• Published 25th Jan 2013
  • 6,445 Views, 229 Comments

Someone Came With Her - chromewasp

You keep sayin' somethin' about bein' male and "human" before you showed up in Appleloosa...

  • ...

Here's to the Ranger

“C'mon!” you insist. “How do I get turned back?”

He slowly brings his glass of salt water up to his lips. “I think you've had enough to drink, miss.”

“But I'm serious!” you wail. “I'm sending out a message, and it goes like 'boop-doop-doop' and you're not listening, because you're like, 'yargh, I don't wanna listen to her because she's a girl,' except I'm not a girl, you chauvinist, deconstructionist, defenestrationist--”

The room is spinning at a marvelous rate, and you almost want to stop talking just to take a closer look. You're also starting to slide off the stool, but you don't care.

Fairweather shouts something slow and incoherent at you. His two companions have stopped their argument entirely, watching you with worried gazes.

Your head smacks against the edge of the bar top as you finally slip off your seat. The stool slams into your ribs, forcing the air out of your lungs before you spill onto the floor.

Tears bead in your eyes, but they're not from the pain. The world is starting to seem clearer now, and your misery springs anew. “Please, just...listen to me!” you plead, your voice dry and raspy. Your throat feels almost as parched as it was when you first saw Appleloosa. “I need to find a way back!”

Moaning, you struggle to pick yourself up, but your hooves just scratch feebly against the floor.

Fairweather looks down at you. A pitying look crosses the stallion's sharp features. “Get on your hooves,” he sighs.

“But I can't,” you moan. Vaguely you know how childish you sound, but right now you couldn't care less. “Just help me up...why won't you--”

“Because it's not right,” Fairweather says sternly.

You stare up at him, blinking in confusion.

His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “I don't know what you went through yesterday. But sooner or later, you're going to have to start respecting yourself again. Now, get up.”

“That doesn't make any sense...” you mutter. Groaning, you inch your twitching legs into position and try again. Like a car on a rickety hydraulic jack, you slowly manage to push yourself back onto your hooves.

“I came here to help ponies help themselves,” says Fairweather. “If I need to do it in small steps, that's what I'll do.”

He turns to look at the bartender. “Get her some water. And no salt this time.”

The bartender slides a pitcher along the bar top, and it slows to a neat halt in front of where you were sitting. You'd be a lot more impressed if you weren't drunk off your ass.

The world seems a lot less...spinny than before, but it's still a chore to keep your balance. Staggering up to the bar, you hook your hooves around the pitcher and take a healthy gulp. It's hard to not sigh from the sheer relief. The ice-cold water washes away your inebriation like a rogue wave sweeping the debris off a beach.

You plonk down onto the stool. “I still want to know how to get turned back,” you murmur, still not quite sober.

Fairweather's two friends have been watching you with a mixture of pity and fascination for the past few minutes. The earth pony, a cream-colored stallion built like a tank, finally speaks up.

“This again?” he says, his voice oddly crisp and stilted. “Frankly, that joke wasn't funny the first time.”

Your anger surges, twisting your mouth into a scowl. “Does it look like I'm joking?” you snap.

He shrugs. “No, but you certainly look a bit tipsy.”

“Give her a rest,” says the red pegasus, lightly slapping him with his wing. “She can still hold her salt better than you.”

“You'd best take that back,” growls the earth pony. “Lest you forget that I--”

“Shut up!” you yell, whirling to face Fairweather. “Look, just pretend that I'm telling the truth. Just for a second. Could you reverse a species transformation spell?”

Fairweather looks down, lost in thought.

“Tell me!”

To your horror, he shakes his head. “No. Species transformations are some of the hardest spells to cast, but they're also some of the hardest to break. To be honest, I've never met anypony unlucky enough to be hit by one.”

Each word hits you like you're being stabbed by an icepick. Suddenly you feel weak and dizzy again. “But there's got to be someone who can help,” you plead. An idea strikes your mind, giving you a flicker of hope. “Wait! What about Princess Celestia? Couldn't she help?”

He takes a deeper-than-usual sip from his glass. “A good guess, but that leads into another problem. It's been almost a week since the last train pulled in, and the postal service is a no-show. For the time being, we're cut off.”

You slump so sullenly that you almost fall off the stool again. Cut off. That's starting to seem like an ongoing theme for you. Cut off from humanity, cut off from your loved ones, cut off from any hope, cut off--

You wince. For the umpteenth time this hour, you're reminded of the other important thing that was “cut off.”

“A lot of ponies in this town just want to sit and wait for help,” says Fairweather. “Don't be like them.”

He gets off his stool and motions for the other ponies to follow him, tossing a few golden coins to the bartender as he passes him by.

The earth pony and the pegasus swiftly push through the bat wing doors, but Fairweather lingers for a moment, casting you a glance over his shoulder.

“I don't believe your story,” he says, “but then again, I didn't believe in the Tommyknocker, either. There's definitely something much worse than tricksand pits out there. If you want to help me find it, I'll be over by Sheriff Silverstar's office.”

Without another word, he leaves. You take another gulp of water, suddenly missing your drunkenness.

You feel a pressure deep down inside of you. It's the pressure of pure despair and animal rage, bottled up inside of you...wait, no it isn't. Oh hell, you gotta use the john!

It's official: life hates you.

“Where's the bathroom?” you blurt out to the bartender, too desperate to care about your dignity.

His face goes redder than a stop sign. “Uh...around the corner to your left...I think.”

“You 'think?'” you bark. “Don't you work here?”

“I only started this month!” he whimpers, cowering behind the bar.

With a savage growl, you spring off the stool and race over to where he directed you. Sure enough, there's a promising pair of doors in front of you.

Which one's the mares' room? Shit! Frantically eyeing the pictographic ponies on the doors, you see that one of them is wearing a triangular dress.

Good enough! You burst inside, half-expecting to crash headfirst into a shrieking occupant like you're in some goddam Adam Sandler movie. To your relief, the room's emptier than hell's sole aspirin bottle.

Discretely and girlishly, you kick the fucking door shut and rush over to the toilet. Awkwardly shifting your tail out of the way, you sit down and cross your arms sullenly.

Damn you, Trask, you think as you do your business. You made me pee sitting down. For some reason you think it in Charlton Heston's voice.

You hope the bartender can't hear you when you burst into high-pitched, uncontrollable laughter. You keep laughing after you finish. You keep laughing as you use way too much toilet paper, and keep laughing still as you wash your hooves.

Then you see your reflection in the bathroom's dirty mirror.

Your manic laughter melts into wet, miserable sobs.

Just like Trask said, you're a cute little mare. You stare at your reflection with wide green eyes, watching the way your stubby muzzle quivers with panic. A spiral horn proudly juts from your forehead, pushing through your bangs like a rock protruding from a waterfall. Mesmerized by fear and curiosity, you lean in and look more closely.

Your mane is long and white, accentuated with platinum streaks. Although tousled, it seems to have a knack for falling into place.

You look down on your fur. Despite the patches of dust, it's still lustrous white. Your fetlocks are unshorn, making you look slightly more like the classical image of a unicorn.

You're starting to feel faint, but you still can't stop yourself. Craning your head, you see that you have pretty much the same proportions as any other mare. You're not chubby, but you're certainly not gonna give Fleur de Lis a run for her money, either.

Your long white tail is just short enough to avoid serving as an inadvertent mop. And as for your new equipment? Seeing it is not as utterly soul-destroying as you expect. Mortifying, yes. Degrading, yes. But you can still think coherently, so it went much better than you expected.

Thanks to your fur and your tail, your private bits aren't noticeable except on close examination. And you'll be damned if you'll let any stallion get that close. The mere thought is enough to make you shiver. Wait...

Your heart plummets as you realize what kind of shiver that was. No!

“Son of a bitch!” you scream, your voice quaking with rage.

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