lowering my hoof. So easy was it for me to unintentionally mimic Fluttershy that I scrutinized my foreleg for yellow hairs. Much to my relief, I found none. Anyhow, I trusted Embee not to mistreat me, but I didn't like being on a figurative leash. Or being bossed around, for that matter.

“Being your pony-in-charge basically means I act as your guardian and take responsibility of your well-being.” Her explanation put my concerns to rest. “I can't guarantee I'll be allowed to be your pony-in-charge, though. But I'm hopeful.”

“So am I, because I'm sure we both know that the circumstances are unusual, and I don't know anypony else to trust but you.” I was compelled to thank her effusively for her altruism, but that I didn't have the necessary courage to speak my mind struck me with shame. “So, yeah, it's best that I don't go by myself, or with somepony I don't know.” I looked outside again. The rooftops of the city's skyline were the predominant sight, and above them was a sky with scattered clouds. For being an autumn morning, the day looked warm. I saw a few pegasi flying about. Then I thought of the ponies on the ground, and if I were to go outside, it was likely I'd have to put on the pretense of being just one pony among the many. One mare among the many. “Would be a bit scary, me being, uh, me being . . . being a being like this,” I said with a touch of anxious laughter. “I could run into a situation I can't deal with on my own and then, umm . . .” One look at Embee was all I needed to recover my inchoate joy. “But I don't need to think about what could go wrong when I'm with you.” I didn't want to admit that I was becoming a touch emotional. Rather than let that show, I chose to get out of bed. Also, the faster I washed the grime off of me, the sooner we'd venture to a café and have a relatively tranquil and normal moment. Like in my dream!

“Do you need help?” she queried once I had come to a stop after placing one foreleg to the floor.

Never a fan of being inept, I slid another leg off the bed, getting another affirmation of the characteristic insensitivity of hooves. But then doubt struck me. “Uhh . . .” I stammered, gingerly tapping one hoof to the floor as if I could gain more sensitivity. No such luck. I had just woken up, so my brain wasn't churning out a thorough plan. Embee's approach evoked a quick response. “Oh, not so fast.” I raised my foreleg to halt her advance. “I want to see if I can do this by myself.”

Embee surveyed me. To mitigate her doubt, I put on a beseeching smile. “Hmm, alright,” she conceded calmly and backed away, although I could tell she was staying alert.

With my forelegs on the floor and my rear pair now at the precipice of the bed, I was deliberately maintaining a gap between my latter half and the bed. Under no circumstances should anything get in contact with the highly disagreeable teats! Simply acknowledging that I had them was making me queasy. Nonetheless, I carefully levered myself out of bed. That was when I had to reacquaint with the four legs and their limited input, and I was fortunate that my sense of balance didn't throw in the towel. I stood shakily and wide-legged, like a newborn foal, for a few seconds before I corrected my posture and replaced consternation with a bashful look.

“Not bad, Vivienne, not bad at all,” Embee offered some praise.

“Well, yeah. I did okay,” I said modestly, pawing the floor. Improving my motor controls was inevitable and preferred, but did that mean I'd become more ponylike in mind and behavior? I was about to voice that dilemma when something distracted me. “Ohh . . .” I moaned and raised my left foreleg, peeking warily toward my rear. There was my grimy equine end, the similarly untidy tail, and female features that were thankfully out of sight. None of those were of immediate concern.

“Is something wrong, hon?” Embee asked softly. I was being besieged by a feeling that wasn't uncommon, and its return was natural, but definitely wasn't welcome.

“This is really embarrassing.” I frowned haplessly, avoiding eye contact as I walked to the door. I looked both ways, seeing a few ponies of various colors and a couple of humans.

“What's embarrassing?” Embee inquired from behind me. I retreated and faced her, but I couldn't spit it out. “Can you tell me what it is?” My gaze tracked a random pattern between our forelegs, unable to ascend her legs and meet her eye. “Hon?” I had to trust her with my problem. “I promise, your secret will be safe with me.” No dancing around the subject, no time to think of something eloquent and tactful. Just straight to the point!

With supplication written on my face, I looked to her. “I gotta pee,” I blurted speedily.

Author's Note:

Editor: Lagrangian
Art: ArtOfCanterlot