Pony In The Mirror

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Author's note(s): Big thanks goes to Sebiale for proofreading, editing and a whole lot of help in general :) A second thanks goes for paper pony for the title image and illustrations.

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

Chapter 1
Pony In The Mirror

I was brought out from sleep against my own accord. I felt numb. I'd woken up with a numb arm before, but this was different; even my fingers and toes were insensible. Opening my eyes, I pulled my hand up to my face. The room was dark, but I saw the faint outline of an unfamiliar appendage. Before I knew it, I had tumbled off my bed in a jittery panic and was lying down on my left side.

My legs and arms refused to behave like they were supposed to as I tried to get up. All I could do was stare fearfully into the near-complete darkness. Soon, my senses started to tell me more about my own body. No fingers, no toes, a furry hide, pointy ears, and hair along my neck. Then, I flicked a muscle that was at the end of my back. In disbelief, I did it again. My mind was quick to inform me that it was a tail.

For minutes, I lay motionlessly in complete dismay, the odd sensation of my form disquieting me. Every move I made reminded me of what I had become. Every thought in my head revolved around the same questions: 'How?' and 'Why?'

Frantically, I conjured an answer: lucid dreaming. It was the only explanation that made sense. A normal dream was a movie, and a lucid dream was a video game. With that concept in my mind, my apprehension diminished, and I became a tad happy. I was in a dream that was under my control. Maybe I wouldn't have called it a dream come true, but the possibility to experience myself as something non-human fascinated me.

Tugging and stretching my limbs, I got a feel for how they worked. After a brief moment of trying to pinch the correct nerve in my head, I successfully turned one ear. The other ear was wedged between my head and the floor and protested my command by sending me a flinch-worthy signal of minor discomfort. I had already discovered the proper muscle to control my tail, and I exercised it a few times in order to familiarize myself with it. As I was laying totally flat on my left side, I began to gingerly bend my body to get a feel for my coat. It wasn't rough, as I had expected, but soft, like a hairy but smooth fabric.
Knowing what I was infatuated with, I thought I knew what I had become—a pony.

Not aware of how soon I'd wake up, I decided to act. I pulled my left foreleg and raised my back so that I could place the limb underneath me. It didn’t go as planned, and I slipped back onto my side. Trying a different approach, I rolled over, folding my legs underneath me as I did so. Carefully yet steadily, I extended my forelegs in harmony, aligning my hooves to the floor as I levered myself to a sitting stance.

Although I couldn't see my hind legs, I was aware they were level on the floor on either side of me. I knew the posture I held was natural for a pony, but the nerve signals from all four of my new appendages were confusing.

Coming up onto all fours was trouble-free, although I did so nervously, and my legs were unsteady once I was standing. While waiting for my nerves to settle, I mused at the odd sensation of standing on hooves: it was almost as if I was hovering but somehow still touching the floor. I gently dragged a hoof and felt the weak friction hinder its movement. My mind tried to make sense of the feeling but only became more perplexed.

The only visible light came from the sun beyond my almost-sealed window, but a wall-mounted lamp that was above my bed tempted me. I contemplated briefly how to place myself perpendicular to the soft plateau to my left.

Slowly lifting one leg at a time, I began to turn myself. When my back refused to curve, it dawned on me I had only moved my forelegs. Taking another moment to focus, I trepidly sidestepped with my hind legs to the right until my back was straight again. With that checkpoint passed, I congratulated myself with a smile and braced myself for the next stage.

With my right forehoof on the bed, I pressed down to test how far the mattress would budge and then quickly raised my left foreleg onto it as well. Only then did I realize I'd have to somehow jump the rest of myself onto the bed as well.

Alarms rang in my head as I realized I was in a situation I didn't quite know how to solve. I dared not back away as I wasn't sure how to do so without stumbling into a slump. Pain would end my lucid dream, so my foremost worry was to avoid harming myself. Following a moment of decision making, I presumed I could push myself up onto the mattress.

I slid my forelegs forwards until they were level on the mattress and my chest and barrel rested on the fabric.
Pushing with my hind legs, I glided across the bed until I came to a halt when my forehooves touched the wall. The light switch was so close yet so far. If I had my real form, it could've been accomplished in a second. By now, several minutes have been wasted, and I was only halfway there.

I tried to lift my hind leg up onto the bed, but it refused to behave like a human leg. I wasn't exactly sure how equine anatomy worked, and I couldn’t persuade my new knee to land on the bed.

Realizing that I couldn't pull myself up to the bed, I was left with two options: jump up onto the bed, or attempt to wobble in the darkness to the ceiling-lamp switch. Of course, said switch was by the door. Both seemed impossible to reach, but I had no other alternatives.

Opting for the closer goal, I constructed a sequence in my head: I'd coil my hind legs, launch my back end off the floor, and then immediately twist my body sideways while pulling up my rear limbs. Simultaneously, I'd do my best to draw my forelegs to a vertical stance and elevate myself into the air. It would not be graceful, but I'd be one step closer to my goal. I rehearsed the plan a couple of times in my mind and silently counted to three.

It was all over in a second, and I was back where I started—in my bed, my left flank resting on the haphazardly folded blanket I had kicked off myself during my scrambling.

Rising up onto my hooves would prove to be difficult, I surmised, as the bed was soft and would be a less stable support for me than the solid floor. However, now I faced another problem: I had to actually touch the switch to turn on the lamp. With hands, it'd be easy to run my fingers along the cord and locate the switch. But in this new form, my alternatives were to fumble for it with either my hoof or my mouth.

I oriented myself to a prone position, but knowing how unreliable the bed was as a stable surface, I was unwilling to stand up. With my head placed against the wall, I began to shunt myself forward with my hind legs. It was strange to feel the fur tickling the side of my head—so unlike the prickly stubble I was used to. Before I could delve deeper into studying the differences, however, my cheek met the elusive cord.

Clamping my teeth on the bitter-flavored plastic cord, I began my search for the switch. Bliss coursed in my veins when I found the little protruding part that would bring forth illumination to the dimmed dreamscape.

As a precaution, I closed my eyes to shield my vision from the soon-to-come brightness. With the piece of plastic in my teeth, I gently dropped my head and felt the switch move in response. My eyes opened a few seconds later, and I released the cord to examine myself in the new light.

My coat color was a plain white—I was fine with that—but twitching the muscle at my croup, I became miffed to see twin lines of bright pink adorning my bronze-brown tail.
As much as I tried to concentrate on visualizing another color in its place, they remained pink. This obviously meant I had the same color in my mane. Although I was grateful for being self-aware in a dream, I mentally filed a nasty complaint at my subconscious for the poor color choice.

Dismissing the embarrassing fact of my hair colors, I began to think on what to do next. Reaching the bed had been a time-consuming mission, but I wasn't about to stay there and call it a day. Traces of the cord's taste still lingered in my mouth as I planned how to get off my bed and back onto the floor, although the mere thought made me nervous.

Exercising the utmost care, I shifted on my bed to bring my forelegs to the edge of the mattress. Slipping my forelegs over the soft cliff and down onto the floor, I transferred my weight to my forehooves. Realizing it might not be so hard to get off the bed after all, my nervousness decreased to a minor alertness. Little by little, I started to pull myself off the furniture.

Following a few more seconds of observing my hind legs slide off the bed and come down onto the floor individually, I was again on all four hooves.

It was strange to see the beige lit room from the height of about one meter. I felt short, like a child with four hooved legs and a tail. I scanned my humble bedroom in mild bewilderment.

Behind me was the bed, and in front of me was my black armchair. In front of the chair and placed up against the blinded window was a brown, wooden desk with a big LCD television on it. The wall before me was lined with white cabinets. Opposite of the window was the exit door. To the right of the exit was a basic bureau with assorted papers, magazines, and cables messily scattered over it. Looking back at the desk, I saw an old office chair and my brand new laptop perpendicular to the TV.

A thought occurred to me as I was contemplating my next objective: this dream was unusually real. I saw details around the room that matched exactly how it had been the last evening: the pile of games on the desk, the carelessly thrown magazine on the bureau, and my clothes on the armchair's backrest.
Nothing was out of place.

Lifting a hoof, I stomped the floor, producing a muted thud. My eyebrows arched in thought as I noticed I was able to feel the minor sensation of the impact. It was not pain, but a slight discomfort. ‘How convincing can a dream be?’ I pondered, recalling several normal dreams that had fooled me into taking their surreal absurdity for granted.

With a new wariness, I kept myself vigilant for any traces of my subconscious trying to trick me. I was a detective on the hunt to expose all the forgeries and errors in the vivid dreamscape.

To reach the door would most likely be an easier task than my last mission; all I had to do was to master my quadrupedal form. As I glanced back at my hind legs, I stopped to stare at my flank. How I'd failed to pay attention until now was lost to me. I was briefly disappointed when I saw no cutie mark, though I soon smirked at myself; ‘Blank flank,’ I thought.

Setting out to reach the hallway beyond my room proved to be more difficult than I had anticipated on four hooves, and I struggled to keep my balance. A crippled starfish could have outpaced me, but I kept on tottering resolutely until my face met the door.

Putting my teeth on the handle, I tilted my head until the latch clacked, then pulled my head back and the door opened. Alas, my celebration was short-lived as I had failed to take into account my proximity to the tall rectangle and was now an obstruction in its opening path. Swallowing my steel-flavored saliva, I looked over at my trailing end, watching it retreat before I remembered my forelegs. Trying to rouse my forelegs into action, one of my hind legs slipped, and my stability began to falter. I nearly panicked before regaining my balance.

If I had collapsed, I would've most likely injured myself and brought my unique dream to an end. I screwed my eyes shut for a second and wordlessly chided myself. At least the door was now slightly ajar, presenting me with a new opportunity beyond.

With a nudge of my muzzle, the door gently swung open, the handle bumping the wall with a dull thud. I immediately set my eyes on the next goal: the bathroom door opposite my bedroom.
It was another door I'd have to pull open, although I was now wiser from my recent hurdle and possessed a great confidence that I'd solve this puzzle with flying colors.

The trip to the door was short but not without a few missteps, though I was getting the hang of my four-hoof drive configuration. The only mirror in my humble apartment was beyond the very door I stared at.

Another taste of steel later, the door was open. I felt proud as I reversed from the door without incident. Stepping over the small threshold to the bathroom, I swung my head to the left, nudging the light switch. The lamps flickered indecisively for a second before agreeing to produce their fluorescent light.

It was a small bathroom, walled and floored with white tile, with a toilet and sink. There was a shower along the left wall, and on the right was a washing machine.

Finishing my cursory glance of the familiar space, I realized the floor, while not terribly grimy, was specked with snaking smudges. I looked down at my hooves and imagined all the kinds of residue that would adhere to them and eventually find their way into my food. As quick as I was to grimace, I was just as quick to discard the thought since I assumed I wouldn't have to eat during my dream.

Above the sink was the mirror, although from my current location, I was unable to catch my own reflection. As I was planning how to place my forelegs on the sink and crane my neck to peer at myself, a small nagging thought that had remained at the back of my head strode forth.

It told me something ridiculous, something that I wanted to scoff at and shoo away. Frustratingly, it was insistent and soon twisted my confident smile into a concerned frown. I cast my eyes at my tail, which it flashed its bronze and bright pink back at me. I turned my head away from the sight, and a chill traveled up my spine.

Hesitantly, I conjured a sentence and delivered it to my vocal chords, the air in my lungs nabbing it as the sentence was granted permission to leave.

“I am having a lucid dream.”

Immediately, a strange feeling of nervousness emerged in me, and moisture seeped onto my skin. As great fun as a lucid dream could be, this was already the second issue that irked me. I concentrated my mind on altering the imaginary reality and sent another wave of air through my mouth.

“I am not—”

I stopped mid-sentence as I realized the statement would be a lie. A mere moment ago, I was eager to see my own mirror image, but now, I'd come to resent the thought. I silently cursed at my own subconscious for dropping a joke like this on me. Or rather, in me.

Retreating back out to the hallway, I unthinkingly lowered myself to a sitting position. I glowered at the far wall of the bathroom for no cause but to have a target for my eyes while my mind seethed turbulently.

The unpleasant thought stood inside my mind, a smug expression on its hypothetical visage.
I brought a hoof to my forehead and grimaced, releasing an aggravated groan that did nothing to help overcome the current issue.

However, considering I was in a dream that could end at any second, I did my best to relax rather than waste precious time on furious idling. Gathering some courage and tranquility, I decided to continue my quest.

A few timid but determined steps later, I was at the sink. The mirror above it was mocking me with its mere presence; I gave it a stern stare in hopes of scaring it into submission. Lunging upwards, I slammed my forelegs down on the sink edges.
Glaring down at the steel and pale porcelain, the last of my reservations slowly spiraled into the drain. Putting on the most daunting expression I could muster, I lifted my head to confront the reflective glass.

A messy forelock of bronze and pink surrounded a jutting keratin spire, below which the reflection of a pair of green eyes on a white canvas gave an intimidating but ineffective stare.

For a moment, we were interlocked in a silent but eventless battle.

“Oh, really funny, ha-ha!” the unicorn eventually taunted me, causing me to wince. My eyes screwed shut, and my lips withdrew to expose my teeth, though I soon reopened my eyes to see my opponent had a mutual expression.

An inexplicable sensation of defeat and acceptance sank into me, and my rival appeared to resign with a sigh.

“I guess it has to be like this, then,” she said dejectedly. Sadly, I had to concur.

Control Yourself

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Author's Note(s): This chapter's animation is by TimeImpact. Big thanks to him!

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

Chapter 2
Control Yourself

I stared at the white sink gloomily, struggling to prevent myself from collapsing down onto the floor. My breaths were heavy, and with each exhale came a long pause—even my lungs were dispirited. I hesitantly lifted my head and saw a being whose expression was the very picture of misery. When I bit my lip, she bit her lip, and when my ears fell, so did hers as well. She mimicked my every move: simultaneously and flawlessly.

Before me was not a second pony but my own mirror image. Those emerald eyes, that white fur, and that unkempt, pink-striped bronze mane were mine. Even as I literally faced the facts, I stubbornly tried to dismiss them. Coming to terms with being a pony was much easier than what I now faced.
I cheerlessly filed a second complaint at my subconscious.

I pondered my adventure, the shock of the change. I had been prideful of managing to adapt to it so far, but now, none of that pride remained. I contemplated withdrawing my forelegs and letting my jaw smash against the sink to end my lucid dream, but my desire to continue convinced me to abandon the idea.

Trying to see the positives over the negatives, I decided to at least try to enjoy the false reality, despite the dismaying setback. As long as no attention was drawn to the uncomfortable truth, I'd do fine. I declared my home door to be inoperable and myself mute before coming down onto all four legs, the pitapat of my hooves announcing the end of the interaction with my reflection.

My head became heavy and my legs sluggish as I set my way out from the white-tiled room. I came to a rest in the hallway and further reasoned with myself. I was still in a lucid fantasy world, experiencing something that would be otherwise impossible. I was just as insistent on carrying on through the unique situation as I was on disregarding my lesson from the mirror.

Trying to fixate on other matters, I raised my hoof and began to examine it. Excluding the couple of centimeters before the underside as well as the underside itself, my hoof was coated in soft and short fur. As my knowledge of equine anatomy was poor, I assumed a hoof was of the same organic material a fingernail was composed of. Pivoting and swiveling the joints, tapping two hooves lightly together, and brushing my fur, I became entranced. After a minute of experimenting, it dawned on me that my appendage had some similarities with a human arm as it allowed me to perform, to a limited degree, human-like actions.

It occurred to me that hooves were essentially an equine's nails. The thought of walking on nails sprung to mind a hilarious image of a human, tall on his legs and arms, moving sneakily on his fingers and toes while a xylophone rapidly plinked an appropriate leitmotif for him. I smiled for a full second before I involuntarily pictured my own mirror image smiling, and my little joy vanished as soon as it had come.
Ignoring myself was proving to be harder than I had expected.

I absently glanced to the left and right in the hallway. At the left end was the door to the outside, and on the opposite end of the hallway was the doorway to the kitchen. To the left of it, at a ninety degree angle, was the doorway to my fairly spacious but underused living room.

All of my important possessions were in my bedroom; the living room had only a pair of armchairs, a low table, and a sofa. If the living room seemed to be disused, then the adjoining balcony certainly was. I preferred the captivating world of games and the Internet over what I considered to be vain and wasteful sunbathing. Coupled with the fact that my neighbors were known smokers, I had no good reasons to venture to the balcony.

While I sat idly, I began to toy with my tail, hearing it brush the floor and walls. Its mere existence awoke my curiosity and I looked behind myself to see it move about, only to have its bright pink highlights harshly remind me of what I was trying to ignore.

A sliver of irritation gave me the courage to move, and I set out to close the bathroom door. I was intent on not venturing in there again until the end of my illusion. The door was fully open, but I was able to place my foreleg between it and the wall. In a fit of anger, I gave the door a brisk push that brought it shut with a satisfying slam.

Suddenly, something remarkable dawned on me: I had made a few steps and turns unthinkingly and without sliding and slipping like I was on ice. Earlier, in my bedroom, I had been focused on moving each leg with extreme care and had serious balance issues.

I glanced at my four legs in awe before I returned my attention to the short hallway.

I set my sights on the home door and cleared my mind. Soon, I sensed my legs moving me forward and my body turning and swaying slightly. My short progress quickly came to a halt when my muzzle gently contacted the wooden blockade that was the door. I glanced over my shoulder, then performed a flawless 180-degree turn. I flushed away my thoughts and commanded my body to the kitchen. The soft sounds my hooves produced rebounded off the white-painted, wood-paneled walls and into my ears, creating a minimalistic background music for my journey. I covered the mere 10 meters effortlessly, but it was too early to congratulate myself.

Once more, I emptied my mind, and I crossed the short distance to the living room. At the doorway, I stopped and examined the room. Two pale green armchairs were side by side with their backs facing me. Against the opposite wall from me was a dark blue sofa adorned by red, irregular shapes resembling palm leaves. Two crimson red pillows rested on the sofa, abandoned there by me months ago. Between the three pieces of furniture was a dark brown, square-shaped wooden table. To the right of these, separated by about 3 meters of vacant space, was a wide window and a brown door to the balcony. A quick glance outside told me it was an average morning with a few clouds dotting the sky.

I mentally drew a course through the room in the shape of a figure-8 around the table and armchairs. With my plan laid out, I began my trial. Focusing on following the course's imaginary guidance line, I kept my mind blank. However, my quadruped gait soon evoked me to research the reports sent by my body and legs, but they only dumbfounded me.

Eventually, I came to a halt by the balcony-side of the table. I had traversed the course for an entire minute without fail. As incredible as it was, there was still one little thing I desired to do before I'd rejoice. I oriented my tail towards the balcony door and started to walk backwards. With great joy, I observed myself backpedal gracefully a few meters before I had to stop lest I bump into the door.

With the final trial complete, a powerful sensation of success and elation launched me onto my hind legs, then poured to my grinning mouth, to my outstretched forelegs...

“Yesss! I learned to walk!”

...And to my vocal chords. My cheerful and confident mood flipped to shocked disbelief as I came down onto my hooves with a dull thud; I had completely forgotten my unmanly predicament. For a few seconds, I was absolutely discomposed before my mouth took the initiative to act independently and rolled out words in a vexed tone.

“Fine! I admit it! I'm a fil—!”

An eye-shutting grimace silenced my errant voice, but it was too late; the damage had been done. The tense situation defused, my ears dropped, and my vision fell to the uninteresting floor. I had tried to stubbornly deny the obvious reality, and now, that conflict had come to a dramatic end. There was no reason for me to deceive myself any longer. My outbound breath stopped in my throat for a second—so I could choke back my tears—before it brought the admission forth as a somber whisper: “I'm a filly.”

I hoped crossing that threshold would bring me immediate peace, but I was wrong.
‘I'm a filly, I'm a filly, I'm a filly, I'm a filly,’ my mind tormented me by continuously playing the audio record of my voice. I looked at myself and saw invisible writing all over my body. It was tattooed on my legs, sprayed across my back and adorned my flanks. It shimmered in my tail, coursed in my veins and flickered in my vision.

Why had I refused to acknowledge the obvious? I had shunned it away instead. If I had only been reasonable from the start, I would've understood that a pony's a pony and that gender was irrelevant. I could've shrugged it off, maybe even joked about it, but something in me fought adamantly against all logic.
It managed only to postpone the inevitable truth.

When the revelation finally bounded back, it came with a such a great momentum that not only did it shatter my delusion of being a stallion, but it also created a disheartening shock wave in its wake. It was converging around my heart and threatened to break my tears out of the confines of my eyes. I had already endured one unavoidable loss, but I wouldn't allow my emotions to defeat me. With all of my strength, I held firm, stopping my tears from falling.

With the internal battle over, I reflected on my dream. One of my sincerest wishes had been to experience a lucid dream, but now, I felt an urge to ram my head into a wall and end the wish-gone-bad. However, I didn't desire to close the dream on a such sad note, and regrettably, I had to accept that I controlled a fictional, female character in a fictional reality, observing the events from a first-person view.
Just like in a video game . . .

Most likely due to my plummeting mood, I had unthinkingly come down onto my haunches. I presumed I was adapting to my four-legged form, and I questioned which one would cease first: my lucid dream or the novelty of my equine body? With my admission fresh in my memory, I seriously believed the latter.

Trying to ward off my pervasive gloom, I performed one uneventful lap around the imaginary figure-8 circuit before I came down to a sitting stance again. I let out a heavy sigh when I realized I was unable to feel any pleasure for mastering the ability that had initially been difficult but was now mundane. Ironically, the prospect of becoming depressed in a dream managed to amuse me, if only slightly.

I knew the ultimate fail-safe was to injure myself, but I had upgraded my resolution to obstinacy. Despite my low spirits, I'd push forward, no matter what!

Recalling one lone but important detail I had observed in my mirror image, I raised my hoof to search my head. My eyes rolled up in their sockets, but I saw only the blurry colors of my forelock. Regardless, in a few seconds, my appendage met the horn, and the nerve endings in my head told me that the keratin spire was being gently disturbed.

My melancholic mood took a back seat as my concern strode forth. I lowered my hoof to the center of my view, raised another, and tapped them together, producing a muted clop. I noted I felt the light impact in both appendages. In fact, I could feel the ambient temperature, my own breaths, and the pressure I put on my haunches. I licked my tongue over my teeth and lips, swung my tail, and rotated my ears. My joined hooves separated and timorously descended to the floor as I processed my latest discovery.

Just when I was slowly overcoming my gender, something worse announced itself. My lucid dream's precise replication of the details and nuances of the real world could be explained only with an alarmingly short summary: it wasn't a dream to begin with! Unwilling to dwell on something so terrifying, I quickly banished the frightening thought and returned my attention to the horn I sported. I hoped, since I was an unicorn, that I held the capacity to manipulate things with my mind.
I was more than curious to try.

I placed myself a few meters from the sofa and locked my eyes on one of the crimson red pillows. With no idea how telekinesis would work, I stared at it, expecting it to rise or roll, but that brought no discernible result. I tried to provoke a possible muscle in my head, but my horn was unresponsive, and the test subject remained static. I began to stare intensely at the stubborn object, silently threatening it with harm if it dared to disobey me. To my frustration, it did.

On the verge of forfeiting, I gave my ability one more chance. I closed my eyes and drew a mental picture of the room, thinking the pillow would move when I had no direct visual of it. I envisioned myself reaching out for the inanimate rebel and throwing it into the air in agitation. I drew in a terrified expression and small flailing arms for the mental image of the pillow as it screamed upwards, eventually smashing into the ceiling and bounding back towards the floor.

I gasped and my eyes sprung open when something struck my back. In a fraction of a second, I instinctively performed an about-face to locate my assailant. My jaw fell open when I spotted the culprit: it was the crimson red pillow.

My eyes wanted to leap out of their sockets when a quick inspection of my sofa confirmed my assumption. A few seconds later and one drool-drying wipe later, I had shut both my eyes and mouth, imagining the living space in my mind once more. I pictured the pillow rolling towards my legs. The soft contact confirmed my success, and I began to toy with the fluffy object. I lifted it off the floor and rolled it over my back, then suspended it above myself and pretended it was a yo-yo.
I was surprised how easy it was to use once I had learned to activate my magic.

Slowly, my imaginary picture of the room faded to darkness, and I began to practice my newfound skill by thought alone. I was able to squeeze the pillow, tell its position in the room, and judge its orientation relative to the room. I could even see and feel the room and its furniture without vision or touch. It was just as perplexing as it was amazing.

Delighted with my ability to manipulate the small object, I decided to move up the food chain, as it were, and thought of the sofa. To my surprise, I could barely lift it and lost my concentration quickly; the deep thump of the sofa's return to the floor startled my eyelids open. I oriented myself to face the sofa, closed my eyes, and tried again, but it levitated only a little before my invisible arms gave out.

None of my muscles were aching, but my panting told me I could've just as well tried to lift the sofa with my body. I tried to lift an armchair, but it was almost as difficult as the sofa, and I released it back to the floor once my body began to release sweat onto my back. With the limits of my telekinesis known, I wanted something else—something lighter—to test my telekinesis on.

Looking for more ideas, I made my way back to the bedroom where I spotted two green pillows on my similarly colored bed. I closed my eyes and concentrated on lifting the two fluffy rectangles. Strangely, I was disappointed when they obeyed without a struggle. Colliding them together and dancing them around the room was amusing, though the amusement soon waned, and I let the pillows crash. The lamp above the bed was still on and became my next target; the tiny switch was eager to follow my order. Running out of ideas, I arbitrarily left the dim lighting of the bedroom and back to the living room, where I sat down by the window.

Gazing through the wide glass pane over the balcony, I pondered if being a pegasus could've been more fun: soaring through the air, diving through the streets at high speed, and admiring the world serenely from above. It made my imagination go wild, and a strong sensation of elation brought a smile to my face. I wished for wings to grow on my back as I envisioned myself leaping up to the freedom of the sky from my balcony. My wide smile evolved to a euphoric grin.

Alas, an inspection of my wingless back returned me to earth, and my glee escaped along with a single disappointed sigh. I consoled myself with the fact I was not an earth pony. Impulsively, I floated the crimson pillow erratically around the room for a moment before placing it back on the sofa.

The brief play, however, made me realize that I wasn't able to manipulate objects unless I had my eyes closed. Doubting my hasty deduction, I dropped my eyelids and I picked the square object effortlessly. Uncovering my eyes, I watched as my telekinetic control over the fluffy object lost its vigor. A few more tries later, my only progress had been increasing my agitation. I launched the pillow downwards as fast as I could. It came down onto the sofa with a muted and dissatisfying thud.

I assumed that I had learned only the basics of telekinesis. Teaching myself advanced techniques might've been possible if I knew how, and I was willing to allocate my limited dreamtime to it. ‘Speaking of time . . . ’ Curious, I set course for the nearest clock.

My legs brought me to the kitchen doorway where I cast a look at the square room, noting that the overhead cupboards were out of my reach due to my reduced stature. I mourned the loss with a sigh, but I was quick to remind myself that this was not a permanent change. With the stealthy paranoia caught and restrained, I continued my survey of the room.

In front of me was a window and a plain wooden table. The left wall was bare of anything but a light-blue tapestry. To my immediate right was a brown cabinet containing cleaning tools and other assorted things related to maintaining my home. Further along the wall was the pure white dishwasher followed by two steel sinks. The far right wall featured a kitchen stove, floor-level cupboards, and the fridge-freezer. Between the two kitchen appliances was the microwave that had heated its first food sometime in the early ’90s.
In other words, my kitchen was very boring.

Observing the green symbols on my ancient microwave, I read its concise message: 9:37. My patience was rewarded with a single digit increase to the clock, from where I started a silent count. I missed the final score by 3 seconds, but it confirmed that my dream was amazingly accurate. Too accurate, and with that, my paranoia got a hold on me.

Absolutely nothing was out of place or wrong in the realm but myself! Not only was I scared of being forever a pony, but I was also scared of being discovered and becoming the center of attention for the entire world. My fear ran deeper than that, though, because I was certain I'd end up in a lab where I'd be reduced to a test animal for unethical scientists and endure inconceivable horrors up to my untimely death. Probably beyond as well.
The vision of my carcass being dissected almost made me scream.

Desperately needing proof of being in a dream, I faced the window and forcibly set my mind and eyes into examination mode, hoping to spot a visible error in the world beyond my home.

I peered at the world from my 6th-floor apartment. I could see a forest from the left spilling across and over to the right of my view, where another 8-floor apartment building resided. Directly below was a gravel path meandering up to another identical grey construct about 150 meters beyond my own, obstructing the view of the meadow and the city beyond it. A lone street curved from the right beyond the closer building and disappeared behind the farther one. Several cars, including my own, were parked on the lot by the inner side of the road.

The sky was home to several puffy clouds drifting gracefully over my location. I illustrated an imaginary map and compass in my head and calculated that they were heading northeast. A brief gust slammed against the window; it creaked a negative reply to the air's query for entry.

Observing the tranquil and realistic dreamscape through the transparent pane, I became aware of my translucent reflection. As I stared directly into large, green-rimmed black pupils that conveyed pure fear, I pondered on the impossible and how I'd survive if it was true.

‘Could I live in isolation forever? Could it be possible to have food delivered to my home? From where and how would I earn money to sustain myself? What about my relatives, my friends and neighbors? What would happen if they were to discover me? How would they react? What if they turned against me? What if I'd have to leave? Where could I go?’

As I bombarded myself with questions I hoped I'd never have to answer, a low and fluctuating noise from the outside entered my ears. I knew helicopters passed over my home daily, and I had never been bothered by them, except now the droning song of its rotors brought me only more stress.

Ever since I had woken up, I had feared that my dream was all but real. That fear had now grown more powerful and was crushing my quickly weakening hope. I wanted to resist, to fight back, but every sign had told me I had never been in a fantasy. There would be no failsafe, no escape by injuring myself. I was trapped in brutal and unforgiving reality.
My breaths became rapid and shallow, and I trembled like a leaf; I was at the onset of a panic attack.

Just as I expected—or rather, dreaded—the helicopter flew into view, passing diagonally from the above right towards the far left—from north to south. I was apprehensively watching it distance itself from me when my vision registered a shape appear from the top right of the far apartment.

My initial thought told me it was a bird that had left from a balcony on the opposite side of the building. While the location of its takeoff may have been arguably correct, it took me only a second to properly identify the winged fauna. I simultaneously crushed my fright and scored an impressive goal against my subconscious. An immense sensation of relief flushed the panic out of my body as I tracked the being speedily depart towards the east, over the forest, and beyond my view.

It was a pegasus.

Open Up

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

Chapter 3
Open Up

The world in my home and beyond had terrified me with its authenticity. I believed I was having a lucid dream, but the extreme level of detail in the dream had torn at my conviction. Fear had taken hold and had begun to destroy that belief. As I was on the verge of unparalleled panic, a pegasus had appeared. The sight of the mythical creature eased my stress, relieved joy taking its place.

My dream was, thankfully, just a dream.

‘In your face, subconscious! In your face!’ I wanted to shout, though I wasn't sure if taunting my inner psyche was a good way to show my gratitude, but I also wasn't sure I wanted to speak at all. Shock, denial, and grief had stemmed from hearing myself talk. It wasn't really my voice per se, but it came from my throat, and so I supposed by extension, it belonged to me, whether I liked it or not. At least for the moment.

In high spirits, I tasked myself with a new and ambitious mission.
Sitting by the window, I became aware of my translucent mirror image. Staring at myself blankly, I contemplated nothing for a few seconds before my thoughts kicked in: I wanted to climb over the figurative wall.
If I was willing to accept my body and sex in this dream, I had to accept my voice as well. Believing I had nothing to worry about, I put on a smug expression (or at least what I believe passed for smug on this face).

“This . . . this . . . ” Two words. That was all it took to brutally afflict me; my high morale vanished, leaving a gaping void of misery in its place.
‘Don't stop!’ my inner voice commanded.
“This . . . is . . . my . . . voice,” I forced the words out, my inner-self contorting in anguish. I strongly wanted to disbelieve I had spoken, let alone believe in what I had said. Defeated by my inability to overcome the loathing I harbored for my voice, I looked down to gloomily stare at the floor.

The few spoken lines repeated in my head. My very first words stung like venom, my somber admission weighing on me like a boulder.

I wanted to collapse to the floor, become eternally mute, and shed tears; however, I couldn't surrender, not when I had already started and had convinced myself I could accomplish this feat. I analyzed my situation and saw a glimmer of reason, one that could help me out from my distress. In an act of defiance, I forced my discovery to trudge up my throat.
“I'm this now . . . in here . . . and . . . only in here,” I mustered in a muted mumble. I could taste the torment in my tone, but the words carried a vital message: I was wasting a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

By trying to revert to only tolerating myself, I'd be devastated every time I was reminded of what I was in this dream. The shield of delusion would futilely keep trying to reassemble itself, never regaining its integrity. I would be left to wander in my dream as a broken wreck, all because I was scared of my own voice and sex.

I faced my blurry self, my eyes reflecting pain back at me, although behind them were faint embers of determination stubbornly refusing to be extinguished. A thought slipped into words that I no longer had the will to speak but nevertheless offered valuable insight on how to handle my situation:
‘Why am I stalling? This is like a plaster I'm ripping off slowly. I must do it in one go. A short sting is better than drawn out pain.’

I'd have to rid myself of my disheartened mood or ignore it completely before I could tackle my dilemma. I tried to think of something positive; something that could drag me out of the pit of bad morale I was in and past the painful obstacle.

How would Rainbow Dash handle the situation? She wouldn't back down; she wouldn't even think. She'd charge fearlessly at the threat!
An old marching song began to play in my head. It sang of pride, courage, and victory. I'd have to do as Rainbow Dash would. Do as the march conveyed. ‘It rushes! It wins!’

My mood improved slowly but steadily, and soon, my own defeatism burned to ash like dry paper in my inner fire. I became angry at myself, angry for having the nerve to show cowardice when I had assured myself I'd prevail effortlessly!

I prepared myself, not to arduously climb over the figurative wall but to smash it to pieces! I stood up, my confidence back with a vengeance. Centimeters from my very severe-looking mirror-self, the embers having erupted to a towering blaze, I took a deep breath before I unleashed my furious rant.

“FILLY OR COLT!? MARE OR STALLION!? WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE OTHER THAN MY VOICE AND FIGURE!? THE HAY WITH THE PINK HIGHLIGHTS! IT'S ONLY A COLOR! ANYPONY CAN TELL I'M STILL A FILLY INSide this shell of a . . . filly?”
My entire being shifted from fury to confusion and then, as I became silent, to shock. I trepidly backed away by a few meters, the reflection doing the same, its white shape surprisingly distinct on the clear glass.

I sat down, wanting to gently press the bridge of my nose with an index finger and thumb, but I had to settle for a hoof on my forehead instead. I presented myself a concise explanation for why my outburst had taken an odd turn: stress.

My foreleg descended to the floor, and I reviewed my journey in this dream so far. In summary, it had been one emotionally bumpy ride. I was well aware I had a low tolerance for stress, and I'd behave erratically if pushed to my limits. It was easy to deduce that my pent-up stress had broken through and negatively affected my attempt to attack my inhibition. I had spoken impetuously, so a simple slip-up in an otherwise successful endeavor shouldn't have come as a surprise.

I rubbed a hoof at my throat, hesitating a moment before giving my vocal chords a try: “I think . . . I can do this now.”
The words came out carefully, but they carried a smile of victory onto my face. I came close to my reflection and sat down, beaming at myself. I wasn't gazing at an unfamiliar creature any longer but at my alter ego. I was convinced I wouldn't encounter any hardships with myself. Finally, I could enjoy myself and my lucid dream!

Feeling curious, I brought my hoof to my ear and touched it. The pinna was tickled by the gentle press of my appendage, and I let out a small laugh. No longer averse to my voice, I started to vocalize some of my thoughts.

“This is quite fascinating. I can control my ears, and they also reflect my mood.” I turned my ears a few times experimentally, followed by them and my head descending unwillingly.
“Shy to myself?” Just like the red hue on my cheeks, my awkward grin was unintended.

My quick introspection left me clueless as to why I had become discombobulated by a simple ear motion.
“Just like my tail, huh? That's also a bit difficult to describe.” Looking at my tail, I raised it playfully. My hoof found itself under my jaw as I contemplated my tail, studying the feeling it created as I caused it to occasionally jump at my command.
“How do I describe something I've always had?”

The words replayed in my head, perplexing me. “Always had? Why did I say that?” I shrugged it off as a slip of the tongue and continued my hoof-under-jaw mulling. “Anyway, if I were to describe what it's like to have a tail to somepony who hasn't ever had one, how would—” I cut myself off, slightly irritated.
“Somepony? The hay am I—?”
My hoof practically slammed to the floor, and every hair on me stood rigid for a full second.
“Okay okay, time out, time out!” I blurted out, alarmed, then hastily pushed myself upright and left the kitchen.

I took myself to the living room, where I rested, prone on the sofa, head slumped on a pillow. I had temporarily dissuaded myself from talking, so I kept my concerned musings inside my head.

‘It all came by itself, like it was natural. Is it a habit I'm developing? Is it somehow related to my body? Am I involuntarily trying to behave like a pony? Wouldn't I already know how to behave like a pony?’

I lifted my head from the pillow, puzzled. Trying to study my last sentence, I began to see a hidden meaning in it instead of dismissing it as another lapse. With my stress shooting past my tolerance level, my head fell back on the pillow and a million thoughts erupted in me.

Forelegs over my head, I began to speculate random theories. Many of them were discarded outright as being beyond the impossible, but the ones that made a fraction of sense came out from my quivering self.

“What if the pegasus was just a desperate illusion and this is all real? What if I've gone insane and I'm really in a loony house? What if Equestria's real and I've been misplaced here by a botched spell?”
Despite how ridiculous it was, the last theory sounded plausible. I made a deduction so unbelievable, it carried to my voice.

“But that would mean I've always been—?” The words stopped in my throat, an uneasy feeling settling in my gut as I recalled what I had said in the kitchen:
‘How do I describe something I always had?’

“NOOO!!” With that shrill cry, I bounded off the sofa and backed away from it like it was dangerous. Trembling and looking over everything in a state of paranoia, I tried to shout firmly, but my fright betrayed my tone: “My theories were baseless ramblings! I'm only stressed! That explains my behavior! It has nothing to do with being a pony! Nothing!”

With my anxiety only increasing despite my frantic denouncing, I realized I was taking the wrong approach to alleviating my stress, and I sat down to recompose myself instead.

“This is only a dream. This is only a dream. This is only a dream . . . ” My soft chanting soothed me back to a tranquil state over the course of a minute.

With my negative emotions subdued, I gave myself a brief, collected evaluation of the scenario I was in: “This can only be a dream. It's the only sensible explanation for this impossible experience. No matter how real this seems to be, it can't ever be real.”
I paused to let my self-confidence grant me a smile, “With that said, I'm ready to face anything this dream throws at me!”

As if to spite me, a very natural feeling introduced itself at the worst moment. I looked over my shoulder at myself and spoke in agitated disbelief.
“I'm in a dream! I can't—” Realizing it was futile to reason with something that had no sense of hearing, I ceased my protest.

Either I force myself out from my dream, or I proceed with my new problem and deal with the humiliating consequences later. Neither seemed to be good choices, but I had recently made my decision to "face anything," and I couldn't eat my words. I groaned and stomped a hoof again in frustration before heading to the hallway.

Standing back from the bathroom door, I manipulated the handle effortlessly with my magic. As I opened my eyes and the door, the fluorescence spilled into my view from the confines of the once traumatic room. I had a direct visual of the fixture that I had thought would be simple to use, but a quick look told me it would be far from easy.

If I backed my hindlegs onto the ceil blue seat and kept my forelegs on the floor, I'd be oriented horizontally and only drench the upturned lid. Not only would it be difficult to clamber onto the seat, but its surface area was also inadequate to properly support me.

I thought of placing myself over the bowl by resting my forelegs on the tank, but I discarded the concept almost immediately as I realized my configuration would result only in a wet floor, hooves, and tail. I refined the idea slightly: standing over the seat, hindlegs secure on the floor, I'd tightly embrace the tank with my forelegs to hold my back vertically.

Declaring it the best solution, I approached the fixture and magically raised the lid. It was only then I realized it could be an obstruction, and the seat may be too wide for me to retain my hindlegs on the floor.

Alas, my endurance was running low, and I couldn't distribute any additional mental resources to re-evaluate the plan. Squirming desperately and with no tangible progress made, I hastily improvised and initiated Plan B. In quick succession, I removed the plastic shower drain grate, raised my tail, sat over the hole, and unlocked the flood gates.

The stream escaped into the water seal below, taking my tension along with it. A vocalization of relief strolled through my content smile. Certainly, it was strange to do it directly into the shower drain as a unicorn filly, and I was momentarily concerned that I had soiled my bed in the waking world, but my primary feeling was bliss.

With the purl underneath me fading to a few drips and then silence, sanitation became my next concern. Allowing the disposed liquid to linger in the chamber would definitely stink up the place. My experience on plumbing was less than minimal, but I had the understanding that if a large quantity of water was poured into the drain, the unpleasant substance would be flushed down to the sewer.

The obvious answer was in the shower, or rather, it was at the end of a flexible and flanged hose. Using my magic, I pulled the hand-held showerhead down and inspected it. Confusion abounded when I became aware that I'd need a bucket to fill, then empty its contents into the drain. I surmised the shower itself would be inadequate for the task.

“Where do I keep the bucket...? Oh, right!” Joy replaced confusion as I ventured to the two cupboard doors beneath the kitchen sink. Swinging open the left cupboard with my ethereal touch, I found the blue plastic bucket that was my prize.

I wrapped my forelegs around the blue bucket and pulled it out from its lair, my mind delaying for a second before informing me that it would be physically impossible for me to carry it in my arms. I rolled my eyes at my own forgetfulness and retracted one foreleg. I raised the handle with my hoof and bit my teeth on the metallic arch. If only I was more talented, I could've carried the bucket telekinetically, though my deduction gave me an idea for a test I'd do later.

The taste of steel was displeasing, but in a moment, I had carried the bucket to the shower. With ease, I levitated the showerhead into the bucket, my proud smile in full swing. In no more than ten seconds, I had the vessel filled to the brim with water and the showerhead back in its resting place. It all had gone smoothly; my telekinesis was becoming second nature to me.

I was about to empty the bucket when a funny thought announced itself: I was applying real-world rules to a dream. Why trouble myself with cleaning up my mess when anything I did or didn't do wouldn't leave lasting effects beyond the confines of my fantasy, apart from possible memories and—hopefully not—a soaked bed? In fact, I could've ventured out my home door and explored the realistic dreamworld to my heart's content without any regard for other people. After all, every being besides myself was nothing more than a figment of my imagination! Could they even behave like real people? A compilation of several amusing incidents of AI-controlled characters goofing up in video games played in my imagination. Would this dream feature similar incidents?

So far, my dream was an exact match of the authentic world except for the pegasus I had seen. The winged equid was my first clear evidence of this being a fictional world. If it hadn't been for that, I would've sworn I had awoken not into a dream but to a new day. I further theorized that my unexplained transformation was utterly impossible. Therefore, my radically changed body then became the second and most remarkable sign of being in an unreal setting. How it took so long to figure that out puzzled me. I was certain there was more to it than me overlooking the obvious, but I had to urgently return to the task at hoof when a revoltingly acerbic stench invaded my nostrils.

I was quick to use my telekinesis to tilt the bucket, the low-pitched sloshing confirming I was accurately displacing the water into the drain. The displeasing odor diminished to a tolerable level, and I replaced the drain cover. The bucket was then reassigned to become a subject for a most harmless test.

The blue vessel was wrapped in my invisible touch. It lifted off the floor silently and began to hover gracefully through the room and out the door. With no vision or touch, my awareness of the bathroom, hallway, and anything within their confines was immensely mystifying. In essence, my magic was a sixth sense.

The plastic container made its way towards the kitchen, but at the doorway, it came to an abrupt halt. My grasp vanished, and I heard the telltale clatter of the bucket crashing to the floor. I was surprised initially, but curiosity brought me to the fallen item. Inspecting the scene, my hoof came under my chin, and my brows furrowed in thought. Then, a smirk crossed my face.

I was the detective, and before me was the victim.
“Looks like he wanted to kick himself for leaving the bathroom, but instead . . . ”
I paused to place a pair of nonexistent sunglasses on myself.
“ . . . he kicked the bucket. Yeeeeaaaahh!”

Although it was cheesy, my voice couldn't possibly be more off, and I didn't shout very loudly, the imitation made me chuckle.
Quickly returning to pondering my recent telekinetic test, I analyzed my skill: I could manipulate lightweight items only within a limited range, and I had to keep my eyes closed for my invisible hand to function.

The restrictions of my innate skill disappointed me, but I had no choice but to accept them. So many things about my magic were to be left untested, I believed. An invisible timer hovered before me, counting from and to an undisclosed digit. There could be seconds to hours remaining. My longest dream had lasted for two weeks, though not as a single sequence. Rather, I had experienced short segments that were separated by days, all in the span of single night's sleep.

Zero, nine, five, eight, my microwave stated with its green liquid crystal display as I proceeded to return the bucket to its home under the sink. My current dream was advancing in real time, with each minute consisting of sixty seconds.

Done with checking Time's slow but unimpeded progress, I shot a look through the window, the expanse beyond luring me with its vibrant colors and unlimited freedom. Normally, I wouldn't even consider going outside simply because it existed, but now, it would be an injustice to keep myself indoors. My mental inquiry on what compelled me to adventure outside brought me no better reply than the brief inspection of my equine body.

Almost instinctively, I started towards the exit; however, when I passed the bathroom doorway, I came to a stop. Still playing by my own rules, I had to turn off the lights in the white-tiled room, but another thought also told me to venture forth into the room once more. My steps resounded off the white tiles, and my gaze was locked on the mirror. Affixed to the wall above the sink, it had told me an unpleasant tale in the past, but now, it was calling to me.

With a pounce, my forelegs landed on the sink, and I craned my neck. Unlike my first encounter with myself, I wasn't rejecting my image, and unlike in the kitchen, I had a perfectly clear image of myself. Too clear, because my mind skidded to a halt, leaving me gawking at my own visage. Slowly, some thoughts gathered, forming a speck of sense. Detached from myself, I leaned closer and drawled at how adorable the being in the mirror was. Abruptly, my forehooves slipped, and the air in my lungs evacuated in a blink of an eye as my torso hit the sink counter.

Fortunately, the stability failure did not result in a disaster, my forelegs having found new support from the bottom of the sink. The only damage was a startled heart and a passing feeling of heat from the adrenaline, then an embarrassed grin as I realized I had let out an atypical squeal.

After regaining my composure and posture, I resumed visual contact with myself, now with an objective eye.

I was the perfect blend of reality and cartoon, avoiding the dreaded uncanny valley entirely. The emerald green eyes charmed me, and I smiled like a spanner. I had learned my lesson, though, so I made sure my legs were locked and secure while I waited for my trance to wear off.

Several minutes passed, but I regretted none of the spent time. My idling, however wasteful, gave me an opportunity to inspect my coat. It was smooth and white with a seeming hint of light blue, though I couldn't be sure due to the off-white lighting. Despite my attempt to be unaffected by my temporary but beautiful figure, a desire at the back of my head wanted a hand to gently caress my delicate coat. My imagination tried to run wild, but a light shake of my head tamed that impulse, and I shifted my attention to the dual-colored bangs.

My messy bronze mane featured two, almost bilaterally symmetrical pink stripes extending from the forelock and along my mane to my withers. Actually, to call my mane messy was an understatement. It looked like I had stood under the downdraft of a helicopter for several minutes and never bothered to comb my mane afterwards.
That description was a hyperbole, though.

While some may have scoffed at my slightly scruffy outlook, I found it to be an interesting contrast to the rest of my appearance. I could've done without the pink highlights, but I didn't have any dye to conceal them with. I was, to my surprise, more bothered by pink, white, and bronze being a bad combination of colors. If I had been a stallion, I would've done my utmost to hide the pink streaks. Now, they were a minor inconvenience at worst.

“Just a color.” I was casual about it, though I began to muse what color could be more suitable in its place, doing my best to project them onto my reflection.
“Red stripes? Blue stripes? Green stripes?”
I paused, a certain scene replaying in my mind.
“Oh no, not green,” I pretended to be horrified.

As I envisioned more colors, I had a sudden déjà vu.
“Something about dying my mane?” I tilted my head in rumination but drew only blanks. “Or my coat, or my tail?” I glanced down at both my back and tail, expecting an answer from them but got none.
“Have I ever . . . ” I gave my reflection a strange look, “ . . . dyed my mane?”

I knew I had never dyed my hair; however, an image of myself with a black mane appeared in my mind's eye for a split second. I concentrated and saw it again. It didn't feel imaginary but like a true memory. A memory of myself with a groomed black mane and highlights so bright they could've been self-luminous.
It was so contradictory with what I knew of myself that I reacted with incredulity.
“What the hay?”

With a delay, I snapped out of my introspection when I registered the unusual expression I had muttered. “Oh great! Sounds like I do have a verbal quirk!”
The possibility that I had developed an uncontrollable idiosyncrasy wasn't amusing me at all.
“Is it my upbringing, something I learned when I was a foal?” I theorized, again doing a double-take as the last line didn't even make sense.
“For Celestia's sake, this is ridiculous!” Immediately, I flinched at my own words. With an exasperated cry, my ears pinned flat against my head, and I began to yell at myself.
“WHY DO I KEEP SAYING THESE THINGS!? I MUST KNOW WHY! IT'S BECAUSE I'VE ALWAYS BEEN A PONY!”

Suddenly, several images flashed before my eyes. They were from my past, but not the past as I knew it: in every image, I was a pony. My fury vanished, replaced by disbelief, shock, and growing distress.

The harder I tried to repel the false memories, the longer they persisted, until I was sure they were starting to replace my real ones. Apprehensively, I retreated from the mirror, giving it one last glance before abandoning the room, shutting the door and lights for good.

Wishing I could wall up the bathroom and erase the last few minutes from my memory, I backed away into my bedroom, my tail desiring to hide itself between my legs.

“Tha-that was bad, really bad! It wasn't funny! I don't want that to happen ever again!” I spoke in quivering terror as I tried to wrap my disarranged mind around what I had experienced.

“I-I didn't . . . I wasn't . . . I'm not . . . I've never . . . why did . . . why can't . . . I just . . . I . . . ”
Incomplete sentences left me as the powerful stress took its toll on me. I couldn't restrain myself any longer and I slumped to the floor, tears beginning to drip from my eyes.

I had become overstressed and terrified, despite my earlier declaration that I could handle anything this dream threw at me. Not only had it forced me to adapt a weird speech habit and lie about my origin, but it had also apparently overwritten some of my memories with forgeries. It all came so suddenly I was unable to set up my defenses. I knew what I was, and I bitterly cursed at my dream for subjugating me to act out its heinous pranks.

I dried the tears from my eyes and began to pull myself together. It took a long while, but eventually, I saw the matter in a reasonable light. “It's okay. I was stressed, overreacted foolishly, and had a minor breakdown. Regardless of how good or bad this dream is, I will eventually wake up, and then all will be back to normal.”
I sighed wearily, then looked at my striped tail. “Back to normal . . .”
It took me a few seconds to notice I had said it lamentably.

“Aargh!” My forehooves pressed to my temples, and I screamed indignantly: “WHAT THE HA—!?” I shut myself up abruptly and closed my eyes, my mood cooling almost instantly; I knew better than to repeat my mistake.

I gingerly brought my forehooves together, and I began to speak in a tone so calm that it made smooth glass seem like a vortex: “No. Let's have it your way. If you want me to have the speech mannerisms of a pony, that's okay. If you want me to say I've always been a pony, then I'll comply. If you want me to have memories of myself as a pony, then I won't try to deny them.”

I placed my hooves on the floor, listening acutely to the serenity of my home. I was done fighting; it was better to humbly accept a surrender than struggle for a hollow victory. I rested all my faith on the fact that I was only sojourning in a fantasy world.

During my meditation and preparation for the departure from my home, I recalled one thing I shouldn't leave without: keys.
If I wanted to return to my home, I'd need my home key. My keys were almost always in my everyday track jacket, but I had removed them since it had to be washed.

In a few seconds, I had located the keyring lying on the bureau in my bedroom. There were only three keys on the ring, one of which was my home key. It was most fortuitous that a yellow string was tied to the keyring as well. A remnant from something long forgotten, it'd serve a purpose again.

My magic easily opened the knot. With a quick inspection, I measured the total length of the string to be about forty centimeters. More than enough. I pulled the string through the keyring, then suspended them both in the air and drew them close to me. The ends met above my withers, intertwining several times and then forming a knot. I released the string, and my purely practical necklace was complete. I looked down and tugged at the string to confirm it was taut and secure, a proud smile soon spreading onto my lips.

Carrying my backup plan with me, I resumed my mission; however, I came to a stop just by the door. I glanced over my shoulder, like I was silently saying 'see you soon' to my home. A sudden and short memory of myself pulling a chair at the kitchen table appeared before me. It would've been meaningless if it weren't for the fact that it was yet another fake recollection. My eyes shifted down as a feeling of concern and melancholy passed through me; I knew the conditions of my surrender. I sincerely hoped I'd retain my identity for the entire duration of the dream.
A sigh passed through my nostrils, and I faced the door before me.

Never before had my home door seemed so different. My reduced size made it look imposing, and I stared at it in reverence, not thinking of it as a mere wooden portal but a barrier that separated me from potential harm.
If only my home door could open with the similar air-rushing, hair-raising, metal-grinding majesty that a Vault-Tec door did.

I closed my eyes for a second; the door handle rattled and the latch opened, the resulting sound reverberating in the corridor. The dark brown door silently drifted open, and the invisible colors of the sun meandered through my home to paint over the darkness.

With a single breath, multiple scents flowed into my nostrils, stronger than I could ever imagine. Cooking rice and meats, fresh paint, a wet dog, perfumes, soaps, coffee, tea, fish, pea soup, and more. I was almost overwhelmed by the countless aromas: my home was sterile in comparison. I quickly deduced that ponies possessed an acute sense of smell.

Waiting for my wooziness to fade, I stared at what was before me. I recalled that the white-painted concrete walls of the corridor featured five more doors in addition to mine, though I saw only two, both on my left. As a form of simplistic art, a single bistre stripe decorated the walls, and an orange button flickered alone like a candle between the two doors.
Past the corner to the right was my next objective: the elevator.

However, the unpredictable world made me recall my earlier fear, and my desire to adventure diminished slightly. I wasn't about to retreat, but I sincerely wished I truly was in a fantasy. If I wasn't, a short and terrifying life in a research lab would be my inevitable fate.

“I guess this is it,” I said, my tone full of awe, before I trepidly took my first steps beyond my home.

Pony, Meet Human

View Online

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

Chapter 4
Pony, Meet Human

With caution marking my steps, I wandered from my home. The concrete walls and wooden doors were effective insulation, presenting my hoofsteps with an environment where they could echo pristinely. The floor was harder than in my home, and I was astonished at how audible my steps were. My subconscious still perceived my forelegs as arms that should have had dextrous digits, and I was naturally bewildered as I experimentally tapped my hoof on the floor a few times.

I pitched my neck down and raised my leg to get a closer look at my hoof, gazing at it in a strange mixture of awe, disbelief, and delight. When one has spent more than twenty years as a human guy, a dramatic but temporary change like this was a challenge to comprehend.

Deciding to just roll with it, my next task was to focus my magic on closing the door as gently as I could. With the beams of sunlight denied entry into the corridor, only the faint, stubborn orange glow of the button for the lights to my left remained.
I was now beyond the safety of my home.

Along with the emerging concern for my dream's authenticity, the multitudes of scents entering my nose were making me nauseated. It'd only take a moment before I'd fully adjust to my acute sense of smell, but to fight my own doubts would require more than time.
“Remember, this is a dream!” I told myself, my nervousness detectible in my own tone.

I started as the corridor became bathed in the pale yellow that was cast by the ceiling-mounted lights, soon followed by a low droning entering my ears. Another human was using the elevator. I hoped that whoever it was wouldn't venture to my floor, not with the way I was looking. The paranoid side of my mind chucked out a few chilling concepts to my mouth, from where they slipped intermittently.
“What if I'm wrong . . . ? What if this isn't a dream . . . ? What if this is real . . .?”

A few seconds passed, and I heard the elevator come to a stop at the floor it was called to, then resume its journey. Listening attentively to the machinery moving the mobile room, I approached the corner cautiously, stopping so I could peek my head around to see the elevator door to my immediate right. The gray monolith of steel with a rectangular column for a window stood tall and imposingly, much like everything else around me. The sensation of diminutiveness it instilled in me wasn't helping the instinctive fear that caused me to hold my head low. I didn't want to be wrong, I really didn't, but if I was—

The droning came to a halt, and as the door opened, so did my respiration. Intending to bolt back into my home, I rotated around in an instant, but in my anxiety, I had completely forgotten the door was closed. Too disarrayed to utilize my magic, I stared at the door in agape consternation. In desperation, I curled down to a small pile on the floor, the trapped air furtively exiting through my nostrils as I did my best to hide myself in plain sight.

An unsettling silence soon befell the corridor: a few steps emitted from behind me, but no keys jingled, no home door opened. Nothing. The hairs on my back stood up like spikes, and the air became sealed in my lungs again. I was petrified; not even my eyes were blinking. At any moment, whoever was near me would grab me and—

“You, uh, okay there?”

It was the voice of a male, and he sounded concerned and confused, a stark contrast to what I had feared to receive. My dread left me with a sigh, my apprehension vanished, and my breathing returned to normal.

“Did something happen to you?” He might have misunderstood my sigh as a sign of grief, although he wasn't entirely wrong.

Apart from a couple of positive moments to break the pattern, this entire morning had been plagued by very stressful incidents: the shock of being a pony, the denial of my sex and the difficulties accepting it, the paranoia of my dream being the genuine reality, ridiculous theories I almost believed in, unwanted mannerisms, implausible memories.

Again, to my disappointment, I had discovered that my belief in my dream being genuine was dangerously flimsy, demonstrated exemplarily by my recent, but thankfully short, panic of encountering a fellow human being. I had expected to be treated as an alien at worst and had prepared to meet hollow caricatures at best.

“Do you need any help?” He was undeterred by my silence, forcing me to abandon my deliberation. With newfound faith in my dream, my confidence made a remarkable recovery. At long last and in spite of everything I had gone through, it was time to have fun!

“Um, I'm . . . fine.” I mimicked Fluttershy's unassuming tone. Only the tiny smile I had betrayed my internal snickering.

“Come on,” he encouraged softly. “I'm pretty sure something bothers you.”
He didn't know it, but he was right; however, I wasn't about to pour my heart out to the imaginary man. Why would I? That wasn't the joy I was looking for, if it even could count as something enjoyable. I craved to let loose in this fundamentally unreal playground, and its population would serve as my playthings.

“I, um, only had a rough morning,” I summed up my emotionally tumultuous experience, anticipating the topic to be changed.

“Look, if you want to talk about it—”

“No, I don't,” I curtly interrupted the insistent man, the brief burst of irritation carrying to my tone. He might've been genuinely worried for me, but I wasn't. I desired to have a merry time, not blabber about my immediate past, let alone think about it. I looked toward the future now. However, my gruff reply was uncalled for.
“I, uh, I'm . . . it's nothing,” I said in an apologetic tone, fine tuning it to match the tender pegasus whilst I began to lift myself from the floor. “Just one of those mornings when—”

“When your hair refuses to fall into place?” he interjected with a lighthearted comment.

I produced a small laugh to compliment his jape, straightening my forelegs to bring myself to a sitting stance. “Oh, yes, I think you nailed the head on that,” I replied through my smile and glanced up at what little I could see of my unkempt mane.

“Hit the nail on the head,” he corrected with mirth in his tone, embarrassing me to some degree. Delaying for a moment to allow my blush to fade (at least I think I had a blush), I raised myself onto all fours and finally turned to face him; instead, shock and surprise filled me as I ended up looking at his forest green plaid shirt and dark blue jeans.

The middle-aged man stood perhaps about a meter from me, yet I had to pitch my head to make eye contact with his sparsely-haired counterpart. It's one thing to have estimated my height to be in the range of one meter, but it's an entirely another thing when he was twice as tall as I was. As a human, I would've been as tall as him, but now as a pony, I was so . . . tiny.

“To be honest,” he said as I backed by a few steps, “if something's on your mind, I'm all ears . . .”

“I-I, um, I, uh . . .” I mumbled, my sights falling on his unimpressive brown shoes as my mind tried to overcome our size differences. Retrieving some of my composure, I decided I didn't want him to suspect I was about to unload a boulder off my shoulders, so I hastily opened my mouth to say pretty much anything I could think of. Poor choice on my part.

“I, uh, yes, um . . .” I stammered at the giant, drawing a puzzled expression out of him. I gawked in silence for a few seconds until my brain finally surmounted the disparity and constructed a sentence for me. A small smile of relief emerged on me as I spoke it without much thought. “Well, yeah, many things are on my mind.” Almost immediately following my reply did it dawn to me I had only dug my knees deeper.

“Good to hear! So what's nagging you?” he said with an expectant yet kind tone, his relaxed visage a contrast to the blank expression that successfully concealed my shock. Rather than roll out my inner issues, I began to process a method out of the unpleasant situation that wasn't a hasty goodbye and a rapid dash into the elevator. I deemed I could turn this conversation into something else than an impromptu psychotherapy session. As I pondered for a solution, my vision drifted around aimlessly, eventually halting on the gray plastic shopping bag he carried in his fisted left hand. It was bulging with wares, and I inspected it intricately for an idea.

“Well I, uh, have this . . . um.” I stalled for time as my brain worked its synapses. In sudden revelation, something I hadn't considered at all ventured into my thoughts. “I, uh, have a very, very, serious question.” I spoke quietly, and my sights detached from the bag and rolled down to my forelegs. It was a very serious question I had conjured. Very serious. Terrifyingly serious.

“Shoot,” the man said casually.

I hesitated for a second, eyeing my forehooves with a mix of fear and desperation. “What do you see?” I whispered timidly. It was a question aimed as much at him as it was to myself.
‘I see a pony's forelegs,’ I answered the question. ‘But that's what I see. I could be crazy and only hallucinating myself as a pony. This man could open my eyes to the truth and free me from my supposed psychosis.’

“Pardon?” he said to my surprise, and I returned my eyes on him to see he had cocked an eyebrow. Despite my unease, I repeated my question as calmly as possible, small beads of perspiration beginning to meander between the hairs of my coat. I hoped it was my coat. Hoped hard. Hoped very hard. I was, frankly, scared out of my mind. The longer the uncertainty of my shape prevailed, the more stressed I'd become . . . and I had a low tolerance for stress.

“Well, I see you right here in front of me,” he said after a small pause, now with a smirk on his countenance. I suspected he was trying to camouflage his confusion . . . or worse, his mirth! He behaved like a human, not like a shoddy copy of one. If this was the genuine reality, and there were actually two humans present, I'd become quite mad. Mainly, it was because I'd be literally mad, but it was also because a voice in my head would come forth to scream 'Objection!' in fury if I wasn't a pony. It was very apparent that the possibility of suffering a highly humiliating experience had already chipped at my sanity. Swallowing hard first, I presented the unusually calm man a trembling question:
“Can you please be more specific?”

His brows contracted, perplexed, yet his smirk was intact.
“Well, uh . . . I see you, standing on all fours.”

“On all fours!?” I echoed the words with dread, my barely collected exterior deteriorating rapidly as I was becoming more and more stressed. Whether he was intentionally daft or not made no difference to me any longer. I had given him the benefit of doubt, but now, that had worn down to a thin membrane that would falter at any moment.

I glanced over my shoulder and tossed my tail. I believed it was my tail. What else could it have been? Was my mind deceiving me so convincingly I could feel the muscle that controlled my tail, the hooves at the end of my limbs, and the hairs on my slender frame?

“Yeah, on all fours,” he bounded the words back, looking like he couldn't possibly understand how serious I was. In fact, I couldn't understand how he could be so dense! It was as if he had deliberately lied to me! No! My senses couldn't possibly be tricking me! To believe I was currently a human, contrary to all the evidence I had, was unthinkable! I knew what I saw, I knew what I felt, I knew what I sounded like.
I was a young mare, not a human! Why couldn't the despicable scoundrel tell me that!?

‘Oh no,’ I snapped out of my ferocious insisting, ‘This stress is driving me insane!’ I cast a quick but nervous glance at the waiting man, then eyed my legs with the same look. ‘No, I'm not insane!’ I asserted. ‘I only want to believe I'm a pony because being told that I'm a human who is deluded into regarding himself as a mare would be so horribly humiliating that it would completely shatter my mind and I'd succumb to a primitive defensive reaction known as intense anger!’ That emotion then began to work into my thoughts, and my brows contorted. ‘Which, by the way, is already winding up to full gear. Oh yes, it is.’ Anger felt good, I noted. Humiliation would bring me anguish, but anger would please me.

With my panic converting into blind rage at a rapid rate, I realized I had two choices left how to deal with it. One was easy, the other was rational. Reluctantly, I decided to go for the difficult option, which was to cool myself in spite of the intensely aggravating situation. I knew that if I was calm, I could save myself from falling into my own paranoid theory, a theory I was more than willing to believe due to it being the most realistic explanation for everything that I had experienced up to now, but I was too perturbed. Somehow, I had to prove to myself I was in a lucid dream and not completely bonkers . . . and this man would be of the utmost importance in achieving that objective.

As a concession to my angrier side, I gave the arguably duplicitous man a stern look as I said sarcastically, “Thank you kindly for the astute observation.” Without removing my glare from his continually puzzled expression, I spoke again, but without the sarcasm. “Do you mind waiting with me while I ponder my next move?” He concurred by nodding rather nonchalantly. For a moment, I thought all would be okay. I'd cool down and realize what would debunk my theory for good, and then there'd be much rejoicing. However, when he started to turn towards what I suspected was his home door, my frail tranquility didn't shatter.
It vaporized.

“Don't you dare to walk away from me!” I released a great quantity of my internal blaze, and my ears flattened back; he had become my enemy. I didn't care whether he was honestly stupid or not—or if I were a pony or not—I wanted him to suffer! Had my anger been tangible, it would've boiled titanium.

He rotated his upper body, a very confused expression on him as he futilely tried to talk some calming words into me.
“Uh, hey, take it easy now. I'm only tak—”

“Shut your pie hole!” I commanded. “I didn't give you permission to leave!” To my frustration, the voice of a young mare didn't quite convey my inner drill sergeant. Because that's what I was! I was a mar . . . No, I couldn't let that urge become vocal! My humiliation would be complete if it did.

“Er- What?” He seemed to be taken aback by my flammable behavior. “Permission? What the he—” He jittered as a resounding clack erupted in the corridor, courtesy of my forehoof striking the floor. I swear, I couldn't have produced that sound by any other available means.

“You'll stay right here with me!” I said indignantly, my voice increasing in strength as I continued to speak. “I said I have to plan my next move, and your participation in it is absolutely mandatory and nonnegotiable!” I didn't know what I'd do to him, but I'd do something to him; of that, I was convinced.

“Well, uh, but—”

“Silence!” I snapped, and his eyes spread wide open. My glare locked on him, and I launched into a vehement tirade. “Since you're obviously of limited intellect and can't comprehend why I'm so furious at you, I'm left with no choice but to explain it to you: I asked you a very simple question, and you failed to answer that question. To unshroud it further, I'm in complete disbelief at how you could be so incredibly imperceptive that it was outright impossible for you to discern what you saw before your own two eyes!” Probably due to my choice of words, he looked quite lost; I continued ranting regardless.

“How difficult can it be to tell to me what I really am!?” My tone bore a trace of incredulity and despair. “Does honesty give you an allergic reaction or something!? I mean, have you ever heard of the words 'straightforward', 'unambiguous', or 'frank'!?” My incendiary tone came back. “Well, now you have! Just so you know, those were synonyms, or in other words, they mean the same thing, but I'm fairly convinced the repetition was necessary to ensure the concept would sink into the raisin that pretends to be your brain!” Incendiary became vitriol. “But hey, you should congratulate yourself! Due to your stellar performance at being a marvelous example of striking ineptitude, your astonishing inability to entitle me with a clear answer to a basic question has spectacularly devastated my mood! I hope you are proud and content because I definitely don't share your sentiments. At! All!” Two hoof stomps emphasized the final two words.

“However, against my better judgement, I have to warn you: if you decide to do anything to worsen my mood any further, such as talk or move . . .” I paused, but only to draw in air and rear up onto my hind legs. “I'LL FORCE YOU TO REGRET IT!”
With my rant over, I slammed down my forehooves as I returned to the quadruped stance, myself wheezing in fury and eyes locked on his perturbed face.

“. . . Look, I'm not sure wha—”

“What is your major malfunction!?” I shouted piercingly, tears of rage in my eyes. “I ordered you stay put and silent, yet you persist!?” A subsequent exasperated huff aimed at the floor vented a big portion of my tempest, but my strict glare was quick to return to him. “Or do I have to imprint that vital directive into you?” I threatened. “Because I assure you, I know how to subdue you, and you'll cry like there's no tomorrow if you don't desist from being a bothersome oaf!” I audibly struck my hoof to the floor. The shocked man was wise enough not to speak again, but I wasn't done with him yet. I wiped the few drops from my eyes into my furry forearm. I hoped it was furry.

“For your information,” I said with serenity, “I regard you with nothing but unending contempt, though I suspect you know that already. That said, I fully expect you to cooperate from this moment onward. If not, then the educative imprinting shall commence.” I tapped my hoof a few more times to give him a clue. Indeed, I had conjured an arguably efficient method to incapacitate him, and I was ready to put that plan into motion when he finally nodded his silent agreement to keep his trap shut and his legs rooted to the floor.

“I'm glad that you have at last accepted your most humble and submissive position.” I said, a pleased but malignant smile on me. Right as the man seemed to relax, I shook off my calm exterior to billow an insult. “You balding baboon!” He unhinged his jaw to roll out a possible retort. Or else he was agape at hearing me insult him so suddenly; it didn't matter to me.

“Ah-ah-ah,” I reproved him whilst shaking my head, a smug smile on my lips. “No talking, no moving.” He promptly sealed his cranium cavity, and I chuckled mischievously.

“Say, isn't crying your ultimate wish?” I taunted him with insidious encouragement. “So what's stopping you from having a go at it, hm? Come on, do it! Fulfill that desire! I can help you achieve it!” It was quite obvious I was high on an exhilarating power trip of which I was not ashamed. “All right all right, I admit it,” I relented, laughing. “I do know you don't want to cry, but, well . . .” My vivacious tone became ominously serious. “I can't always be right, now can I?” He didn't say a word, his expression frozen in confused consternation. A wry smile emerged on me. “Good boy,” I said softly like he was a canine trainee.

For the time being, our one-sided play had come to an end. So had that insistent desire to declare myself a mare to him; of that, I was most appreciative. I knew my mind was that of a male human, but to have been revealed to be one in appearance while in the immediate vicinity of another human . . . I would've died out of shame.

Despite the ruckus made, no prying eyes had come to watch the commotion. Perhaps the walls and doors were just that effective at blocking sounds from accessing the abodes. Or maybe most homes, if not all homes, were vacant as it now was, seemingly, a Friday noon.

Judging by the man's slight fidgeting, he wasn't comfortable being quiet and idle near me. If I truly was a pony, which I had no desire to doubt, I should've been about as terrifying as a fluffy pillow. I was quite bemused by my success at intimidating him into submission.

Although I was poised to educate him in a rather brutish manner, deep down I wasn't the violent type, and I might come to regret the decision to attack the man. Might. My anger had attempted to coerce me to incapacitate the plaid-shirted numbskull and force tears from him by applying blunt force to his groin. Repeatedly, if necessary. Even the toughest guys will weep when their twins are being rendered into elongated disks, I surmised. Thankfully, I had never been subjected to such cringe-worthy pain. The closest to it was a minor bicycle mishap when I was a child. The top tube is unpleasantly hard, I had learned.

I had kept my waning glare on the restless man for a while, my relaxing expression concealing my indecision on whether to dismiss him and then collect myself in solitude or if I could still find a purposeful use for him. After much deliberation, I concluded it was best to keep him in my vice as he could still prove to be instrumental in verifying my equine form and lucid dream. To put it lightly, the possibility of them being refuted was highly unwelcome; however, if that were true, I had to keep myself in check and accept it with humility if possible. With my inner inferno doused, I also began to search for the significant clue that would further aid me in my quest for affirming my physical status as a pony and my mental status of wakefulness, or rather the lack thereof.

Suddenly, everything became black—although much later than I had anticipated—as the lights went out; their inbuilt timer had counted down to zero. For a brief moment, there was nothing but silence in the darkness, until I let out a little self-satisfied chuckle as I noticed (by ear) that the surmised neighbor wasn't taking his chance to escape from me. Did I really scare him into petrification? After all, I was quite sure I bore the appearance of a harmless unicorn who lacked a cutie mark and proficiency in his own telek— Wait! That was it! That was what I had failed to see earlier! If I could utilize telekinesis and generate a supportive reaction from the man, then my favored theory would receive the crucial backing it so greatly needed!

“I pressed the button!” I exclaimed with pride and in mild awe as the lights came on. A partially visible tin can in his bag drew my immediate attention, and I deftly employed my telekinesis to quickly but gingerly carry the metallic object to the ceiling. Without doubt, this display of magic would cert—

“You goddamn horn-headed mule!” His enraged shout caught me by surprise, and my eyes snapped open. The item dropped, but I regained my senses and saved the cylindrical container from its harsh meeting with the floor in the nick of time.

“What's wrong with you!?” he demanded, his face turning red. “Is this a funny game to you!? I'm not a toy you can play with, and I really don't care what kind of sorcery you— Arrrgh—!” He abruptly hunched, his free hand clutching his chest as he groaned with a fierce grimace.

Before I could deliver a proportional response for his insubordination, I became concerned for his health. Regardless of whether he was real or not, I couldn't retain a good conscience if he died of a heart attack before my eyes; my idea of fun didn't entail accidental or purposeful death. I closed the small gap and came to stand almost next to him, a pang of intense guilt and concern coursing in me.

“I-I'm terribly sorry, I really am!” I apologized. “Will you be okay? Do you need help?” I offered. Although I couldn't entirely shake the feeling I was talking to an illusion, I did my best to show sincere concern for him.

“Urgh! I have . . . a heart condition . . .” he strained to talk, coughing throatily. His shopping bag slipped from his hand and came to an upright position next to his feet. My concern for him ascended to a higher level. “But no . . . I'll be fine,” he tried to reassure me weakly as his posture began to fall.

“No, you won't be fine! Please, you can't die!” I protested, then looked about at the doors in my vicinity as my sweat glands began to work in overdrive. “I-I should get you some immediate he-AAAGH!” My startled yelp was due to him abruptly wrapping his hands around my forelegs and hoisting me up. Next thing I knew, I had my back and forelegs pressed against the wall, my hind legs dangling in the air and his furious face so close I could feel his pungent exhales brush my facial fur.

He had a feral look in his eyes, like he was seconds away from tearing into his captured prey. I dared not to talk nor break eye contact, let alone attempt to free myself. Dream or not, pony or not, I considered my well-being to be more valuable than an act of brave defiance.

As he continued to glare at me like an animal, I quickly theorized that he may have feigned the heart problem in order to seize and then subjugate me to whatever cruel retribution he was now concocting in that raisin of his. I also surmised that either he was stronger than his figure implied, or I was lighter than I had estimated. Or both. It didn't really matter. What mattered was that I had to think of a way to survive this sticky situation, preferably unscathed.

His deeply unsettling glower going on and on with no end in sight to my restrained predicament, I finally devised an unorthodox scheme to dissuade the brute from potentially inflicting bodily harm upon me. Namely, I took advantage of my appearance, and by that, I mean I did my best to display pleadingly big eyes and a sad pout, even whined a tiny whimper in hopes of melting his icy heart. It felt . . . wrong . . . to go for that angle, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

For a moment, he was unresponsive to my imploringly apologetic and wounded look, but when he drew a vicious smile on himself, my apprehension returned to my countenance.
“Good girl,” he murmured sinisterly.

Without warning, he released his grip and I gasped in shock. My unprepared body almost collapsed completely when my hooves landed back on the floor. Only my hind legs took the fall less graciously, and I slipped onto my haunches, thankfully without injury.

Trembling and breathless, but also relieved the extremely tense situation was over, I watched as he then took hold of his bag and approached the rightmost door of the two that were to my right. He opened the door without as much as looking behind himself, and once inside his own dwelling, he drew the door shut so fiercely I was certain a pressure wave rebounded more than once in the corridor.

With the door sealed, my subdued aggravation announced its grouching comeback. “That oversized orangutang. Of all things possible, he chose to call me a gi—!” My intonation caught up to me and cancelled my aggravation's performance. My mood passed through momentary confusion before reaching impassivity.

“Oh . . . right. I guess I am . . . ” I said flatly, omitting the final but obvious part of the statement, followed by a nonchalant shrug—or at least that was what I tried to do. Since I was supporting myself on my hindquarters and forelegs, I didn't shift my shoulders and forelegs in a normal shrug. On the contrary, my entire body slouched. Again, I became briefly perplexed.

Moving on to more meaningful matters than being bemused by bungled body language, I reviewed the interaction I had with the man in search for clear signs of my presence in a fictional world. First and foremost, I wasn't seen as something alien but as a person who bore the shape of a pony. A real human would've not started a peaceful conversation with me; they would've done the contrary, maybe gasped in shock, but definitely not socialized with me like I was a common sight. At any rate, the dullard had eventually, albeit disparagingly, affirmed I was a unicorn.

Secondly, I had utilized magic—telekinesis to be precise—in the presence of the berk, no less, taking his precious tin can and introducing it to the ceiling in a most gentle manner, which was apparently the final straw for him. I should've just launched the tin can at his weak spot upon being assaulted by his verbal volley, but the situation took an unexpected turn before I had the chance to counterattack. With the entire ordeal over, I could've also taken a moment to review my own (mis)behavior, but all things considered, that was now unnecessary. To sum up, he indirectly called me a pony, and he lost his temper when I applied magic to his belongings, not to mention he called me a gi . . . yeah.

“Finally,” I said in tranquil joy, my forehooves doing the best imitation of fingers placed vertically flat on each other. “I have absolutely nothing to worry about. This is a lucid dream, and nothing but a lucid dream.” I raised one foreleg up in glee. “Dream confirmed!” I cried out in imitation of MythBusters. Pity I couldn't replicate Jamie's or Adam's voice. Kari's, then? Maybe. I wanted to bounce up and down in circles like an automated spring whilst cheering in a most unmanly way, but the constrictive nature of my male gender rules persuaded me to tone down my celebration by a great margin.

As I began to lift myself up, my left hind leg nudged a mystery object. In curiosity, I oriented myself to get a look at what it was, and to my surprise, it was the sealed and undamaged tin can.

I was quite sure its owner wouldn't mind if I were to procure it for myself. He definitely hadn't noticed its absence yet. Therefore, I was hasty to inspect the label. I would've been disappointed if it was tuna, ground beef, or some other indigestible dead animal. To my joy, the blue-tinted label featured images of pineapples. That was all the information I needed, and I became spellbound, which I ultimately broke free from when a sizable bead of saliva squeezed itself past my lips. The elevator had to wait; a meal to consume was now my fate!

Feeling a tad unsafe where I was, I ventured to the corridor's opposite end where I would be as far away from the nasty neighbor's door as possible. If he still existed, that is. Being a fictional creation, he could've vanished like ash into the wind the moment he closed the door.

I had distanced myself from the produce by a dozen meters upon relocating myself, but a magical moment brought us together again. I was quick to note that my magic's range had increased, but I had more pressing matters to attend to than researching my telekinesis.

I gave my surroundings a quick look, priming my ears to be alert for the sounds of opening doors, just in case. Justin Case. I'm sure somepony out there had that name. I mean, some human. I had assumed my contemplations to be free from the 'ponyisms', but it seems I was wrong. Sure, it was fun once in a while, but to have it be constantly present both in speech and mind?
Seriously? Seriously.

Regardless, I was now alone with the delicacy. My beaming expression couldn't possibly tell how strongly I imagined the taste of the golden sweets in my mouth. With my magic lifting the pull tab, the can's top opened and detached with a satisfying rip and snap. The loot was in plain sight, and my joyful smile turned to a grin. I licked my chops, restraining myself to simply gaze at the exposed fruits and teasing my appetite all the while. Ultimately, the unshackled scent of the fruit ventured into my nostrils, and I was at liberty to deal with the appropriated food.

The can wasn't wide enough for me to simply dive my muzzle into it, so I had to blindly levitate the rings to my mouth. That didn't hinder me at all from eating the fantastically flavored fruit and then drinking the delightful nectar in unashamed ardor. Never in my life had ordinary pineapple slices and juice tasted so incredibly good, although I noticed a slight tang of sorts in them. I attributed that sensation to my equine taste buds; however, I had for some reason begun to experience difficulties in thinking. Difficulties in thought? Thought difficulties? Never mind.

Once I was done with the goods, I found something funny. Not a physical object, but a mental concept. It was funny. I think it was elation. Yeah, that was it! Pure elation. It was so powerful I started to giggle in a very girly-girly way. Very unlike me, really, but that didn't bother me much now. In this dream, I could do whatever I wanted and be whatever I wanted. So what if I behaved out of character? Or was that in-character? I had this not-really-a-thought in my head that said, 'Yo filly, you've been a pony ever since you were born.' I responded with my yes-really-a-thought, 'Sure, whatever, let's go with that, because while you are über wrong, I don't care to argue since I'll wake up eventually, and then I will be a dude again, so boo-yah!' Besides, who'd judge me? This was a dream, not a court of law. My dream. It's mine. All mine. Mine mine mine, down down down! Silly black-feathered waterfowl. Daffy Duck deserved what was coming to him.

So, anyway, every negative thought, feeling, and memory was replaced with pure euphoria. Well, not exactly, but that thought sounded nice. That thought that I thought. It was nice. Sounded nice. I didn't say it, so it didn't sound literally, but figuratively. I think. Yes, I could think, and all by myself. How about that?

Then out of nowhere this familiar tune exploded (BOOM!) into existence inside my head, and I wanted to bounce to it hyper-energetically. It had beepyish sounds and synthezetors. Okay, I knew the word, but I didn't care to think it right, and the music wasn't really playing in my head like there was a physical radio inside. Also, Zetor was a tractor, but whatever, I was having a laugh. Wait? Having a laugh? Like I held it physically? Never mind. Since I was obviously very happy, I launched up into the air and onto my legs, my cheery grin as wide as something that's very wide and grinny. And cheery. Simultaneously, I had realized something very extremely fascinating.

“Ohmygoshthisisasupergreatfeeling!” I spoke very rapidly and in a tone matching Pinkie Pie's. I think it was a close match, if not a precise match. Not match match, but the other match. The one that doesn't burn. And pitch as in voice, not that viscous dark substance and not airplane attitude. Would be kinda cool to be an airplane, though. I'd be a Cessna 152! Then I'd fly free like an airplane, though I wouldn't be able to fly upside down. Gravity-assisted fuel system would mean engine goes 'I pass out now,' and wings unfit to support themselves when inverted would be all 'adios amiga!'. Or was that 'adios amigo!' instead? Never mind! Because I'd be wingless and falling and crashing, I'd be a very very sad Cessna 152. And very hurt.

So I drifted, I mean, my mind drifted. Drifting is what cocky teens dream of doing with their repurposed front-wheel drive family sedans, which are oh-really 35% faster than normal because they have shiny rims, suspension so low they can't drive over speedbumps, and the gaudiest spoiler that money could buy. Psh!

Anyhow, my mind drifted to . . . what? Was it pineapples? Oh yeah, it was pineapples! I began to wonder if Pinkie ever baked pineapple sweets, like pineapple muffins, pineapple cake, pineapple donuts, and lots of more pineapply yummy stuff! Why did I wonder that? I didn't know. I had never met Pinkie Pie. Well, I thought I hadn't, because if I did, I'd know. Unless I forgot. Which I didn't. So I knew I hadn't forgotten I hadn't met Pinkie and . . . Wait, what? Yes. No, I meant, no. No to what? I didn't know. Know what? I didn't know I knew I didn't know what? I didn't know what what? What was what what? Never mind! It was happy time in honor of happy time! “Yay.”

Hey, I know what I could do now! I mean, I had honed the tone, but now, I had the correct voice for it, too! “Yay.” It was perfect! I was in stitches! Not literally but figuratively, because if I was literally in stitches, then that would've meant I was . . . in stitches? Injured and stitched? Inside stitches? Never mind! Off to the elevator, I was! Happy time!
“Yay.”
More stitches!

So I utilized my horribly and regrettably impaired magic (Boo-hoo!) to open the big, boring, heavy, steel door like it didn't even exist. Probably it didn't, dream thingy whatnot, yeah that! I zipped inside and I had already pressed the button for the bottom floor a trillion zillion bazillion madeupnumberillion times before the door closed because I was superduperquickfast!

That beepy happy music was still playing, which I could totally turn off on a whim because it was imaginary music. Yeah, really! Music off, then on, off, on, off, on, off, on. Then I got a little agitated because I hated skipping music. Anyway, I rocked back and forth to the tune, but that was because I was a poor dancer. I couldn't remember the lyrics too well, either.
“We look for relaxation; so the only explanation!”
“. . . and music everywhere!”
“Watch the yellow screen!”
“Go-go-go-go-go . . . ”
“. . . here they come!”
“And drop the bomb!”

I met Jim! I kissed him! Did he like it? I know he did! I mean, I think he did. He wasn't the talkative type, so I couldn't tell really. Kinda weird that he looked different from what I remembered him to look like, and I'm not even sure he was named Jim. Or that I knew him to begin with. This dream was so weird. I think I had a wonky memory again, and that was confusing me. Or else, the eeeehvuuuhl dream lord had changed him, too! Dumb dream lord, playing with my memories and Jim! Oh, wait, I wasn't supposed to fight the dream lord because I had surrendered to him. Oopsie daisy!

Anyway, it was very nice (very nice!) Jim was in my dream. Pity me and him couldn't wander together in this dream. It would've been difficult since I was a pony now. That sparked a weird memory, but it was too confusing and made no sense.

Maybe if I wasn't a pony, then maybe me and Jim could've been together? Maybe. I could've been a chain link fence, instead. That would've made this a super duper lame dream. Anyhow, I had to go without Jim. I was sure he understood my decision. He didn't say anything at all about it, though. So typical of him.

So where was I going, then? Out into the world wide world, of course! I'd be on the beaches and on the hills! Some important but grumpy old man in history said something about fighting on the beaches and hills. Strange, grumpy old man. I bet he was incontinent and very fighty. I didn't go to beaches or hills, though, but to a meadow.

Grass wasn't tasty, so I didn't eat much of it. I tried to find some of the tasty plants I ate when I was a foal. Wait? How did I know they were tasty? I only saw memories of me eating them but knew not what they tasted like, only that I ate them because they were tasty. Wait, what? How did that make any sense? Confound these phony pony memories; they were driving me into confusion!

I tried to find the tasty plants regardless, but when I didn't find any, I became sad for 3.14 seconds. The next digit was what now? Digit of pie? What? Pies weren't digits! Were they? Never mind! More fun time! “Yay.” Stitches!

Where . . . Where did . . . the time . . . go?

Not sure . . . where I've . . . gone to either . . .

Stuck here . . .

Couldn't climb out . . . River . . . Scary water . . . Woozy head . . .

Tried to . . . think where . . . I had been . . . Very spotty . . .

Were . . . the pineapples . . . special pineapples? Had a . . . weird taste . . .

Saw more . . . memories . . . pony memories . . . Phony pony . . . memories . . .

Like copies . . . of my . . . memories . . . but . . . just . . . as real . . . and . . . very . . . pony . . .

They . . . confuse . . . me . . .

So . . . tired . . . now . . .

Yay . . . Stitchy . . .

Life On The Edge

View Online

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

Chapter 5
Life On The Edge

I crossed the border of Slumbertania and into Awakeyland. A throbbing inside my head welcomed me to the familiar nation. Doing my best to ignore the unpleasant sensation, I noticed I wasn't on a soft mattress and underneath a comfy blanket. Nor did my head rest on a pillow. I was laying on a soft surface, but it wasn't smooth like a pillow or a mattress. When scents of various flora and damp air began to register in my nostrils, perplexed, I ordered my eyelids to retract. Peering through drowsy slits, my eyes were greeted by a countryside landscape on an overcast day. I found myself resting on a patch of moss on an elevated rocky surface that sloped down to a river.

My subcranial pounding made me question what kind of a party I had been attending and what decadent prankster had alcoholized my beverage. I was a staunch teetotaler, and to become intoxicated, not to mention so severely that I'd pass out in the middle of nowhere, was simply disgraceful and unacceptable! Whoever was responsible for my unfavorable predicament would be the recipient of a proper and acrid chewing out! However, my inebriation must've been extreme since I had no recollection of ever being at a party recently. In that case, good riddance! I didn't want to remember it anyway! Worst. Party. Ever!

To further indignify my situation, a brief gust informed me I was buck naked. Although . . . it didn't feel quite naked, more like I was wearing an encompassing, skintight, warming felt of some kind. Unusually enveloping, in fact, as it seemed to literally cover me from head to toe. As I began to pay more attention to other things than my surmised hangover, I discovered something was off about my arms and legs as well as my posture. Somehow, my legs were parallel with my torso, yet it didn't hurt me one bit, and . . . then my hands . . . Why couldn't I feel my fingers?

In extreme confusion, I glanced at my resting arms and saw two hair-coated somethings in their place; a startled cry launched from my mouth, and I became doubly shocked. My scream had been several octaves above what I'd normally be capable of producing. I became further confused when I placed the hard, fingerless extremity on my throat, displacing a string there.

“Wha-? My voice . . . I . . .” I stammered in disbelief. Then, like a rapid train passing by a stationary observer, the events of my lucid dream flashed through my mind. I drew my limb up to my face and stared at it in agape incredulity. Suspecting the worst, I apprehensively turned my head around to get a look at myself.

“Bu-but, h-how!?” I sputtered in horror, recoiling at the sight of a begrimed ice-white coat and bronze-colored, pink-striped tail. “Th-this shouldn't be possible!”

Motivated by a spontaneous impulse, I shot into an upright stance before I was reminded of the impossibility of maintaining a bipedal posture. I came back down onto all fours in a second, the minor impact sending a small jolt from the ends of the limbs up to the shoulders, and for a split second, I was extremely cognizant of the drastic changes in my physique.

I began to rotate erratically, eyeing my limbs and body in horrified disbelief while barely managing to speak between my frenetic breaths. “No . . . this . . . it can't be . . . I'm a—” I halted when my tail tucked itself between my legs, squeaking at the sight and feel of the involuntary reaction.

Moisture began to seep into my eyes as panic began to strip away my control. It wrapped itself tightly around my heart, commanding my body to quake violently. In a matter of seconds, my mind succumbed to the fright as well. I could feel a horrified scream building up inside me . . . I couldn't let it happen. I couldn't let it win, but if this was real . . . There wouldn't be a failsafe! There would be no way out! I'd be imprisoned! Sealed! Confined! Stuck! No escape at all . . . trapped . . . in a pony . . . a filly . . . female . . .

Oh no . . . I . . . Please no . . . I . . . Wait . . . I think . . .

I got it . . . Yes . . . I got it. I got it! I got it I got it I got it!

“It's a dream!” I exclaimed, a fragile smile creasing my lips, “I'm still inside the lucid dream! It-it makes pe-perfect s-sense! The- it- I . . .” My smile and tone withered rapidly under the powerful assault of emotions, and for a few futile but quiet seconds, I resisted before they finally prevailed over me. Cringing forth a miserable squeak, I dropped my head and granted the fluid in my eyes the liberty to run down my cheeks.

I drew a heavy breath and wiped the tears into my foreleg. “Only a dream . . .” I sighed shakily in relief, gazing at my appendage as I timorously placed it back to the ground.

Some events in my past had scared me, but never had I been this terrified. Few things could compare—the pure fear that takes hold and never wants to let go, it was so close to . . . I couldn't ideate how I'd . . . If this wasn't . . . If I were . . . permanently . . . No, I didn't even want to consider it. I didn't want to stress myself any further. If I hadn't remembered to tell myself I was sojourning in a vivid fantasy produced by my own subconscious . . . I didn't understand how I hadn't thought of it immediately. Maybe the very convincing waking-up experience was the reason. Would I have awoken for real if I had been overwhelmed by fear and thus changed the dream to a nightmare? It didn't make a difference; I was past the terror now.

Or so I thought.

As my cool returned to me, so did my awareness of the persistent headache. My recently acquired peace strained like a flimsy garment as panic's dark dominion threatened to expand into me again.

“It's . . . it's . . .” I stuttered in consternation. “It's . . . it's just a minor discomfort!” I conjured a plausible explanation, trading my terrified grimace for an uneasy but wide grin. “It's not pain, not pain at all! Only discomfort! And this is still a dream!” I was so flustered I couldn't help but laugh. Nervously. Was that how fear worked on me now? How funny! Not. Then why did it make me laugh? Fear and joy crashing into each other and short-circuiting my brain? The recent stress warping my emotions? Yes! Right! The headache! I had to refute it!

“It's the dream's doing! It must be! It's playing a prank on me! But I know this isn't real! Nope! Nuh-uh! Not reality! Negativo! Njet! It's not reality! Only a dream! It's the only possible explanation! Pain makes the dream stop! Discomfort doesn't!”

I coughed suddenly; my saliva had heard enough of my hysterical rambling and slipped down into my windpipe. It was good saliva, for it brought immediate sanity back to my head.
“Oh . . . kay . . . I got . . . the point,” I managed to say between my coughing.

Once I had cleared the uninvited substance from my throat, I resumed gently sailing to tranquility island, noticing as I did so that I had fallen on my haunches in my panic-stricken state. From personal experience, I knew excessive stress would disrupt my rationality, effectively turning me crazy. Luckily, experience also told me I would recover from them. Sometimes it took a few minutes, other times a few hours, but eventually I'd conquer my madness. All I had to do was relax, during which I'd evaluate my conduct from a near impartial standpoint if possible. I didn't trust myself too highly on that, but striving for it was at least a noble goal.

I had suffered two highly stressful incidents. It's not far-fetched to postulate that the incidents, combined with my momentary relief and joy of overcoming the first anxiety attack, sent my emotions and mind on the fritz. Thankfully, with that bout of cerebral incoherency a thing of the past, all was well again.

The headache was becoming tolerable, though I yearned for a pill of ibuprofen to dull its edge completely. What a cruel and crazy dream I had, burdening me with an all-too-authentic headache, as if it wanted me to believe this was real and not a wry fantasy. I wasn't so easily tricked, however. My impossible transformation, the sighting of the pegasus, the interaction with the man—they were indisputable evidence. I was at peace. In a dream. Cease thinking. Take a break.

I sat silent with my eyes closed, head inclined and mind void of troubling thoughts. With every drift of air passing over and out from me, I was reacquainted with my form. I clapped my forehooves lightly on the ground, tossed my tail, turned my ears, waited for a gust to gently pass through my hairs, and finally . . . “This is my voice,” I stated calmly in my unmistakably female voice. It was a pleasant voice when spoken with a collected and relaxed attitude.

“And my dream isn't over yet,” I continued as I drew my eyes open and examined the circle of sunken rock I had been relocated to.

I studied the vertical crescent of rocky slopes behind and next to me with scrunched brows: eighty-degree angle, three to four meters tall, laced with copious amounts of moss and lichen, but also covered with indents and protrusions.
“I could climb my way out of here,” I said optimistically, then with emerging frustration glanced at the soiled undersides of my forehooves. “If it weren't for these.”

Sighing away my light sourness, I got up on my hooves with little effort and began to stroll leisurely towards the river.

‘Well, I suppose I can just go down this little incline to the river emb—’

“Holy horse apples!”

In a blink of an eye, I had frantically backpedaled by a few body lengths and stumbled clumsily—and without injury—onto my haunches. The innocuous incline was deceiving until I stood at its edge and the steep slope to a ten-meter drop was revealed to my eyes.

I swallowed, tasting a trace of pineapples, mixed with enzymes and other unappetizing flavors, at the back of my tongue. Gathering my spinning mind, I observed that my dream liked to be consistent in regards to what I had eaten previously.

“. . . horse apples?” I wondered bedazzled, my mind performing a few more revolutions before halting.

Once my queasiness had faded entirely, I analyzed my situation. ‘So . . . I can't climb out from here, and I don't dare to jump down . . .’ My brows lowered as I absorbed that.

“So, what now?” I pondered irately. “Simply wait here until I'm miraculously lifted out?” The sarcastic remark instigated me to cast an inquisitive look at the grassy lips above me. ‘Hmm . . . Maybe somepony's nearby!?’ I hoped, followed by a delayed flinch. “Someone, someone, someone,” I muttered in irritation as I tapped a hoof at my forehead.

“Aaanywaaay,” I said as I resigned from my annoyance, ‘the likelihood of some dream character being here is slim; I should nevertheless try to call for help.’

I shouted for assistance for a complete minute, trying to draw the attention of anypony—or any human—in the vicinity. I didn't drop into despair when I realized there was no reply to my shouts. If anything, I became annoyed when my calls went unanswered.

“Oh joy,” I grouched and sat down, my complaint breaking out from the confines of my mind. “It appears I've been deposited into this solitary confinement to await my awakening from this imaginary world!”

With my burst over, I began to glare at the scenery beyond the river. The rural landscape was picturesque at least, and it would've been soothing . . . if it had been a sunny summer day! Accursed autumn cloud cover! I inhaled deeply and evacuated the majority of my irritation with the outbound breath.

“Maybe if I were to. . . ?” I murmured, focusing a fearful yet contemplative look towards the concealed riverside precipice. I had assumed it was narrower and farther out from the cliff, but it was rather wide and close to the cliff. The gradient of the slope had fooled me into perceiving that the ground was a gentle slope into the river instead of the steep cliff that it was.

“Nah,” I dismissed the idea after a moment, slashing my hoof through the air. “I'm not ready to wake up yet.” In the dreams where I plunged into water, I never "survived" it. Those incidents were how I met my end in a recurring nightmare, where I was in an out-of-control car as it soared off a pier at high speed; I always woke up the instant the car struck the water. I held no doubt the same would apply to me now, sans the car of course. I was too afraid of water to take that route. However, the point stood clear: if I were to leap down, I'd bring an immediate closure to my most extraordinary dream upon piercing the river surface.

Left with nothing else to do, I gauged the appearance of the illusory world in front of me. A placid wide brown river separated my elevated rocky location from a vast yellow field of plants. I didn't know enough about agriculture to recognize what plants were growing there. It would've been nice if a combine harvester was on the field to liven the view. The wide band of yellow was flanked by a green meadow on one side and a plowed field on the other. All three met a horizon-spanning pine forest in the distance. The sky itself was nothing but a gray and featureless canvas. A typical autumn afternoon, I estimated. It wasn't a warm day, either, but my coat did a remarkable job at denying my body warmth to the cold air. A number of birds chirped merrily somewhere nearby. Good for them. I wasn't sharing their enthusiasm.

With my boredom increasing every passing minute, I began to trudge around on the four by six meter semicircular zone. Jogging my legs and mind at the same time, I endeavored to remember what I had done before "waking up." My immediate recollection was of myself consuming the canned food I had taken for myself after its owner forgot to retrieve it. Following my delicious pineapple meal, everything became a disjointed blur. Riding the elevator down, being extremely euphoric, and conversing with another individual were my only memories from the foggy episode. To whom—or what—I had spoken to was lost into the shroud. The entire post-meal episode might've been a lapse into a "normal" dream, though my fading headache/hangover made me consider that the canned food was another prank set up by the dream overlord. Dreams are intrinsically nonsensical, after all.

I appreciated being fully aware again, though I was disheartened that my trapped status was wasting my unique and limited dream-time in this uninteresting location. Desiring to ward off such a sad thought, I began to scrutinize my own locomotion. Since the previous attempt at figuring out my four-legged walk had only bewildered me, I decided to investigate the "quattro coreografia" with firmer determination this time. ‘Heh, look at me, creating pseudo-Italian terms for four-legged locomotion.’

I mentally denoted each leg with an abbreviation: FR, FL, HR, and HL. My plan was to slow down my gait to a near stand-still, taking one step at a time while speaking the moniker I had given to my legs as I raised them. It seemed to be so simple, yet when I lifted my front-right leg, or FR, my immediate reaction was stupefying indecision. I gently lowered my leg, my mind vacant for a spell.

“Oh, come on!” I complained as my faculties came back online. “How hard can it be to comprehend walking?” I pursed my lips as I thought deeply on how to solve this astonishingly complicated issue. Maybe I was being too slow? Over-analyzing each step? I took a moment to relax a little.

“Time to retry,” I declared flatly and set my eyes on my hind-legs. In order to teach my brain a lesson, I resumed my walking with a mind void of thoughts. I watched the quadrupedal performance under the role of a perceptive camcorder rather than a contemplative researcher.

After a solid minute of walking, I stopped, my eyes locked on my legs as I lifted them in sync. “I started with . . . Ef-El. Then came Aitch-Ar, and then . . . Ef-Ar and then Aitch-El . . . Ah-ha! Eureka!” I exclaimed in glee. With a pleased smile on my lips, I observed my legs do their part as I resumed my gait.

“Ef-El, Aitch-Ar, Ef-Ar, Aitch-El, Ef-El, Aitch-Ar, Ef-Ar, Aitch-El, Ef-El, Aitch-Ar, Ef-Ar, Aitch-El~” I chanted in a four-beat tempo, tracing an oval on the rock. Once I got the pattern down, my sporadic movement escalated to a continuous gait, my seamless chanting decreasing until it had become voiceless.

I gradually raised my pace until my unhurried gait couldn't keep up and launched into a new, two-beat rhythm. Too curious to hold my thoughts at bay, I fumbled on my legs almost immediately and came to a halt on an astride stance. I gazed blankly ahead, an embarrassed smile arriving after a delay.
“Oops,” I chuckled abashedly, returning to a normal stance. ‘Glad nopony was around to see my blunder.’ I glanced around to affirm I was right. Collecting my composure and normalizing my expression, I reinitiated my activity with a clear mind and keen eyes.

After a few laps, I had calculated the rhythm: when HR lifted, so did FL. When those were returning to the ground, it was HL and FR's turn to reproduce the previous pair's motions. With my legs now moving as synchronized diagonal pairs, I bounced along merrily in the joy of having learned a new lesson in the art of quadruped locomotion. Not only did I have a pleased smile on my face, but my tail seemed to signal my excitement as well, swinging lively like a banner caught in a breeze. I wasn't sure why exactly, but I was feeling extraordinarily good. A desire to rear up to a jubilant cheer was begging earnestly for permission to express itself. I could imagine a filly commencing with the frivolous display shamelessly, but not me; I had strict gender-specific standards to adhere to.

A craving to progress to a gallop emerged. Sadly, my current location was pitifully inadequate for anything more than a short sprint. Feeling lamentably confined again, I approached a random section of the near-vertical slope, where I then lunged upright and landed my forehooves on the steep rock. Gazing at the tantalizing grassy lips above, I opened my mouth to beseech the ruler of my dream.

“Hey, uh, me,” I awkwardly addressed my subconscious. “Can you, I mean, me . . . uh, you . . . ? Never mind.” I discarded my confusion and got to the point. “Can I humbly ask to be granted a human form for five minutes please?” I voiced my wish with politeness.

No response.

“How about half of that?” I bargained.

Nothing.

“No? One minute then?” I waited for a while, gazing around impatiently. “You expect me to climb out of here in thirty seconds?” I half-hinted, scowling. “Male or female, I don't care, just give me a chance to ascend from this miserable location!” When nothing occurred, I cleared my throat and gathered a bucketful of courage.

Inclining my head down, I brought forth a pout and rolled my eyes skywards. “Pweease?” I beseeched innocently, hopefully allocating an adorable shimmer into my eyes. Somewhere inside my head, my masculinity was protesting.

No response. Again. With my request left unfulfilled despite my very atypical performance, I disengaged from my pose with a long, exasperated groan, then shot a stern glare at the clouds above me.
“You insensitive jerk!” I snapped shrilly, declaring the fruitless one-way conversation to be over.

Underneath my displeased exterior, I brimmed with bemusement. My attempt at persuasion with "myself" was unorthodox, however, I couldn't possibly associate myself with the sadistic being who operated this world, denying me my freedom and frustrating me at every opportunity.

That brought my attention to my insult: "Insensitive jerk" didn't seem like something I'd normally say when I'm scornful at somepony. I associated that utterance more with a . . . No, my female structure was deceiving me. Or maybe I had become so alienated from myself that the roleplay had inadvertently lasted longer than I had intended . . . although since this was a dream, I wouldn't have to worry about inconsistencies in my conduct.

No matter how good or bad dreams are, they're finite. Nightmares are conjured by a sleeping mind, too, and those are undeniably horrible. This extraordinary lucid dream was simply riddled with a number of unpleasant moments. Most of those negative moments, however, were made much worse by my stressing over every minutia. The interaction I had with my imaginary neighbor resulted in a humiliating disaster due to my losing my head and blowing up on him. In hindsight, there were many things I did wrong.

I should've been straightforward and asked without leaving any room for misinterpretation. I should've ignored the paranoid notion of a psychosis. I should've said that I had no time to chat and prevented the debacle from ever taking place. I should've been rational and not viewed the man as a malicious jester. The entire ordeal happened because I had made one mistake after another until I received the full brunt of the indignifying repercussions.

Why couldn't I just be carefree and positive? I had been when I was trotting about recently, but I had suppressed the urge to release my joy. Could it be that all the negative emotions made my happiness more potent in turn? I had limited it, though, put dampers on it. Was I afraid of something? Of course I was.

I looked over at my two-toned tail and arbitrarily wiggled it once. “Temporarily, I'm a pony . . .” I muttered, and my eyes rolled to the side in thought. Since I was an avid fan of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, I presumed my form was a semi-conscious wish that my sleeping mind had granted. Now, I was stuck to expend that wish on this lousy cliffside.

Birds warbled beyond eyesight and the sky had become slightly darker since I last bothered to pay attention to it. My mood withered further as the incredibly boring view dug itself into my conscience, myself tapping my forehoof idly as minutes passed and my mind drew blanks on what to do. Eventually, I stopped the leg-tapping and looked down at my limb, the grace of its shape more evident in my eyes now than before. My bored brows were afflicted when I contemplated a serious question: “Why a female pony?”

‘Am I so practical-minded,’ I postulated as I shifted my sights from my hoof to my flank, ‘that I consider housing my reproductive organs inside me to be such an advantage over the obvious alternative that I've manifested myself as a mare?’ Half-closing my eyes, I glanced sidelong at nothing specific. “Or as a filly, whichever way it is,” I said, trying to sound indifferent in spite of the uneasy topic and attempting to reconcile myself with my new Andrea Libmanesque voice.

“Regardless of the terminology,” I returned to the present issue, inspecting my pink-striped bronze tail and white body, “why these colors, then? They're . . . feminine.” It took effort to speak that word, even if I only managed a whimper. I drifted my gaze over the irregular ground before my forelegs.

“I'm thankful I don't have a princess pink coat, but . . . these colors . . . don't belong on a stallion . . .” I paused as I collected an unnerving thought and peeked at my tail. “But is . . . is this how I would envision myself if I . . . were a female pony?” I bowed my head and hushed my voice even further. Truth be told, I wasn't sure what colors I would've picked, but this selection didn't fit with me. Maybe this was the representation of my inner gi— No, the colors were purely random.

An inner warmth radiated up to my skin and pushed out wet beads. I felt slightly queasy, too. I guess it was either due to embarrassment or humiliation. Or both.

This unnerving self-inspection was as disconcerting as it was fascinating, and it made me wish I had studied psychology with dedication. Nevertheless, I paused shortly to retrieve some composure before I continued my introspection.

‘Every female has an underlying masculine side, just as every male has his feminine counterpart. The animus and anima, if I'm not mistaken,’ I thought sagely, recalling the little psychology I had researched. “So, this, uh, may then be my femininity personalized . . . Eh-heh, ponified, I mean,” I corrected my deduction, the lighthearted remark lacking the potency to reduce my nervousness.

“So, uh . . .” My mind halted—or rather my mouth halted—and I cast a cursory glance at my rocky containment walls for courage to press on. “Since I'm . . . um, a female for the time being . . . maybe, uh . . .” I had gradually slouched as I spoke and was now completely prone, and if possible, I would've continued into the stone as well. “Because this . . . is, uhm . . . a unique situation, I could . . . could try to . . . try to . . . do something . . . something, um . . .” I was practically enveloped in a film of sweat at this point.

“. . . something different.”

Experiments And Experiences

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

Chapter 6
Experiments and Experiences

I was in a dream: alone, bored, and temporarily a mare with literally nowhere to go. What could I do? What else had I left to do than delve into that which very few males ever admit to having? My masculinity was protesting my idea of exploration. Since I wasn't outwardly a male in this lucid dream, though, what should masculinity matter? Why shouldn't I be free to enjoy the opportunities this body could grant me? No one would ever know of what I'd do here unless I told. If there was ever a ripe time and excuse to disregard gender guidelines, it was now.
I was that bored.

I drew in a wavering inhale, holding it in me as I rose to a sitting position, then expelled some of my quaking with an equally quaky exhale. I closed my eyes, head tilted down as I waited for my nerves to settle. I wasn't angry, afraid, or embarrassed, only unsure. I had to steel myself. I had to be brave. I'd have to be braver than a guy standing on a speeding car. Never done that, though, and would probably never dare to. Too risky. What was riskier than that? Several things were, but in here? I had nothing but myself. What could I do with myself? I had magic and a mare's body. Both of which I'd lose when my dream ended. What could I do with both? What could I do to myself?

Conjuring forth my magic, its mystifying presence immediately blanketed everything in a five-meter radius. I could "feel" the stones, patches of moss and lichen, numerous leaves, a dozen twigs of various length, and myself sitting in the middle.

Using my magic to read my surroundings wasn't the same as perceiving the world with my eyes; it was as if I was "feeling" the shapes and colors of objects in a short radius around me. With my magic's help, I could tell my mane and forelock were so detestably disheveled as to resemble a crashing, sidelong wave originating from my right ear. Along my neck was a hairy path of brown and pink scrunched to a compact mess, some jutting in every direction like wrinkly rags. In contrast, my tail was remarkably prim. I decided to correct the disparity.

Thinking I could simply use magic to fashion my mane into a presentable shape, I directed my invisible touch at myself; however, the attempt halted short of my body, as if I was attempting to force two identically charged magnets together. Undeterred, I located and levitated a sturdy twig towards myself, an indirect application of magic that met with success. The twig delved into the hairs along my neck and, with some difficulties at first, soon opened the hairy knots. With that part of my mane unfurled to hang down to my shoulder, the makeshift haircare tool proceeded up towards the top of my head where it untied more twined hairs and straightened twisted locks to the best of its ability. After a few more touches, the strong gale on my head was pacified to a moderate breeze.

My disembodied awareness panned around me, evaluating my looks. I would've provoked a high-class pony like Rarity to give me a disdainful eye, but at least I no longer looked like I had completely disregarded my coiffure. I evaluated my manestyle to be a mixture of Rainbow Dash's scruffiness and Twilight's . . . straightness? Though my forelock was too thick to adequately replicate the lean, curved, and finely cut awning she had suspended over her forehead. Not that I'd want to imitate her style; I'd almost found my own. I tried to look up at my shaggy bangs, but as soon as I opened my eyes, the magic ceased and the twig fell.

Alas, since handling hair with a gnarly twig couldn't hope to produce anything refined, I had to settle for the slightly-better-than-bedmane style. Regardless, the hair was no longer obscuring my vision, and even I could tell that its new appearance was an improvement.

Feeling vivacious, I turned my head to the side and lifted my foreleg to meet the back of my hoof with my chin. Smiling, I cast the immobile twig a half-lidded sidelong look. I tittered as I imagined my pose from a third-person perspective. I wasn't one hundred percent comfortable with what I was doing, but I was relieved I had mustered the courage for it. Would I ever have another chance at this? Probably not. I had already done a few minor excursions motivated by dire rather than desire. Now that I had crossed the threshold, it shouldn't be a giant leap to do it for my own amusement.

I planted my leg back on the ground and thought of something cute. I chose puppies and kittens. And cartoon ponies. And ferrets—that was original! With those in mind, I did my best to channel their cuteness into my ingratiating expression. With my head inclined and sporting a (hopefully) sweet smile, I rolled my eyes up and envisioned a person standing before me, his or her heart melting as they caught the sight of my irresistibly adorable poise.

They'd kneel down, and I'd keep my innocent eyes locked on theirs. Kind words would bring a blush to me, and I'd turn my head in modesty. Hands would reach for me, gentle cooing would carry to my ears, and I'd comply silently, permitting the nimble digits to gently caress my mane and body. Fingers would run along my hairs and slightly tickle my skin, soothing me. I'd enjoy the affection I had received, and everything would be at peace.

It was a delight forever left unfulfilled, I realized, when my vacant surroundings and untouched hide finally broke my daydream (in a dream) by their sheer passive presence. I sighed forlornly, my eyes downcast.

I glanced around with a modicum of longing. The cold walls around me and the impassive flora beyond the river gave a horrible sense of abandonment. Even the birds had quieted, and nothing but the sound of the wind was picked up by my ears. I might not have many friends, and on some days I never left my home, but I had never been truly alone before. I was constantly aware of being near another human, be it above, below, or outside, and I always had my cell phone nearby.
Not here, though. I had nothing but myself as company.

A small band began to coil itself tighter around my heart. It was the unpleasant feeling of complete loneliness. Had this imaginary realm now removed all life from it but me? Abandoned me on a desolate outcropping from where I dared not to escape? Could I brave my fear? Leave my prison? Risk waking myself up?

With great hesitation, I took myself to the edge of the gradient, but the sight of the stagnant river far below was brief, for my head became light, and I had to turn away as I released a weak moan of indisposition. Spotting a fairly sizable patch of moss, I rested down on it and tried to think of comforting things.

Some welcome peace came to me as I posited a busy road and town not too far away, the droning of their presence merely camouflaged by the dull wail of the wind. I further reasoned that I wasn't completely alone; I simply couldn't perceive another living being from my current location.

To my relief, a pair of small birds fluttered past me in an erratic aerial dance. The duo crossed my location in a span of seconds, soon followed by the low roar of a jet plane from somewhere far away. My ears were the first to align themselves at the distinctive sound, locking towards the left side of the pine forest on the horizon. I oriented myself at the origin of the sound as well, hoping to see the mechanical avian elegantly transit the sky. Disappointingly, its slender frame was entirely obscured by a blanket of gray. Judging by the sudden emergence of its distinguishable sound, I surmised the aircraft had recently departed from an airfield and was climbing up to cruising altitude. If this dream's geography was anything like the real world's, then I was roughly ten kilometers from my abode. I knew a smaller town was situated along the river about fifteen kilometers upriver from my home, which meant I would be about half of that distance from it now.

The jet plane's droning gradually vanished over the course of minutes, and I resumed striking a few more demure poses. I quickly began to long for a mirror.

If only I could brave my fear of water and, by some miracle, survive the plunge into the river without breaking out from my dream, then perhaps I could see my reflection in the water. The thought inspired me to picture a vivid scene.

Sitting on the river embankment, I'd admire my visage smiling in tranquil joy back at me, the setting sun's beams glistening on hair and water with captivating luster, mane neat and prim—a special gift for my birthday.

“Huh?” I snapped out from my odd reverie, hearing a voice call me by a name. I was left stunned, my brows wrinkling as confusion transitioned through disbelief to irritation.

“Oh, you,” I said, directing my glare skywards. “So that's the pony name you've assigned to me?” Of course, I wasn't entitled a response of any kind, so I gave up the pursuit. The name circulated inside my consciousness like an airplane on a holding pattern, and for a brief moment, I swore I saw it in my mind's eye, written on a card addressed to somepony. There was another name there, but my dream lord was courteous enough not to divulge it. Not that it mattered. It was yet another nonsensical memory. I know how those played out. In a normal dream, I'd fall for them in a heartbeat, but as I was aware of being in a dream, I saw past the unconvincing folly. Regardless, now I had a 'name', and it wasn't exactly the best name for me. On the positive side, I wouldn't have to reveal it, and it wasn't a gender-corrected version of my real name. Fortunately.

Disengaging from contemplating the abnormalities my dream imbued me with, I realized that I had time but no idea how to utilize it . . . until I recalled my lamentations concerning my telekinesis, and I hatched an idea on the spot. I hastily located the twig I had used recently.

“Test number one: have a direct visual on the twig and try to levitate it,” I stated with a hint of strictness; the displeasure of knowing my 'name' had yet to dissipate. As I expected, the twig remained grounded, my magic unwilling to manifest itself. I held a decaying glower on the twig as my mind dispelled its excess agitation.

“Test number two,” I said calmly, “try to levitate the twig without establishing a direct visual.” I performed a semi-circle, this time holding my eyes open as I focused on my magic. I "felt" a blanket of the magical touch radiate out to my immediate vicinity for a split second before wrapping itself around the twig. I knew where the twig was in advance, so perhaps that knowledge extended to my magic as well. My mane obscured the view of my horn, though I surmised it was coated in whiteness. The twig lifted off the ground without a trace of trouble, and I smiled in accomplishment. Initiating test number three, I carefully brought the twig closer to me. Its flightpath was set to cross overhead, and my magic constantly kept me appraised of the twig's approach.

I was prepared for the twig to fall the instant I had it in my view, but I hoped that I'd be able to retain my magical grip on it.

The twig, wrapped in a faint white glow, came into my view and immediately started to shake itself loose from my grasp.
“Comeoncomeoncomeonpleasepleasepleaseplease,” I pleaded frantically as the twig began to poke itself past its shimmering boundaries. I grunted in despair when the magic's tint began to flicker.

Right when I feared I had lost the battle, the tenuous aura brightened dramatically, and the twig's rebellion was quelled. My jaw wanted to dislodge at the sight as I stared at the pacified object.

I fixated on the suspended twig whilst I meticulously but cautiously restudied myself for clues about my magic. For a moment, I detected nothing, but soon I noted a minor tingling at the base of my horn. I had been so focused on using my blind method of telekinesis before that I hadn't thought on how it felt.

Delving deeper into my mind and nerves, I discovered that the power holding the twig was semi-independent of me. I controlled it, but the twig remained perfectly content inside its white wrapper even as my focus on maintaining the magic began to diminish as I contemplated it. Reducing my magic's intensity, the tingling and white glow gradually subsided until they faded completely, and the twig became an obedient follower of the laws of gravity once again.

I theorized that the brief slip of control I experienced as the twig entered into my field of vision was not a failing of my own, but instead, it was a sign of the twig transferring from one magical grip to another. Being a novice, I was unaware of this transition; any unicorn but me could've done it without breaking a sweat. I further speculated I had not one but at the least three discernible types of telekinetic powers: the 'blind' telekinesis, the localized bubble of 'visual' magic, and the most common and mundane one that I only now had learned to use. I wasn't sure if these abilities were standard or unique to my dream-self, though. All of this made me wish for a "Telekinesis For Dummies" book.

Based on the tingling at the base of my horn, I surmised that it didn't house my magic but instead behaved as a transmitter and amplifier for it. I had to direct my inner energy to travel into the horn, and from there, it would pretty much do the rest for me. Hopefully, concentrating my energy into and through my horn to wield the twig whilst it was within my field of vision would be no different from the blind magic I had become used to. I knew some form of concentration was required to maintain the controlling glow on the target, but once my grip on the lightweight twig was secure, I had to reduce the energy to near nothing for the twig to fall free. It was quite the contrast to the difficulty of achieving the hold on it in the first place. If the opportunity would present itself, I'd gladly run additional telekinesis tests on multiple objects of varying size and mass.

With chary expectation, I set my eyes on the twig again, this time not directing my will outwardly, but inwardly. It wasn't about me wanting to levitate something; it was about wanting my magic to levitate something for me.

I predicted a new struggle, but instead, I gawked in astonishment as the twig was more than willing to follow my command. The tingling in my forehead was faint, but the joy I held wasn't. In high spirits, I began to experiment with the twig. First, I tested my magic's range by levitating the twig upwards. It reached a strange border a dozen meters above me, where it then bounced gently up and down like a cork in water. I set the twig to orbit around me on a horizontal plane. Starting as a wavy and eccentric ellipsoid, it evened to a flat circle after a dozen revolutions as I became more adept at controlling the most common form of telekinesis.

Pleased by my improved skills, I brought the twig to hover before myself. Curious, I directed my hoof into the white aura, though it caused no discernible reaction. Watching my limb attempt to interact with the sparkling glow a few more times with no success, I pondered if the mystifying layer was composed of ionized gas.

Following a few more minutes of additional playing and practicing, I had honed my telekinesis to work without a hitch. “Hard to execute, easy to master.” I proclaimed proudly.

In respect for the twig, I granted it a mossy mattress as a reward. Once placed on its humble bed, I sat down and bowed gracefully to the inorganic assistant, then looked at my flank in anticipation.
“Oh, what a dreadful shame; I didn't receive a telekinesis cutie mark,” I said in mock disappointment. “But, really, what would a telekinesis cutie mark look like, anyhow?” I wondered, glancing at the twig quizzically. Smirking playfully, I leaned in very close to it and pouted.
“Aww, liwl' twiggy is so sweepy he can't answer my liwl' question,” I cooed, fighting to keep my lips from drawing to a smile. My composure fell no more than a second after my 'liwl' display, and an exuberant laugh earned its liberty. Instantly, I clasped my mouth shut with my forehooves, blinking in shocked disbelief as I slowly withdrew my limbs.

“Wow,” I said, my embarrassment affecting my countenance and tone. “That was unusual . . . not . . . like mine . . .” I looked around with flustered eyes, hoping my conduct hadn't been exposed to more than my pair of ears.

“Oh-kay, nopony but me here, so all is well.” I reassured my unnerved and abashed self after my visual sweep confirmed my solitude. ‘Just my typical laugh altered in pitch.’ I swiped the issue under the rug then summarily moved back to the topic of cutie marks.

I wonder if I would love carrying and manipulating things with my sixth sense so much that it'd manifest on my flanks as a cutie mark? Strangely, deep inside, I felt a longing for a cutie mark, but I dismissed that as another of my dream's ludicrous jests. Still, the capability of employing telekinesis in reality was something I would have certainly enjoyed having. Really, who wouldn't? It would be totally awesome!

However, if I had become a pegasus instead of a unicorn, I wouldn't be confined to this dismal rocky formation in the first place; I would've flown away a long time ago! Although, with how much effort it took to learn to use my magic, I might've crashed back to the soil the moment I had tried to fly. The Super Mario Bros. game over tune would have played, and I'd woken up in my bed, angry and disappointed at myself for being so eager to fly that I had forgone testing my wings in the safe environment of my home.

Feeling boredom settle in again, I was about to attempt a new pose when something hit me. Just a little tap at the end of my muzzle. Soon came another tiny tap on my back, then another, as well as several tiny taps around me. A quick glance at my general area revealed small discolorations on the rock, with more appearing every passing second.
“Rain?” I presented and answered my question simultaneously. I gazed skywards with incredulity and received more confirmation in the form of water landing on my lips. In no dream that I knew of had it ever rained.

A mischievous drop fell into my eye and I grunted, turning my head down. I lifted my limb to rub at the stricken photoreceptor, but the appearance of a hard extremity before my unharmed eye made me abort the instinctive action. Resourcefully, I discovered a softer area behind my hoof and used that to treat my closed eye instead. 'Pastern'—that word throbbed in my head as I gazed at my . . . pastern. Funny how the mind digests concepts and words unconsciously, then spits them out at a whim. My headache still throbbed, although it had subsided greatly by now.

In regard to the natural phenomenon, my coat would provide protection from the chilly autumn rain, but for how long? What would happen once my coat's integrity was compromised? Under normal circumstances—as ridiculous as that sounded—I'd begin to freeze; however, this being a dream, I had no idea if it applied here as well. I guess only time could tell.

Under the belief that minimizing contact with open air and the rain would reduce the feeling of the theorized loss of warmth, I lay prone on my mossy mattress. To further ensure my body heat would be contained, I pulled my legs close to my body. Then I waited, and waited, and waited.

The light drizzle turned to a heavier downpour, and the world became darker. My forelock, heavy from the water, drooped over my eyes.

I waited some more. What else could I do?

The consistent bombardment eventually whittled down my coat's defenses, and the cold water began to withdraw body heat from me. My fascination with experiencing rain in a dream wore off entirely.

“I'd appreciate a team of weather pegasi about now,” I hoped half-jokingly, wiping my drenched forelock out of my face. I had begun to shiver, and I became concerned that I'd truly wake up if this discomfort became severe. I speculated that I had kicked off my blanket in my sleep, and the resulting loss of the warm pocket of air was now being reflected in my dream.

“Okay, you can cancel the rain now,” I complained to my disassociated side. “It's not funny, and I mean it. Those odd memories and the things you made me say, somepony and the likes, they were within acceptable limits, but you're seriously pushing your luck now.”

A cranial knock to the rock would beam me out from this dream. Leaping down into the river would garner the same result. The gradients were impossible to climb, at least for a pony. My only feasible option was to wait.

“So, what's the fun in this?” I dourly asked my overlording subconscious, who had beset me with the dissatisfactory conditions of my limited playing field and this troublesome precipitation. “I'm freezing here. Get that? Freezing. Trembling. In a dream. Are you trying to prove a point with this? Because if you are, it's entirely lost on me. Or is this retribution for my calling you a jerk? For your information, I don't regret that remark.”

My forelock continued to soak up water and slipped back over my eyes. I felt as if I was enveloped in a freezing, irremovable, waterlogged, and encompassing rug. The coldness bore into my bones like drills made of ice. I wasn't in pain, but my discomfort was extreme, and I had no way to alleviate it. I felt absolutely awful, and I wouldn't allow it to last for a minute longer. I had to do something.

I fumbled with my forehooves to push my soaked hair out of my vision. Hooves being hooves, and the hair being more soaked than before, my shivering and bad mood further compounded on me, and I found it troublesome to displace the bangs. After a few poor attempts, I groaned in exasperation and tossed my head up. My forelock folded haphazardly onto my head, and I had a clear vision of the world again. I possessed a fury that mixed into my trembling but gave me no warmth. What it did give me was absolute bravado.

“That's it!” I shot up onto my legs, yelling at the sky. “I've had enough! I wouldn't think it would come to this, but I! Am! Leaving!” I emphasized my message with fierce hoof stomps. Peering at the darkened realm, I saw the contours of the river. Fueled by seething determination, I began to propel myself towards the body of water. I was actually galloping, but I paid little attention to how I was managing it. My fears had been quelled by the burst of rage, and I launched myself over the precipice. As soon as my legs left the solid ground, my rational side reasserted its place in my consciousness, and my fury dimmed.

Regret. Sadness. That was what I felt. So many things I still desired to experience. It had been, despite all the problems and hardships, a very fascinating journey. I wish it hadn't ended like this. My gallop hadn't even been all that impressive; I'd barely managed to clear the edge of the embankment with my leap.

A splash—everything became dark and all sounds were muted. I was floating with nothing under my hooves and feeling unusually peaceful. The water was chilly and surrounded me on all sides, but I wasn't trembling anymore. I held my breath, waiting to be thrown out from . . . wait? Oh no!

Instinctively, I began to push water with my limbs. I had no idea how to swim as a pony, and that only made my fear grow more severe. I had to find the surface, the bottom, anything in the lightless void that I could use to regain my bearings. The little oxygen I had stored in my lungs was depleting at an alarming rate. Bubbles were flowing out from my nostrils as my diaphragm began to relax, and I was afraid that my dream was getting the last laugh by forcing me to suffer a very authentic drowning. My heart was racing and my mind was consumed by fear, but I wasn't waking up! If I hadn't been underwater, I would have screamed in horror.

I was spinning in every direction when my hind hooves finally touched something hard. Instilling a speck of rational thought, I brought my second set of hooves onto the solid boundary; then, I launched myself in the opposite direction from what I sincerely hoped was the river floor. As I journeyed through the liquid, my throat convulsed for a split second, and I breathed a small amount of water.

A strange warmth and peace descended into me. My scared heart joined the tranquility, and I ceased my struggling. Maybe drowning wouldn't be as bad as I had feared it to be. How about that?

Air. I breathed air; my head had popped above the surface, and my instincts did their task valiantly. I coughed water, frantically pumping my legs in a dire attempt to keep me from slipping back underneath the rippling river. My forelock had again fallen to obstruct my vision; a brisk shake took care of that issue.

The opposite river bank was perhaps two dozen meters away, not tall and not too steep, laced with moderately-sized rocks and exposed soil—definitely climbable. My paddling soon found a rhythm, and it became easier to swim, but I gave it no thought. My goal was simple, and my eyes were locked on the inviting safety of rocks and grass. As I neared the boundary of water and earth, my bliss became stronger, ushering my fear of water to the sidelines.

“I can't believe it!” I said, laughing. “I can't believe I made it!” My hooves touched the soft soil a few meters before the shore. “I survived the fall!” My swimming transitioned to a lively gait. “A second chance at my dream!” I planted my legs on the earthen gradient and began to ascend the moderate slope. “It's so unbelievable, I could just cheer to my heart's content!” I reached a rock just beneath a protruding part of the meadow and lunged up to plant my forelegs on it. “I think I'll actually do that once I- WHOA!”

The brittle soil I had placed my forelegs on crumbled as I placed my weight upon it, leading me to slip off my legs . . .

“Oooff!”

. . . and slam hard onto a large rock, knocking the wind out of me. With my balance lost, I tumbled back down into the river, where I lay resting sideways and partially submerged. Dazedly, I picked myself up and trudged up to the meadow.

“Ah-oww,” I moaned as I came to a secure stop on the grass, my wits coming back along with an unpleasant sensation on my barrel. “I hope I didn't break a rib,” I continued as I timorously twisted and arched my back, trying to diagnose my pain. When I didn't feel anything poke at my skin or innards, I surmised I had sustained nothing worse than a nasty bruise.

Before I could retrieve my joy, something dreadfully alarming dawned on me. I had felt pain. Not discomfort, but pain. Authentic pain! If that . . . then . . . I . . . No! It couldn't be! It was impossible! This was supposed to be impossible! I . . . It . . . No . . . Oh no . . . Oh no! NO! I couldn't lose it!

“Come on! I can deal with this!” I began to reassure myself in desperation. “Just because this is real doesn't mean it's permanent! I can't think like that! This could be over in a few hours!” My voice began to fade in tandem with my declining hope. “Or a couple days, or in a week . . . a month . . . a year . . . never be over . . .” I trailed off, and an unimaginable bleakness enveloped my mind. Every bone, nerve, and tissue turned against me. I didn't want them! I didn't want to be in this body! I wanted out! I had to escape! Run! Flee! HELP!

“No! I can't panic! It doesn't solve anything! I can't escape this no matter how hard I try! I just have . . .” My voice began to shatter. “To accept it . . . consider the worst . . . could be . . . forever . . .” I whimpered and . . . and . . . I feared so horribly. The panic, I was succumbing to it . . . NO! I couldn't allow it to win!

“I refuse to submit! I won't panic!” I yelled, my voice wavering in terror. My eyes were layered with tears and my entire being was shaking, but behind it all, I was fighting tooth and nail. “I can calm myself! Be rational! Fight it! I can fight the panic! Defeat it! Crush it! Eradicate it!” Defiance began to crease my lips into a fierce grin. “Yes! I can fight this! I can win! I won't lose to the pitiful panic! Ha-ha! I laugh in its face! I won't take this lying down! I will prevail! I'm a strong girl! I can- What the hay!”

I froze. I had called mys- . . . It made no sense! It made no sense! I . . . I couldn't breathe . . .

I HAD TO ESCAPE!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!”

The Unforgiving Reality Ensued

View Online

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

Chapter 7.
The Unforgiving Reality Ensued

Terror . . .

Heart racing . . . it hurt . . .

I wailed incessantly . . .

Ran . . . Fell . . . Got up . . . Ran . . . Fell . . . Got up . . . Repeated . . . over . . . and over . . .

Tried to flee from myself.

I wailed . . . until I couldn't . . .

I ran . . . until I couldn't . . .

Twisting and kicking . . . desperately tried to tear my body asunder . . . Failed . . . Collapsed.

I couldn't escape . . .

Crying.

I couldn't stop crying.

I tried to wake up . . . I wanted to wake up . . .

I just wanted to wake up . . . I tried so hard . . .

The pain I had brought on myself didn't end my nightmare . . . I didn't wake up . . .

The horrible fear tormented my heart.

The immeasurable emotional anguish wasn't ending my trauma.

Being a pony was supposed to be a fascinating experience . . . With no escape it was horrifying . . .

Every nerve told me I was a pony . . . I knew it . . . but I didn't want to know it!

Tried to stop knowing . . . Couldn't stop knowing . . . I was trapped . . .

Trapped . . . in a pony . . .

Alone . . . Helpless . . .

Had to fight it . . . Had to survive the deranging stress.

Not become a filly . . .

Scared . . .

Filly . . . Scared filly . . .

Ignore it . . . Ignore myself . . . Ignore . . . a filly . . . Ignore . . .

Ignore . . .

Ignore!

Ignored . . .

I didn't want to be scared . . . I didn't want this . . .

Every nerve told it over and over and over now.

Small form . . . The hooves . . . The moving ears . . . Hair everywhere . . . Pony . . .

Tearful . . . fearful breaths . . . through my larynx . . . Female's larynx . . . Filly . . .

Nothing I could do . . . Only try to ignore it . . . Ignore it . . .

Ignore being a filly . . . A crying filly . . .

So difficult . . . Impossible . . . Too many things had changed, couldn't ignore any of them . . .

Why . . . ?

Why had I become this?

A pony . . . Female . . . Why?

Why? Why, why, why, why, why?

I wanted to know why . . .

Body told me. A pony. All the time. Never stopped. Never! It didn't stop . . .

Why couldn't it stop? I had to ignore it. Not listen. Ignore! Ignore . . .

Was so difficult to ignore . . . I couldn't. Every nerve told me . . . pony.

Down there . . . its absence told me . . . Female . . .

I felt sick knowing that . . . Sad and sick . . .

I didn't want to be this!

I didn't . . .

I wanted everything to be restored!

I wanted peace to be restored . . .

I wanted to become numb . . .

Too cold . . .

Too upset . . .

No, I had to stop this. I had to collect myself! Be strong like a . . . Why had I said that to myself? Why? I wasn't . . . No, I didn't want to remember that! I had been stressed and still was. So wrong . . . Everything was so wrong . . .

I could find peace. Could manage not to be numb and upset. I had to focus, try to piece something together.

Where was I? I had no idea. Rain, darkness, and tears obscured my vision. The ground felt hard, uneven . . .

What had occurred? I had panicked, and after that, all had been an incomprehensible blur, but now . . . now . . . I . . .
Maybe I would be listened to . . . ? I was still sobbing . . . hearing a female in my throat twist every sound I made . . . I felt terribly discouraged from talking . . . but maybe . . . I wasn't alone? Maybe there was salvation for me?

“P-please . . . help me . . . I d-don't w-want this n-no m-more . . . I j-just want out . . . I just . . . P-p-please, I w-want to know . . . It's all I ask f-for . . . t-the only t-thing . . . I w-want to know . . . t-the only thing I wish . . . How . . . how t-to g-get out . . . p-please . . . h-help m-m-me . . . h-h-help . . . I-I'm b-begging, p-please . . . I-I d-don't want t-to be a f-f-filly . . . Help . . . me . . . t-turn me b-back into a guy . . . P-please . . . help . . .” The rest of my plea were whimpers . . . The same female that had spoken in my stead was now sobbing pitifully . . . I was sobbing pitifully . . .

I waited. Waited some more. Then even more. I waited so long that a form of sensibility reinstated itself. Maybe it was only a minute, but it might've as well been an hour. There came no help, no answer, and no comfort. I received nothing but cold misery in the form of the interminable downpour. I was utterly scared and alone. Desperately, I began to writhe in a final attempt to break out from my prison, grunting and squeaking tearfully all the while. It was all in vain. There was no escape. The utterly heartrending anguish consumed me again, and I resigned myself back to the role of a shriveling, miserably sobbing heap.

Every audible sound coming from me consisted of pain, even as it inflicted more upon me. This wasn't what I sounded like! This wasn't what I looked like! I wasn't a pony, I wasn't female! . . . But every little spasm and sob reminded me of the precise and desponding facts of my transformed body. Wishing nothing more than total peace from myself, I gradually became silent and unmoving. Even my tongue was centered in my mouth, where it couldn't contact my teeth and divulge my lack of cuspids to me.

I concentrated on the pressure my clenched teeth were exerting on each other. For a moment, I found mild comfort in this since the shape of my mouth was surprisingly human-like. Alas, I quickly recalled that stallions had a long angular muzzle, whereas mares had a significantly smaller rounded snout, the inner shape of the mouth not far removed from a human's. My tongue acted independently and inquisitively for a second, sadly confirming the assumption I had made. It didn't make an iota of difference whether my quick analysis on pony mouths was wrong or not. The irony of discovering the human-like feature in the body of an Equestrian mare shattered my self-deception and fragile tranquility like they were hollow eggshells, and the resulting outflow of tears was veiled by the rain.

I was alone, lost, and beside myself with despair and horror. Grains and stones were digging into my hide, and the sky was pouring chilling water over me, but those hardly registered in me anymore. They were insignificant annoyances that hardly matched the cerebral torture my morphed body incurred.

I had no will to move. No will to do anything. No will whatsoever. Lying flat like a carcass, I stared fixedly at nothing, drawing somber breaths. Was this how I'd go out? As a female animal? Life cut short before I even got close to achieving my dreams and aspirations? No matter how horrible and untimely my death would be, I always imagined there would be remains to use as identification. A body to bury. A funeral to be held. Mourning relatives. Now, I was an alien being, and my DNA was probably out of this world. Literally. I was unidentifiable. I was effectively a missing person. Was I even a person? Alive or not, if I was seen by my parents, I'd be as unrecognizable to them as I was to myself.

I wished they were here with me, though. Helping me, comforting me, protecting me and loving . . . or maybe they wouldn't. Could I wish such horror on them and humiliation on me? Would they believe me? I, stuck as a petite pony, claiming to be their son? Would I believe it myself if I were in their place? Even if they were convinced, could they defend me from the world? How long would it take until they'd slip up, inadvertently but inevitably sealing my fate as some lab project? What if they could manage to successfully conceal me from the public eye? I'd probably be confined indoors for the rest of my life, my future all but ruined. Would I always be their son? Would they disown me if the secret of what I was proved too hard to maintain? What would I do? Live in the seclusion of a forest, reluctantly obeying my survival instincts and adapting to a new life? Life as an animal? Eating berries, leaves, and grass? Would I even survive the winter? Freezing and starving, I'd succumb to fatigue, weeping until my last breath.
Why did I even bother to run these scenarios in my mind?
I couldn't live as a pony regardless. Not as a filly. I had no future as one.
No. This would be my final day. That was all I needed to know.

Gradually, the rain took its toll on me, and complex thoughts became more and more difficult to abet. I considered it a fortune because it was easier for my devastated self to simply exist instead of being pensive.

The rain continued, and the darkness finally became total. Maybe took an hour. Did it matter? I did nothing and now I saw nothing. The surrounding void was no match to mine. For some unfathomable reason, my heart kept beating. Couldn't it just quit it?

Maybe a wild animal would come to slay me? I was defenseless, had no will to fight. Easy prey. Why wasn't an animal finding me? It would hurt a little, but then I'd be granted peace.

Why wasn't I succumbing to the cold? My unwanted body was still here. I could feel it shiver. I could feel the rain pelt it. Striking the two things on my head. I had no shelter to give them from the rain, and they twitched involuntarily under the harassment of the incessant droplets. It didn't hurt, but I wept again for a fierce want to forget my bodily horror. Why couldn't the cold show me mercy and grant me ultimate peace by making me numb?

Then, I saw a gleam. It vanished, then came back. The pattern continued. It was distant, but with each appearance it was nearing.

I recognized it. Two lights. Close to each other. Illuminating a path.

Shifted towards me. It was on a road.

I realized something. I was on a road, too.

The thing grew brighter. We were on the same road. I thanked the guiding force for this merciful meeting.

Finally, I'd get my peace. A little bump, and then the suffering would be over. The lights were the keys to my prison cell, keys to my eternal peace, the light at the end of my dark tunnel.

It would be over.

The pain. The sorrow. The fear. The joys. The hopes. My life. All over.

My aspiration since I was a kid. Gone, too.

It was directly ahead now. We would meet soon.

I wasn't scared anymore.

Just a few more meters, then afterlife. I wished a Cessna 172 waited for me there . . . Never got to pilot one. Didn't even get to flight school. Worked to gather the money. To one day be free from the bonds of earth itself. Me and the plane . . . together we'd be one. The perfect bliss, and now I'd never . . . My greatest dream. Forever unattainable. The greatest joy I had ever wanted to experience . . . I cried. . .

The lights were so bright now that I could barely look at them. I had to force my eyes open, but the whiteness was soon to overwhelm my efforts. Never had headlights been so bright. It was like staring at the sun, but I wanted keep my eyes open. Witness my final second.

‘Dad. Mom. I'm sorry . . . My friends. I'm so sorry . . . Jim. I'm so very sorry . . . that I'll be forever gone . . . Please, always remember me . . .’

No . . .

No, no, no!

No afterlife . . . No Cessna . . . No mercy.

Instead, a short symphony of displacing gravel . . .

It didn't come. It came so close, but it didn't come. It had been so close. My freedom from this torment, my final wish, and my only reason to feel joy. It had been coldly denied. Two rectangles in a sideways world . . . interlocked rings in between the beaming eyes of the impassive machine. I knew that emblem . . . It was supposed to be my passport to a better existence . . .
Through the rain and purring of an internal combustion engine, I heard a few steps. Whoever it was had. . . Wait . . . No, I couldn't be seen as this! I had to get up and flee, but . . . I couldn't. I was so utterly defeated, so scared of the bodily terror that had befallen upon me that I was paralyzed. Besides . . . this wasn't a situation that I could run from.

Whoever had found me crossed into the brightness and graced me with tangible warmth. The minor joy of receiving heat in the cold was immediately destroyed by the ever-present discomfort of my alien shape and the looming fear of it being dissected by morally depraved scientists.

“Thank God, you're breathing! I thought you were dead.” He was worried. Relieved. Why? Why couldn't I be dead? I couldn't be seen as this. “Are you okay? Can you move?” I wasn't okay. Spiritless to move. What was he scheming to do to me? “Just my damn luck! The one day I forget my cell phone at home, this happens!” He was lucky; I wasn't. Who would he call? Did it make any difference who he'd call? I was doomed regardless. If only I had met my end under the wheels of the car . . .

“Can you hear me?” I could hear him. Why was he lifting my head? “You don't look too good.” No, I didn't. I didn't look like myself. I didn't want to be seen as this. So little light, yet his unshaven face was shining with concern. Why?

“Don't you worry one bit, I won't leave you here.” Why couldn't you? Why did you pick me up? I should've tried to run, but I didn't want to. Not as this. I couldn't be seen as this. I didn't like being carried either. A fragment of pride protesting . . .

Dry, soft and warm—I had been placed on the rear seat of the car. My new environment was of little consolation. The car began to move.

“My home's not far away, so I'll take you there, and then I'll call for help. You'll be fine soon, I promise.” No, I wouldn't be fine. I couldn't be seen as this. Why call for help? What was he planning to do to me? Was he good-natured? Was he saving me? Was he lulling me into a false sense of safety? He talked to me, asked questions. He sounded worried and serious, but I was absolutely inattentive to what he said and made no reply. Music was playing softly. I listened to it fixedly. Recognized a song. Breaking The Chains by Dokken. The solo was good. It helped me a little. Very little.

I continued to listen to music, but grievous threads were spiraling around my heart and upset it every time I did something—anything—related to my irremovable form. My acceptance . . . No. The tolerance I had for this body had shattered, and I was so focused on keeping myself together that I was having a hard time thinking straight. If I lost myself again . . . I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't be seen doing that. I couldn't be seen as this . . .

He had said soon, and more songs played, but time was being tardy for me. Only by paying attention to the music did I know time was progressing at a seemingly normal rate. With my body temperature climbing back to nominal levels, my senses started to return to me, and I came to earnestly wish I was in a sensory deprivation tank. It didn't matter how I aligned my limbs; they told me exactly what they were. I missed my fingers. Their nonexistence wouldn't leave me alone. It was like pain, but not quite. A numb agony. I didn't even want to think about them. If only it were so easy . . . I had to pound my mind with thoughts to keep myself on the calmer side, but like a piston in an engine, my thoughts quickly rotated back to my horrible situation. Perhaps it was only right that they did.

I still wanted this to be a dream, because then this could end somehow. Painlessly. I just wanted to wake up, in my bed, with everything okay. I had read a fair share of fictional stories and seen movies where transformation occurred during sleep. Never did I imagine it'd happen to me. How could I have? Why would I ever prepare for the impossible? This was impossible. Something like this doesn't just happen. So . . . how could this be possible, then? What had made all this possible? I wanted to know.

Then . . . there was something persistent . . . An overwhelming, repeating feeling: I couldn't be seen as this. Why? What was so wrong about this? Why couldn't I be seen as this? Because it was dangerous to be a pony. Correction: used to be. Presently, the possibility of the unimaginable horror of becoming a lab animal had been reduced. At worst, it had only been postponed. Though trivial in comparison to the real hazard, this was utterly wrong . . . It was wrong for me to be of this configuration. I was tragically and unjustly encased in this unbreakable shell.
I couldn't be seen as it. As this. As a . . . a female.

A much more potent and emasculating word existed to describe this extremely distorted version of myself. Female was somewhat of a neutral word . . . or maybe not . . . It was nonetheless a degrading, undesirable, and unfair title which I had not requested and had no available means to remove . . . and the irremovability of my status threatened to force tears from my eyes. I didn't want to be a female pony! Yet, here I was, mysteriously transformed into one, without the faintest clue on how to turn back into whom I used to be, and I feared that I was now doomed to this miserable life.

How had this happened to me, and why? I just wanted to know the answers. Answers that a stream of tears couldn't hope to grant me. Pony or female? I didn't know which hurt me more. Frightened me more. Crying about it was so wrong, so unmanly . . . but it was the only comfort I had to offer myself. Not even shielding my eyes with my arms could accomplish that pertinent task, what with them . . . being covered in soft fur . . . possessing delicate skin . . .
Like that of a female . . .

They weren't my arms! I didn't want to be a filly! I'd never wish to be a female! Not even a pony. I didn't wish for anything . . . and I almost began to cry openly. My life was ruined. Of course, I would cry about that, but I still tried to save face. Only the recurring sniffles dared to reveal my grief.

Wishing to forget the reality of my insufferable condition, the music again became my sole focus. Rock songs, most of which I didn't recognize. Didn't make a difference, though. The music permitted me to be quite ignorant of my flesh and future; that was what made the difference between drowning in my own lachrymosity and holding my head barely above the surface.

Time passed. Was it minutes? Hours? Years? No, only five barely familiar songs had played to their conclusion when the car stopped and became quiet. The music, the engine, and even the driver were quiet. Without music to focus on, my attention shifted to the door handle instead. Not long after, the voice of a somewhat fraught male drifted into my ears . . .

“Alright, here's the plan: I'll take you into my home and call you a doc ASAP. I don't know if you're seriously injured or not, but I hope to God you aren't.”

. . . my strange, sensitive, disturbingly flexible ears. Why did they have to turn? I didn't want them to do that! I didn't want to know this body . . . Didn't want it . . . It wasn't even possible to mentally escape from my bodily horror, was it? A few feeble and futile attempts, sure, but I was too easily pulled back into the quagmire of misery. Wait, what? Call me a doctor? Now I was truly doomed. The doctor would probably knock this guy out cold or worse, then take me to wherever I'd then serve as a most extraordinary research subject.

The guy muttered something indiscernible under his breath, but I didn't open my mouth to ask what; I had nothing but sorrow queuing within my throat. A door opened nearby, then after it closed, I had a short moment in solitude. Not that it granted me anything remotely positive. When the door before me opened, I didn't look into his eyes. If he hadn't known I had shed tears with shameful abundance, he did now. Softly spoken but useless words of consolation slinked into my tormented mind, followed by two arms and hands swiftly but gingerly taking me from the warm and gray out to the cold and dark.

I was so light and small now that it was of no trouble for him to support me in his arms. Gazing at the ground beneath me, I struggled to evict the thoughts related to my form and future. Thoughts were controllable. Sadly, nerves were not, but at least I could try not to devote a thought to them. The meandering path of concrete tiles embedded in the lawn scrolled beneath me as I was transported to his abode. Concrete changed to a parquet floor, then finally to white ceramic tiles, whereupon I was laid down with care.

“Okay, you rest easy here while I fetch my phone and return in a second,” the unknown male told me as I resumed my sprawled-out-like-a-starfish stance. “I really hope you aren't wounded or ill,” he reiterated before he sighed, then left in an apparent hurry. Really? Care for my health and then invite another human here? Maybe I still had a chance, though? As difficult it was to admit, my shape had adorable facial features. Perhaps I could use it to persuade the doctor to obey his professional confidentiality and extend my life . . . Life as a forever imprisoned female pony?
I sighed; I had only bad choices ahead of me.

I began to lethargically survey my location. The slightly rectangular white-tiled room was a bathroom with an inbuilt bathtub occupying a corner on the longer left-side wall. A small assortment of haircare bottles was perched on a glass shelf above the bathtub. To the left of the shelf and tub was a grooved door. Probably a sauna there. Opposite that door was another ajar door. The right wall was closest to me, a shower affixed to it ostensibly far above me. Resting my head back on the ceramic underlay, I continued to cling intently to the tiny tranquility I had discovered from inspecting the room.
Alas, I started to shiver. Not due to a cold. An extreme fear. Unprecedented form of claustrophobia, I hastily assessed. That tremendous fear demanded all of my mental strength to keep myself from falling prey to it. I knew it wouldn't help me at all if I did waver, but a significant part of me desired to scream in complete terror under the illogical belief that I could tear myself free from my transmogrified body by twisting and kicking forcibly enough.
Again . . .

The Caucasian male rushed back and crouched down. “Check for injuries? I'm not sure I know how to do that,” he said with doubt both in tone and expression, followed by barely discernible speech emitting from his cell phone. He nervously licked his lips, frowning as he regarded me, then closed his index finger and thumb across his mustache before setting his hand on his knee. “Okay, I'll try to do my best. Help is on the way, right? Good.” He sighed, seemingly having second thoughts about what he was about to do. Understanding what was about to come, I hoped he'd hesitate forever to inspect me and order the "help" to go away.

Alas, he then did exactly what I feared by placing a pair of fingers on my upper arm. Gingerly, he started to press my skin, moving methodically and slowly towards the end of my limb. Unwilling to look at my appendages, I fought behind tightly closed eyelids to preserve my brittle composure when my extremely distressed mind was directly informed of the encompassing layer of excess hair and the hide underneath. When he reached the border of the soft skin and hard keratin, the sensory feed became too cumbersome to bear, and I withdrew my limb. I winced lengthily, both at what had instigated me to move my limb and suppressing an excruciating discomfort when an instinct to fold five digits into my palm informed me there were only one and none.

“Does it hurt?” the man wondered with justifiable concern. My response was to swiftly resile the limb to its least troubling posture. Only now did I notice I was hyperventilating. Quickly, I embraced the disappearing traces of peace remaining in myself, and not a second too late. There were no broken bones in me, only the tormented shards of a broken spirit, though I would've gladly traded the latter for the former. Bones would heal over time, but mental trauma could be forever.

“I can't be sure, but it could be that . . . I see. How long? Okay . . . I'll stay on the line until he arrives,” he talked to his phone. Allegedly, some kind of medical aid was on the way. It wouldn't help me. It couldn't help me. What I needed was something much more urgent and integral: my original body. I wanted out from this highly undignified and frightening frame, but I didn't know how to leave. That was my agonizing wound, and no plaster, no suture, and no antibiotic would heal it. The pain was so grievous that I was constantly on the verge of tears. I was fearing for my life in more ways than one. I didn't want to die in a lab, but I didn't want to live in the secrecy of some guy's home, either.

“Hey? You feeling okay?” he asked. It was a calmer tone now, probably meant to relax me as much as it was to relax him. Such a noble but wasted effort in my case. “Lets try to chat about something," he suggested, sounding like he was trying to mask his unease with a dose of friendly unconcern. "I heard it helps relieve stress. I'm Marcus Lundvik. Strange surname, I know, but that's what I get when my mother married a Swede, and I'm not talking about the vegetable.” He chuckled at his own remark, but I was miserably immune to his mirth. “Anyway, I'm thirty-four, I've lived in this little town since the age of five, and I work in retail. Furniture, to be precise. I get a nice employee discount both there and in the cafeteria.” A silence followed, myself doing nothing more than stare at the far wall. “So . . . how about you?”

Unthinking and unmoving, I gazed at the seams between the tiles in another desperate attempt to bathe myself in ignorance of the surreal reality I was in. Here, my life was all but a nightmare come true, and he gives a quick summary of his own life? This truly was a nightmare, then! He didn't even care that I was a pony! The crouching furniture salesman—who had tried to comfort me with his deceitful hospitality—shifted on his bent legs as he waited for . . . I didn't even care. Half of his attention was on me, the other half on the phone he held to his ear. Presumably. I didn't care to find out.

“You . . . don't want to talk?” His lax tone didn't adequately mask his underlying concern any longer. No, I didn't want to contribute to the chit-chat! I didn't want to hear the voice belonging to this body. I simply waited. For what, I truly didn't know. Maybe the doctor would just . . . I didn't even know. I didn't even want to think anymore! I just wanted to be utterly ignorant of everything!

“Hey, uh, you'll be fine, won't you?” the guy inquired, his concern back in gear. His hand found its way onto my back, displacing hair in his attempt to comfort me. I didn't want to know I had so much hair, and his gentle stroking of it was having the very opposite effect of his intentions. Underneath the hair and the skin resided a pair of lungs within a small ribcage, pumping fitfully small amounts of air. Between them was my anxious heart, frightened of the alien framework it was now sealed in and of surgical tools that would cut it open. Then, all the hairs on me began to bristle, and my jaw locked. The tremors of an anxiety attack were approaching . . .

The doorbell's abrupt chime penetrated the room and thankfully called off the hand from mollifying me into a new panic attack. Maybe it should've. I could've had a chance to escape. To survive in the woods . . . for a few months . . .

“Okay, I think he's here,” he said to the phone—or me—before he stood up. “I'll be back soon with good help in tow!” With my eyes still locked on the wall, glum silence was my reply, and I was left alone with myself again.

Nothing particular ventured into my mind. Hoping to retain my tattered sangfroid to the last second, I was fully fixated on analyzing the mortar between the wall tiles for crumbs of willpower to repel an overwhelming anxiety. Moments later, I heard talking coming from beyond the room, the volume increasing in sync with their approach to my location. My attention converged on their chat. A distinct fear began to form in me. Just a few seconds left, and then my fate would be defined for good.

“...to a hospital if I were you,” an unfamiliar male spoke in displeasure.

“Sorry. I was all shot with nerves and did what I thought was for the best,” the recently introduced man defended himself apologetically.

“Don't fret too much about it, sir,” came the reassuringly spoken reply. “Currently, I have a more important task at my hooves than concerning myself with a hopefully minor and forgivable misjudgement.”

Wait . . . what? Hooves? Scantly had I formed a guess in my head when the answer literally stepped into my view and— OHMYGOSH!

“Anyhow, time to do what I do best!”

Wha— whoa! Were my deceiving eyes me? I mean, eyes me deceiving? I mean- that-that- NO! WAY!! Oh, my, oh my, ohmy, ohmyohmyohmyOHMY! A pony! A real, sand-yellow-coated pegasus pony, with wings and feathers, a slicked-back tangerine-orange mane, golden-yellow eyes, a green medkit with flared wings, and a white cross as a cutie mark, and there was a streamlined medical kit strapped to his back with a harness and and and . . . and . . . and everything! Whaaaooow!

“Hold on a second, doc. Let me take that kit off for you.”

I . . . I . . . I still didn't believe what was before me! Was he real!? If he was, then I'd be ecstatic, if I wasn't already! Wow! No, that was too weak! Woooow! No! Superwoooow! That was better! I-I . . . This was incredible! A real pegasus!

“Thank you, sir.”

This was astounding! A breathing, living, talking, sapient pegasus! Just like in the cartoon, but more real and more awesome! Now he was looking at me and smiling so kindly, too! Was I grinning? Was this real? This better be real! I'll tell all about this on Equestria Dai—!

“May I say, dear miss, you sport quite the positive attitude in spite of the emergency I was informed of."

I . . . W-w-what? Dear miss? I wasn't— ! . . . Oh no . . . I had . . . I had almost forgotten . . . and it hurt so much more to be told than to know that I . . . that I looked . . . was trapped as . . . I didn't want to be seen as a female . . .

This was all too real . . .

Recovery Is Nothing Short Of Arduous

View Online

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

Chapter 8
Recovery Is Nothing Short Of Arduous

“Is something wrong, miss? Did I offend you in some way? I'm sincerely sorry if I did.”

The pony had a fairly cordial attitude, but he had inadvertently brought reality itself back onto me like a jet plane with retracted landing gears. With my blissful ignorance destroyed, I had dropped my head and eyelids, a lump in my throat eager to turn the smallest attempt to talk into shameful sobs. I didn't want to speak with the voice I had now, let alone hear it weep. Being ignorant of myself again seemed like such a good idea, but my silence was a robust chain that kept me from exposing the nature of my anxiety.

“Are you injured?” the still astonishing equine worried. Supposing he meant physical injuries, I feebly shook my steeply inclined head. “Are you okay?” He continued, softly, after a brief pause: “You're shivering.”

Of course I was shivering, and I definitely wasn't okay. I was a victim of some unknown event which had transmogrified me and . . . and taken me to a parallel plane of existence, too! What else could explain the presence of the pegasus? He was real. The scent of his damp coat inflowing to my nostrils was definitely real. The extremely frightening threat of a short and dismal life as a lab animal was most likely no longer real. That was a relief, though woefully inadequate to undo the stress of being an animal of the opposite sex. My want to flee from this body was fierce, and the despair of not knowing of a true solution was immeasurable. I wouldn't ever want to live as a female, and to be seen as one was an injustice against my very being. The inability to remove this guise kept me perpetually distraught. I wouldn't be half as upset if I had become a stallion.
I had trouble breathing . . .

“I can give you something for it, though.”

Daring to uncover my eyes and glance at the source of the gently spoken suggestion, I saw the pegasus grab a narrow plastic tube from his medical kit and orient the equipment to be lengthwise in his mouth. He then lowered his head to place the opposite end of the tube close to my lips. I registered the unnervingly salient yet gracefully shaped snout of mine, from where my sights quickly traveled up the translucent tube back to the pegasus. A concerned frown was replaced with an encouraging smile as he gingerly prodded the device at my lips. A faint odor of disinfectant infiltrated my mouth when I instinctively curled my lips inwards to lick them. Uncaring of the consequences, I draped my lips around my end of the tube. The disinfectant stung in my mouth, but subsided quickly. From his end of the tube came a tiny snap, and something small rolled onto my tongue.

The pegasus drew the tube from me with care and placed it on the floor. “It's diazepam, a muscle relaxant,” he explained. I glanced at the contraption. There was a small box with a switch on the end that had been in his mouth; apparently, it was a container and integrated release mechanism for the drug. “It also helps to combat anxiety and stress,” he continued to detail the effects of the medicine. Letting that information orbit in my head for a few seconds first, I swallowed the near tasteless pill without vigor. I was in a dire need of some form of peace, and if I had to ingest a drug to attain it, so be it.

The pegasus appraised the sensibly silent man. “Sir, can you please dispose of this in my stead?” he requested affably, giving the tube a light prod with his forehoof. “It's recyclable,” he added, as if it was an afterthought. Marcus picked up the simple medical device as prompted, the pegasus thanking him before the red-tee-wearing man left the room. He wore a very dark blue jacket earlier, I recalled.

“Hey, what about the two pegasi outside?” Marcus came back to the door, the contraption still in his hand. “Shouldn't they be with you?”

“Oh, no,” the pony replied politely. “Medical Brace and Ampoule must always stand alert. If things start to look grim, I'll hit the alarm,” he gestured at the medkit where a bright red button was located conveniently on the inner side of the flipped-over lid, “to inform them they have a patient to deliver. Regrettably, the stretcher's too bulky to be taken indoors, but I'm pretty sure the young lady isn't in life-threatening danger.” The paramedic glanced at me with a tender smile.

I had tried to ponder this harmony between ponies and humans, but the young cogitation was demolished by the things atop my head flopping down when their unwilling owner had been referred to as a female. The guy left, but I was temporarily so out of it that I failed to discern what he said. If I had just passed out completely . . .

“Listen dear, I'll start by checking you for fractures and any signs of internal injuries. It shouldn't take more than a minute.” He had a smile on him that insinuated all would go well, but it dissipated momentarily when he took stock of my miserable expression. “Don't worry,” he said in caring tone. “I've never injured a patient.”

Until he had addressed me with feminine pronouns, that is . . . Although in his defense, he was factually correct, and I wasn't collected enough yet to negate the obvious evidence. A dejected sigh passed through my nostrils, and my head rested itself on the floor in defeat. My best option was to wait for the medicine to take effect and dull my anxiety. In the meantime, it was up to me to keep myself together. I had to constantly tell myself not to bend my fingers . . .

“Tell me to stop if you feel any pain.” Predicting what was coming, I wished to turn ethereal to preserve my physical immunity and frail tranquility. Unsurprisingly, a light prod on my arm proved those wishes false. Fighting a desire to scream in panic, I remained tense and immobile as the pony inspected me for injuries. He was very thorough, which didn't mitigate my unease. “Relax,” he reassured, probably noticing that my breaths had become shallow and irregular. “Everything looks fine.” I did my best to retain control as he methodically pressed his hooves on my arms. And shoulders. Neck. Ribs. Back. Hips—Wait NO!

Everything in the room became a smudge of predominantly white colors in my vision as my limbs instinctively shot into uncoordinated action. Next thing I knew, I had crammed myself into a corner. Hyperventilating and heart beating against my ribcage, I had secured a shocked stare on the startled stallion. All the marvel I had for the unearthly pony became virtually nonexistent. Thankfully, I hadn't lost myself to a panic attack, though it had come very close. The light pressure he had exerted on me seemed to linger on my skin, addling my thoughts. However, the vortex of disorganized cogitations quickly coalesced to inform me of what had triggered my hasty move: I was naked! Unclothed! Exposed! So was he, and I was practically defenseless! Most alarmingly, he had set his hooves too close to where . . . things I never would've imagined possessing were! Ugh. My stomach knotted now that I had consciously taken note of the . . . parts, and he . . . he could've done something appallingly intrusive to them! No wait wait wait wait! That was an irrational and unwarranted conclusion. He wouldn't dare do that to me! Would he? We were naked, and momentarily alone, and he was a stallion, and sadly I wasn't, and there could be a possibility he'd bring out his primitive desires in full while I was utterly distraught and helpless! Of course that was a ridiculous and unfounded fear! The guy would've come to my rescue regardless of the pony's actions. I had to dismiss this nonsensical assessment of the winged paramedic doing something indecent to me. Ponies would never do something so detestable. They were kind beings and incapable of evil. I had to calm down, and dismiss the ludicrous supposition that insinuated otherwise! Dismiss, dismiss, dismiss . . .

“I apologize, miss.” The pegasus got up onto his hooves, a sorry look on his muzzle. “My intention wasn't to upset you.” Meanwhile, the 'dismiss' in my head lost the three first letters but remained in its loop, playing a different, unsettling song.

He brought a hoof to his chin, appraising me with a thoughtful expression. “Judging by your brisk skitter, motor control of your legs is ostensibly normal,” he mused pedantically with a scantly perceivable voice. “Although . . .” With caution on his face, he began to trepidly close the gap separating us, and the broken record in my head came to a sudden halt. “Since I believe you're not injured, can you tell me what troubles you?” Glancing at the open door behind the pony, who I hoped wasn't just putting on the airs of concern, I planned to bolt on a second's notice. “I'm not a psychologist, but I can listen to you nonetheless.” I knew it wasn't from him I had to escape but from my senseless suspicions. Alas, when the frowning stallion got the clue and sat down about a meter's distance from me, my less rational side began to instinctively push myself away. “Please, do not be afraid," he articulated softly with a somber glimmer in his golden eyes. "I only wish to help you.” I would have moved farther away if not for the unyielding wall tiles. They felt cold through . . . all the . . . this . . . wet . . . my . . . coat! I think . . . I was nearing the end of my rope . . . The pony . . . a predator . . . Stupid misconception! Away with you! I had to concentrate! Concentrate, concentrate, concentrate! A modicum of sensibility! I had to hold it tightly!

“Listen closely, and try to relax,” the intrusively-close stallion said in an unmalicious voice, “I promise not to upset you.” Promise or not, I . . . I suddenly became aware of having . . . of not having hands. I couldn't feel the floor underneath my . . . the . . . hooves. A subdued sensation of the solidity beneath them transmitted through the horribly enlarged nails on my two remaining digits! Soft dermal tissue and perceptive nerves replaced by relatively insensitive mass of keratin! Dexterous digits numbering in five per appendage subtracted by four to one maladroit and disfigured mockery with an almost exclusive role of supporting my body! A mutated fingertip enveloped in its own oversized nail! NO! Stop! I had to stop the never ending over-analyzation before it ruined me! I had to calm myself, I could . . . just . . . If I could just . . . almost there, almost. Okay, at least a little. I had pushed back the tears and frightened scream that would've been the declaration of a panic attack. Now if I could erase it from my entire self, too . . .

“Am I doing something wrong? I can't help you if I'm left in the dark,” the pony said, looking quite comfortless himself. The answer he waited for didn't come. “It goes against my judgment, but . . . if you wish, then just . . . tell me to go away.” Sadly, any thought I instigated refused to depart from my brain. Hence, I was in no capacity to clearly instruct him to back off. Desperate to reduce the excruciatingly troubling flood of nerve signals rushing in from my upper appendages, I tried to lift them off the floor, but I had to abort the attempt when I realized the two abhorrent digits truly were pertinent in supporting myself. Undeterred by the failure, I rested on my legs . . . my hind legs while leaning against the wall, folding my arms in front of me. It was awkward, but at least I was able to ignore my arms and their extremities. Both the pony and I were starting to relax. For a few seconds. Then, another unnerving sensation struck me, and my grimace almost returned. Wanting to distance myself from the perv- . . . perplexed pegasus, I had wedged my back and head into the corner. What was on my head was . . . They . . . they were now in contact with the wall. An invasion of new nerve signals cascaded from the undesired features into my strained brain, but I was powerless to retract my head from its position. Sights transfixed on the very close stallion, I was aware that I was instinctively but senselessly straining to put even more distance between us. Plus, I was fighting an onslaught of nerve signals running down from the two large things attached to my head. Suddenly, I found myself sitting on my behind, my hind legs unable to continue supporting me. Something was now underneath me, irritating . . . What was that I felt where my—? Oh, gross! I shuddered, cringed, tried to usher away the horrible feelings and mental imagery. I didn't want to know about those! I didn't want to think on what I was! Ears, hooves, naked. Female! If I could just have a minute free from all those, I could relax! A minute as myself to calm my swirling mental chaos. I wouldn't even mind a potent anesthetic. I just wanted an escape! Alas, it was a useless want. I had to rely on my tremendously frayed self and the slowly working medicine to rebuild my shattered tolerance and dispel my anxiety for good.

Wishing for some breathing space or maybe even a moment alone, I tried to surmount the dislike I had for this body's voice and speak to the pitying but puzzled pegasus. It didn't go too well; I produced nothing more than tremulous, incomprehensible peeps which only further confused the frowning stallion. Now I knew exactly what was in store for me: the stress I contained was itching for a way out, and any attempt to talk again would open the ocular floodgates. Thus, the stallion, who was apparently contemplating on how to properly mollify me, remained too close to comfort. The male with a mustache and light beard returned, his expression reflecting some form of sadness as he saw me; I liked to think he empathized with my severe plight.

“What's going on? Is she okay? She looks like she's been scared to death,” he wondered with concern as he came to stand by the pony. Just his height seemed to debase me further; he looked to be slightly above two meters tall. He received an uncertain but contrite glance from the pony, whereas I suffered the sound of "she" echoing in my head like an insult and enhancing the fierce desire I had to reject this body. The looping pronoun was shortly overshadowed by the . . . the wedged things on me. I had almost managed to forget them! I was finally able to remove my head from the wall by a slight margin, but the continuing existence of the two sound-catchers didn't cease to pester me. It was as though every heartbeat sent a potent sensory pulse through them and into my overstressed brain. The discomfort of the prominent features breached my already weakened cerebral defense lines like a hot knife through butter and started to exacerbate my terror. My tenuous tranquility—if I could even associate such a word to it—finally began to erode, each passing second increasing my stress on a logarithmic scale.

I wasn't sure if the pegasus and human were conversing to each other or me; I wasn't paying much attention to them anymore. My focus was firmly set on trying to combat all the unnerving things related to my inescapable physiological condition, mostly on ignoring the two intolerable troublemakers on my head. They were incessantly agitating me. In fact, it seemed like any attempt to forget them only made things worse! I was in a vicious and inescapable cycle! They reacted to my every emotion, and I wanted them to stop! Stop being down-folded! Stop turning! Stop existing! I had to erase their insufferable presence! I wanted them to go away! I couldn't take them anymore! I had to get them off me but they were still there. I was trying to get rid of them, but I couldn't grab them my fingers weren't working I wanted them back it only made things worse I couldn't get the horrible ears off me I wanted them off me to get them off me GET THEM OFF ME!!

“Stop!” A sobering yell struck my eardrums along with something quickly swiping my limb from my right ear. “What're you doing to yourself!?” a sand-yellow shape shouted in extreme concern, his hard extremities now on my shoulders. My vestiges of self-restraint failed almost instantly, and panic began to build up in me at an alarming rate as I stared at the pegasus in a silent plea for help. I had to chance it . . . I had to tell him why I . . . who I . . . But . . . whimpered . . . Almost sobbing . . . Grief and fright enveloping my frantically beating heart. I cringed, pushing the pony away . . . Felt my limbs, I saw my limbs . . . I wished to unsee them, unfeel them! I couldn't . . . The collapsed pony . . . His expression was impossible to discern . . . Everything was blurring. Everything in my body felt wrong. Everything was wrong, wrong, WRONG!! I couldn't . . . anymore . . . I had to . . .

“AAAAAAAAAAHHH!!”

Panic didn't come . . . like I had dreaded . . . Like I had expected. That blood curdling scream . . . sounded wrong . . . It broke me like I was frail glass . . . Small pile . . . Cried profusely . . . Tried to conceal the torrents . . . Sodded my arms in return . . . My hairy arms . . . The only fingers . . . felt wrong . . . Entire body felt wrong . . . The tears weren't helping . . . So dearly wished they did . . . I was inconsolable . . . Ignoring myself was impossible . . . I failed to mute the uncontrollable weeping . . . and it sounded so wrong . . . Not my voice . . . I didn't want to hear it . . . I didn't want to know what I was now . . . They saw me be like this . . . Saw me as this . . . The unfathomable misery . . . The humiliation and shame . . . The abject horror . . . The emotional ache in my heart . . . I wished for nothing more in the world than to escape from this prison . . . A button to press, a keyword to speak, a move to perform . . . Anything! As long as I could do it now! Please . . . Anything . . .

I was scared . . . So scared . . . Please . . . help . . .

“Hey . . . Don't cry . . .” A soft, caring whisper, by . . . I couldn't coax myself to open my eyes . . . but . . . I knew whose voice it was . . .

Something slipped underneath me . . . raised me with care . . . as if I could be shattered again . . . Lamely I tried to resist . . . but I was limp . . . I was frail . . . Broken . . . Still crying . . .
Then, a warmth radiated into me. Body heat. A fragrance of deodorant and an underlying but unexpected natural scent. His arms and hands wrapped over my neck and back. Mine were . . . I circled them around him on a compulsion. I supposed he was crouching, or kneeling . . . My legs were steadying me on the floor. Strange as it was, all of this didn't upset me. I felt a calmness, and though I didn't want to embrace him or be embraced by him . . . this felt so nice. Soothing. Safe. Nothing I had ever felt before compared to this. It was a sincere effort to console me, and the inflowing serenity that closed my tear ducts began to dilute the sorrow and agony coursing within me. Still, my breaths were irregular and weak, and I randomly hiccuped with a tiny squeak.

“It's okay, it's okay,” he hushed, gently stroking the wet hair on my neck. That aspect . . . the mane and underlying coat . . . they bothered me . . . But not so much now that I was inside his aura of compassion. For the first time since the realization of my situation, I was actually relieved. Not through sheer amazement, as was the case when I saw the pegasus arrive. I was simply . . . starting to feel fine. Like an injured child comforted by a loving father. Odd comparison, but it seemed quite appropriate. I smiled lightly on the inside. I had only a few and distant memories of my dad consoling me like this. Funny. A stranger was comforting me more in a few minutes than my own parents and friends had in the past year. My friends were all about having fun, and while I wasn't estranged from my parents, I never brought up any of my life's serious issues with them, either. Didn't have many for that matter, but I was the type who toughed out my personal issues. By myself. Alone.

I had finally achieved the freedom I sought when I moved into a house of my own last winter. Then, I turned into a loner. A perfectly content loner. I was more or less apathetic when it came to maintaining social connections. Seeking relationships was never of much importance to me. I was about as romantic as a pile of discarded toilet rolls, and I considered the shallow-minded pursuit of a fling detestable. I was satisfied with my existence as a solitary, self-sufficient, and free person. It was a fundamentally carefree existence. And now . . . I wanted this immensely soothing and pleasant embrace to never end, because . . . I felt very safe here, protected from the horror of my body.
I didn't want to be alone.

Startled by a lock of hair falling across my face, I opened my eyes lethargically. Just beyond the shoulder supporting my head was the sand-yellow pegasus, the open door and room beyond it serving as his backdrop. Through vision blurred by moisture on my corneas and partially obscured by hair, I deciphered his expression of a sincerely relieved and warm smile. I would've returned the gesture, but I was in no shape to do so. I momentarily thought of withdrawing from the compassionate embrace to profess that I was perfectly fine now, but that would have been an absurd lie conceived by my pride. Had I heeded that unwise advice, it would've lead to disaster on account that I hadn't reconciled with this highly unfamiliar version of myself. So, as reluctant as I was to consider it, I had no smarter choice but to fit into this strange skin. My eyes fell shut, and I began to take deep breaths, partially hindered by clogged nostrils. Much welcomed tranquility circled into me regardless. I had to take this unique moment to deal with undeniable facts, though. Cautiously, I parted hairs off my face with the backside of my extremity—the pastern, I recalled—before replacing my appendage around Marcus' and drawing more resolve from his immediate presence.

For the time being, I was a pony. A . . . a filly . . . or a young mare . . . and sadly, I wasn't bestowed with the power to change that. However, I had a new plan for my future: I'd return home, where I'd search for clues, find a lead . . . Discover the answers to why and how this had happened to me, and those in turn would provide the solution that I desperately needed. Hopefully . . . Hope for the best, prepare for the . . . the . . . No, please, not that . . . Please . . .

Tears welled again behind my eyelids, and my mournful sigh ended with a tiny whimper and a sniffle. A gentle caress mollified me, giving me the strength to cease my sobbing before it had the chance to begin anew. Nonetheless, I had an incalculably bitter pill to swallow: the likelihood of my form being permanent was possible, and I had to prepare for that. From the bottom of my heart, I hoped it wasn't.

“I hope you're feeling better,” the pony finally broke the silence. “Can you now tell us the cause of your anxiety?” he queried quietly, as if fearful he'd break me with his voice alone. I glimpsed at him, and his eyes shone with profound concern in contrast with his smile. Still too miserable to say a word—not even able to confirm his assumption with a nod—I tried to communicate with my eyes alone. But I knew that wouldn't really work. “You were devastated, and I'm still worried for you. I've dealt with severe physical injuries . . . but I don't have the training for psychological trauma.” He let out a long sigh before whispering glumly to the floor, “But now I wish I did . . .”

I considered this body a very severe physical ailment. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do for me. That was another harsh truth; presently, this really was my body. It was my fuzzy drying coat, my four legs with hooves at their ends . . . My flexible ears, my . . . visible snout . . . my . . . my . . . That . . . The . . . fallopian tubes! Ugh . . . Close enough. It was one thing when I believed the body was unreal, but now that I knew it wasn't . . . Maybe I shouldn't have thought about what was different. Or missing . . . As if to disprove my assessment, my hind legs shifted a little in a vain attempt to find what I had . . . once had.
I heaved air, feeling light-headed and sick to my stomach.

“Excuse me, but if I may,” the pegasus said unsurely, looking at me with sympathy, “can I continue the examination?” As soon as the pegasus had presented his request, he inclined his head and brought a hoof to his chin. “On second thought . . .” He planted his hoof down and appraised me with a careful smile. “I believe it's unneeded. You're not injured.” His smile wilted, as if he didn't believe his own words. “Though . . . you do look terrible.” Staring weakly at him, I fought a strong gag reflex instigated by the vacancy between my legs. The hand caressed my neck again, sending placating waves into my recovering conscious.

I still felt a bit queasy. If I ever had a desire to explore my reproductive parts, then that thought had perished entirely; now that the feature was sickeningly genuine, I wanted absolutely nothing to do with it! Perhaps having hooves was a blessing in that regard, since they were unfit to—I exhaled somberly but furtively—to manipulate things in the same manner fingers could. Not that I'd have to worry too much about that for long. Hope for the best, prepare— no, that was unfathomable. Too painful to consider, even if it . . . could be probable.

“I think it's for the best we take it easy on her now. Whatever she's gone through hasn't been easy,” Marcus offered. “Do you agree?” With some initial uncertainty, he slid his hand along my neck, cuing me to give a yes or no. The pony had an understanding glint in his eyes as he gave a sincere affirmation, but I was unable to muster the willpower to talk. I sniffled slightly, then hummed a weak and purposefully low imitation of a "yes". My recuperation was more important than the retelling of my tale, especially if the truth of my real form would be revealed. Small steps first. Right now, I was too shaken to explain the cause of my grief without breaking into tears. Again. Rebuilding a tolerance for my present body was paramount. After that was complete . . . truth time.

More solace soon flowed into me when the short-haired male caressed my back without prompt. Even my back felt somewhat different, and not only because it was covered in hair. Something to do with the spine, possibly how it was connected to my pelvis? I didn't know exactly. Obviously, a bipedal posture was difficult if not impossible to maintain, another saddening truth of my body I had to accept. It wasn't as disturbing as so many other altered parts, some of which were luckily concealed from sight . . .
I think I was starting to look pale.

“Say, doc,” Marcus began, worry in his tone, “does she look unwell? You think she's sick, or ate something poisonous? Is there anything you can do to help her?” I was taken aback by what Marcus said. The paramedic pegasus wouldn't stomach pump me, would he? I hoped not. Sparked by the revolting idea of stomach contents being removed, I realized I had not eaten since this morning. An unpredicted grumble indicated my stomach had noticed as well.

Marcus took immediate note of the sound. “So, you're hungry, huh?” he queried, a detectable hint of mirth in his tone. He gave me a friendly pat on my shoulders that nonetheless seemed a bit too strong for my liking. “Maybe that's why doc pony here said you looked sick; you're starving!” He let out a small laugh. “I could offer you a quick meal. Bet that would cheer you right up! I mean, uh, if you're in the condition to stomach food, that is.” At his suggestion and ignoring the caveat, the hole within me replayed its message. The human chuckled to its complaint, and I mentally agreed that a meal had a chance of improving my mood and hastening my recuperation.

“Now hold on! Are you sure it's a good idea to give her food?” the pegasus objected, taking Marcus' warning seriously. “Since we don't know whether she's suffering some kind of illness or not, I can't risk her developing complications from food.”

"If she's really sick, then she won't eat anyways,” Marcus returned calmly.

The pony trotted out of my view, talking in a strict manner, “That's a good point, but I have to keep a close watch on her. I'll hold you directly responsible if any food proves to be detrimental.” My back bristled at hearing the doc pony's sudden shift in character.

“So you're saying that if she pukes on the floor, I'm the one who pays her medical bill?” Marcus quipped. By the long silence that came, the pony wasn't amused in the slightest, and despite the exchange occurring behind my back, I was sure I could feel the cross look the pony was giving Marcus.

“Among other things, yes,” the pony rebutted in a very clear and level voice. “However, since you've so thoroughly evaluated the risks . . .” A deliberately lengthy pause followed his mocking tone, and only my imagination could read the unseen facial expressions that reflected the thoughts behind them. “. . . Can I trust you to understand your responsibility?”

“You can,” Marcus laconically agreed to the terms presented. I hoped the petty bickering would now be water over the dam. Why was it so difficult to give me food?

“Very well,” the doc pony replied, seemingly content with the arrangement. “Provided she gives her assent, of course,” he added.

Luckily for me, my stomach groaned an affirmative; I wasn't eager to hear my female voice speak. Though I was calm on the surface, on the inside, I felt like a precariously balanced bucket of tears, ready to topple the moment I had to give a summary of my day. Besides, they'd never believe I was a guy if I was weeping and sobbing like a . . . Like I had done just minutes ago.

“Well,” Marcus chuckled, “I take that as a yes.”

Although an honest apology might have defused the situation more nicely, I was relieved that the small altercation hadn't left him embittered. When I realized he had to let go of me, however, I lost some of my serenity. I began to steel myself for the inevitable, but it felt like I was preparing to stop a bus by raising a hand at it. Or a hoof, whatever.

Regardless of my unspoken doubts, he carefully set me upright on the floor, and a powerful chill immediately slinked through my bones. It was the cold of being removed from his warm grace and left standing on my own legs. My four legs . . . I felt no anger, only an abstract mental and emotional pain. The fear of this form being eternal awoke, and I shot a glance around the room from the height of about eighty centimeters: the height I'd observe the world from for as long as I was a pony. For every moment that I had my eyes open, I'd see a white snout at the bottom of my vision, and it would emit my every spoken thought in that high-pitched voice! Hate and sadness collided, creating unadulterated misery. Limply, I hung my head and closed my eyes. Soon after, my head was gingerly lifted, and another appendage wiped off the few tears I hadn't noticed shedding. I didn't object to his touch. Forlornly, I looked at the kind face, and suddenly, I noted its small likeness to a certain renowned human.

“Don't be sad. Everything'll be fine,” he spoke, smiling reassuringly. “I won't be gone long, and you have a friend here who can keep you company in the meantime.” He stroked my cheek gently. I started to doubt if telling the truth would offer any help. They'd know what and who I was, but what then? Sympathy and apologetic shrugs? Opinionated dismissals and skeptical frowns? Or were these two the perfect guides to my restoration? I couldn't know, and I didn't. How had ponies come to this world anyway? Was I just a statistic? Another unfortunate person brought against their will into this world? Had the medi-pony been human once and settled to a new life out of pure necessity? I just didn't know! I didn't know anything!
I felt so lost. Forsaken . . .

“Indeed, everything is fine.” The pony sat down beside me with a peaceful smile, and Marcus stood up as I glanced over at my "friend". I watched Marcus as he paced out of the room, stopping briefly at the threshold to cast a quick smile our way. I wanted him to turn back, raising a forelimb in a stillborn attempt to follow him when he left my view. Unbelievably, I longed to return to his therapeutic embrace; however, I had to cope with this unrequested form on my own. Resuming the empathic embrace with Marcus would only be refusing to face reality. The longer I waited, the harder the blow would be. I had to get this done with and adapt to this existence to the best of my abilities. Hopefully, I wouldn't have to carry the burden of this body for more than a few hours.

The thought of forever being a female pony caused my breaths to dry my mouth, a trace aroma of shampoo accompanying them, but I was . . . mostly okay. Somewhat okay. As okay as a guy afraid of being stuck as this for the rest of his life could be. I couldn't even wrap my mind around such an existence. I had to think of the present, which was . . . me, standing on all fours. A strange sensation. There wasn't a precise way to tell what was underneath my hooves. I could feel something, but it was subdued, like standing on very hard rubber implanted on the tips of my fingers and toes. Difficult to understand, much like the pressure in my joints, shoulders, back, and hips . . . I wasn't supposed to stand this way. Like a quadruped. It was degrading. I wasn't an animal. I wouldn't want to be an animal! Not forever . . . But the pain in my heart was too easy to provoke. I didn't want to cry again . . . I was scared . . .

“Do you wish to talk, miss?” the pegasus queried from my left, the feminine pronoun striking me like a sadness-tipped arrow. My head pitched down like a withering flower, and those darn expressive ears followed suit. Taking a deep breath to produce a silent sigh first, I glanced at the tangerine-maned pony and gave him a deliberately low, melancholic hum as a reply. He kept smiling, like he was trying his hardest to assure all was truly fine. If only . . .

“So, how are you feeling? Better, I hope." I gave an another hum. How could I be okay with talking when even that tiny sound was too high for my liking? “I suppose that was a yes,” he said, unsure, and another sigh of mine brought the bathtub into my vision. “Was it?” he added, but I felt too bleak to speak. Would've lead to pathetic whimpers anyway . . .

Shifting in place for a spell, I tried to expedite my reconciliation to my body with no significant success. I couldn't get over the feeling that I was balancing on the nails of a pair of toes and fingers at the end of very strange appendages. What I thought were my elbows were actually my wrists, I think. Where were my elbows, then? The small motion I dared told me they were close to my ribs. My entire arm was now a leg, and what used to be my only pair of legs had been changed, too. My knees were practically on the same level as my belly. Neck felt longer, ears acted on their own, there was an ever-present snout in my vision, and I believed that even my vision was different. Somehow. I had been so blind, so imperceptive of so many things when I had thought this was a dream. Now, I was oversensitive to anything and everything! Not only of this body but smells and sounds, too. Were the colors more vivid as well? This was simply too weird to digest. For almost an entire day, I had been more or less okay being a fundamentally unreal quadruped. But now? I was an animal, and a female no less! Those few words were inadequate to describe the abject nightmare condensed into an adorable shape that had imprisoned me behind its cute countenance. Curse all those tales where the transformed person adapts to their new physique in minutes! I did adapt, yes, but only because I thought this wasn't real; I thought I had a method to return to my original form at any moment. Now, I didn't have a simple exit strategy, and I knew my body had been morphed to that of a female pony. I was afraid. I was so horribly afraid! Scared out of my mind! THIS WASN'T FUN ANYMORE!!

I was grateful the medicine helped prevent another panic attack. Blinking back my tears, I glanced again at the pony. Emotionally, I was somewhere between gloom and anxiety; in contrast, he had a small smile that looked wary yet optimistic. Unable to reciprocate, I fixed my eyes back to the floor and the thin sheeting of dirty water there. For a moment, I wondered where the puddle had come from, but then I realized my sodden coat was its source. Not that the observation was of much help. I only wanted to keep my mind away from contemplating my present existence.
A future that was anything but a quick return home, and then inspecting it for a dimensional hole or something, was . . . horrifying.

Marcus was taking his sweet time, and the room wasn't decorated with anything to pique my interest. So, once again, I turned my head to the most interesting sight available: the pegasus. Our expressions were still polar opposites. We were opposites but of the same species. I was an opposite of myself. Even in my dispirited mood was my mind willing to appraise our differences.

He had a sleek and glistening coat; mine was begrimed . . . but slightly velvety. Fuzzier. Softer-looking. Even our legs and hooves seemed to be different: his were rugged and larger, whereas mine were . . . those of a female. Dainty. Whatever! The difference was subtle but unmistakable. Or perhaps I saw things that weren't true. I had never observed such dimorphism in the cartoon itself; I thought stallions and mares had near-identical bodies. Maybe I was wrong all along? What did I even know? This was real. The cartoon wasn't.

Suffice to say, my entire form was delicate, and sadly, that wasn't at all surprising. It was just another kind of humiliation. A shameful disgrace. My slightly smaller body meant I was a female. No ambiguity whatsoever. Silently, I begged for something supernatural to strike my agnostic self and restore my manhood. At least make me a stallion, because then I'd have something to relate to. Maybe have my voice restored, which would tremendously help my confidence. This morning, I had been ignorant of the reality of my sex, and looking back, I couldn't at all understand how. Now, I didn't even have to look at myself to know that I was a female pony . . . If I could just have a minute's pardon from this unjust entrapment . . .

Darn tears! They were so eager to emerge, but a slow sigh and a blink were enough to send them retreating—this time. The soft breath was a small hint to myself why I was firmly aversive of talking; I knew the voice matched my looks. I had known that since I first heard it, and I had struggled so hard to tolerate it. Now, I wasn't even sure I wanted to tolerate it. I didn't want to sound like a . . . like a . . . I had now learned to loathe that word. I never wanted to hear it ever again, let alone speak it. I wished to unlearn it, forget its very existence! Maybe I could just remain mute and pretend to be ignorant . . . What a stupid idea! I had to talk . . . But not before my fortitude was concrete, not before I was ready to tolerate my tone again.
Currently, I was as sturdy as chewy toffee.

The sand-yellow paramedic still carried an inoffensive, gentle smile. I would've thought he'd try to strike up a new conversation by now, but apparently he had decided to remain silent. Perhaps he was detecting the scent of fragility emitting from my still-damp body? Quite decent of him, really. Or . . . Wait? Maybe he had an entirely different motive behind his smile? What was he actually thinking about? What if . . .?

An awful suspicion struck me, and a flash of an intense desire to flee hit me. Unintentionally inhaling sharply, I leaned a tad to the side and compulsively bent one foreleg up. Simultaneously, my joyless gaze on the stallion traded for an apprehensive one; I had just conjured a likely explanation for the doc pony's untroubled look!

“Something bothering you?” He raised an eyebrow while my leg trepidly contacted the floor, then he glanced around in confusion as if to look for the source of the perturbance. How blind he was; he was the source! I knew how guys thought! I would know; I was one! Or used to be . . . No! Still was! I knew what I did so easily and clandestinely when I knew I'd get away with it, especially when I wore sunglasses. A little fun, no harm done! I hadn't thought I'd ever be on the receiving end of such stares! Well, now that I thought of it, maybe some females were checking out my average body in that special way. Or maybe not; I had a better face than body. That was beside the point, though! The point was that the stallion was naturally predisposed to appreciate females, and hence he might've regarded my unrequested body immodestly! Most likely, he had already eyed every detail down to my . . . Wait . . . I wasn't actually . . . an owner of a desirable posterior, was I? Did I even want to know? No! I definitely and without any doubt didn't want to know! Hastily, I concluded it was best for me to remain ignorant by classifying the precise shape of my hindquarters forbidden from visual and tactile investigation. Oh great . . .

Thanks to my overzealous mind, I swear I now felt the very air dab my unclothed rear in an unsettling and thorough manner. Then, visions of female buttocks—female human buttocks—began to spill uncontrollably into my mental canvas. It would've been quite pleasant, if it were not for the fact that every picture following the other had more and more noticeable properties of an ice-white filly with a pink-brown tail. I screwed my eyes shut and tried to think of something to will away the obscene and nightmarish slideshow, but it came to an abrupt a halt when something solid touched my shoulder.

“Are you in pain? I can offer— Whoa!” The pony was startled, but not nearly as much as I was when I realized it was his hoof that was on me. Not a second later, I was catching my breath, standing astride a dozen centimeters from my previous spot; the brief fit of nerves had thrown my body into disarray, and I had almost flailed myself into an embarrassing pile on the floor. If it weren't for the relaxant circulating in my system, I probably would've ran out the door, screaming at the top of my lungs.

"Well, uh, you seem to be quite . . . easily startled,” the fallen pony said between his panting, ending his intermittent deduction by clearing his throat, then rubbed his flank with a grunt. Meanwhile, I steadied myself, too, albeit more in posture than mind, and I noted that my right hoof felt a bit sore. Connecting the dots, I reluctantly offered the pony a contrite look; I hadn't meant to hit him. “Brings to mind a filly I knew when I was younger,” he said with a small chuckle, apparently amused by the short anecdote, or else he was trying to ease the tension. Being compared to a female pony didn't improve my mood at all. I looked away from him as he stood up, anticipating and then blinking away a small teardrop. “Oh . . . That was tactless of me,” he said apologetically. I pawed the floor nervously for a moment, hoping to arbitrarily rediscover my lost tolerance of being a female pony. I had to, lest I remain a perpetual bundle of nerves instead of just a slowly recovering one. Actually, I had to accept being the recipient of "she," and "her," and "miss" . . . and more, I feared. Was he still looking? If the situation was reversed and I was the stallion, would I . . . Maybe. Darn!

Regardless if his mind was brimming with dirty thoughts or not, I had to preserve my dignity by not showing my fundamentally naked rear to him. With cautious steps, I reoriented myself to be perpendicular to him. I felt cold . . . The chills of fear and sorrow. I questioned why had I not already run away. Why had I not escaped to a solitary place where I could vent all of my pain? I guess . . . because I knew crying wouldn't help me. I could cry for hours, and it wouldn't help me.

“I'm sorry, but I feel helpless when I don't know what's troubling you.” I heard the pony's benign voice and light clopping of hooves, causing me to flinch when the sounds tugged my ears to his direction. “However, if I could just try to cons—” Instinctively, I turned my head at him and raised a limb to ward off his advance. He regarded it and me with large eyes of surprise, then knitted his brows in dejected inquiry. My intense stare softened to a frown, and I shook my head lethargically. Backpedaling a slight, he sighed lengthily. “All right,” he murmured and gazed down, giving a small click of his tongue in a sign of pity. I . . . actually felt sorry for him; he only wanted to help me, but . . . I didn't request it. I had to endure this on my own. Prove to myself that I wasn't weak. I couldn't surrender to the desire of being comforted.

Gradually, I rested my leg, then backtracked with utmost care. Again, I felt that unwelcome fear and grief flashing in me. Then, the suspicion on the pony came back with a shocking realization on my present self: my quadrupedal posture meant I was constantly thrusting out my rear for all to see! It was a horribly embarrassing and disgraceful revelation; I was immodest by default! How did female ponies deal with this? Did they accept it because it was unavoidable, or was pony society absent of the superficial desire of that aspect of a mare's physique? It seemed likely, and I hoped it was true. Otherwise, stallions would be utterly destitute of morals. Or they had impressive self-control. This pony's wings were relaxed, so . . . But those appendages meant nothing! Just a hypothesis created by avid fans of the cartoon! There was only one way to know for sure, but I didn't have a clear visual—not that I wanted to see another guy's device! Gross!

“I know I'm repeating myself, but . . . can you please tell me what troubles you? Can you tell me anything at all?” the one suspected of uncivilized misconduct queried, his brows visibly scrunched. I had nothing to say. “Is there anything you want to say . . . to do . . . or want me to do? I'm here to help you, and . . .” His voice sank to a faint whisper as he gazed over at his medkit, crestfallen. “This is pointless.”

It was just too easy to think of the worst when I was stressed . . . I should have been ashamed of myself. And I think I was. Had I not learned anything from the cartoon? Ninth episode of the first season: Bridle Gossip. Its message was to not judge a book by its cover. To not jump to conclusions, and definitely not without undeniable evidence. The idea that the stallion was covetously checking out my essentially naked body was unfair. Innocent until proven guilty. I wasn't sure I wanted to find the incriminating evidence. Ignorance was bliss? At any rate, I desired to cover myself in something; however, a quick survey of the bathroom revealed no towels to reinstate my modesty with. Great. Naked and stuck as a female pony in the presen—

“Hello again!” A breeze of relief cooled my frayed nerves as Marcus announced his return. I eagerly set my eyes on the white bowl he carried in his hand. “I brought pears. Did you two talk?” Pears? Yum!

“Sadly, no,” the pegasus replied, and while I still had my nose . . . snout aimed at the high-held ceramic ware, I glanced obliquely at him as he spoke, “She hasn't said a single word yet. She's been laconic and . . . jumpy,” he said the last word after a moment's hesitation. I think there was a trace of sadness when he said it, but I couldn't be sure. “I'm . . . quite puzzled.” He looked miserable, and a pang of guilt bounded within me. I knew I had been anything but talkative, and had I actually dared to hear my voice, I could've explained myself. Plus, the immense man-stuck-as-filly boulder might have come off my shoulders. However, I had a definite goal of going home, and the sooner I could start the investigation of what got me into this frightening mess, the better. A chat would more than likely only be a hindrance. Even if I were to tell my identity . . .

“Well, that's a pity,” Marcus said as he came to a crouch, and I took immediate notice of the divided fruits in the bowl. Two pears in eight pieces. Stomach groan of extraordinary want! “But I'm sure she'll be just right after this little meal.” Yes. Consume the meal, then ask to be taken home. Once there, I'd be fine! Of course, I'd have to resolve the severe disagreement I had with my voice before that. Although . . . did I want to tell them of my predicament or not? What would be the advantages? The disadvantages? Perhaps it was best to relegate that dilemma to a time after these pears fill the growling hole within myself.

Paying heed to my voiceless instinct, I stretched my head over the low-held ware and began to lift a limb to grab one of the fruit slices. “Hold on a sec!” Marcus exclaimed, and I stopped cold to regard him with bemused surprise. The dish was then lowered down to the floor before . . . my legs?
“Bon appetit!” I heard him say with sincere delight. My raised limb sunk back to the floor, and I frowned. Sure, I was hungry, but . . . I'd have to eat directly from the bowl? Like an . . . an animal?

“Don't worry; they're perfectly good pears,” he assured, apparently oblivious to why I was staring dolefully at the food. “Bought them yesterday. I had to tell myself not to eat one while I was preparing them.” He chuckled warmly, which brought my sights up at him. I saw his smile fall. “I don't know what's worrying you, but try to look past it and be positive, okay?” he said, his smile coming back with lesser strength. I felt a slight better due to his wise words, and it was true that the food was attractive. Cursorily, I noted that he had changed his shirt to a pale blue one. Oh, right . . . I was drenched when we . . . In hindsight, the embrace we had shared was plain awkward. I again focused on the food, but I felt slightly worried for myself. I really couldn't admonish myself for hugging a guy. Could I?

“Hey, are you going to eat?” He gave me a light and brief touch on my chin with his finger to bring my head up. Unlike the sparse yet execrable stubble I got as a reward after a few days of not shaving, this was . . . different. Foreign? Yes. Annoying? No. How odd . . . Was I preferring soft hair instead of a beard?

“Yes, the moment of truth, I suppose,” the pegasus stated, drawing our eyes onto him. He hemmed forth a smile, then gestured at the food. “Your meal, miss?”

‘Miss . . . ' I thought pitifully as I turned my attention back to the bowl. No escape from those titles as long as the two were convinced I was female, but that issue had to be dealt with later. Right now, I had something more vital to attend to. My stomach audibly instructed me to go at the pears without a second thought, but my civilized side reminded me I wasn't a primitive creature who'd dive his mouth at the pristine fruits. As Marcus had said, they were pretty good pears, and I'd be fairly off my rocker to disagree. The pears were reflecting fluorescence off their peeled surfaces like pearls, a very alluring aroma of sweetness was wafting into my nostrils, and my mouth was filling with excess water in conjunction with my mind's lust for the products of nature . . . Oh my. The pears really looked marvelous! How had I gone this long without feeling hungry? My lips were practically as dry as a desert in contrast with the ocean behind them, and to have the divine flavor of pear grace both was something to yearn for.
So . . . what was holding me back?

“So . . . what's holding you back?” Marcus' query drew me out of my trance. He bore a bemused smile, tilting his head. “They look fine to me.” He motioned a hand at the tantalizing food. How I so wished to have my pair of hands back . . .
Nothing I could about that now, though.

Aligning my eyes from the guy to the pegasus and back, the brief sadness in me was quickly overshadowed by reemerging self-consciousness. Now, I felt like I was a stage performer under the attentive eyes of a studious audience. Lifting my hoof to the slanted rim of the bowl, I pawed the ceramic in a dither, the faint noise augmented by an unexpected silence. If I just had fingers, then surmounting my considerable trepidation would be a lesser challenge. I wouldn't even be in this situation if some mysterious force had not robbed me of my body. Well, regardless . . . This still was my body . . . and it was hungry; however, satisfying it while subjected to this oppressive scrutiny was inconceivable.

“Maybe she's ill and can't eat?” the pegasus surmised, and unequivocally, I disagreed on the "can't eat" part, though I didn't voice that. “While you were gone, she had an anxiety attack, which could've affected her and—” In a sign of admission to my hunger, I started to bow myself closer to the fruits and simultaneously tuned out the ensuing chatter. Maybe . . . I could do this and prove the pegasus wrong? But I was so nervous! I couldn't eat like an uncouth beast! Why did this have to be so difficult? Hunger versus pride; it was a heated battle, and my strained frown turned to a small grimace. If I could just feast on the fresh and lustrous fruits, then maybe I'd be empowered to properly reconcile with my body. Maybe even feel genuinely happy again?

A trail started to escape from the corner of my mouth. I was so very close to snatching up a pale yellow treat, but then my grimace converted to a flinch, and I raised my head from the ware. Swallowing the overgrown globule that was in my mouth before inaudibly sighing my tense expression off, I glanced at both males in defeat. They wore confused expressions, and suddenly the air became heavy, and my skin heated up from the inside. I really didn't enjoy being the center of attention. Not before, and especially not as this and under these circumstances. If they had read my mind, they would've absented from the room, head over heels.

“Is something wrong with the food?” Marcus queried, then looked at the pears with scrunched brows. “I swear they're okay.” Tentatively, he pinched a smaller slice and raised it to be a dozen centimeters from his visage. Swiveling his head to appraise us both, he asked for our approval: “May I?” To which I could offer only a tiny frown and nod. The produce then disappeared into the guy's mouth. “Tastes fine to me,” he said, shrugging. The pony regarded him askance but ultimately relaxed, albeit his lips retained the minor downward angle.

The pony began to inspect the seven remaining slices. I took stock of him as he sniffed the contents, worried that he'd snack on a pear as well and accidentally ruin the rest of them with drool. When I hastily placed a limb on the rim of the bowl in an unsuccessful attempt to take the ware for myself, the pegasus was startled a bodylength back. A jab of sorrow inside my chest was all I needed to know what I missed. I didn't even know what finger the hoof corresponded to, and tears of longing and anguish again threatened to invade my eyes. Tensely fluttering my eyes to drive off the liquid grief first, I grimaced in determination and descended prone, doing my best to ignore the cerebral agony of hindlegs tucking parallel to my body and my two strange digits wrapping around the base of the bowl. The pegasus retreated a little more and was now watching me, head tilted and brows telling of confusion, concern, and contriteness. I stared at him morosely, feeling as though I had rescued my meal from being ruined by his unwelcome spittle. The strong aroma of pear was toying with my sinuses and beseeching me to satisfy my base needs, but I held my head level and narrowed my gaze on the sand-yellow pegasus. I had found a reason to be dissatisfied, and that feeling kept most of the horror of my entrapment under the lid.

The pony's expression transitioned from minor shock to kindness. “Sorry, miss. I wasn't about to take a bite for myself, only trying to confirm the fruits were safe.”

“You know that by . . . smelling them?” Marcus said incredulously. The pony promptly swiveled him a neutral look.

“Of course,” the stallion replied, shining a small smile of smugness, and the salesman's skepticism slowly shifted to stunned awe.

“Wow,” he finally said, plainly, then wrinkled his brows as he began to rub his small beard in thought.

Being called 'miss' saddened more than angered me, in spite of my sullen mood. Although, how long could I endure such name-calling before I snapped? The debacle that followed the last time blind fury took hold of me wasn't pretty. Perhaps it was luck that I wasn't feeling enraged. Troubling as it was, never telling the pony and Marcus of my real identity and instead hiding behind this curtain of a filly started to look like a smart idea. I'd have to tolerate feminine pronouns and perhaps some chivalry, but feminine pronouns were just words, not insults, and words weren't supposed to hurt. Sticks and stones and whatnot.
Weren't supposed to hurt . . .

“Listen, I can tell something serious is bothering you. I won't twist your arm, but . . . I'd like to know why you're so miserable.” It was Marcus; I recognized his voice. Pensively, I transfixed my vision on the tantalizing fruits, my ungainly digits still enfolded around the bowl. Idly, I bent the joint of what constituted my only remaining digit on my right limb. Feeling one digit where there should have been five, a cold shudder bristled the hairs on my back, and my lungs contracted in mental and emotional pain. Technically, the extremity was a finger, just . . . a poor mockery of one. Pretty far from it, actually. I could still grab something the same way the ponies in the cartoon did, though I hoped I wouldn't have to adjust to that. Really, I would just go home, and all would turn out okay.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a hand coming closer at me. It halted when I scowled at it and its owner. He, however, looked slightly hurt, as though he didn't understand why I was displeased at him so suddenly. With a soundless sigh, dejection replaced my tense look, and his hand dared to retry its approach. This time, I didn't object, and the light and brief touch that came on my cheek had a placating effect. The bowl, still in my embrace, was nudged a smidgen closer to me. “I thought you'd be all over this by now.” True, I wanted to devour the tempting meal, but . . . preferably in private so that only one pair of eyes would judge my conduct. Looking at the open door, I flaccidly raised my right forelimb to point at it. They didn't seem to get the meaning, so I sighed and jabbed the appendage indicatively a few times.

“Do you need, uh . . . help to get up?” Marcus asked unsurely and carefully grabbed my hoof. A squirm snaked down my back as I only felt his index finger and thumb stimulate my nerves; they were the only fingers touching my hide, and I had to stifle a moan of frustration and queasiness. Timorously, I pulled my limb from his loose grip and aimed my eyes at the bowl. Once the limb was resting on the floor, I swallowed, then drew my lips in to bite them as I pondered. Communicating solely with body language and audible breaths had run its course, and that meant there was only one viable option left. I had to speak with the voice of my body. To sound like a . . . the filly I resembled. I closed my eyes and wished for deafness for the next five seconds.

“I want to be alone for a while,” I said. Well, my mouth did; my vocal cords refused to do their part. An insignificant fragment of amusement threatened, but failed, to crease my lips soon after. Seems like I got that five-second wish, in a way. I had found the perfect excuse to speak, but not the strength to enunciate my thoughts. My frown worsened when sorrow pinched at my heart again. Why were my emotions so potent and easy to provoke? Okay, confession: I was always a bit of a soft touch, but this level of sensitivity was ridiculous. With much haste, I supposed that the recent and still ongoing experience was a sufficient explanation for my frailty. Additionally, my recuperation was in its infancy and vulnerable. No matter, once back in my home, things would look good for me again. I was certain of that. I had to be.

I wanted privacy, but my gestures had been unsuccessful, and my unfavorable voice hadn't played ball when I had needed to talk. What would I have to do for some solitude? Physically force the duo out from here? I didn't even want to move, let alone walk. Not as this, on four legs. If it even was classified a walk! Trot, amble, canter, whatever! I didn't care! I didn't want to be this! Didn't want to . . . to be a . . . a filly . . . Accursed emotions! The horror was . . . I didn't want to release tears again!
Then, I did . . . I closed my eyes to hide my emotion.

“What's wrong now?” the empathetic figure asked softly. For once, I tried to speak my mind, but in a repeat of before, all I mustered were a few pitiful hums and whimpers. My ears further emphasized my sadness and discomfort. I tried to wipe the tears off, but my . . . my legs refused to listen to me and remained by the bowl.

“I'd be careful if I were you,” the pony cautioned softly, and dauntless to my liquid sorrow, I looked at him. So did the guy. “She's frail.” My vision then focused on a hand that was reaching out for me. It had a wedding ring on its fourth digit.

“She trusts me,” the hand's owner replied peaceably.

“I know,” the sitting pony replied in a similar manner, glancing at the floor. The man's hand then moved a little closer, and, disinclined to accept more physical touches, I leaned my head back. However, his expression was sincere, and I was unwilling to disprove his earlier assessment and possibly break our trust, so I closed my eyes and moved my head closer to him.

A light touch wiped the beads off my cheeks with care, and my eyelids twitched slightly when his digits ran over my nasal bone. I managed to quell my tears with his help, but was I fit to talk? A part of me wanted to stay silent for good, but another refused to back down at the dismaying prospect of . . . of speaking with the voice of a . . . voice so . . . shamefully feminine. No. Defeatism wasn't right . . . It was just a voice. Different intonation, nothing more, and it can't hurt me. Not physically . . .
I sniffled, then pressed on.

“Can I . . .”

It was the frailest and faintest whisper I ever heard, and I couldn't believe it had come from me. Nonetheless, it was a step in the right direction. Marcus hummed in tender curiosity, and I sensed him lean closer to me. Obliged to meet his expectation, I found the crumbs of courage to reattempt presenting my yearning. “Can I be . . .” I said with a voice more like a breath than a whisper, “be alone . . . Just . . . just for a minute?” ‘So, that's how a melancholy-stricken Fluttershy sounds to herself?’ I remarked humorlessly, now that I had unintentionally emulated the bashful pony's tone.

A very relieved smile crossed his face. “Sure thing, I can give you that." Relieved as well, a tiny smile paid a visit to my countenance, and my ears righted themselves. I had won a small but tough battle, and I could now eat the pears in relative peace. Two stones with one bird! I meant— No, never mind. Maybe I'd even have the gumption to speak sooner? Reveal the cause of my most extreme distress to date? Would they believe me, though? After I had been such a wreck that in no way could I have conveyed any masculinity . . . ? Great! Now that my loathing for my voice was finally budging, my male ego wanted to preserve face and join the opposition against exposing my identity. What a terrible revelation; better to be perceived as a saddened female, than a male who had bawled his eyes out because of a transmogrification to a filly. Or a mare. Not that terminology made much difference to me when I felt the empty area between my legs.

“Don't lose your smile now,” Marcus encouraged when my good mood began to fade from my expression. Just for his sake, I compelled myself to smile lightly. He swiveled his head to look at the pony. “Hey, uh, Mister . . . pony . . . um . . .” In bemusement, I looked at the pony just in time to see him flash a mild frown in response to Marcus' fumbling.

“Forgot my name, sir? It's Aidin,” the sand-yellow pegasus reminded plainly.

“Yeah, umm, sorry, Aidin,” Marcus said, eyes aversive and a hand reaching for his neck. “Like I tried to say,” he drawled, throwing his hand down before he displayed a carefully amicable expression for Aidin. “She wants a moment for herself,” he gestured at me. As if there were any other "shes" to be confused with. Was I really about to maintain this guise then? I was torn on the subject.

“No offense meant, but did she specify a reason?” Aidin demanded with a trace of dissatisfaction. “I don't want to leave her unsupervised.”

“Unsupervised?” Marcus echoed, brows creasing along with a side of his lips.

“She's my patient,” Aidin rebutted curtly, closing his eyes briefly, giving himself a haughty look. Meanwhile, my uncomfortably reactive ears were yet again downturned; the slick-maned pony seemed disinclined to grant me the privacy I had requested.

Feeling a glimmer of bravery in me, I carefully took a try at defusing the situation. “Um, don't worry, uh . . . Aidin, I'm . . .” I nodded when my composure faltered. “Quite fine,” I asserted the blatant lie so softly that even precision microphones could not have detected it. Needless to say, I was completely ignored. And quite dispirited. I had bravely leaped off a tall cliff down into a frightening river, but accepting the reality of my unmodified voice was intimidating me to act like a . . . a meek filly. An unwillingness to behave even remotely as a female had the exact opposite effect on me.

“Well, no, she didn't give a reason, but . . . ” Marcus huffed in frustration and stood up, splaying his arms at the pony. “Come on! A few minutes and we'll be back.” Aidin regarded Marcus with a distrusting frown, and a brief but tense silence ensued. “Look, I know you're worried for her too, but if she starts choking and coughing—which I'm pretty sure we both can agree on that she won't—you'll be here in a flash.” Smiling again, he joined his palms in front of his chest and aimed his fingertips at the pony, slanting his head down by a small angle as he spoke: “Besides, it's only for a few minutes. Think about it.”

The pegasus held onto his look for a spell, but ultimately he assented: “It wasn't you who asked, and I respect a patient's wishes . . . So it's fair that I comply.” His tone had betrayed his reluctance, but nevertheless, he approached the door along with Marcus. There, the winged paramedic stopped and looked over at me with a small frown. “All right, miss, we . . . uh . . . ” His lips twisted in uncertainty, but quickly, a flash of revelation crossed his visage, and he glanced at the human, then back at me. “Why, where have my manners been?” he said as he wheeled to face me. “Pardon me, I've completely forgotten to introduce myself. The name's Aidin.” He briefly placed his hoof to his chest. “Pleased to meet you, miss,” he said, bowing his head courteously, whereas I regarded his sudden gallantry with surprise and disbelief. “May I humbly ask to learn your name in return?”
Well, now I was definitely in a tight spot.

“You asked if you could ask her a question?” Marcus said with a sly smile and crossed his arms, drawing the immediate attention of Aidin.

The pony furrowed his brows as he turned to face Marcus, a scowl prickling the edge of his lips. “Yes, I did.”

Any traces of humor vanished from Marcus' face. “Uh . . . sorry.”

The pony sighed in a mix of disappointment and forgiveness, a silence lingering in the room for a few more seconds before he aimed a benign but expectant look in my direction. “So, miss?”

Right, miss . . . This was it, then. I had balled the thought back and forth in me for long enough—now was an opportune moment to decide with finality. None of this fear of a free trip to a mental house or a surrender to silence in dread of the humiliation of being a guy with a filly's body. The honest truth had to be revealed. I was nervous of the consequences being less than favorable, but I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. Besides, if I convinced them of my manhood, my discomfort of being looked on as a real female would be gone. Maybe I would even receive help? Yes, I had to be optimistic.

A few breaths to steel myself. Remaining prone, a fairly impassive mask plastered onto my face. Rescinding any trace of timorousness was of the utmost importance if I wished to introduce myself in my unnervingly female voice . . . I closed my eyes and braced myself.

“My name's Rosy Stri—” I cut off myself with a cough, and my eyes shot open in extreme surprise and shock at what had (almost) come out of my mouth.

“Are . . . Are you okay?” the pegasus said in alarm.

I was aghast, blinking my eyes in total confusion. I tried—and failed—to compute what just had happened. Feeling the pressure of two gazes upon me, I hastily disregarded inspecting the strange lapse further and parsed myself together. “O-oh, um . . . Y-y-yes, I'm . . . I'm fine, very fine,” I stammered nervously. “O-only got something i-in my throat, t-that's all.” I then faked a few coughs, but the reassuring smile that followed had a hard time feeling honest.

“I . . . see,” I got as a reply from the uncertain but concerned stallion, his human counterpart regarding me with an identical expression.

“Y-yeah, there's n-no need to worry.” My confidence had dropped significantly, and the best I managed now was a trepid whisper. “Um, w-what I, uh, really meant to say is that my name's actually Rosy-” I muted myself completely and averted my head. Simultaneously, my facial muscles slackened, and I was sure I felt my pupils shrink, ears falling not a second later to accentuate the excruciating unease. I was perplexed, horrified, dismayed; those words failed to describe my condition. How, why . . . ? That name . . . It . . . So . . . What the . . . ? All I had tried to do was speak my own name! How was it possible for me to fail at something so simple, and twice in a row? What was wrong with me?

“Are you shy, or . . . is it something worse?” Aidin's voice pulled a fraction of me out from my consternation, and in my peripheral vision, I saw him taking a few wary steps towards me.

Marcus put his hand on Aidin's shoulder, and he in turn looked up at him with a small hum. The kind-faced guy shook his head, frowning. “She’s probably just confused and in shock after whatever she has endured. Give her the moment she wanted, okay? You can check up on her soon,” he cajoled softly.

“Ah, why not?” the pegasus relented with a sigh. Looking at me defeatedly at first, he soon replaced his expression with a strained-looking smile. “Well, see you in a few minutes, when you're truly fine . . . I hope.” His smile became a slight more sincere: “Rosy's the name, was it?” Hearing that name sent a very surreal signal through my brain.

Not accounting the single instance of a tiny “uh” crawling up from my throat in reply, I was completely speechless and stunned, unable and unwilling to show them my face.

His smile weakened noticeably before he turned around. Both individuals walked out the door, closing it softly save for the tiniest gap through which the distancing voice of Aidin slipped in, “She seems to be upset or shy, at worst traumatized by something, but definitely not ill. I do admit that my concern for her health was a tad . . . ”

My stomach rumbled in spite of the mental chaos reigning in my head, and I thoughtlessly obeyed my needs to chomp up one slice of fruit directly from the bowl. The taste was strong and pleasant, but I scarcely took note of it. Even the animalistic manner in which I ate was an insignificant disruption in the surging jet engine that was my frayed brain. Hoping to bring some much needed clarity to the situation and attenuate my turmoil, I took the three most critical aspects of my predicament and explained them with as few words as possible.

My body I could explain: I had been transformed.
The pegasus stallion I could explain: I was in an alternate universe where Equestrian ponies were common.
My name I could . . . My name!? It wasn't mine! But . . . it was?

My sights had frozen on the six remaining slices in the bowl; they enthralled me no more. Two names danced in erratic patterns inside my mind's eye like leaves in a gale. Or rather, like one leaf being pummeled into submission by the downdraft of a twin-engined helicopter. Fortunately, to dispel my worst fears, I was able to discern that leaf to be what I considered to be my male name, but my name . . . that other name was more powerful. More important. More . . . authentic? Like it really was . . . mine . . . ?
Then, an awful premonition made itself known. What if I hadn’t been dragged to another universe and transformed at all? What if . . . What if I . . . ?

“I am Rosy Stripes?”

My whisper of extreme disbelief sent horrible chills down my back . . . and that signal into my brain again. It was a vibe of . . . of . . . validity. Had I not learned of my . .. that name only a few hours ago?
Why was it now so . . . so seemingly familiar? As if it preceded this day. As if it had always . . . Wouldn't . . . Wouldn't that imply . . . I was . . . had been . . . been a . . . pony since . . . Female . . . No! That was a horrid falsity that couldn’t be possibly true! I didn’t even feel right in this body! Didn’t feel right at all . . .

Intense brightness . . . of the fluorescent . . . lamps above . . . Jet engine . . . flame out . . .

In The Air Tonight

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

Chapter 9
In The Air Tonight

Voices intruded upon my black tranquility as I became aware of a rocking motion. No! I didn't want to wake up! I didn't make a sound. More talking. One apologetic and defensive, another admonishing and displeased. I tried to retreat back into my tranquil state. I heard a mutual understanding, spoken with calmer words. I still didn't respond, even as I felt gentle prodding begin. More talking, now worried. My sleepy feeling was comfortable . . . but I was starting to feel weird all over. I guess my sleep was ending. I suddenly felt myself hoisted . . . like a pallet on a forklift? Wait! What was going on?

My eyes shot wide open. “Heyyy!” I cried in surprise and confusion. The feelings tripled when I registered the uncharacteristically high pitch of my voice and a blurry impression of what might've been a bathroom. Shortly, my focusing vision confirmed it really was a bathroom. Somehow, I was suspended above the floor.

“Oh man, am I glad that you're finally back!” a relieved male voice came from a little overhead. Something uncomfortably integral atop my head twisted around to make his subsequent talk clearer: “You gave us quite the scare when we found you out cold and couldn't wake you. But Aidin did a quick examination and said you were okay.” I was momentarily perplexed, but my senses hastily kicked in to remind me of the present reality: where I was, who had spoken, what he had spoken about, and . . . that white thing in my vision meant—No!

“Yes, that I did,” another male voice said from beyond my immediate eyesight, currently filled by the white floor. With a light cringe, my semi-autonomous ears turned to my left to pinpoint the source before my eyes followed. Golden eyes that sat beneath furrowed brows focused on me. “But then, I began to worry that your loss of consciousness might be a symptom of a brain injury, like a hemorrhage, so I want to get you to the hospital.”

“Oh, yeah, that . . .” Marcus admitted plaintively. “So, that explains her erratic behavior you told me about?”

“Anxiety, communication problems, unexpected loss of awareness . . .” Aidin sighed, then continued, “I'm afraid they might indicate a hemorrhage.”

I had countless inquiries spinning in my head. Concentrating on the most pressing problem, I asked, “What's a hemor—?” Every muscle in my body turned rigid as the sound of my light voice reached my ears, and I squeezed my eyes shut to dispel my shock. “Hemorrhage? Wh-wh-what's that?” I continued, dismayed by how frail my fear-filled voice sounded.

“Internal bleeding,” he clarified after a momentary hesitation. No doubt my episode emboldened his suspicions of my health. “Or it could just be ischemia,” he muttered under his breath as he turned around for the bathroom exit. I had no idea what that word meant, but I knew enough already. The thought of my brain bleeding brought on a fresh slice of dread. How was internal bleeding stopped anyway? With an operation, I supposed. The imagery that presented itself to my mind's eye chilled me to the core.

“Please follow me, sir. We must go,” Aidin urged, glancing over his back as he left the room. The world began to sway and bob as my living forklift obediently trailed him.

“And, and, uh, this bleeding . . . it's bad?” I struggled against what seemed to be my body's inclination to speak in a hushed voice while still keeping my faculties organized. Being carried like a lapdog wasn't helping, but unfortunately, I still didn't feel I could walk on my own.

“Yes,” Aidin said to me, his expression serious. “Very bad.” Shouldn't he just say everything is fine? Or was it better for him to be bluntly honest? Either way, the pony considered my health to be in danger, and it seemed certain I wasn't going home as soon as I had anticipated.

“A-are you sure that your diagnosis is correct?” I worried, hoping he had misjudged and that I wasn't carrying a subcranial time bomb; I didn't want to die anymore. Blind luck had guided me to that road, and now that I had a second chance at life, I didn't want it to end on an operating table.

“I'd also like to know if you're correct on that,” Marcus shared some of my feelings. I had taken little notice of his home's decoration and furniture, but now, a plain white door with six identically shaped square windows stood before the pony's path.

“No, I'm not, and I can't be sure until I get her to the hospital, but I hope I'm wrong.” He glanced at me. “Now, uhm, this door is locked, er . . .” A grimace twisted his lips as he flailed a forelimb indicatively toward the door. Marcus deftly opened the lock without dropping me. “Thank you,” Aidin sighed, relieved. “Human houses and their doors . . .” The sand-yellow pony pushed the door open with his left foreleg, permitting the outside air to rush over us. Its chilly bite on me was minor, and I guess I had my coat to . . . thank.

A hospital wasn't a place I wanted to go to—a building packed to the brim with people who could label me insane the moment I said something about being a human male. I truly hoped I wasn't ill. If I was, I'd have to remain hospitalized for days. How could I keep myself secret for that long? Maybe I couldn't? Who am I kidding, I definitely couldn't! Oh no . . . Oh no! No, no, NO!

Desperately, I tried to argue. “But I-I, uh, I f-feel fine,” I stammered shakily, sounding like an imperfect Fluttershy copy. I wasn't sick, as in puking, coughing, or . . . paralyzed. Truth be told, I had no idea what hemorrhage could really lead to. The illness I best identified was the chronic discomfort and anxiety caused by my highly unsettling female equine form.

Turning his head around to reply, the paramedic had a sad glint in his eyes that matched his words: “I'm very sorry, but feeling fine and being fine aren't the same thing.” As we stepped outside into the rainy darkness, the water that began to run down my ears afflicted me with a sudden queasiness.

I hated to admit he was right; a life-threatening ailment could be amidst my brain matter. A trip to a hospital was likely unavoidable, and I'd be crazy to conjure any new counterarguments or attempt to flee. I had to accept this.

“I'm not taking any chances,” he continued as we began to head for the driveway, “and I fear I may not have taken action soon enough.” He let out a sigh that expressed both worry for me and remorse for himself.

“However, while you were unconscious, I took the liberty to check your pulse and finish the medical examination—and I apologize deeply for encroaching on your privacy.” He glanced at me with a sorry frown. “I hope you understand.” I was a bit disgusted, maybe even slighted, at what he had done while I was out cold, but I did understand his actions. “I believe you are unharmed, but a TIA or similar injury—or something worse—could be possible, and that's something I can't treat with the medical equipment I've brought with me.” I had no clue what a TIA was. My medical experience was limited to perusing random articles on human anatomy while bored at home, and that information was of little use to me now.

Marcus joined in to be the voice of reassurance. “If you ask me, I think you're completely fine, and your stay in the hospital won't be a long one.” Hopefully, he spoke the truth . . .

Cursorily, I noted that Marcus' home was the only house I could see out here. I guess we were in a rural area. Even the distance from his old-fashioned house to the driveway was notable, as were the two pony-like shapes facing us, illuminated by the driveway lights.

“I'm glad that you're hopeful, and I assure you, so am I. Still, it's better to be safe than sorry,” Aidin said as he came to stand before two soaked pegasi. “But if my worries are unfounded, then you're free to leave the hospital at any time.” After this, a pegasus by his side pointedly cleared her throat. “I'll also owe somepony special a bag of carrots, if you're sound as a bell,” he said to me with a confident smile. The mare chuckled lightly after that statement; I think she was more than convinced of my well-being.

“Don't sweat it,” Marcus said as I tried to discern the details of the flat object placed on the ground between the two pegasus ponies. They wore body-length harnesses that connected to the green contraption with two flexible rods per pony. “You'll be back on your legs in no time!” His fingers rubbed me lightly as he carefully adjusted my position in his arms, lightly tickling my new form in the process. Unfortunately, I couldn't appreciate the sensation.

“Of that, sir, I have no doubts,” the paramedic concurred with surprising decorum. The others watched me with compassionate curiosity as Aidin motioned at the device between them. “Now, please rest her gently on the stretcher,” he instructed amicably, identifying the contraption for me. Marcus began to do as prompted, and as my health—and my life—could be in jeopardy, I decided it was best to be perfectly compliant. Carefully orienting me to be parallel with the two pegasi, Marcus let my forehooves touch down on the stretcher first, which ensued without too much mental conflict; however, when I was laid prone and my hind legs were tucked to my sides, I winced with an unintended grunt. The reconciliation with my extremely unusual physiology was still in its infancy. Marcus voiced an apology, which he augmented by gently running his hand down my neck and back. Nonverbally, and therefore secret to him, I accepted his mollifying gesture, although my briefly tensing muscles informed how questionably I regarded his gesture. He almost seemed to perceive me more as an animal than a sapient being.

Heeding Aidin's further instructions, Marcus began to affix belts over my forelegs, back, and across my . . . tail. That sent a powerful squirm along the total length of my spine, but I knew that I had to be secured. Simultaneously, I realized that I was about to be taken into the air by the pegasi duo, which was a fascinating method of transportation. Still, it was hard to ignore the feelings of unease and disgrace for my restraints, but those were nuisances compared to the real threat on my well-being. A glance revealed that the locking mechanism for the belt holding my forelimbs in place was fastened with a user-friendly lock even . . . a pony could open. With their . . . my mouth.

“Thank you for your help, sir,” Aidin said politely once the three belts were in place. The tangerine-maned pony looked at me with a gentle gaze, although I could see his worry shimmering in his golden eyes. “Now, please allow me to introduce my colleagues.” He looked to my right: “Ampoule.” The pegasus nodded silently with a lean smile, his short cobalt blue mane and eyes creating a strong contrast with his bright yellow coat. “And Medical Brace,” Aidin said with warmth to the mare to my left. Her aquamarine pelt was identifiable thanks to the illumination provided by the few lollipop-shaped driveway lamps.

“Hello, hon,” she said with a smile, half-lidding the amethyst eyes that sat beneath her long and weathered peroxide blonde mane, before lowering her head down to whisper into my ear: “If you're what we call a false alarm, my sweetheart here owes me some fresh carrots. I promise to give you a share after you get a clean bill of health, okay?” Compassion and confidence were drawn on her features when she withdrew from me, but I was simply confused. A false alarm?

With a smug expression on her visage, she looked at Aidin, who poorly feigned obliviousness of what she had said. I think. I couldn't tell if they were being honest, or if it was simply an act to make me feel safe. Relaxed. I managed to reply with a ghost of a smile. I didn't know if they could tell, but I was starting to feel ill from stress. I could only hope I'd build a resistance to my fears, and inure to my ears . . . before I broke into tears.

“All right, everypony. The situation is this,” Aidin said to both pegasi, and I looked at him attentively. “As I said earlier, our patient seems to be suffering from psychological trauma. She lost consciousness recently, and she may have an intracerebral injury.” The two ponies nodded sharply in acknowledgement, whereas my frown worsened; I found no joy in being referred to as a female, and I was very much concerned of what would happen to me at the hospital. My fears ranged from surgery to death, to the potentially devastating consequences of an accidental or forced revealing of my identity. Plus, the rain landing on my literally inhuman ears was discomforting. “Good. Now—Oh, pardon me!” An apologetic grin dawned on Aidin. “I almost forgot to tell you: her name's Rosy.”

Rosy? Rosy Stripes? That was my name? The one that had caused me to faint? The one that I had outright refused to think of again? The name that had always been mine, except not before today? My name must be a sign of brain injury! I mean, that name! Aidin was right; I was really suffering from a brain injury!

Worryingly, the two pegasi, whose cutie marks I saw matched their names, dawdled with benign expectation on their expressive muzzles. In turn, I eyed both with justified alarm on my mind. “Um, h-h-hi,” I managed to whimper to the stallion. Ampoule simply bowed his head with a frown of sympathy, radiating goodwill that I was impervious to. My ears and head sunk down, the latter mitigating my stress none, and I closed my eyes tightly as I began to counter my ascending anxiety and hyperventilation.

“Don't be afraid, hon,” Medical Brace's dulcet tone slinked into my ears, and I felt something soft grace my neck. “You can count on all of us.” She paused, while the massage continued. “Remember what I said about carrots?”

“Yeah,” I pushed a shamefully tiny squeak past the lump in my throat. I couldn't understand nor believe that I was capable of producing such a sound.

“Listen. In an hour, you'll be eating carrots with a smile on your lips. Trust me, hon,” she assured. By now, I believed she was sincere. As I turned to look at her with exhausted eyes, I noticed what was on my neck and smiled lightly. A real pegasus wing! It was so soft, even through my fur. A desire to unbuckle myself and cry into her aquamarine plumes threatened to impose its will upon me, but I pushed it back—simply being graced by her wing was more than I could've wished for.

A rustling alerted my ears, which informed me that it came from behind, and Medical Brace retracted herself. A translucent tarp that was apparently integral to the stretcher was rolled over me by Marcus. It shielded me from the elements, much to the relief of my overly sensitive ears. The fairly spacious cover that was now being painted by the downpour had small support beams of its own, probably to provide rigidity against the colliding air once we were airborne. Noting that I was saved from the rain's torture, and with the help of Medical Brace's gesture still fresh in my mind, I began to calm. I was so shaken that I wanted to leak tears from behind my closed eyes, but I couldn't allow that. Not now, not here. Maybe . . . if I let out just a few furtive tears . . . just a small release . . . No, not even that was permitted. I had cried more in the past few hours than I had in an entire year. I had to show some dignity and resilience.

By the sound of things, Aidin or Marcus began to close some kind of latches to secure the cover in place. Aidin spoke, “I wish to speak with Marcus for a while, so leave without me this time.”

“D'accord,” the so far silent stallion said, and then I heard the flapping of wings.

“Sure thing! See you soon, sweetheart,” Medical Brace affirmed chipperly to her special somepony. I was silent, but a few seconds later, my eyelids and ears ascended as I suddenly remembered something vital. “But, uh—” It was too late; a small g-force pressed my body to the canvas when I was hoisted into the air. “My pears . . .” I continued in a pitiably mousy tone, followed by a moan of comparable quality as I slumped my head between my forelegs. The lock for the belts irritated my jaw, but I didn't care. A muted, agitated groan emitted from my throat when my annoying ears fell, too. No matter, sooner or later, I'd acclimate to them, but the single morsel in my stomach had probably dissolved by now, and soon I'd have an empty hole in me again.

Why were all the good things being taken from me? I had to overreact. I had to mess up, and now, I had only myself to blame! Everything could've gone better had I not been tricked twice by my name . . . Or a subcranial injury was the culprit. That must be what was making my name feel so genuine. I could do absolutely nothing now but hope the hospital could cure me. And maybe provide me with nutrition, too. Preferably something edible and tasty. Perhaps. Was hospital food terrible? I didn't care. I just had to be tight-lipped about myself and disallow my curiosity to act. My survival as a free, inconspicuous individual rested on being laconic and passive.

I peered into the darkness. The lights from a few houses and scattered light poles of this rural area were a drab sight. I glanced at the ponies by my side, noticing a gently upwards-slanted surface between them and me. The shape was connected to the equine's harness with a pair of segmented rods. As I was examining it, the flight path changed, and a brighter light show crossing the horizon caught my immediate attention. It took me a few seconds to identify it as a highway a few kilometers away, and . . . it was beautiful. The orange streak that was slowly nearing us had me mesmerized. I couldn't help but smile, and I felt . . . a little happy. My concerns were being pushed to the caboose of my train of thought.

The air and rain noisily toyed with the tarp, but they didn't distract me from soon fantasizing about the perky droning of a horizontally opposed, four-cylinder Lycoming engine rotating a two-bladed propeller at 23,000 revolutions per minute. I closed my eyes to immerse myself deeper into this stress-alleviating vision.

Clear sky all around, with the exception of a few clouds. The scenery of roads, lakes, forests, and towns a few thousand feet below scrolling gently by at a velocity of 90 knots, with the wind, the entrancing rotations of the airscrew, and the heart of the machine as a soundtrack. My imagination ran so vividly that I began to hear ATC chatter, and the engine and the propeller sounds became subtly separate. Flying an airplane was a wondrous beauty worth achieving. A wish to covet. A dream to realize. It was so close. Me and the plane, together in the air . . . experiencing a freedom like no other, not as two, but as one . . .
I sighed, I couldn't properly describe it, but it would be magic. I had only one more month of jobless procrastination until I was supposed to enter flight school. Despite my initial concerns on the contrary, I would safely make it on the money I had saved from my former job.

I had worked in a small electronics shop, owned by one Oscar Dahlin. My task there was to do pretty much everything that didn't require his seemingly unlimited expertise on electronics. While I never saw him outside work hours, we were nonetheless cool with each other. He didn't talk much about his personal life, but what I did learn was that he was a widower with no family. He was also very passionate about his little enterprise, which he had kept successfully afloat for about thirty years. I found that to be a very admirable accomplishment.

What was funny was that when he placed his old car up for sale, I bought it almost right on the spot, with the money I had earned from being in his employment. I had to wonder if getting me the car was his intention. I wagered it was; he had an air about him the days leading up to his decision to sell it. The car wasn't expensive, and it wasn't in bad shape. Of course, it didn't have power steering, central locking, or proper air conditioning. Pure practicality. Still, I was happy with the sky-blue sedan, and I think he was happy that it was in my possession instead of in a scrap yard. Sadly, he kicked the bucket the next weekend. Apparently, he ruptured a vessel, or something. I hoped it had been painless . . . and that brought back to mind my present condition. What was I thinking about? I had to go back to it! It was Oscar, and he . . . Gone . . . The shop . . . Yes! Calming, calming . . . calming . . . calming memories . . .

After Oscar's death, I decided to simply enjoy my home, living on my meager savings and unemployment benefits for a while. Occasionally, I would hang out with my friends, but I had grown tired of their idea of fun, which entailed drinking themselves stupid almost every time I was with them. It hadn't always been like that, but it seemed that adulthood equaled a right to frequently invoke intoxication. Since I was the only sober guy, it was highly awkward being with my temporarily obnoxious friends, who voiced opinions that I didn't acknowledge, hoping they weren't their true beliefs; however, the louder they became, the quieter I became, and with that kind of isolation came conviction. About two weeks ago, when they were once again in an altered state of mind, I finally lost my cool and gave them a piece of my mind. After an embittering altercation, I left them to their own devices. It would take a while before I'd dare to see them again, if ever . . . They were still my friends . . . Or were they? Was I a friend to them? I was so torn on those subjects . . . and I didn't want to focus on that now.

Oscar had looked so healthy that day. Slightly graying hair, but other than that, his features bore no trace of the sixty years of his life's journey. I still remember the smile on his spry, bespectacled face when he handed over the keys to me. Said that "I should take care of the humble fella.” I bought his car for a meager sum and fully expected to see him after the weekend. But that was the last I saw of him. Next I heard, he had collapsed on the way out of a hardware store. I hated to admit it—even now—that I had honestly teared up a smidgen when the news reached me.

Life went on, I wasn't in any kind of financial trouble, and I was the new owner of an old car, so things were comparatively good. During my first days of ownership, I took the car on a few excursions to get a better feel for it. Namely, I tested the nimble sedan a little on a sizeable and usually vacant lot of a horse racing track outside the city limits.

At some point, I had promised myself to take very good care of the aged sedan for as long as possible. I felt it was the right thing to do. Some kind of legacy, or duty, that Oscar had passed to me. Four meters of alloy and plastic weighing at about one ton gained status that was beyond its original intent as an ultimately impermanent and replaceable form of transportation. I believe that in an effort to ensure I'd responsibly protect and preserve the car, I applied a name to it. Or would that be him? Quite absurd, I confess, that I was taking Oscar's humorous comment a bit too seriously. Jim's just an unfeeling, lifeless machine . . .

Maybe someday, I'll get over the sentimentality and give him a good home. I had actually learned a few days ago that he was just a couple of years short of qualifying as a museum car. I guess that was another, much better and logical reason to maintain the car. My little automobile, a future museum exhibit? That kind of an impressive accomplishment would make me burst with immense pride and joy!
Wait, what was that?

Ampoule's sudden guffaw wrenched me out of my memory lane. Whatever the cause of his mirth was, I had now been brought back to the present moment, and my current method of travel was dissuading me from slipping back into my recollections.

After an arbitrary glance of my immediate surroundings, the compactible wing design that was integrated to a stretcher made me primarily wonder whether it was a recent innovation or if it had been perfected over several generations, and had it been developed here on this Earth or brought from Equestria? If that place truly existed, that is. As I understood (with the help of countless fictional stories and some educated theories), there's a universe for anything and everything, and more are created constantly and indefinitely. Even the number and arrangement of atoms flowing in and out from my lungs probably created an infinite number of universes for every passing attosecond. Hence, it wouldn't be a completely absurd claim that two drastically different universes – one with humans, the other with ponies – were somehow connected.

However, I had no way to ascertain the existence of Equestria other than asking the pegasi . . . What if they asked what Equestria was? How would I explain that? These ponies weren't inarguable proof of its existence. Maybe I could blame the brain injury for my unusual question? Perhaps it would be wiser to start with an innocuous question from which I could segue the direction of the conversation to the ponies' birthplaces. I just had to hope they wouldn't ask me any similar questions; I didn't trust myself to produce a proper cover story on a short notice. Maybe I could pretend that I was amnesiac? No, that would be too risky. However, I could learn a lot just by starting a conversation with a simple question that's unrelated to Equestria and ponies. Now, what could that question be . . . ?

Luckily, the air and rain rattling the protective tarp sparked an idea, and with a smile, I looked at the pony to my right. “Can you tell me what our altitude and airspeed are?” I queried enthusiastically to Ampoule, but my distinctively feminine voice immediately caused me to gag in disgust. I had defaulted to being an out-and-out male on a subconscious level in spite of my awareness of my equine shape. I may've received a reply to my aeronautically pertinent inquiry, but I didn't hear it over my morosity.

Suddenly, I recalled an instance when I was in an ill mood, just like now. In my mind's eye, lush rolling hills were stretching so far that the vivid green blended with the light blue horizon. I was just a young . . . filly?
No!
The memories of my own human past were unquestionably authentic, and the brief vision I had just seen was nothing but a glitch caused by my cerebral injury! I shouldn't worry too much. I would be healed soon, and then my real name would be restored. The name that I could see in my mind but had failed to come out. No fear. The docs would fix me. Save me.

Unfortunately, I doubted they could cure my number one illness: my physical composition. I had been assured—and I wanted to be sure—that I wasn't in a life-threatening danger. If I kept quiet, there was a very good chance that once I was discharged, the hospital staff would be none the wiser of who I was. And then I'd stroll home to do some on-site research, and . . . If that research was inconclusive? If I found nothing from there, or from the infinite well of information that was the Internet? Or if I learned that there was no way back? That this was how I had to be, for all time? That the worst case scenario had become real and eternal . . . ?

Something started to tug at my heart, and my breaths became spasmodic. Those were the symptoms of the vague but disheartening predictions that were swirling in my mind. There was no clear vision of what kind of a life I'd have as a female equine, just . . . abstract horror and overwhelming melancholy. I knew there was nothing I could do, not right now . . . except to keep my hopes up!

‘For goodness sake! Here and now's not the darn time to drag myself down to sadness city! Anything less but the total restoration of my real self and life is completely unacceptable! I will prevail!’ I scolded myself, frowning tensely as I worked to perish the dismal thoughts and salvage my declining mood. The contempt I felt for my own moment of weakness channeled outwards, and I glared at nothing, hoping to overhear the ponies' conversation.

Much to my disappointment, the two were talking in a language I recognized but couldn't speak nor understand. I almost growled at my linguistic deficiency; it would've been less menacing than a revving Vespa thanks to my dauntingly feminine larynx.

I was envious of the duo's method of flight, although I would have preferred a machine to pilot. Regardless, if I had any say in my unexplained transformation into a pony, I would've chosen to be a pegasus.
A pegasus stallion, just to be clear.

The rhythmic oscillation of their wings gradually soothed my ill feelings, though I wasn't exactly sure why my sights became affixed to the repetitive movements of their plumed limbs. Obviously, I was amazed by their existence alone, especially now that the worst of my mind-addling trauma was behind me. I could've tried to initiate dialogue with them again, but . . . those wings . . . I stared at them in complete bewilderment.

After a short duration of thoughtless observation of both ponies, it occurred to me that the wings were working in opposing directions: when the mare's wings were in an upward cycle, the stallion's were thrusting downwards, and vice versa. It took me a while, but I was able to guesstimate that turning was accomplished by the pony on the inner side reducing the wing beat rate, whereas the outer pony increased theirs. Their wings may have tilted, or the pony yawed to aid the maneuver, but such intricate details were difficult to distinguish through the darkness and the droplets streaking the plastic cover; it was only because they carried lights that I was able to see them at all. The change of heading was comparable to steering a twin-engined airplane by adjusting the engine power to create asymmetrical thrust. It was interesting that the pegasi expertly employed a technique usually demonstrated by aircraft whose control surfaces had become inoperable.

The flying pair changed heading nimbly and efficiently, maintaining a level attitude. When the ponies had lifted off, the folded surfaces between them and the stretcher had expanded to produce an airfoil of sorts, although that had gone unnoticed by me when it had occurred. Apparently, sex didn't have much effect on a pegasi's muscle mass, as Medical Brace had no trouble matching her partner's wing strokes. Another apparent and astonishing aspect was their adherence to aviation regulations: the lights they carried were navigational lights! A red and a green collar on the mare and the stallion, respectively. I had to wonder where the strobe lights were. Maybe hidden underneath the stretcher and airfoil?

I finally detached my focus from the pegasi to scan my surroundings. The highway was below us now, dotted with the moving reds and whites of automobile lights. Moist air was rushing in from small gaps between the tarp and stretcher. To my surprise, the smell of emission from the cars below was detectable but not irritating. Not too far away was the familiar sea of colors belonging to my home city. Mostly orange and white, in addition to logos, traffic lights, and other signs. A few kilometers ahead, on the right side of the highway, was a mall. The illuminated latticed column, most likely brandishing familiar brand names, marked its location. I had been there once or twice.

The rural landscape gave way to more and more homes of various types, and commercial buildings as well. Passing the mall, we soon reached the city proper, and the highway transitioned to a thoroughfare leading into the heart of the population center. The lights of civilization that stretched out in every direction were unusually bright and vibrant. Maybe it was the darkness creating a contrast, or the water on the tarp working as lenses to enhance the luminosity of the incalculable gleams. Or my vision; I didn't exactly have human eyes anymore. In any case, it was an unusual but magnificent view.

I saw so much more and farther. This vista helped me to remember the times I had ventured to one of the few hills in the city to survey the landscape. Armed with binoculars and a map, I'd sometimes stay there up to an hour, spotting landmarks for my own pleasure. Although the hill wasn't very tall by worldly standards, most of the city's buildings were of less height, thus granting me a good impression of the scenery. The farther away the landmark, the more spectacular and breathtaking it was to witness. Most notable was the water tower over 30 kilometers away! The wondrous sight was spellbinding; it took so long for me to tell myself to leave every time I had been up on that hill. All I had done was watch in stunned awe and delight. It had been so beautiful, yet so simple, and so was this.
Really, what could be more wonderful than flying?

Because I had no way to tell the time, I couldn't gauge how long we had been in the air. We had left the expressway behind to cross over the denser areas of the city. In the distance, a relatively large building stood almost half again taller than the ones surrounding it—our destination. I recognized the thirteen-floor-tall monolith as the city's main hospital. A sadness at the end of my flight, and the uncertainty of my future, began to creep in at the same rate the predominantly white building became more distinct. Hopefully, in less than an hour or so, I'd be told I was okay, or at least being treated back to health.

I hoped they had unicorn magic that'd be able to fix me. The image of my head being cut open, the insertion of surgical tools and . . . brain bandages or whatever—Those didn't play well with me. The relaxed look I had just moments ago had been replaced by a frown, and my tail was trying to hide itself between my legs. That felt uncomfortable. Regardless, my primary objectives were to be as inconspicuous as possible and to keep my male humanity strictly to myself. I had to wear my appearance like it was perfectly normal; I couldn't detest any of its properties or show signs of ineptitude.

It took a few seconds for me to fully comprehend my scheme, but when I did, my face blanked in unprecedented terror and shock. The greatest challenge of my life was minutes away, and I had no better or wiser options available. I would strive to be as passive and reticent as possible to minimize the attention I'd receive, besides the obvious medical care, and the staff would naturally be predisposed to perceive me as what I resembled.

Once the hospital was no more than a few hundred meters away, I summed up the behavior I'd stick to: withdrawn, quiet, and very cautious of what I'd say or do. However, I had to ask myself: was my planned guise just another layer of humiliating femininity I was applying to myself? Was it better if I behaved as myself, sans the male human traits? Was it even possible to disallow my innate characteristics from manifesting? I couldn't know for sure. I was being taken to a hospital, a place stacked with people who could legitimately suspect my sanity the moment I acted outside my soon-to-be-assumed role. I had to attract as little attention as possible. I couldn't tell what frightened me more: the supposed brain injury, the methods the doctors would employ to treat me, my true self being exposed, or my ruse of being an authentic pony if the situation demanded for it. I hoped for the best, but I had no idea how to prepare for the worst.

With the flight in its landing approach, I took notice of a wide white structure with an overhang at the far side of the rectangular roof. Exercising much precision and care, the two ponies flared to a glide along the length of the roof before landing smoothly underneath the overhang. The wing-like assembly and stretcher lowered to the floor, and a pair of the sliding doors in front of me opened into a surprisingly bright room.

The sudden increase in luminosity forced my eyes to close. The two ponies pulled the entire wing assembly, and me with it, into the room. Judging by the clicks and shuffles, they were proceeding to uncouple themselves from the complex harness. The stallion said something in a complaining tone, and the mare replied with an appeasing one. Why did they speak in that language? Not that I could ask. I had to be passive.

I heard more clicking, and then the stretcher was lifted off the floor and almost simultaneously rotated 90 degrees. A quick glance informed me that I had been placed transversely on the ponies' backs. I had not seen or heard any others besides the two, so they must've done it by themselves.

Hooves clacked softly on the floor, then came to a halt after only a few seconds. The two spoke briefly again in that fancy language, and I heard elevator doors open. It wasn't until now that I actually questioned why I had been airlifted by pegasus ponies instead of an ambulance delivering me here. If it wasn't so unnerving being in a hospital, I would've felt amazed again.

“Feeling well, hon?” Medical Brace asked softly. I replied with a hasty, positive-sounding hum. The too-high sound that climbed from my throat didn't convince me, but at least I hadn't gone rigid in dread. “Don't worry,” she continued in that unbelievably soothing voice of hers, “You're safe now, and you'll have carrots soon. Promise.” How could she be sure of that? Was she the pony splitting my head open and staunching my internal bleeding?

The brightness inside the elevator was unbearable to me, so barring a few quick looks, I continued to keep my eyes sealed while I waited for my vision to acclimate. I briefly envied the two ponies for being less light-sensitive than me. To help quell my fears, I wondered if, perhaps once this was over, I could ask for a return flight home? I almost smiled in anticipation in spite of my concerns.

To think, the previous evening, right before sleep, I had been busy playing . . . a video game? How odd. Why couldn't I remember what game it was? I had . . . four games? That few? I saw them on the desk this morning, and yesterday, too. Didn't I have more? Odd. Something seemed off about my home now that I thought about it. Something I should be aware of, but my mind wasn't telling me what it was. Or . . . it was simply the stress and possible brain injury throwing my faculties into disarray. Probably that, yeah. I would've continued to play whatever video game it was the next morning and leisurely counted down another day to flight school, had not fate, or whatever, done this to me. I had been removed—No! Torn away from my comfy and safe existence, and all I could do now was maintain hope that it wasn't impossible to get it back. Until then . . . For as long as I would be here, in this hospital, maybe even in this realm . . . I had to keep myself a secret . . . and that meant . . . I had to be a mare.

What had I done to deserve this kind of torment?

So Much For Nothing

View Online

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

Chapter 10
So Much For Nothing

An electronic chime announcing the parting of the elevator doors broke me out of my mentations. With my sensitive photoreceptors shielded by eyelids, I felt myself sway as the hooves of the two pegasi bearing me resounded off the floor.

“Excuse me,” Medical Brace called as we came to a stop. “We need a scan for a possible brain injury here.” She then grunted, and the stretcher moved a little. “Ow. Whoever designed this stupid junk wasn't thinking of comfort,” she murmured under her breath. Ampoule laughed, then said something in a questioning but mirthful tone, to which the usually gentle mare replied with an annoyed grumble. I tried to understand what had been said. Something about . . . No, I couldn't figure it out. Shucks. Probably said I was really fine, and that I'd be out the hospital doors in an hour. Or not. The tone wasn't right. In any case, I had to firmly believe in positive results and, more importantly, remain calm at all times, or free room and board in a nuthouse were in my future.

“I got this!” another female called enthusiastically. With a cringe, I reluctantly thanked my semi-autonomous soundcatchers for telling me that she was to my left.

The next moment, I heard a series of snaps and rustles, and warily, I drew my eyelids to a slit. ‘Ouch!’ I shut my eyes. ‘Why's this still so bright to me?’ I wondered. I had been able to discern, however, that my roomy plastic cover was being removed, and I was in a small lobby of sorts. The feeling of overwhelming sensory input must've been due to my pony eyes still being unaccustomed to the brightness. I had never been sensitive of normal indoor lights before, though. Not even in Marcus' bathroom. Were the lights here brighter or something?

“Go on ahead. Might take me a minute or two to deal with the team rotation paperwork and entrust me with supervision over the patient in Aidin's absence before I can follow,” Medical Brace assumably instructed to the unseen female. I felt something tap me in the barrel from underneath the stretcher's canvas. “Don't you fear, hon,” she said “You'll be okay soon.” Yeah, sure, I'd be okay, no problem. Not nervous at all. Just had to believe in good things.

I was lifted up, startling my eyes open, and I noticed they had adjusted to the light. The stretcher was now on a gurney, rolling down the hallway. Gazing ahead, I observed how few people were present across its cream-colored floor.

As we passed a few doors, curiosity suggested I should learn who was carting me through the white-walled hallway. Slowly swiveling my head around, I saw a hand, then tracked that up to the shoulder, and from there to the face. Medium-length anthracite-black hair, simplistic but stylish glasses, and young features. A pretty nose. She was kinda cute.

“Oh, hi there!” she said very chipperly, and my ears drooped. The pleasant image I had of her broke, and her supposedly friendly expression became downright perturbing.

“Uhm . . . hi,” I replied with a faint whisper, distancing my head from her a little.

“So, hey, what's your name?” she asked in a rhythmical manner. That was . . . a nice variation.

“Uh . . .” I averted my head from her uncanny expression on the pretense of being shy, although I didn't have to pretend that much. I guess the defect in my head hadn't cured itself because I thought of the name that felt like it was genuinely mine, when it was anything but. Obviously, I couldn't tell her my male human name. My best option was to keep a low profile for as long as possible, or until I was absolutely sure it was safe to confide my identity to somepony I was willing to trust. Somepony? The ponyisms were most likely caused by the brain damage, too! When did this even start? Did I hit my head when I fell out of my bed this morning? No, I managed to catch myself quite softly. I hadn't hit my head at all today. Strange . . . Was something wrong about my bed? My home? I couldn't be certain. Perhaps it was just the brain anomaly toying with my faculties again?

“Mine's Lisa,” the young nurse introduced herself, my uncomfortable ears rotating on their own to catch her voice.

“Okay,” I replied, a strain of discomfort and dread in my quiet tone. I attempted to appreciate her positivity, though it wasn't meshing well with me. We rounded a corner to a corridor with a peculiarly light pink floor.

“Now, don't be such a scaredy tail. You know why? Because you have absolutely nothing to be afraid of!” Lisa tried to reassure me, but she only made me flinch. As if the jarring delivery of her statement could wash away my concerns. She was wrong. No, scratch that. She was absolutely dreadful! She wasn't even close to being like Medical Brace, who had a smooth voice and a sensibly kind demeanor. Lisa wasn't even like Marcus Lund-something. He was nice, and I'd be fast friends with him. Maybe. He was a teetotaler, right?
I wouldn't hug him again, regardless.

Hoping I wasn't going in for a surgery and staying here for days, but also a touch aggravated by the nurse's decorum, I replied with forced optimism in my succinct whisper: “I know.”

“Why, of course you know, my littlest sweetest pony,” she replied in a manner that I found condescending, and I screwed my eyes shut. Why had I opened my mouth? Was she trying to be amusing? Had she been reassigned from a kindergarten to a hospital? Did she have a brain injury herself? She was like jagged, rusty, horrible, horrible nails on a chalkboard! Then, as she continued to talk, my eyes rolled upwards in frustrated despair. “Say, are you saying that if you didn't know, I'd have to tell it to you for you to know? Didn't I already do that? Hey, maybe—?”

“Zip it,” I cut in tersely, my ears pricking backwards. That annoyed me, too. With so many things already stressing me out, I didn't need much to be pushed to my limits.

“Hey now don't be such a crabap—”

“Didn't you hear me?” I interrupted grouchily, my unadulterated high-pitched voice only agitating me further.

“Sure, I heard you, sis, and—”

Sis? With an exasperated, puny-sounding groan that brought a short-term grimace to me, I crashed my head in the space between my forelegs. “Not. One. Word. MORE,” I emphasized my ultimatum through my teeth.

The silence that followed indicated she had at the least a rudimentary rational conscience. My vexation withered quickly though, and I sighed as my ears unglued themselves from my skull. “Lisa, please understand,” I said as amiably as I could, feeling that I had been a smidgen too harsh, even though I held the opinion that she deserved every drop of my contempt. “Your flippant attitude is completely inappropriate, insensitive, and . . . well, creepy. It only upsets me, and probably other patients you've had and will have.” Undesiring to start an educative tirade that would undoubtedly feature many snide remarks masquerading as advice, I simply got to the point: "Please rethink your behavior. Your silence will do me more good than anything you could possibly say, so please . . . don't talk to me anymore." After a second's pause, I added in a smaller voice, “I'm sorry.”

There was a bleakness in me . . . my male self conjured the words, but my distaff larynx spoke them. The disparity made me sound alien, which only enhanced my sensation of entrapment. Thankfully, the grief and fear were soon superseded by the much welcomed peace of relative quiet I had earned for myself. The relaxant Aidin had given me was likely helping matters, too. To keep my cool, I held my eyes gently closed, taking slow breaths as I was delivered to my destination. My recent ire had riled me from the withdrawn role I had hoped to adhere to; I'd strengthen my laconic passiveness with an absolute rule: silence is golden. I'd behave as if voiceless. Voiceless, and horribly depressed. The hospital staff would definitely worry to no end, maybe even be more than concerned once I inevitably struggled to do even the simplest pony-esque things. On the plus side (if it could be called that), my silence would minimize the risk of saying something that could compromise the integrity of my sadly irremovable disguise.

The gurney halted, and the characteristic sound of a knuckle rapping a door preceded a muffled female's voice. “Yes, do come in.” I opened my eyes just in time to see Lisa open a door before me, and a moment later, she carted me into the room. With a smidgen of intrigue, I surveyed the warmly-colored space, noting a couple of shelves with assorted books, a basic hospital bed by the wall ahead, and a series of windows spanning the entire length of the left wall, permitting a view of four-story apartment buildings on the other side of a street. What was most striking was the size of the furniture and equipment here: they were smaller than normal, and that made this room look huge. Even the desk in the very left corner beneath the long window—Whoa!

“Good evening.”

My head ascended from the stretcher's green canvas along with my pinnae stiffening involuntarily in surprised astonishment. Not at the greeting, but at the sight of a pale orange pony standing from behind the low desk to smile at us. I blinked a few times, just to make sure that what had just moments ago been inspecting the disorganized papers on the desk wasn't an illusion. No, she was still there, regarding me with some puzzlement. “I presume this patient requires my attention?” the red-maned unicorn asked.

“Yes. A scan. Possible brain injury,” Lisa relayed laconically, her tone traceless of the highly aggravating glee she had earlier. I couldn't say that I was too sorry about deflating her mood. I was more concerned about my brain injury, and I didn't look forward to knowing how severe it was.

“Very well. Thank you for the help,” the unicorn replied as she strolled to the gurney's left side, and that was when I spied her cutie mark: a trio of curved, translucent vertical lines snugly interlacing the shape of a bistre-brown pony. Lisa left wordlessly, which apparently prompted the mare to look toward the gently closed door with a concerned and inquiring frown. She soon removed her expression with a hum and placed her hoof on something below the gurney's mattress. “Quite rainy out there, is it not?” she said to break the ice.

“Yeah,” I said instinctually, the flowery and fresh nuances of hyacinth and mandarin orange emanating from her essence enthralling me. ‘Amazing perfume,’ I commented absently. With a tiny hydraulic hissing sound, the gurney began to descend, and soon, I was slightly below face-level of the standing mare. I must've looked utterly stupid, gazing into her auburn eyes without a clue what to think or say as I came down; all the while, she drew a lax smile on herself. The sound of the door closing startled me into focusing my attention over my back, a split second after my directional microphones had done so already.

“Nice to see you, Peachy Hale,” a familiar pony said in her affable tone as she crossed the few meters to stand beside the identified unicorn. After greeting the now harness-free aquamarine pegasus, Peachy Hale began to undo the not-so-restricting belts from me with her magic. It looked so effortless for her, and I had to consciously dissuade myself from gawking in wonder at her magic-enveloped horn. So instead, I stared at Medical Brace's half-lidded amethyst eyes. Her peroxide blonde mane was damp. Hah, wet mane. Well, damp mane. That sight and the associated cogitations creased my lips lightly. “Well, hello to you as well,” she said to me after a few seconds with a tiny giggle, subtle bemusement in her eyes.

“Hi,” I replied in an unintentionally shy tone that, along with my tiny smile, elicited a small chuckle from her.

“There,” Peachy Hale said softly as the belt pressing on my fuzzy behind was removed, the sensation and subsequent realization disconcerting me. I was naked . . . “Being free from those belts feels so much more comfortable, doesn't it?” I replied with a flat hum. The unicorn glanced at her pegasus counterpart with a smile. “Alright. I'm ready to run the scan.” She then looked at me. “Are you ready?” she asked.

“Uhh . . . yeah. I think I am,” I replied, still moderately timid of my own intonation. More so, I was puzzled at what was about to occur. She'd run the scan? How? Wasn't a scanner like a big donut-shaped device conjoined with a bed? The most advanced contraptions I saw here were a scale, standing along the wall next to the bed, and a basic wall clock, the latter of which hung above and behind Peachy's desk. It was half past nine.
There wasn't even a computer here. How odd.

“How are you holding up, hon?” Medical Brace asked me.

How should I answer that question? I wasn't gifted with an intrinsic meter to provide a numerical value of my current health at all times. “Um, I'll know soon . . . Right?” I nonetheless hazarded to reply.

“That's not what I meant,” she giggled in gentle amusement. “But yes, you'll know soon.” I tried to smile, too, but my ears were telling their own tale by curving down and backwards.

“Please, don't worry,” Peachy reproved me with the kindest tone. Had my ears told her I was worried? Those could throw a wrench into my plans to conceal my emotions, which might inadvertently lead to the exposure of my identity. Somehow. “You'll be perfectly fine.”

“Yeah, of course. No doubt about it,” I hoped nervously, my soft female voice making my whisper sound like I was mimicking a certain withdrawn pegasus.

Peachy nodded with an empathetic look. “I better start the scan, then.” Ears righting themselves, my eyes were automatically drawn to her horn when it lit up again, and simultaneously, she closed her eyes. A mere second later, my right hind leg began to sting mildly, as if it was becoming . . . completely numb! I drew a startled inhale, and I began to restlessly twitch the strange joints in my strange leg. It's one thing to have equine legs with relatively insensitive hooves, but to potentially lose sensation in the entire appendage frightened me.

“Don't be alarmed, hon,” Medical Brace soothed, and I fixated a look of concerned inquiry on her as my leg lost more of its tactile acuity. With a sympathetic glint in her eyes, she reached over and rested her hoof on my, my . . . what was this part of the forelimb called? Cannon! Nevertheless, her aquamarine hoof resting on my hairy skin took me by such surprise that I forgot my present troubles. As I was looking at her with an uncomprehending gaze, she continued, “Peachy's magic is only looking at your insides, and just to be safe, she always does a complete scan for any type of physical injury.” The paramedic pegasus took on a reflective expression. “Her magic does feel a bit weird at first, I know,” she said, as if she had personal experience of this. “But that'll phase out in a few seconds.” Her moderately furrowed brows relaxed. “The scan will only take a minute or two, so take a deep breath, and think of nice things while we wait for Peachy to finish, okay?”

“Okay,” I repeated quietly, stealing a glance at the colorful magic on my hind leg. True to her words, and to my immense relief, sensation returned to my hind leg. In fact, the unicorn's magic was now merely making me feel momentary numbness where it traversed. Now that I was becoming tranquil, I found it fascinating to have magic applied on me.

Medical Brace withdrew her leg once she seemed to be sure I was no longer anxious. Maybe it was a deliberate effect of Peachy's magic, or I simply had understood its innocuity, or maybe the mellow pegasus could channel tranquility with her touch; in any case, I felt much relieved. The fact that I hadn't been taken to an imaging machine but to a unicorn, who was now scanning me with magic, was positively bewildering. Why was I treated to this kind of an exception? Would it be a good idea to ask? If I presented the query in an ingenious manner, they wouldn't give me strange looks for being unponylike. Then again, was magical scanning common knowledge? How could I know if I didn't ask? But could asking lead to a series of events that would reveal what I was?
I'd best not ask.

I noticed that the momentary numbness was coursing in my right foreleg. There was actually a thin ring of pale orange indicating the magic's apparent location, gently releasing white glimmers of magic that floated leisurely, like tiny short-lived dandelion seeds. The magical bracelet was simply beautiful to look at. I kind of . . . wanted one. Was it feminine to like a sparkly magical bracelet? I couldn't say for sure. Would I happily show it to my friends back in my original plane of existence? Would I dare to show it to Benny, David, Peter, and Thomas? I doubted that. They weren't my only friends, but . . . Were those four my friends any longer?

Two weeks back, I was with them in Benny's home. I didn't see them much anymore, but when I did, I wanted to have fun, like we used to. All had started quite well that evening, and I was enjoying myself while I still could. Then, as I had come to anticipate, my friends began to drink themselves stupid. I loathed the intoxicating consumable from the bottom of my heart, and for too long had I passively watched my friends enslave themselves to the wills of the abhorrent sludge. I never felt comfortable in the presence of those who were drunk. On the contrary, their preternatural joy frightened me, which I easily converted into an empowering emotion: animosity. I had decided that if I failed to change their habits, I would no longer associate myself with those four friends. So, that evening, I feared that several years of shared friendship was coming to an end with finality, and I hoped I wasn't powerless to prevent it. I demanded that my friends quit alcohol for good. No exceptions, no pardons, and no excuses. I told them how alcohol was one of society's greatest stumbling blocks, perhaps the worst humankind has met. I explained that alcohol shattered families and caused violence, health problems, and even death. To my disheartening dismay, things quickly went pear-shaped, and my friends, they . . . They were untrustworthy, unseemly, insincere drunkards whose affability was nothing more but a mendacity constructed by their alcohol-corrupted minds! I really didn't want to . . . I didn't want to think of this anymore!

Hastily, I distanced myself from the surprisingly emotional look on my recent past, spotting the magical imaging bracelet retract from my left foreleg towards my torso. In spite of my cogitations, the continuing difficulty to adjust back to my form, and the persistent worry for my health, the uplifting effect of witnessing the shimmering brilliance hadn't been snuffed out entirely. I should have been thinking of nice things, like Medical Brace had encouraged me to.

I needed to think of something different to dilute my negative feelings before the scan ended . . . Something I liked . . . Cars! I liked cars. I made a quick slideshow in my mind but soon stopped at one image: a memory of my car on the clear day I had bought it, parked on its spot near my current residence. It was as if the sky above had shared its color with the 55 kW wonder machine. The vision was beautifully picturesque, with a road separating the parking lot from a green meadow, a forest not far away. I lived in a green neighborhood, but then again, the city I lived in was quite green with flora. Anyhow, I had been quite happy with my purchase, and my lips reflected that. It was a memory pleasantly unrelated to my present reality.

Speaking of reality, according to my nervous system, the magic emitting from Peachy's pale orange horn was now traveling up my neck. The scan would travel to my brain, and . . . maybe it would delete my deleterious ailment? That would be more than perfect! Peachy herself seemed to be in a peaceful trance with her head aligned down, as if she had fallen asleep standing.

“Psst.” The paramedic pegasus leaned a smidgen closer. “Listen carefully, hon. I'll let you in on a little secret: Peachy may tickle your nose,” she confided with such muted magnitude that I might not have heard it if I didn't have pony ear drums. The innocent look on her muzzle as she withdrew gave me a bad vibe, bringing my ears down along with a frown.

“Why's that a secr—?” I started, but my ears flipped up in surprise when she shook her head sharply.

“Shh. Just wait,” she whispered, casting a quick glance at the entranced unicorn, as if to affirm she hadn't been alerted. “It'll be good.” Before I could assemble a thought into spoken format, my sinuses began to itch. Badly. Intuitively, I averted my head from the ponies and closed my eyes. I suppose Peachy's magic was in my nostrils now, and it was like I had inhaled hair spray directly from the nozzle. I tried to quell the overwhelming irritation with sheer willpower, but it was simply insufferable.

“AHSPLYAaahhgh!”

I let out an unbridled sneeze. I was decently dizzy after the expulsion of air, and I sniffled reflexively a few times. Something ran down to my lips, and it . . . tasted salty? “Eagh!” I stuck out my tongue in disgust—Huh? What? Only now did it dawn on me that Medical Brace was laughing. Oh, she wasn't only laughing; she had collapsed to the floor, clutching herself tightly.

While I was genuinely unable to comprehend what was so funny, Peachy was observing the pegasus with saucer eyes and an ajar jaw. Shortly, she began to frown. “Oh no,” she lamented quietly, upon which the unicorn's pinnae lost their rigidity. That must be a bad sign!

“Oh no, what?” I worried, but she was apparently too focused on watching the merry mare to hear my faint vocalization. My peace of mind began to erode as fears that I had impressively held at bay started to drench my mind . . . which could now be doomed to cease working due to an eternally untreatable injury that would permanently kill me to death! Oh nononononono! The medical mares wouldn't let that happen to me! Okay, okay, had to calmly quick—quickly calm myself . . . Becoming calmer . . . Calming down . . . There! Regular respiration rate restored and panicked grimace prevented! That wasn't so difficult. I suppose the relaxant I had ingested was thankfully still doing its stuff.
But for how long . . . ?

Anyhow, now that I was somewhat collected again, I noted that the nearly uncontrollably laughing pony began to address the flatly staring unicorn: “Dear, hahahahaha! Dear, Pea-Peashihihihi! Peacherine em-em—” She produced a long chortle, collecting herself (somewhat) to blurt out: “Peacherine Emily Hale!” As she laughed herself supine, my eyes darted over to the named pony for a blink of an eye. Ponies had human-like middle names? I . . . didn't? Why did I think of that? This scene had me so deeply and utterly confused that I couldn't even think straight. The aquamarine mare certainly had fun, but her colleague's countenance had begun to take on the markings of disdain. “You, you, hahahaha! Have-hav-hahahaha-ha-have, have, have lost,” Medical Brace stammered merrily. “Lost the bet!” she managed before she again succumbed to her overwhelming hilarity.

Some of her exultation transmitted to me but only brought me an awkward smile. “What bet?” I asked uncertainly, glancing at the apparent loser. She seemed to be absorbed in glaring sternly at the exhilarated mare, and I had spoken too quietly; I was promptly ignored. Again. Perhaps it was simply best to wait for the situation to normalize, then hear if they'd explain this 'bet' without my direct involvement. I wasn't in imminent danger. I hoped. Peachy would've restored order by now if I was. Still, I didn't understand any of this.

The paramedic seemed to gather herself, rolling over prone to aim her bluish-green hoof at me with a drained smile on her. “Best sneeze I've ever heard from a mare.” Huh? Did she . . . just congratulate me for sneezing? And called me a mare? I almost frowned in disgruntlement. I didn't enjoy being called a mare, let alone actually being one, but necessity dictated that I keep my protests unspoken.

Medical Brace pushed herself onto her haunches, wiping her tears of mirth into her right pastern. “That was, by the way, much more than I had expected,” she said to me, then let out a long and content exhale. “Mares I know produce only a suppressed 'atchi'.” She accented that onomatopeia by pressing her forehoof to her snout, and I suppressed a groan. “But not you,” she giggled. So, my sneeze wasn't typically feminine, then? Woohoo . . . I was beginning to consider imitating Peachy's indignant expression. Medical Brace finally noted said look on the unicorn, and it diminished her merriment. “I'm sorry. I guess I surprised myself,” she said with a tone too merry for the situation; Peachy's lips seemed to contort with a stifled snarl. The pegasus looked at me. “Anyway, thanks to your most opportune sneeze, I've now won myself two free spa coupons.” She brought her forehooves together before her muzzle for a moment. “And you'll get a raincoat. Isn't that just great?”

I was nonplussed once again. She had won two spa coupons . . . and I had won a raincoat? By sneezing? This was completely ridiculous! First, a nurse who spoke to me like I was a plush toy, and now Medical Brace acting like she had been disconnected from reality! Was I in a hospital with perfectly sane and competent staff, or a crazyhouse with crazies who organize crazy competitions with their non-crazy and unsuspecting patients?!

“Well,” with that icy word directed at the pegasus, Peachy sat down. “I admit that I've been bested, but you're definitely not being very considerate or modest about it.” Medical Brace opened her mouth to speak, but Peachy swiftly shut her up. “I'm not done yet!” she snapped. “I know perfectly well why you were cackling like a madmare, and those excuses I heard were unbelievably pitiful.” The momentarily shocked pegasus put on an unfazed look, but I could see some kind of emotion lingering in her eyes. “For months, you have waited to somehow win a bet that had impossible odds. I didn't expect you to win it either, but now that you have, you should've at least maintained your professionalism. It's not like you would've lost the spa coupons had you remained tactful.” Medical Brace simply gazed away, a trace of annoyance on her lips. “You could lose more than that now.” The unicorn squinted, and I was quite sure I saw a malpractice report being written in her mind.

The pegasus was quiet, hints of morosity pricking her lips. “Althea, dear,” Peachy said with a tense, sarcastic tone. Wait. Althea? “You have a competitive spirit that has a very unfortunate tendency to get the better of you. We both know that, and you've said that you find great thrill in gambling. That's all fine as long as you're civil and respectful, and you ensure nopony is harmed. I'm afraid I can't say that is true this time, and I'm honestly not joking when I question if you've completely abandoned your so-called acclaimed empathy just so you could gloat over a trifling last-minute victory.”

Alth . . . Medi . . . The darn winged pony thingie whatever closed her eyes and aimed her muzzle up, then placed a hoof on her sternum. “I prefer you call me Embee, thank you very much,” she countered the biting criticism with an air of dismissive righteousness. “And I do care about others,” she said as she relaxed from her pose. “I always do, and don't you ever again give that a second thought,” she seemingly warned, face nonchalant. I guess she had taken offense. Then, she sighed, and sincerity emerged on her countenance. “Peachy, please. We're great friends, and you know that every patient I'm with is my friend, too. I would never wish to harm my friends.” If it hadn't been for her beseeching tone, I would've sworn she was being duplicitous. I would've also sworn that ensuring I'm not milliseconds away from death is more important than their completely useless friendship junk. Peachy seemed to lose a tiny fraction of her strict look in favor of mistrusting incredulity, and I truly hoped that Embee's claim was more than a desperate attempt to save her own skin. “So, hon.” She looked toward me with a careful smile. “No harm done? I just had a little laugh, and we can simply forget that it ever was a matter worth raising a squabble over.” Faint signs of genuine fear migrated from her tone into her amethyst eyes.
Darn my heart, because it felt sorry for her.

Peachy aimed an expectant look of concern my way. “I apologize for my colleague's indiscreet outburst. Are you alright? Medical Brace didn't hurt your feelings, did she?”

While Embee's 'little' laugh had greatly confused me, and I understood now why it had infuriated Peachy, I definitely didn't want to give the impression that I had been severely affected . . . and consequently place Embee in a stickier situation than she might already be in. My cover couldn't afford the spotlight if repercussions were to befall her because of my involvement.

Embee's confidence was evaporating, most likely at the realization of her own conduct. I was moderately annoyed at her, even feeling a little betrayed; however, I was in a vital position to defuse the situation. I needed to maintain my façade at all costs, but that look of fear in her eyes . . . Perhaps I should count myself lucky that protecting myself and helping her were not mutually exclusive.

I creased my lips into a smile. “No worries, Peachy,” I said casually, and the brows of both mares ascended in mixed inquiry and surprise. “You heard what your dear friend said before, right? I'm her patient, which means I'm her friend, and friends don't harm each other.” Cursorily, I noted that what I had said with my emasculated larynx threatened to make me feel wistful for my frie— for my original voice, that is.

Embee seemed to be at a loss for words. “Thank you, hon,” she finally said appreciatively. I was silent behind my amiable mask, chaining an urge to tell the mares to stop idling and get on with it. Embee nonetheless soon cast a relieved look to her left with a sigh. “Well, there you have it, Peachy.” She playfully poked the unicorn in the ribs, who in turn glared back as her pale orange hoof massaged the point of impact briefly. “It was all fun and games in her opinion, too!” Peachy dropped her leg with a telling sound. When it became apparent Peachy hadn't cancelled her annoyed frown, Embee's friendly smile lessened before she spoke a single word: “Relax.”

Peachy's eyes rolled down. “Hmph. Fun and games . . .” she echoed plainly. A smirk soon dawned on her, which she displayed to Embee. “Just like your bet with Ampoule, huh?”

Embee's face twisted into a discontent impression with a frustrated sigh. “I can't believe I agreed to that. Now, I have to talk to him in that "magnifique" language for at least three more weeks, and he finds it so irritatingly funny when I say something wrong. I mean, I can understand that his lover persuaded him to learn it, but how could I let him coax me into learning it . . . too?” She quit her rant when she took notice of Peachy's complacent look.

I thought the bright yellow stallion was from a foreign land, but it seemed I was mistaken; Embee's competitiveness could indeed get the better of her, but that was principally irrelevant. I hadn't exonerated her just so the two mares could continue to ignore me. “So, um, hello?” I suggested with minor impatience while glancing obliquely, seeing only two-colored hair in that direction. I expected the medical practicants to actually practice medicine, and I was tempted to roll out more sarcasm; out of courtesy, I didn't.

“Oh!” Producing a contrite smile, the feathery-maned unicorn shifted her attention to me. “I'm very sorry. It looks like I got a little caught up flapping my gums with my colleague here.” The disapproving glance she followed up on the pegasus didn't go unnoticed by either of us. “She's very sorry, too,” she added quickly. Embee looked taken aback at Peachy speaking in her stead, but nothing on her expression spoke of offense. In my eyes, what Peachy did was rude. “Please, allow me to present you some help first.”

The unicorn doc looked behind herself, and a small tissue was swiftly hovered to me from a box placed on her desk. With the white object practically at the midpoint between her and me, Peachy's warm expression turned expectant, then puzzled before becoming very quizzical when uncomfortably long seconds passed without any action from me.

Clueless on what I'd have to do, I swallowed nervously. “What is it, hon?” Embee wondered, frowning. It was obvious I was doing a faux pas that any real pony would know how to avert.

Peachy stalled for a few more agonizing seconds, then put a smile on herself with a sympathetic sigh. “A thousand apologies. I understand now. I'll do it for you, if you don't mind.”

“I don't mind,” I complied almost reflexively. Then, the white tissue took an approach path to my visible snout, and that's when I took notice of the substance there. That was a gross and humiliating discovery, and now I knew what Peachy was trying to have me realize: I was supposed to grab the piece of absorbent paper with my . . . hoof? Too late for that, and probably physically impossible, too.

Thinking quickly, I leaned in a smidgen to meet the levitating tissue, and I did my best to blow my nostrils clear. It was an odd thing to do on the account of a muzzle being quite unequal in shape and position compared to a human nose. The hygienic product, which was surprisingly resistant to my light push, soon rubbed the unpleasant materials off thanks to Peachy's telekinetic initiative. However, I felt terribly inept and humiliated as the tainted tissue was withdrawn.

“Uhm . . . I'm sorry, I, um, didn't quite . . . quite . . .” I trailed off, drawing blanks on how to explain myself. So, I simply looked dolefully at her pale orange hooves, then at my own pair with a defeated sigh. It was still weird to look at them, let alone understand that they were mine. One little tug of the appendage was a more-than-decent confirmation of their inseparable relation to me. ‘I'm sorry, Peachy, but I couldn't grab the tissue because I don't have hands,’ I thought forlornly. Maybe I should've said that?
As a joke . . .

Peachy dumped the tissue into a waste bin by her desk with a faint sound that my perceptive ears nevertheless detected. She rolled out comforting words: “Oh, please don't feel bad. I didn't immediately remember that some unicorns lose their ability to use magic after my scan spell. Luckily, it's just a passing inconvenience.”

‘Yeah, why should I feel bad? I should be leaping in merriment because clumsy pony hooves are obviously superior to dexterous human fingers,’ I replied bitterly, with my own familiar voice . . . now unfairly restricted to my own mind. So many things I couldn't do because I was presently a pony. Correction: unicorn pony; I had forgotten a darn spiral was in my head as compensation for the unsolicited violation of my morphological freedom. But hey, I had magic now. Yippie-kay-yay . . . Most body language requiring a human form was denied to me. Like shrugging . . . and many more natural gestures and actions that I didn't want to think about. In fact, focusing on the deprivation of my familiar body only made me feel bitter and blue.

“Hey, thanks for the help,” I nevertheless said listlessly with a modicum of appreciation. “I guess I was . . . and am a little out of it. I've been, um . . . in the rough today.” No, that was wrong; I was sounding too serious, and now the mares probably wanted to know more than I was willing to tell. I had to say something uplifting, and fast. “Heh, well, only literally in the rough, I think, since I've gotten myself quite muddied up,” I improvised with a sheepish look that hopefully concealed my true emotions; my upright ears seemed to be respectfully docile. “See?” I offered my left foreleg for the mares. “That's mud, all right.” It was like pointing a finger, except with a bigger nail weighing it down.

Both mares seemed to be fairly puzzled. “Quite so,” Peachy murmured, her snout wrinkling as she took a tentative inhale of my begrimed and apparently smelly leg. Carefully, I rested it back to its place, feeling the tiniest shudder when I was once again reminded of my lost fingers.

“Yeah, so, anyway . . .” My smile withered when two sets of curious eyes concentrated back on me. I stalled for a moment as I constructed a half-truth. “Being brought here has made me, uh, so confused, and um, and stressed, that I . . . I can't really think properly.” I paused briefly to hastily think of more ideas. “I mean . . . this brain injury I was told of . . .” I purposefully began to insert fright into my tone. “That is . . . I hadn't thought about that I could . . . but I-I . . now that I do, it's not making me feel okay . . . I'm . . . I'm s-scared, a-and I—” Suddenly, my soprano voice pitched into an unintended squeak before cutting out, and an unwelcome fluid blurred my vision. With emotional anguish pinching my very being into a flinch, I closed my eyes to fight back the tears and turned my head away from the mares. ‘I hope that was enough to dismiss their difficult questions . . . I can't tell them the real reason I'm in pain,’ I thought as I began to normalize my hiccuping respiration. Then, I realized that my feigned fright had actually originated from the very real distress I contained. I had become genuinely afraid, but not of my brain injury; that could be treated with conventional and proven means.

“Oh, it's . . . It's alright, hon,” Embee said, her typically smooth voice tuned to a somber note. With a thin line of water persisting on my lower eyelids, I dared to cast her a gaze. The sight made her frown in pity. “I understand why you're scared, and . . .” She pitched her head, shuffling a restless forehoof. “I'm really sorry if I made you feel terrible when I . . . I . . .” Her voice faded to nothing. Had I made that powerful of an effect on her? In a notable sign of compassion, Peachy cast a look of concern at her friend.

“Yeah,” I said dejectedly, and Embee's ears drooped. A sarcastic comment deriding her laughing fit—unethical, unacceptable, unprofessional—desired to follow, but I wisely dispersed it from my mind. I didn't want to be distressed and terrified to tears, but was it better to hide those feelings behind anger and detest projected at Embee, maybe even berate Peachy, too? No, that was unjust and wrong, and it wouldn't solve anything. In fact, I shouldn't express my anxiety at all; it could unleash my full anguish. Instead, I shrouded it with a feigned smile. “Let bygones be bygones,” I offered, expecting to help set this assumably routine medical examination back on its proper course . . . and drag Embee up from the gutter she had sunk into.

Her ears perked. “Yeah, I guess you're right,” she mumbled with the tiniest smile. She soon looked to her left. “So, Peachy? What can you do to help her feel better?”

Peachy sighed deeply. “It's best I tell her the news.”

Finally! The moment I had been waiting for! Or dreading for . . . “Come on. Spill it out, then,” I said with careful anticipation, my tone cracking in spite of my best efforts. All my fear and grief was resisting efforts to repress it; however, disastrous panic would be indubitable if I couldn't.

“All right, let me review first,” the doc pony said, closing her eyes and dropping her head to rest on her upended hoof. A suspenseful moment began, during which I began to reflect on how surreal all this was in order to strengthen my fortitude: I was in a hospital in the company of two creatures that normally shouldn't exist. One of them had helped bring me here by literally winging it, and the other had recently scanned my insides with her innate magic. To top all that, I had become a being that by all accounts should be completely fictional . . . but I didn't want to think of that! Geez! Why couldn't I give myself some peace? I had to distract myself with . . . Cars! Any of them! Renault 19! Random facts . . . Stylish and modern. Designed by Giugiaro. Took 16 hours to manufacture one car.

“Hmm.” Peachy's brows bushed, and my attention immediately jumped to her. Was that a good hum? My weak smile wanted to invert in worry, but I had to be confident and patient . . . because I was a patient. A patient patient! That was kinda funny. Okay, smile integrity improved by 75%. Not that I had any expertise in scientifically measuring smile integrity.

Peachy disengaged from her magically collected data inspection and gingerly rested her hoof on the floor. The expression on her face spoke of goodness coming my way, without actually speaking a single word, because faces don't speak, but the mouth does, and that's part of the face, so the face does speak. So to speak. “May I say,” the speaking face spoke, joining her forehooves, “I have some splendid news for you, dear miss.” Oh . . . That title was uncalled for; however, it was like a small slap that thankfully pushed my mental turbulence beneath a formidable layer of minor disgruntlement.

Embee giggled amusedly. “That's so like Aidin when he wants to sound high-class.” Peachy replied to the comment with a sly smile, rolling her auburn eyes. I wasn't exactly amused myself, though I think the unicorn said something positive before calling me a . . . "dear miss". My masculinity would certainly be forever grateful. Nevertheless, I couldn't let myself frown in displeasure. Tolerance was the key here, and I shouldn't take female pronouns as insults.

“Unlike Aidin,” Peachy said smugly, “I actually lived in Canterlot for longer than two weeks.” Upon hearing that, whatever thought that was about to congregate vanished, and I had to really, really, REALLY vanquish a fanboyish sputtering storm of astonishment with a wrecking ball made of neutronium. If the ponies had even glanced at me, they would've seen my face blank in unprecedented incomprehension because, well . . . well, well, Canterlot existed? Somewhere here? In another realm that was connected to this one? Was this even Earth? Was I in Equestria? What the . . . what, what what whatwhatwhatwhatWHAT!? Oh my GOSH! I had I had, I had to, to calm to calm calm downdown right and left NOW! Whoa . . . At least my smile was a lot more authentic now. Embee rolled her eyes. Did she? I think she did. She blew air past her lips in a dismissive manner. That's what the mare did. Okay, I was back in the present moment and reality. Yes. Good. Did I miss something? Miss? No, that disagreement didn't warp my face. Just a silly word! Anyhow, Canterlot! Where? How?

“This is absurd,” Peachy said with a disbelieving giggle, and I had to stop my smile from becoming an involuntary grin. “We're getting awfully distracted, again.” I couldn't let them know how awestruck I had been or that I now wanted to know how to get to Canterlot and then go there as soon as I had been cured and my dangly-do was back! “I'm sorry about that,” Peachy said to me with a sheepish grin, an expression she replaced with a calm but gentle look soon after. “The splendid news that you've waited so anxiously for is this: you're perfectly healthy.” Wait, what did I hear?

“Huh?” flew out from my mouth after a moment of dumbfounded staring. “R-really? Can you run that me by again?” I had to do a double take on myself. “I mean, I mean, uh, did you say that I'm fine?”

Peachy chuckled warmly. “That's right.” She nodded. “You're healthy.” I still had trouble believing my ears. “A few insignificant contusions and scrapes are the worst you've suffered, and luckily, there's no brain injury of any kind.” The two mares exchanged relieved smiles. “I think this means we can all let out a collective sigh of relief.”

Peachy then sighed, which seemingly bemused Embee into staring blankly at her friend for a short moment before glancing away with a smirk. Although Peachy's gesture seemed to be of token quality and a touch awkward, I was too happy to be bothered by such tiny issues.

“I admit, hon, even I was a bit worried that you really were suffering from a brain injury,” Embee said with her sweet voice.

My face was affixed in a rictus of delight. “I . . . I . . . I'm speechless,” I managed, feeling like my head wanted to float to the ceiling.

“Hey, I promised you a share of carrots if you were okay,” Embee reminded, and I basked in the warmth of the pleasing promise and her friendly gaze. She tilted her head, eyes rolling to the angled side. “But, to be honest . . .” She set her sights on me, empathy written on her muzzle and ears turning flaccid. “I would've shared them anyways, because I would've felt awful if I didn't.”

“Thatch, that's, touch, um . . . Thank so you very much, uh . . . Thank you so very much!” I stammered in exuberance-induced dysphasia. Both mares stifled their laughter, and I felt an urge to embrace them in joyful gratitude, which my rational side dissuaded me from. “Sorry. I'm just so happy that I can't even speak right,” I said, embarrassment tinting my voice, its perennial femininity unable to punch through my delightful daze.

Peachy looked at me, comprehension shining in her eyes. “I think I can relate to that.” She seemed to hesitate, a hoof placed to her curved lips. “Now, sticking to my end of the deal with Embee, you'll receive my . . .” Her tiny cough transitioned into a small laugh. “A raincoat, I mean. If you want it, that is.” Embee surreptitiously rolled her eyes. “Anyhow . . .” Fighting an urge to sit upright and clap my forehooves together at the idea of soon receiving a garment to hide my nudity, I observed in beatitude as Peachy returned to her desk and telekinetically procured a pen and paper from a drawer. “After Embee and I sign this document, you're free to leave.”

“What? It's that simple?” I queried, a big part of me unbelieving that I wouldn't need to spill out a plethora of personal information, fill a dozen-page form on past medical conditions, be hauled in to take a blood test, and pedantically explain how a Talbot Horizon differentiates from a Dodge Omni. “Uh, you mean, no obligations?” The friendly doc mare shook her head. “I can go home, just like that?” A nod. “You and Embee scribble your signatures on that paper, and that's it?” This was simply too good to be true, but I'd be a total blockhead if I started to vocally question the lack of red tape.

“Sure enough,” Peachy affirmed as she telekinetically signed the document, after which Embee walked over to do her part. “You see, we aren't mandated to monitor your health when you're principally unharmed and don't need any acute aid. This document—” She tapped her hoof on it twice, startling Embee into dropping the pen and giving the unicorn a brief glower. Peachy didn't seem to notice. “—is a record that states a doctor and another practitioner treated a patient back to health, granting us the legal permission to discharge the patient, meaning you, from the hospital. Anyhow, I'm sure you wish to receive Embee's carrots, my, uh, your raincoat, and . . .” An evaluating look affixed onto her visage. “Perhaps clean yourself up before you go, too.”

I ran the most important data through my head and realized that . . . this was exceptional! I wouldn't stay here for days! I wouldn't have to! I wouldn't need to! So many things had gone wrong, I had suffered so tremendously, but finally . . . YES! I simply beamed in delightful bliss, watching as Embee deftly took the pen back into her mouth to sign the document. I could never do that. Because . . . I've never had to? At any rate, I envisioned myself leaving within the next thirty to sixty minutes, wearing my new and modest raincoat, and giving the hospital a not-so-modest raspberry once I was outside. No disrespect to the staff, of course. However, I was inclined to savor a few carrots before leaving, to avoid passing out from fatigue. Judging by my stomach's silence, it had already done that; a few orange roots would certainly wake it up.

A light tap indicated Embee had dropped the pen onto the desk. “So, I guess we're done here?” she presumed with a casual smile.

“Unless something suddenly comes up, then yes,” Peachy replied with a matching expression. “I need to pen down a few more details, but you two can go when you please.” Then, they both looked at me. “Now, this may sound like an odd question, but are you able to walk?”

My smile vanished instantly. “Oh, uh . . .” I realized I had been sitting immobile for so long that I had become complacent with my posture, and the concept of standing up and walking sent a fierce wave of dread through me; however, the two ponies were unwittingly pressuring me to behave like a normal pony, and it was imperative that I did behave like a normal pony. My survival depended on it. “Of course I can walk,” I assured lamely, but I quickly shaped my face with a mask of incredulity. “I mean, what kind of a silly question is that?” I produced a small, somewhat forced laugh, which nonetheless sounded so strange coming from my female's voice box. Everything did. Regardless, to prove myself, I sat up with much impetuousness, but the pressure I placed on my strange fingernails and heels made me feel nauseous, and I slouched almost immediately.

“Please don't rush yourself, hon,” Embee cautioned as she strode towards me. “While it's true that you're healthy, the scan may've debilit—”

“Nonsense!” Her concern was enough of a motive to straighten myself up. “I can and will do this!” I deflected her worry with a confident reply and expression, although small beads of sweat were tickling the skin underneath my mane. I had to act now, and so, without paying much attention to how absolutely strange it felt to place weight on slightly elastic keratin features, I stood up on my four legs and resolutely made my way towards Embee. Or that's what I tried to do. My humanity stubbornly prevented the four-legged locomotion from initiating properly. Just as I realized things were going awry, a disturbingly feminine yelp came reflexively as I—

“Oh my goodness! Are you all right, hon!?” I heard Embee cry after I had pivoted myself to take a plunge to the floor, disrupting my congenital data recorder upon impact. Blinking the double vision from my eyes, my tactile perception told me that my trailing end was pointing at the ceiling, whereas my forelegs were aimed towards my hindhooves. Also, my jaw hurt a little, but that was hopefully just an ephemeral sensation. While my failure was superficially embarrassing, the serious side was that it might've renewed the concerns for my health.

I quickly raised my head from the floor to do the most reasonable thing in this situation: I laughed. “Hahahahaha!” Ugh. That barely sounded like me, but it was extremely important that I didn't show any detest, awkwardness, or sorrow for being a female pony. “I'm okay, I'm okay! My, uh, legs have only fallen asleep,” I assured with a hasty untruth, grinning sheepishly. Both mares were concerned, and that sight almost turned my grin into an expression of fright. “Um, no need to help me up. I can do it myself.”

“Oh, all right,” Peachy acquiesced warily. It was only now that I noticed she had leapt up onto her desk in an aborted attempt to supposedly rush to my aid.

Embee was by my side, a forelimb stretching out for me to grab. I ignored it as I didn't need that kind of help, and so, carefully but resolutely, I began to manipulate my single-digit appendages. First, I gently folded my forelegs in tandem, then utilized them to set me into an awkward sitting stance. Having my furry behind meet the floor was NOT a pleasant feeling. It reminded me I was naked, and that I had an extra hole . . . which I didn't want to think about! Spurred by the disgusting and shocking epiphany, my hind legs stalwartly placed me on my four hooves. Those then ever so minutely expanded under the exertion of my light weight, and that too was a very disturbing feeling. As if I wasn't already quickly nearing the end of my wits, a rebellious part of me then cramped my entire body in protest, demanding fiercely for ascension onto my hind legs. I knew that was physically impossible, and my conscious suppression of that desire wasn't helping me.

“Are you really sure you're okay, hon?” Embee said in genuine worry, and I noticed that my cramp was surrendering to a full-body shiver. Behind my straining smile, I felt like the signals coming from all the features conflicting with my human condition were ordering me to scream at the top of my lungs in abject horror as a prelude to panicked and uncontrollable thrashing. No! That was not going to happen! I had done so well this far, and I couldn't fail now! I simply couldn't!

With intense perseverance and a fierce hate for my weakness, and possibly with the aid of the remnants of Aidin's medicine, I was able to get a hold of myself with remarkable quickness. The terrifying but short intrapsychic battle began to subside, and I shook my inclining head with due care to prevent my flexible ears from swaying with my motion.

“Yeah, I'm okay. Don't worry about me,” I said languidly as I cursorily surveyed the ponies. With my physical stability guaranteed and the mental equivalent gradually reconstructing itself, I reinforced my small smile as I conjured an excuse. “I'm really sorry about giving you guys the scares.” I sounded enfeebled; I cleared my throat to reform my tone. “I'm still trying to wake up these insubordinate legs, you see. They wanted to give way under me, and . . . that was a rhy-mee?” I chuckled at my words. The effect on the mares was lukewarm, but I think I was doing well on swaying their minds.

Next, I lifted up my right hind leg. “This one's so sound asleep, it's actually snoring.” Both mares stared in confusion and inquiry, although Embee's lips were curled in uncertain mirth. That was auspicious: my humor was effective! “Wakey wakey, sleepy time's over.” I stomped my leg on the floor. I concealed my perturbation at the nerve signals from the digit with a near-compulsive laugh. Giggle? No. It was a laugh!

I felt uneasy balancing on the very ends of my limbs again. When I had still believed I was dreaming, I was completely okay with my quadruped configuration. I only had to restore that fortitude, and then I'd be fine. How hard could that be? Harder than my hooves, which were actually slightly elastic!

“Oh, I see,” Peachy said after a moment, hopping down to stand before the desk. She was unassured. Why was she unassured? Didn't she appreciate my humor? My sober friends—both of them, not counting Embee—had said my sense of humor was strange. “However, if you don't feel quite okay yet, we can see if it's possible to reserve a bed for you to recover in overnight.”

That suggestion brought me back to earth. “Ah, um,” I stammered in minor alarm, but I hastily constructed a casual expression. I hoped it was casual. “Thanks, but no thanks,” I declined politely, lifting my foreleg off the floor in some form of unthought body language. I placed my leg down with care to avoid repeating my previous error before I continued articulately, “While I perfectly understand your concerns and honestly appreciate your kind and hospitable offer, I assure you, I don't require additional services to augment that which I've already been granted.” I had to applaud myself for my eloquence, but conversely, speaking so much with my femininely gentle voice ironically grated my ears. Reticence was tempting me now, but that option was decisively out of the question.

I was getting strange looks, and I suspected that my recent perissological statement had put the mares in extreme suspicion mode. Cornered so severely, I saw no other way out but to swallow my pride, and I continued humbly to Peachy, “And yes, Medical Brace was absolutely right. That magic you used had an enfeebling effect, but I was overconfident and didn't want to admit I might've been affected. I'm really sorry.” I produced a candid expression. “But I hold no animosity towards you. I'm telling you though, I'm quite fine now. Once I've had my meal and the reward for the sneeze, I'll head back home to rest. Really, I don't need to stay.”

“Reward for the sneeze,” Embee echoed to herself with a chuckle. She was on my side now, I hoped, but Peachy had her hoof on her chin, along with a studious impression that daunted my composure. I truly hoped my verbose declination, subsequent humility, and lowly poise had dissuaded her from ordering me to remain here for any longer than I wanted. I had to look normal . . . and a delicately measured application of humor could be advantageous to that purpose!

“Yeah, a reward for the sneeze,” I repeated, nervousness trying to deform my newly-formed moderate smile. A fortunate epiphany invigorated my faculty for humor, and puckishness flowed to my lips. “Maybe Peachy's holding back a sneeze, huh?” I suggested to Embee.

“What?” the pegasus said in blatant disbelief, giving the unicorn a fast glance. “You're joking, right?”

“Not really.” I cast her a brief glance, concealing my fright that this gamble would come crashing on me behind my maintained coolness. “Do you see how she's holding her hoof close to her snout?” I told the pegasus, my eyes aimed towards the unicorn, whose suddenly puzzled but inquiring eyes momentarily crossed when she looked down her muzzle. “That implies she's at the least prepared for the possibility.”

“Hmm?” the pegasus intoned with some type of consideration in her tone.

“Hey, Peachy, listen. I propose a deal,” I started coolly. “If you sneeze now, you'll get a raincoat . . . I mean, my raincoat,” I incited conspiratorially, and to show that I wasn't being mean-spirited, I laughed lightly. It was a laugh, not a giggle. Giggling is what gir—young females do. I wasn't that. Hence, logic dictates that I couldn't giggle.

“Are you willing to accept that challenge, Peachy?” Embee asked. The unicorn cocked a nonplussed eyebrow and slowly lowered her hoof. I think there was a chance I had just appealed to Embee's thrill-seeking side. Not sure I could utilize that in my favor, though.

“Oh, I get it,” Peachy said after a few seconds, eyelids falling to the midpoint. “You're both being total jokesters to me, huh?” With a tired huff, she closed her eyes for a moment. “I'm sorry, but I can't join that game.”

“Well, I wasn't . . .” Embee started defensively but cut herself off. “All right, you got me,” she admitted reluctantly as the unicorn trotted back to sit behind her desk. “But you know, you could've tried to fake a sneeze,” she suggested cautiously. Peachy glanced upwards with a low sound of discontentment.

“Ridiculous games . . .” the unicorn complained under her breath. After a moment of morose staring at the papers on her desk, she cast her softening sights at me. “Anyway, you said you're okay, and I affirmed the same.” She breathed out a small sigh, then glanced down at the signed papers again. “To be honest with you, I worried that you broke your jaw on that fall.” She glanced aside. “Or broke what I had just scanned,” my forward-aimed ears caught her quietly muttering.

I camouflaged my sigh of release with a normal outbound breath. I was very glad that I had cleverly dissuaded the doc pony from infringing my right of self-determination. I also noted that I was quickly acclimatizing to standing on my hooves, even though opposition still smoldered within me. I didn't enjoy being naked either, but being among ponies made that easier to cope with. I still felt that my posture granted my posterior too much exposure. If I could just somehow conceal it . . . Why did my mind invoke images of mares wearing lingerie? That was just wrong. Or right? I didn't know. Would I wear—I wouldn't think of such things!

“Now, if you have any questions, feel free to ask,” Peachy offered affably. “In any case, Embee will remain with you until you depart from the hospital. It's standard policy, you see,” she explained. Abruptly, the pale orange mare looked askance. “Wait, did I forget something . . . ?” she mumbled, putting on a thoughtful pout.

Evicting the persisting visions of panty-clad ponies from my mind first, I pondered on asking if she did magical scans on humans, and the desire to know how to travel to Canterlot was piquing my curiosity like nothing else. I also wanted to learn why she and her friend had set up a betting game involving my unrequested participation, rewarding me with a raincoat and spurred a conflict that neither party dealt with adequate professionalism. However, I was eager to vacate from the hospital, now that I had been granted a clean bill of health and avoided enforced hospitalization. “No, Peachy. I have no questions to ask,” I said, one last imaginary vision of a strategically clothed pony flashing through my mental canvas. Regardless, I then looked at the pegasus. “So, Embee, if I may call you that, can I have my share of carrots now, please?” I requested politely, licking the middle of my lips to emphasize my desire for food.
I must've looked cute doing it, and my feelings about that were mixed.

“Certainly hon, and yes, you can call me Embee if you like.” She took herself to the exit, where she placed her hoof into a cup-shaped protrusion affixed to the door. “We'll get the carrots from the break room,” she said as she depressed the device. A click emanated from the door, and I realized it was a door handle she was operating. For ponies. Quite ingenious.

“Oh, now I remember!” Peachy exclaimed in frustration as Embee backtracked a short distance on three hooves to open the door inwards; we looked over at the unicorn, and I saw her distance from what must've been a facehoof. “I'm really sorry that it took this long, but can you state your name?” My brows wrinkled in incredulity.

“Of course I can.” Not an eyeblink later did I realize the ramifications of my confident and unfortunately obvious reply. Oh, the pitfalls of trying to act normal . . .

I saw my name, and it was bright and prominent in my mind like a neon sign, but there was another name there. That name had been stripped of its rank and color, and I couldn't allow myself to associate with it. Not here, and not to these ponies. I couldn't hope for Peachy to accept my continued silence, and Embee already knew my name, which she would disclose if I didn't. Feverishly, I pushed my consciousness through the rapid thought lane and took the off ramp that maintained the unaffected look I still miraculously bore. “It's Rosy,” I said succinctly. Suddenly, I felt weird.

“That's a nice name,” Peachy complimented with a smile. “Albeit unusually short,” she noted, amiable inquiry on her face and genuinely innocent mirth in her tone.

“Well, uh . . .” Wait, did I just think I should speak out the rest of my name? I better not do that. My complete name, Rosy Stripes, was utterly false; Rosy was innocuous enough. “It's just easier to say that than my full name,” I explained. “Just like I've called you Peachy, and Embee, um, heh, Embee.” A compulsion drew my lips into a smile, but I still felt weird. Why was I feeling weird? It wasn't related to my hooves, my posture, or my worryingly unclothed form. It didn't have anything to do with my acute vision. Oh darn! Now I was sure of it: Peachy knew I hadn't told my full name! Or was it something else . . . No, the name thing had to be it!

“That's quite reasonable,” Peachy said gently.

“Yeah, it is.” I concurred. The glint of anticipation in her eyes was impossible to deny, and I wanted to leave this room. Now. That meant I had to walk on my four hooves. I knew how to, but the prospect daunted me just as much as staying here did. It had been tough enough to stand like a pony. However, I had to keep my cool at all costs, and it was very important that I didn't act on impatience. Disaster would strike if I caved in and bolted under the duress of anxiety.

“But just for the hospital records,” Peachy continued, her congenial tone and expression informing that she was unaware of my predicament, “I think it wouldn't be too much to ask for your full name.” Well, the unavoidable was now before me, despite my desperate attempts to avert it. Dispiriting resignation brimmed within me, but I was able to chain my demeanor to indifference.

“That's completely fair,” I said. ‘Except that it's absolutely not!’ I wanted to protest, but declining to speak my name would relight the recently doused suspicions. “My name's Rosy Stripes,” I divulged with a faint touch of apology that masked my distress, and I still felt so weird. What was it, then? Something regarding my name? I think I was close to realizing it when my stomach finally awoke with a creaking complaint. Distracted, I dropped my head a little, apprehension and confusion hiding beneath a disconcerted visage. “I'm sorry, but can I go now?” I requested.

I saw the unicorn doc write something into the release document, possibly my name, before her face lifted up with an innocent and kind expression. “Yes, of course you can, and I wish you well. It's very nice that everything turned out fine.” Once again, I plastered a casual mask on myself.

“Ditto!” I said, doing my best to sound grateful. “Thank you for everything.” Yes, everything was fine . . . except I was utterly doomed! At least she hadn't asked where I lived, because that would've placed me right in the frying pan; she'd have looked up who really lived in my home, which was me, which wasn't Rosy Stripes. Maybe I could just scarf the carrots, politely decline the raincoat, and let the rain wash me clean?
I had to get out of here.

Since I had been finally given permission to leave, I began to clear my mind to ensure it wouldn't accidentally interfere with my locomotion as I set my muscle memory to autonomously vacate myself from this odious interrogation room.

Walking on all fours felt extremely strange after the lengthy hiatus, but I didn't think about it. I heard and felt my hooves softly contact the floor, but I didn't think about that. My body swayed. I didn't think. Naked posterior. No think!

With a small sigh, I let my mind resume its normal routines. It was only a few steps before I stood in the white-walled hallway with the light pink floor. I felt like I had just been delivered a hope-shattering blow. I had told them my fabricated name, and sooner or later, it would be called into question . . . ? No, it wouldn't be. The pieces were finally congregating, and I couldn't believe that it had taken me this long to put them together!

This was evidently a different world from the one I had lived in yesterday, and I hadn't materialized out of thin air or literally transformed into a pony this morning. In this universe, I had existed as this since . . . I was born. I had been dangerously wrong; my name wouldn't be discredited! It was most likely adorning the mail slot in my home door, written on the bills I had received and paid, and included in the population register. I think I now began to deduce what had felt weird: this body naturally didn't feel at all like it was mine because it simply wasn't, but my name did, even though that really wasn't mine, either. My feminine name, as inherent to me as it wanted to be, conflicted immensely with my masculine selfhood.

The door behind me closed, throwing me out from my analytical introspection. Embee leisurely strolled to my right. “This way, hon,” she instructed gently, but the floor drew my attention as my train of thought whisked me back onboard.

As long as I acted accordingly, I'd be relatively safe from suspicion. Everypony would . . . Every individual would see me as . . . what I truly didn't identify as. I had no qualifications or aspirations to be what I wasn't. This body I was trapped in belonged to a unicorn mare, and I had to pretend to be her more than in name when I didn't even know what kind of a pony she was!

“Something on your mind, hon?” a soft voice asked. I distanced myself from my mentations once again, looking to the right to meet Embee's amethyst eyes. She had come to a stop to face me and was staring at me with curiosity.

“Uhm . . . no, well, kind of,” I stammered dumbly, which, with the addition of a neutral expression, hopefully obscured my anxiety. “Did you say something?” I feigned obliviousness.

“I said we're going this way,” Embee answered, gesturing with a forelimb behind herself. The hallway was vacant, with a series of doors on both sides, turning to the left after a dozen meters. She tilted her head with her lips creasing upwards. “So, you got lost in your thoughts?”

“Uh, yeah.” I plastered an abashed smile on myself. “I did. Sorry. Sometimes, I think of fascinating stuff that then captivates me completely.” Unbeknownst to Embee, she had graced close to a good point: I couldn't concentrate on comprehending my condition when I was centered in a social situation. I half-coughed, half-laughed when my stomach groaned abruptly. “Anyway, I'm starving, and this isn't the best of places for a chit-chat, so . . . lead the way!” I urged with a lively tone, painting a happier look on my involuntarily borrowed body.

“All right, hon,” Embee said kindly. Hastily, I reminded myself that my fear of my name being fictional had been eliminated, and that things would henceforth go comparatively smoothly if I didn't give anypony a good reason to doubt my sanity, equinity, or assumed identity.

Right as Embee began to rotate around, I was suddenly hit by a speech-crippling revelation! ‘Embee, wait! I haven't properly psyched myself to walk! Oh fff . . . ponyfeathers! Vorwärts!’

Have A Break

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First Pony View
A My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fan Fic
By Suomibrony

Chapter 11
Have A Break

Okay, okay, okay . . . okay! Some rationality still in my very nervous self? Good! I knew how to walk, and I was successfully doing it even as my human condition stupidly refused to cooperate! Whatever scrap of equine condition I had, I was using it to its fullest.

Remarkably, I had started walking almost the very moment Embee had, and I wanted to stay diagonally behind her. That way, I'd have fair warning to reform my strained expression into a blithe smile were she to spy a look at me, but not too far behind, lest I see her totally never before seen and now entirely forgotten behind, which would indubitably remind me of my own behind! Well, it really wasn't mine. It actually belonged to a female pony, but that was part of the problem: it belonged to a female! I didn't trust that a less sophisticated side wouldn't awake should I see the potentially alluring and hence forbidden shape surrounding my or Embee's tail. Spurred by that line of thought, the dirtier depths of my imagination spat up a highly unwelcome vision of a mare in boyshorts. As fiercely as I tried not to, I felt wronged for not having even that little modesty. The intimate experience with female nudity was unsettling me further, and I didn't know why it was worse than male nudity, but any extrapolation was prohibited by my cognitive cacophony.

I was afraid, too. Afraid of what might happen if my true identity was revealed. Being regarded as a full-fledged female pony was safer than whatever event that'd ensue if I wasn't. Nonetheless, this choice was disturbing, humiliating, and adversarial to my maltreated, restrained, and violated male humanity. I needed to comprehend this untoward and nearly instinctive intolerance so that I could vanquish it. I was like . . . a Škoda 120 misplaced amongst front-engine, front-wheel-drive cars! I definitely didn't belong in this convention, and I didn't want to be here. I yearned to return to my own gathering of rear-wheel-drive cars, but I couldn't do that because I was stuck inside this!

I was suffering from a contradiction of self-image and body. Transgenderism plus transpecism? I hadn't expected to come to that conclusion, but now, it seemed very appropriate. I wouldn't condemn a transgendered individual for disliking their body, because . . . they had my sincerest sympathies now that I had been forsaken into a relatable predicament. I couldn't eliminate my intolerance as I had planned. I could only hope I'd cope with it soon.

Embee and I had already traveled for about . . . too far and too long. I knew it was finite, but . . . Were distances greater as a pony, or was time standing still, or . . . some third thing that made this stroll feel so perennial?! Silly misgivings! We'd be at our destination shortly. Just had to tolerate the strange bones shifting beneath my skin, the pressure applied to my four cycling hooves and the joints above them, my short stature, and . . . several other things I had once been perfectly fine with.

I cringed when my tail involuntarily twitched, brushing my behind and drawing my thoughts towards the area between my hind legs . . . and the emptiness there. Much to my dismay, my tail swung a few more times before I got it under control. Forcing my head and ears straight, I walked . . . Did stallions and mares walk differently? They should be indifferent . . . Were they? I really hoped I wasn't inadvertently swinging my rear like I've seen some human females do; too disgraceful! Too degrading! No, wait, that was inane—all ponies walk in a neutral manner. End of debate! Breathing okay, walking okay, Embee was oblivious, and I was totally not troubled by my nudity; everything was perfectly okay. Almost perfectly okay. I had to maintain my . . . adequate calmness . . . as soon as I acquired it.

Oh horseapples!

As if fate had read my mind with malicious motives, a red- and black-maned stallion emerged from a room no more than five meters ahead and just before a turn to the left. I was scarcely able to put on a nonchalant face before we passed the dark blue unicorn, and I desperately tried to (somehow) walk in an extremely neutral manner. With my breathing on hold, I earnestly hoped his burgundy eyes weren't ogling me. I didn't dare to look over my back. Getting a confirmatory glimpse of him being a lecherous scoundrel and/or my assumably curvaceous tail section could have disastrous effects on my panicky psyche! He seemed to be drowsy, so . . . maybe he didn't gaze at me? His attention was probably on Embee instead, who, thankfully, was between me and him. She didn't have spots of mud on her, and her long and blonde mane had to be pleasing to the eye, unlike whatever unsightly mess I had on my head and neck. Suffice to say, she must be more attractive in every department. Even in the rear. She'd better be!
No, I didn't want to know!

As we rounded the corner, I let out my breath through clenched teeth. I noticed droplets of perspiration itching my skin, but I couldn't scratch with these hooves! They were dedicated to supporting and ambulating me . . . If I could will myself deaf to the rhythmical clicking, then my stress would reduce decently. On the bright side, I was still walking steadily! How many anxious squeaks had I already suppressed? A few . . . dozen? Darn the insubordinate part of my subconscious that rejected my form and how it locomoted! Couldn't it just quit already?

HR, FL, HL, FR; that was the pattern! I could never pull off that choreography as a human! I didn't need to . . . but now, I had integrated it into my pith so well that it had become nearly automatic, and . . . this disquieting and dehumanizing method was the only way. Every quadrupedal step I took stabbed my core. Why was I subjecting myself to this torment? Why wasn't I stopping? I should stop . . . Just stop and pour out all of my accumulated anguish until I had no tears left . . .

No! I wasn't weak, and I couldn't submit to the tyranny of my pathetic frailties! I could . . . divert my attention to something completely unrelated, like . . . doors! We passed one door. It was white. It had a small inset in its lower part. Then, we passed a second door. It also was white and had an inset. Third door—white . . . Inset . . . Oh! Embee and I stopped at this one. A respite from walking . . . Dispelling my stress with a single furtive sigh, I realized how dangerously close I'd come to falling apart. Counting doors was a good idea, and in hindsight, I should've tried it earlier; it would've saved me from the composure-whittling anxiety. I realized that standing was a lot easier to my frayed mind than walking. I also noted that my neck and back formed a rough ninety-degree angle, my spine descended into a concave between my pelvis and shoulders. Wait, withers, not shoulders. Anyhow, it was as if my skeletal system formed an S-shape of sorts, starting from my head and ending at my hind hooves, yet this brought me no physical discomfort.

“Well, here we are, literally at the other end of the hospital,” Embee announced leisurely, as if she hadn't even seen how enfeebled I was. Probably hadn't, because the fabricated expression she saw was moderately eager, if a bit tired.

‘And figuratively at the other end of the world!’ I desired to add with factitious glee, but I was simply too drained to offer my sarcasm.

“This is the break room.” Embee placed her hoof into the inset of the door, and the telltale click near the door handle ordered me to be firm just a little longer. She gently pushed the door open, and we entered the room, me with lead hooves and a great want to ignore the unease coalescing in my abdomen. Walking on all fours without preparation had done a number on me . . .

I barely registered that the lights were on before we had made our entrance.

“As you can see, this room's suited, though not exclusively, for ponies.” The aquamarine pegasus standing by my side gestured with a nod to our diagonal right; in the center of the room was an appreciably low, wood-framed glass table surrounded by wide and soft-looking cushions, the ensemble resting on top of a carpet patterned with multicolored bands. A section of the right wall had been neatly removed, but from this position, I saw little of what was beyond except for the edge of a window and a radiator beneath it. The wall directly ahead of us consisted of a row of windows, permitting a view of the top floors of an inner-city apartment beneath an orange-tinted sky. Rainwater streaked down panes of glass slightly above my eye level, and I was glad they were; their elevation reduced the risk of seeing my reflection.

“I know this sounds like it was ripped from a trite speech, but . . .” Embee looked askance with a droll smirk as she deliberately cleared her throat. “The equidaetrics department wishes to politely offer a positive, lasting impression to every discharged patient by serving them a complimentary meal.” Equidaetrics department? I should've been more surprised at that; however, the unpleasant taste of stomach acids visited the back of my tongue, greatly reducing my astonishment. Embee had no part in my transient queasiness . . . other than forcing me to walk before I had prepared myself for it.

Regardless, I forgave her blunder and was poised to eat.

“Well, ah, that's very nice.” I would've said more, such as applaud the hospital's generosity, wonder why the amiable practice had been established, and question what was the point of Embee's promise of carrots if I was about to receive food anyway, but my obstinately male side dissuaded me from playing ball with my feminine voice—this time.

“If you meant the service, and not that poorly written stuff our janitor roped me into reciting after I lost a game of poker,” Embee said with half-hearted humor in her tone, “then yes, it's very nice.” After a half-second pause, she hummed contemplatively. “You know hon, it's more than very nice because you'll receive more than a simple meal.” She looked toward the rain-streaked row of windows at the far wall. “The weather's perfect for your new raincoat, you see?” I was reminded of Peachy's thinly veiled dissatisfaction at relinquishing the raincoat, and I promised myself I'd return the attire back to her as soon as I knew how to send myself back to my life. Anyhow, Embee's unconcerned mood was a good sign; she hadn't been tipped off that my guts had yet to untwine completely from the aftermath of the sudden stroll. Despite that, I had no trouble maintaining a smile.

“Yeah, how about that,” I started tentatively, defiant to my desire for silence over hearing my feminine intonation. “I'll be testing my reward for a sneeze in no time at all, and that reward is precisely what I wanted before I even knew I wanted it,” I jested, my mirth impeded by my unbefitting voice and a momentary awareness of my nakedness.

Embee chuckled, bending her neck to show me the right half of her friendly expression. “Then consider this to be your very own little celebratory banquet.”

“Mmm-hm,” I hummed with a lean smirk. ‘Little banquet? That's oxymoronic,’ I remarked with the voice I couldn't currently produce. Spontaneously, I recalled that my parents claimed my voice was charmingly mellow, and as much as my male ego loathed to admit, this set of vocal cords easily translated the quality into a femininely gentle intonation.

“By the way,” Embee mulled, her hoof locating to her chin as she slowly pivoted her head to cast a look around the room. “It's actually been almost a year since the extensive renovation, which I understood was a big undertaking, and there's been talk of a small celebration.”

‘Renovation and celebration; that rhymed,’ I noted cursorily. “A small celebration with party hats, streamers, cake, and so on,” I added in a subtly humorous monotone.

Embee faced me, planting her hoof down. “Ah, no,” she sighed, a little disappointed. “Just a few guys and gals gathering in a restaurant, calling it a celebration. Some might go to a club to party afterwards, I think.” She again brought her hoof to her chin, apparently contemplating something deeply.

Looking at Embee, I realized I was a few centimeters shorter than her, and I felt a pang of melancholic inferiority, questioning the maturity of this body. Being slightly smaller than the roughly meter-tall pegasus—a little over half of my human height—wasn't good for my self-esteem.

Thankfully, I felt my spirits recover as I watched Embee's hoof contact the pale-brown linoleum floor, creating a soft clap. Her head inclined upwards: “I heard this hospital was quite a chore to be in, what with having been built to cater only to humans, and the rampant mold growth that was everywhere.” With a light exhale, she waved her hoof dismissively before looking at me tranquilly. “Anyway, I can't attend the proposed celebration because . . .” She gazed away absently, humming softly as her eyes slid halfway shut and gained a dreamy shimmer. “Me and my special somepony must attend a celebration dedicated to us.” Combined with the warm smile and melody in her tone, I presumed she meant a wedding ceremony. Hoping I wouldn't encourage her to talk treacly about her future spouse and matrimony, I struggled for a moment to parse a proper reply.

“Well, I'm very glad that fortune has brought you two together, and I wish you the best in your shared future,” I congratulated her, but immediately reviewed my words and assumed I had spoken wrongly. I felt my ears slant down as my mouth warped into an awkward smile. My eyes unwilling to stay affixed to her, I began to rectify hurriedly: “Uh, with your special somepony, I mean, not with fortune, but, well, why not with that as well? Like, uhm, fortune, you, and, er, your special somepony being together.” Warmth bursted in me now that I thought I had implied something naughty. Compulsively, I lifted my right forehoof off the floor, leaning a little from her. “Sorry for that, Embee,” I apologized, unable to wipe the embarrassed look off my face. Hers was marked by a small smile of bafflement. “That got, ah, um, a little out of . . .” I glanced in disbelief at my elevated appendage, gently resting it back and correcting my stance. “Hoof, heh.” Why had I lifted it up?

Embee stared incomprehensively, before breaking into unsure laughter. “No need to feel embarrassed and apologize, hon. I appreciate the compliment and . . .” My eyes were drawn from her relaxed visage to her left foreleg, crossed over her right as if to point at me. “Humor, was it?” she finished with an inquiry.

She hadn't heard anything risqué in what I had said? That was good. I wasn't fond of raunchy jokes, and telling one by accident would be a humiliating misfortune. “Yeah, humor . . .” I felt compelled to paw the floor with my forehoof. “I was trying, uhm, it was kind of funny, but in an unintentional way, uh, you see if fortune was an entity and, um—”

“What are you talking about, hon?” Embee interjected laughingly. Seeing puzzled amusement on her, I realized how discombobulated I was, explaining a dirty joke she perhaps hadn't and didn't need to understand.

“Gee, that . . . uh, I don't even know,” I replied, stifling a titter down to an uneasy smile, and taking reluctant control of my auricular muscles to upright my drooped ears. They were fundamental to how I communicated, and I had to be more aware of their position, though manual operation felt stranger than letting them govern themselves. “Anyway, as if it wasn't quite clear already, I want to say that you're a very lucky mare!” I spoke flatteringly, doing my best to regain my composure and repress another protest by my masculinity when expectation and reality didn't meet in my current voice. Why couldn't I fully inure myself to this voice already?

“I know, hon, and thank you!” I saw the dreamy look return before she aimed her face towards the windows again. “Oh, when me and Aidin finally lock our wings and stroll together down the aisle, that, I bet my tail, will be the greatest and happiest moment of our lives! I can imagine the preparations and congratulations and celebrations, and, oh my! I can hardly wait for it!” she squealed enthusiastically. My ears had fallen to half-mast at the implication of receiving a bucketful of her romantic syrup, though I honestly wished Embee all the fortune in the world, and reacting to her gushing with a sickened groan would be extremely rude and dishonorable. Best I simply tune out whatever she said from now and wait for her to continue strolling forward.

Nevertheless, Embee's eager anticipation of her marriage reminded me of my own lack of romantic skills. My "gotta connect" brain component had never developed beyond a basic attraction for the opposite sex. I presumed those factors contributed to my want of an independent and free life. Quite daringly, I thought I could do without friends as well. Or, no, on second thought, I couldn't be that solitary. I needed some kind of companionship. Friends, not a life partner. I just didn't have the innate requirements for the latter. Society in general would look at me strangely for that, but what could I do? I was what I was.

As for a certain quartet whose enjoyability had plummeted ever since they found happiness from a bottle rather than from within themselves . . . ‘Without booze, there ain't no fun.’ I can't believe Benny said that. Or was it David? No, it was Benny. Had he forgotten his dad passing away from alcohol-related liver cirrhosis five years past? Probably hadn't, because I had reminded him two weeks ago. Quite bluntly, too. Whether Benny had been ironic about the exclusivity of alcohol and joy, I didn't ask because . . . I didn't feel the need. I probably should have. What happened to my friends? What happened to me? Had I misjudged them? Was I unreasonably opinionated? Was it all just a big misunderstanding? Why was I so unsure? For over a week, they had tried to contact me with calls and text messages before they apparently gave up. I . . . almost responded to one call. Maybe I should get back in contact . . . No, two friends were better than those four—or none—and I'd meet new ones in flight school. Actually, said two friends were my cousins who had recently moved away—one for work, the other for family.

Once this unprecedented ordeal was over, maybe I should visit the working one, Emma, to detail this ordeal as a wacky dream or something. My parents were clueless, barely grasping the concept of the Internet, so telling them how I had stumbled upon colorful cartoon ponies and that . . . I dreamt I was one? That conversation would be all kinds of awkward. Emma, however, owned a bunch of first-generation MLP figurines. Hence, she probably wouldn't treat my coming out of the stable with derision.

Anyhow, I hadn't seen Emma in a good while, separated as we were by almost two hundred kilometers. It would be great seeing her though, since she was exceptionally nice. Crossing the distance would be a small adventure in itself as I was fond of driving. Maybe I should do that , after twirling some things in my fingers and strolling around on two legs in my home out of pure joy. Then, I'd wrap my hands around the shallow-grooved, two-spoked black steering wheel . . . Yank the hand brake, shift the gear to neutral, twist the key to activate the electrics and set the four pistons rotating, turn the knob by the left side of the gauges to alight the trapezoid-shaped headlights, fasten the seatbelt, cross my right arm over my chest to lock the door, check the mirror positions, test the brakes and accelerator; all set to go! An internalized routine reminiscent of a pre-flight checklist. Quite peculiarly, if I was attentive while the engine was idling and the radio was off, I could hear tiny hissing sounds repeating harmoniously. Was that the fuel being injected into the cylinders, or was it the rotation of the crankshaft? Or the camshaft? I had no idea. I should investigate that complex machi—

“Gyah!”

My heart missed a beat, and for a split-second, I was unable to comprehend what had happened. My wits slipped back to their place soon enough, and I realized I had yelped due to a full-body jolt that had almost tipped me off balance. While I was busy catching my breath after receiving a sensation equivalent to a static discharge, an aquamarine hoof began oscillating up and down before my eyes. Then, my integrated magic projector relayed that two instances of external stimuli had been applied to its terminus, delivering a pair of light kinetic forces that converted at the base into tenuous neural signals, which then radiated into my cranium and prompted me to produce the shamefully feminine vocalization.

“Hello?” the owner of the hoof asked with a careful laugh, stepping in from my left. My forehead was stinging, but that was more out of the strangeness of having a horn there rather than physical pain. Embee leaned closer, peering mirthfully, whereas I gazed back dumbly. “Medical Brace to Rosy Stripes, Medical Brace to Rosy Stripes,” she spoke our names with a jocular flourish. “Can you heeaaar meee?”

Preceded by a small grunt, I furrowed my brows in disbelieving puzzlement. “Uh, yeah yeah, I-I can,” I replied, annoyance in my tone. “But, uh, you, ah, you didn't have to, uhm . . .” I stammered in one breath, minor hurt beneath my tone. Averting my head by a dozen degrees, my eyes remained affixed to hers as I continued hesitantly in a quieter voice, “Touch my horn.” Just vocally relating that thing to myself felt like an affront. Compulsively, I lifted a hoof toward my agitated forehead. ‘And what use would this action serve, huh?’ I asked myself irately when the extremity reached ribcage level. My hoof sank obediently back to its supporting role, and I set a mildly discontent look on Embee with a long sigh, compelling her to lean back with a rueful frown. Darn horn. Until the nerve connections up there calmed down, I'd feel like a piece of rebar was stuck in my head. Wait, had I reacted to my name . . . her name? Rosy Stripes. Right, I had her body and inexplicably adopted her name as well, but now was not the time to get absorbed in my thoughts.
Again.

“I'm sorry I did that, hon, but I waved a hoof in front of your eyes for ten seconds without getting so much as a twitch out of you.” I seriously doubted she had waved her hoof for literally ten seconds. Regardless, her sorry tone didn't cloak the amused look on her face.

Closing my eyes, I exhaled a nerve-relaxing sigh. She was so close to me that I could smell her. Rainwater and . . . horse. “No, it's fine, Embee. I'm not mad at you,” I said peaceably, abandoning my want of vengeance through sarcasm. I was only upset at being blatantly reminded of the disparity between a human and unicorn head. No need to lash out at her for that.

“Alright, hon. I was a little afraid I hurt your feelings,” she intoned with assumably sincere apology. “I wonder, though, what thought captivated you this time?”

“Um, a something,” I responded, blinking my eyes like an innocent and clueless child. At least that gesture wasn't feminized. ‘If my sense of masculinity was any more unreasonably unyielding, it would object to breathing with my mare's lungs,’ I quipped, frankly becoming tired of how that aspect of my identity cared not for the credibility of my important guise. An unrelated complaint came from my mare's stomach, and with a neutral look, I tried to will Embee's ears unreceptive to the specific frequencies. Her wary smile told of my limited success.

“Was that 'something' food?” she cooed with a chuckle.

‘Nope. I was merely so discouraged by the chance of hearing you talk about your love life—which in retrospect could've given me a lot of info on this universe—that I stupidly and inopportunely distanced myself to wander from thought to thought in a thoughtless desire to ignore pretty much all things related to my persistently unfamiliar and tangibly feminine equine configuration,’ I was tempted to ramble dryly, but that would've opened a can of smelly, abhorrent, nauseatingly squiggling worms. Also, I was short on appropriate and safe witticisms at the moment.

“Nah. I only tried to make sense of something at the wrong moment,” I said plainly, wrinkling my lips to a small smile soon after. “I'm sorry about that. It was a little stupid of me.” Something was nagging in my head ever since I thought about my car. Probably related to intricacies of engine sounds, but that was neither here nor there. “But I'm okay, and you're right. I could really use some food right about now,” I finished, trying not to sound like I was telling her to hurry up. I then realized we (and especially I) had stood idly for a few minutes, which was probably my fault, but I didn't feel bad about it.

Embee looked fairly embarrassed. “Yeah, we both got a bit distracted in our own ways, it seems. Weddings and whatnot, hahahah,” she laughed awkwardly, then nodded her head in the direction of the table. “Uh, why don't you take a seat, hon? I'll bring you the promised meal in a few.”

A surge of anticipation sent a pulse to right my already upright ears, causing a nugatory and scarcely bothersome twitch instead. “All right, then! I'll get comfy,” I said happily. ‘Ugh, dumb female voice and its apparent propensity for perkiness,’ I thought unhappily behind my smile as I aimed my eyes (and snout) towards the simplistically stylish table.

With my recent experience through the hospital as an educative warning, I prepared myself mentally with a fairly calm exhale before rousing my legs into action. Coming to a halt by the lime green cushion after a few short and thankfully easy steps, I began to take an interest in the upside-down comic book on the wood-framed glass table. “Excuse me, hon,” Embee started, my left ear rotating automatically to improve detection of the inquiring mare's voice, “but I didn't quite catch what you said.” I lifted my head up in minor disbelief, one ear falling horizontal. If she hadn't heard what I had said . . . well, so much for her pony ears being acute. “Did you say you wanted to get some coffee?”

“Huh?” I twisted my neck to cast an uncomprehending look on her. An exchange of differing expressions commenced before I realized the pegasus had misheard me. Straightening my ear, I puffed a small amount of air through my nostrils, candor creasing my lips. “Sorry, no. I meant that I'll get on a cushion and relax.” Placing my forehoof on the cushion, I tested its pliability in conjunction with a visual inspection; my hoof sank by approximately ten centimeters. This cushion looked and felt more like a pillow. I could've used it as a place to sleep had I a blanket to wrap myself in. Gladdened by the pleasing impression, I turned my attention back to Embee, who still looked a bit confused. “I'll get com-fee, you know?” I explained, tilting my head down by a few centimeters on the fourth syllable.

“Oh! Comfy. Coffee.” Embee giggled in minor embarrassment. “My bad.”

“Heh,” I breathed in gentle mirth. “Don't worry. It's okay.” I then realized that was true: I wasn't unbearably anxious, Embee had no clue of my true identity, and while maintaining this feminine disguise chafed my masculinity, I had to admit that being on this side of the fence wasn't as unsettling as I had feared it to be. I didn't even have to coat my conduct with anything resembling femininity! With an astonishingly good feeling brimming within me, I again set my sights on the comic book, cursorily noting that Embee had closed the door at some point. A sudden reminder was sent from my tongue to my brain. “Uhm, but . . . I can get cof-fee, right?” I asked her.

“Of course, if you want to,” Embee replied amiably, then glanced aside. “It . . . should only take a couple of minutes to brew.” She seemed uncertain about something, but her quick recovery convinced me not to ask why. Anyhow, carrots and coffee? What a strange combination, but the culinary delight and nourishment gained from both could encapsulate my distancing anxiety in hardened titanium. I assumed this body wasn't allergic or otherwise intolerant to the food and drink. I'd come off looking incredibly stupid and irresponsible if I enjoyed my basic meal only to suffer from indigestion minutes later.
Dropping my eyes with a thoughtful frown, I stalled for a few seconds before deciding to go for the gamble. “Alright.” I nodded gingerly. “Wouldn't hurt to have a cup of coffee, I suppose,” I returned gratefully, hopeful that the coffee wasn't pernicious to my health.

“Sure thing, hon. Why don't you make yourself comfy while I get you some coffee?” the amused pegasus suggested with a giggle.

Unwilling to hear my emasculated laugh, I merely smiled back at her before I carefully got onto the cushion. As my comparatively light weight dented the pliable furniture , I questioned my balance; every surface I had stood on today was sturdy, but the cushion's softness was daunting with these digits . . . The nails of my four toes . . . and the odd sensations in them and my joints . . . I began to feel nauseous again. Bitter enzymes were threatening to advance up to my mouth unless I stopped focusing on my limbs. I hastily wondered if Embee would object to my begrimed body staining the cushion. I then presumed that if she did, she would've said something about it by now.

“Hey, are you feeling okay, hon?” Embee queried, a touch of concern in her voice. Again, my soundcatchers directed towards her before my eyes did . Considering how frequently and easily my ears moved, I should get used to the discomfort they imposed on me. Eventually. “I couldn't help but notice that you seem to be a little unsteady on your legs,” she continued. Her observation brought my ears down.
“Uh, sure, I'm okay.” I manufactured a smile with a confidence level of 57%. “Just getting a little tired, that's all,” I improvised, my ears recomposing themselves.

“If you feel like dozing off for a while, then just drop down,” Embee suggested, prompting me to glance down at my forelegs. They were pivoted slightly off-center, as if anticipating the cushion morphing into ice. I didn't have to look to know the same was true for my second pair of legs. “You don't have to nap upright, like in a cheapo motel, when you got a nice cushion under yourself, right, hon?” she said with an inoffensive laugh. Paranoia told me not to ask what she meant, lest I endanger my cover, so I presumed whatever motel she was thinking of was comparable to a stable with unclean box stalls.

“Yeah . . . Good point,” I said, averting my head so I could conceal my light disgust with an artificial yawn, which to my surprise turned authentic almost from the get-go. I began to doubt I'd get home before the want of sleep overwhelmed me. Oh wait, the caffeine could help! “Anyhow, do you have milk and sugar for the coffee?” I queried, hesitant to lower myself yet, since I was unsure I'd retain my balance through the procedure. “I'd be very disappointed if I had to drink it black.” The memory of the one time I had tried that undrinkable swill made my lips curl. Better than the beer Peter challenged me to try, though that had been enough to convince me—“That stuff's just plain nasty,” I thought out loud, taking the chance to briefly study how I sounded. In contrast to the small tremors my original voice produced in my throat, this type flowed with smoothness; the vibrations in my throat were almost indistinguishable. Emitting the light, and admittedly nice, tones from such an intimate point of origin still didn't feel right.

“Don't worry about it, hon,” Embee assured in her slightly lower dulcet voice. “I'm pretty sure we got both here. If not, I can fetch some from the other departments.”

I smiled; no unsavory black coffee for me! “Okay, sounds like all's good, then!” I acknowledged delightfully. She trotted to the adjoining room, and I glanced aside just in time to avoid sighting her glutes. If I were to see hers, I'd know what mine looked like. Possessing them was bad enough; I didn't want that image burned into my mind, too! My impulsive imagination took that caveat as an order to picture my present form wearing a brightly colored one-piece swimsuit. I disregarded concern for my balance, pressing a hoof to my forehead, barely suppressing a groan from becoming audible. I was disgusted a second time when nudity scored (a fraction) less on the desirability scale than the atrocious attire.

Holding the hard sole to my forehead quickly began to feel very weird; I had a lasting and perfectly understandable impression that a finger was supposed to be at the end of my limb. Which finger, that I truly didn't want to know. Also, considering the things I had trampled on since I was thrust into this body, countless contaminations were probably now spreading to my visage. Reflexively, I scrubbed my forehead with my pastern, as if that'd eliminate whatever malaise I believed I had inadvertently infected my face with. Giving my grimy hoof a narrow glower of contempt, I equated the entire appendage to be indubitably feminine regardless of any evidence to affirm the claim besides its association with my body. After a second of incredulous gazing at nothing, I realized I was so annoyed that I wasn't even thinking straight.

With a tense puff, I resentfully dropped the hoof, my gaze affixing to my dirt-stained pair of forelegs as if they were depraved criminals responsible for the loss of my fingers, bipedal stance, and sex. I guess that summed up what I disliked most about being a pony, and my irritation subsided as I realized the cause of my bad mood. With a significantly calmer mind, I let out a soft breath and made one reconciliatory step with my right forehoof before I uprighted my head.

With a half-conscious command sent to the very end of my back, my tail swung once, reminding me of its none-too-pleasing presence. It also reminded me that I possibly had an attractive posterior. I guess my rationality finally imposed itself, because I began to honestly question why I hadn't courageously challenged my ludicrously aversive mindset. Curtailing the depraved feeling had never been difficult, so why would that be different now? However, I had to caution myself by noting that this wasn't my body, and that my male libido could disregard intellect, logic, and restraint—even basic common sense—to perceive the uncomfortably proximate and conjecturably feminine features with . . . ugh . . . deplorably arousing consequences. I had no clue whatsoever what that'd feel like now that I had female parts, and I wasn't at all eager to find out. Although . . . I could strive to be objective and disprove my ridiculous preconception about pony posteriors by keeping in mind that I wasn't some lascivious clopper who found cartoon ponies sexually enticing. This was no cartoon. Neither was this a female human's body, (and were I in possession of one, I wouldn't indignify myself by exploiting it) but a mare's body.

I pictured a common horse, and I saw nothing alluring about it, not even when I pictured its flanks from the aft. How was a cartoon pony any different? In fact, had I ever felt even the tiniest hint of desire for an equine, real or drawn? No, I hadn't. Just the concept alone made me shiver as if I had been massaged with ice. That alone was a signifi—“You don't mind that the coffee's decaf, do you?” My mental cogwork was halted by Embee's voice bouncing from the room over.

“Decaf? What?” I mumbled. Right! No sleep-postponing caffeine . . . “No, it's all fine by me,” I replied, hiding my disappointment with a pococurante tone. “Coffee's coffee.” I tried to shrug, but instead slouched awkwardly. I was perplexed for a few seconds before I gave a frustrated huff. Looking down, I briefly cycled my forelegs like slow pistons, sullenly accepting my physical limitations as I did so. Proceeding to analyze if my flanks shared a discernible likeness with a human female's counterpart and therefore conduct an experiment on whether visual scrutiny would or wouldn't evoke an extremely undesirable reaction in my most disagreeable area . . . No, this wasn't the time or place, especially if the most dreaded and revolting result manifested. So instead, I cast a sweeping but idle look around.

A few potted plants and paintings decorated the space, and a nondescript radio on a basic stand was tucked into a corner next to the second room's entryway. Other than those and the furniture, there wasn't much else. Despite the sparse furnishings, the atmosphere was cozy for a small repurposed hospital room, and I took to absorbing its pleasantness. Embee was busy in the other room, which I presumed to be a kitchen. Judging by the steady and soft sounds of what I surmised to be a knife tapping a cutting board, she was quite deft with hooves. Or teeth. Both, perhaps. Rolling my tongue over my herbivore's teeth, I tried to imagine using them to wield a screwdriver, a hammer, or any other tool or gadget with skill matching that of a human hand. The comparison was pointless. Five fingers were better, obviously.

After a few seconds of listening to the promising sounds of my meal being prepared, I let out a small sigh. The discomfort for my form and its femininity was being slowly suppressed by my recovering resilience—a beneficial development! I'd get through this impermanent predicament if I could refrain from fighting my physical composition. Actually, while I was waiting for my carrots and coffee, I should take a moment to prioritize. Sure, my ultimate mission was to return home and investigate . . . my brand new laptop computer? Something was in there? Unfortunately, the hope-inspiring inkling was too vague to provide details on what my computer contained. I had a fair idea on how I came to learn of this serendipitous tidbit, and it was related to how I knew my . . . her name. Exploring those puzzles had to wait until a later time; attuning to this body was of greater importance.
Now that I was aware that the most coveted solution existed back at home, I had a greater incentive than pure necessity. Still, once bitten, twice shy; thinking ‘It's really fascinating to be a pony,’ didn't seem to work, and I was certain I'd encounter a few bumps before my humanity would withdraw to a recess of my mind, as it had done quite smoothly this morning. However, there was another concern I was struggling with, and to solve that, I had to take a straightforward approach. My subconscious opposed me, but I prevailed quickly, presenting the very daring supposition to myself: being a female couldn't be so terrible.

My body temperature ascended as I became disconcerted by what must've been a combination of defamation, mockery, and betrayal. Maybe I was a little bit too daring, but it was a good move, and I couldn't allow myself to retreat.

Moderately flustered—and aware how uncomfortably insulating a fuzzy coat can be—I began to ponder on the short-term benefits of being the opposite sex. Amatory themes were strictly forbidden. Just the idea of arousal—inadvertent or not—repulsed me. Long-term benefits were banned as well, due to their location being deep inside the panic territory, and I predicted that the diazepam's anxiety-inhibiting effects had expired by now.

Alas, I soon discovered I was shamefully short on ideas. Arbitrarily, I wondered how this situation would go if reversed—a female as a male. I guess I was annoyed or bitter at my standstill, because I sarcastically deduced that a female would downplay the change by enunciating a few unconcerned words with their suavely titillating masculine voice, behaving with unabashed indifference from then on. Then, it dawned on me: my voice! I presumed that if I thought about it with positivity, I might come to good terms with my intonation instead of tolerating it with wavering consistency.

As an experiment, I hummed quietly. Quick analysis: Gentle. Soft. Feminine . . . Trying to sound less feminine would certainly confuse Embee, and regardless of how vainly my masculine side tried to spin it, my present voice was a female's. I recalled imitating Fluttershy a few times over the course of the day and, admittedly, even before I had this voice . . . but only when I was alone and for my own amusement. Anyhow, unless its modulation occurred naturally, I shouldn't do it again. The capability of mimicking the tones of the animal-adoring pegasus was a . . . fair attribute, though I knew no immediate purpose for it.

Perhaps I was only beating around the bush, and solving my vocalization quandary wasn't any more complex than understanding that talking was unavoidable. Indeed, the intonation couldn't be such a big deal, like my preposterously inflexible masculinity insisted. It was just a different vocal pitch! Could I make it any simpler?
I guess not.

I'd be home soon, where I'd return this body to its rightful owner and translocate back to my own. I was certain that'd happen. My intuition was telling me that the how-to was in my computer—well, hers. Anyhow, in the meantime, I shouldn't and didn't need to abide my masculine image. It hadn't done me any favors recently, and I was pretty sure that wouldn't change if I granted it full control. I should attempt to set aside the femininity-fearing trait and replace it with a flexible version once I was in my real body, if not earlier. To consider this temporary flip of my sex as a serious reduction in my worth was a very sordid attitude to hold. I had to regard this as something exciting, like a live-action role-playing game, an undercover mission, or a trial at method acting.

However, I shouldn't overact or strain my femininity. Applejack was a good example of a comfortable and safe medium to aim for. She was undeniably female, but she didn't (often) profess distinct femininity, which was a skill I was uninitiated to. Still, I supposed that I had the privilege and liberty to express normally concealed wants with relative impunity. Furthermore, being on this side of the gender line might be a very educative experience, especially if nopony knew I really wasn't a mare.

So . . . I had to, I could, and . . . I wanted to . . . breathe normally and douse the fire of nervousness, and . . . while based on nothing more than pure speculation and lacking any concrete proof, I surmised that every male (and female) fantasized of this, so I had to count myself lucky that I had this incomparable chance to allow . . . myself to be . . . something else, just for a while. A something . . . opposite of a guy, and that was a . . . female!

What a surprisingly tough cogitation that was, but I was very relieved for achieving a significant breakthrough. From simply trying to accept my voice, to being more permissive about being a female. I had truly surprised myself. I could even enjoy these few exceptional hours before I was back in my real home. Hopefully I would. At the least, I should obey my decision. Once—or if—push comes to shove, then I shouldn't revert into the worthless femininity-rejecting shell like a cowardly wimp.

It was only now that I realized I had completely forgotten to sit down—I was actually shaking a little from nervousness and minor victorious excitement. I wasn't even facing the table! Once again, I had courageously overcome an ingrained disposition that had been cultivated by constant conditioning from society, culture, and . . . so forth; I had no time to delve deeper on that kind of extensive and profound topic. Embee certainly wasn't in a hurry, but I was sure she'd bring my meal in a few moments.
I better not dawdle.

Wanting to sit in the exact center of the cushion, I rotated into position with due care not to misstep and collapse onto the soft underlay. I suspected that time was limited, yet I had to sacrifice a few seconds testing the articulation of my hind legs by alternately lifting them a couple of times. As strange as it was, I felt disconnected from my latter half, as if I still couldn't fully comprehend I was really in the form of a quadruped. Nonetheless, I was confident that I could sit down without spectacularly messing it up, and so, I leaned backwards to drop myself onto my hindquarters.
Bad move.

I sank into the cushion, its fabric instantly snuggling without mercy to inform me what was not between my legs. Granted, something was there, and that sent a vertiginous feeling into an orbit inside my head. In spite of that disturbance, my brain decoded the stream of nerve signals into a perturbingly precise word: mammillae. My tongue lolled out from my mouth with a silent, prolonged retch that threatened to eject my pharynx.

Breathing laboriously, I sat like a sculpture of a pony on the verge of fainting. An elemental thought pinballed in me, disbelieving how I could be so severely afflicted by so little. Literally. Just thin fabric barely pressing the . . . insignificant protuberances. I was astonished—and very much revolted—that they were down there instead of on my thorax. While I had very recently warmed up to femininity, my misplaced human intuition was slow to embrace my rethought stance. Regarding the two features with any kind of enthusiasm was improbable, but I did come up with two mitigating factors: First, I had to be somewhat thankful I didn't have a pair of inconvenient blobs of fat on my ribcage, like most human females do; second, my queasiness evidenced that my desire to pervertly explore this body was minimal, if not totally nonexistent.

Hoping to both normalize my outlook before Embee's return and put my mind on anything else than contemplating my onerous adjusting to the pair of dairy-do's where the dangly-do was supposed to be, I stretched a sluggish foreleg to the comic book that I had ignored for too long. Despite my debilitated and delicate condition, I was able to apply pressure on the book and drag it closer to myself.

Now that it was the sole focus of my eyes, I began to identify details: a black, star-dotted sky above a yellow lunar landscape, three characters in orange suits . . . Two humans and a white dog in space suits? Astonishment and joy alleviating my nausea, I eagerly rotated the illustrious comic book around. Alas, disappointment came to me with a dejected sigh. “Blistering barnacles,” I complained quietly, gazing wistfully at On a marché sur la Lune.

My dad loved this and other comic series, and I had read all of them several times when I was young. Images and summaries of countless books I had read years ago began to bustle in my mind, flooding me with nostalgia. I glanced at my begrimed leg resting on the lamentably unreadable comic, then directed my vision upwards to examine the two colors of my messy mane. If it were blonde, I'd be like a unicorn cousin of a certain poor lonesome cowboy's loyal and smart companion, Jolly—

“Oh! That belongs to Aidin's cousin,” a voice informed kindly, drawing my sights to its speaker with a tiny, ear-stiffing, eyelid-retracting start; Embee was standing in the doorway, unaware of my minor surprise. “Ah, Ampoule, I mean,” she clarified with a hint of abashment. “He's actually Aidin's first cousin twice removed.”

In my receding state of nausea and disappointment—and a touch puzzled by the reveal—I accepted the genealogy with, “That's nice to know.” Paranoia then woke up to assume she had covertly observed me while I was sickened by an anatomical feature, but I didn't let that suspicion affect my tone or outlook. “Um, how long have you been standing there?” I asked unassumingly enough.

“A few seconds,” she replied. As far as I could tell, she was disarmingly sincere. She would've rushed to my aid if I had looked ill, I supposed.

“Okay. I was just curious.” My eyes drifted back to the comic book. “Anyway, this would be a great read, but I don't understand squat about this language,” I said dissatisfiedly.

“I share your loss,” Embee concurred with a hint of chagrin while I stared fixedly at the comic book. A summary of the story flashed through my mind. Poor Wolfe. “Ampoule's adoring that language because of the lady he dates, who also likes those comics. I forgot her name, but she's from . . . hmh, I forgot the country, too,” she said, her voice giving me the impression she was embarrassed, prompting me to look at her to affirm if that was genuine; her tone had been a touch tense. “Started with the letter B, I think.” The reflective expression on her face was genuine enough.

With a contemplative hum, I brought my hoof wall to my chin, perfunctorily noting the fuzziness there while I stared over my snout; I had no means to block that strangely dainty feature from my vision. ‘Right. Gotta try to express some femininity and possibly ponyesque gestures, but only to the extent I'm okay with. Have to act natural, if I can. I'm already beyond my league just by inhabiting this body, though I'm determined to tackle this highly unusual challenge. My leap off the cliff's nothing compared to this. Still, if I conduct myself wisely, then the remainder of my time as a mare might prove both exquisitely entertaining and extremely educational. I do have to wonder, is it masculine to be feminine? Oh, never mind; I'm getting distracted.’

My outward appearance implied I was trying to crack Embee's riddle. It wasn't a hard one. “Belgium?” I offered, overturning my hoof as I cast my sights at the aquamarine pegasus. I recalled that Embee had spoken to Ampoule in another language. I was pretty sure doing that when it was principally unnecessary had been the reason for her disgruntlement. Her being mad at Ampoule for dating a foreigner was . . . Nah, that was simply inconceivable.

With a hum and an oblique look toward the rain-streaked windows, her eyes narrowed briefly. My hoof sunk neatly back to the cushion. “Probably that,” she supposed neutrally, refocusing on me. So, if I was right, then Ampoule's 'lady' was a Belgian pony . . . or a human! Interspecies romance? That'd be . . . fascinating, to say the least. I was afraid to ask if it involved togetherness, but I presumed that if both parties asserted their mutual and voluntary consent, then there wouldn't be a problem. “It's nice that you knew that.” She showed me an appreciative smile. “I can't remember the names of the countless nations of this world. I only need to know the names of the neighboring towns and municipalities,” Embee said with disinterest or . . . something; I was too distracted to diligently decode her tone and expression.

‘This world? Embee isn't native to Earth? Wow! If I correctly interpreted that little detail, then that's so incredible . . . But now's not the time!’ I thought, pulling myself safe from a blizzard of astonishment.

“Anyway,” Embee continued amiably, “I came to tell you that the coffee's brewing.” Her smile withered. “Finally.” She seemed a touch frustrated. Be that as it may, true to her words, I sensed the soothing aroma of coffee in the air. Embarrassingly enough, a particular emptiness within me made its existence known. My ears slumped, and my hoof found its way to my abdomen—as if that could appease my stomach. “Golly, hon, you must be starving,” Embee said, smiling sympathetically. I decided against voicing a retort pertaining to negation, brown waste, and a fictional detective. Unaccustomed to my hard hoof on my hairy hide, I glanced down to visually confirm what I felt. On the account of my snout, I didn't see all of my barrel—and thankfully, none of what had fiercely perturbed me not too long ago.
I was still tangibly aware of them . . .

Recovering with a quick jocular snerk, my ears perked autonomously as I retracted my hoof. “Starving? Hah! You got it all wrong. What you heard was nothing more than a harmless and meaningless side effect caused by minor food deprivation,” I joked jauntily. A tiny part of me disagreed with my chirpy intonation, but I dismissed it, reaffirming that my voice was nice, and I had the right to like nice things.

“Uh, minor . . . food deprivation?” Embee's incredulous expression turned to that of amusement with a snort. “You kidder,” she commented, smirking.

Despite my doubts of her sincerity, I smiled, pleased. “Eh, yeah, I got my moments,” I said, waving a hoof casually. ‘And I'm amazed I actually made it this far with so little sustenance.’ On that note, I recalled the softness of my abdomen when my hoof had been on it, but I didn't divert my focus to research why, save a hasty supposition that females had soft skin.

A short chuckle escaped Embee's throat. “In all honesty, hon, I'm sorry that you had to wait this long,” she apologized through her smile. “Things designed for humans usually don't work too well with hooves and teeth,” she explained, a scowl growing on her. Twisting her head around, she glared at something out of my sight. “Opening a coffee jar sealed with a cap so . . . so—” her complaint ended with frustrated huff and a forehoof stomp. “It's like chewing a brick open,” she groused, whipping her head back. I couldn't help but frown at her plight.

“I can imagine,” I sympathized, picturing Embee fighting furiously to wrench and gnaw open the cap of a decaf coffee jar.

Embee sighed, her line of sight overshooting my eyes by a hair. “I guess you can,” she said joylessly. Though she looked defeated, she didn't seem jealous of me. She could fly, so she couldn't possibly envy my magic. Still, what her eyes hinted at wasn't hard to piece together.

“Yeah, I . . . could've helped,” I said unsurely, a useless command to rub my hands fizzling out before it got past my ulna. Oh, sure I could've helped; I was a unicorn who could use magic just as smoothly as I got off a stretcher. In all seriousness, I'd have to try my magic sooner or later, see if my mind-rending panic hadn't erased the routines. I wasn't even sure how I had learned the skill in the first place. I got agitated and then it simply . . . happened.

Embee drew a breath. “I apologize, hon. I didn't mean anything by what I just said. I could've asked for your help instead of needlessly getting worked up,” she said contritely.

“It's fine, and I'm okay. You did well, I'm sure,” I consoled. I wasn't sure what else to say. If she had asked for help and I'd summoned only sweatdrops, then she would've become suspicious, and then . . . can of worms. Suddenly, I realized time was wasting, but I didn't want to bring that up in a rude fashion. “So, um . . . you said I had to wait for something?” I asked innocently.

“Oh!” Her eyes widened, and she threw a brief glance over her back before fixing her sights back to me. “Sorry, hon!” she laughed awkwardly. “I'll be right back.” As the embarrassed mare headed back to the presumed kitchen, I quickly averted my gaze. My face immediately scrunched in vexation.

‘Great going!’ I began to berate myself, ‘I could've tested the integrity of my 'female pony behind equals female human behind' absurdity, but I had to heed the stupid fear of possibly "feeling" something natural! If glimpsing a horse's duff can make that happen, then seeing a human's equivalent should've afflicted me with chronic cerebral oxygen deprivation through terminal priapism!’ As soon as I had that thought, curiosity chipped in: what would the "feel" be like as a female? It was hard to admit, but were I a sexologist, this would be an extremely fortunate opportunity to research an innate body mechanism. Thankfully, I had no justifiable reason to be that curious.
Besides, I wouldn't deign to mistreat a body that wasn't mine.

Speaking of which, where had the original occupant gone to? Was she now in my body, or was she here, dormant beneath my self? I couldn't know, but what I did know was that since I had her body, I had her brain as well. That was the basic explanation for my pony colloquialisms, memories, and name. I would've loved to analyze the intertwined state of my mind and her brain, but once again, this was the wrong time and place.
Embee was returning.

She was strolling with caution for the wares on the tray held in her teeth. The sight made me wonder about the strain exerted on her jaw, teeth, and neck, accounting for the weight and placement of the two bowls. Judging by her expression, she spared it no thought. Expertly, she placed the brown tray on the table. “As promised: fresh and rinsed Maestro F1's! I hope you enjoy them!” she said happily. What were Maestro F1's? That sounded like the name of a race car.

I appraised the two wares: each contained a fair pile of cut-up carrots and nothing else. Maestro F1's were carrots! How about that? Amazingly, I discerned their sweet fragrance, evoking a vague memory of visiting my grandparents over a decade ago. The carroty aroma also made my mouth water and replaced my declining irritation with an eager smile. I ensured the aforementioned water didn't escape my mouth before I spoke. “Thank you, Embee! These carrots look delicious!” I said with joy and gratitude. I left unsaid that she could've fought with the coffee jar after delivering me the simple meal. I would've said it very politely, though.

“You're welcome, hon,” she replied, sitting on a Tyrian purple cushion to my diagonal left. Smiling pleasantly, she reached over to wrap her forelegs around one bowl and take it for herself. So, she was going to eat with me? Perhaps it was to establish a sense of comforting safety and equality with her patients.

With one hoof supporting me, I gingerly leaned forward, stretching out a forehoof to procure my own serving. A mental flinch behind my smile told how incomplete my readjustment to being a hooved creature was. Unfortunately, as much as I desired to gorge myself on my food, a very persuasive side of my mind strictly forbade me from eating like an uncouth animal. To compound my dilemma, I was still uncertain if conjuring my magic was possible. I had been brought back to square one on such a simple concept as walking, so there was no telling how far back my telekinesis had been set. At best, it'd work like a charm. At worst, the carrots would . . . explode? I truly had no clue, but I chose not to risk it.

I affixed my eyes on my begrimed foreleg wrapped around the bowl. Obviously, hooves were quite unsuitable to deliver the carrots to my mouth. I had only one option, but still . . . Maybe I could stall for time while I waited for hunger to repress my reservations. I had thought about my appearance a while ago . . . “Hey, um, Embee? Can I ask you a question?” I said, resting my impractical limb back on the cushion. How could she look so pleasingly cute and bewilderingly elegant while eating directly from the dish? Could I match her decorum? I hoped so. It was better than believing I'd be a slobbering beast.

She lifted her head, sparing a few seconds to mince and swallow the food in her mouth. “Sure you can, hon,” she replied, tugging her lips into a gentle smile. “What's on your mind?” Now it was my turn to speak. In my gentle voice. Mental hum of cautious admiration.

“You don't seem to mind that I'm so dirty I could be a unicorn earth pony,” I jested, the light mirth in my tone diminishing toward the end. I probably looked embarrassed or diffident, but I felt dishonest to myself; I couldn't vocally affirm that I was a pony without substantial opposition. Surely, I'd soon surmount that roleplay-hampering obstacle.

The true pony gave a friendly laugh, although my slumped ears muffled it by a small margin. “Don't feel bad, hon. You don't mind that my mane and coat are a matted mess, do you?” she rebutted with a self-ironic smile, running a hoof through the fringe of her long mane. I remembered that she had flown through rainy weather not too long ago. She didn't look too shabby, really.

“No,” I replied innocuously, momentarily aware of my mane, draped over my neck and withers. Felt like even it was telling me to act accordingly. I had short hair when I was a guy . . .

Embee chuckled lightly, her gaze softening a bit more. “Believe me, hon.” She smirked kindly. “I've seen perfectly healthy ponies who looked a lot worse than both of us combined.” Her gentle demeanor conveyed no ill intent, and I started to feel confident that this hospital visit would be smooth sailing; I just needed to dauntlessly maintain my temporary image. “Did you want to take a shower first?” She tilted her head, an inquisitive glint in her eyes.

With a drawn out hum, I righted my ears. “It's funny that you ask, because I didn't even think of taking a shower until now,” I responded to her, briefly wondering how the hay I would shower. Or more precisely, dry myself after a shower; a towel couldn't absorb all the water from a soggy coat, could it? “But, no. The shower can wait.” Inclining my head down, my friendly eyes zeroed in on hers. “I'd prefer to eat first, especially now that my meal's right in front of me,” I assured, blindly placing my hoof to the bowl's rim with a soft plink. The feeling—actually, the lack of it—was jarring, but I didn't let that show. I had to act pony, and I should consider this to be fun, darn it!

“Alright, hon.” Embee nodded. “I didn't say you'd have to take a shower now,” she clarified, a trace of humor on her lips.

“I know that,” I responded, almost laughing a little. A particular emptiness within me issued a silent complaint. “First the food, then the shower, right?”

“Mmh, yeah,” she agreed pleasantly. I watched as she dipped her head back to her meal when, to my surprise, she hesitated. She raised her head to direct her amethyst eyes at me again, brows furrowing in worry, and I felt compelled to mimic her expression. Something was up, causing my instincts to declare DEFCON 4. “In all seriousness though, Peachy didn't bring it up, so . . .” For a second, she reached for her chin and dropped her eyes, as if unsure about speaking her mind. “I've been considering asking it myself.” She breathed out a long and quiet sigh. “What happened to you?”

A chill slinked through me. “What do you mean?” I feigned ignorance, though I was equally as worried because I knew exactly what she meant: the evidence was all over my body.

“You said that you got yourself 'muddied up', but . . . how?” I immediately dropped my eyes and ears. I hadn't even considered a contingency plan for this. I had been too distracted and optimistic to think of the inevitable.

“Uh . . . yeah. I did get muddied up,” I affirmed quietly. “But, um, it's . . .” The excuse failed to form into a cohesive thought, let alone spoken words. Again, a want to rub my hands went nowhere. How I was slumped meant my forelegs were explicitly fulfilling their natural purpose. My decreasing mood and confidence lead to my hooves feeling unfamiliar. I didn't want to be here. Not in this room, not in this building, not in this body. I didn't want to be here . . .

“When I met you,” Embee started carefully, “you seemed terribly upset, dismal even. I wanted to help, so I tried to comfort you.” What she had done had felt so unfathomably nice that, even now, it put a very brief smile on my face. “Aidin told me that . . .” She paused her soft recounting, and with a cautious glance, I saw her staring at the table; her expression was gravely pensive. “You were found in the middle of a rural road, and you panicked in that home. To be honest, while I haven't shown it much, I've been concerned all this time, and I'd like to hear what happened to you,” she whispered, her tone oozing with concern and compassion, even traces of apology for telling me what I already knew. Flashes of pertinent memories flitted in my mind, glimpsing at how my most base instincts had luckily brought me to the gravel road, where I had . . . succumbed to despair after my supplications failed to bring me help. The traumatic event was actually so powerful that it subdued my fear of exposure. All the same, I felt terrible.

“Um, I, yeah . . .” I mumbled, but my disquieted mind failed to construct a sentence worth speaking. Hoping to ensure my hoof (and by extension, my body) would feel normal, thereby averting a total collapse of my rationality, I pawed the extremity back and forth on a short stretch of the table's wooden frame, absently observing the ceiling and the rectangular lamp translucently reflecting off the glass. I think it was working, and I stopped after a few seconds, but . . . my thoughts were zipping about without direction. Trying to run away from here was the worst option. A better one was to maintain my guise and composure. I had to do that . . . I wasn't so much afraid as I was disheartened . . . Perhaps I was so frightened that I felt saddened? My growing apprehension emanated from the same anxiety of my entrapment. The anxiety I thought I had become fully resilient to had changed to sorrow. Panicking . . . was behind me. Of course, I still longed deeply for my familiar anatomy, but . . . I had accepted that I was powerless to shed my form by relinquishing control.

“Do you want to talk about it, hon?” Embee appealed tenderly. No, I didn't; talking about it would invoke suspicion. But if I remained completely silent, she might think I was the victim of . . . the most horrifying and heinous kind of assault. That was an impression I definitely didn't want to give her! And I wasn't any good at telling lies. Did that mean I didn't have any alternative but to reveal the truth? My roleplay would end, and . . . what then? The worst would ensue? I'd get the help I wished for? Maybe . . . this had to end?

“It's, uhm, I'm . . .” I drew my dry lips inwards to moisturize them with my tongue. No. I couldn't let on who I really was. The unforeseeable risks of the future compelled me to silence. The desire to keep my true self secret was almost instinctive. I wanted . . . I needed to feel safe. Telling the truth wasn't safe, but hiding behind the identity of this mare . . . at any cost? That was . . . kind of crazy, but much safer! I wasn't thinking rationally, and I couldn't think rationally! I was in a heartrending dither, and I needed time to calm down and think what to do . . .

The silence lasted for several seconds. “It's what, hon?” she asked cautiously, as if anything above a whisper would make me fall apart like a house of cards. Maybe I was a house of cards . . .

I drew in a slow breath, my mouth minutely ajar before I composed myself. “I-is it okay I . . . O-once we've eaten . . . Once we're drinking our coffee?” I spoke intermittently, trying not to sound like my proposal was a plea. How could I get out of this apprehensive mess? How easy it was to . . . feel an ache, and . . . let my eyes water? ‘No, I can't!’ I closed my eyes as I turned my head away, my glum expression gaining the furrowed brows of indignation. ‘Just because I'm in a mare's body and pretending to be her doesn't grant me this kind of liberty!’ I chided myself. I couldn't be honest with Embee when I didn't know what it'd lead to. I knew too little of this world and how ponies had come. I could be just one of many who've been displaced the same way I had, but I didn't know that. I didn't even know what to say. I was afraid. I was afraid of the unknown. Too afraid! No tears, no tears, not that. Had to calm down . . .

“That's perfectly okay, hon,” Embee reassured. “I suppose it's been a tough day for you, and I really don't want to make it any tougher.” Her assent to my wish—and her empathetic but subtly apologetic voice—had a placating effect. “Try to gather your strength first, and then we'll talk if you feel like you can.”

“Yes, I . . .” I paused to clear the obstruction from my throat. “Thank you, Embee,” I said almost inaudibly. I was surprised that it took so little to push me to the brink of tears. How could that be possible? I hadn't even tried to be sad. I didn't want to believe that females were intrinsically more emotional than males. That had to be a pervasively circulated and accepted misconception, but . . . I was in her body. What effects did estrogen have on me? No, I really couldn't and didn't want to think about that now. Instead, I should be relieved and appreciative of the few minutes I had bought to consider my options: forge a believable story, or come clean regardless of my worst predictions.

When I slowly opened my eyes, I confirmed that they were fairly dry. I faced the carrots. They were so vivid . . . and my snout was kind of the same. It was always there, telling me exactly what I was. For a brief moment, I felt something odd, but I couldn't make sense of it. Maybe it was just a small bump my abating emotions struck, or a memory from my brain that failed to manifest, or maybe it simply was the weirdness of having a snout. “Will you be okay?” Embee asked, activating my Pryer reflex to turn my left ear toward her. Wait, Pryer reflex? No, never mind!

I nodded languidly, seeing her frown in my peripheral vision. “Yeah,” I breathed before I drew in another to produce a long, deep sigh. Best I try to find something positive from this. I suppose eating like a pony would . . . perhaps be fun? A different experience, at the least. Besides, I was hungry, and the path of least resistance was downwards. “Just need a moment, you know?” I continued, my voice a touch listless from my emotional perturbation. I looked at her, and sympathy was written on her face as she mouthed an 'okay'. Her gaze lingered on me, as if she believed it was the only thread holding me together. Nonetheless, she returned her attention to her food, although she looked like it was the last thing she wanted to do in the world.

‘I should eat, too,’ I suggested to myself. As unabashedly as possible, I lowered my obscured mouth to the orange treats. I was still jittery from my abrupt emotional spike. I had to behave like a pony. ‘Okay, here goes . . .’
I was now . . . eating from the perspective of a pony.

Considering what I used to be, this was, without question, a bizarre manner to eat, but I was thankful that my restlessness was offset by the juicy, crunchy, and very flavorous food. I could only presume that my pony tongue made normal carrots into mood-recovering, delicious ambrosia.

What was that tiny plink I heard? Did something hit the bowl? Something . . . that was on me? Oh, right! I had forgotten I was carrying my keys with me! I was surprised yet glad I still had them. That was . . . the nagging thought? Home key and . . . car key! I had a . . . Rosy had a car? If so, that was very fascinating; however, a pony owning a car was irrelevant to the present situation. I had to think . . . Wait, I had taken my keys, left my home, and . . . Idea!

Motivated by desperation, my plan was forming quickly. Very quickly! It couldn't fail. . . but, if it did, I'd be in a nearly unsolvable pinch.The only solution would then be reckless honesty and hoping for the best. Well, I was already hoping for the best, but . . . I really needed some nutrition, and these were unbelievably fantastic carrots. Yum yum yum! No, that didn't do it; I was trying to enjoy this moment and my meal to the best of my abilities.

Still, gotta refine my plan. Refine, refine, refine . . . I could make this work . . . Strange. I saw a short memory of peering at my car's engine. Why had I done that? Wait . . . this had been just a few days ago, and I had been . . .

No, I had more pressing matters to contend with than studying her memory fragment.

What Goes Up Must Come Down

View Online

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

Chapter 12
What Goes Up Must Come Down

‘Best carrots I have ever tasted!’ I thought as I ate, a small smile pricking my lips. I felt content champing my food, but what I was prepared to tell Embee limited my joy. Had I been a pathological liar, I would've felt proud of cooking up the fairly plausible tale. Nevertheless, I laid my hopes on her unconditionally accepting my yet unspoken cover story. If she didn't, then . . . it really wasn't worth keeping up my ruse with further lies. Instead, I'd do my best to submit . . . Apologize with sincere remorse, and from thereon, be as honest as Applejack without much regard for my continued safety. But what would the outcome be if Embee still mistrusted me? So much for honesty being my salvation. I was clueless on what would happen afterwards, or what I'd do. Would I just sink into despair? Maybe . . . or maybe not. It really depended on whether the demurely eating pony—or anypony—knew of any prior incidents of transdimensional mind dislocation into a pre-existing body. I couldn't risk asking before I had exhausted my alternatives first. One such alternative was the extensive perusal of the Internet—like a library, but so much more immense, accessible, and extremely . . . advanced? How odd. For a moment, I had begun to marvel about an everyday thing.

At any rate, Embee was a slower eater than I. The last of my meal traveled down my throat, and the empty bowl became the second most prominent white attraction in my vision. The winner was part of my face. I sighed, my nostrils flaring visibly. As I gazed bleakly at my protruding facial feature, my brain suddenly cranked out a positive note: since stallions had a larger, stockier muzzle, perhaps I should consider myself lucky that my vision was less obstructed. A spontaneous itch at the top of my snout compelled me to gingerly rub the spot. The feeling of a huge fingernail meeting facial bone where it shouldn't be was almost too strange to comprehend. The nasal bone being underneath a soft layer of furry hide just added to my confusion. Sighing, I returned my hoof to the cushion. I hadn't thought of it before, but there were two distinct aromas in the air. One was coffee, the other . . . sharp and strong, but with a hint of refined sweetness. Floral. A flower in the second room? Could be.

Anyhow, the white ware before me beamed a message of success: I had just dined like an earth pony or pegasus. Or a magic-inept unicorn, I considered wryly. I surmounted most of my unease once my stomach got its third delivery of sweet and juicy nutrition. In fact, its well-deserved satiation was now countering my woes to some degree. With a few faint smacks, I slowly licked my lips, savoring the remainder of succulent carrot juice on them. I was a bit saddened that there wasn't a little more of the orange delicacy. They were only simple vegetables, yet they were so good that I seriously began to consider including them in my regular diet from here on. Chicken and carrots in rice and moderately spiced sauce? Or maybe I'd eat them as is, like a quick snack?

“Sooo, how did you like them carrots?” Embee's mellow query drew my gaze to her. Carrots, not apples. That was sort of funny, and I would've chuckled if I wasn't on a knife-edge. Furthermore, my less-than-stellar prognosis of the coming storytime over coffee was impeding my food-induced delight, painting me with a pallid expression. Embee sported a tender smile, empty bowl before her.

Despite myself, a mischievous sensation developed. ‘Should I let it happen? It might entertain me during this dire moment, but would it go against the role I'm portraying? How would Embee react? What's not okay for a female to do . . . Oh? Is she worried?’

Embee raised her right hoof and leaned slightly toward me. “Are you feeling alright?” she asked, a modicum of distress on her countenance. I nodded once with an affirmative hum. “Okay”, she sighed through a smile, relaxing her posture. “Speaking for myself, these carrots were great.” She glanced at the empty wares. “How about you? Did you enjoy them?”

That was the green light: I chose to air what I had vacillated about as a predictably poor imitation of Big Macintosh: “Eeeeyurp!”

Embee's eyes dilated as reserved amusement creased my lips. I hadn't expected that the structure of my equine throat would alter the pitch of my belch. As bemused as I was, the sound pulled me out from my mood pit. I chuckled to myself, pausing for a second before a quick and light laugh escaped me: “Hehaha!” Even that sounded—Oh, wait, did I just . . . giggle? My smile remained intact, but my ears curved back and my coat gained an insulation boost, corroborating that my indubitably feminine laugh qualified as a giggle. I had breached my self-imposed femininity parameters, I believed . . . but no! Rejecting this minor female-pertinent attribute, as easy as it would've been, was simply impermissible! For the time being, I had a female voice, so naturally I had a female laugh as well. If it had a tendency to come out as a giggle . . . then so be it!

My inner argument lasted no more than a few seconds, during which I cursorily noted Embee's flat look. “I'm sorry, that was really crude,” I masked my discomfiture with an apology. “But I thought it . . . uh?” I quieted, my auricular muscles directing my ears down. Only now did I start to interpret her expression: incredulity combined with a trace of disdain. “Would be funny . . . to, er . . .” I found my voice again, but only as a mumble before it faded to nothing. Dismayed, I gazed downwards over my snout, wishing I could sink and disappear into the cushion.

“You . . . thought it would be funny to belch?” Embee guessed doubtingly.

I hummed as hesitant confirmation. She didn't sound much disgusted or insulted, so that was a little reassuring . . . but I was ashamed. Disappointed, too. It went without saying that what I had done was indecorous and, considering my earlier demeanor, very unexpected. I further surmised that belching wasn't regarded well among females. I had presumed . . . I had anticipated otherwise? I would've moaned in dejection, had it not died in my throat. I only wanted to have some fun before I started weaving my web of lies . . .

“Hey,” Embee said softly. Save for my autonomous ears trying and failing to align themselves upright, I was unresponsive. Still, I had to be a little thankful that she interrupted my pensiveness. I was at the brink of a worthless intrapsychic pity party anyway. “Rosy?” she tried again. An indiscreet flinch caused my eyeblink to be a tad tenser than normal.

‘Okay, I have to be clear here: that's not my real name. It just seems like it really is,’ I reminded myself, starting to fear that my original name was in danger of erasure if I accepted my name. Her name! More worry crept in. ‘Right! I also have to prepare for an honest path. Make sure that I don't slip up. So, my name's not Rosy Stripes . . . and now I feel like I'm telling myself a blatant lie. Although, my name's not bad, per se. It's just a female's . . . but I have to be adamant here! My actual, human male name is—’

“Rosy?” I almost let out a grunt of frustration at Embee's inquiry. Hastily, I retrieved my original name (and that name felt disturbingly extraneous), then recited it in my mind at lightning speed a few times. With worry-easing success attained, I languidly raised my head toward the aquamarine medical mare. Her face wore a frown of obvious concern, an expression that was much more welcome than presumed irritation.

“Uh, yes, Embee?” I replied with a glimmer of forced joy in my listless tone. ‘So, do you want to hear my not-entirely-fake story now, later, or never? Please say never. I'll be so happy if you do, and I'd be even happier if I could just go home, no questions asked. My life's most important mission awaits there.’

Abruptly, a bunch of memories spilled into my mind, only to vanish a second later. Something remained, though. I saw a vague semblance of a parking lot. Thinking harder, I recognized it as the one near my home. An older guy, almost twice as tall as me, was standing by a familiar light blue sedan. A keyring with two keys hanging from his index finger above my head. They were for the car, and he was offering them to me. His name was Oscar, and . . . I wrapped the keys in my magic, since I was now the new owner of said vehicle. This all felt normal, as though I had been there, because . . . I had actually experienced all that? The old, spry guy, he was . . . a proprietor of a used car dealership, Oscar's Cars. Wasn't he? I had a plethora of human memories that stated he owned something else. Now I . . . had two recollections on how I had acquired the car. Most perturbingly, my . . . No, Rosy's . . . How odd. We shared names. No, wait, what!? The name . . . Just like my name did, my . . . her memory felt more authentic. That was a nasty omen! If her memories took precedence over mine, and I unlocked more of hers, then who and what I was could degrade . . . Be usurped . . . Fade . . . Cease to exist? Oh no! Nonononono! That'd be bad! Really, really bad!

“Hey? Hello?” Embee drew me out from my confounding consternation—confusion in her voice—and her face was the picture of worry. I proceeded to do my best not to hyperventilate, or look like I had seen a ghost. “Are you feeling alright, hon? You seemed to zone out as soon as you replied.”

Oh ponyfeathers! I had been so absorbed in my memory mix-up and subsequent fear for my existence that I was jeopardizing my guise. The guise that could be the end of me? Hopefully not. Thankfully, I wasn't trembling, but I was close. “Uhm, yeah . . . I'm-I'm okay,” I said mutedly, inadvertently sounding somber; given what I had just experienced, why wouldn't I?

Embee's frown eased a tad. “I truly hope you are,” she whispered warily. As much as I would've loved to lighten our respective moods with a chit-chat, I had a very crucial objective to tackle.

I performed a review of my psyche, which swiftly yielded an anxiety-attenuating result: my most significant defense against identity death was my perpetual discomfort at inhabiting a mare's body. ‘I suppose I'll do fine if I can protect myself from marefication, maybe reluctantly accept the change if it's inevitable but perfectly reversible. However, there's absolutely no conceivable way I'd ever want to be a mare forever!’ My vehemence was highly assuaging. Additionally, the events of today served as a very powerful reminder of what and who I was. And I might've overreacted about identity erosion. My cool was regenerating, allowing me to concentrate on the here and now.

“Don't worry about me, Embee. I'll be just fine, alright?” I said, my weak smile contrasting with my tepid tone. ‘That sounded more defensive than I had intended,’ I thought remorsefully as I placed my hoof on the bowl. “Anyhow, I can't thank you enough for the carrots. They were simply lovely. Unmatched by any other variety I've ever eaten.” My smile withered when my shame reemerged. “But how I expressed my gratitude . . .” I couldn't keep my eyes on Embee's appreciative expression. The illegible comic felt easier to look at. “I offended you with my improper . . . I'm sorry . . .” my glum tone dwindled to an indecipherable mumble. I was also afraid that I had clued her in that everything wasn't right with me. She'd probably inquire about my ordeal now.

“What?” she uttered. “No, you didn't! You don't need to feel sorry. I wasn't at all offended.”

Blinking dumbly at her compassionate protest, I asked in disbelief, “You weren't?” My tone was tinted with wary hope.

“Nope.” She shook her head, her pleasant smile almost persuading me to believe her. “Did you zone out because you thought I was mad at you?”

“Yeah, that's precisely why,” I responded, intuitively taking the opportunity to save my skin. Then, I collected my courage to confront another quandary, my vision drifting from one table corner to the other before refocusing on her. “But you . . .” I tilted my head. “You weren't even a little offended?” I asked, certain she had disapproved of my conduct.

Embee's lips twisted into a perplexed smile. “Wh-why . . .” She broke into a short but friendly laugh, then raised a foreleg as she said: “Now why on Equestria would I be mad at you?”

“Uh . . .” My rueful expression froze. Had I just received proof of the existence of Equestria? I was faintly aware that it was real, but . . . No, not now. My protracted ruminations would renew Embee's concerns, maybe even alight her suspicions about my rationality. Or dig up more memories with undesirable effects. “I, uh, um um, because I . . .” Dejection was still on my countenance as I distractedly fixated on the purple cushion underneath her. Hoping to reduce my light nervousness, I tried to wring the edge of my cushion, an act that was impossible to accomplish with a hoof. “What I, uh . . .” I cleared my throat and my confusion. “What I did was a tremendous faux pas that should earn me appalled looks and scornful comments,” I analyzed despondently.

Embee's giggle was sufficiently lighthearted to cause my ears to finally perk up and cast off some of my dismay. “Relax.”

“I'm honestly trying to,” I said, my lips barely moving; Embee didn't seem to notice my optimistic whisper and continued to talk.

“Perhaps a strict pony would be cross with you, but you can trust me, hon. I'm not a strict pony.” Her easygoing nature brought a smile to my face, and I raised my head to look at her half-lidded amethyst eyes, relief flowing through me.

‘But you can trust me, hon,’ I echoed her words, earnestly wishing I could simply overcome my fears and confide in her. “It's great that you're being so understanding and friendly,” I said shyly, the appreciation in my tone almost succumbing to a constrained imitation; it wasn't easy to ignore the suspicion of Embee's unending goodwill driving me into an inescapable corner. Maybe I could compensate for my pretense by being honest about everything else?

“Thank you, I do my best. You can bet your farm that laughing about a little belch doesn't even come close to tangling my tail.” She drew a hoof to her mouth, her warm chuckle circumventing it with ease.

“Hehehe, ahh, yeah,” I tittered atypically, aversively casting a glance at an abstract painting to my right. “It just seemed like a fun thing to do,” I admitted sheepishly, shifting my gaze to the potted plant in the corner as I pawed the cushion with my forehoof for a second. A sudden pang of sadness made my smile diminish. Adjusting to my relatively insensitive and maladroit extremities would take a while, but I was confident that my bodily discomfort would never subside. Not when I knew the perils that could entail. However, I had to drive into my mind that no matter what occurred, being a mare was only temporary. If I couldn't solve this predicament by myself, then I'd absolutely have to seek help. One way or another, everything would be fine. I had nothing to worry about.

“Listen,” Embee intoned politely. I promptly placed my attention on her. “If it's not clear already, I agree with you. It was funny.”

A boulder fell off my withers. “Oh,” I breathed. My smile regained its integrity. “It . . . was?” I asked timidly.

Embee smiled calmly. “Definitely.”

I was a smidgen puzzled. “Thanks,” my shy tone pitched with a trace of glee. “I was so worried that it was anything but funny.”

“Ahh,” Embee sighed sympathetically, her ears flicking backwards for a second. “I'm sorry I upset you, hon. You confused me; that's all.”

“O-okay,” I acknowledged, shrinking a little. “Well, that's very nice to know, really. Thanks. Again.” All things considered, I felt mellow, and I hummed happily at this development. “And, uh, I of course accept your apology,” I continued quietly. “I misunderstood you, thinking the worst . . . It was shamefully presumptuous.” I paused for a moment, recalling something called "confirmation bias," but I didn't think deeply on it. “But please accept my apologies as well. I mean, if that's okay with you.” I almost grinned at recognizing and then deliberately abetting my accidental Fluttershy impression: a tiny pitch alteration, some softness, and voilà! It was just too easy. I liked soft things, and my voice was no exception, although I still preferred my true voice.

“It's okay. I'll gladly accept your apology if it makes you feel better,” Embee said with candor. Was that her angle? To do everything she could to ensure my comfort and peace of mind? With admiration warming my heart, I concentrated on the table.

“Yeah, it does, but I'm already feeling better . . . Thanks anyway.” I felt that I was receiving more respect and attention than I deserved, something that not many had done for me, in retrospect. Then again, I couldn't recall more than a couple of instances when I had wanted or needed respect or an apology. I guess my life had been smooth in that regard. That could be one explanation for why being a sudden mare was so hard to cope with. Somepony who was less finicky and stress-prone would probably do well. Somep . . . one who had toughened up through flight training; I couldn't be a pilot if I unraveled at the seams when the stinky stuff struck the propeller. And I as sure as hay would be a pilot! Not for big aircraft or fighter planes. Just the smaller craft. They seemed more inviting. However, the topic of piloting brought to mind that the Marcus guy looked a lot like First Officer Jeffrey Skiles. He and Captain Chesley Sullenberger safely landed a severely damaged Airbus into the Hudson River without casualties (Canada geese notwithstanding). Maybe one day, I'll be just as amazing as my idols! Except without the loss of engines and subsequent emergency ditching. At the least, I should consider hovering a Cessna. I've seen videos of it being done, and read a little about how to do it. I also read how to recover from a stall. Maybe I should just play it safe, and not try anything crazy. Just like I should do now? A fake story or the sincere truth? Which one was the crazier choice? Which one guaranteed a return to my home? Was Embee trustworthy?

I was reluctant to dig up a sore issue, but . . . I needed to make sure I hadn't lost a memory, even one I'd rather not have. If I had, then that was solid proof of impending identity loss.

I had entrusted Thomas not to tell anypony of my fascination when he found out about it due to a mishap with my browser tabs. To my great relief and surprise, he seemed nonchalant. ‘Hey, whatever floats your boat, man.’ Then, two weeks back, we were hanging out with other friends. Their habitual drunkenness was getting on my nerves, so I recommended that they should try to go easy on the stuff, that I very much preferred our joys to be sincere and not perverted by a toxic substance. Thomas saw fit to expose my secret, and things turned very sordid. I tried to keep my cool. I tried to be civil. I defended my stance, my opinions, myself. My friends questioned my sexual preferences and identity, trying to "save me" and to "be a man" by offering drinks. I didn't need to be "saved", and intoxication didn't equal masculinity! Just because I liked a cartoon about magical ponies and was secretly creeped out by drunken people, I was treated like dirt? What the hay was their problem? I didn't make fun of them or their hobbies; I couldn't stoop down to their level . . . I just didn't like them drinking so much . . . I cared for my friends, but I was afraid of saying that. It probably would've served as another source of mockery . . . I tried to play the ignore card, but that only escalated my belittling, and sadly . . . I complimented the jerks with some very nice words before leaving the immature and insensitive morons in a rage.

I almost crashed into a bridge support on the way home . . . I was speeding, took a corner badly, and the rear tires lost traction. After one full spin on the wet asphalt, I was miraculously driving forward again, as if I had done a daring stunt. I could've died. I could've lost Jim. My parent's would've lost me . . . If only my friends hadn't been intoxicated out of their minds! They would've never said and done what they did if they were sober; I was sure of that! I was also sure they were sorry and wanted to make amends, but I was done with them. I couldn't believe I felt regret about that decision. Thomas was . . . used to be my best friend. I had known him for almost ten years, and he blew it all away for cheap giggles! He betrayed my trust! How could he do that to me? It still hurt a little, even after two weeks. Maybe I was at fault, though? Maybe I took their jests seriously, let them get under my skin when I should've deflected them with ironic remarks. Geez! I was a forgiving, pitiful, soft-hearted guy who longed to regain a lost friendship with a bunch of jerks . . .

Could I trust Embee, then? She wouldn't betray me, would she?

“Sorry to disturb you, hon, but you look like you're absorbed in your thoughts again. Have been for the past two minutes, actually.” Her calm voice made my auricular muscles twitch in attention. Coincidentally, I realized I automatically gauged sounds to determine in a split second if I was under the threat of impending harm and what decision or action I should take to ensure my safety. Pryer reflex, I recalled. I had no idea where I had learned that from. I had a hunch I had read it from a book when I was young. Or when she was young. Be that as it may, the adoption of at least one equine instinct was a little creepy. Fascinating, but creepy. Anyhow, I had just explored my persona and memories, and hadn't encountered anything that was missing or distinctively ponylike, so . . . despite the touching recollections, I was relatively good. As I focused on Embee's gentle, inquiring expression, I assured myself that if I kept some form of recursive loop active in my subconsciousness, then I'd prevent a possible personality death. A disparity between body and mind was good.

“Uh . . . Yeah, I did get lost in my thoughts. Sorry,” I admitted belatedly, smiling bashfully at Embee. There was a hint of worry in her eyes, though. Sooner or later, she'd ask the toughest question of them all. If I could just be fearless enough to rescind my planned cover story. From posture, to voice, to the increased vividness of colors, my current physiological status maintained an underlying sense of confusion, constantly affecting my demeanor in ways I couldn't fully prevent or even detect. Embee must've noted my unusual behavior by now. Speaking of behavior, my voice alone was in all likelihood guiding me towards femininity without my deliberate intention or even knowledge—“Oh great!” I thought out loud, my tone rich with factitious abashment and honest shock. “I think I'm doing it again. Uh, getting lost in my mind, that is.” The situation called for a titter. Talking: okay. Very feminine laughter: not yet okay.

“Don't worry about it.” A sad but sympathetic look washed over her face. Seemed like I had convinced the mildly mannered mare, thank goodness. “You must've gone through a lot recently. Please, take all the time you need to sort it out. We'll talk if and when you feel ready, okay?” Or maybe I hadn't. Her unassuming statement was foreboding; I had to stop my plaintive expression from frowning.

“Thanks for trying to understand me. You're right: I've been trying to sort things out,” I confessed diffidently, willing a ghost of a smile. I poked my bowl idly with the tip of my hoof, pushing the ware by a few centimeters. I couldn't feel the ceramic. “It's . . . just so complicated. I don't even know where to begin,” I lamented, my focus affixed on my snout and the insensate hoof resting on the bowl. ‘Look at that. A trifecta of white. That's not complicated at all,’ I noted joylessly in a futile attempt to cheer myself up. ‘And my inner voice is male. Imitating the Team Fortress 2 Sniper got a few laughs from Peter. He loves that game, yet he's not a brony despite all the overwhelming pony content modded into it. Or maybe that's exactly why he's not a brony. Well, goodbye sniper, welcome Fluttershy. I hope we'll meet again.’ I sighed dolefully. Soon, I'd tell my story, which was nothing more than blaming my panic and muddy looks on a can of pineapples, but . . . I kept getting odd flashes: Tin. BPA. 'Rapid ingestion may cause temporary disruptions to the thaumaturgy system.' What was BPA? What was a thaumaturgy system? Whatever it was, I apparently had one now, and I had disturbed it when I scarfed the pineapples.

“Rosy, it's okay. We'll go at your pace,” Embee reaffirmed softly, and I managed the composure to look at her. Once again, it occurred to me that I was in the presence of something impossible: a sapient, self-aware pony. That cheered me up a little. Feeling a smidgen privileged, I watched in mild awe as her lips moved with a perfect imitation of human suppleness: “When you feel ready, then you can talk, but only if you want to, remember?”

Her intelligent eyes accompanied an incredibly compassionate smile; I gently closed my own to avert a brain-locking cuteness overload. “Yes, I remember,” I whispered. Ignoring what I had seen, I pondered if I could simply . . . shut up. Nothing and nopony was forcing me to say anything. Still, I felt obliged to provide . . . I couldn't just be stubbornly enigmatic to her. Could I?

“By the way,” Embee began in her smooth voice.

With a wary but curious “Hm?” I opened my eyes. She still looked cute, but luckily my brain didn't bust its circuit breakers. Maybe I was just a tad too rational to allow that.

“I did a bit of thinking myself, and you know what?” Embee's smile changed to a friendly smirk, bestowing me with much needed optimism.

“I know what? Well, that depends if I know what this 'what' you speak of is,” I replied, eliciting a small chuckle from her, though I suspected she was only being tactful about my offbeat humor.

Nonetheless, an amiable smile spread across her face, which I assumed was due to kindness and vivaciousness mixing in her mind. Not that I could really know. “Believe it or not, you remind me of my sister.”

My ears folded towards my nape, but I kept my smile. “Oh, um . . .” Was I like her sister? That was . . . great? “I'm . . . I'm honored, Embee.” My eyes dipped down as I ended my supposition with a contemplative hum. Part of me regarded her innocent comment as accidental derision to my self-image, another as firm evidence that I was behaving like a female without my knowing . . . but I was determined not to fall prey to those preposterous insinuations! I was safe. My demeanor hadn't become involuntarily feminine. I was still a guy. I was only pretending not to be. There was no cause for alarm! Sustaining calmness . . .

“Going deep into your thoughts again, are you?” Embee asked, chuckling lightly. I was a little busy to answer yet. Calmness . . . sustained! Ears uprighted!

“Aahh, well . . .” I drawled deliberately, directing my eyes at the ceiling. “Since you said I'm like your sister,” I said to Embee with a hopefully confident smile and tone, “I've decided to utilize my limited intellect to conduct a full introspective analysis on our shared aspects, disregarding the obvious similarities, such as, uh, such as . . .” No, I couldn't titter at what I was about to say. I could do this with a straight face! “Such as both of us being female ponies,” I said a little uneasily. “Hehehe!” Darn! I broke into a titter, and I almost tittered about breaking into a titter. It was kind of funny in hindsight . . . “Uhm, to perform my research with sufficient exactitude, please grant me a moment of relative silence.” The grin I flashed brought to mind Applejack's attempt at dissuading Pinkie Pie from entering the barn in "Party of One."

Embee's face was the perfect picture of befuddlement. “Uh . . .” Her brow arched slowly. “Okay, Rosy. You do that,” she said flatly, as if unaware she had spoken.

“And so I will, thank you!” I proclaimed with a raised fing . . . hoof. That minor disappointment washed away my nervosity. I stopped myself from trying to lean on a nonexistent wrist. At least gazing towards my mane wasn't impossible while in this form. Anyhow, I had bought a little more time to deal with a topical problem: being compared to Embee's sister was not a strike at my voluntarily displaced and potentially threatened masculinity, because she was in all likelihood a great and reputable pony. Like my favorite: Rainbow Dash! Who wouldn't want to be like her? I kind of was now since . . . I had the matching anatomy (including the—ugh—unspeakables). Except I had a horn on my head instead of wings on my back, a non-raspy voice, different colors in my coat and mane and . . . Actually, I wasn't at all like her. Perhaps not even in personality. Oh well . . .

“Meh. I'm drawing blanks,” I submitted with mock disappointment. With a click of my tongue, I cast off my pseudo-contemplative look. Rather surprisingly, Embee was smiling. Was it an honest smile, or only out of politeness? Had my humor been that strange? Oh, never mind!

“So, tell me Embee, what makes you think I'm awes—” I covered my fumble with a small (and an accidentally adorably demure) cough. “Sorry. How exactly am I like your sister?” I queried with eager curiosity in my tone, even though I was averse to being compared to . . . an assumably outstanding and respectable mare who was probably totally awesome! Maybe Embee's sister really was Rainbow Dash? That'd be even more totally awesome! Totaliest awesomest?

An unsure grin grew on Embee. “To be honest, it's a little embarrassing.” Her ears curled back. “Maybe to us both, but, uh . . .” Her gaze fell toward the table's rim.

‘. . . my sister is THE one and only Rainbow Dash!’ I excitedly finished her sentence. Then, I realized something even more astonishing: ‘That'd mean she's real?’ I almost gasped. While only a few seconds had passed, I already felt my patience ebb. “Oh, come on! Don't start second-guessing yourself now! You're making me sweat in suspense here,” I complained lightheartedly. Embee's ears rebounded in minor surprise as she locked her startled eyes on me.

However, my urging sparked a thought, and thus, I raised a forelimb to my snout. A short whiff was followed by a prompt increase of distance between the two features. “Ew.” I grimaced in disgust at the origin of loam and pony sweat. “Thank goodness I'll be clean before I go home,” I murmured. Embee understood my sentiment, if her curled lips were of any indication. “So anyway, your embarrassing tale?” I queried, flatly appraising my unfamiliar limb a moment longer before I gently placed it on the cushion. “I'm sure it's great, and not because you'll implicitly make fun of me, which I'm sure you won't,” I encouraged, my tone pitching up toward the end. “You're way too gracious to do that,” I complimented sweetly, finishing with a wide grin. Hopefully, I had now succeeded in replicating the cutest expression I could envision, minus adorable squeak sound effect. I reminded myself that I had forgiven Embee's tactless laughing fit while I had believed I was dying of a brain injury.

The equine gambler, who up until now had forgotten to look bashful about the unspun yarn, sighed lightly. “Right, uh . . . How you reminded me of my sister, well . . .” She paused to clear her throat from behind her hoof. “When we were just fillies . . . and please, don't take this the wrong way,” she said timorously, shaking her head.

“No worries, Embee. I'll take it the right way!” I said merrily, using that and a diabetically cute expression to cover a suspicion that I was about to be compared to a filly. A young female, the four letter g-word, the antithesis of me. Oh, wonderful . . .

A reserved giggle slinked into my acute ears. “When we drank soda, she'd, uh, I can't believe I'm telling you this . . .” She hid her face into her hooves for a second. “Sometimes, she'd goad me into a burping contest, and I, well . . . do I even need to say more?”

My brain cogs halted. ‘She . . . What?’ Befuddlement tugged my lips to an uncertain smile. “Ah, uhm, that's some, uh, thing, hum,” a few poor attempts at speaking my mind rolled out my mouth, as Embee's cheeks began to turn pink. How the hay does fur turn pink? I'd have to contemplate that later. “You, uh . . .” I finally got a disbelieving smirk onto my face. “No. No.” I shook my head slowly, then smiled slyly as I cast the uneasy pegasus a diagonal look. “You know what I think? I think you're only playing a joke on me,” I posited, bending my right foreleg up, my analytical side telling me I was basically pointing a finger at her. Didn't feel at all like a finger, though.

Mane swaying, she shook her head, the trying smile on her lips discernibly fighting an embarrassed grin. “I'm not joking, hon.” My hoof met the cushion, and I ignored the numbness to the best of my abilities as I stared blankly at Embee.

“So . . . Okay, I'm not offended, but . . . let me get this straight,” I said slowly, my tone full of incredulity. “My burp made you think of belching contests with your sister?”

“That's right,” Embee vouched, her tone wavering with a titter. “She was, and still is . . . Oh, what's the word?”

While Embee absorbed herself in browsing her internal dictionary, my imagination created a reenactment of the sibling scenario. As ridiculous that mental image was, a memory of Need for Speed: High Stakes—a game I played as a kid—provided the sound effects. Whoever had coded the background sounds for the food joint at the starting line of Redrock Ridge must've had a tremendous laugh, because that plain white building was the source of frequent belches. In fact, they were so frequent, every virtual patron there might've been a professional competitive belcher! Placing my hoof before my mouth failed to conceal my smile, let alone prevent a snicker from becoming audible. Two females trying to best each other at burping? Now that was outright absurd! My preconceptions about the prettier sex—specifically them being elegant and above the immaturity of unabashed belching—were crumbling fast. “I'm sorry, Embee.” I lowered my hoof onto the table's wooden edge. “But I think the word you're trying to think of is 'unprecedented', because never in my life have I heard of two fillies dueling with belches,” I said amusedly.

Embee chuckled. “Well, now you have,” she affirmed abashedly. My imagination assembled a vivid vision, which expedited my composure's downfall.

“No, no no no!” I exclaimed, trying to contain my laughter, gesturing my forelimb at Embee. “No way! You have to be kidding!”

The blush on her cheeks told me otherwise. “As I said, I'm not!”

“Okay okay! You leave me no choice but to believe you,” I conceded, my hoof slipping to the cushion. “But I hah-have to admit, I have, hahahah, ahh, no idea why this is so funny. Haha, just . . . b-b-bfftwhahaha! Burping f-f-fillies! Geez! No! Hahahahahaha!” My laugh was disconcertingly female, prompting me to get a hold of myself. “Hahahaha! Hahaha, haha! Okay, phew. Hah! There! All okay! I'm okay!” My imagination acted up once more, coaxing me to snicker lengthily, followed by a few disobedient giggles, which my self-image and pony façade wished to denounce and ban, contrary to my earlier approval.

Not counting a few short laughs from both of us, a relative silence permeated the room; our only guests were the muffled sounds of presumably ordinary hospital activity penetrating the door and the soft noise of the air conditioning vents above. Embee was smiling widely, the red on her cheeks diminishing. Meanwhile, I was thinking on how to laugh without sounding too feminine.

“One time, my sister said, ‘I'm famished’,” Embee recounted casually, glancing a few degrees to her left. Formulating a tolerable laugh had to wait.

“Alright,” I said through my nonplussed smile, a half-cough, half-chuckle ascending my throat a second later. I was so close to laughing again. “So, what's—”

“With a belch,” she interjected abruptly, facing me with a wry grin. My breathing stopped, my brain stopped . . . and then I lost it.

“Pffffhahahahahaha!” The sheer power of my amusement made me collapse onto my right side. “Hahahahaha! Hehe-hehe-help! Get me hahahahaha! A doctor! Hahahaha! I'm dying, hehehehihihihi! Of-of-of laughter! Hahahahaha! Hihihihi!” I tried to get up, but a strength penalty had been imposed on my muscles. I squirmed in mirth, tears leaking from my closed eyes. I sounded so strange, wheezing and squeaking between bursts of laughter, but it also felt so good. I could hear Embee laughing with me. Shared joy was the best joy! I surrendered to revel in my well-deserved mirth, finally accepting that giggling, while unquestionably abnormal coming out of my mouth, wasn't at all bad. Giggling was strangely hilarious in itself. So perky! Despite my voice being unfit to imitate her, I was able to produce a few passably Rainbow Dash-like laughs. That was both amusing and adorable!

After a minute of positive debilitation, I began to collect myself, with the occasional laugh and giggle setting me back a little. I didn't mind. Pony physiology being what it is, and laughter-induced weakness affecting me, I had some difficulties rolling prone and sidling towards my lime green cushion. ‘Left foreleg to my left, push with the right, then repeat with my hind legs.’ I was very glad I didn't have prominent mammaries on my chest like human females do. Otherwise, my sideway movement would've felt absolutely dreadful with the squishing and the tugging and the utter dismay. Seriously, possessing such inconveniences would've felt dreadful regardless. Why human females put them on display and what made them attractive to human males was almost alien to me. I never cared for them. Then again, my libido was like a Citroën 2CV in a world of sports cars.

Back on my cushion, I pushed myself to a sitting stance, a posture that my restive human condition found easiest to comply with. “Thank you, thank you!” I exclaimed breathlessly, waving a forelimb weakly. Embee looked drained, having spent a good while making her sides ache, too. “You've been a wonderful audience, Embee,” I said, thinking I was an actor who had just performed a play and expecting a round of applause. Not including begrudging participation in elementary school plays and my current masquerade, I had never acted.

“My pleasure,” she replied with a wide smile. “But I think it was you who played the part of the audience.” Her eyes closed as she giggled. “Or we had a duet!” That earned a brief and casual giggle from us.

“Maybe we did.” I carefully wiped my appreciated tears into my fetlock, followed by a happy sigh. “To be honest, I'm very grateful for the food and the laugh. I really needed to unwind after what I've gone through.” Oh darn! I accidentally insinuated that my ordeal's been awful. Not that she didn't already have an inkling. “Speaking of which, I'll tell you more about it soon,” I said to keep her curiosity at bay, clinging hard to my smile as I forced my ears to stay propped up.

“There's no rush. Take all the time you need,” she reminded sweetly, almost apologetically. Was she afraid that her presence alone was pressuring me to explain?

“Yeah, I know,” I whispered, my smile slipping away briefly. “I mean, I shouldn't be too eager, haha,” I said lamely. The icicles of apprehension were poking at my back. I really didn't want to tell a lie. Or the truth for that matter. However, I had to stay calm above all else. Everything would work out in my favor. Somehow . . .

“Well, I think a cup of soothing coffee will help us put our concerns to rest.” Her gaze drifted toward the second room. “Unless the coffee has evaporated by now,” she joked bashfully.

“If so, then we can't drink it,” I said gloomily, but before she could reply, I smiled half-amusedly. “We'd have to inhale it.” I surprised myself when I was actually able to giggle, though Embee's reciprocation sounded a lot more natural.

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that.” She reached over for her bowl. “Anyhow, I'll take these—”

“No, hold on!” I raised my hoof.

“Why?” She stopped, setting an inquiring gaze on me.

Assisting her and following her to the other room could help me relax better than the coffee. “Uh, I got this thing, you see?” I gingerly tapped my horn, trying not to grin awkwardly when I felt a tiny pulse marginally in front of my forehead. ‘Darn unseen unicorn rebar and its sensitive stand-by magic,’ I complained as I lowered my hoof. “I think I can help you this time.” Assuming I could get my magic to work . . . I really hadn't thought this decision through, had I? Oh, super . . .

“Oh?” A gentle smile grew on Embee; I did my best to replicate it. “I'd greatly appreciate that! Thank you.” Withdrawing her hooves from her bowl, she sat down and beamed at me, which made me feel terrible behind my unworried mask because I didn't want to let her down. I didn't have a second to rehearse, either. Wait, I did have a few seconds!

“Embee, I know you care for me, but you don't have to watch over me. It's, uhm, actually making me a little nervous,” I said with hopefully believable meekness, idly rubbing my forehoof on my hind leg. The sensation of a big fingernail running over my narrow and elongated metatarsal evoked bewilderment, wistfulness, and even some curiosity. This was a good sign; the recursive loop was functioning.

“I'm sorry.” Embee frowned contritely. “I didn't know I was bothering you.” Her demeanor educed a pang of guilt to downflap my expressive directional microphones. “I'll give you some peace and pour us some coffee in the meantime.” She stood up, and I made a quick note on how, in case my equine intuition malfunctioned.

I brought my ears up, suppressing the minor flinch of my inflexible humanity. “If it's still in a liquid state, that is,” I chirped forcedly, hoping to ease our respective worries. Her amused chuckle verified that I had at least achieved success on her side. My foreleg now back on the cushion, I fixated on my bowl before she turned around; sighting her tailside now might ruin my inchoate concentration.

‘Okay! Just have to stare intently at the bowl and think really hard that I'm moving it with an innate and mystifying power! I'm sure I won't have any problems at all. Nope. Nothing can go wrong with my ethereal touch,’ I thought frantically, doing my best to prevent perspiration leakage. ‘No, wait. I have to think differently. More confidence, less worrying!’ My tongue stuck out the side of my mouth in determination. ‘I think I can do this. Yes! That's right! I have to do this, I can do this . . . I will do this!’ Suddenly, an epiphany brought my head up. ‘Why can't I?’ I stared at the wall ahead in puzzlement. ‘I was the second pony in magic kindergarten to learn the basic levitation spell.’ Next thing I knew, I felt something odd within my forehead. Subsequently, a tingling, shimmering glow encased the bowl, and it ascended a dozen centimeters. This sight, coupled with my vague flashback, almost rolled my eyelids past their maximum operating limit; the magic vanished, and the bowl capsized before it fell with a grimace-inducing bang.

“What was that!?” Embee yelled in shock from the room over.

I stared aghast at the luckily undamaged bowl. “Ponyfeathers,” I whispered through my teeth.

The sound of hoofsteps impelled me to frown fearfully. Not a second later, Embee appeared in the doorway. Wearing an alarmed expression, she glanced toward the table, then at me. “Rosy? What happened?”

My eyes darted between the overturned bowl and her. “Uh, I, um . . . I sneezed,” I fibbed guiltily, then inhaled congestedly a couple of times before using my fetlock to wipe my snout—carefully. Equine cartilage, epidermis, and hair where thin air should be just didn't mesh with me. “And I lost my concentration.” As my posture wilted, I hesitated. ‘I can't act this way. It's too feminine . . . But didn't I recently giggle uninhibitedly? Oh, what the hay, I can do this, too.’ I realigned my ears toward my neck and pouted ruefully. “I'm terribly sorry,” I said, like I had been caught thieving cookies from a jar.

“Oh, don't feel too bad, hon,” Embee soothed, encouraging my ears to perk up. “But . . .” She cocked an eyebrow. “I didn't hear you sneeze, though.”

I glanced aside, recalling my very unbridled sneeze from earlier. “Well . . .” I rubbed the soft hairs on my chin with my pastern. “It was a tiny sneeze, you know?” I brought the soles of my forehooves to my snout and imitated a dainty sneeze; it'd be a frigid and cloudless day on Venus when I did that for real. “I had to dampen it so I wouldn't lose my focus.”

“I think I understand, but still . . .” Her questioning glance towards the table felt oppressingly allusive.

“It's not an infallible technique,” I said remorsefully, hoping Embee wouldn't examine my rubbish explanation.

“Hmm.” Her gaze lingered on the bowl for an agonizingly long second before she smiled warily. “Well, good thing nothing broke. Just be careful, okay?” I couldn't help but smile now that I was off the hook. Also, I felt confident about summoning a levitation spell, which was remarkable given how uncertain I was just moments ago.

“Oh, I will,” I intoned peaceably. “Now, uhm, maybe I was wrong about being nervous. Let me try again.” I zeroed in on the bowl, then expected it to do what I wanted . . . No, for the bowl to do what my magic needed it to do: the ceramic ware had to arise. A tingle in my forehead told me that magical energy had begun to spool up in my body, and would transmit its signal from my horn as soon as it . . . calibrated itself with Earth's unique background magic. After a small delay, a white aura enveloped my target, immediately bestowing me with a feel of its ceramic construction. As if every square millimeter of it was covered with my tactile sense! Another second later, the vessel began to ascend. I grinned widely at this, and the bowl flipped over without so much as a conscious command to do so. This was intuitive! I wasn't even straining myself! Moving the bowl was as easy as holding it in a hand! “Ta-daa!” I pointed an outstretched foreleg at the bowl floating an arm's length above the table. “My mundane ability is working mundanely! Yeeeeey!” I cheered energetically. Was my perkiness affecting my voice, or was the voice making me act perky?

“That's, uh, amazing, Rosy,” a bemused Embee inserted, eyeing the lightly bobbing bowl. My hoof, the white vessel, and my exuberation settled in tandem, ending with my flat stare on her. “Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your fun,” she continued apologetically.

“Eh,” I sighed nonchalantly. A want to shrug began to travel to my shoulders, but I thwarted that signal: shrugging entailed moving the shoulders upwards, but with my forelegs supporting my body, shrugging would actually cause me to lurch downwards, which would look abnormal in my current physiological state. “I was overdoing it anyway,” I said dismissively. Truly, why had I been so exuberant? I had known the basic levitation spell for years. Well, not really . . . Darn memory mix-up! Suddenly, I caught sight of something fascinating, and my lips creased to a smile. “Although, you know what would be really fun?” I asked amiably.

“No. Tell me,” Embee said, tone tinged with curiosity, but I chose to keep my lips sealed. Since I'd have to walk to the second room soon (and walk in general), I levered myself up. Thus, I was reintroduced to the unpleasant standing-on-my-nails feeling. My attention was quickly drawn from the lack of hands to my tail falling between my . . . cheeks. I was fairly okay with the extra appendage providing modesty, but the 'receptacle' itself evoked nothing but abhorrence. Still, out of sight, out of mind. “Well, are you going to tell me or not?” Embee urged affably.

I circulated several ideas in my head on how to tell her, but I abandoned the whimsical idea of speaking in a sensual tone. The remotest concept of flirting—even by accident—as a mare to a mare who was apparently days short of being married was highly unbecoming and boorish. Moreover, it would be reprehensibly irresponsible to defame the pony whose body I inhabited. What I did do was lower my head slightly and whisper (unsensually), “So, what I think would be fun is . . .” Embee lowered her head, and her bemused but expectant visage nearly made me giggle. Deliberately, I curved my head toward her right. As I expected, Embee mirrored my gesture. “Music,” I finished, allowing myself a smirk.

“Oh!” Her head sprung up, mine following at a slower rate. “The radio!” she exclaimed in joyful realization as we exchanged glances.

“All we hear is, radio ga ga,” I sing-songed, my head tilting lightly as I made my body sway from side to side. I would've trotted in place, but the incurred forces on my hooves and equine joints could've upset my restrained and wounded human condition.

One of Embee's ears drooped sideways. “What?” She looked at me, visibly lost on what I had referenced.

Smiling, I rolled my eyes with an inoffensive puff. “Never mind,” I said jovially. Aside from her ear lifting up, her outlook remained unchanged. “Let's just have some sweet tunes drift into this cozy place.” I cast a look at the table and colorful carpet. Along with the cushions, it was like an oasis of soothing vibrancy among the dull brown walls and floor.

My attention returned to Embee as I heard her distractedly utter, “Radio gaga?” A second passed before she shook the confusion away. “Oh yes, music,” she said awkwardly. “What the hay is a radio gaga . . . ?” My acute auditory sense detected the puzzlement under her breath as we both took a few steps to the radio. So much for shaking her confusion away. She even studied the radio's brand; it definitely didn't provide the answer. Her confusion amused me, but I didn't want to make her feel any worse, so I half-heartedly tried to stifle my giggle when she looked at me cluelessly.

“Don't worry your head about it,” I reassured happily. “They were only lyrics to a song I've heard,” I summarized.

“Ohh-kay?” She nodded, the glimmer in her eyes hinting that she absorbed the trivia without immediate comprehension. Nevertheless, anticipation drew her lips to a smile. “Well, if we're lucky, that song might be on the radio right now!”

“That'd be great!” I said eagerly as Embee faced the radio, my tail surprising me by flicking to my right. ‘Joy can do that to my tail? Gotta be careful, then. Wouldn't want anypony to glimpse the unmentionable,’ I thought uneasily behind my gleeful smile, then lightly swayed my tail a few times to improve my understanding and control of the caudal muscle. Meanwhile, Embee placed her hoof on top of the radio to manipulate a switch. The garbled noise spewing out made her sigh in discontent.

“Sorry, hon. This thing was brought here only a few days ago, and this is my first time trying to use it,” she said, presumably to vent her frustration. “But I understand it works like any normal radio by, uh . . .” A thoughtful frown came to her as she started scanning the various buttons and dials on the radio's coal black shell. “Tuning into frequencies?” she continued slowly, as if sparing no attention to what she was saying. I was quick to spot the tuner dial. With an oblique glance and an ear-levelling sigh, I chose to grant Embee the full delight of finding it by herself . . . which meant I also got to delight in boredly observing her meticulously inspect each and every feature on the radio but the correct one. Finding it after several long moments, she decisively placed the tip of her hoof into one of several accommodating grooves on the dial's side and gave it a light twist. I took note of that deftness. “Ah! That did the trick!” she exulted when the radio finally began to air something intelligible. Instantly, both my equine instinct and my curiosity reoriented my ears toward the speakers.

“So what's it playing?” I wondered impatiently.

“. . . almost night,” A male voice spoke, “Two minutes to midnight? No, not yet folks. Anyhow, sounds like we got a caller.” Was this a talk show? I almost gasped in excitement at the surprise. I could learn a lot about this world, especially if the topic in question pertained to ponies! Or better yet, if a pony called in! That'd be so awesome!

“Uh, yeah . . .” The caller, a female, hesitated. “Most horrible movie scene?” My blood curled upon hearing that. “Definitely that scene in The Machinist where Miller . . . That was just awful! Just so awful! It gave me horrible nightmares for days! Even my boyfriend said he—”

Unwilling to hear more, I latched my ears to my skull (and for once, I was very thankful for their suppleness). “Embee, this isn't music. Change the channel, please,” I beseeched restlessly. Oh no, imagery was incoming and I had to think of anything else, but I was too late . . . Oh gross, oh gross, oh gross! If I had the power to eradicate one memory right now, it was that scene. I hated gory movies! Couldn't Thomas have chosen a "softer" movie to rent, like the director's cut of Das Boot as I had recommended? In his defense, he probably didn't know what was coming. I could still taste the cheese puffs crawling up my throat, and I had seen that movie years ago! Even he stopped gobbling his snacks after witnessing the horrifying event, although he did try to joke about his discomfort. I was of lesser integrity and made no effort to hide my nausea. We should've just played a video game since those don't make me sick to my stomach. And this . . . was a fond memory I had of him. I felt both happy and sad. I liked the times when I didn't submissively tag along with him into a disheartening carouse . . .

“Hey, are you okay, hon?” My acute ears discerned Embee's voice amidst the currently playing rock song.

“I'm sorry,” I said weakly to the frowning pegasus mare by my side, righting my ears to make the music sound clearer.

“Sorry about what?” she queried, a little confused. A bunch of memories regarding happy video gaming moments cajoled for my attention, but I sent them back to the recess of my mind with a small sigh.

“That movie the caller mentioned . . .” I was leery of going into details. “Umm . . . Well, it has a really disgusting thing in it . . .” The sickening memory flared up, making me gag. “Trust me, you don't want to know,” I said, hopefully dissuading her from prying to know what damage a horrendously unsafe drill press could do.

“That kind of movie, huh?” A look of understanding dawned on her. “I have a pretty good reason to favor lighthearted comedies myself.” That I could agree on, but I'd probably regret my curiosity for half an eternity.

“That reason being?” I whispered apprehensively, feeling cold despite all the insulating fur I had.

Embee swallowed visibly, horror shrinking her pupils. “The reason, uh, was a movie my sister wanted to see. It was unique. A space movie, uhm . . . Alien,” she divulged.

“Yeah . . . seen that one.” I moaned feebly as a shudder slinked through my entire body, wishing I could take my barrel into a tight and protective hug without flopping down in doing so. I could sit on my haunches, I realized, but I decided not to; I could tough out my transient nausea. “Anyhow, let's not think about the awful things, shall we?” I suggested, trying hard to eradicate the unease from my smile. “To allay our filmography afflictions, let's focus on the music for a moment.” I could forget the sickening scenes if I listened to the music instead. I hoped.

“There's no easy way out, there's no shortcut home! There's no easy way out, givin' in, givin' in can't be wrong, no! There's no easy way out, there's no shortcut home! There's no easy—”

I had hoped. “Oh, shut up,” I grumbled quietly at the inopportune song, and with remarkable precision, I poked the dial just like Embee had. I took no notice of the new song that began to play, but in the corner of my eye, I saw Embee looking at me in puzzlement. “I didn't like that song,” I said offhandedly.

“Why not?” she asked, meeting my flat stare with a peaceable smile. “I thought it was nice.”

“It didn't fit my mood, that's all,” I replied shortly, my ears revealing my subsequent dismay. ‘Didn't fit my mood? What the hay? That was a stupid reply!’ If I had spared a moment to think, I could've spoken a white lie instead of being disadvantageously sincere.

“Didn't fit your mood? What do you mean by that?” Embee said, her face mixed with confusion and worry. I was in a pinch. I actually liked the song, but it simply . . . hit too close to home. Did I really make that pun? I was oh so laughing. “Did the song upset you?” Embee interrupted my cogitations.

My ears pricked up, and I almost tripped in my haste to turn myself perpendicular to her. “I'm not upset!” Subsequently, I winced in guilt, my ears turning down. “Well, kind of, but not really, uh, I'm sorry for snapping at you, but, uhm . . .” I mumbled apologetically, unable to look at her. Everything had been going well. I could've just let the song play and done nothing, but I just had to let it get the better of me . . . What was I going to do now?

“What's wrong, hon?” Embee queried tenderly. I hesitated before directing my eyes up to hers. “Is this about what you've experienced, before you were found?” She had a studious but sad glint in her eyes. As my silence continued, she turned to face me. “Rosy?” She took a trepidatious step closer, and I quickly doubled the distance, nearly bungling my stability as I did so.

‘Horseapples! Can't I even move right? Of course I can't! It's almost impossible to be a pony when I have no idea when it will end—if it can end. Oh no, wrong thoughts, wrong thoughts! It will end, it will end, but . . . I think I've only built mental barriers to keep my anxiety in check. They can't hold on forever! In fact, my computer providing the ultimate solution could just be another barrier—a desperate, hope-inspiring delusion!’

I really wanted to come clean and not soft-pedal everything, but honesty was forbidding; not only was the likelihood of profuse weeping very high, there was no guarantee Embee would believe me. However, I believed she was sincerely worried and wanted to help in any capacity she could. Was she trustworthy, though? Could she console me in a time of extreme crisis? I hoped so. “It's okay, you can talk to me.” Maybe she was right. Maybe I should get the planned pineapple excuse out of the way before I shied away from it.

“Ah, what I did . . .” The words stopped in my throat and my face scrunched up with emotion. No, I couldn't do this yet. I blinked away the unwanted tears rimming my eyes, whispering in a pitch so high it was almost a whine: “Okay, yeah, I'll tell you soon, I promise.” I wasn't particular to how my feminine voice made me sound even more fragile; I cleared my throat to sound more collected. “Uh, haha, but I can't abscond from helping you first, right?” I said lamely through a strained smile. I struggled with an onslaught of discrepant sensations as I balanced on three digits, pointing the fourth at the table to my right. “We can enjoy coffee and have a nice talk once I've gotten those things where they need to be.” As I looked at her, I understood that she knew I was struggling to keep my powerful discontentment under the lid. She stared at me with a face full of pity, almost pleading to know why I was behaving like this. I couldn't smile any longer.

“Alright,” she assented warily, almost regretfully. I had to blink tears away again.

I was marginally thankful for the respite, and I summoned my magic to place the wares onto the tray. Without any kind of pleasure. I simply . . . couldn't; my mind was in disarray. I barely took notice of encasing the tray in a white aura. White aura? Not green . . . like my eyes? Well, whatever. In a few seconds, my task was done. The tray floated off the table and gracefully flew into the next room. I followed it with shaky legs, dumbfounded at the effortless manipulation. However, the pining for my real form was making my breaths heavy; I had to stop after a few steps and a forty-five-degree turn to my right towards the sink. At least I could take stock of the room from the doorway while my distress abated. Remarkably, my magic was still keeping the tray aloft and safe, despite my inattention.

The initial impression of the room was . . . white. The ceiling was white, the walls were white, and the floor was . . . grayish? Several light brown cupboards, breaking the white monotony, lined the walls from my right all the way to the far corner, where the sink was. A black and white picture hung on the left wall, but apart from recognizing it as depicting the hospital, I spared it no further attention. Adjusting my sight to the right of the sink, I saw a white mini-fridge in the far right corner, a dishwasher to the left, and a bouquet of flowers—mauve dahlias—in a glass vase beside the fridge. Next to the fragrant flowers were a microwave and the coffee machine. The distinctively aromatic coffee was waiting to be poured into two cups with detailed landscapes depicted on them. Of all the colors in the world, the machine was pink; I almost chuckled at that. Admittedly, the uncommon color made it look quite lovely. The one in my home was just a boring grey. ‘Pink: the color that once was considered masculine is nowadays the exact opposite,’ I deadpanned mentally. Tucked in the far corner of the room was the sink. Excluding the appliances, everything was scaled for ponies.

I placed the magic-shrouded tray on the steel drainboard, and the minor tingling in my head faded at the same rate the white and wavy aura did. I had wanted this levitation performance to feel even a little special, but instead, it had been disappointingly anticlimactic. Maybe later it'd feel exquisite again? Maybe I was simply too preoccupied at the moment? I sighed dolorously, my ears dropping as I stared at the waxed floor. A few seconds to settle my nerves would do me well. The sheen of the fluorescent lights on the plastic floor was easy to focus on. My attention was drawn to where my petite hooves met the floor, a reflection of something white and vague extending forward. It began to sharpen into something recognizable.

I tilted my head, and the shape moved. My brain was assembling the details into a distinguishable image. The face was one of the most central parts of an individual's identity, and to see an unfamiliar one . . . which could replace mine? I wanted to look away before it was too late, but my neck was as unyielding as a girder. I felt strangely curious, yet apprehensive.

“Hey, how are you feeling, hon?” Embee said caringly, my semi-independent ears telling me she was standing on my right. Simultaneously, I saw two protrusions extend on either side of the reflection beneath me. Those were my ears, and I started to recognize . . . I didn't want to see this!

Stopping a frightened gasp in my throat, I broke out of my daze with a start. My sight lingered on the unimpressive plastic tapestry between the cupboard and sink for a moment before turning to Embee. I thanked my lucky stars I hadn't discerned my foreign visage while she had been gazing at me with a frown. “What was that, Rosy?” her whisper slinked into my ears, which twitched marginally as I reminded myself of my real name. It felt meaningless, like the name of a character from a book or a video game.

In spite of my best attempts, the radio wrenched my ears toward it, capturing my attention. “Aw-right! You're on Nostalgy Radio with Sound Wave, and do I feel energetic! I just luuuuv the music you wonderful humans delight my ears with! Mmm-mm! So, all of you two-feets and four-hooves still awake, don't go dozing off yet, 'cause now it's time to fly! I would fly, but I'm an earth pony, hah hah hah! Have some good-goodness by a wonderful fella who, contrary to his name, isn't petty, hahah!”

Embee's amethyst eyes continued to scrutinize my blank expression as I tried to make sense of why I was estranged by what was once my name. “I'm getting really worried now. Are you sure you're feeling okay?” Her increasing concern for me brought somberness to my face, and I closed my eyes.

I inclined my head, hastily surmising that the stress was playing tricks on me. “I need a minute to clear my head,” I said humbly, intentionally avoiding her question. I faced the sink; however, if the gleaming floor wasn't daunting enough, something more intimidating was between the doorway and the pink apparatus: a looking glass. Sure, it was no larger than a laptop screen and served as decoration, but . . . What kind of a smartflank mounts that kind of torture device in a kitchen!? Oh, right . . . they wouldn't know an extremely fraught pon . . . person like me would come across it. I definitely didn't want to see my present face. Not only could that become my 'primary' face and erase my real one, but I could risk a repeat of the two earlier viewings. The second one nearly traumatized me . . .

“By all means,” Embee said conciliatorily, followed by a single, soft prod on my right shoulder. I was initially floored by this, but when I realized the touch was too soft for a hoof, I suddenly felt moved. Embee had done something I could've never anticipated . . .

‘A nuzzle is apparently a non-verbal method of communication to impart compassion, inspire mutual trust, and mollify the recipient,’ I summarily analyzed the fundamentals of Embee's gesture as I plodded the short distance to the sink, avoiding the looking glass. ‘But that's not a reason to start sniveling like a miserable foal!’ I berated myself, shivering minutely from the sheer power of the emotions I was curtailing. I had to distract myself. It was . . . a little funny that I felt like I was in a miniature-scale kitchen. The ceiling was high, but the sink and cupboards were low enough that an earth pony could reach them with ease. While my vision was aimed at the microwave, I saw the aquamarine and blonde shape of Embee in the corner of my eye. Turning my head completely around—an achievement only my equine neck could permit—I saw her tilt her head with a supportive smile. I smiled back weakly, and only briefly; the glimpse of my trailing end was highly dissuasive. Luckily, I didn't become involuntarily excited, only confused. I wasn't even sure why I might become aroused by a mare's flank, especially my own, but I was afraid to risk finding out. Then again, under these tormentous circumstances, arousal was impossible anyway.

My composure was crumbling, and I became immersed in dismal disbelief. I didn't want to comprehend that I was standing like a pony—as a pony—but the unceasing sensation at the ends of my remoter limbs wasn't telling any merciful lies. My mental barriers were falling like dominoes, and I had to fiercely repress a desire to sit my shivering form on the floor and cry my eyes out. I wanted a respite from all the horrors my mind and body were pushing onto me . . . and that's why I was by the sink! I had to do something besides succumb to my emotions, even if that would feel good . . .

A current rushed to my horn, and a second later, my ethereal grip twisted the handle to bring about a pillar of water from the faucet. I reached my right han . . . hoof in a desire to cup water . . . once my left hoof would do its part? Darn. It was obvious I couldn't hold a significant amount of water in my hooves, and supporting part of my weight on my equine elbows didn't sound appealing. The sole was concave, but the triangular shape—the frog—was a channel that'd allow the water to run out. Stupid, ungainly . . . I couldn't even cup water properly . . .

I let the water run over my dainty hoof, but I couldn't feel it. Warm water running between my fingers? Never thought I'd miss that. I'd get it back. I'd get everything back!

A memory came to me as I gloomily watched the water run over my hoof. I had singed my hand one birthday when I tried to put out the candles on the cake with my fingers. It was a crazy thing to do, but I was . . . How old was I back then? Wait? This . . . When was this?! I frantically racked my brain, but I had no idea when I had burnt my hand . . . or when my birthday was. I couldn't even narrow it down to a specific month! How could I forget something so important? Horrible dread and loss filled my heart, and I began to pound my mind harder. No, wait! I did recall more details! I had accidentally set the fur behind my coronet band on fire when I had tried to douse the candles by clapping them with my hooves. I had disregarded my mom's warnings, but I was very young and thoughtless. No . . . wait, what was this? What was doing this to me? What . . . But . . . I had two conflicting memories again? No, no no no no no nonono! This wasn't happening! If . . . If I cried just a little bit, maybe I'd feel better about this shocking development? Better about losing myself? No, I could stay collected! If I didn't, I would frighten myself into hyperventilation and subsequent sniffles and tears!

Acting on an impulse, I began to collect water into a magical bubble. As some form of therapy? I wasn't really sure right now; I couldn't think straight. As my magic collected the water, I noticed that while I could "feel" the temperature and shape of the water, its lack of contact with skin meant there was no sensation of slipperiness or coolness. It was strange, but I latched onto the peculiarity as if it were a lifeline. The bubble, it was like . . . a rippling plastic bag with water, and the plastic was my slightly lacking tactile sense. Now, what could I do with this bubble? Wash my tears, I concluded in a fraction of a second. The magic bubble opened gently as it met my face to spill its contents over my closed eyes, my muzzle dividing the soothing cascade into two torrents that poured into the steel sink below. I was breathing shakily and my teeth were clenched; I needed a second bubble of warm water to cool my nerves. As I was gathering more water with my magic, I got a better idea. A little fun. Just had to concentrate a little harder than normal!

I used my hoof to push down the handle, before getting to work. The irregular blob of water began to smooth out until it was a perfect sphere, thanks to a primarily purposeless trick I learned about three years ago. Huh? Oh, right. That tidbit belonged to her. A victorious smirk visited me for catching the inconsistency. I was not done with the bubble, though. I turned it into a cube. That was easy . . . Too easy. Just like the sphere, this light-refracting cube looked neat. Meticulously, I began to stretch it, flatten it, give it protrusions and curves. Excluding the resculpting of a few details, it was like perfectly projecting my imagination into reality.

With a touch of pride beneath my melancholy, I floated my piece of art to the middle of the room. Embee and I stepped forward to examine it more closely, sadness stiffening my joints. Embee's eyes were glued on my magical sculpture. “I've seen things like that in the air. They're usually at a much greater altitude than I am, though,” she said with wonder in her tone. When I didn't reply, she looked at me. “But you creating that with just magic and water? I'm honestly impressed, Rosy. It's very beautiful!” Despite her praise, I gazed pensively at my beautiful scale replica of a Cessna 152—the wingspan seemed about right at 35 centimeters—as I raised it to hover above us. I've lived near an airport most of my life, so I saw airplanes fly over our home often and at a low altitude. They were so incredibly bedazzling . . .

“One of these days, I'll fly a plane,” I said with a voice full of longing, sending my sufficiently accurate reproduction on a clockwise holding pattern. A few laps later the plane had brought a smile to my face. “Look at it fly. Isn't it just so incredible?” I found myself sounding depressed, which I had to rectify. “Airplanes are so super awesome . . .” I cheered, trotting sluggishly on the spot. “Heeheehee . . .” my giggle came out splendidly: full of energy and ending on a doleful sigh . . . Embee ignored the soaring plane to look at me with undeniable concern. I heard her speak, but I wasn't paying attention. I kept watching the plane wistfully. I had to think . . . on how to make the best of a bad situation! Plan ahead!

I could do quite okay in this body for a few days, if the circumstances demanded it. Maybe my identity would degrade a little, but I'd get it back in perfect condition once I was in my body. Right? I hadn't changed or lost anything permanently, had I? I could save myself from being flooded with this mare's experiences, couldn't I? On that note, where was she, then? Maybe she was in my body? Maybe she couldn't take it and had gotten herself killed . . . like I almost did. I felt so horribly guilty about the harm I had placed her body in, and I was so sincerely sorry. But . . . if she wasn't in my body, was she here with me? If so, she was witnessing my irresponsibility ruin her life the very moment I left my home. I was so sorry about that, too. I hoped she'd forgive me . . . Or maybe it was worse? Maybe my existence in her body had killed her, and her memories and traits were now being passed on to me? Maybe my body expired when I was torn from it? Then I'd have nothing to return to—a most horrifying thought! I'd be trapped in this body, fighting a battle I couldn't win! Little by little, I'd lose pieces of myself! Experiences, feelings . . . memories. Those I cherished most: my parents, my joys, my aspirations . . . Those that inspired me to be free from the bonds of earth itself . . . The ones that made me . . . me! I'd lose them all! I'd lose everything! For over a decade, I dreamt of flying a plane, and when I was weeks from making that wish turn real, this happens! I'd lose that too, and . . . and . . . I couldn't take this anymore!

“Or maybe I'll never fly a plane!” I shouted mournfully, my eyes turning misty. The Cessna entered a steep dive and crashed between us, violently shattering into countless droplets scattering in every direction. I . . . I didn't mean to kill it . . .

“Rosy!?” Embee yelled in shock, but I couldn't look at her. I stared in open-jawed despair at the wet puddle—the allegory for my life and future—as tears blurred my vision. “What did you—” A somber squeak escaped me with a cringe, and I crumbled to a sitting stance. The weight on my forehooves made me realize I didn't have palms to hide my face in, and that horrible loss almost persuaded me to shrivel up into a quivering pile. “—do that . . . for? Oh my . . .” she continued emotively. I struggled to weep silently, which would be okay, but . . . I was inconsolable, and the cork on my bottled emotions was loosening.

“Rosy?” Embee asked softly. “What's going on? What happened to you? Talk to me, please,” she implored. I was trembling fiercely and could hardly breathe. I tried to read her expression, but everything was a fuzzy blend of colors. She was close. Sitting before me? In the puddle of water that once was a resplendent replica of an airborne beauty? “Rosy. You're safe and you can trust me, I promise,” she spoke rapidly, tone dripping with sincerity and compassion.

“I can . . . trust you?” I whimpered hopefully, tears blending with the water in my soaked facial fur. “Really?”

Solemnly, she said, “Yes, you can.” That was all I needed to hear! “I give my word—Uhmh!” I had reached over to her and pulled us together. Squeaking several thank you's in a pitch higher than I had ever anticipated I'd be able to, I wrapped my limbs over her back and wings, embracing her like my life depended on it. I held my breath as the last of my restraint withered and my full sorrow began to find its way out in an anguished bawl.

“Everything will be okay, hon. Everything will be okay,” Embee soothed, stroking my back with care as I cried profusely. I didn't care anymore how wrong it sounded to cry with a female's vocal cords. I didn't care that all my life I had believed guys weren't supposed to cry! I wasn't bound by that stupid, oppressive, and ridiculous constraint anymore! I couldn't be and wasn't afraid of my own emotions. I just wanted to purge all of my sadness and my anxiety . . . To shed tears until I had none left. That would help . . . Weeping was helping. Sweet release. I had so needed this . . . and I really wanted to say I believed her now, but all I could reply with were sniffles and sobs. I was glad she was here, being consolingly warm and soft. I wasn't enduring distress alone this time, and I . . . I didn't want to be alone! There had to be others like me, there had to, there had to! Please please please please . . .

“Em-m-m-bh . . . Emh . . . I-I-Igh . . . th, nhj . . .” I gibbered miserably, overwhelmed with so much emotion I might as well have aphasia.

“It's okay, I'm here for you,” she whispered. I tried to feel her wing, but a hoof and fur-coated skin were no analogues for hands. Even the small acute area in the back-center of the hoof was insufficient. It was better than nothing, though. The little I could feel, along with her presence, was gradually calming me. She was my relaxant. Thank goodness, thank goodness, thank goodness . . . But I had gone beyond a line I hadn't considered crossing. Now I couldn't hide anymore, and I didn't want to! I had to do this.

“I . . . I . . . I have . . . a que . . . a question,” I said between my hiccuping sobs.

“Yes, hon?” Embee asked hushedly.

“What-what w-w . . .” I choked on my own tears.

Embee rubbed my spine consolingly. “Take your time. It's not a race.” Was she crying too? Maybe. Just the thought alone that she was affected by my intense sorrow bestowed me with gratitude. I respected her. I trusted her! She could help me! Maybe she knew something? Maybe she could save me?

“What would . . . would you . . . would you do . . . if you . . .” I stammered raspily, trying to stave off my persistent crying just long enough to squeeze out one sentence. I was too frail; I broke into a new bout of sobs with a gasp.

“I'm here for you, Rosy. Don't worry,” the only friend and support I had right now reassured.

Breathing raggedly and rapidly a few times, I recovered a fraction of myself, then spoke tremulously but resolutely: “What would y-you do i-if you w-woke up in a b-b-body that's n-not yours?” There was no turning back now. ‘Please know what I mean. Please don't betray me. Please don't do that to me! Please help me . . . Please help!’

Consarn Crippling Personality Flaws

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

Chapter 13
Consarn Crippling Personality Flaws

“Rosy, hon . . . What would I do if I were in a body that's not mine? Why do you ask that?”

‘Okay, okay, okay! She's asking warily, whispering inquiringly, not doubtingly. I can't be hasty. Have to test the waters . . . for impurities? Never mind! I have to restore my rationality real quick-like. It's wavering right now . . . but coming along. Carefully asking, thinking, a shred of calmness . . . careful, careful . . .’ I sobbed out a few coughs before finding my voice. “J-just answer . . . p-p-please,” I requested squeakily. The grand effort almost collapsed my head onto her back. Or withers. Shoulder? Whatever . . . I hoped from the bottom of my heart that she would know what to do if she were in my situation. Or if she knew somepony who had been. I needed advice. Some guidance. Help. Also, a caveat: if I started to spill out everything, Embee would think I was a hysterical crazybrain, and then it would be game over forever! She was silent, not answering my question. That was bad . . . increasingly bad . . . It was becoming harder to assure myself I was doing the right thing. Retreating into my disguise couldn't protect me from my fears and suspicions anyway. In fact, doing that would only make things worse! Was I rational yet?

“I, uh,” Embee began abruptly. I surreptitiously let out the air I had unknowingly trapped in my lungs. She caressed my back to moderately consoling effect. “I would do whatever I can to find out why I'm in somepony else's body,” she said softly. Okay . . . Good! That was a fairly smart and obvious—and relieving—answer. It also implied she had a fair idea what to do if her mind were swapped . . . assuming this was a mind swap. If not, then it was likely my true body had effectively become a corpse! Oh no, no no nononono! Perish those horribly pessimistic thoughts! I didn't want my hopes to die . . . So this was a mind swap! Embee had an idea! Act! But carefully . . .

I drew in a couple of snotty breaths to bolster myself, identifying the scents of dahlia and coffee. “Would you . . . Would you seek help?” I asked frailly. I was a shakily-breathing, clingy wreck, but I had to maintain a sensible mind. Somehow . . .

“Of course I would,” she replied with more certainty.

She was my support. The only one I had. In fact, I'd probably collapse like an empty sack if she let go. “Even when . . .” My jaw was moving, but no sound came out. The stakes at play were dissuading me from proceeding. If Embee thought the truth was nothing but hooey . . . No! Hiding was over! “Even when you . . .” Only a pitifully tiny peep? I had to try harder! “Even when you don't know how to get back to yours, and you . . . you fear nopony will believe you?” I sounded tearful but at least got words out of my mouth, nervously weaving and prodding my limbs in and around her feathery counterparts. Pliable plumes that I couldn't properly feel or grasp. No fingers gently running through them . . . It was too easy to feel forlorn, but at least I siphoned some extra comfort from her. She was warm, yet I shivered like I had bathed in arctic water.

“Rosy? Is that what . . . Oh, ehm . . .” she trailed off with a few stammers, the caressing stopping cold. Her response was a bad omen, and I compulsively wrapped her wing between my appendages. That would stop me from shattering! Maybe . . .

“Hon?”

Frightened. Couldn't breathe. Seconds ticking.

“Rosy?”

“U-uhh, y-y-yes, Emb-b-bee?” I replied apprehensively. This could be it! The breakthrough after which everything would turn for the better. Or for the worse! For the loony house! No no no, had to stay calm! Calm calm calm clam clam clam . . . clam? Bivalve mollusk!

“You . . .” Her solitary word was so packed with confusion that picturing her vacant expression was a no-brainer. I pictured that? Good! My mind was still working like a thing that works! “That's, uh, um . . .” Her wings shifted under my forelegs. Actually, her left wing barely moved since I had it snared between my limbs. “Hey, do you think you can let go for a moment?”

‘Let go?’ A powerful chill snaked up my spine, making my ears stand on end. My teeth clenched as I abated my breath. My eyes opened but were shut in short order by searing tears. ‘Sit on my own and support half of my weight on my horribly weird digits? Is she out of her f-f-fu-feu-feathery mind!’ I noted my euphemism, which I abstained from investigating by considering Embee's gently spoken suggestion instead. The fact that I was thinking with some degree of eloquence implied I was recovering. “Uhh . . . I-I g-guess I c-can,” I mumbled. “No, hold on wait Ichangedmymind,” I hastily corrected in my enervated voice; the intrinsic purpose of my limbs became apparent when its hardest part graced her fuzzy skin. “I mean I mean uh, I have a much better idea.” I tried to will a smile, but failed. I drew a breath that sounded not unlike a prolonged sob.
“Wecouldjustkeeponhuggingbecausethisisthebesthugeverandyoudon'twantthistoenddoyou?”
I blabbered, hoping to guilt her into never ever letting me go!

A small titter came from her. “Don't worry, hon,” she assured, probably not understanding what I had said. She sounded a tad strained, too. “Why don't I let go first, and you just follow nice and easy, okay?” No wait wait wait what!? Was she tempting me? I'd chain myself to her if I could! “Just tell me to stop if you—”

“Stop,” a high-pitched yelp squeezed its way up my throat as I hastily tightened my clumsy appendages together.

“Ah-ahah-alright,” she said coarsely, an unsure laugh in her tone. “Aow.” Her pained reaction confused me, but my distress prohibited further analysis. Recognizing that I was distressed must've meant I was regaining my senses. She tried to wiggle her wing free, but it had become even more constricted than before. “I'm very sorry, I was too hasty.” I felt her sides expand beneath my limbs, then contract when she let it out as a soft but long sigh. Her relaxation had a similar effect on me. There was something I was missing, something I should understand as clear as day . . . “So, uh, how long do you need, hon?” she asked, the wing I was tightly clutching slackening by what little it could. My brain kicked into gear and evaluated the time needed to elapse . . . by providing me an imaginary calendar; I promptly dismissed the unrealistic chronograph.

“I don't know,” I replied defeatedly, my ears slumping. I knew I couldn't . . . No. I wanted to say this. “I know I can't embrace you forever, but this is so wonderfully comforting, I want to believe I can. You can't imagine how much I value your help.” I was nearly thrown for a speech-halting curve by my delicate voice. Any higher and quieter, and I would've been whispering peepy gibberish. Was that how female voices worked, or was this specific to me? It didn't matter.

Embee remained silent, and I was too glum for thoughts; I let her presence calm my mind. After a moment of relative silence, she gave me a light stroke. “Well, I'm glad I can help, but as much as I want to, I won't do anything before you do.” In contrast to her statement, her wedged wing again vainly pursued its freedom, probably due to an involuntary muscle spasm. Oh my, that was it! Her feathery limbs were likely delicate, and my extreme clinginess was paining them. That she was sacrificing her own comfort bestowed me with gratitude . . . and shame.

I tried to untangle my limbs, but they refused to obey as I was short on stolidness. “I only need to prepare, that's that,” I whispered, doing my best not to sound reluctant, or let on that the idea of placing weight on my extremities was disquieting by itself. All of a sudden, the fact that I was currently colling a pony—a pegasus no less—reached my higher consciousness. I was hugging a winged equine! How . . . How ineffably exceptional! Now, I simply had to protract the hug for a little bit longer. Just a teensy bit. The warmth transpiercing her pleasant fur was so nice that I could just forget all concerns—

“Alright, ready when you are, hon,” Embee stated innocuously, cancelling my nascent trance and tiny smile.

Her spasming, twisted wing strongly urged me to quit being injuriously selfish, so . . . self-aimed pep talk commence: ‘I must and can sit on my own! I have the fortitude for it! If not now, then as soon as I do what must be done. So . . . So . . . Fortune favors the bold, and no time like the present! Three, two, one . . . Go!’

With gritted teeth, I released my interlocked limbs, freeing her wing. Displaying even more courage, I concluded that advancing to the next stage without delay was in order. ‘Okay, this will not be too bad, it's not too bad, it's not too bad, not bad at all, not bad, not bad, not bad, not bad,’ I chanted as I lowered my forelegs. ‘Right! Legs on the floor! Four of them. Meaning: no hands. Like that's new! I've been robbed of an essentiality . . . but didn't I put this fact behind me already? Why has it renewed? Come on, I can deal with this!’ I fiercely suppressed an urge to pull my forelegs up. I was so busy denying commands to actuate nonexistent digits that I scarcely noticed Embee taking her limbs off me.

The same didn't apply when her head and mane gently brushed against mine, making me aware of how nonabrasive my hairy cheek was. However, my thoughts were quickly diverted elsewhere by my cognitive cacophony . . . which I had to keep in check! ‘Rationalizing things could help! I'm suffering from the aftereffects of a severe nervous and emotional breakdown and am in shock, but just for a few more minutes and then I'll be fairly fine . . . I think,’ I attempted to assure myself, anxiously anticipating my body to apportion anaesthetics into my agonizing anterior appendages.

I sat with strength gained through plain determination, but the unreasonable inklings of abandonment refused to scatter. Opening my eyes at long last, I confirmed I wasn't alone; Embee's standing—and blurry—form was at an arm's reach. The distance seemed impossible to bridge; I yearned to return to her pleasant embrace with the hope it would do all the necessary talking and convincing. If only things were that easy. I was currently so hypersensitive to all things equine about myself that I was losing the stamina to resist and keep my head lucid . . . could I pass out?

“Ouch,” Embee groaned quietly, impelling me to get a grip on myself; she was gazing displeasedly at her slightly-opened left wing.

I frowned guiltily. “I'm . . . I'm sorry,” I whispered so quietly I wasn't sure I was speaking at all. “I didn't mean to hurt you, but I got absorbed in—” With a tiny grunt, she fully unfurled both feathery limbs. The sight caught me off guard; I squeezed my eyes hard to clear my vision so I wouldn't miss any details of this close encounter of the winged kind. She tested her starboard feather limb, and I gazed at its bewildering oscillations. Repeating the moves with the left made it jolt at its apex, eliciting a wince from her. “Buh . . .” I breathed unintelligently, my attentive eyes obediently tracking the spectacular attraction as its moves began to gradually smooth out and her pained flinches cessated. Then she turned her attention to me with a small sigh. I was supposed to say something. “I'm sorry,” the words rolled out of my mouth like a pair of marbles.

“What? Oh, no.” She shook her head. “You don't need to be sorry, hon,” she said softly, her wings tenting, as if trying to imitate an F4U Corsair. Needless to say, amazement trumped remorse. “If anything, I'm the one who should be sorry.” Her mane swung about as she gave her wings a hasty glance before sticking her muzzle into her left wing like a preening bird.

“Whuh?” I inquired while she gingerly retracted her wings. Why did she poke her wing, and why was she sorry? I had hurt her, not her who I had hurt . . . her? Focus! No, not the car! I blinked my eyes twice to cease the cerebral auto show and reinstate my cognition.

“You see, pulling a stretcher through the gusts developed quite a cramp, but I thought it wouldn't be a problem,” Embee said as she raised her foreleg and momentarily tilted her head—pony body language, I presumed cursorily. “Unfortunately, when you accidentally twisted up my wing, it was like being jabbed with a sharp stick.” Her ears flipped down; I noted that mine were facing her. “I had to stand up and stretch my wings a bit, but I chose to grit my teeth and wait for you to relax instead.” Her smile matched the apologetic tone. “Once again, I'm sorry. I hope I haven't upset you, hon.”

“No, uh, I'm . . . It's fine. You haven't,” I said in a powerless tone, flashing an honest smile. Embee's ears flapped up. “Thanks for clearing things up. I, um . . .” I glanced down at the moderately reflective floor. “I didn't realize why you suddenly asked to let go, and . . .” I slouched a little. “Maybe you were a bit vague?” Was I implying she had made an error? I should soften the impact quickly. “But I was too distressed, so my interpretation was impaired, and, and . . . and . . .” What was I saying? I couldn't think well. Confused. Why? Not sure. Just confused.

“It's alright. You don't need to feel bad,” Embee assured tenderly. A small smile on my face signified I was regaining my senses. “Speaking of which, are you feeling any better?”

“Humh . . .” I vacillated at answering the difficult question, thoughtlessly dragging a forehoof on the wet floor. For a moment, grief reverberated within me, but dissipated just as swiftly—I still had no keys for this biological prison. “Adequately better,” I said quietly, inclining my sights to my hoof as I lifted it. I blinked, and I saw a hand; another blink, and the feminine hoof was back. A vision, I realized. A hoof's location didn't correspond to a hand anyway. I was wistful for my fingers, but on the flipside, magic was probably a sufficient substitute. Bipedalism, however . . .

“Adequately? That's great to hear,” Embee tried to instill positivity. “On the other hoof, I'm still worried for you.” She had tried . . .

“I appreciate the concern,” I said, relinquishing the sarcastic tone for listless sincerity. The limb I gazed at poignantly reminded me how physically dehumanized I was. Nothing I could do about that but absorb it, accept it, and then deal with it. Things would improve soon. Hopefully.

“To get back on track, if you don't mind, you mentioned waking up in somepony's body?” she asked, her right foreleg lifting. I glimpsed it meeting her jaw, but the floor's reflective surface took precedence—whose brilliant idea was it to use shiny floor material? I had almost seen an impression of my unfamiliar visage, which was probably similar to Embee's. Everypony seemed to look the same if it weren't for the mane and colors—and number of eyelashes. “Can you tell me what that was about, hon?” she inquired further, her hoof upsetting the puddle between us.

Dozens of pony expressions flitted through my mind, all of them obviously cartoonish. Were they real, there could've been a terrifying chance they'd replace the faces of those I knew. “Yeah,” I muttered absently, affixing on my raised limb again. I saw the fur yield, exposing human-like skin and structure—another anatomically incongruous vision. I was looking at phalanxes, not whatever an arm was made of.

Anyhow, I was avoiding the situation; I hadn't even thought on how I'd break the big news to Embee. That . . . I had been dislocated across the dimensional borders into the body of a pre-existing mare, my selfdom was in a flux, and I was without a guarantee that either could be undone . . . or even that the truth wouldn't be dismissed as a severe delusion symptomatic of psychosis. No, telling all in one go would be too much for her to digest. In comparison, seeing my equine visage or applying pressure on four hooves should be the least of my concerns.

With slack lips on my inclined muzzle and a metric ton of doubt, I aimed my eyes at Embee. “So, uh, yes, what I, um . . .” I needed to expose the core of my problem right now, but a discouraging fear of mutual mistrust wrenched my carrot-filled stomach. “Hold on a sec.” Levelling my head, I cast a look to my right, from where I began scanning to the left. Hopefully, some of the room's features would serendipitously bestow me with an impeccable solution.

‘Black and white picture of the hospital; wall-length windows behind a warmly-smiling Embee, whose expression I mimic so she won't worry too much; an unremarkable doorway of the redundantly unremarkable kind; the unadorned small rectangle of reflective horror, aka a mirror; the adorably pink brewer that every insecure "masculine" male will denounce and hate instinctually and . . . seems like I'm not getting any ideas. Darn.’ With a sigh of mixed despondency and exasperation, my vision fell to the remains of the water Cessna, whereupon I felt a pang of compunction. ‘I'm in an awful dither. At least I regained my sense of humor, which is a sign of recovery, I think.’

“What is it, hon?” I heard Embee ask; there was a glint of encouragement in her eyes, but otherwise she looked concerned. I bit my tongue, avoiding staring at her. “Please, don't be afraid to speak your mind.” She was right: I shouldn't be afraid. Alas, validating the truth required concrete evidence, which I sorely lacked. Everything rested on how I expressed myself, and I wasn't confident in my abilities.

Dropping the upheld limb with a tiny splat, my ears signaled . . . Wait, splat? My ears rebounded. “Embee?” I said toward the soaked floor with epiphany in my tone. Hearing an attentive hum, I steeled myself and lifted my head. “Can I have a rag or towel, please?” I whispered politely.

“Oh, uh?” She tilted her head in bemusement, a small smile appearing a moment later. “Sure. The cupboards may have something. Let me take a look.”

‘I guess she didn't expect that response,’ I thought as she faced a cupboard to my left, befuddlement on her face. ‘Hmm . . . How about that? I'm looking at her drenched tail and what surrounds it . . .’ She used her mouth to ajar the door, then pushed it all the way open with her foreleg. ‘I guess to some that could be attractive, but I don't feel the much feared involuntary excitement.’ Relief creased my lips. ‘Well, this is outstanding! The distinct lack of sexual attraction means that my libido doesn't associate a mare's behind with a hu—’

“There's a floorcloth here,” Embee announced, casting a look at me over her back. My interrupted thoughts regrouped hastily, bringing to mind that while my primal part was moderately pleased by furtively appraising human female behinds, my intellect never wasted a second to sternly condemn my vileness to beshaming effect. “Will that do?” She indicated a folded white something on the cupboard's upper board.

I blinked my ruminations away, the saline remnants of dry tears stinging around my eyes. “Yes,” I affirmed, renewing my smile. “The floorcloth will do perfectly.” Briefly, I envisioned Embee clothed in one of those hoodies that are long enough to go past the hips; were I a human female, I'd wear that to protect my curves from immoral eyes as well.

“Alright.” She gracefully plucked the cloth with her teeth and brought it to me. Without so much as a thought, I clamped the basic cloth between my hooves. When Embee released the cloth and it fell over my extremities, I was left staring at the assembly in a flummox; should she not have asked me to use my arcane skill? Some kind of song started to play, but Embee drew my attention away from it. “May I ask what you need it for?” she queried while backing a little, puzzlement creasing her brows.

I tipped my forelimbs indicatively at the puddle. “I should clean up the mess I made, shouldn't I?” I explained as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Ah—what?” Embee almost leaped out of her skin. She promptly shook her head lightly, casting off her befuddlement in favor of a mellow expression. “Oh no, you don't have to,” she said in a matching tone. “Let me take care of it.” Her departure from amenability surprised me.

“Um . . .” She had thrown a wrench into my works; I had to yank it out before they fell into disrepair. I overcame my dismay as she took a small step closer, presumably to take the cloth for herself. “I just feel it's my job, not yours,” I objected timidly. My frown, sitting posture, and joined hooves must have made me look repentant, which might've been amusing had the situation not been serious.

Embee studied me for a second, then reshaped her lips with amiability. “Rosy, I admire devotion and sense of responsibility, but I can also sense that you're stressed.” How did she know I was stressed? I hadn't reaffirmed I was. “Why don't I clean up while you relax, and then maybe you can tell me what's troubling you, okay?” A fair suggestion, and tempting . . . “Can I please have the cloth?” She showed no signs of hostility; her intentions were arguably commendable and her demeanor affable . . . but I had to stay on course.

I unfettered the cloth, placing my forehooves on it as soon as it landed. “I have to clean up this puddle, okay?” I insisted, my voice devoid of the courage that had levered me onto all fours. Not a moment later, my hypersensitivity acted up, causing me to heave air and upset my balance. Despite the debilitating flood of tactile and mental feelings, I kept myself upright. A quick glance confirmed that the cloth was still trapped underneath my hooves. “It's really important that I do,” I continued in a nauseated tone. Sparked by a sudden inspiration, I stomped my forehoof. The sharp influx of inhuman sensation exacerbated my unease. Exhaling as I shook my head, I performed the move again with the addition of a listless grunt. Three successive stomps later, I felt like I couldn't breathe, but I couldn't stop there. Acting on impulse, I pushed myself onto my hind legs, my wits a moment too late to get their say.

‘This is a terribly bad idea!’ I thought as I folded my forelegs to my body.

“Rosy!” Embee finally surmounted her puzzlement. “What are you doing?” A combination of incredulity and worry was on her countenance, horror on mine.

“Something utterly stupid,” I replied through unmoving jaws.

I maintained my bipedal stance by continually performing tiny hops, though I was only postponing the inevitable. Pinkie might've been able to stand upright with relative ease, but not me. Apparently I wasn't a perfect analogue of the cartoon rendition, and apparently Embee was the perfect rendition of agog bewilderment. Unless I tumbled onto my back or side, I'd have to let my oversensitive forehooves take the brunt of the impact.

My heart squeezed with anxiety; every passing fraction of a second made the difference between human and pony anatomy excruciatingly apparent. Perturbingly enough, I was sure the muscles articulating my hind legs felt different, too. Same for my spine, pelvis, and . . . As insignificant as the issue should have been by now, the emptiness between the legs resurfaced. It was unbalancing—in more ways than one.

My time was up; gravity got its wish. A strained yelp escaped my throat, and my face warped in consternation. I fell onto the right side of my hip with a grunt, my shoulder on the same side following a split-second later and knocking the wind out of me. The muscles in my neck did their duty, saving my head from an undamped impact. “Oh no! Are you alright?!” Embee's exclamation punched through my daze. I saw her hoof reaching out to me, both wings flared open in panic.

“Sort of, yeah, don't worry,” I replied, gazing at the sideways world, too defeated to care that my ear was squished between my head and the floor. Even my respiration was ready to throw the towel in. That's what I got for trying to attain an essential human characteristic in a pony's body. My eyes misted up as I began to realize the ramifications of my incapacitation. Nonetheless, I scrounged some strength to raise my head and offer Embee a short-term smile. “I'm not physically injured,” I attested feebly, sniffling. My left hind leg was crossed over my right—that didn't feel right. The former's hoof scuffing the latter's hide wasn't any more pleasing, but slightly adjusting my legs was better than letting them be.

Embee sighed sympathetically, her wings retracting. “That stunt of yours really worried me.”

I weighed whether to snark or be serious; the latter won in nanoseconds. “I know you're worried. It's natural to be. I'd be. Well, I am. Anyhow, my injury's just . . .” I looked down at my sprawled-out forelegs. My slender forelegs with arguably shapely hooves . . . “Perfectly encompassing,” I finished with a lump in my throat, my feminine voice exacerbating the estranging isolation. Forming a truce with my voice had been a cold comfort when I was poignantly aware that very little of me was permeating this organic cage.

“An encompassing injury? So you did hurt yourself?” Embee inquired, apparently lost on what I had meant.

“I'm not sore or hurt in the sense that'd require bandages or the like, but I'm suffering nonetheless,” I bemoaned lethargically, glancing at the cloth in the puddle about one meter away. The fur beneath my eyes absorbed superfluous water as I recalled that my current posture echoed my appearance on the gravel road. Hesitantly, I twisted myself longitudinally, simultaneously pulling my forelimbs in tandem, starting with my right. My hind legs, moderately retracted as they were, jutted away from my body. Thus, I was akin to the letter L when all was set and done. My imagination pictured a pair of colorful bracelets above the coronet band of my right hoof. Was it my imagination? Might've been a memory. I couldn't tell. Did I even want to know?

“Rosy?” My right ear spasmed at Embee's gentle call.

I turned my low-held head toward her. “Yes?” I peeped submissively, rolling my eyes up to meet hers.

“What are you suffering from? What's going on with you?” she implored, placing herself prone; I greatly appreciated that equality. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

Besides unquestionably believing every word I said? That was only wishful thinking. I was incapable of blurting out the cause of my agony, but she could push me into a compromising corner. “Have you noticed anything unusual about my behavior recently?” I whispered dourly, hoping she'd get a clue.

“Well . . .” She hesitated. “You've been repeatedly distracted by your thoughts, became agitated by a song, made a miniature airplane out of water, smashed it abruptly before breaking into tears, mentioned waking up in another body, insisted on cleaning the puddle, then reared up . . .” Confusion rivaling her concern, her jaw tried to mouth out words. Shame burned within me. She needed answers, and I was obliged to provide.

“Yeah . . . yeah.” I looked at her folded forelegs; replicating her posture would bestow me with immense discomfort. “What's going on with me is that . . .” I trailed off with a sigh, eyes and ears drooping. Was I attempting to shy away? Was I still a lousy coward who had misgivings about Embee's trustworthiness? Just to show that I wasn't backing down, I placed my insensate hoof on my foreleg and tried to coil the former around the latter. It didn't work, but the sensations incentivized me. “I really thought I was ready to tell you, but my reluctance is irrationally unyielding,” I explained quietly. Or in other words, I was . . . had been a coward. “My only option was to break myself into submission, if you will.” The smile I tried to show was precluded by my indomitable misery.

“Break yourself?” Embee said in stunned disbelief. “What do you mean by that?”

I sniffled, but my tear flow was already ceasing. “Acta non verba.” My smile finally got its fugacious limelight, but Embee was at a loss for words. “Confused, Embee? No need to be. It means: actions, not words. So . . . what better way to demonstrate than by overexerting my fragile tolerance? I would've scrubbed the floor for . . .” I paused to cast another glance at the cloth, imagining myself wiping the puddle slavishly until I'd achieved the debilitating result . . . Or become desensitized to my hooves. “I don't know how long,” I said lackadaisically, refocusing on her. “But hey.” I tilted my head. “Looks like I discovered a poignant shortcut: attempt to stand on two legs and let the outcome do the trick.” I tried to chuckle, but I simply didn't have it in me. I felt like I had been demoted to a good-for-nothing animal, albeit one possessing speech, notable acumen, and—most graciously—an innate ability substituting for my lost hands.

“A shortcut to do the trick? I'm sorry, hon, but I still don't follow.” Embee's commiseration and concern was true. Maybe. How could I know for sure?

“It's fine. I probably don't make much sense right now,” I said torpidly. “I'm confused, exhausted, stressed, crestfallen, anxious, discontent . . .” I itemized, nodding my head minorly at each word; a heavy breath signaled the end of it. “I can't accurately detect everything I'm afflicted with.”

“What's causing those?” Embee whispered. Looking into her eyes, I got the impression that all the info I had given to her, verbal or otherwise, was currently being evaluated. I took a moment to review the very recent events: lacking the willpower to tell my woes, I was so close to making a breakthrough when, sadly, the twisting of her wing caused an interruption, and the subsequent end of the embrace renewed my constraining cowardice. I had to employ an extreme method to wear myself down, yet I was currently avoiding the unavoidable by almost forcibly reviewing my recent . . . Never mind!

“What's causing those?” I huffed irately. “Being beset by an unrequested form that I disassociate with,” I confessed, regret striking me a second too late. If I were a plane, I had passed V1.

Embee tilted her head, and my ears drooped. “Are you saying that you don't identify with your body?” I sensed incredulity in her voice and carrot in her breath.

“Yes, I am,” I replied resignedly. I couldn't deny that exposing the truth had felt good, but there was very little of that relief now.

“Because it's not your body?” Her tone was uncertain.

Suspicion of an unfavorable result urged me to apply the brakes and reverse engine thrust, but that was out of the question. I shook my head, closing my eyes as I said, “It's not my body.”

Thus far, Embee had maintained eye contact; now she slowly surveyed me from face to tail and back. I felt like I was being regarded as a pitiable lusus naturae. That notion, and the accidental actuation of my tail, made my head drop a little with a wince. “You . . . You have awoken in a body that's not yours?” Her question educed a nod and a glum murmur of agreement from me. “Oh, I, that's . . .”

I couldn't say for sure, but there might've been emerging realization in her voice. “That's the truth I've held secret since we met. I'm in the wrong body, don't know how it happened, and I'm clueless on how to undo it.” My situation sounded so disheartening that my voice sank to a mumble. “And just to get this out of the way, I used to be . . . I'm a human, too.” The weight of Embee's potential response was so intense, I felt like I'd snap if she so much as hinted at turning on me.

“What? You're . . . a human?” she said intermittently. She then pressed a hoof to her forehead. “This is . . .”

‘Unbelievable?’ That was it then: Vr achieved. I had to rotate—to take the plane into the air. No turning back, no reason to hold back!

“Well, frankly, I don't expect you to believe me! I mean, mind swapped with a pony? Psh!” I overturned a hoof, casting a momentary look toward the ceiling. “That's just plain outlandish, stuff of fiction, impossible, unheard of, crazy talk. Take your pick! If I hadn't been mysteriously subjected to it myself, I wouldn't believe it, and I didn't, so I convinced myself I was having the most tremendous lucid dream ever. That was the most realistic assumption, and it kept me going quite well. After all, dreams are finite and can be broken with self-inflicted pain. I presumed that if the dream voided its appeal, I could bonk my head and everything would revert to normal. Well, my dream unquestionably voided its appeal when I smashed onto a rock by the riverside and nearly broke a rib. I assure you, absolutely nothing has been normal ever since. You can't imagine the immense horror that came when I realized I was unable to escape a body I never asked for. As close as I was to blinking out of existence under the wheels of a late nineties Audi, I greatly appreciate that I'm still breathing. This body's not mine, you see, and snuffing it out would've been an unforgivable misdeed I'd never be able to live with. Not that I would've been around to feel terrible about it.” I pushed up a humorless chuckle. “Anyhow, this being a mind swap, I think I can safely say I'm not selfish in wanting my familiar form back. My familiar life, actually. Two lives are at stake here, and you can help restore them both. I certainly don't have any ideas what to do myself, and I'm pretty sure you wouldn't ever wish to condemn somepony to live my life, just like you wouldn't want me to live the life of somepony I'm not. While I don't have any proof that you are, I suspect you're not giving much thought to what I say, but rather realistically, speculate what kind of psychosis would delude me to think I'm entrapped in somepony else's body. So, um . . .” I bit my lip; the combination of dwindling hope, a premonition that my talk was counterproductive, and speaking extensively with my debatably selfhood-precluding voice was taking its toll on me. “Just make your conclusion, and I'll . . .” It was becoming very hard to keep my voice steady, but I continued defiantly. “I'll humbly, albeit very reluctantly, accept it because I don't have evidence to substantiate the truth with, whereas your profession not only places you above me, but also has bestowed you with the necessary credentials, expertise, and authority to decisively dismiss my poorly presented assertion.” I ran out of stamina; closing my moistened eyes, I crashed my head over my forelegs with a muffled groan.

‘Yeah, she's going to dismiss everything, just . . . just like my . . . those who are . . . were my friends! They deflected my requests to stop the hurtful jests with some variation of “can't you take a joke, dude?”’ How could my alleged friends do that? Did they not see my increasing anxiety? Couldn't they discern right from wrong? What was my relation to them? An in-name-only friend as a docile and submissive designated driver? I did that service out of principle; it was either sober me or drunk Benny behind the wheel of his gaudy Civic. At least I didn't have to drive that abused automobile after I got my own, but I think their drunken presence offended the ancient econobox, too. Wait, why was I even thinking of this irrelevant garbage? Coping mechanism, maybe? An escape from the ongoing stressors? The stress? That was it! The stress. It was messing up my faculties. I shouldn't think of the bad times. I should think of the good times! I had to discover a go-to topic to soothe myself, something incontrovertibly awesome that wouldn't make me think of a life I may not return to. I needed an optimal passport to . . . My car in its designated parking spot with its windshield wipers moving! Hold on? Why were they moving? I was perfectly certain I had visited my parents—my real human parents—yesterday and it hadn't rained. On further study, the perspective being from outside and before the car, at a height of one meter, not to mention the distinct feeling that I was a pony, tipped me off that this precise memory wasn't mine. There was something significant about the memory, maybe because it was related to my decision to purchase an endemic human-made transportation for—

“Rosy?” Upon hearing Embee's tentative call, my ears and eyes arose and opened, respectively. Reality was reinserted as I segregated the memory, but I felt a twinge of related sadness right before my despondency squashed it beyond identification.

“Here comes the dreaded, or I guess, deserved verdict,” I drawled drearily, letting impulse decide what I said and did. “So what am I? Loony, a basket case, bonkers, some other definition? How about clinically insane? That sounds medically accurate, doesn't it? Maybe I'll come to like it eventually?” My head felt like lead, allowing me only a few degrees of movement towards Embee; I caught a glimpse of her seemingly perpetual concern. Or confusion. Perhaps my erratic conduct was going so far above her head it was knocking a few weather satellites out of orbit. “Hey, I know I'm not supposed to offer advice, but I really don't care anymore, so remember: opinions and feelings influenced by my conduct must not affect your judgement.” I tried and failed to sound nonchalant; I was too sullen to alter my phlegmatic expression and the associated enervated intonation. “It's part of your profession to be perfectly fair and impartial, yet consoling in some manner which may not even be honest, I guess, and just . . .” My speech reduced into mumbles before fading it out entirely.

Time seemed to tick very slowly, and I wasn't thinking much. It was a little unusual, but I was exhausted. A long, gentle sigh emitted from my left. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but you said you woke up in a body that's not yours?” Embee's whisper sounded cautious, perhaps sympathetic. Maybe it was just feigned. Whatever.

“You could say I woke up in a nightmare that doesn't end,” I defined dismally, staring emptily at the wall ahead. I was a little surprised that she hadn't caught some detail from my rant, or assured everything would be fine. Perhaps she sensed the latter's futility, opting to save it for when I wouldn't potentially spurn her helpfulness. Upon that thought, I realized I still held some hope against hope. Raising my head by a small measure, I looked toward her. “You know how I've behaved recently?” I asked.

“I do.” She inched herself a little closer. A supposition of dubitable veracity dawned on me: compared to a male's, my female voice had better odds at appealing to Embee's conscience if I sounded vulnerable and apologetic.

I started with an unintended stammer before I got my act on. “I'm really sorry about the ranting, Embee. I'm just in debilitating pain. Not physical, mind you, but emotional and mental pain. I have so little faith in being taken seriously that . . . that . . .” I paused, unsure how to amend the damage done by my sourness. Shame pulled my visual focus to the corner of the wall diagonally afront of me. “Even when every fiber of me was screaming and pleading for help, I was using any means necessary to keep the mind swap a secret.” With a sigh, I let my head rest. “I'm afraid I've only made things worse for myself . . . I messed up the delivery of all the vital info, maybe irredeemably, but I can't stress enough that what's happened to me is . . . should be by all accounts impossible, yet it really has happened,” I lamented, still minutely incredulous that I had been separated from the inseparable, but the plethora of incessant tactile sensations decisively countered my disbelief. Speaking of countering . . . “Embee?” I mumbled, letting my eyes close.

“Yes, hon?” she replied innocuously. Innocuously enough.

My tongue was in all likelihood as silvery as a half-century old carcass of a forgotten vehicle in the woods; however, trying to learn what was coming could lead to new methods at convincing her. I wasn't going to give up. Not yet. “Are you performing a preliminary diagnosis, perhaps considering disassociative disorder symptomatic of some form of psychosis?” I ventured dispiritedly.

“Those aren't related, hon. And no, I'm not diagnosing you with any kind of mental disorder,” she said, her gentle tone inflected with subtle firmness.

“Why not?” I queried, puzzled.

“Diagnosing you with a mental illness isn't something I'm qualified to do, not to mention I'd never forgive myself for crushing your spirits.” Something touching my foreleg called for my attention. “I'm just a basic paramedic whose shift actually ended about twenty minutes ago. My job is to treat injuries and console those in need,” she continued as I gazed dumbly at the source of the pressure: it was her aquamarine hoof. “And it looks like you're in dire need of the latter.”

I stared in wonder at her peaceable smile. A feeling of tranquility was radiating from her hoof, and somehow I was 72% certain it was her magic at play—although a pegasus with magic was preposterous. I wanted her to explain this, but a greater issue took precedence. “In that case . . .” I started, but I paused to review her statement. Her capability to conclusively diagnose me—a threatening obstacle in itself—was now out of the picture, which meant I could strive for much needed closure; this debacle had run for too long. “I must admit that I have nearly insurmountable trust issues which made me act like a passive-aggressive nimrod, and I apologize if I disrespected you.” I probably had disrespected her. “So please, hear me out. I really, really need to trust you.” Her mellow smile was replaced with a look of seriousness. If she had something to say, I didn't give her the chance. “In fact, I demand raw, undiluted, unrefined honesty, so no hidden meanings, no smooth talking, not even white lies. Absolute honesty.” Despite her placating touch, I struggled to keep myself together; I had demanded her to be unforgivingly straightforward, which was crazy times ten. “Can you do that?”

“I can,” she affirmed solemnly. “I give you my word that you can trust me.” My human side cried for a hand as it tried to stop me from laying my phalanxes over Embee's pastern. She glanced at this briefly with bemusement before her eyes returned to my now pleading look.

“Okay, so . . .” I swallowed. “When I say that I'm in the wrong body, do you really believe me?” I asked, my faint voice almost giving out. The final seconds were upon me. I'd soon know if I had scored a trustworthy confidant . . . or was left to toil alone with my hardships. I couldn't breathe.

Embee opened her mouth, and a cold wave swept through my bones.
“I do.”

“Mwgh?” I squeaked, tension leaving me with cosmic velocity. My heart and body were aflutter, but a tiny speck of doubt remained. “But . . . but . . . I-I don't have anything to back the truth with, I've . . .” A strange cough cut me short; I didn't let it stop me. “I've—” The same cough came again. What was wrong with me? I couldn't stop it. Wait, no. I wasn't coughing. Diffusing vision, convulsing breaths . . . I didn't believe it . . . I had begun weeping.

“Listen, hon. It's okay, everything is okay,” Embee said, her voice reassuringly void of treachery. “I believe you. Well, to be very honest with you, I can't deny or confirm what you said, but I'll take your words as true.” Her unrequested clarification, while a little worrisome, adhered to the honesty criteria. “You don't have to be scared anymore. I'm here for you, hon.” I tried to express my gratitude, but combating my emotions was next to impossible; only whimpers and hiccups passed through my trachea. “It's okay to cry, let it all out. Don't keep your emotions bottled up,” Embee said, having caught my attempts to limit my overflowing sensitivity. I was about to ask if I was crying like a female, but I let the topic wither once I presumed my voice was simply fostering a suspicion, and I didn't want to ruin this immeasurably wonderful moment anyhow.

As I lay there crying unabashedly, I realized I had almost completely ignored the radio and its pony host. ‘. . . my second year here. That's, I think . . . almost half as long as the first ponies here. Anywho—or is that anyhow? No idea. My teacher probably would. Right, right, a song coming up about . . . living in submarines?’

Aside from the upbeat song, a silence had descended upon the room. I was shaking from the abating adrenaline. Her hoof was on my left forelimb, and my right one was still on hers. She wasn't speaking. Nothing needed to be said. It was a comforting wait.

When my tear shedding finally ceased, I was so drained even smiling was difficult. “I can't tell you how happy and relieved I am.” I sounded like Fluttershy with a cold. Not that I knew what she'd sound like if she were to have a cold.

“You already have, hon,” she pointed out. From the corner of my eye, I saw her lean closer—Oh my! A soft poke to my shoulder . . . A nuzzle! To my surprise, a giggle shot up my throat.

“What's funny?” Embee asked, smiling inquisitively as another giggle gained its liberty.

“You nuzzled me, that's—hehehee. I mean, you did that before, but I was in the dumps back then. I don't know why it's making me giggle. I suppose I never thought how weird nuzzling is. It felt weird, but nice,” I explained, the giggles in my tone defying my control like Teflon. “Oh gosh, what's with me? This is embarrassing.” Regardless, I took my right pastern to my eyes, wiping the remnants of my tears into the warm and furry skin. For good measure, I gently wiped my nose, too. Well, snout.

“I don't mind your giggles, hon. I'm just glad to see you're happy,” Embee assured, cautiously rubbing my left foreleg. That felt weird as well. Strange thought: would I feel okay with my limbs if hands gingerly massaged them? I felt a little anxious, but also curious to find out.

“I'm also happy that I'm happy,” I said with a warm chuckle, my mind still a smidgen consumed by the reconciliatory caress. Staring at my limbs, I envisioned a pair of hands meticulously caressing them. It would be like physiotherapy. Concurrently, normalcy was returning to me. Sort of. I'd never attain the normalcy I was used to as long as I was a pony . . . No, I didn't want to dwell on that. I should get something done instead. “I think I should get up . . .” Discomfort twisted my lips when I felt my frog compress, but I refused to resile my foreleg.

“Something wrong, hon?” Embee asked after a few seconds.

I looked at her with a difficult smile. ‘Nothing's wrong. I'm fine,’ I thought of saying, but honesty trumped denial. “I'm not ready to stand on my hooves yet.” My expression and ears fell. “Kinda shattered my tolerance for them when I suffered a breakdown and . . . you know?” Recounting the events leading to my confession was too painful.

“Oh?” Embee lost her smile. “Well, don't rush yourself.” Glints of encouragement were in her eyes. “Take whatever time you need to . . .” She hesitated, perhaps mulling if it was wise to speak her mind? “To feel okay.”

Sensing Embee's caution, I showed her a smile and raised my auxiliary body language communicators—allowing them to stay down would contradict my facial expression. “I'm sure I only need a minute, or two.” The doubt in my tone belied my estimation. “Not long anyhow, so don't worry. Just have to prep myself mentally.” I made a token attempt at a nonchalant hum. Hiding or downplaying my weaknesses—even temporary ones—seemed to be a habit. Had I learned to wear a mask to conceal my true self in fear of condescension and rejection, maybe even violence? I had heard the words. Gay, emo, and so forth. In general, I had been spared from such disparaging remarks myself. Sometimes, I felt like I had to gauge my every word and action, as if the sword of Damocles would fall if I deviated from the established norms. Maybe being afraid of ostracization was one reason for my low stress tolerance? More than once had I wanted to defy the generally accepted masculine norms, but I never had the courage. Some did, and they could help change the public attitude. Maybe they could form a movement? Like feminism, but for males! Then, it would be laughed out of court by other males amidst accusations of sexism against females. How cynical of me.

Anyhow, I shouldn't ponder on prevalent sociocultural values. I should talk with Embee. “Hey, uh, prepping myself mentally doesn't mean we have to sit in silence,” I said a little shyly. Embee seemed lost in her thoughts, gazing at something behind me, but her ears oriented in my direction.

Turning to me with a hum, she asked, “I thought you needed a moment to yourself?”

“Well . . . yeah, I kinda do, but uh, not really,” I dithered, tempted to escape back into my ruminations. “Ugh.” I closed my eyes shut for a moment. “Never mind,” I concluded a little irately. I could think and think, but that wouldn't put me back on my hooves. Still, I wanted to make time pass. “Hey. I um . . . I got a question. Before I told you about my condition, did you make any assumptions?” My imagination came up with a word; it rhymed with grape. Oh joy . . .

I presumed Embee was a smidgen baffled at my vacillation and sudden question. Meanwhile, my tail was doing its utmost to close the gap between itself and my body. “I can't say I didn't.” Compunction creased her lips. “I could only speculate what was troubling you until you began to open up. Even when you mentioned being in a body that wasn't your own, I was unsure what to make of it, but I kept an open mind and patiently waited for you to elaborate. I also must admit that your sudden rant had me confused, and yes, I was a little hurt as well.”

“I'm not proud about the commotion I caused.” My ears drooped in shame as I thought back on my emotional rollercoaster.

“You were under immense stress, so it's no skin off my back,” Embee pardoned me.

I smiled carefully. “Maintaining your amiability and candor was nothing short of admirable,” I complimented her, sensing the muscles behind my cheeks undo the latest ear position. However, my smile was short-lived as I posed a serious query: “Speaking of patience, would you have kept me here for as long as necessary to get me to open up?”

“Of course not,” she answered, which sounded like an objection wrapped in an amicable tone. “I can request and reason, but not force you to speak. You have the right to decline any and all offered aid and leave the hospital at your volition, provided you're capable of doing so.” She paused, sighing furtively through her smile—a hint of frustration? “It's simply how things work here.”

“So . . .” I let that info sink into my cortex. “I could've just uttered a pococurante ‘Thank you for your help, goodbye,’ and then strolled out of here, just like that?” A recollection of a video game with abysmal voice acting and a paltry storyline came to my mind, but on the plus side, it had a fair selection of cars. Blinking my eyes, I again felt the sting of dried-up tears. Brushing the residue away with a hoof didn't seem possible—or appealing. A tissue balled up in magic might be sufficient.

Embee's smile had taken on a puzzled slant. “Pococ . . . uh? Yes, correct.” She nodded. “If you stood up and headed out the hospital, I wouldn't have a binding reason to stop you.” A downtrodden look had overcome Embee. “Though I'd worry myself sick and ask why you're leaving on such short notice.”

She earned my immediate sympathy. “No worries, Embee. It's unlikely I'd leave.” That brightened her up. “Well, not yet, at least. You probably want to help me as much as you can. Besides, sleeping at home is a lot more relaxing than sleeping in a hospital, though I'd prefer to sleep in my familiar body.” I giggled lightly. “Sleeping in my body? That sounded weird, like it's a sleeping bag, but you get what I mean? So, in any case . . .” Maybe I should get up? Tentatively, I dragged my hoof on the floor. Result: my resurrecting optimism was making readjustment easier. Still, as I upturned my limb to gaze at the sole, the pang of loss instantly rippled through me. Signals within my mind tried to find what was no more . . . It was an ineffable feeling. I cleared my throat, renewed my smile, and continued where I left off: “Now that I haven't stupidly traipsed away, you're aware of what I'm afflicted with and have mercifully given me the benefit of the doubt, and . . .” Once more, I had to part the smile for seriousness. “You will help me, right?” I asked emphatically.

“You can count on it, hon!” she replied without hesitation, bestowing me with happiness I had to externalize with more than my wide smile.

I dithered for a fraction of a second before I closed my eyes and . . . “Yay.”

My lips drew to an abashed grin as Embee laughed. “That was adorable!” she exulted, and I was sure my cheeks had become lightish red. “How did you come up with that?”

“Mmm, um.” I was unable to look her in the eye. In fact, I couldn't look at anything but the inner side of my eyelids. “I heard it from somepony . . .” If Embee were to ask, I'd speak the name. Maybe she knew her? Perhaps if her sister really was Rainbow Dash, she—

“Hey.” That and a soft tap to my left limb took me out of my hopeful predictions. “Give my regards to that somepony if you two meet,” Embee wished.

I gasped. “You know her!?” I asked in astonishment, a pulse of feelgood jolting my body. I could've used it to spring up onto my legs. Nächstes mal? Gratuitous German!

Blinking her eyes, Embee looked thoroughly baffled, but I didn't let that break my excited grin. “What? No, I thought you did?”

“Oh . . .” I deflated. “I'm sorry, I don't.” Would be nice if I did. Why did I imagine myself sharing a tea and chatting with her, as a mare? It was only a fantasy. If it weren't, I would've been overjoyed . . . and a little disturbed that I was happily indulging somepony's memory.

Half-lidding her eyes, a gentle look appeared on Embee's features. “Well, it was a cute little cheer, anyhow.” My shyness came back in full swing; it was easier to gaze at my forelegs than her.

“Thanks,” I said with a titter, a little embarrassed that she called me cute. My titter was cute, too.

“You're welcome,” Embee said happily.

As I hummed sweetly, an unusual warmth filled my heart. “I think being cute's nice,” I whispered to myself. But . . . could I really be cute, and like it too?

Nothing was wrong with something else being cute, like a puppy, a kitten, some cars, cartoon ponies, or a cutesy little iguana rubbing its adorable face against a friendly hand. I d'awwed mentally. Anyhow, all of those could be male. Maybe not the car, though. The closest reference of cuteness was Embee's face, which was remarkably expressive when compared to a real pony . . . which she was. Did my face look like hers? I was new to being cute, but that wasn't intrinsically linked to being female. A notion in the back of my mind insisted otherwise. That was the instigator of the conflict! I had been paranoid of appearing unmanly in any context or manner, and that fear was still trying to dominate me. Irrational nonsense! If something feminine appealed to me, then nothing should stop me from reaching for it. In the same vein, if something masculine appealed to me, then nothing should stop me from reaching for it, either. In fact, I was pretty sure a law stated that expressing oneself was a fundamental right entitled to everypony regardless of gender, the exercising of which should never beget discrimination. “Just heard on the radio that it's going to be a sunny day tomorrow,” Embee's voice twisted my ears. What . . . what did weather have to do with anything? Oh, right. Pegasus. “You look like you got something on your mind,” she said at the same time I looked at her wing. Glancing aside, I hummed thoughtfully: were I to heed my old habits, I'd have to concede personal freedoms, including the right to express cuteness. No further exploration of this topic was needed. For now. In fact, I should think less and do more. Acta non verba, right?

“I think I got a forecast of my own,” I hazarded quietly, staring at my forelimbs as I carefully tested their articulation and my readiness with minute movements.

“Oh? What kind?” Embee asked, her tone going from mild confusion to curiosity.

I let confidence shape my lips. “In less than a minute, I will be up on my hooves,” I said, challenging myself. “That's my prediction.”

“Ah!” She smiled widely.

“Here goes.” Inhaling deeply, I closed my eyes and counted to three. Letting my muscle memory do its thing, I retracted my forelimbs in tandem, using my right as a lever. “Okay, looking good so far,” I congratulated myself once I was sitting on my haunches, feeling a smidgen unnerved.

Embee sat up, too. “Well?” she wondered after a moment of inaction.

A muscle spasm arced through my left hind leg. It was like a toe: same bones, but different shapes. “Uhm, I'm just taking a breather.” My confident smile was unwilling to manifest, so I had to fake it with indifference. “I still got, what, forty-five seconds?” I waved my hoof. “No pressure.” A small titter escaped me.

Embee frowned; she wasn't buying my ruse. “How are you feeling, though?” she queried.

“Like the two fingers I have left are highly misproportioned with unwieldly nails that expand a bit when weight is applied on them,” I explained hastily. “Oh, and there's this slightly softer area underneath.” Demonstrating how flexible a pony foreleg was, I showed her an upturned forehoof like the palm of a hand. “See?” I would've pointed at it with my right hoof, but it was busy propping me up.

“Oh . . . yes,” she said dumbfoundedly, my sole attracting her attention for a second. “It's called the frog,” she informed matter-of-factly, accenting it with a wary smile.

“Frog,” I stated lightheartedly. I knew it was called a frog, but why? What made it froggy? Why not call it a toad instead? Maybe the shape resembled a frog?

“It's a shock absorber,” she said, pointing her hoof at it.

“Uh-huh,” I uttered fascinatedly.

Embee gently touched the area with the tip of her hoof. “With each step, the frog compresses and helps circulate blood back up your limb,” she described, lightly pressing the feature as she spoke.

I lethargically drew my hoof away. “That's, ummm, very nice to know,” I woodenly expressed my appreciation, unsettled by the frog's purpose and relative insensitivity. Putting my hoof down with the care reserved for extremely brittle objects, I eyed Embee with wariness, as if she were a crazy scientist disguised in pony skin. “And also very creepy,” I said without emotion in my voice. Ponies have blood? My blood rushes up my leg when I step on it?

Embee seemed to be appraising me plainly, possibly contemplating my response. “Well, in any case,” I recovered half-forcibly, the perturbing info sinking into my conscience like a ship—not that ships invariably sink, “time's running out, and I'm prepared and calm.” My voice box disagreed with my statement. “Sort of.” Still not? Fine. Honesty over honor. “Actually, I'm quite nervous, but I said ‘prepared and calm’ just because I want to give you the impression, hehe.” Embee's look of concern was returning. Without further ado, I sprang up onto my legs. “That was easy peasy! Standing and calm!” I exclaimed with an unintended squeak in my shaky tone, showing Embee a triumphant smile to hide my strife. “So, uh, did I not do this in a timely fashion?” I asked, perfectly aware that she couldn't have kept track of time. I felt breathless. I was breathless. Why was I breathless?

“You don't look too well, hon,” Embee gauged. I didn't know how unwell I looked, but perhaps I had forgone preparing myself adequately, and that was showing on my features. Would I adjust faster if I took a careful step to the right? No, that didn't work. An alarm in my head was urging me to get up on two legs and trade my forehooves for hands at once. But how? I didn't know transformation spells! Besides, if I did, wouldn't it hurt like the dickens when tissue and bone reshaped? Unless said spell also numbed the nerves, that is. “Tell me what's wrong,” Embee suggested, coming to stand before me.

My ears plunged as I began to talk a mile a minute. “I feel like I'm only halfway done that I shouldn't stand on fours that I should—” A reflex made me pause and re-moisten my mouth. “That I should get up but I can't because it's impossible and we both know that and I really really want my human drive routines or whatever to know and accept it too!” I still wasn't able to breathe without feeling like each inhale was stinging my heart. Hoping to attain some shreds of tranquility, I glanced at the drainboard to my right. Then, I looked up at the ceiling above. I was only one meter tall, but the size of the furniture in here tricked my senses. I closed my eyes; none of this was helping. “Why can't I adjust?” I whispered sternly to myself, hoping my nerve endings would stop hating the limbs they were in. The floor was barely more than a muted feeling. Was I unable to attune to the quadruped stance because of some hard-to-define fear? Maybe. “This is how a pony stands. Either I'll do it, or I'll cry and do it.” That logic didn't whisk away my inner anguish. “Why can't I just accept this?” Not a second later, I affixed a dumbfounded stare on nothing as it dawned that my voice had become squeaky. As a human, I had never become squeaky when I was close to crying. Wait, crying? I blinked my eyes hard, pushing out some superfluous fluid rimming them. My ears pricked up and then instantly fell toward my neck. “Oh no, I am so not going to cry!” I said in annoyed disbelief, but my fortitude declared Wir haben keine Verstärkung mehr! I was defiant, though. “I sure as hay can stand like a pony and not—” I hiccuped. A second later, fluid trickled from my eyes. “Darn it!” I grouched somberly, screwing my eyes shut and dropping my head. “This wasn't supposed to happen,” I groaned, poorly masking my misery. I would've collapsed as well, but I had come this far; I couldn't let myself fail more.

“Supposed or not, just let the tears come,” Embee contested softly, but that only increased the severity of my scowl. I had to try harder to curtail my anguish. “Don't bottle your feelings, hon.” My tense outlook vanished, and my ears relaxed. She was right. I was the only one adjudicating my frailness.

I sighed deeply, craning my neck to gaze at the white ceiling panels. “Okay, okay, it's just a few tears, just a few,” I consoled myself, my voice as intact as a shattered vase. When my eyes lined up with Embee's, she offered a sympathetic frown. “I can't believe I'm still a wreck. I was so sure I could just . . .” My eyes closed, and I shook my head, feeling my mane flop about on my nape. “Be fine.” Drawing a snotty breath, I kept my eyes closed; the tears escaped regardless. “I must've broken myself quite bad,” I assumed weakly. Was it really true that females were intrinsically more emotional than males, or was that a mere factoid? Maybe I was in denial? Softy me, even softer as a mare because of a higher estrogen-to-testosterone ratio? I had reformed my stance on crying when I embraced Embee, both of which were good things. However, I thought I had a grip on my emotions. Perhaps my inexperience with assumably higher emotional mercuriality was making me more sensitive than authentic females?

“I hope this helps you pull yourself together.” Abruptly, my eyes snapped open as something warm and soft crossed my neck. Bewilderedly, I darted my vision about, but the only trace of Embee was . . . her back and tail parallel to mine . . . beneath my head?

My imagination, vision, and tactile sense of my nape and the area between my throat and foreleg—I refused to call that area my chest—cooperated to depict a fairly accurate image of what was going on. Technically, my chest . . . I had the equine equivalent, and that was all I needed to know! Anyhow, no arousal from looking at Embee's hindquarters. I appreciated that infinitely. Although now I was curious what would look attractive to a pony, if not a bare bottom. Ponies must have different sexual standards on the account that they're typically unabashedly undressed. Still, was her behind attractive in the eyes of a stallion? This was hardly the time to go off on tangents, though. “Uhm, Embee? What are you doing?” I asked cluelessly.

“Giving you a hug,” her mellifluous voice originated near the base of my right ear.

Her forelegs weren't on me. “Like, um . . .” I observed Embee's tail wag once. “Pony style?” A tiny smile creased my lips. Why did I think of some kind of song? Bon-Bon style? Never mind.

“You could say that,” Embee affirmed, chuckling amiably. “It's a hug.” A few seconds later, she gently started to undo the interlock.

I pivoted my head to the right. “Ergh!” My tranquility was broken with a flinch when her head bent my right ear.

“Oh, sorry!” Embee said instantly, backing away with shock on her countenance. Trying to distance myself from the problem, I tilted my head to my left. Simultaneously, I rolled my eyes toward my audio wave collector, raising my right hoof to brush away the discomfort, but my wits kicked in and halted my limb halfway up. “I didn't hurt you, did I?”

The dual arrays on my head picked up her concerned query. “No, no, you didn't,” I assured tinnily, discerning with a delay that I was adorned with a fixed grimace. “I . . . I've got sensitive ears, you accidentally rubbed my right one, and it's, there's, uh . . . An itchy feeling, like a fly walking over something that I really shouldn't have because what I have sticks up from my scalp. It's a new sensation,” I explained, calming down gradually. “Bhhr,” I shivered in disgust before gingerly resting my leg on the floor.

“Alright,” she whispered as I initiated an accustomization procedure by actuating my ears like airplane elevators. “I suppose I'd be touchy too if I had parts I'm not used to having.” I was gazing at her hooves. Why was I gazing at her hooves? Well, whatever. Would it help if somepony massaged my ears? On second thought, that would just freak me out. “How are you feeling, though?”

I stopped my imitation of a pre-flight check with an insightful hum. “All things considered, quite good,” I said to her, a tad astonished at this.

She brightened. “That's great!”

“It's a definite improvement, yeah,” I mused, lifting my foreleg a few centimeters. A moment later, I let it drop down. After repeating the move a few times, I performed the same cycle with my right hind leg—without looking at it. Standing on fours felt weird enough, so seeing my trailing end might be more than my recovering mind could deal with at the moment. “I guess I could pace for a bit,” I ventured, then surreptitiously bit my lower lip.

Leaning a little closer, Embee raised her right foreleg and frowned slightly. “You sure about that, hon?” she voiced more doubt and concern than I had.

I closed my eyes with a light sigh. “Yes, I am,” I stated resolutely. I was greeted by an uncertain gaze when I reopened my optical sensors. “Don't worry, Embee. Besides, if I wasn't sure and ready, what would you do?” A smirk grew on me. “Pick me up and carry me around like you're a skycrane?” I laughed at my joke, which I wasn't supposed to, but the mental imagery simply was too funny. Well, if estrogens or whatever made my emotions more potent, then what could I do about it? Go with the flow? Why not. Better to make the best of a bad situation after all, and Embee was going to help this situation. Somehow. The plan was still in its infancy.

My best and only dependable support and confidant settled from her wary stance, smiling puzzledly. “What's a skycrane?”

“A heavy-lift helicopter,” I said casually.

Embee blinked her eyes once. No, twice. A third time. Fourth. Would there be a fifth? Behind my anticipatory smile, I felt a giggle creeping up. “Okay, a heavy-lift helicopter,” she parroted.

Her inferred incomprehension amused me, which I expressed with a polite chuckle, unable to quell it further. “Anyhow, I'm going to see if I can walk by myself.” I shot a look to my left. The wall was lined with windows, but a curtain drawn about one third across from the left meant I had a safe area where I could do my accustomization walk without seeing my pony reflection. “If I can't,” I said jovially, looking back at Embee as I gestured my foreleg at her, “you'll be my Sikorsky S-64.” My intonation fluctuated with a laugh toward the end.

“Hahaha.” Her laugh was feigned, probably not understanding the joke, but I didn't hold it against her.

I sighed, reassigning my hoof to its designated role. “You'll airlift me to wherever I need to be if I can't walk, that's what I meant.” I hoped she didn't think I was belittling her from behind my affable demeanor. Although, being hauled around by her like a thoroughly inept foal would do my self-esteem a disservice.

She smiled slyly. “That would be the first time I'd have to carry a healthy pony indoors.”

I narrowed my gaze. “I'm not a pony,” I reminded her irately.

“Huh?” Embee gave me a blank stare. “I didn't say you're not a human,” she placated in a slightly confused manner.

“Of course you wouldn't say it,” I said sardonically, keeping my glare on her for a couple of tense seconds before I relented. “Anyhow, I'll walk carefully, so that I won't transgress my human mind–pony body agreement.” Feeling like my latest uttering was a veiled critique and warning, I faced the curtains and set off. “All steady, all steady,” I muttered dourly as I plodded, my nicer side working in the back of my mind to forgive her. Perhaps I had overreacted? She couldn't possibly afford to look dishonest in her line of work. At any rate, my muscle memory was doing its task excellently. Ef-El, Aitch-Ar . . . I didn't need to recite that. ‘I teared up a little, and that took away the anxiety? Hm? Or maybe my irritation grants me tenacity? How about that?’ I cocked an inquisitive brow at the plain curtains before me. ‘Why are they white? Hmph, don't know, don't care. Ugh, I have to work out this superfluous tension.’ I rotated around, choosing a topic on a whim. “So, this being a pony thing . . . It's a little like a video game, except a lot more immersive. A huge haystackin' lot. As near as I can tell, no video game I've played makes me feel like I'm literally the character itself.” Embee had recovered from her post-verbal gaffe scare. “Not accounting a few exceptions, I never see the character's torso or legs. In fact, even if backlit by something luminous, the player character, meaning me, doesn't cast a shadow. Now, tell me, how lame is that?” I complained as I paced to Embee. I realized this was a topic I had discussed with one of my friends. Which one and when, that didn't matter right now.

“Pretty lame?” She looked a little glum, presumably due to my stern demeanor. “I'm not into any video games . . . except for dance games.” She displayed a careful half-smile.

The mental image of her showing her moves on a dance mat made my eyes widen. “That is sooo . . .” Eye-shutting excitement came to my face. “Awesome!” I did my best Rainbow Dash impers . . . imponification? I didn't get the voice right due to a lack of her characteristic raspiness, but that was only a minor setback. Needless to say, Embee's previous error was fully pardoned.

When I opened my eyes, she looked pleased. “I'm pretty good at them,” she said modestly, but I garnered she was downplaying her boast. Her ears weren't curled down, either.

“I'd just embarrass myself were I to try a dance game,” I admitted through my congenial smile. “My agility is probably minus one, hahahaha!” From the looks of it, I confused Embee again, but that was of no consequence. “I don't know dance games too well, but I'd be thrilled to see you rock your body.” Because seeing a pony play a dance game was more fascinating than seeing Embee win at it. Speaking of contests, I decided to perform a second test walk. “You know, it's great that we've established a fairly casual atmosphere. It's very relaxing.” I met the curtain again, spinning around to discern a happy Embee in the same spot as before. “A moment of unwinding before we get down to brass tacks, if you will.” I sighed contently. “Well, looks like I'm walking fine now. So, what's next?” I started heading back to her, but stopped after a few steps. “The puddle?” I said indicatively. Embee also looked at the mass gathering of H₂O. Our gazes met a few seconds later, signaling the start of a short period characterized by a mutual attempt to deduce each other's blank face.

“I believe the puddle is woefully incapable of taking care of itself,” I broke the silence, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Hmm.” Embee looked to her right. Her facial expression seemed to say ‘oh, what the hay’ as she walked towards the puddle. “Hmh, it's soaked,” she stated flatly, poking the floorcloth like a child would poke a dead rat with a stick. Gross.

A smirk came to my lips. “Hey.”

“Yes?” She aimed her amethyst eyes at me.

“Maybe if I rolled over the puddle?” I suggested subduedly, raising my left foreleg—it was the dirtier one. “I could use a bath, as you can see.” Once again, I failed to keep a collected demeanor. Seemed like I was giggling a lot, and the last one was a bit squeaky even though I had tried to stifle it down to a snicker. On the less amusing side, I was trying not to think about the grime making my skin itch. I'd have to scratch my back with something eventually. Maybe a fork.

Embee, rather remarkably, allowed herself a giggle as well, though the tone of it evidenced she was being cautious for some reason. “Not to offend you, but you did wash your face recently.”

“No offense taken,” I assured, but the reminder of my temporary loss of sanity, and the vague reflections of my face, were making joy a difficult emotion to retain. “But, uhm, just to be clear, it's not really my face. Although, saying that it's this face, these legs, this voice and, uh, so on . . .” I rambled, disquieted and dejected. “I'd start to feel like I'm not myself anymore, and that's, hmh . . .” I placed my eyes on the pink brewer. “Uh, I'll expound more once we're enjoying our coffee, just as I promised.” Something in the corner of my eye compelled me to turn my head. I shouldn't have.

There it was. Quite close. The face that truly wasn't mine, with tousled rose-striped hair that wasn't mine. Sadness and worry were in its emerald eyes, even a touch of dread. I didn't dare move. The face blinked, began to look fazed, and still I didn't move. If I did, then that face would move. I didn't want to associate with that face. If I didn't think of expressions, they wouldn't come to the face. Nothing bad would happen if I didn't think. I wasn't in that mirror. I wasn't thinking it was me. This was a most desirable state, and should remain unbroken. Those unusually large pupils with the green irises definitely didn't belong to me. If I knew how, I'd think of a start-edgy. Strat-dredgy? Oh no! I was thinking! Not thinking was good. Yes, unthinking. I was unthinking, and blinking. Staring at the not-me face. That pony face.

Blink. Vacant pony face. Blink. Vacant pony face. Blink. Vacant . . . female human face?

Blink. Pony female.

Blink. Human female.

Blink. Pony female.

Blink. Human female.

I kept blinking.

“Hey?” Familiar voice nearby.

What I saw in the mirror looked worried. I felt the same way. Why wasn't I breathing?

“Are you okay?” The voice again. Emerald irises shrank. The face reflected my shocked gasp. My eyes instinctively shut. I didn't see any more of what shouldn't be mine. Almost lost my balance too, and thoughts circled, spun, orbited; I couldn't choose one. “What was that?” the voice belonging to the green pony asked. I knew she was green because I had seen her before. The human face flickered in my mind. What had I seen? I had seen me as a human. False false false! It wasn't me! It wasn't. It was . . . her! She had imagined herself as a human, and that was what I saw. I saw her imagination! I had access to what she had thought. I saw how she had imagined herself were she human! “Can you hear me?” A nod, yes, my nodding. “Okay, now try to calm down, and take slow breaths.” Bayerische Motoren Werke . . . Bimmer had good ideas. To hear down, slow me, and calm breaths. Yes, calm breaths! That was it.

“What happened?” the female voice I possessed presented my question as I gazed into Beemwee's second outward wits. Embee's visible spectrum detectors. Her eyes! I knew what had happened, and it had perplexed me greatly. That was what had happened; I had become greatly perplexed.

“I should ask you the same thing,” Embee said as I shook my head so fiercely my pony ears swayed. Ouchies! As I nictitated stunnedly, I discerned that my heartbeat was palpable in my ears and I was perspiring from pores I didn't know I had. “You froze when you looked into the mirror.” That tone . . . An inferred question!

“Uh . . .” Embee's studious stare motivated me to sound like I retained my marbles—before I could ascertain that I had my wits in place. “It's only because I saw a face that's not mine,” I summarized, my eyelids drooping halfway out of exhaustion. “Well, it was more than that. It was haunting. Paralyzing. Mind-addling.” I sighed, trying to figure out something more academic to say. “A complex psychological reaction.” I let my eyes close. “To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what happened, which is frustrating in itself, but as it stands right now, I don't feel inclined to investigate.” I could still see the face. How many times had 'she' imagined this? It wasn't much better than my current face, which felt like a mask grafted in place of my own. I licked my lips, and I couldn't say how, but even they felt somehow inhuman. Ponylike. At least the imagined face hadn't overwritten my familiar mug. “I think I may need to sit down for a moment and let the dust settle,” I murmured as I opened my eyes, feeling a little vexed. Did I really send my mind on a hard loop just by accidentally gazing into a mirror? How fickle could I be? I should've just focused on the cuteness factor, but no, I had to spook myself.

“Sounds like you need it,” Embee said as I quickly took stock of my position.

“No argument from me,” I replied tiredly. I began backing toward the doorway, eyes closed. Seemed like a good mirror avoidance procedure. My muscle memory was doing an outstanding job, too. Hey, wait a minute! I could've just closed my eyes and then stepped away from the looking glass. What a moron I was! I came to a sudden halt, opened my eyes, and grunted, all in a tenth of a second. It was also moronic that I had backed into the doorframe! Indignation and humiliation coloring my face, I cursorily took note of a puzzled—or concerned—Embee before I huffed and took myself out of the kitchen. The lingering sensation of the doorframe on my left rear end was a severe violation to my sense of sanctity.

Passing the radio, I listened with half an ear to Sound Wave's anecdote about some people still being bothered by ponies being unclothed. That was followed by a commercial break. Awaiting the abating of my agitation, I stood by the lime green cushion I had sat on several minutes ago. It had a small depression with patches of thin dirt here and there. I was reluctant to sit down, as I knew I'd receive a fondling—“Hey, can I ask you a few things?” Embee's voice cut through my thoughts and the jazzy jingle of the radio.

She was standing in the doorway. “Sure you can,” I said, mustering a pleasant smile; I didn't want to look crotchety—what an apt word . . .

Her hoof met her jaw for a second before she gestured it at me. “You're not a pony, right?”

I sighed. No, I'm actually an Excalibur Phaeton Series III, I snarked mentally. “That's right, Embee. I'm only physically a pony,” I attested calmly.

“Alright.” Her hoof returned to the floor. “So you're a human?” I appreciated that she didn't use the past tense. Although, wasn't my condition already established? Maybe she was confused and needed to verify a few things before we got to the actual point?

“Correct.” I maintained my complaisant decorum. “I am a human, who is inexplicably trapped in somepony's body.” I poked the cushion, as if that would make it go easy on my dairy-do's. I hated knowing I had those.

Embee's distinct voice flowed through the air: “Which means Rosy Stripes is not your name.” My left ear dropped sideways.

Fluttering my eyes in a mix of annoyed disbelief and puzzlement, the abstract painting on the wall held my momentary attention before I directed an askance look at Embee. “Since when?” The absurdity of her assumption educed a sceptical chuckle from me. “From where did you get the idea to doubt my name?”

“Uh, Rosy?” she asked carefully, looking all around perplexed.

“What?” I replied a little tersely. I got an inkling I wasn't seeing the full picture here.

“You're not a pony?”

“Mhm.”

“That's not your body?”

“Yup.”

“Which is to say, you pretended that it was your body?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Because you thought I wouldn't take your claim of a mind swap seriously?”

At the last question, however, I sighed sullenly and let my eyes roll down in shame. “Yes.”

“So, to sum up, you're not a pony, but a human, who only pretended to be a pony,” she said slowly. “Is this correct?”

She seemed inoffensive and investigative, not doubtful and distrusting, so I stayed polite—being rude certainly wouldn't improve my standing. “Yes, it's very correct,” I affirmed. Still, I couldn't help but feel that I was being treated like I was one sandwich short of a picnic.

She gazed at me from where she stood, as if gauging me. “That is to say, you pretended to be a pony, and took on a feigned name, that being Rosy Stripes?”

I huffed coarsely as I wheeled to face her. “Feigned name? That is my . . .” My crossness transitioned into worried incredulity. “Name?” I began to see it: if I had tried to keep my true identity hidden, then why did I use my real name as a cover? I hadn't? As crazy as it was, that wasn't my name. In fact, my name didn't match my persona nor my past. I was quite certain Rosy Stripes wasn't a guy's name, either. I even recalled writing down that other name, and it was on official papers. A plethora of evidence in my head pointed to that the name being mine, but my intuition disagreed strongly. Oh no . . . How could I have let myself be tricked so easily?

“Hon? Is there something you're not telling me?” Embee queried as she strode forth from the doorway. If I hadn't known better, I would've thought she was starting to mistrust me.

Surmounting my mixture of shock, nervousness, and fright, I tried to give her a collected answer. “Since this isn't my body, it means I don't have my brain.” I didn't sound very collected, though I elicited a curious brow from Embee. “Rather remarkably, I have access to some of the information stored therein, but on the flipside, it has an almost unfailing tendency to take precedence over mine. So, this is tough to say, but Rosy Stripes has become my name. Maybe retroactively, too, as I feel like that it's been my name for as long as I can remember. I don't work myself up about these changes though, because everything will be fine.” My voice cranked to a high-pitched whisper and I shifted my focus to the table's wooden frame. “I simply know everything will be fine, and I refuse to think otherwise. Nothing good will come if I submit to pessimism.” At least I hadn't slumped to the floor, or began pleading for help. I had to maintain some dignity, and I wasn't panicking. Just a little apprehensive. Okay, so maybe I was a little harried. Embee would help me.

“Hey.” She walked close to me.

I inclined my head up. “Hey to you, too,” I said, the touch of joviality scarcely making up for the drop in my composure. Why was I trying to hide behind unconcerned masks anyhow? They wouldn't make my problems go away.

“Don't worry, hon. I'm sure everything will turn out fine,” she assured. As I showed her a hopeful smile, her eyes dropped down for a moment. She was looking at something on my throat? “Just let me ask you, can you recall the name you had?” Was that her primary concern? Why not ask to recap my entire life so she can write it down? Or present any ideas on how to help me? Oh well, she sounded serious enough about the name.

I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, but it was more for show than anything. Still, fake it till I make it. “Yes. I can recall it.” Embee didn't know I was a male in a female's body, and I had a strong suspicion she'd ask to know the masculine name. If she knew it, then there was a good chance she'd (un)knowingly expect me to fit the male mold. I liked some (but not all) of the feminine things at my disposal, which were normally inaccessible due to physical and social restrictions. If Embee didn't recognize me as female in gender, would she pressure me to relinquish my femininity? Would now be a good time to ask her opinion on males who don't adhere to gender norms?

“Can you tell me that name?” Embee queried, just as I had expected. I would've preferred to analyze the gender dilemma by myself a while longer.

“Sure.” I drew a small breath and then said the name out loud.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?” Embee said with a friendly smile. The mumble I had produced would've befitted Fluttershy, though I didn't believe she would've been as liked were she male with that personality.

I turned my ears down. “Oops, my bad,” I said with a giggle in my tone, smiling meekly. For lack of a better term, I felt cute. ‘Tomboys are totally cool and accepted by society, but its male counterpart isn't.’ The laconic insight on double standards had me worried.

Anyhow, I didn't have time for indecisiveness. After composing myself, including righting my ears, I said what I had to say. I truly hoped I hadn't set myself up for disaster. Embee, however, looked fascinated. “Viv?” she repeated in delight.

“Yes,” I affirmed nonchalantly. I was none too happy about my decision, but I wished to avoid the repercussions of being a male who has violated gender norms. “It's short for Vivienne.” Besides, what was so bad about being female? It would only be for as long as I possessed this body. I could still enjoy this.

I could be Rosalinda Vivienne Stripes.

Turbulence Before Headwind

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

Chapter 14
Turbulence Before Headwind

A song had started playing. A likeable song I recognized by its appreciable bass guitars. A song David would've disparaged for being "lame." Since death metal with more guttural snarling than actual singing was his cup of tea (a drink he wouldn't deign to consume, I presumed), his opinion on music was close to null and void anyhow. We did have great times playing Saints Row 2 in co-op, however. He was a trigger-happy spitting image of Nathan Explosion, and I was a measured and tactical, chronologically-displaced Wehrmacht soldier! Both with the same British English voice. Uncanny, but amusing.

“So, should I call you Viv or Vivienne?” Embee asked.

“Viv or Vivienne? Hmmm . . .” I thought she should call me a duplicitous coward for submitting to a complex sense of shame and—er, no. This was negative thinking. I was . . . I was exceptionally courageous for taking on the challenge of upholding my perceived gender, thereby attaining unique and possibly enlightening insights on female existence itself! “I'll leave that up to you,” I replied in a deliberately sweet tone, almost indifferent to what name she called me by, although Vivienne sounded a tad more charming. I had been called by my middle name before, albeit rarely, so this shouldn't . . . Hold on. My sort-of namesake had been called that. I neither wanted nor needed to know more.

“I think Vivienne's a very nice name.” Embee presented her choice with such mellowness that I felt a shred flattered. “Don't you think so, too?”

“Um.” I rested my chin on my elevated pastern as I looked towards my bangs. “I guess I must agree . . .” Frankly, hiding behind a new alias was going to be hard on me. Furthermore, my middle name wasn't so much 'me' as Rosy was . . . and neither name should be mine!

“Hey,” Embee said softly. “Don't doubt yourself.” I was initially puzzled as to why she said that, but I quickly presumed that my outward impression of reluctance had something to do with it. “I truly think your name's beautiful.” She sighed, creasing her lips to a smile, whereas I felt a little dirty about letting her believe a lie. “You should cherish it, and think of it as your own. It's your name. You said so yourself.” I didn't reply; I was asking myself if I had put my neck on the line by pretending to be a female human in a mare's body. I was afraid of Embee's reaction to knowing my true gender. Being straight with her from the get-go would've been right, but would it have been safe? I didn't believe she'd make fun of me, but she could unwittingly pressure me to act male, and she could suspect I never was anything but a mare if I didn't. However, what if my pretense placed my gender identity at peril? My eyes had opened to how conditioned . . . no, indoctrinated I was to automatically resent any personal aspects of femininity, or the suspicion thereof—“It is your name, isn't it, hon?”

Embee's careful query engendered a small gasp from me. “Of course it is,” I affirmed impulsively, forgoing my contemplations and forging a smile. Darn it. I could've just blurted a definite 'no' instead.

“Good.” She smiled in relief. “I began to fear you were relapsing.”

“Ah, don't worry, I wasn't. I was repeating it in my head. My name, that is. So it would stick. So I wouldn't forget that my name's, uh, Vivienne. Like you said it is. Like I said it is. Like it's supposed to be. Geez, sorry!” Broken sentences spoken meekly and Embee's inquiring look weren't boosting my confidence. Nevertheless I frowned in determination, lowering my voice. “You saw what happened to me, right?” Embee nodded with a hum. “I can't let that awful disaster happen again, so I must tell myself who I am. Repeatedly.” Heeding her concern and my fib, I began chanting the masculine name internally. The name that should be more mine than Vivienne was! I had to stay firm. That was how I obeyed speed limits, even when despicable drivers behind me reduced the three-second rule to a third or less. Irresponsible and thoughtless morons! Just like my friends when they were corrupted into a raucous bliss and egged me to drop the hammer. I was certain they were good people; alas, aside from a few exceptions, I hadn't seen their good sides in a year. But that was neither here nor there. I had to stay firm! This was a matter of survival! I had to denounce my imposed name and repeat the correct name until it felt like it was mine ag—Wait . . . Repeats? Repeating movements of . . . windshield wipers? Was I onto something?

“Sounds like you got a technique down.” Embee's voice was replete with consideration. She may've said something more, but I was too preoccupied to hear it. There was something I could almost recall . . . Something yesterday? Something about the windshield wipers . . . or maybe not? It could be just a random thing that seemed relevant by being the latest memory from before the start of my incident. I should focus on the name instead. My name. Yes. Did it feel like mine yet? Only a little, but if I kept at it . . . “Not to interrupt, but would you like to make yourself comfortable?” She glanced at a cushion—the one I sat on before. “I could bring you the coffee in the meantime. Then we can talk more.”

“Uhm . . . sure.” My—no, Rosy's humanized visage inexplicably reappeared in my mind, miming my speech. Its association with me was weirding me out. I was building a resistance to these things. I hoped. “Relaxation is, ah . . . It ranks high on my priorities list, right after getting to the bottom of my mind swap predicament.” Despite the imagined face speaking my lines, my resolution held steady. Alas, the cushion I laid my eyes on stopped me in my tracks. Could I really let it get a feel for the two down theres, like it had before? Was it better to stand on my four hooves and receive a strange look from Embee in return? Comfort over customs? Decisions, decisions.

Embee's soothing tone swiveled my ears. “I know you're worried, Vivienne, but—”

“I know I know,” I interjected, facing her after a beat. “You don't have to tell me.” Discerning that I was getting worked up, I tried to retain a calm demeanor after a quick cough. “But hey, um, I . . .” The recent humanized image brought to mind that perhaps I had it easier; I had Embee. “Just to remind you and myself, this isn't my predicament alone.” I looked at the rain-streaked windows and the lit-up apartments beyond. “She . . . Rosy Stripes,” I struggled a bit; it felt like I was referring to myself in the third-person. “She's in my body, feeling all kinds of lost, I think.” Spooked a little by the fuzzy reflection of a white-coated pony in the window, I turned my head back to Embee. “Maybe she has an idea about what's happened.” A memory attempted to invade my mental canvas; I screwed my eyes shut for a fraction of a second, and then it was gone. I wasn't sure whether to be happy or disappointed.

“An idea?” Embee inserted, interest in her voice. “You mean Rosy has an idea? How do you know?”

I had to consciously stop conflating my name to myself. My not-name! “I actually don't, and I'm not sure I want to purposely unlock more of her memories. Just imagine my name problem, but more widespread. Anyhow, it doesn't matter if she knows. Her situation is arguably worse . . .” She was stuck in an unfamiliar form in a world where her kind was pure fiction, possibly overwhelmed by despair and distress as the truth was dismissed or ignored. The awfulness of that swiftly disintegrated my mild frustration, and my vision migrated to Embee's forelegs. “Where she is now, she doesn't have anypony to rely on. I believe she's in dire need of help, but sadly, she can't get that. She's more alone and helpless than a faithful car heartlessly abandoned on a frozen lake in late winter as appreciation for a decade of untiring and diligent service.” My sights climbed up to Embee's eyes, recalling that the tale of the car had come from my dad's mouth. I hoped it wasn't true. “So, as you can guess, my concern for her is immeasurable. I hold hope that she can be rescued from a tragic fate.” I would've placed my hands on Embee's shoulders—if we were human. “You and me, we are the first ones who can actually do something about that,” I beseeched earnestly. “Just like I can't stay in this body, she can't stay in mine. For all we know, she may be under the threat of the same identity-threatening effects as I am.” My head and ears slumped. I wished from the bottom of my heart that 'she'—Rosy—hadn't taken her own life. Like I almost had. I could feel the weight of shame and guilt lying upon my heart. For me and her. My mortality had advanced to the forefront of my mind. Before today's ordeal, I had pondered about death a few times, but not in a suicidal manner. I'd had my moments of gloom, but I wasn't a futureless, depressed wreck. Still, what would come after death? Was it eternal sleep without dreams and awareness? Or some form of new beginning? Be that as it may, a gradual transition into something that I wasn't entitled and didn't want to be was contending with the severity of death itself. I was at the risk of involuntarily stealing somepony's life! That was utterly wrong and unjust! At least death was . . . conventional. Was she thinking about these things, too?

“Hey, I'm sure she's fine,” Embee finally got a say, trying to resuscitate my asphyxiating hope. “It can't be so bad for her, right? Just like you have, she's probably found somepony who is—Wait, you said she doesn't have anypony?”

“Yeah, anypony . . .” I said somberly. “As you know, I have her brain. It affects my speech mannerisms. Makes me say somepony and everypony, and so on. It's kind of compulsive, and I don't always bother to correct myself.” I sighed, gazing at Embee weakly. Then it struck me. Was it affecting me in other ways as well? Was I thinking like I used to? Did I exhibit my or 'her' characteristics? How much was I myself?

“No, I'm . . . I'm sorry, let me rephrase my question,” Embee cut off my existential crisis before it dug deeper into my core. My self-preservation instinct was semi-consciously correcting my ponyisms and segregating distinctly pony memories and traits; that was a monumental advantage. “What do you mean by Rosy not having anypony?”

“Oh, right . . .” I languidly rolled my eyes to the right, repeating my true name in my head to ward off my not-really-my-name, and also feeling a touch disappointed Embee hadn't urged me to fight the ponyisms. “Where she is, there aren't ponies, and she's not even physically pony, what with having my body,” I explained glumly. As much as I hated to think of it, she could be ruining my life by trying to pretend she was me, and possibly failing at limiting her female behavior—because unlike tomboys, feminine guys were universally reviled. I felt like dying on the spot just to spare myself the anguish of my cursory speculations . . . which reminded me of a much worse fear: she was dead! The inability to verify my fear quickly breathed oxygen on my embers of hope.

“Listen, can you tell me what you looked like?” Embee asked. I felt a smidgen of disconnect when I brought up my male image. “Your surname?” I could. I felt a shred less disconnected from my name, presumably due to my earlier inner name chanting. “Where you live?” About ten kilometers northwest from this hospital. “Where you were before you realized you were in Rosy's body?” I was in my home, undoubtedly sleeping and dreaming about something irrelevant. Maybe that was the windshield wiper thing? Just a strange dream. Laptop resting on the parking lot, stuff displayed on it, the car's windshield wipers moving. Something had happened soon after? Wait, this wasn't my dream or memory!

“Vivienne?” Embee roused my attention; I hadn't said a single word throughout her questioning.

As I peered into her eyes, a question popped up in my mind. “Hey, what's with these questions about my looks and so on?”

A kind smile formed on her lips. “Rosy's in your body, so naturally, knowing some identifying details and your place of residence will help narrow down the search—”

“No!” I exclaimed, subtly flustered. “You don't understand! She can't be found!” I would've made some kind of gesture, but all I managed was to throw my tail and lean slightly forward. We were almost touching snout to snout.

“Why not?” The puzzlement on Embee's face wasn't surprising. In fact, it was daunting. She was on my side, but one little verbal slip-up could change that.

I put some space between us. “I told you, there are no ponies where I come from,” I reiterated, careful not to let my voice quiver with nervousness. “Not the kind that are sapient and can fly and cast spells. Those are . . . They don't exist there! It's a different world.” A worrisome thought crept in: How could I explain to her that I knew of ponies through a cartoon and associated fandom? Or rather, how would I do that without making myself sound plum crazy?

Embee still looked like she wasn't believing her ears. “Excuse me, what?”

‘Oh no! Now it's happening! The worst fear of them all! She's disbelieving me for real! I'm screwing up, I'm screwing up, I'm screwing up!’ I couldn't show that panic on the outside. “Okay, uh . . . Let me think how to, um.” What could I think here? Many things were piling up on me already: an existential crisis, easily provoked bodily discomfort, guilt over my gender deceit, worries about the fate of Rosy, memory fragments and her personality possibly twisting up mine. As if that wasn't enough, being female was bestowing me with conflicted feelings. But this wasn't the time to analyze any of that; I had to think of something to say right now! “How about I, err . . . How about I come up with something completely false but plausible.” That was smart; make my attempt to lie as transparent as possible. “I really don't want to, but if I must, then I—”

“Oh, no!” Embee objected, taking a step closer, her frown easing into arches of beseechment. “Don't do that. Stick to the truth. Please.”

Good. My tactic had worked. “You really want the truth?” I was leery nonetheless.

“Naturally,” she affirmed, more softly. “What made you think otherwise?”

I was obliged to answer that, or else I'd be on a short leash. I looked past her to the kitchen and glanced at the radio as I did my best to speak a rational reply: “Well . . . If the truth sounds impossible, or the exposing of it may result in severe repercussions, then an option ensuring continued safety and accord is preferred.” That was pretty much the basis of every social interaction condensed into a slightly cynical nucleus. Or a glimpse on how fear can be used to suppress and deny freedoms.

“This is serious, hon. We both know that.” Embee took a step closer. “It's really important that you're honest and fearless, and I want you to be, no matter what. Can you do that?” she urged softly. I couldn't look her in the eye. I had asked her to be extremely honest, and now she was doing the same to me. “You can't forget the lie you maintained, about who you tried to be?” No, I couldn't forget, and I really didn't want to maintain a lie, but I wasn't the kind who took risks without circumspect evaluation, which I lacked the time and peace of mind for. “It was ruining you.” That pulled my ears down. “Don't repeat that unfortunate mistake. Be brave. Please.”

“Since you asked nicely,” I conceded quietly. I had to be brave, and that meant taking risks. “What do you want to know?” And I hoped she wouldn't ask any questions that would garner trust-jeopardizing answers.

“You said ponies like me don't exist?” She gestured at herself.

I saw an opportunity for humor. “So says the pony who stands right before my eyes,” I said, smiling on the inside as I lightly poked her supporting foreleg. Her lips pursed, and she eyed me strangely. My ears raised with a pang of dread. Had I done something wrong? Should I run away?

“You do know that's not what I meant, hon,” she said mellowly enough, placing her limb to the floor.

“It was a joke, Embee,” I defined morosely. I had expected her to laugh, maybe chuckle, but not throw cold water on me.

“I know it was, hon,” she appeased, but I didn't feel it. Jokes rely on purposefully subverting expectations. Did that mean I had just been explicitly dishonest? “So, you said Rosy Stripes is in another world, yes? The one you came from?”

Once again, I segregated the imposed name. “Yes.” I closed my eyes, trying to attain a calmer state. “Imagine a realm much like the one we're now in, but populated by humans only.” I opened my eyes but avoided looking at Embee, directing my gaze upwards with a diagonal slant. “That includes the various indigenous flora and fauna, of course.” I would've flung my hand with a flourish—if I had one. When I looked at her, the tiniest smile pricked my lips. “It would've been a drab and lifeless place without them.” As if on cue, a stream of picturesque vistas treated my mind's eye, but too rapidly to tell which belonged to me.

“Mmmh . . . Do you by chance come from the past, before contact was made?” she rolled out another question, ostensibly ignoring my dry wit. My nervousness was transforming into mild aggression. That could cause a problem if I didn't deal with it, as the oft-used phrase went. It entailed . . . I had no clue. Forcibly ignoring grievances? A conscious attempt to ignore my troubles would be as effective as not thinking of a polar bear driving a neon green dirt bike. Another interpretation was acceptance, which—Wait.

“Contact?” I echoed, getting a weird sense of déjà vu. I would've asked about how ponies came to this world, but that question had to wait. It was probably a teleportation mishap or some such, anyhow. I had a much more pertinent query to make. “What date is it?” After Embee provided the answer, I checked and triple-checked my memory to compare the dates. “I should be thankful that hasn't changed,” I said plainly.

“Okay then. Time travel's out of the question,” Embee deduced. “Hmmh . . .” If she was iffy, her thoughtful expression concealed it, and peering past it yielded nothing but paranoia trying to coax me into distrusting her. So, I focused on her weather-ruffled mane in an attempt at self-placation. Not counting the black dye I'd tried on a whim, I wasn't a stickler for hair fashion, but I did have my mane in ribboned twin tails when I was youn—consarn it! “You came from an alternate universe, correct?”

“Ehm.” I retrieved my faculties. “This is the alternate universe.” I emphasized the clarification by tapping the floor. Darn numbness! That shouldn't annoy me! “But yes, you're correct.” I lightly shook my hoof in a futile attempt to recover sensitivity. “There's no time travel involved.” My mind backtracked to the twin tails. It wasn't such a bad look . . . but not for me! Aside from this brain messing me up with a recollection that wasn't mine, did I have deeply repressed feminine desires that only a female body could emancipate? Most likely, but this was inconsequential. What was consequential was that my cerebral chaos could compromise my credibility if it caused the conveying of ill-conceived cogitations.

Embee was peering at me with scrutiny in her eyes. “Before we contin—”

“I may hav—oh?” I inadvertently spoke over her, but my apology puttered out before it reached my larynx. “Uh, no, no. Let's just get this over with it,” I concluded, screwing my eyes shut and touched my bridge; I would've pinched it, but no fingers, no pinching. “I'm not from the past, not from the future, not from this Earth, and not from the place that I presume is Equestria,” I specified, taking my limb off my face to sweep the room on 'this'. With that said and done, I chanced it by not resting on my laurels. No guts, no glory, or something to that effect. “So uh . . . As the cherry on top, I know of ponies because I saw them on the Internet. To elaborate, they're fictional characters where I used to be. Yeah, that's right. You and every pony are moving pictures come to life. Except not really, because you sure don't look like an artist made you.” I paused briefly at Embee's dumbfounded appearance, as though I had to confirm that she was real. The characteristic horse odor certainly was. “That said, you look very natural and realistic for being a green-furred, winged, miniature horse with cute, big eyes and an expressive face.” That was admittedly an indirect compliment veiled in an agitated tone. “Similarly, this form I'm stuck in feels undoubtedly real, and not like it's produced with a graphics program. I guess at least one universe out of the infinite must have the improbable as a reality, and the chances of inexplicably being transported to one must've been infinitesimal! I bet there's a universe where we are the opposite genders! Or dogs, or mice, ferrets, iguanas, front-end loaders, you name it!” My imagination provided a short vision of each critter—and vehicle—in corresponding colors. “In this universe? Adorable sentient ponies! Uh . . .” An itch at the base of my ear! I flicked it, and the nuisance was gone, thank goodness! “Was, was . . . was I clear enough?” I ended my rant. Could I ignore my itching coat though? Dealing with it meant that, or accepting it, or whatever!

“Ah, yes . . . Yes, you were.” Embee looked taken aback, her ears hanging flaccid. “Ponies on the Internet in a world without Equestrian ponies? That's, huhm . . .” she said very quietly, but not quietly enough for me not to pick it up.

“Deal with it!” I blurted tensely. As if that could make things right, just like it was completely right that my light voice was potentially distorting my self-image on a subconscious level. “You can't imagine how much I wish to throw indisputable evidence at you like confetti. Alas, sticking to the truth is the only thing I can do. If you don't believe it, I'll just say that I couldn't care less.” Just like I shouldn't care less about all the mind-addling inconveniences and concerns amassing into a sphere of bad feelings. The back of my thigh was itching, too . . . The radio wasn't playing a song anymore?

. . . an earth pony riding a horse and going by the alias Horace R! What a brilliant symbiosis, hm? Can't say how many of yous are listening this late, and sleep beckons me off the air waves as well. Just as a reminder though, you can catch my handsome self next Sunday at the horse race track, where I'll partake in an earth pony–only race. Not to boast, but I have experience on how some of you fillies love a sweaty stallion. Mh-mm.

“Ghhrrh,” I tried to growl, but it was so lacking I cursorily thought of denouncing my female act right then and now. “Stupid Sound Wave! I'm not in the mood to hear his carefree drivel!” White magic engulfed the radio, turning it silent; I had manipulated the power button with efficacy comparable to fingers, although I suspected an internal component nearly popped loose. Embee shot a glance at the contraption as if feeling sorry for it. “I wager he's a self-absorbed lecher!” Perturbed by how much I sounded like an angered Pinkie Pie, I placed my pastern to my throat. I would've preferred Twilight's or Rainbow Dash's voice, if I had the choice. Or my original, darn it! I was hurting on the inside, and that's where it had to stay! I had to wear a tough face, because that was what guys had to be 24/7, and . . . that was just ridiculous! I was a softy at heart, with emotions and feelings that I had never had been encouraged to show. Why was I thinking of this now? I had to get a hold of myself, somehow.

“Self-absorbed lecher? I don't know about that.” Embee aimed a studious frown at me with some worry thrown in. “Look, I know you're under a lot of stress, and I don't blame you, but please, try to stay calm,” she said carefully.

‘Stay calm, she says! As if I have an 'instant tranquility' button on me!’ I bit my tongue, looking sour. That was just a defense. A defense I couldn't relinquish! Also, I was striving to be truthful, but I was hiding behind Rosy's middle name and trying to curtail my feelings. The base cause for those was an irrational shame supported with plausibly sound logic. I had to think hard and fast on how to break these obstacles if I wanted to be truly honest with Embee.

Tomboys were okay, but sensitive guys weren't. Tomboys didn't wish to be guys, and I didn't wish to be female. But no! I had learned that having attributes or persuasions for femininity regardless of volition, awareness, and intensity was socially unacceptable and invalidated a male from being male. How utterly moronic was that!? But this rant was equally stupid. Bottom line was, nothing I did or said would change my chromosomes . . . But the impossible had happened; I truly was without XYs. “Vivienne?” Embee said, but whatever. I couldn't do anything about my current biology. That meant I had several indispensably feminine aspects that I had no choice but to live with. However, by countering my anti-feminine sense of masculinity, was I improving myself? Or was I changing into a female? That was a frightening possibility, but I wasn't sure what defining female characteristic a male couldn't have. Where and how did I draw the line? In fact, where did Embee draw the line? As much as I didn't want to admit it now, expressing my allegedly "weaker" feelings had been comforting, even empowering. I was overcoming deeply entrenched gender norms. That didn't make me a female, did it? No, my gender preconceptions were mucking up my judgement. As long as I thought I was male . . . As long as I had faith in being a male at the core—No! I needed to be absolutely certain, without a grain of doubt, that I was still a male in spite of my physical composition! On that thought, what were the downsides of being female? What would I lose if I—Oh foul word! What was I thinking? My gender was integral to my identity, and those were endangered enough! I had to— “Hey, hello?” An aquamarine hoof swept gently before my eyes.

“What do you want from me!?” I snapped. Embee jumped, despite my quivering tone.

“Uh, nothing. Nothing. I'm sorry, I . . .” she began, recovering and folding her wings along with taking her hoof off her chest. “I really think it's best for you to relax. You're shaking a little.” Alerted, a peep of a grunt squeezed up my throat and I tightened several muscles across my body. That worked to some degree. “You're very stressed. There's no doubt about that.” I formed a truculent frown to oppose her assessment. “I have an inkling there's more than just your trust issues playing up. Maybe you'd like to tell what's getting under your skin?” she suggested caringly. “It could help relieve the tension.”

The corners of my lips became taut, and I tilted my head to get a glimpse of my forehooves. “Many things are getting on my nerves.” Such as the absence of a soothing palm on my forehead. “But we shouldn't worry,” I added with dismissive nonchalance, though I felt like my lungs had lost some flexibility. “I'm constrained and confused by a body that's not mine, and my analytical nature is making things harder by producing a bunch of nonsense. But I can shrug these inconveniences off.” That was a daring claim, but I believed in it. Well, I did for as long as my lips were moving. Also, literally shrugging was impossible, which meant that metaphorical figurative was fundamentally dishonest. Or some such. At any rate, supplying Embee with satisfactory information about the important matters topped taking a break to dissolve my agitation. Besides, my inner problems were mine, not hers.

“If you say so,” Embee desisted warily, and I abruptly realized how immeasurably great it'd be if I wasn't robbed of human body language. “I'd prefer if you talked about the inconveniences instead.”

“Oh nononono! You wouldn't want to hear me whining about stuff that doesn't matter,” I objected. “Don't give that a second thought. Just carry on grilling me like normal.” As if I didn't have enough to shoulder, I began to feel like I was a static figure whose only means of dealing with the itchy fur was through sheer willpower. One nuisance was located where my spine turned into a tail! How would I dare to touch that? Could I even reach it? Profanities! I should've taken a fork or a spoon when I had the chance!

“Grilling? Ah, asking questions. Oh . . . Alright then,” Embee started tentatively. Were my ears upright? They weren't, so it was likely they were telling her more than I let on. Was I looking at Embee? Nope. I was facing her, but eye contact was inconceivable; the table's edge parallel to us was an easier target. “I must say,” she continued, but with a touch of curiosity in her tone, “I've never encountered somepony who has been mind swapped—”

“Someone, thank you very much,” I corrected her, as well as overruled my unwanted pony intuition. Aside from emulating human-like gestures with hooves, my means of body language were limited to my ears and tail. What could I do with those? Flick my tail in anger? No, I wasn't that angry, and neither should I intuitively know that tail flicking was a sign of anger.

“Uh . . . Who has been mind swapped from another universe where we . . . ponies are fictional cartoons,” she resumed at a slower pace, lending to a feeling that she had a hard time believing what was coming out her mouth.

“Yeah, you better believe it! Or not. I can't force your mind, and even if I could, I wouldn't because that would be irredeemably unethical. Anyhow, you sound a bit clueless, so you may want to do the smart thing and find somepony who knows about mind swaps,” I demanded. In a less impetuous manner than I had predicted.

“I'm really sorry, hon. I don't know who knows,” Embee said softly, but to me, it sounded like she was covering her back. Also, no minor, half-conscious flexing of the fingers and arms; doing little more than move my neck and tail was becoming cumbersome. “This is very new to me.”

“Excellent! This is very new to me, too!” I commented sardonically. I couldn't stand still any longer, so I began wandering in an erratic pattern. “This is great, just great! I've been transdimensionally dislocated to a mare's body, I'm almost constantly afraid of discrediting myself, the fate of my original body is a worrisome mystery, my identity is being chipped at, being at terms with my present form is an unending challenge, and your means and ideas on how to actually undo this horrendous mess equals jack monkey squat!”

“Jack monkey squat?” Embee's incomprehension brought me to a halt at the opposite end of the table.

I gave her an incredulous glare, my jaw working out nothing for a second. “You must be kidding me! It's a colloq—Oh, forget it!” I whipped my sights to the light brown floor, hiding the spike of despair twisting up my face. No, I couldn't cry about everything, even if at this moment it would feel so right.

“Hon,” Embee started after a few silent seconds, “your situation sounds much more dire than I had thought.”

“Maybe you'll now—” A lump got into my throat. All the support and understanding Embee gave me felt so insignificant when she had nothing which actually helped me.

Embee's sigh made my ears reorient toward her. Why wouldn't she stop torturing me? “I believe I now know how rough you have it, and if anything, I'd be in tears about it, too.”

“I'm not crying!” I interjected in an undulating tone and with . . . Darn it! “I'm only . . .” I looked away. “My eyes have only become overmoistened.”

“That's the same thing,” Embee pointed out what I already knew.

“But different!” I couldn't get my voice up to strength, and my ears slipped down. The latter seemed to have a will of their own, and I wasn't always aware of their position. “Differently worded and . . . stuff.” This was a futile fight, but I couldn't give up. That would be submission. What was I doing?

“Please, Vivienne. You don't have to be like this. I clearly see that you're upset.” The lameness of my defiance wasn't lost on her either. “There's no danger in admitting that. Just be honest with me. I'm honest with you. I won't judge you or force you to do anything against your will.” My eyes turned toward her, but my neck refused to follow. “I do wish that you'd relax and keep your hopes alive. Things can't be as bad as you think.”

“Easy for you to say when you're perfectly comfortable in your skin and free from the immense stresses I'm subjected to,” I remarked sourly, finally getting the strength to crank my head. “I want to be honest. I'd be happy to be perfectly honest.” My gaze shifted to the abstract painting by my left. “But how can I be honest with you when I'm not honest with myself?” That was all I could say in my forcibly normal voice, as I was certain my next vocalization would expose more of my internal fragility. I wanted to shed tears, and part of me viewed that as an affront to my persona. That wasn't two identities with separate feelings. This was only me, replete with emotional indecision. How could I be like this? How had I driven myself into this unbearably tight spot?

“Viv, ah, I mean, Vivienne.” My ears twitched at hearing Embee's gentle voice. “You don't mind if I were to call you Viv?” Great! Now she was shortening my middle name. Middle name? No! Fight this! “Is there some way I can—”

“Shut up and let me be!” I snapped, my voice on the verge of what I didn't want it to do. Her shocked, then disappointed expression diverted my focus to the painting again. “Sorry,” I mouthed. I couldn't ball up my nonexistent fists or press my temples, both of which might help keep my turmoil from exploding. Or finally break me. I was so deprived of everything . . . But not of my original name! Why was I still hiding, then? Would she treat me differently if she knew I was male? Would she acquiesce her compassion and tell me to suck it up? That would be so horribly callous if she did that!

“Shut up and let you be?” Embee repeated dejectedly. “That's what you want?” I didn't, and I couldn't say that I didn't. For the few silent seconds that followed, I stared at the modern art, guilt swirling in my head. “Please, don't retreat into yourself. I'm trying to help and understand as much as I can, but I can't do that if you shun me. I know why you're behaving as you are, but please, think of what you're doing.” Considering that I had given the impression of being as volatile as a powder keg in a smelter, Embee must've taken a huge risk opening her mouth, let alone speak all that. Nevertheless, she was right on at least two things: I should know better than to take out my frustrations on her, and I shouldn't squander her aid, as little as it was. Hooves clicked, prompting me to take note that she was maneuvering around the table with caution in each step. A humble surrender had been conceivable, but her advance took me out from that mentality. She read my frown and stopped. “Please don't be like this. It's unlike you.”

I turned my head away, consciously aiming my eyes away from my rear end; catching a glimpse of something too incongruous for my self-image at this time could be highly discomposing. “You say this isn't like me?” My question came out in a slightly shaky tone—and I'd hate to think I was offended by her assumption. Embee replied with a non-provocative hum. “Well, you're absolutely right. Being a dainty little equine isn't like me, so there! Does that answer your question?” The mild surprise that my remark had brought to her visage dimmed. I wasn't proud of what my emotionally conflagrant conduct was producing. I cursorily noted that my ears were pricked, which was better than aimed towards my neck or slumped down. “Besides, I haven't told you anything about myself, and we've known each other for about an hour, so what do you really know about me?” She was resuming her approach? No and no! “Nothing! That's what! You know nothing about me! You can't tell me what I'm like!” She balked by the table's last corner, raising her foreleg. Was she feeling threatened? That wasn't my intention. My adequately Pinkie-devoid assertion may've been a little harsh in tone, but it lacked a quintessential masculine brunt. Not that my original voice was much more intimidating.

Embee sighed. “That's true, hon. I don't know you,” she admitted quietly, her hoof reuniting with the floor. “Even so, I believe you're good-hearted and fair-minded.”

“Good-hearted and fair-minded?” I parroted, unconvinced. For her sake, I was going to at least try to play nice. “Well, I'm not a debased criminal, nor do I have any desire to be one, so in that respect you're not wrong. However, I'm positive that—consciously or not—I've allowed my biases, suppositions, and misconceptions dictate my actions and opinions, thus enabling less-than-ideal results. The water-airplane, outbursts at the radio, twisting up your wing, and so on. Lapses in rationality . . . Maybe I'm not as smart as I think I am.”

“Your vocabulary and self-examination makes me think you're intelligent,” Embee inserted, probably to boost my spirits.

“Sure,” I commented flatly, unable to coax myself into thanking her. “I've read books and did okay in school. I peruse the Internet every day to learn new and exciting things. Those may've granted me some insights on a mess of topics and an above-average vocabulary, but I mean . . .” My head inclined. “Those don't equal intelligence or rationality. I wouldn't be in a hospital, and I definitely wouldn't have been extremely reluctant to explain the cause of my erratic behavior if I were genuinely smart. On the contrary, I would've come clean without a shred of mind-addling fright. But I didn't, and I couldn't.” My ears fell. “I observe and contemplate, but usually keep my discoveries to myself. It's just how I am. I'm an introvert thinker, and I like being that.” The impulsive, reassuring smile I showed Embee had the longevity of an ice cream cone in a furnace. Sometimes, I felt that introverts were inferior to extroverts. “In the same vein, honesty is great, but habitually withholding my opinions isn't conducive to that pursuit. I fear saying something irrevocably stupid, controversial, or inappropriate. I play it safe by being non-confrontational and trying to be nice in general. I just can't always live it, as you've seen. When irritation creeps in, I become assertive, but that's at the cost of courtesy and circumspection. Maybe I have good intentions, or maybe I just think I have good intentions. Either way, the execution goes awry and then . . .” Something finally gave in. Namely that whatever thing that prevents eyes from turning too moist. “This is stupid! I'm blabbering my heart out to a stranger and I . . . I kinda sound whiny. I should shut up!” I screwed my eyes shut.

I had to stay quiet. I really had to. I didn't even recognize myself in my voice, and that could hurt more than it ought've. I had also felt like going into a rant about how my traits kept my lips sealed for over a year and through a dozen get-togethers where I subserviently watched four familiar humans degrade themselves into inebriated caricatures whose raucous bliss was highly unsettling and very alienating! Oh geez, Embee absolutely didn't need to know any of that. It was worthless and irrelevant. Although I had been sort of wistful for the quartet when I was seemingly moments away from becoming roadkill. How pathetic! Or maybe, in my utter devastation, I had forgone my dislike for my friends and recognized their merits? Maybe they weren't so bad? Or maybe they were? Would I ever know if they held sincere regrets about the outcome of the latest meet-up, and not just shallow ones? Would I get back in the first place? Oh wait, the tiny grain of hope: this world had unicorns and magic, meaning anything was possible. Optimism rejuvenated! I still felt like crying, though, but that was okay. I didn't want to deny my emotions any longer, and that should be final.

“Hon.” Embee's voice gently drew me out from my extended introspection. “I truly worry for you.” She was blurry; my eyes were wet. She had also come close to me. “You've endured so much stress already, and now you're being awfully hard on yourself as well.”

“Really?” I said in a drained, groaning voice. As much as I would've enjoyed taking Embee into an embrace, apologizing for my indignant behavior, and promising to keep my woes to myself, I carefully turned around and began to lumber around the room. “I think I'm being lenient . . . and more honest. More open. That's good. And . . . more whiny, which is not good.” Due to my current frailness, I was feeling weird all over. I promptly came to a stop opposite the kitchen doorway and chose to rest my forehead against the wall. Except something acted as a lever and things went a bit awry. “Ow,” I moaned almost voicelessly, eyes squinted as if pained when I retracted my head. ‘My stupid horn and my stupid equine nose!’

“You're not whiny, hon. You're only venting your frustrations. It's normal, and nothing to be ashamed of,” Embee offered while I was trying to see if my magic-caster had been bent or driven inwards. Of course I couldn't see it, but I sure did feel nerve endings in my forehead telling a story. I could have rubbed my nose or reached for my horn, but touching either or both was discouraging.

“My voice is tinny and higher than normal.” A lot higher than the normal I was used to. “Make what you will of that. Anyhow . . .” I faced Embee in spite of my reluctance. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. You're correct; I have to work out my frustrations.” I almost reciprocated Embee's smile. “However, I should've never expressed my bad feelings as irritation, and especially not at you. Regrettably, things spiraled out of my control and I stopped thinking straight. That, and my exhaustion is no excuse or justification for my poor conduct, though.”

“Don't worry about it anymore. It's in the past now.” Again, she didn't hesitate to approach me. This time, I didn't act upon a desire to escape her proximity. I was a little surprised she hadn't chewed me out. I was sure I had reduced my worth in her eyes. “Although, you hit your snout there. That didn't hurt, did it?”

“Oh, um, thanks for the concern, but no, I did not . . .” I shouldn't downplay the issue; I had to be open. “Actually, it didn't hurt, but was uncomfortable. It's only painful on a mental level. Kind of like if you were without wings all of a sudden, but painlessly and in the reverse. Okay, that was a bit confusing. All I'm saying is that you know by now that I'm sensitive of everything that deviates from my self-image, so just calling this a snout—” I saw tiny creases form when I scrunched the feature half-consciously. “That's disturbing,” I thought out loud, a grimace staying on me for a few seconds. I had intended to point at my muzzle for her, but that . . . No. Just no.

“Oh?” Embee frowned compunctiously, then looked pensive for a while. “Should I be careful in mentioning, uh, your pony anatomy?”

“Well, I uh, I dunno.” I would've rubbed my neck if I hadn't suddenly doubted the suppleness of my forelimbs. Itches were pricking all over me, though my brief walk had helped solve most of them (somehow) and the remaining ones were tolerable. “It would be odd if you said I have, um . . . not-hooves and a not-snout?” Had I not been recently perturbed, I would've chuckled. Instead, I closed my eyes as I sighed lightly. “Just, um, be direct. I'll be direct, too, whenever I'm capable. It's best to talk about things with their real names.” I was talking with short pauses between words and minute stressing of random syllables. I had to sharpen up. “Sometimes I'm kinda okay about hooves and the fur and so on, but other times, circumstances pull me so far from my comfort zone that I . . . That . . .” A few seconds passed, during which I was recomposing myself. So much for sharpening up. “It's worse than any pain I've ever felt.”

“That's . . . That's awful. I don't know what to say. I'm sorry.” Embee looked like she was ready to nuzzle me, which would've been nice —and awkward. Nuzzles were fundamentally weird to me, but evidently potent. “How are you feeling, hon? I hope you aren't in pain.”

I was starting to think that my misery was making her conscience ache for real—not that it wasn't aching already. So, it ached for more real? Up to eleven? “I'm kind of fine. I try not to pay too much mind to things.” I touched my throat. “You see, a bit of overthinking or a basic self-feeding discomfort loop can set it off.” That was close; I had felt a tiny bit of anxiety circulate within me. I was unable to identify its trigger. Or maybe I was refusing to identify it. Whichever way, it didn't shatter me. Not yet. “Still, don't be too alarmed if I push out a few tears. That's how I'm going to cope from now on. No more trying to act like nothing's wrong, or channeling my bad feelings by being a testy jerk. Those don't solve anything, and at worst, make you resent me.”

“I wouldn't want to resent you. Crying is the best cure, especially when somepony is there for you.” Embee gave me a soft nuzzle. I was so caught off guard that the only thank you I mustered was in my stare. I didn't break into tears. Maybe I had run out? “I don't know how much of a consolation that was, but I hope it helps you stay strong.”

With my gaze on anything but Embee, I hesitated for a moment before I chose to speak. “How little it helps doesn't matter. You did more than nothing, and that's what matters. You're truly wonderful, Embee, putting up with my confusing antics with the patience of a tectonic plate.” The included scientific poeticism was solely to dilute my sappiness with a shred of humor. I wasn't into voicing sappy things. At any rate, Embee's delighted smile aided in improving my mood. “I don't know if I can thank you enough, or truly come to appreciate your commitment and empathy. What I can be grateful for is that you haven't waved the white flag and left me hanging.”

“I would never walk out on you, hon. That's not my contract, but my conscience obliging me,” she said softly, but with an adamant undertone.

“That's very commendable. Really, it is.” I was almost muted by a feeling of warmth, and I wasn't sure I had said enough. “Ah, I, umm, I get this vibe that you're not the kind to whom patients are chores to slog through just so you can scratch out a living. You actually care.” I wasn't being a good orator, but I couldn't let that stop me. “Care for whom you tend to. Care about me, even when I was being difficult . . .” My smile withered, and with my gaze on her hooves again, I didn't see if her smile held. “I didn't mean to be difficult and antagonizing, and I'm ashamed and sorry. I feel like I owe you a favor.”

“Vivienne. Your apology is welcome and I admire your sense of responsibility, but you aren't indebted to me.” Ears still slumped in submission, I rolled my eyes up at Embee. Her face was the picture of kindness. “Now, let's not stand here by the wall.” She gestured toward the table. I took note of her foreleg's flexibility; I shouldn't forget that mine had the same qualities. “Why don't you take a seat and relax instead?” My ears perked up, but not in delight. “We'll spend a few minutes enjoying coffee, taking a break from this stressful seriousness. After that, or if you really wish to skip the coffee altogether, I can go start asking around if anypony knows about mind swaps or transdimensional travel.”

“I think that's exceptional,” I did my best to sound eager, hoping my consternation wasn't apparent. “The asking around part, I mean. It's an excellent start, yeah, better than just wallowing in helplessness and despair. I'm exceedingly happy you take me seriously. However, uhm . . .” If I were to sit down on the cushion, I'd get a feel for the dairy-do's again. Ick! Just the fact that I had those nearly made my lips warp in horrified disgust. “Why should I sit? I can stand just fine, as you can see.” Oh darn. Was I going to avoid mentioning the deterrent?

Embee hemmed thoughtfully. “Are you sure? You'd drink the coffee standing up, and you're obviously disconcerted by your body.” At that deduction, I glanced aside with a low, bothered groan. Could I really do as Embee presumed? “Perhaps being seated would feel more human and help you unwind?”

“Hmmh . . . Uhh, let me check something.” Incentivized by her, albeit slowed by my apprehension, I approached my former seat. I gave it a prod, and my hoof sunk in without much sensory feedback. I looked behind myself at such an angle that I only saw a tiny bit of my tail; I was being too careful about seeing my latter end. Again. “I can't unfeel my body, you know?” I said to her meekly before redirecting my eyes to the cushion. I gave it a second prod, trying to gauge how deep I would sink into it. “I'd have to support myself on my forehooves regardless, and I, uhm, would be very aware that I have fur everywhere and, uhhm . . .” I really couldn't say I had a hairy behind. Or that it was naked. That would be too crass! The primary issue—the parts in between my legs—was just too embarrassing and taboo. I had told her that it was best to talk about things directly! Failure to keep up my side wasn't doing my self-respect a favor.

“I see,” Embee said solemnly. “So there's no way to avoid what you physically are, hmh.” She strolled to her seat, but she didn't plop down on it. “Don't let that get to you, though. A positive attitude can do wonders.”

I stared at her encouraging and possibly wise smile in hopes of contracting it. “I'd like to have that attitude, but I'm afraid it's hard to keep a balanced and positive mentality when it could inadvertently soar up to blind optimism.” Embee's expression failed to propagate to me, so my next focus was the cushion. “That was what kept my fears on the down-low, and my mind deluded. I was willingly ignorant, confident that I had a guaranteed escape plan from what I thought was the most spectacular dream ever.” I scoffed weakly at myself. “I believed a lie, since believing otherwise was simply too frightening. In hindsight, that lie was as solid as a drenched waffle, and I broke quite badly when reality smacked me upside the head. I like to think I've recovered, but I haven't.” I cast a glance at Embee and saw her face painted with commiseration. “My failures in communicating my distress, unending concerns for my identity, and recurring struggles with my physique.” I pawed the cushion for no particular reason. “They're easy to rouse and can bring me down quickly. As if I didn't have enough on my plate, I can't be sure of how much you believe of what I've said of where I'm from and what and who I am and how I learned of ponies.” I raised my head, my own words echoing in my ears as I gazed dumbly ahead. Not a second later, a single-syllable chuckle got its freedom, and my face creased with a tired smile. “I'm sorry, Embee, that must've sounded confusing.”

“No need to apologize, hon. I understood what you said.” Embee's tranquil demeanor put me at ease—to an extent; some of my reservations refused to rescind. Particularly now, when Embee looked hesitant about something. “The part about Equestrian ponies being cartoons in your universe still sounds almost impossible.” I would've shown a desperate, pleading stare, maybe resignedly restated that my hopes and desires shouldn't sway her mind. But I didn't. If anything, I bore a dull gaze over my snout. “Almost,” she emphasized. My breath became trapped for the duration of my surprised blinking; she was willing to keep her mind open, even when the truth had seemingly implausible qualities?

“Well, infinite universes,” I said, nonplussed, as if to remind us both on how the impossible could be possible.

“Infinite universes,” echoed Embee—who I could call just as improbable as her view on ponies being mere fiction. “Maybe there's a universe where our roles are reversed?” she humored me. My active imagination produced a wacky but plausible scenario.

“Or one where a stressed-out, inexplicably human-bodied pony-me is with a human-you, bewildered by what's occurred but nonetheless offering endless support, while admittedly more than puzzled by human-bodied pony-me having said that humans were little more than a fairytale. Haha.” My random speculation and subsequent laugh were of jocular nature, but low on cheerfulness. Embee seemed moderately delighted. Anyhow, my serious attitude came back quickly. “I suppose your disbelief of ponies being fiction isn't surprising, because it really does sound outlandish. Much to my dismay, without irrefutable evidence I can't substantiate the truth.” My ears and voice lost vigor. “All I can do is hope that you take my word for it.”

“Not to diminish your concerns, but I'm facing a great challenge, too. I'm being sincere with you and I do my hardest to comfort you, and I fear I'll push you away if I come off as callous or untrustworthy.” I had suspected that Embee was treading on eggshells and felt responsible for my well-being, but hearing it from her was humbling. Bothered by my obmutescence, I looked around evasively. A lame attempt at innate pony body language raised my foreleg. Just to complete that move, I pawed the cushion again. “Please, know this, Vivienne. I do think you're a human,” Embee said warmly.

Weight rolled off my back and I finally found my voice. “Thank you for that, Embee, and also for showing your perspective. It should help me stay on an equal level with you, so that I can better understand where you come from, thus greatly reducing misunderstandings and unwitting untowardness.” I felt embarrassment tug at my facial muscles. “Um, that came out awkwardly. I'm sorry.”

“No, it's alright.” The now characteristic half-lidded look manifested on Embee. “Your message came across just fine.”

“Well, okay, being on the same level's good,” I said shyly, cursorily noting that Embee had yet to sit down. “Ahm, about being on the level, I do, uhh . . .” The truth would come out eventually, but would it be for the best if I shed my alias before things could take a nasty turn? Or take a nastier turn. “I want to um—I need to tell . . . I really have to ask about . . . uh. How should I say this?” I was hesitant to approach the matter, and I didn't have the stones to blurt it out.

“Yes, hon?” Embee queried after a few seconds had passed. “You have a question?”

Fortunately, she was great at pushing me forward. “Uh, yeah, of course I do,” I affirmed stiltedly, then took a breath to stabilize myself. “I just wonder . . .” An impulse raised my foreleg, like I was going to gesture at something; I wasn't. The same impulse also directed my eyes ceiling-wise. “I mean, I look and sound the part, yeah.” With the impulse's effect worn off, I set my eyes on Embee and placed my hoof to my chest. “But how can you be sure that I'm a feee-lly?” That was really close to success; I had almost said female. Small steps, small steps . . .

I placed my hoof down. “How can I be sure you're a filly?” Embee repeated.

I cast a sidelong look at nothing specific. “Mmmh.” Hesitation wrinkled my lips, but my drive to speak prevailed. “Yeah, or no, I meant the, um . . . differences.” I had thought I could overcome my vacillation. I never liked taking risks, and the risk here was that Embee's helpfulness would change from caring support to potentially insensitive urging upon learning and believing my true gender. A male being vulnerable was unfortunately often seen as unacceptable. If Embee held that opinion, what could I do to sway her mind?

“Differences?” Embee's bemusement dug me out from my thoughts. I partly anticipated her to question my perceived gender and make this so much easier for me. “Well, a mare is an adult female pony, and a filly is a young female pony,” she informed cordially, then glanced a little past me. “Hmh. Rosy is definitely a young mare, so it's striking she doesn't have her cutie mark yet. She must be a so-called late bloomer.” Her focus returned to me, whereupon she noted my stymied stare. I tried not to, but I felt like she had talked about me as if I wasn't present; I had yet to succeed in fully separating myself from my name. That name being Rosy Stripes. “Hold on, you didn't ask what separates a filly from a mare, did you?”

“No,” I said tonelessly. “And the lack of a cutie mark isn't my concern, though I guess it's a bit peculiar. Anyhow, I asked, uh, about something else, but I don't have what it takes to be direct.” I sighed, disappointed that I was beating the bush around. No, wait . . . that wasn't how that went.

“Humh.” Embee reached for her jaw. “Oh?” Realization illuminated her visage. “How I can believe you're a female human?” My face blanked at the prospect of her doubting my human origin. “That's what you meant, right?”

I smiled in what I hoped was a calm manner, then inserted alacrity into the breath ascending to my larynx. “Yeah. Sorry for messing up the question. I became a bit nervous, that's all.” I was nearly tittering. Because I was a little nervous. I'm sure Embee knew.

“Don't be nervous, hon,” Embee said softly. She knew.

I sighed, closing my eyes. “I try not to.” I sounded almost as soft as her. Me, with a normal speaking voice higher than hers? I already knew that, but this instance was a splash of lemon juice on my lacerated masculine self.

“That's good.” Her mouth was a smile, but her overall facial expression was sad. “You've been so tense all this time.”

“All this time?” I echoed in disbelief. “But I had moments of genuine relaxation and joy, so I wasn't tense all the time. I liked those moments.” They kept me ignorant of what this body could possibly do to me. Like muddle up my birthday, replace my name, and give me conflicting memories on how I came to possess a car. The windshield wipers!

I looked at the windows, onto which my imagination superimposed the light blue sedan. It was strangely haunting, as if I was being stared at. It was so vivid that I almost turned to ask if Embee could see it. By no means did the car look menacing. Kind of cute and harmless, actually. There was something intriguing about it, but it was hazy, much like some dreams were after waking up. “You were easygoing a few times, but I did sense that something was off. It wasn't just your absent-mindedness and puzzling behavior, but also an uncertainty in your movements,” Embee explained. Wait, I was looking at her? The car vision must've really occupied me. “I presumed you were exhausted and recuperating from your stress.”

“Oh, I'm exhausted alright,” I commented truthfully. I glanced at the window, and my imagination swiftly envisioned the likeable car again. The windshield wipers were moving. How perplexing—and irrelevant. “It's been a long day, and I suppose that shows. Just like almost everything I said or did alluded to how I don't belong in or agree with this strange form, but regardless, I try to work with it.” I would've shrugged lackadaisically.

“I do see that now. As I said, your body language and general demeanor was hinting at something.” She paused with scrutiny in her eyes. “In fact, you look a little uncomfortable, as if your muscles are constantly tense.”

To test her assumption, I raised my hind leg. She was right; resistance impeded my movement. A tendon (I presumed) in my leg autonomously oriented the hoof downwards, which I found a smidgen creepy. “It's discomfort stemming from being something that I'm not,” I provided a short analysis enthusiastically as I dropped my leg. “That's why I haven't sat down yet. Last time felt . . . wrong.” The memory of the sensation was so fresh that an icy pulse traveled down my vertebrae. “I don't know how to explain it.” Primarily due to a notion that talking about dairy-dos could be construed as obscene. Secondly, I felt sickened just thinking of describing the feeling. “I adjusted to it through plain determination, so that my cover wouldn't be blown.” Regret washed over me. “The cover I never should've enacted.” Embee frowned sympathetically. Even so, I was afraid of negative consequences. Small steps, though. Small steps. “Standing is easier, oddly enough when considering that I don't have a direct and acute feel of what's underneath me. Kind of like I'm levitating, but the pressure exerted on my hooves and that frog-thing sends information to nerves inside my legs.” My right ear turned horizontal. “Did I make sense?”

“Yes, you did.” Embee had a kind smile. “Humans have nerve endings on the undersides of their feet, which, if I am not mistaken, is pivotal to their sense of balance.”

“That's very true,” I interjected, uninterested in any further details of the human anatomy. Normally, I would be curious to hear it, especially from a pony's point of view, but as it stood right now, I wasn't in the mood. “Humans also possess a versatile feature, known as hands, which they use to accomplish a variety of tasks with appreciable dexterity.” I ended my sarcastic exposition with a melancholic sigh. “I wonder what I would do if I had such prehensile parts?” I stuck to my act, though wistfulness certainly had infiltrated my tone. “I think I'd rub my itchy back.” Embee looked concerned. “Or do a great deal of normal things I never paid attention to.” For some reason, I recalled an established fanon: Lyra was a quirky pony with a penchant for all things human. However, if she were real, would she have (somehow) reached out to a random human and arranged to swap minds? Or bodies? Whatever. At least that hypothesis would entail mutual consent, a forewarning, and in all likelihood, a guarantee of a quick and easy exchange cancellation. Okay, this was only making me feel disadvantaged, so . . . Totally random and unrelated thought: “Embee? Did the coffee jar have a screw cap?” I asked in a spiritless voice. “I recall you became really annoyed opening it with teeth and hooves.”

“Oh . . .” She looked over her back before I got to vocally equating myself to a screw cap. “We've completely forgotten the coffee.”

“Who cares?” I grouched, even though right now a mugful would grant me much needed normality and tranquility.

“Now don't work yourself up again, hon.” Her compassionate reproach was followed by an inquisitive frown. I quickly rolled out a lukewarm sorry. “Didn't you say your back's itching?”

“Yeah?” I cocked a brow. “It's right there in the middle of my spine,” I was courteous—or perplexed—enough to give her a proper answer. “I've learned to filter out the irritation, so it doesn't feel too bad.” Like sitting with a nail up one's hind fat until the pain has become dulled. “What's it to you? You feel so much for me that you're thinking of giving me a back rub?” I regretted my spontaneous and flippant tease microseconds after my mouth closed, partly because I sounded a touch . . . female dogish.

“I'm thinking the itch is irritating you.” Embee retained her polite demeanor.

“You don't say?” I admitted plainly, clandestinely astonished by her integrity. Maybe my worry of being unkind was unfounded? Also, if I couldn't reach at my back, maybe I could . . . go prone and roll over a few times? That's what I . . . she had done when she was little. And yesteryear. Oh joy . . .

Embee took a few steps toward me, smiling gingerly. “I could take care of that itch, if that's what you need help with?”

“You'd do that?” I laughed incredulously at her proposal, dismissing the wacky impression she was coming on to me. I presumed she was responding to my humor with more humor, so I played along and put on an inviting smile. “Well, your help so far has been beyond immeasurable, but if you don't find it strange to put your hoof on me, then be my guest. I don't mind at all. You'd do me a grand service. Just make a small and quick sweep over my back, and nothing more, okay?”

“Alright, hon.” I had expected her to see right through me, but instead, she closed the gap and raised her hoof. “Just a small, quick sweep.”

‘She's actually going to do it?’ My breath got stuck, and I became so nervous of her hoof touching my equine back that I was afraid I'd produce an effluvium upon contact. I couldn't go back on my word . . . or look at my back. Time stood still, and my smile had frozen. My eyes were aimed over Embee's back, so in my discombobulation my imagination did the necessary modifications to make it look like mine. Sort of mine. The hips stood higher than the back, and there was a tail, too. In my initial forays with this form, I had thought nothing of the tail. No longer, though. It just looked—and felt—out of place. ‘Oh!’

A swipe and quick scrub! Every muscle in my back turned rock solid, and then . . . it was over. The itch was gone. Embee backed a little, still looking tranquil as ever. “You actually did it?” I marveled, eyes wide in shocked disbelief.

“Of course I did,” she said, surprised by my reaction. “You gave the go, and I was convinced you'd be okay.”

The blank stare I held on Embee broke after a few mutual eye blinks. “Hahahaha! I wah-hahawasn't being seheheheerious!” I cried out amidst my titters. “I mehehehean, couldn't you tell?” There was something odd and embarrassing about my titters, and tittering in the first place, but I didn't divert my mind to it.

“Seems like I didn't.” Embee sighed, looking unamused. “Why didn't you say you weren't serious?” Was she annoyed? Regardless, it put me on a glide slope toward earth. “I was sure you honestly asked for assistance.” Her snout scrunched. “And as much as I want you to feel okay, I don't appreciate being tricked.”

“Well . . .” I considered pointing out that what had occurred was just a communications mishap, but my doing so could make me look unconcerned. I thought of myself as a decent person, and I greatly preferred that she did, too. “I wasn't pranking you.” I had also been humbled by what I interpreted as open critique, so I vacillated on whether to apologize or not—but not for long. “Neither was I opposed to your help, Embee. I simply disbelieved you would rub my back while subliminally asking for it without conscious expectation of you actually going ahead with it,” I explained my mindwork, dancing my hoof in the air as if testing a piano.

Embee stared into space, with her lips pursed tight. How embarrassing. For me. “You lost me where . . . you lost me.” Her tone was devoid of feeling, and she didn't put her eyes back on me.

“Yeah, it made a lot more sense in my head,” I said sheepishly, and along came a small titter. Confounded insulating coat, it was containing my embarrassment warmth. Embee cast off her stupefaction with a small but brisk headshake. She looked fairly okay and temperate, but I didn't want to push her buttons. “Anyhow, you didn't do wrong. It was for the best that you rid the, um, my annoying itch, and I'm not ungrateful. Really, I'm not. I would never want to be ungrateful, if I can help it. In any case, I'm sorry for leading you on, and if you wonder, which you might not, but, um, yes, I'm okay,” I said as softly as I could bear to hear. Then, I accidentally brushed my behind with my tail. “As okay as I can be.” Feeling like something had touched me inappropriately, I almost looked back; I limited myself to a peripheral peek without turning my head. Thus, I saw nothing of myself, thank goodness. I had also raised my foreleg, which likely was due to my mind becoming more wired to my current brain. I hated to think of that. “I probably won't ask you to give me another rub.” I tried to put on a casual expression. Emphasis on 'tried'. “I mean I hope I won't.” I couldn't guarantee that some kind of itch wouldn't demand to be touched. It better not manifest on my behind! I was so touchy about it—Oh gosh, wrong wording! “So, uh, anyhow, are we cool now?” I continued impulsively.

Embee gauged me for a moment, then smiled. “Of course we're cool,” she answered calmly.

I felt her calmness wasn't parting adequately genuine benevolence and reconciliation. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

Still unconvinced, I tilted my head. “Are you really sure?” my inquiry came with a slight squeak akin to Sweetie Belle. At this rate, I would eventually mimick every pony in the cartoon. Every female pony.

“Absolutely,” Embee said solidly, and without any kind of squeaking.

Was I being finicky about this? On a lark, I chose to keep my serious face as I spoke my next line quickly: “Really super duper genuinely zero kelvin perma-cool?” That froze Embee's face for a few seconds.

“Okay, okay, you can stop that now,” she said, bursting into a hearty laugh. “I just didn't like your prank.”

As she kept laughing, I found myself in danger of following suit. “Alright, but to be extra sure, you're not displeased with me?” Her laugh toned down, but her mellow smile didn't; my trepidatious smile accompanied my serious question. “You don't view me as inferior and yourself as superior, do you?” I hoped she was the kind who clearly showed if I wasn't on her good side, rather than smile amiably while secretly holding me in contempt.

“Oh, no, no, certainly not,” she objected, momentarily serious. Perhaps I was nearing a point whereafter she would feel genuinely annoyed, and then she'd think less of me. Go me. She was still being nice, however.

“Got it. I was just checking that we're on amiable terms.” I paused. “For real,” I added meekly.

“Don't sweat it, hon. We're on good terms and definitely not unequal, trust me.” Did I just see a glimmer of disquietude in her eyes? “Just don't be so tense, and try to worry less, okay?” she instructed in a kind manner. I glanced at her ears; they were in the downflapped position. I saw that as conveying sincerity and a touch of worry. Her body language was much more reassuring than her words.

“I appreciate that.” Because I'd hate myself forever if I made her turn her back on me. Or made her think I was thinking she was thinking I was thinking she was untrustworthy—my brain locked up briefly. “Ehm, uh . . . I try to worry less, but unfortunately, it's not easy when the path to normalcy is bumpy,” I said sagely. I guess it was sagely. “So I seek humor whenever I feel like I can hold on to it. Hence, my little practical joke. It was poorly thought out, and maybe soared past your detection range. I don't hold that against you, by the way.” I really didn't want to blame her for anything. Not when I could help it. Nonetheless (and perhaps unduly), I felt that I had to watch my figurative step. “So, umm, as for why I was tense . . .” Did she ask that? Oh well, whatever. “Naturally, I thought the back rub would feel really weird, and it did feel a bit weird, but didn't feel too weird.” Did I confuse her again? Her attentive look and gentle smile had withered during my last phrase. “That made sense, right? I mean, it should, but I'm just, um . . .” My mumbles were decipherable only to myself, and my ears were hanging by the sides of my head.

“Not too weird?” she asked. Or inquired. Questioned? Interrogated! No, that was too severe.

I cleared my throat—inadvertently demurely so. “Not as weird as having a fem—oh! This voice, yeah, um—” Acting on an impulse, I spun completely around and walked a short distance. I was totally not being evasive, I was totally unaware that I was being evasive, I totally didn't almost spill the beans on my gender, and I was totally not nervous. Totally. Toyota-lly? “It's sort of . . .” Taking a grand effort to refocus my mind, I turned halfway around to look at Embee with a feeble smile. I had to salvage this situation right now. Revealing my gender without circumspect planning and forethought could be ruinous. “Ahm . . .” I took myself back to the cushion, but stopped short of it. “I'm really sorry, Embee. Hehheh, ah. I'm weary from everything that's happened today. It makes me blabber about irrelevant things without much restraint or cohesion.” That should grant me some time to think.

“No doubt this has been a hard day for you, Vivienne, but if you don't mind me asking, what did you say about your voice?” Embee queried, ostensibly caught on my slip-up. “It's not like yours?” Well, great. The noose was tightening, and I had undoubtedly contributed with my recent behavior. I was just that awesome . . .

Touch And Go

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

Chapter 15
Touch And Go

I sighed resignedly, peering lazily at the orange cushion—it was to the left of the lime green one—before my sights climbed up to Embee. “No, this voice isn't like mine,” I admitted, although I would've rather not. I could've said nothing more, but taking tentative steps toward the truth was wiser than avoidance. I was that awesome. Sort of. “In fact, it's kind of unsettling not to sound like myself.” Ouch. That stung more than it should have, but I held myself together. Might've been that my choice of words was a bit too poignant. “I can tell myself that I'm okay, but it's futile if I'm unable to take it to heart. I suspect that I occasionally and unwittingly conform to this voice.” That would be a lot less disturbing if this was a case of a female with a different female voice. Maybe. Pinkie Pie with Applejack's voice and vice versa?

“What do you mean by conforming to your voice?” Embee asked.

“I mean, my voice is . . . the voice I had was a quintessential permanency, just like many other things I'm sorely without. As I said earlier, I don't recognize myself as I speak. It's a little like having a rasp due to a cold, except not quite, because I sound . . . kind of, uh . . . It's like a filter of sorts.” I couldn't say it was a feminizing filter; I wasn't ready to take a drastic leap to the reveal. “It's . . . Uh. I'm not putting any extra effort into sounding soft, peppy, somber, or distraught.” Those were neither directly attributable nor typical to femininity, I reminded myself. “My tone just happens to come out that way because of the structure of my voice box.” Embee's amethyst-encircled black pupils conveyed curiosity, but perhaps also puzzlement. They were also nice to look at. The eyes were the mirror of the soul, or something. Now, however, was not the time to distract myself with trivial deliberations. “Don't get me wrong. I can talk fine, and I do have to talk, and occasionally I feel that this voice is, uhm, nice and . . . well, cute. It's not really a bad voice, per se.” A smile sojourned on my dispirited visage. “That's the danger, actually. I don't want to think of my present voice like it's perfectly normal. I'm afraid that if I do, then I . . . then how can I safely say I'm still me and not more like . . .” I trailed off; my emotions, in particular my unresolved fears, fell like a portcullis right when I was on the brink of actually telling her. “More like her,” I managed to push a few words past the lump in my throat, gesturing at myself.

“Oh, but you're still you, Vivienne. A voice won't change that,” Embee reassured, although I had a hard time feeling her effort. I had also sensed something as I spoke, but only in hindsight did I posit what: was my voice creating a feedback loop that caused me to become fragile because I sounded fragile? “It really can't be so bad to sound a little different, can it?”

I felt slighted. “A little different?” I couldn't even summon the ferocity to shout. “Please don't downplay this, Embee. This isn't little. This is serious!” I jabbed my hoof to her chest—hopefully without injury!

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” I said, cringing as I retracted my appendage to keep it safe from retribution. “I didn't mean to, I just . . . I was close and you were there and I didn't consider—” Resting my limb, I saw nothing alluding to offense in her surprised expression. “Uhm, so, uh . . .” Amidst my discomposure, a sudden inspiration alighted. “Embee . . . Please, think of your own voice. Think of how you talk and sound. How you stress your vocal cords. Think of talking as usual, but with this voice. Or maybe imagine yourself with Aidin's voice. Or no, forget that.” I laughed flusteredly. “That might be just too freaky to imagine. In any case, you'd notice that it doesn't sound the same, I mean, you don't sound as you used to. You sound like a stranger. Well, not literally. Or maybe literally. It-it doesn't matter.” I shut my eyes briefly, reorganizing my errant thoughts.

“Hey, I hear you, but please, stay calm,” Embee inserted, but I kept going.

“What I'm getting at is that the new voice impedes you from being who and what you are. You accept this, I'm guessing with some pain and longing, and adapt over time, perhaps convincing yourself that you'll do just fine and you're just as you were. However, sooner or later, you might suspect that something hasn't made it through the transition. The tonal discrepancy accumulates—Has accumul . . . Darn. Gotta think how to present this . . .” I glanced at the ceiling tiles as I parsed together something sensible. “A latent presumption of whom the voice befits influences or has influenced your personality.” For a moment, I envisioned myself, for whatever reason, tapping the tips of my hoofsies together and announcing in a particularly perky voice, ‘And I'll be so happy if my lovely voice makes me act like this out of habit!’ Obviously, I lacked the will for that, and I probably would've broken into tears halfway through it anyhow. One thought lead to another: Rainbow Dash, the tomboy that she was, had her untomboyish moments, and the few things Embee had said had created an allusion that my numero uno pony was her sister. “If you had your sister's voice—she doesn't sound like you, does she?” I gestured at Embee.

“Ah, she doesn't,” she clarified. “But I urge you to calm—”

“Okay then. If you had your sister's voice, wouldn't you start behaving like her? Not overtly, but exhibit mannerisms and a variety of subtle cues that principally aren't yours. With that in mind, wouldn't you be at least a little upset?” To think, I had delusively assured myself that a different pitch wasn't a big deal . . .

Embee seemed confused. “Humh . . . A dissonance between indoor and outdoor voice, hmm . . . I suppose I would be upset, and if I started acting like her . . .” With brows wrinkled, she glanced down, either in consideration or concern. “I hadn't thought about voices in the way you do, to be honest.”

“Thank you!” I exclaimed shakily, not willing to show envy at Embee's comparatively unfaltering demeanor or let my own voice daunt me to silence. “I'm glad I opened your eyes. Or ears. Or both!” Would I have felt any better if I could've thrown my hands in the air? Maybe. I didn't have them, and it would've been a lethargic move regardless.

“My ears and eyes are open, hon,” she said reassuringly before frowning imploringly. “Just try to relax. Please.”

“And they were never closed?” I guessed, to which she nodded with a kind hum. “And yeah, I'm trying to be calm. Well, I'm trying to be calm now. I wanted to get things off my mind. That's—that's it.”

“Alright. That's good. Just relax, okay? You'll be fine.” At her suggestion, I took initiative on controlling my stress. As much as it could be controlled anyhow. First, I had to convince myself that I wouldn't die a little every time I opened my mouth. Or at the least that there'd be a limit to how much I could die. “. . . What did you sound like?”

“What did I sound like? I sounded . . . I was, uh . . . I'm not good at describing voices, so, hmm . . . Let's just say that I didn't sound like an emotionally fluctuating cheerleader.” Assigning that occupation's typical image to myself almost had me gagging in disgust. “You understand more than a fraction of my anxiety, and that's . . . that's great. More than great, actually. Compassion, and a desire to understand others, they're so . . . ” I was feeling winded. ‘Sometimes I feel like empathy isn't valued, like some can't feel for others, or refuse to see things from another perspective,’ I lamented, staring at the floor. ‘Or at worst, use empathy as a specious tool to shamelessly manipulate the emotions and distresses of others to further self-serving agendas! Isn't pretending to care what psychopaths do? I don't even know. What I do know is that exploitation is horrible. I also know for certain that I know nothing. Socrates said that. I'm not thinking well.’

“Vivienne,” Embee said, obliging me to raise my head. “I feel your anxiety, but still . . .” Her hesitation made me guess that she wasn't withholding good news. “Please don't take offense, but I think you're blowing things out of proportion.”

“No offense taken,” I said, ears slumped. “A female fretting over having another female's voice is no big deal, right?” There I went again, vocally referring to myself as a female. It felt as pleasing as starting a manual drive car in first gear but without the clutch depressed. I was unable to conquer my fear and tell her. Not that I was in the right state of mind to properly comprehend my fears, anyway.

“You're stressing yourself out, and that worries me considerably.” So, she had taken the tonality of my last statement and my general behavior as a sign of an imminent breakdown? I couldn't say she was entirely wrong about that; letting my bad feels burst into tears would've granted me some alleviation. “Relaxation is high on your priority list.” Her tender voice sent a small, attentive jolt through my ear muscles—their precise name escaped me. “You said that yourself, didn't you?”

“I did,” I acknowledged pensively. Her recalling my own words was rather thwarting. Out of principle, and a desire to achieve longer lasting tranquility, I couldn't take those words back. “I did say so, and I would say so again,” I cemented my adherence with a trace of resolution. I saw a hopeful smile on Embee. “To be consciously and fully ignorant, insensate, and oblivious is impossible, and to be on the level, I'd prefer not to be, as I'm sure it would do me a huge disservice.” On that note, I had become mostly desensitized to standing due to continuous exposure. That didn't mean it didn't feel a bit weird. “An awareness of my situation and the related challenges and problems should allow me to face them, therefore I'll comprehend and accept them or defend myself against them.”

“And to get that, you must strive for peace of mind?” Embee asked, but it might as well have been a recommendation. Gazing into her eyes, I deduced that my ordeal—especially the thing about ponies being cartoons—was skirting the boundaries of her comprehension. I couldn't blame her. I'd be skeptical too if our situations were reversed. I'd still commit myself to providing comfort, because simply put, that was the right thing to do. Embee's heart was aboard, thankfully, but her expertise was probably on treating injuries and soothing the injured. My wounds were in the psyche. One couldn't train for all possible emergencies, and even an emergency that one was trained for was still going to be traumatic. It wasn't unusual for maritime accident survivors to never board a ship again. Same deal for planes, trains, and automobiles. That was a movie with Steve Martin and John Candy. Anyhow . . .

“Peace of mind, yeah. Achieving it sounds easy in theory, but . . . I guess time will tell,” I said, taking her offer with some seriousness. “Speaking of theories though, my piloting prowess is unproven.” A fleeting smile graced me. “Being a pilot is my aspiration, Embee. Hence, the . . . plane made out of water.” I couldn't maintain eye contact. “I'm sorry about the mess. I was already at the end of my wits, and then one of her memories subsum . . .” My voice gave out, but I wasn't about to submit. “It was an awfully unpleasant exp . . . I was terrif—”

“No, hon, you shouldn't dwell on that,” Embee cut in, clearly concerned for my well-being. “You're enduring an awful lot already. You don't need to make yourself feel any worse.” After a few seconds that felt like a whole minute, she approached gently and gave me a light nuzzle. That felt nice. Too nice, because I had to consciously stop myself from reciprocating with a hug. “You should try not to look back on the moments that hurt you.” Everything had become a blur. I blinked twice to rid the excess fluid, but it wasn't effective. A careful application of my limb was, however.

“Ah . . . Agreed, and th-thanks for being my safety net. It means a lot,” I expressed gratitude, unimpeded by my enervated tone. I felt like if I even thought about crying, I was going to break down.

Embee had a compassionate smile. “If you fall, I'll do everything I can to catch you. Like I just did.” She sounded so obliged that I felt sorry for dragging her into this mess, and I had to distract myself before I started thinking my vulnerability was influencing her decisions.

“So, I, falling reminds me . . . I'm pretty sure I could perform a deadstick landing . . . I mean.” She might not have known what that meant. My thoughts felt like they were zipping about again. “That's controlled landing of an unpowered airplane. Anyhow, that and what I've learned of aviation, airplanes, how they function and how to fly them . . .” I closed my eyes briefly. “None of that compares nor could prepare for this.” I glanced back at my tail as I tossed it. As I did so, the zigzagging thoughts in my head froze, then fell straight down like a dozen pebbles. A surviving thought informed me that the visual and tactile feeds were too much for my selfdom center, which had now crashed. “Beeesides.” My brain thingy rebooted all sorts of quicklike and I now had a visual of Embee. “While I can't say I'm perfectly right, the senior pilot monitors the gauges and keeps the ATC, and by proxy, the emergency services appraised while the junior pilot controls the plane to a suitable landing area.” With my thoughts returning to their patterns, I recalled the water plane's fate and what had lead to it. I shooed the unrequested and disheartening recollection out of my mind. “Flying is teamwork where communication is vital, the crew share mutual respect and trust, and they focus diligently on their agreed-upon duties. The safety of the plane and occupants is the be-all and end-all, so neglecting that or outright putting lives in jeopardy is simply unacceptable.” A moderately uplifting epiphany came to me. “That's applicable to several things, really, like driving, and even society itself.”

“Um?” Embee cocked a belated brow, looking perplexed. “It is?”

“Yeah,” I said, though my voice still had that almost-about-to-cry rasp. Some kind of thought attempted to apply the brakes. But not now! I had to talk. I really wanted to talk. “A work environment, just like society, has its rules and laws, and they must make sense. If I question the rules or laws, and their justifications are questionable, then respecting and following them will be next to impossible. In all fairness, I don't like being told how to think or live my life, and conversely, I don't tell others how to live theirs. 'Live and let live,' and 'respect is earned, not given.'” A ghost of a smile came to me with an equally weak chuckle. “I like those phrases, so it stands to reason that I try to live up to them. I wish to achieve my dreams, but that doesn't mean I can or want to be selfish and uncharitable. On the contrary, the freedom of expression and information and the right to self-determination are just as indispensably important to me as empathy and thoughtfulness. Individual pursuits shouldn't compromise the collective goal, and neither should ever be used as a cudgel of subjugation.”

“So . . .” Embee started, placing a hoof under her bemused countenance. Meanwhile, I was feeling off. Fatigue, I presumed. I gently ran my pastern over my right eye under the belief it would ward off tiredness. I wasn't sure if it did. “The bottom line is that you are for fundamental rights and a balanced, equal society?”

“Undoubtedly,” I verified, briefly noting that I had talked for length without being bothered by my light intonation. Was that what I was supposed to note? Oh, never mind. “You see, nopony's perfect, and everypony's different. We have unique personalities, beliefs, aspirations, and so on. Therefore, disagreements, while unfortunate, are inevitable. That doesn't cause undue conflicts if everypony is conscientious. When an open mind is encouraged, prejudice is refrained from, discrimination isn't condoned, and the various lifestyles, opinions, and worldviews are respected, accepted, or tolerated, then everypony should get along just nicely. I hope.” While I momentarily second-guessed myself, Embee hummed thoughtfully, then rested her hoof. “After all, everything we do, say, or think affects everything around us. I try to consider what I say and do, like 'If I say this, do I offend somepony?' and 'If I do this, will I hurt somepony?' Do what you like, but don't go hurting others. Everypony would benefit for taking responsibility of their actions and showing consideration for others. It's simple, really. But sadly, even I falter at it.”

“Even so, it sounds like you've given these things a lot of thought,” Embee inserted, her calmness telling me she was either unimpressed or thoughtful. “Do you talk about these things with friends and family, too?” Her tone hinted at curiosity. Maybe.

“Actually, no, I haven't.” I never had. I couldn't say for sure about my parents, but I doubted my friends would care. They'd probably just tell me to "chillax" and stop behaving like an idealistic, wigged-out political activist wannabe—which I wasn't and didn't want to be! “So, I was saying about responsibility . . .” My enthusiasm had dropped significantly, but I couldn't drop the topic so abruptly. “Um, which means that nothing and nopony regardless of status is exempt from indictment and critique.” I relocated my views on justice systems and government into the back of my mind, leaving only a few words to speak. “Checks and balances, you heard of that?” Nopony should have absolute power, since absolute power corrupts absolutely. I should've thought out loud, but thanks to Embee, it had become depressingly apparent I had gotten on a soapbox. I hadn't ever expressed these things, not even on a message board, because I had no doubt my views would be mercilessly picked apart by scoffers just for the sake of trampling my self-esteem and to bolster their own superiority.

“Yes, I have.” Embee was apparently receptive and hadn't urged me to put a sock in it. Yet. “To be straight as a die, I agree with you on many points. I'm pretty sure countless ponies share the sentiments that we should treat each other as we treat ourselves, and harmony is an essential and cherished staple of Equestria. To that end, checks and balances are pivotal, as that's one of the many insurances of equality and fairness in an egalitarian society. I presume you feel strongly about the values you mentioned.”

“You don't have to presume, Embee, because I do.” I replicated her smile, happy that she was trustworthy, convivial, and most importantly, hadn't said anything degrading or disrespectful. Or worse, told me that my opinions are equal to garbage. “Unfortunately, I've accidentally gone on a tirade, and societal topics are a bit irrelevant to the here and now.” I really was going to end this abruptly. I had recognized her effort to salvage the conversation, but my shame had other ideas. I then said with feigned (but restrained) annoyance: “I'm an inhibited pilot-to-be, not an idealistic sociology student.” Or an insufferably obnoxious haranguer, for that matter.

“Oh? You don't want to talk more?” Embee seemed oblivious to the origin of the allusion.

My ears were as upright as flags on a windless day. “Mmm yeah. I mean, no.” I smiled warily. “I kinda let my mouth run there . . . or how did it go?” I mumbled, briefly resting my chin on my pastern. I didn't consider myself sufficiently experienced on social topics, redundantly reminding myself that I could make a moron out of myself by speaking with more ardor than acuity. Besides, I may've given Embee the impression that things here were worse than they really were. This wasn't a place rife with corruption, poverty, inequity, and social progress as short as the total length of the average Andorran child's navy fleet placed end to end. I was in a country that measured high on many charts, such as the World Happiness Report. Relatedly, I was primarily content with my life. I shouldn't have much to complain about.

“Hey.” Embee roused my attention, smiling reassuringly. “You did talk a bit, sure, but your opinions are fair. From sports to soy foods and banking to books, we all have opinions on things, and believe me, you don't need to feel bad about yourself. I think we can learn a lot when our opinions are challenged, and that can only happen when they're exposed to something or somepony who can challenge them. You see, that's when we have to review our opinions so that we may better understand them. We can then see where we're wrong and right. It's not a one-way affair, either. The challenger must be prepared to humbly check if their opinions and perspectives are well-founded just as much as the challenged has to. Trust me, this is extremely beneficial to everypony involved.”

I had to refute her intelligent argument somehow. “Yeah, but, uh . . . Okay.” I couldn't. It wouldn't be right. “Just to be clear, I'm not thinking badly of myself.” If only I could've smiled to back up that claim. “Well, not so much that you need to worry about it. I'm just sorry for my excessive talk. This wasn't the time or place to open up about all those things, if there ever is such a time and place.” I felt like I had disgraced myself. It was so potent, as if it was coating my heart in lead.

“Maybe so, but don't beat yourself about it, okay? The good news is that I understand you a little better now, and it's always important to understand each other.” After Embee said that, I let my eyes slump to the right, certain I was radiating a submissive aura. Had she been a foe, she would have used the acquired understanding to strike at my weak points. When she didn't speak another word immediately after, I started looking for probable causes for my yapping and for some means to chin up a bit. Of course, as she said, everypony had their opinions. Moreover, I felt safe expressing mine due to the trust we had forged. However, others could fly off the handle if somepony presented an opinion they didn't like hearing. Furthermore, it was extremely likely that somepony had more developed and refined insights and opinions than I did, and could present them in a more cordial and much less agitating manner than I could ever hope to, or was better than me at something I felt confidently proficient at. Whoever they were, I hoped they wouldn't rub it in others' faces, because that would be really unkind and jerkish, and I was pretty sure I wasn't the only one who didn't think highly of unkind jerks. A kindhearted person would warmly encourage and help motivate others to ascend to their level. “Are you feeling tired?” Embee inquired.

“A little,” I answered, confused as to why she had asked. “It's not unusual, all things considered.”

“Yeah, you do look a little tired,” she said, a touch of tender teasing in her tone.

“Tiredness,” I realized. “That explains why I was yammering all of a sudden. Reduced control and inhibitions. That kind of stuff, you know?” I received a nod and a hum for my succinct explanation. Although resting was tempting me with respite, I had to stay awake somehow. Lightly driving my hooftip into the carpet felt weird enough to repel my sleep-feels.

“Hey, I'm sorry if I dampened your spirits there, hon. I didn't mean to.” Embee must've read my overall demeanor, notably the hoof action, as a sign of dejection. “I was a bit unsure what to make of the sudden change of topic, and it took me a moment to get into it. Tired or not, I was certain you'd want to talk more. I thought it was keeping your mind off stressors. You certainly had a smile going on there.” I couldn't deny that. A calm mind would've kept my stressors away, until I said something dumb. Unless I already had, in which case Embee was exercising formidable restraint and politeness by not calling me on the carpet. She could tell me where I was wrong in a supporting and gentle way. If she would. “Perhaps a discussion could keep you awake and relaxed?” I vacillated on taking her clue to continue spewing my mind in spite of my doubts. I could say something appallingly wrong, and then she'd view me with disrespect. Or maybe not. She didn't seem to be the type. “Well, I guess there's no harm if I talk for a spell.” She made her decision during my silence. “Just speak up if you think I shouldn't, or want me to stop.” For fairness' sake, I was obliged to let her speak; I hadn't given her many chances during my blabbering. “I was reminded of a book that Lucek, a friend and colleague here, gifted me last week: Animal Farm. I've read a fair share of books, but he said this is a dark tale that made him understand the times of his parents and grandparents much better, and also appreciate what he has. What we all have.” Her smile's return coincided with my ears pricking. “He said that we should always be vigilant.”

"Against forces who wish to undermine our liberties and quality of life?" I hazarded with curiosity. Immediately afterwards, I believed I had jumped to a rash and regrettable conclusion, which I had voiced as a guess.

"He didn't say it like that, but . . .” She cast a glance upwards as she tapped her chin with her hoof. “He did say something about how evil wins if good does nothing."

“Yeah, I get that. Complacency can be delusive, after all.” I refrained from commenting further. In fact, I felt I had said too much already; I had to be careful. If I was free of worry, I could be unaware of threats to my identity. But if I was expressing myself freely? “Well, um . . . Give me a second.” I trusted she wouldn't intimidate me from expressing myself, although I was already doing a good job of that. Or wait . . . Had I expressed myself to keep my identity alive? My worldviews couldn't be so easily wiped out, degraded, or replaced if I created an imprint of them. I repeated things about myself to myself so I'd "upload" them to my current "hard drive", therefore not forgetting myself and becoming who I wasn't? That wasn't such a crazy theory. Anyhow, I was interacting with a literal alien, so maybe I should grant my curiosity an audience? “So, hum, odd and sudden question: how have things been for you here?”

“Hm?” Embee appeared surprised. “Oh! Pretty well, thanks for asking!” she said happily. “The first weeks were the most bewildering time of my life, but ever since I acclimated, I've grown curious about the way of life and the culture here. I've borrowed books, seen movies, and visited local attractions and museums. Aside from one place, an arcade, the hustle and bustle of this city hasn't drawn me in. This serene and quiet island Aidin showed me did. It might sound unbelievable, but that was a definite turning point for us.” A dreamy look shimmered in her distracted eyes.

“Must've been like out of a dream, right?” I had to feign joy for her. Learning how she was fitting in was exciting; hearing about her romantic pursuits wasn't. My feelings were closer to Scootaloo's when she had witnessed the hexad hug in The Cutie Mark Chronicles, but that was an honesty Embee wouldn't appreciate.

“It was more than that.” Her mellifluous tone made me think that she'd soon speak about her going all Juliet for her Romeo. When she gazed starry-eyed out the window, I suspected something worse: I'd be in a sticky situation if she asked about my romantic endeavors. I hastily decided that sincerity was the best policy. What would she think of my borderline asexuality? She wouldn't expect me to "get over it" and "fall in line", would she? Nah. She didn't seem like the type. “You know, the island's not like the others near the city, because it's pretty much unpopulated, and there's just one main road there. Or was it two? They all look like grey lines from above. Aidin also lead me to a quaint log cottage, which turned out to be a café! They had these wonderful sugar-coated jelly donuts with strawberry jam filling!”

“Oh yeah! I know that place!” I chirped. I was not going to be perturned by that. At least I was back in safer waters. “It's a pretty fine island.” As I recalled, it was a conservation area with a golf course and a small beach. And a spa. I was sure Embee knew. The tasty baked goods weren't exclusive to the exquisite café, but I didn't want to spoil Embee's elation. “I've been there a few times with my dad. I was too young to remember why, but I'm guessing he wanted me to enjoy myself. Like good dads do!” I had to keep up my happy smile though plain determination. Strange how I would only miss things when I had doubts in ever experiencing them again. Maybe once this was over, I'd head to my parents and give them a hug. If they'd appreciate it. If I could possibly overcome my petrifying inhibitions. My emotions weren't as inhibited as I wanted them to be. ‘Embee, please distract me before my smile breaks and I start sniveling.’

“My dad also took me out on some escapades when I was just a filly, and suffice to say, many happy memories were made!” Embee exulted, granting my wish and saving me from embarrassment. “Same story when Aidin invited me to the lush island. Hard to believe I used to avoid the forests around here because I thought uncontrolled nature was dangerous at worst and demanding supervision at best. He proved me wrong, and let me tell you, I'm very thankful he did! What I experienced was dramatically gorgeous and peaceful in its . . . its wild and otherworldly way! I won't ever forget it! The weather has taken time to get used to as well, and I heard the seasons are because of axial tilt—Oh?” Her exuberant smile reduced. “I'm sorry, hon, I must sound like I'm stating the obvious.”

“Yeah,” I drawled, smiling out of politeness, but also feeling a sense of pride. “It is, and it's okay. Do go on. I'm happy and proud that the magnificent and untamed wilderness delights you. My attention is rapt.” I thrust my right limb transversely to accent my gusto. Increasing eagerness to hear Embee's thoughts on this little corner of Earth was pushing my sorrows and weariness away. Also, it was her turn to talk my ear off.

“I had heard that this place was unspeakably exotic and diverse, and I did attend the introductory seminars, but to see the things with my own eyes was . . .” She shook her head. “I wasn't sure what I was getting into coming here. I wanted to experience something new and exciting, but I also wanted to be of help. How did it go . . . ?” Her hoof relocated to her lips, and her eyes rolled upwards for the duration of her short pause. “Ah! Cooperation, assistance, and education!” she said eagerly. Sounded like some kind of inspiring motto. I could get behind that. The possibility that trade and travel had been established a few years ago meant that basing my image of Equestria and its populace on the cartoon was no longer applicable, though it might still work as a base reference. “Oh, I'm sorry again. My daydreaming about the magnificent thicket nearly made me forget my question,” she said laughingly, but true to her words, there was a longing in her tone. Also, it was sort of nice to know I wasn't the only one who had derailed. It made me feel less like an oddball. “So, Animal Farm? You've read it? I understand it's a notably popular book.”

Her departure from the safe topic of nature and local attractions hit me with some dismay. “Ah, yes, it's well-known, but no, I haven't read it. I did see the animated adaptation about four or five years back. From what I know, it's an illustrative satire on how self-indulgence and the lust for power can ruin good intentions and corrupt liberators into oppressors. I think it's a thought-provoking cautionary tale.” I hemmed; I didn't want potential paradigms to come out my mouth. I would've preferred to talk about something less polarizing. I did talk about planes!

“Lucek said it's an allego—”

“But as I was say—” We struck an impasse, our expressions presumably identical. “Uhw . . . Saying something about flying before we both div . . . I unwittingly diverged from the flight path with my haphazard idealistic nonsense.” I felt a pang of injustice, as if criticising myself was wrong. How could it be wrong? If I put on the kid gloves, I could act like I was full of myself. Nonetheless, I felt contrite; the look on Embee's face—which I took as disappointment—amplified my feelings.

“Haphazard idealistic nonsense? Oh no, it wasn't anything like that,” Embee said pityingly.

“Okay.” I sensed her underlying frustration at my lack of self-respect, but also her near-desperate wish that I think better of myself. I was immediately beset by a conflict: I wanted to thank her for the tender vote of confidence, and simultaneously insist that my unacademic opinions were worthless. Ultimately, I didn't want to disappoint her. “Well, uh . . . Thanks, I guess. It's not easy to move away from a self-critical mindset, but I gotta try until I succeed.” I was truly struggling to meet her expectations. At least I could show her a smile for a moment. “So,” I continued once she brightened up, “while flying's typically a task for two, I want to go solo someday, and without passengers or cargo, so it's only me who pays the price if I mess up.” I really liked the idea of flying, but as much as I wanted to feel spirited, it eluded me at the moment. “Well, the plane would pay the price, too. Darn. That's uncool.” Feeling sorry for the innocent but imagined aircraft, a corner of my lip puckered and my eyes fell. Amidst my lack of enthusiasm and weird but familiar sense of empathy, memories of flying virtual planes on my parent's computer flittered in my mind. I had a personal Gimli Glider moment—with a Cessna Caravan. When the distance was a hair above 100 km, loading the fuel tanks to maximum capacity was superfluous. In hindsight, it should've come as no surprise that I didn't have enough. I had set flaps to 30 degrees, which meant I had to keep the plane from pitching up, but I did carefully pull the nose up as I came in for the landing. The rate of descent escaped my mind. An airspeed of 80 knots was a bit fast, but the Caravan braved it gallantly.

“Don't doubt yourself, please. You'll be an excellent flier, I'm sure of it.” Embee was again trying to save my self-esteem. Apparently my misery was breaking her heart, and I really couldn't let myself do that to her.

“Yeah. I will be.” I smiled leanly, reminiscing on my successful, albeit imperfect, virtual landings. But wait . . . If I was good at something, should I not feel proud of it? I couldn't be an expert from the get-go, but I'd never be good at anything if one failure equaled unsuitability. I was awful at parallel parking. Did that mean I was unfit to drive a car? I never got the gold licenses in Gran Turismo 4. Did that mean I was terrible at the game? My opinions were far from perfect. Did that mean I shouldn't have any at all? No, no, and no. Life was full of trials and unending learning. I had a long way to go before I was skilled enough to express myself with commendable finesse and ignore the obvious hecklers. Likewise, performing an error or errors in the safety of a simulation was a superb method of learning and improvement. “Airplanes are wonderful, and imagining how enlivening and excellent it'll be to fly one makes me feel a little better.” I still felt bummed out despite my moderately upbeat tone; emotions were easy to rouse, hard to tame.

“That makes you feel better? Hey, that's outstanding!” Embee said optimistically, a twitch in my ears almost erecting them. “Do you want to talk about planes some more? I don't know much about them, but don't let that hinder you. Chat away!”

“Maybe,” I replied. My impromptu idealism-spewing was fresh in my mind, and if I "got into gear," I could ramble about planes for who knew how long. Then she'd feel like an outsider—and we wouldn't be even one step closer to undoing my predicament. I had to stabilize myself before we could do anything. “Or maybe not. Sorry for going off on an accidental tangent. I was making an analogue somewhere back there before I began speaking what the spittle brought to the mouth.” With my awakeness on a slow decline, the internal safeguards preventing me from spilling my mind were slackening. Super . . .

“The spittle brought to the mouth?” Embee echoed curiously. “That's a new expression.”

“To you, but not to me, hmh.” An awkward smile got its momentary limelight. “I've been here ever since my wails desecrated the midwife's ears.” I laughed lackadaisically. “Er, I mean, not here in this hospital, but . . . the world that I'm no longer in, that really looks much like this one, aside from ponies and . . . Anyhow, my cries, and that . . . That must've been in this same, uh, my universe's version of this hospital . . . twenty . . .” A wave of cold dread chilled my spine. “Um, twenty-two! Twenty-two years ago.” I shouldn't have said that, and I couldn't say to Embee that I wasn't sure. Perhaps it was an intuitive feeling that I was twenty-two. Or maybe Rosy was twenty-two? Was that twenty-two in human years? Oh profanities! “So, uh, one speaks before thinking. To speak whatever one pleases, impulsively and without forethought or consideration for the consequences. That's what the spittle thing means,” I explained spontaneously. “I heard it from my aunt. Too long ago to know when.”

“Ahh. Okay. Never heard of that one before.” Embee nodded. “I learn new things every day.” I was so nervous, if she asked for my age, I'd promptly confess my uncertainty—and then I'd cry. I was that awesome.

“So do I. Many things, actually.” My honesty knocked at me, daring to spill a load of things I had learned just from being of a different species and opposite sex. I ushered them back to whence they came from. “Anyhow, here's a new analogue to replace the plane analogue: I'm traipsing through a tunnel of seemingly infinite darkness, firmly hoping to see a shimmer of the enthusing daylight. Hope is what keeps me going.” My steadfast disposition was transient; I sighed despondently. “But the darkness frightens me, and the slightest misstep makes my heart skip a beat. I want to unwind and feel genuinely at ease, but I'm afraid that if I drop my guard and become carefree, I'll start losing myself. What can I do?”

“Well . . .” Embee held her tongue; I presumed she was thinking something reassuring, wise, and positive. Or maybe I had asked for the impossible? My apparent lack of self-sufficiency crept in as a form of critique, but I knew that I couldn't always rely on myself alone. I was humble enough to ask for help when I was convinced I needed it. “I understand that having a body you don't identify with concerns you greatly, but perhaps you can focus less on that and more on being yourself regardless?” Embee's suggestion lifted my ears.

“Uhm?” However, my eyes didn't stay up for long. I had asked for her advice, but I couldn't realistically expect her to provide the perfect answer. She wasn't an oracle, but simply hum . . . equine. Aside from the intricate and innumerable physiological and cultural aspects, humans and ponies weren't so different. There were many nice ponies, and some mean ponies. Like Trixie and Blueblood. Although, Trixie's arrogance could be due to a deeply ingrained and unresolved inferiority complex, and Blueblood might've had his whims carried out by amenable ponies since an early age, fostering an assumption that everypony was unquestionably servile to him. At any rate, those two could be fictional. Anypony from the cartoon could be. Even Rainbow Dash? Something in me hinted at having encountered ponies who hadn't treated me fairly. Definitely not Rainbow Dash. She wouldn't. Hopefully. Maybe flouters had? The recollection was too vague, and I preferred it that way. It wasn't my recollection! Anyhow, be myself regardless? I wasn't sure what to think of that. Was it what I had expected to hear? Could I truly be myself despite the obvious physical disparity? I supposed that I could be myself—in pony shape—through an admittedly flimsy form of self-deception if I didn't have a female's voice. Wait, was I missing Embee's point entirely?

“The light at the end of the tunnel,” her repetition of my words took me out from my deliberations. With my breath on a brief hold, I stared deep into her eyes. “Place your trust in reaching that. I can't predict how long the journey will be, but do bear in mind that you don't have to walk alone. To continue the dark tunnel analogy, I hope to be the torch that keeps the darkness away, and don't forget: I'm the safety net that catches you if you fall.” There was more than encouragement in her tender tone. Subtle confidence? Or was it subdued desperation? I was too late to analyze her outlook; sobriety had replaced whatever was there. “Now, I'm going to say this as gently as I can, because I know this will sound difficult and even unpleasant.” She sighed, probably to brace herself. “You have to strike a happy medium.”

“Happy medium?” I repeated, unimpressed, yet secretly in agreement with her. “If I weren't aware of what that meant, I'd suspect you're asking me to be ignorantly carefree . . . Er, which I'm sure you aren't.” I was afraid I had offended her with a wholly unsubstantiated allegation and an implicit spurning of her help.

“I'm not,” she said, unoffended. Neither was she lighthearted. Quite serious, but calm. “I'm not telling. Nor am I ordering. I'm advising.” If not for her tone, I would've surmised she was talking down to me.

“Oh, okay,” I said humbly, almost slouching in submission. “I must apologize for my poor reaction. I'm a bit touchy, and I shouldn't be touchy.”

“That's alright, hon. It's been a very rough day for you, and you're weary. I would be moody too if my life was flipped upside down.” In reading her expression for further clues on her mood, I came to a conclusion: I didn't want her to worry herself sick, or worse, become discontent if I didn't appear calm—and less moody. Typically, it was females who were said to be moody, but what were males who were more strung up than a piano wire suspended between skyscrapers? Anyhow, everypony had their limits, and I shouldn't cross hers. “I do recommend that you take it easy and do what you can to be yourself, but please, don't put on the airs for my sake.” She shook her head. “A forced peace won't hold.”

Well, darn it. She was savvy. Maybe that was a boon in disguise? “You're right. Things will fall into place by themselves, and trying to expedite that might have a counterproductive effect. So, yes, I have to find a balance where I neither wreck myself with worry nor attempt to frivolously dismiss my grievances as inconsequential nuisances,” I affirmed my concession. Now, if I could actually stick to that. I didn't trust myself too much.

“That's the voice of rationality, Vivienne.” A hopeful smile creased her lips. “Find a balance, don't force it. Then you'll do fine.”

“I hope so. About voices, however . . .” I was reminded of a much more poignant and real voice, one that I had tried to use it as a means to lever me to the revelation, but . . . I didn't have the courage. “Rationally speaking, I have this voice, I can't do anything about it, and that's just how it is. The same applies to my current form, so, I guess . . . there are a few temporary losses that I must have the serenity to accept.” I sighed deeply, feeling somber and resigned as I gazed at my raised foreleg. Unlike my voice, this part wasn't explicitly feminine. Was I trying to asexualize this body? If I was, it wasn't going to work. Being female would only be half scary if I didn't have to fear another identity trying to usurp mine. Trying to. I was sure my survival instinct was putting up a formidable fight despite the setbacks. Still, perceived as a female, voice of a female, physically a female. Exhibiting feminine tendencies was an inevitability, because everything I said or did was going to be feminized one way or another. To know that was . . . a bitter pill to swallow, to say the least. I didn't know for sure, but maybe there were two types of transgenders: those who corrected their body to match their gender, and those who didn't or couldn't, opting to adapt instead. Would I change this body if I had the chance, though? Would it be right? This wasn't my body. Did I even fit the typical definitions of transgenderism?

“Hey? This might be a stupid question, but are you feeling alright?” Embee worried. I sent a stare toward the ceiling instead of speaking my mind. Asking if I felt alright had an inverse effect. “Bad time to ask, huh?” My demeanor had done the talking, it seemed.

“Sorry.” I gently closed my eyes, sighing. “Accepting what I am physically and the pertinent ramifications . . . It hurts just to say this, but I think I'm going through a bit of an identity crisis.” Opening my eyes, I briefly placed a hoof to my temple. “I mean, there's not a grain of doubt that I do everything in my power to retain my identity. I don't identify as a mare, but when my entire physical being is . . .” Another look at my hoof, another moment of disparity between self-image and body. “Disproportionated. The emotional and psychological effects . . . They challenge my comprehension. You can probably guess how I feel.” In all likelihood, my crackly tone told the answer. Relatedly, I was getting so close to telling the truth, but it was such an imposing obstacle I wasn't sure I'd get over it on my own.

“Being a pony burdens you that much?” Embee asked quietly, but not in condescension. I inferred she had a desire to know more.

Her saying "pony" instead of "mare" meant that the snare I laid for her had failed. Secretly disappointed, I nodded a slack yes. “Less than a day is not enough time to come to terms with it, especially when I've suffered a number of breakdowns. Can you imagine that I don't know how to feel about being this?” Exercising dexterity, I poked my hoof to the base of my right ear. It promptly spasmed, sending shivers all over me. “Uhghg . . .” I cringed. “Darn it, I should not have done that,” I groaned. I regained my senses with a grunt. “Other times, I think too deeply on what I am and what I can't be, and I start feeling miserable. Diminutive and vulnerable, too. All those feelings, even those I can't describe, they can diminish and recede, but they won't go away.” My throat closed up before I could say more. Maybe that was for the best.

Embee opened her mouth as if about to say something, but then closed it. She sighed, looking somewhere between powerless and sympathetic whilst I let my anguish subside. “I think I understand.” I doubted she fully understood, but I trusted she was doing her best.

“I wouldn't ask for anything more than understanding. And maybe some support,” I said earnestly in an undulating voice. With moisture buildup in my eyes and tiny quivers arcing all across my body, I placed my pastern to my lips. I had to take a few breaths to calm myself. The relaxant given to me while I was in the house had definitely worn off by now. I had only my fortitude left—and Embee.

“Vivienne. Maybe you don't realize it yourself, but you're still in shock. However, you're repeating yourself, which makes it harder for you to let things fall into place as you said they would. You must work toward breaking free from the negative cycle that so easily grips you. I can lend support, help you to pick yourself up, but you must do something toward that yourself. Thinking your way out from your negative cycle might seem impossible, but I feel in my heart that you have plenty of intelligence, courage, and determination to make that happen, and I'm here to help you.” She had a carefully encouraging tone again, but I wasn't particularly confident in my intelligence or courage, and determination was just a nicer way of saying I was obstinate. An unwillingness to change my stance could just as well keep me in the cycle as it could push me out, and I couldn't say for sure if I held much control over my determination. I withdrew my limb, and as I held it a little beneath my head, Embee approached. “Now, just take it gently.” She raised her hoof, its tip lightly meeting my limb's counterpart.

She had my attention. “You'll do okay if you don't upset yourself like you did, getting up on your hooves so swiftly you cried, and we both know you're sensitive to your ears. So, again, take it easy and slowly.” She let her hoof sink; I held mine where it was, a bit bemused that I hadn't physically felt her touch. Not that I hadn't felt it in another manner. “The anguish you feel won't go away by trying, but it won't go away either if you keep summoning it.” She backed a little, her left legs trampling the orange cushion without loss of balance; I surmised my motor skills weren't on par with hers. “At the risk of sounding obvious, you should never stop being yourself. I believe you have a strong spirit in you that can fight against all odds.” Her smile faded. “Although, if I have upset that spirit and made it less eager to fight, I apologize.”

I rested my limb with care. “No, you didn't upset me, and I'm too persistent to simply forgo being myself. Surmounting the physical inconveniences and limitations is a tall hurdle, but I'm sure I can do it with your help. It also asks for time, I think. Like waves evening out, or something. Anyhow, you're quite right. I must be gentle with myself, and if I can attain it, a positive attitude or a happy medium could be an advantage. Maybe I have the smarts for it.” I was reluctant to say I was smart; I had done several stupid things today. “Speaking of upsetting . . .” Wait, that sentence wouldn't do. No time to rethink, though. “Uh, I'm sorry about tricking you, asking for a back rub. It was very thoughtless of me.”

“Don't sweat it, hon. I reacted poorly there, too,” she said compunctiously, but just like my penitent tone had implied, I felt timid. I almost disagreed with her as well. Why was I trying to make myself of less worth than her? “Mistakes are normal. It happens to the best of us, and I don't claim to be the best. I'm just a big-hearted mare from a boring town known for its soapstone, if even that.” Her lips creased to a smile that hinted at the memories behind her amethyst eyes. “Sincerely apologizing and humbly taking responsibility do wonders for a broken trust.”

“You're forgiven,” I said without hesitation; I thought the reproach I had received was fair. Furthermore, I'd never forgive myself if I got on her bad side now that I had secured her as my ally. My only ally. “For better or worse, you are what you are, fostered and taught by your parents, cultivated by your environment and fellow kin. Nopony's perfect, and everypony can make mistakes, but like you said, accepting responsibility and being genuinely sorry can undo or reduce the harms done by a mistake. For example, while not a mistake per se, you had preconceptions about the laws of nature here based on what's it like where you lived.” I paused briefly, as a question came out of the blue. “Say, how much of Equestria's environment is under supervision?”

“Hum . . .” Embee's eyes rolled in thought, soon followed by a frown and another hum as she laid her head on her hoof. A few seconds passed before looked at me again. “A third? Or was it a fourth?” Her frown eased. “I actually don't know. I completely flunked at natural history.” She laughed embarrassedly. “I should've asked my neighbor back home, but I didn't get to know him well, and asking him never crossed my mind for that matter. He was, hah, he fancied himself as a meadow specialist, so he might've known.”

“Okay. Thanks for fulfilling my curious whim. Hmh. Meadow specialist,” I said the last two words under my breath, amused as well. “So, as I said, the nature here wasn't as, um . . .” I couldn't say bad. Because it wasn't. Hurricanes, typhoons, and cyclones notwithstanding. “. . . unnerving as you thought it was, and it's normal to be cautious of the unknown. Similarly, not everypony understands why they're afraid of something, but nonetheless, they let their instincts decide for them.” That was pretty much what I was doing by being Vivienne. “Same might apply to mistakes: some may not understand the mistakes they make, or why they made a mistake in the first place.” I felt like that was a critique directed at myself, although in hindsight, I may've subliminally thought of my friends. I didn't need to think more on that; it was something to take up with them, assuming I had the bravery. “Maybe I've become a little too tired to understand things?”

“Tired as you are, you have profound views and insights, and continue to be an amazing thinker. I admire that, and I'm impressed.” If Embee gave me any more validation for my intellect, I would blush. Better to be abashed than become prideful, as I wasn't particular to arrogance. Yet I admired Rainbow Dash, who was more often than not reckless, boastful, and egotistical. Anyhow, Embee said I was smart, then . . . maybe I really was smart? Perhaps not smart enough to be a certified researcher or a scientist, but smart enough to do okay. I wouldn't always be right, but I wouldn't always be wrong, either. That was pretty meaningless. “I won't lie, hon,” Embee said softly, “I'm starting to feel tapped out, too.”

“You know . . .” Her compliment was motivating me to open up a bit, although I had to break through a wall of inhibition. “I try to understand. I want to understand how things work: physics, astronomy, whales, the behavior of others, you name it. Ever since I was mature enough to think for myself, I've tried to understand a lot of things. I even try to understand myself, and sometimes, I think that my cognitive processes are the greatest mystery I know of. Now more than ever, I have to understand myself if I'm to be less erratic and strike the balance you spoke of.” I took note of my snout, then the messy bangs, and lastly, the things I stood with. I looked at Embee right as I realized I had knees in my arms, which actually were legs. I felt a smidgen woozy. Letting out a long sigh, I glanced to my right at the abstract art piece with the red and orange ribbons crisscrossing over a starry background. Maybe that was some kind of an allegory to the complexity of the universe? Or maybe it was made on drugs? Whatever the inspiration was, it was lost to me. Just like I didn't think deeply on the art piece, I rarely needed to think what I was to myself. I was me, and always had been me, but separation from my physical self had a profound effect that was more baffling than edifying. “But I dunno,” I murmured, my weariness and participation in the discussion preventing deeper self-analysis. Heeding a want to rest, I prodded my insensate hoof into the cushion's edge, whereupon I was reminded of what I didn't want to feel. “I've got a few unresolved issues . . .” I thought. Out loud. In a low, groaning voice. I felt indifferent that I did. Purposeful slipup?

“I'd be happy to hear what those issues are. Maybe I can solve them, or at the least help you understand how to solve them,” Embee offered, repositioning herself by the table's corner to my left, as if ready to sit down and talk with me. I gazed at her welcoming expression, unsure about the opportunity. “Do you think you'll then find much needed comfort and peace of mind?” Humming, I looked down at the comic book. “What's on your mind?” she inquired after a brief moment. What was on my mind was an issue I'd have to present with exceptional tact. “Let's talk it through, okay?” Was tiredness lurking in her eyes? Possibly. I gave the cushion another prod, half-wishing the unspeakables were as insensitive as a hoof. After a few seconds, the silence was broken by a soft click of her tongue. “Have you wondered why I stay with you instead of seeking assistance?”

I was reminded that she was off duty; she didn't need to be here with me. “Can't say I have, but now that you mention it, I do wonder. Funny.” A corner of my lip upturned in transient joviality. “Seeing as my situation is somewhere between unusual and unprecedented, why haven't you rushed out the door to find help?”

Embee presented one of those sad smiles that nonetheless bore hope. “Before I can go asking for assistance, leaving you here by yourself—or in the care of somepony else if you can't join me—I must be assured and confident in your ability to be fine and awake for longer than a couple of minutes. You're getting better, but I still worry for you.” Assured and confident? Right, I could assure her, but she'd trust her own judgement if I didn't make a solid case.

“I thought I was so enigmatically special that you can't in your good mind squander a single second of my specially enigmatic speciality of enigmatical specialness of enigmaticalness,” I droned, aided by my weariness that was further compounded by my lingering recollection of the cushion-administered fondling. However, Embee's giggling signified that my playfulness hadn't gone to waste.

“Specially enigmatic specilsticical . . . ? Bleh!” She stuck out her tongue, a giggle following without delay. “Ah,” she sighed, “how do you do that?”

I was powerless against smiling myself. “I just um . . . I just do.” I was sure my cheeks were lighting up. “Well, anyhow, you don't need to worry so much that you feel tied up. I'm as fine as I can be, and I'm sure I can stay awake for more than a couple of minutes, maybe up to an hour. I'm not as think as you tired.” Embee suddenly broke out into a guffaw. I was smitten with her laughter, exhibiting a confused titter. “Oh, um, what's so fun . . . ny now? Buh!” I facehoofed, disbelieving my gaffe—and I couldn't believe I just facehoofed! Although I had substantial evidence for both. After disconnecting my limb from my face, I gave the former a glance. Embee was occupied by mirth. “That was embarrassing,” I muttered, gathering my poise. “But I can take a joke. I'm humble, and I'm fine.” The gentleness of my tranquil vocalization chafed with me, but my chagrin wasn't for long. She was still having fun with herself. It was no skin off my back. She was laughing with me, not at me. “Okay, it wasn't that funny,” I objected quietly in spite of the tiny smile tugging at my lips. I took another look at the fundamentally alien features of my limb: in addition to coping with the whole equine locomotion gist, how many times could I apply pressure on these four extremities before my tolerance was at its limit? I didn't want to suffer an anxiety attack in the middle of a hallway. Or in other words, start shedding a few conspicuous tears.

“Whew. You tickled my funny bone there. Thank you.” My ears told Embee had made a timely recovery, which I confirmed with my eyeballs.

“It was nice to be of service,” I voiced my lightheartedly sarcastic comeback, rolling aforementioned eyeballs. “Anyhow, what you were saying earlier makes sense. While you were having fun times, I ascertained whether I have the endurance to accompany you wherever you went. I said I must work with this body, and I understand that I absolutely have to, but I can't guarantee I won't suffer a moment of anxiety somewhere down the line.” The contrast of having claimed to be fine and now admitting my frailness downed my ears. I didn't note when they went up. “So, perhaps it's best I don't go anywhere until we're both sure I'll be fine.” I rested my extremity.

Embee stared at me for a full second without a conclusive expression. “That's more or less what I said, hon.” I detected neither teasing nor condescension in her tone.

“Yeah, more or less.” I found myself a bit nonplussed. “So we're in agreement,” I said kindly, but minorly humiliated. “By the way, thanks for, well . . .” This was going to be an awkward transition. Better just do it. “For being here when you could be asleep at home.” I would be sleeping now. In my bed. A memory flash! Furniture designed for ponies? Had I . . . Rosy been to an IKEA recently? My inkling said yes, and also said this was before the acquisition of the car. There was something about the car. Affordable and—

“Think nothing of it,” Embee said modestly, driving off the inkling. Driving . . . ? Whatever. “I just follow my heart.”

“Hmmh. Following the heart.” I was reminded of a small bit of trivia: conscience was "heart feeling" in Estonian. “That's sweet and kind.” Following my appreciative smile to her, I pressed the cushion again, considering kneeling down onto it so I could rest and perhaps think things over. Send Embee away, or not? Or something else? “So, um, I feel . . .” I felt daunted just looking at the cushion. “I feel that um . . .” No, I couldn't ask her to familiarize me with disagreeable anatomy, especially when said anatomy was ineffably intimate. I could just follow her, but . . . I had felt empty walking. Then again, I never liked walking naked. It was so . . . sway-happy without the confining garments. Was my current form's nakedness better? Maybe it was. “Ugh!” What was I thinking!?

“Is it a bad feeling, hon?” Embee asked soon after I had closed my eyes and placed my hoof to my bridge—again! I held it there, as if I could block out my curiosities on what advantages being physically female bestowed. I discovered one discouraging aspect pretty quickly: most human females had dairy-dos, and I couldn't imagine those being comfortable. I had never asked if they were. Even if I exercised courtesy and tact, expressed sincere curiosity, and assured that my inquiries were free from debauchery, I was afraid it'd take only a few seconds to be accused of, condemned as, and then vilified for being a depraved pervert. Fortunately, the overwhelming majority of informative and educative web sites weren't excluding perusers due to extremely negative gender stereotypes that weren't propagating equality. “You can tell me, can't you?” Embee queried, indirectly instigating me to take my extremity off my face. “Is it something about hooves? Don't be frightened to tell me, Vivienne.” I was gazing at my upended hoof, like I had done so many times. I didn't think much, and I let the limb reunite with the floor. Out of nowhere, the fact that the mammalian prominences on ponies were comparatively insignificant elicited a strange thought: if being pony had been my choice, would I have chosen to be a mare just for the convenience of . . . internal equipment as opposed to external? I was afraid to answer that question, yet I was pretty sure I already knew it. I had speculated on it several hours ago. Granted, the specific anatomy itself and the inherent functions repulsed me—especially periods! As far as I knew, they were unspeakably awful. “Not to pry, but is your coat itching?” Embee queried carefully, prompting me to review if my itches demanded immediate attention.

“For the time being, no, it's not, and if it were, I'd use a tool of some kind,” I replied, albeit a little annoyed. Should I have said that I wasn't opposed to her help?

“There should be a clean brush in the bathroom. I could have it brought to you if you want,” Embee offered. “Or actually, it's not far from where we are now. If you feel up to it, we could go there. Maybe the walk will be refreshing?”

“I'm not sure I want to do either. Having my body brushed would wake me up like nothing else, but being extremely uncomfortable in my skin instead of adequately tolerant is more trouble than it's worth. Also, removing grime off me isn't much of a concern at the moment. Thanks for asking, though. I'm content with just being able to stand and walk with these things. I do pretty fine at that, as long as I don't start fretting about it.” I held my limb a little beneath my head, feeling a pinch of agitation when I looked down along the grimy hair. As if having four legs was an affront to my persona. It kind of was, and my agitation was a habitual defense for my sorrow. Aggression was seemingly a strength, whilst sorrow wasn't. Maybe showing sorrow was a true strength, and covering up sadness with indignation was a weakness? As I kept staring at my elevated leg, I wondered how would this entire day have been if . . . this was flipped over. A female-me in a stallion's body? What would I miss? What would I appreciate? Not being the target of predatorily sexual males was perhaps one advantage. Not to say that predatorily sexual females were unheard of. But this was an irrelevant subject. I should have been thinking of something more immediate, private, and personal—aside from that, geez! I was fairly sure some females wouldn't hesitate to "get a feel". I was above such primal and shallow pursuits. I wasn't sure what a female would find appealing in being temporarily male. Perhaps merely exploring existence as a male would be an exquisitely eye-opening and educational experience? Of course, it would have to be temporary, just like my present predicament was. Hopefully.

“You have that look again, hon,” Embee said in a lighthearted tone, which earned her a plain look as I gingerly brought my hoof down. “The kind of look that says you were deep in your thoughts. Whether it's something bothersome, embarrassing, shameful, fascinating . . . agonizing? I don't know, Vivienne. Is it something you can't tell me, or something you really want to tell me but are afraid to? I don't know, but I do know that every second of your silence increases my curiosity and worry. So, hmh.” Having become serious, she renewed her smile. “A bit for your thoughts?” I immediately realized she couldn't carry money on her. Unless she had it hidden under her mane, which was possible, but unlikely. I also had a hunch that bits weren't the primary currency here. Force of habit on her part?

“I'm sorry, Embee,” I said in my (presently) naturally soft manner. “I'm just wondering if . . .” No, I couldn't bring myself to ask what she'd do as a male. Not yet, and not so suddenly, anyhow. “. . . wondering if we should go asking about how to fix this entire situation, or see how well I can relax first with some coffee and casual chat. I'm still recovering. You know, slowly pulling out of the negative cycle? It's not going to happen smoothly or quickly. Think of it as exhaustion after a long run. Or long flight, if you will. Recovery will happen, but it takes time, and I can't unfeel the ache. So, again, I wonder if going or staying makes my troubles less cumbersome.”

“Well, I gave you my opinions and suggestions, and you've made your own assessments,” Embee recounted, serious and calm. “I think it's fair to say that you have the capacity to make the decision.”

That should be easy. “Okay, I'd like to . . .” Maybe deciding was anything but easy? “Hmm?” Grooves and ridges sprawled from where I laid my hoof on the cushion. “Some rest would do me well.” My inhale brought in the scent of coffee that had been in the air ever since its brewing. “The coffee wouldn't be bad, either.” I locked eyes with Embee. I had only the faintest idea on how it was possible that a species I considered purely fictional not only existed but had come to Earth. I had something warmer to say. “Speaking of bad, whatever I've done and said, I feel fortunate, privileged, and grateful to have met you, and talking with you some more would be a delight.” With her lips creasing to a smile of appreciation, I realized a casual chat and coffee time would delay finding the help I required. “However, we haven't done much to solve my predicament, and it's most likely past midnight . . .” Doubting we'd find help during the night, I let my gaze migrate from Embee to the cushion, where it remained for a few seconds before going back to her. “Why do simple things become so complex?” Right as I said that, a barely-formed idea touched my mind. “Well . . . Perhaps I should go on a limb and heed my instincts?” That's what I did, and shortly, I was staring down my snout at the lime green fabric. “It can't hurt to sleep for a few hours,” I said to Embee, having resigned to my base desire. “You'll take this issue up to, um . . . I don't know the procedures, but I trust that you will relay my situation to whoever knows best while I'm snoozing.”

“I'll do my best, trust me. I'm absolutely sure somepony knows how to make everything okay for you and Rosy.” Her confidence and relief was overtaken by a slight frown. “Are you really sure you want to sleep?”

“Please, don't make me doubt myself,” I warned, a little scared I would. “I do that too much and too often already. It's a quagmire I don't need to get stuck in. So, listen carefully. It's been a strange day. A long, trying, tiring day, and that means I do not want to rest.” Her expression forebore a question on why I had changed my mind; I continued with an earnest emphasis before she got a word in. “That I've had a long and stressful day means I am in need of rest.”

Her eyes rolling diagonally down strongly implied she was contemplating. “Alright, I understand. Let's go find a bed, okay?” She walked towards the door, holding me in her kind but appraising sights until she passed in front of me.

“Yes, lead the way, please.” I rotated around and walked beside her, leaving unsaid that I had wasted a lot of time on being aversive, bemoaning my flaws, and . . . yadda yadda. As a silver lining, I felt I had gotten a lot of things out of my system, and I was considerably more relaxed compared to ten or twenty minutes ago. Realistically, I could not cancel my shock and its symptoms. That would be akin to switching off clinical depression or paraplegia.

Embee hesitated by the door, looking over at me. “Hey, I just want to say that once you have settled in, I or somepony else could bring you the cof—” Suddenly the door clicked, swinging inwards as if by its own; we both backed out of its path, although I nearly tripped over myself as my forelegs and hind legs simultaneously pushed and pulled me.

A blue—or could be teal—pony stood before us, her mane and tail in two hues of yellow. “Embee?” the pony said, her brown eyes evidencing puzzlement.

“Oh, Night Light? It's nice to see you!” Embee's tone was full of joyful surprise.

“Likewise!” came the cheerful response. “But, ehm . . . What're ya doin' here, at this hour?” She wore satchels—or saddle bags—and was wingless and hornless. An earth pony! “Didn't your day end an hour ago? Or are ya workin' overtime?”

“Well, yes,” came the reply. As I was standing half of a body length farther back than Embee, I had a good view of one half of her face as she gave me a brief glance. Would she tell this mare what had happened? A reassuring smile appeared on Embee before her face turned out of my view. “I got tangled up in something I could've never foreseen.”

“So did I,” my lips barely moved with my whisper. I was glad Embee hadn't spilled the beans right off the bat, but I also reflected a little on how immeasurably improbable and reality-shattering it was to unexpectedly wake up in a pony's body in an alternate universe where ponies exist. One little variable different, and I could've awoken as a stallion. Or as myself. Or as a female myself. Or much worse, as a real pony in some farmstead! Or as a 1964 Ford Mustang—the first pony car. Supposedly in that state, I wouldn't count as a living, sapient being. Nightmare or not?

Mixing It Up

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

Chapter 16
Mixing It Up

“Hmmh.” Night Light's countenance transitioned from bemusement to a despising frown. “Treatin' a patient as a friend ain't unusual, Embee,” she said without a trace of sympathy.

Her frankness shocked me. ‘Is she for real? She can't possibly disapprove—’

“It's lovely!” Night Light declared.

‘Oh . . . Never mind.’

“In fact,” she continued, “didn't ya spend almost three hours with a little colt who'd injured both his wings tryin' to fly from one apartment to another where his friend was, and he was worried he'd never fly again? Oh no, no need ta answer; I already know ya did! That was so sweet of you, keepin' yer wing over him and talkin' with him till he dozed off, all peaceful and happy-like.”

A modest blush colored Embee's cheeks. “Me being me.”

My mind was busy digesting the info gained from the chit-chat as Night Light went on, “Oh, I ran into Ampoule, and we talked for a bit. Get this: he had some 'insight' about culture. He reckons that learnin' the language is the key ta learnin' the culture.” A sly smile spread over her lips. “If'n ya ask me, I think he's just too embarrassed to admit he's fawnin' over his girlfriend,” she whispered, giggling a bit. Embee, however, wasn't amused. “Don't give me that look. He roped ya into learnin' the basics of the language, and ya spent a week beatin' yourself in the head over it. Say whatcha want 'bout poker, he beat ya fair an' square. Anyhow, he also said that a language has proverbs, metaphors, and expressions formed and developed through millennia, so when ya know the language, ya know the culture! Ain't that amazin'?”

I felt like leaping into the conversation, but I chose not to. Night Light continued, “Sorry, listen ta me, talkin' your ear off like it's my favorite hobby, hahahahaa!” The jaunty earth pony's focus shifted to me as she walked further into the room, smiling like nothing weighed on her mind. “So, who's the gir . . . uh?” She stopped in her tracks, mouth dropping slightly ajar. “Oh dear golly . . .” she said in astonishment, her wide-open eyes surveying me as if I were clad in neon signs. She may've seen my blank flank. Maybe that was the cause? What would I say if she asked? That I was a late bloomer? I could at least try to see her cutie mark. Or not. The saddlebag and angle we stood at meant that I didn't have a line of sight on hers. When her focus returned to my face, she coughed up an unexpected laugh. “I saw you had a few smudges here and there.” She raised her forehoof to casually point its tip at me; apparently I had some grime on my chest—or whatever the area ahead of the sternum was called. “But I didn't realize you were that filthy. Did ya take a bath in a muddy ditch or somethin'?”

I wasn't pleased by her flippant presumption. “Oooh nooo, not a ditch, but a river, where I nearly drowned,” I answered in a mocking singsong voice. “It was . . . It was fun,” I finished dolorously. This wasn't my body and I had nearly gotten it killed. Twice! What a terrible disgrace! Oh no, I couldn't start crying . . .

“Uhh . . .” Night Light stammered as I carefully checked that my shame and grief weren't opening my tear ducts. “I'm . . .” Contriteness creased her countenance. “Sorry?” Then it turned into genuine concern. “You okay?”

“As in healthy?” I cleared my throat, stabilizing my tone. “Sure am. Don't worry, I only had an accident.” If the only means of escape off a cliff could be called that. Anyhow, there was no need to tell her the entire story. “The worst is behind me now, and I'm getting better. Just still in shock, that's all.” I willed a smile, turning my attention to Embee. She looked pensive. I didn't think deeply on it. “So, as much as I prefer not to sleep in a hospital, can you please lead the way?” A command in my head said to point a finger toward the hallway. Naturally, this meant I held a hoof toward it. I assured myself that the promise of sleep would keep my recurring equine incompatibilities, and related concerns, to a minimum.

“Whoa there, hang on now!” Night Light briskly strolled to Embee, effectively blocking our path. I had a direct view of her side now; her cutie mark was a clipboard illuminated by a lantern. “If'n you've been in the break room with this here patient, then she's already been discharged, right?”

“I'm right here,” I mumbled, a little annoyed that she was talking to Embee about matters pertaining to me. A single "she" wasn't enough to rub me the wrong way. However, feminine pronouns were the least of my concerns if she asked my name.

“Yes.” Embee nodded politely. “Signed and approved.”

“Hmh. Okay.” Night Light cast a brief glance at me, scrutiny and inquiry written on her visage. I pursed my lips, rolling my eyes aside in pretend-haughtiness. “She's been discharged, so why's she needin' a bed?” She laughed in the manner that implied some form of nervousness; I once again felt disgruntled. Was it too much to ask that she speak to me? “Ya know the rules, Embee. This ain't no hotel. I know ya care a lot 'bout the patients, and that really is amazin', but we can't go grantin' beds ta ponies when they're lookin' grimy and weary.” Another glance of examination my way. “From what I can tell, she needs a shower, but she's gonna have to find someplace else ta sleep.” After her adamant statement, her gaze returned to me. I was trying to contain my minor indignation in a ball of apathy. Moreover, the pronouns didn't mean I was any less of a male to myself. “Has your family, next of kin, or friends been notified of your situation?” she asked in evident concern, rotating to be in line with me. Yay for no longer treating me like chopped liver.

“No, nopony knows, and I don't have anypony here . . .” Aside from Embee, I was by myself, and being alone felt kind of unpleasant. When in new company, I wasn't confident admitting my more sensitive feelings to myself, let alone showing them. Which I might've already done. “They don't know anything about this, let alone that I'm here, because they . . .” I drew a soft but audible breath, thinking for a moment. “They're pretty far away.” Distance between universes was impossible to calculate. Technically, I was maybe ten to fifteen kilometers from my parents; I had never measured the distance. “I'll tell them what's occurred the next time I see them.” In other words, mum's the word. Nopony would believe me, and being in the form of a cuddly magical pony from a line of toys and cartoons marketed for adolescent gir . . . females was a surefire way to earn strange looks, demeaning comments, and at worst, allegations of sexual deviancy and gender confusion. I was being really negative, wasn't I? My parents would refrain from judging me poorly. Hopefully.

“Alright then.” Night Light's conduct changed from circumspect to warm. “Well, ya probably wanna get home. Unless you're homeless.” She laughed lightly; however, she became serious in a blink of an eye. “Oh no! You ain't homeless, are ya?” she said pityingly.

“Wha?” I stuttered for a moment as I powered up my voice. “No, no. I have a home.” It wasn't truly mine, but it was better than nothing.

“You do? Oh good! That's great news!” She cheered up surprisingly swiftly. My mind fell on the concept of homeless ponies. That was truly tragic, but I held no doubt that charitable organizations eagerly provided food, aid, and shelter with no strings attached for those who had fallen on tough times, just like they so kindly did for humans. “So, if you're all ready to go, we can arrange for a taxi to take ya home.”

“Oh?” I whispered, intrigued by the easy return to my sort-of home. I mused whether homeless ponies were offered transportation to Equestria . . . to continue being homeless? Anyhow, I had to voice a relevant complication that had almost instantly become apparent: “Is the taxi service free?” I asked, extremely aware that I lacked a single dime to barter with.

Night Light's solemnity didn't instill me with joy. “Afraid not, sorry.”

“Excuse me,” Embee said to her, then cleared her throat. “Something's come up, but it's confidential. You understand?”

“I understand patient confidentiality,” Night Light replied nonchalantly.

“You also understand that you owe me a favor. Well, I have a request,” Embee spoke equally relaxed, but I got a bit nervous; was Embee going to ask Night Light about mind swaps?

Night Light blinked her eyes. “Now?” she inquired, to which Embee nodded decisively. “Okay . . .” Nonplussed, my brain was in a flurry over the possible outcomes of their dialogue, and a flight reaction prepared me in the event that things took a nosedive. Of course, if the plane had gone into a spin, it was corrected by . . . setting throttle to idle, keeping the nose down, and countering the spin with the rudder, then increasing throttle and leveling out once longitudinal rotation was controlled. I didn't need to worry; I trusted Embee knew what she was doing. “Uhh . . . hum.” Night Light stole a glance over her back. Nopony was out in the hallway, but I did hear a faint din of indiscernible talking. “What can I do for ya?”

“You live just down the street from here.” Embee smiled gently, still as self-assured as before. “How about you hoof over your spare key and let her stay in your home while you work the night shift?”

Notwithstanding Embee, our faces blanked. ‘What? That's quite a demand . . . No, an unreasonable request, and . . . Well, if Night Light complies, then should I not agree as well?’

Night Light's mouth spread into a strained grin with a titter. “Come on, Embee. Be serious.”

“You think I'm not?” Embee replied with apt seriousness, which was replaced by sympathy as she looked my way. I was too bewildered to utter a word, let alone decide if I should smile in reluctant consent or perform a dissuasive headshake. “She's gone through a lot more than meets the eye, and I think a place that's cozier than a hospital bed would help her relax and recover from her shock,” Embee implored to Night Light. She glared at Embee in disbelief, then glanced at me with an obvious desire to hear my input on the matter.

“Yeah, I've gone through a lot and, so, uhm . . .” I let my voice fade to nothing, finding the floor very appealing to my eyes. Never the kind to boldly speak my opinion when negative consequences seemed assured, my body language took the reins and set my ears to full flaps down. My ambiguous disposition must've made Night Light consider me as Embee's subservient accomplice.

“Embee, I know ya mean well and all, but you really oughta think about what you're askin' for. Ya earned one favor from bestin' me in a dance game challenge. That ain't a free pass to force me to do anythin' ya wish, even if it ain't for your benefit.” That was quite an indirect warning to Embee, while also moderately motivating me to do something. I couldn't in good conscience stay in Night Light's home, let alone feel welcome if she had given her consent through gritted teeth.

“Um, well . . .” I whispered so quietly I wasn't sure I had said a thing. Thinking I could give a visual cue, I looked at Embee. Alas, her head was turned aside and downwards. From my position, I wasn't able to read her expression. I did surmise she was in her thoughts, but could I trust her to know what was right? If I reached . . . Oh, I couldn't tug her nonexistent sleeve. I must've subconsciously perceived Embee as equal to a human—and that was a good thing. Regardless, as much as I valued her support, affability, and concern for my well-being, her request was too much. Now, if I could just say that kindly. It felt like it took a minute to scavenge my courage to speak clearly, even though no more than a second or two had passed. I tested my voice box with a light cough. “We don't need to burd—” She flipped her head around so suddenly that I shut up with a hiccup, but I was relieved she wasn't upset or offended in any way, shape, or form. “Haha, you spooked me there,” I noted self-consciously. “Anyhow, um, it's obvious Night Light doesn't want to comply with your request to accommodate me in her home, so I think we, uh, we should respect that.” I put on a conciliatory smile, although a dash of doubt made me question if my equine facial muscles replicated my attempt with perfect fidelity.

“See, Embee, even she understands,” Night Light said with a slightly scolding undertone, nodding at me. With Embee's attention on her presumed friend, I had to rely on her ears to tell me what she was feeling. “She knows what's best for her. And me! And she's being a lot more sensible than you.”

“Hmmh,” I hummed in assumable agreement. ‘Me? Sensible? Yeah, right!’ If anything, my rationality had stalled over a dozen times ever since I took my first steps as a magic-capable female ungulate.

“She don't wanna be in my home if I don't like it, and no offense to either of ya, but I ain't gonna accept a guest on such short notice,” Night Light continued, softening her tone as she spoke.

“None taken,” I interjected; Embee remained silent. I took a step closer to see a part of her face.

Night Light glanced behind herself. The door was still open. Was she going to close it? “Things uh . . . Things have happened,” Embee said during the intermission. Profanities! She wasn't going to spill the beans, was she?

“Yeah, I get that, and whatever's happened, you inform who needs to be informed and fill out a form or two,” Night Light replied, a little flustered. “I take it ya don't wanna drag me into this, but that's exactly what you're doin' by askin' me to house a discharged patient who says she's all fine an' dandy.” She spared me little more than a cursory glance, then gestured at Embee. “Yet you say she's still in shock from nearly drownin'.”

“My shock is passing . . .” I said diffidently, but I was ignored. “And it was I who said I nearly drowned,” I added so quietly my lips barely moved.

“Just 'cause she'd feel cozy in my home ain't enough to win me over. Unless one of ya tells me what's goin' on, I can't take your silly request seriously.” The silence that ensued was broken only by nonspecific noises from the bowels of the hospital. “So, what's it gonna be? Tell me or don't tell me? I ain't got all night,” she said, glancing at us both, although I could sense from her tone that she wasn't really interested in what we were hiding. I considered pulling out the pineapple ruse, but reticence prevailed. While I waited for Embee to make the call, I presumed she hadn't considered that Night Light would decline taking a total stranger—me—into her home. Not so firmly and bluntly, anyhow. Compared to me, Embee had behaved in a nearly flawless manner, so . . . I still wasn't understanding her misjudgement. Then, I recalled what had happened in the office, and I realized that I didn't know what Embee was like. Perhaps her empathy was about helping those whom she perceived to need help more than placing herself in another pony's hooves? I really didn't know, and my mind was becoming dulled.

“Alright, alright,” Embee eventually said, sounding both resigned and resolute. “I was wrong. You're right.” She looked over at me with a sad frown, as if apologizing for failing me. Before I had a chance to say anything, her attention returned, with a sigh, to her colleague. “You're both right, and I'm very sorry.” She humbly inclined her head, with her ears following suit. “I really don't know what came over me. Ah, I'll ask for a favor some other time, for something else,” she said ruefully, a slight stammer creeping into her tone. She was taking this harder than I had predicted. I needed to boost her confidence somehow, but . . . I didn't know how!

“Yeah, somethin' less ridiculous,” Night Light added pointedly. I furrowed my brows in disapproval at her impudence. “Besides, she . . . I'm sorry, miss, I didn't catch your name.”

Her politeness didn't fully prevent my irritation from getting the better of me. “Sorry, not telling you.”

“Uh, okay?” A slightly stymied Night Light soon gave Embee a curious look. “Do you know her name?” Of course, if I didn't speak my name, Embee would.

She sighed through her nose. “I do, but if she doesn't want to give her name, then I'll honor her wish.” Leaving my responsibility to myself was sort of okay, I supposed.

“O . . . kay then?” Embee's reluctance seemed to dumbfound Night Light, as the earth pony's brown eyes drifted over to me. “Are ya sure you don't wanna tell me yer name?”

“I'm sure,” I replied without hesitation, hiding my apprehension with a cool demeanor. If I did something wrong, she'd sense that I wasn't a true pony, and then I'd be in a pickle.

“Alright.” A small smile curved her lips. “I'm Night Light.” She showed me the underside of her forehoof. “Pleased to make yer acquaintance.” Heeding an assumption and hoping to minimize any suspicions she had, I held mine to hers. She promptly gave it a light bump, and her smile spread. Just to be safe, I replicated it, though it felt strained. I hoped it didn't show.

“Likewise,” I said cordially, feeling I had averted disaster as we both dropped our hooves. To her credit, introducing herself so that I'd introduce myself was cunning, but as small as a name was, I couldn't let Night Light believe and spread that lie. I composed myself and devised a little something that, hopefully, would defuse the dawning tension. “Dear Night Light, I hold nothing against you, and I hope you hold nothing against me. As normal and expected as it would be to kindly introduce myself, I wish not to reveal my name. I don't ask you to understand why, and I can't answer if you ask me why. I’m sorry, but I only ask that you respect my decision.” The peaceable delivery sounded pleasantly silky, which wasn't so bad, apart from the fact it came from my mouth.

Night Light's face relayed disappointment. “Have it yer way then, missy,” she desisted curtly. I sensed she would get back at me somehow. “You don't wanna tell me your name, fine, but I gotta call you somethin’, so . . .” Her face lit up with glee. “I can just call ya 'Missy'!”

“Wh-what?” Surprise surged through my vessels. “Uh, I mean . . .” I didn't want to accept the nickname, nor did I want to stir up conflict. I put on a nonchalant face and looked her in the eye. “Yeah, I can live with that.”

“Alright! Missy it is!” she said with so much delight that I . . . No. Rather than follow my frown with a retort I'd regret, I shifted my sights to the left wall. I was annoyed by being called "Missy", and annoyed that I was annoyed by it, but also rethinking the necessity of my female guise. Alas, breaking it now would introduce a variable whose disposition I hadn't adequately determined. While I gazed at the wall, I believed I heard Embee quietly berate Night Light. At least my right ear had cranked around, so what I heard must've been real instead of imagined; I wasn't the kind to hear voices in my head other than my own. “Well, as I was sayin', you’ve got a home, and . . . hum? That's a house key, ain' it?”

“Hm?” I cocked a brow at Night Light. ‘The what now? A key on me? Oh, right!’ I had almost forgotten the source of the easily-ignored sensation on my nape and beneath my throat. “Sure is,” I affirmed simply. I had smartly collected my keys before I left my sort-of home. I also had a vague recollection of being inside a very familiar automobile earlier today, but I was sure I hadn't driven it anywhere. I hoped I hadn't! Darn canned pineapples and something in them that disrupted my . . . magic frequency? Whatever it was, it wasn't good for me. How could I have driven, though? This body lacked the dexterity and dimensions to use both the wheel and pedals. Then what did I . . . Rosy do with a car if driving was unfeasible?

“Unicorn with a house key? That's a house key?” Night Light mumbled, peering at me investigatively. I almost asked if it was odd for a unicorn to have a key. “Nmh, whatever. Ain’t my concern.” Following her nonchalant hoof throw, she whipped her head to Embee. “But hey. You're my friend and all, and I do a lot for ya when asked. But this idea ya had? I can't get it outta my head. I mean, what were ya thinking? You normally ain’t like this.”

I was in for a bit of a surprise when Embee sighed and gingerly facehoofed, a posture she held for several seconds. “I'm not sure. I must've thought I had a great idea,” she whispered as her hoof came off her face. “I'm sorry, Night Light. This day must've worn me out more than I thought.” My ears sagged in guilt and sympathy; I wouldn't have exhausted her if I hadn't dawdled on everything.

Night Light said casually, “It's okay, Embee. You're still my friend, and ya do look a bit tired. I suggest ya got get some sleep before ya contract eye circles.” She laughed lightly. Whether she was subtly mocking Embee or kindly teasing her was hard to deduce, especially as Embee sported a smile, albeit a lean one. “You also look like ya need a bit of shut eye,” Night Light said to me, interrupting my guess on how healthy their friendship actually was. “Yer the third pony I've seen in the last ten minutes that's lookin' worn out.” It dawned on me that if it weren't for that accent of hers, Night Light's voice would be even a closer match to the stealthy female from Red Faction 2—a lackluster game compared to the original. “Anyhow, I don't know what else ya've gone through today, and I suppose tryin' to pry won't garner nothin', but . . ." she paused as her muzzle scrunched with a sniff, "Ehh. No offense, Missy, but ya got a, uh, loamy aroma about ya, as my pa used to say. Have ya thought about showerin'?” I'd better get used to that nickname for as long as we were talking.

“Maybe I'll shower, maybe I won't. It's hard to say anything conclusive yet.” I let my hoof migrate to my jaw. Taking a shower as a pony wasn't appealing in the slightest. Nonetheless, I had to be mentally prepared. I tossed my tail lazily as I relaxed my forelimb, both of which reminded me how much I still had to make sense of. It wasn't sensible to imagine applying a magic-enshrouded brush to my coat, standing petrified and staring in depressed resignation at nothing as each stroke swept away more of my dignity. Perhaps it would be less torture if I were sitting? “I'll think about showering once things have normalized,” I said to reassure myself, and to ensure that apprehension hadn't, and wouldn't, invade my voice. My ears remained upright, and neither mare looked like they were going to inquire about my state of mind.

“Sounds good to me,” Night Light said, casting some validity to my assumption. “But I gotta say, I think your coat’ll be nothin’ short of lustrous once all that dirt comes off.”

“Lustrous?” I repeated tepidly, knowing full well she had spoken a compliment. I was leery of saying more, daunted by the notion of catalyzing the topic to conditioners, coat care, primming up etc. Basically, I was afraid to engage in filly talk, where my total lack of experience would guarantee me much embarrassment and humiliation.

“Yeah. Dazzling. Stunning. Beautiful.” She smiled. I didn't. Not only was I hoping to end this topic through reticence, the synonyms had now spurred my imagination to depict my current form as a Rarity mock-up. If it ever came to settling for some kind of style, that wasn't it. I preferred simple and casual, for starters. Night Light continued to stare at me with a spark of inspiration glistening in her eyes; I stared back with blank disinterest. “You know, to have a pretty coat and mane,” she said as I watched her teal hoof point at my respective anatomy. Or was she more blue than teal? “Ya’d look absolutely lovely.”

Expressing my mild agitation in its purest form would be unwise. “Hmm . . .” I hummed thoughtfully as a pretext to soften my voice. “So, Night Light, if I were to look lovely, would you fall in love with me?” I cooed, throwing some (presumably) demure body language for effect.

Night Light promptly broke into a hearty guffaw. “Only if I were into mares, ya foxy miss!” she rebutted, slashing her hoof vertically like a claw, sporting a daring grin that exposed her teeth. Foxy miss? It could've been a lot worse, but nevertheless, the moniker and her unabashed response weren't instilling me with confidence. While I did what I could to keep a cool demeanor, her expression softened into a lax smile beneath . . . bedroom eyes? “Or maybe I actually am into mares, did ya think of that?” she whispered, coquettishly closing the small gap without a trace of hesitation. Overwhelmed by the confusion of this development, my mouth dropped a little. An operational part of my brain favored producing and then furiously waving a stop sign in her face. “When the time's right, when ya’ve normalized, and when I'm rarin’ for a certain special kinda bliss, how ‘bout we, hum, get a bit dirty together?” Centimeters from my face, she softly double-clicked her tongue and fluttered her eyes; I felt her gentle breath twirl in my nostrils. “Whad’ya say to that, Miss Foxy?” I stared at her, trying to do the thinking thing that made the smart thinking happen. Once the cogs in my brain got free, I backed away with a burst of nervous laughter.

“Okay, that's enough. You've had your fun,” Embee spoke up, shooting me a worried glance before locking her stern gaze back on Night Light. “For crying out loud, you're creeping her out.”

“Creepin’ her out? Ya kiddin’ me? She's embarrassed, not creeped out.” Night Light pointed at me, unfazed by Embee's scolding.

I had collapsed onto my hindquarters, my equine face and limbs having proved no deterrent for my forehooves to do their best at the adjoined-fingers-over-mouth gesture. Still unsure what had transpired within my head, my breaths were tinged with laughter. “Oh gosh, what the hay?” As jumbled up as my gray matter was, it posited that Night Light had enacted a bit of vengeance for my refusal to reveal my name.

“Yep, totally embarrassed,” she stated. “Red cheeks and all.” I spied a bespectacled dark-haired man stop outside the doorway, casting a bemused look at us before shrugging and continuing on.

Embee seemed to relent. “You incurable prankster,” she said blithely as she shook her head, then tilted it. “And you told me to be serious.”

“Don't go gettin’ your feathers all ruffled and start actin’ all 'professional' on me,” Night Light defied leisurely. “It really don’t apply to me since my shift ain’t even started. Don't forget that you're not above doing little harmless pranks yourself.” I may've been in a bit of a tizzy, but I was sure Embee's face flushed. I felt that Night Light was being hypocritical with the whole "act professional" thing. “Besides, respondin’ playfully ain't hurtin' nopony. Just look at her, she ain't upset one bit.” Their attention turned to me right as a sound not much unlike a nicker escaped me. Was that how I tittered? A nugget of dismay insinuated that my laughter wasn't as it used to be. I imagined my voice box as a literal cardboard box with the Venus symbol crudely painted on it, paired with an equally crude arrow-shaped sign pointing at it and stating, "Explanation, darnit".

Meanwhile, Embee conjured thoughts of her own, furrowing her eyebrows at her friend in presumed dislike at her jaunty attitude. The unspoken rebuke evinced a sigh from Night Light. “So, ya feelin’ okay?” she asked me, mirth still in her voice and expression. With my forehooves now back on the floor, I spied Embee raising an eyebrow in curious dubitation. Night Light rolled her eyes at Embee, huffing lightly. “You're not offended, upset, shocked, or somethin’ to that effect?” she continued insipidly.

“Nah, I'm fine. Jokes are jokes, and it's all fun and games as long as they're harmless, and this one was harmless,” I said as I laboured to get myself up, thinking how to wrap my mind around what happened instead of letting my quadrupedalism disrupt my upbeat mood. “It was funny in hindsight, because I didn't expect you to, umm . . .”

“Come on to ya?” Night Light helped when it became apparent I wasn't finding the words.

“Ahh . . . Yes.” I smiled self-consciously, looking aside as my ears took a horizontal position. “I thought you'd, uh, you'd back out in shock or disgust, but you did the opposite.” I flicked my eyes at her, where they lingered for a few seconds. “You were direct, open, and unabashed, so . . . yeah.” How many would react with offense to an apparent approach from the same sex? How many would go beyond the acceptable and react with violence? Those who were thin-skinned, I presumed.

“Don' worry 'bout it.” She chuckled casually. Sufficiently relieved, I found the willpower to turn my head. “Not everypony's swingin’ both ways like I am.” She . . . just boldly admitted to being bisexual? Wow! That was ear-prickingly brave! “It was clear to me that your flirtin’ was just for giggles, though.”

“Yeah, that's right, I'm straight,” I affirmed nonchalantly—Oh profanities! “Uh, sort of . . . ish.” What a mistimed moment to reconsider where I stood on the Kinsey Scale!

“You mean, ya have doubts?” Night Light asked, becoming sincere. “Or . . . I hope this ain’t true, but have ya been pressured to keep your sexuality a secret?” She glanced over her back; the hallway was empty. Embee strolled out to take a look, ostensibly confirming our relative solitude and privacy before returning. We were now standing in a triangle, and I hadn't thought of a single thing.

“No, I don't have . . . er, I haven't . . . I mean, yes. Or no. I'm not sure. Well, I'm not really into . . . into the, um.” I chose to mute myself before I nervously stammered out something blatantly honest. ‘I'm not into ponies in the romantic or erotic sense, and, actually I'm not into the whole sex thing either,’ I finished the sentence in my head. Had I said that, I would've made things much more complicated. How much could I say of myself without making it apparent I wasn't a genuine mare? Night Light was bi, so she couldn't possibly be prejudiced and skeptical. Could she? It'd be tragically ironic if she was. I had less faith in convincing her of my humanity, and now wasn't a good time to reveal my true gender. Anyhow, I had a mare's body; I naturally identified as a guy; as weak as my libido was, I was sure my preference was for females; and lastly, ponies shared enough humanlike aspects to qualify as humans in my subconscious. So, with all those accounted, if I were to state and express interest toward mares, what would that make me? To her I would be lesbian, but what I would I be to myself? Oh, this puzzle was too massive for my tired head to solve.

“Hey, listen,” Embee's intervention started as a whisper, drawing our attention. “I know your intentions are good, but I think you're only putting her in a tight spot,” she reasoned with Night Light.

I saw an opening to remove myself from the potentially difficult discourse. “I agree. You obviously care about my . . . about how I feel on the inside, and that I don't submit to what I'm expected to be like.” How poignant. “I'm sorry that we have to cut this short. Embee and I got places to be, and talking about, uh, sexuality is an awkward topic for me anyhow, so let's drop it. Please?” I beseeched conciliatorily. If I ever let on that intercourse disturbed me profoundly . . . I wasn't devoid of romantic feelings, but . . . What kind of intimate relationship worked without intercourse? A guy who wasn't getting any action was typically seen as a loser, but what was a guy who wasn't interested in the action at all? Celibate? That was commonly associated with religious vows, and I was agnostic.

“Sure thing. Dropped,” Night Light stated, lightly striking her forehoof to the floor.

“Thanks.” Stunned and a little pensive, I barely got my voice above single decibels.

“Don't mention it.” She produced a small smile, but the disappointment and sadness of resignation was in her eyes. I felt like I had denied her the chance of helping me out of my (assumed) sexual conformity.

“So, Embee?” Night Light said, and I swear she sounded a little morose. “You could, I dunno, pay for her taxi ride? You know, when she goes home?” A free taxi ride? That would be most excellent! If Embee's smile was of any proof, she was agreeing with the proposal. “Maybe even let her use your perfume?”

“Perf . . . um?” My inchoate smile was replaced by blank shock, shortly followed by a vision of my present form effusing varieties of scents in the shape of wavy trails and rose petals, myself traipsing gracefully and carefree—and producing heart shapes in the eyes of every stallion unfortunate enough to be caught in my wake. I got my smile up and running before the true pony females caught on to my apprehension. “You mean, deodorant?” I indirectly asked for confirmation for my supposition. I had no doubt I could employ several methods to dissuade any stallion (or mare) unlucky enough to take genuine interest in me. Also, perfume was the aromatic version of a sundress and high heels. Granted, I was a male and therefore unlikely to wear either item, but my current sex hadn't kindled my mind—especially towards high heels. They were scientifically proven to be harmful, and were impractical as well. Deodorant, however, was equivalent to a t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Unless it was an explicitly feminine deodorant, in which case the t-shirt was hot pink with "XX chromosome power!" written on it and the jeans weren't loose fit.

“No worries, hon. I have both perfume and deodorant. If you wanna use one or both, I don't mind lendin’ them to ya.” The provided info and Embee's calm smile helped me overcome the remainder of my apprehensions.

“I respect your offer. Thank you. In case personal hygiene becomes an acute issue, I may ask for what you have available.” I would've voiced my disinterest in perfumes, but I didn't wish to infringe a female code I was unaware of.

Night Light giggled for some reason while a cursory presumption emerged in my mind: Applejack and Rainbow Dash might touch a perfume bottle once or twice a year—to Rarity's dismay. Or by her desperate behest. “I don't know you, Missy, but I think you're good with words,” Night Light merrily remarked, which I took as a compliment. “You don't have the flair or accent, but I'm wonderin', do ya hail from Canterlot?”

“Uh, no,” I replied swiftly, a touch surprised. Of course, every locale had its own customs and culture, and I was certain that Equestria wasn't culturally homogenous, just like I was certain that I . . . Rosy wasn't from Canterlot.

“Hmh, okay. I had this picture in my head that unicorns from Canterlot are usually needlessly formal wordsmiths. Never been there myself. My mother says that they're snooty prigs, but I'm sure they're all fine and kind.” I didn't laugh with her, though I tried. I would've been worried about my overall conduct not being inherently mine, but unlike memories, a name, and definable ponyisms, separating virtually identical traits was next to impossible. Fright threatened to envelop me, but resignation and subsequent acceptance quickly reduced it to a tepid ember. After all, if the traits are identical, then why should I worry? Taking a brief look at my hoof, I thought that maybe we weren't so different in some other respects. Kind of like having a parallel universe version of myself with the same humble home, same relic of a car, same overthinking—

“Heeeey,” Night Light drawled abruptly. “Why so quiet all the sudden? Did I say somethin’ wrong? I know I sometimes say stupid stuff, but ain't no reason to give me the silent treatment.” Heeding an inkling, I turned my attention to Embee. I caught her thoughtful look, and she caught my diffident expression. She let out a soft breath and drew her lips to a warm smile. That was supposed to be reassuring . . . right? “Okay, I really shouldn't get involved with whatever's going on between you two,” Night Light spoke up again, a little frustrated by our strange behavior. “I'm sure it's all sorts of friendly-like and patient confidentiality-like and, heehee, totally not sensual-like. That was a joke, Embee. Stop squintin’ at me. Yeah, I'm just stallin’ you two. My bad. Ah but what I could get involved in is enjoyin’ a cup of coffee. My shift starts in, oh, ten to fifteen, so—” Directing a quick glance toward the kitchen, her outlook changed with a wide-eyed blink to an ear-fallen frown. “Oh please, tell me there's some coffee left for me?” she said in a pleading tone, giving us both earnest looks.

“There's plenty,” I replied distractedly, indifferent to the coffee now that Night Light's earlier remark about unicorns may've given Embee a reason to doubt the truth. Nah! That was a ridiculous supposition sparked by illogical paranoia.

“Great!” Night Light's lips formed a new smile. “Oh? It ain’t decaf, is it?” I detected a hint of dismay in her voice, an assumption which her hanging ears substantiated.

“I'm sorry, Night Light, but it's decaf,” Embee answered consolingly.

Night Light's outlook transitioned from solicitation to sadness, slowly settling on a sullen downward stare. “Peachy,” she muttered, making her way toward the kitchen with a protracted huff. I couldn't tell if she had chosen to derive whatever delight the unideal coffee could offer, or if she now had a score to settle with her colleague.

“Will you and Night Light be okay?” I whispered to Embee. “You two kinda didn't see eye-to-eye a few times, and I am, uh, was worried that might strain your relationship.” Night Light's ears didn't turn, so I presumed she didn't hear us.

“Eh.” Embee's sigh felt orphaned without a shrug; she waited until Night Light was out of sight. “She's happy-go-lucky.” Just like Embee was in Peachy's office, I recalled. “She's too forgiving to hold a grudge for long.” A peripheral glimpse of a person walking past the open door caught my attention, this time reminding me that hospitals never slept, only became a little quieter. With Embee making her way out, I saw fit to follow.

“Okay, who done spilled water all over the floor?” Night Light's unamused voice twirled us around. The earth pony appeared in the doorway not a second later, her frown evidencing she hadn't been rhetorical.

“Sorry, Night Light, that was my fault,” I said, promptly taking the rightful blame.

“Sorry, Night Light, that was my fault,” another voice spoke over mine.

“What?” With my hoof still aimed at myself, I looked over at the second speaker in disbelief. “No, I did. Wait, why’re you . . . ?” We had spoken at the same time, our stances were similar, and I bet even our expressions were exact matches. We cast our collective looks at Night Light. Her mouth was spread open in a frozen laugh, as if she was in a conflict between guffawing at our comedic behavior and demanding a proper answer for her inquiry.

“What in the name of Eques . . . Ah no, no don't bother,” she said lightheartedly, throwing a forehoof. “It don’t matter who did it.” Her smile vanished as she glanced into the kitchen, her eyes unmistakably taking stock of the spatters there. “I'll clean it up anyway.” Her cheeks bulged as she billowed out a breath, whereas I was too stupiefied for thoughts or actions. Her eyes landed on the radio, appraising it for a short moment before taking herself there. In a matter of seconds, she had powered it up and tuned it to a station that, by the first notes I heard, didn’t sound like Radio Nostalgy or whatever; violins played a high-tempo but beautiful melody. However, her adept manipulation of the radio awed me; Embee had been baffled by the device. “Ain’t this Vivaldi's Winter?” Night Light asked elatedly, followed by her starting to trot on the spot to the piece.

“It could be,” I speculated despite her being ostensibly entranced by the audible art. Classical music was very recognizable, but I was poor at connecting the names to pieces and vice versa. I was mesmerized further when she elegantly danced her way back into the kitchen, where the clicking of her hooves continued echoing into my ears. “Classical music is one of the finest genres ever conceived,” I whispered, entranced. Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Dvorak, and more; it seemed unlikely that Equestria had those. What else did they not have? Blues? Punk? Heavy Metal? House? Psy-Trance? Didn't punk originate from counterculture, just like rap and rock did? Maybe they did have those genres? For all I knew, the various indigenous cultures here on Earth presented unthought-of musical treasure troves for ponies.

“It sure is nice music.” Embee sounded like she too was captivated; the violins were now playing a much calmer, serene melody. “I'm not sure I've heard this one before. But oh, hey.” She nudged her foreleg into mine. “We better get going before we get lost in the music, okay?”

“Yeah . . . After you, please.” I decided that she should walk out first, as I wanted to get lost in the music for a couple more seconds.

“You know, not everypony's . . .” Embee halted moments after stepping into the hallway. “Oh my!” She wheeled around so quickly her tail stuck out horizontally. “Peachy!” she exclaimed, her brows standing as far up as possible. “Of course!”

“Of course what?” I queried, naturally confused.

“How could I've forgotten?” For the first time since we'd met, Embee's mouth went wide in realization. Her behavior would've been startling if I didn't trust her sanity. I was still confused, though.

I tilted my head. “Forgotten the, um . . . the raincoat?” I guessed with a smidgen of jocularity, feeling exposed now that I made my nakedness apparent. I cast an arbitrary glance to my left, seeing Night Light standing in the kitchen doorway with curiosity written on her face.

“Yes, sure, that as well!” Embee said, dismissing the modesty-enabling attire as a triviality. She then gestured for me to come out into the hallway, and I complied. Shortly after, she punched her hoof into a hole by the door, which then closed. I looked up, spotting the mechanical door closer. It was so far above. “She may know how to help. She works late today, but let's hope we're not too late.” Aiming herself to her left, Embee glanced over her back. I prepared myself for the short walk that I knew was coming. Peachy could help me, somehow, and that was just awesome! “Follow me!” Embee sped off in a hurry.

“Right behind you!” I shouted (or tried to), my eyes affixing to her distancing shape. I was asking for full throttle, but my legs had become unresponsive. With desperation fighting my petrification, I looked down at my right foreleg. “How do I gallop?” I raised my limb as if the answer was there. I wracked my mind, trying to solve my quandary. I knew walking and trotting, but galloping was . . . incomprehensibly complex. So, FR and then . . . my hind leg? Left or right? Darn. The golden success I urgently needed eluded me. I looked ahead, expecting to see Embee waiting for me. What I saw were several doors spaced evenly on both sides of the hallway, wooden chairs with red seats lined against the walls here and there, and the hallway itself ending in a T-junction. But no Embee! Profanities! I had lost her! “Ooohh,” I moaned miserably, staring down the vacant hallway as if my vocalization could summon her.

With the hope that I'd find her or Peachy's office keeping me from spilling tears, I set one hoof before the other. I was determined to reach the junction and from there I'd go . . . left? Oh, never mind. Embee would come soon to check why I wasn't right behind her, or was waiting for me around the corner. Everything was fine. Except for walking. Almost zero sensation, and far from being quiet. If I thought the clacking was loud now, a racket was guaranteed were I to (successfully) gallop or trot. Or canter. Only I was creating noise, which meant that if anypony was nearby, they weren't walking.

Doors were on both sides of the hallway. Embee had sped off, presumably waiting for me right around either corner ahead. Passing a few red chairs, I was a little shocked when I realized their height matched mine; then again, I wasn't holding my head up. These chairs were meant for humans, but might they work for ponies as well? I placed one hoof on a chair before I decided against it. Facing the pale white end of the hallway again, it occurred to me that a small car might fit in here. A British Leyland Mini! What a spontaneous observation mixed in with whimsical fantasy! But really, I would be more than thrilled if I had the opportunity, the permission, and the bravery to commandeer the renowned and recognizable automotive icon. However, my allegiance was, and would always be, to my own car, although it wouldn't fit in here anyhow. Maybe just barely? Just had to work my imagination . . . Oops. Imagination. Not magically start clustering airborne particles into a tenuous wireframe sculpture. Admittedly, this was a brilliant sight, like luminescent white yarn suspended in thin air, but . . . No, I shouldn't be doing this.

The display vanished in a blink of an eye, but with the sight fresh on my mind, it was no challenge to envision the affordable, and strangely adorable, light blue car. With the windshield wipers in motion. W-what was that about? Was Jim trying to tell me a story or what? I didn't speak windshield wiper. I was just tired . . . “Buh,” I vocalized lethargically, returning to reality from my drowsiness-induced inanity. Daunted by the feel of my ears twisting and swaying, I denied myself a brisk head shake that might have exchanged additional weariness for lucidity. “Mwhahm . . .” I stifled a yawn.

The third and final door on the right was open. Voices emanating from the room primed my ears, so I stopped and peeked in as I passed by. Five low-sitting, empty beds were on each side of the room. No, there was a sixth bed behind the white curtain in the far right. That was where the talking was coming from, and neither voice was Embee's. The beds had equal-sized wooden head/foot-boards framed by curved stainless steel, and wheels instead of legs. My presumption of hospital beds as simplistic, unappealing constructs made by the lowest bidder was challenged by these modern and stylish examples. Much like in the break room, the colors here consisted of various hues of brown, and the windows lining the wall at the far end provided a view of the city. By the beds were night stands, each with a lamp so slender they had to be LEDs. Most important of all were the beds themselves. The clean, white sheets, pillows, and blankets tantalized me with promise of respite. So, which one would it be? Find Embee and fight to stay awake, or sneak to the nearest bed and hope for a moment's escape from my present form? Decisions, decisions . . .

Two Tired, Too Tired

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

Chapter 17
Two Tired, Too Tired

I looked to my left, expecting Embee to arrive speedily and then promptly escort me to Peachy's office, but the couple of seconds that I waited didn't yield the return of the closest thing I had to a friend here. Hoping I wouldn't regret this decision, and wary of intruding upon somepony's privacy, I ventured into the ward. None of the beds were occupied; I chose the first one to the right. It was set so low that I would have to do little more than collapse into it. I placed one limb on the bed. Oh, this was so soft and alluring that I couldn't help but grin. Even a minute or two of rest would do me wonders.

“. . . has been more fundamental,” a distinctly British-English male voice came from behind the curtain. I could tell it wasn't a live person. A radio, perhaps? One more limb on the bed! I almost giggled.

“I was always happy. I didn't care. Get on with it. Better laugh.” It was another voice, but it sounded . . . Scottish? “Now I find . . . Life's too short now. I find I've got awful serious. You know, I don't . . . I can't be bothered with insignificant things anymore. I just crack on with the important things now. That annoys me, because I liked the way I was before Piper. I don't like, ah, particularly like how I'm now.” That was haltingly poignant. What Piper was didn't weigh on my mind. Would I return back to my normal life just as I was, with valuable insights and wisdoms, or would my current biology remain with me in spirit even when—

“Pardon me, but is somepony there?” a voice asked with an accent I couldn't identify. I was so caught off guard that I compulsively tried to say yes; a sharp breath was what came. As my wits returned, I frantically assessed whether a hasty exit from this potentially sticky situation was prudent. Whoever was behind the curtain sounded very living . . . and might have a contagious disease that could kill me! Or not. A room with five, likely six, beds, no staff present, and a door left wide open was anything but a quarantine. “If my ears weren't tricking me, then I sure heard somepony come in,” he speculated as I stealthily removed my hoof from the bed. Once I had all four on the floor, I took a few steps back. Sadly, that served as a very audible reminder on how impractical hooves were for sneaking.

Once I determined that bolting would be highly suspect, I let out a resigned sigh. “Ah, yes. Somepony's definitely here,” I affirmed, nervousness injecting a constrained laugh into my tone. At least I wasn't feeling so tired anymore. Making my physically female presence known to another variable was inevitable, but hadn't crossed my mind until now. If I showed myself, his eyes would appraise me like I were a vein of gold to a destitute miner! Not all males were like that, but how could I know for sure? Could I just give in to fear? Wouldn't Embee be here soon anyhow? I amassed my courage, took a breath, and . . . forward I went! Reaching the curtain, I stuck my head out past its precipice and looked to my right, reluctantly appreciating my long neck. A brown pony was supine in a bed, his mane and eyes were deep purple, and any shred of hope I had of him not being male disappeared.

“Uh . . . Hi.” A forced smile covered my apprehension of being measured as mating material. I quickly diverted my mind away from such irrationality as he reciprocated my greeting. The bedstead was separated from the floor by about forty to fifty centimeters, and the bed (which was a little large compared to his stature) was bent so that he was in a slight sitting posture. Beside his bed was a wheeled wooden table with a lacquered finish and a flatscreen TV on it; that device was the source of the two voices I had heard prior. Now it was playing some kind of tune His forelimbs rested on the white blanket that reached up to his armpits (or whatever the pony equivalent was), his left limb was in a cast, and he . . . was garbed in a white shirt?

“Well . . .” He touched his jaw, then turned his hoof toward me. “It's nice to meetcha. What brings ya here?” he said, confused.

Judging by the fragrance displacing the faint odors of disinfectants typical to the clinical environment of a hospital, he must've bathed in a tub of birch leaf extract. It was pleasant, as much as I wouldn't have liked to admit that. To have my clothes would've been pleasant, but they were on my chair back home and were . . . were for a pony? That couldn't be right. Anyhow, he was wearing a shirt! Was his lower half covered up as well? I wanted clothes. My modesty demanded them! How could I get them? I couldn't just walk up to him and say, ‘Your clothes. Give them to me. Now.’

“You're sure a quiet one, huh? Don't look like one of the nurses, either.” That finally garnered my attention. My envy for his garment and discomfort at my nakedness was troublesome; however, the fragrance in the air and his phlegmatic but amiable demeanor contributed to maintaining my unassuming outlook.

“Oh, uh . . . Apologies. I'm bad at introducing myself, and no, I'm definitely not a nurse.” Nurses were often depicted as female, so the allusion of myself as a nurse didn't mesh all too well with me. I quickly reminded myself that male nurses weren't unheard of. But that was utterly trivial! I had to introduce myself and state my business. “I'm . . .” Would I need to tell him my name? Not unless he specifically asked, and then I might have another Night Light case to deal with. Or worse. “Well, I'm just, ah . . .” My eyes dipped for a second, and I caught myself pawing the floor. “I'm just a tired pony going wherever curiosity takes me,” I said with a slight stammer, a muscle spasm going down my right hind leg. I could've said 'mare', but as relatively neutral as that word was becoming, I had to cut myself some slack this time. “I won't be here for long, so introductions aren't necessary. You see, somepony's supposed to be with me, but she . . .” I saw the empty doorway and a snippet of my tail from the corner of my eye. “She's busy taking care of a very important matter and will be here soon. If not, then I'll go looking for her.” I wished she would arrive this instant to ask where the hay had gone! I doubted she would give me a scolding for my little misadventure. Then again, it was she who ran off, so she might owe me an apology. Regardless, she had earned my trust, and I was certain she wouldn't dare to break it.

“Hmmh, alright.” The stallion drew his lips to a casual smile that my skittish side suspected to hint at libidinous thoughts. “Well, thanks to my bum leg, good sleep just ain't happening. This doohickey's fancy and all, but I'm starting to think it's just keeping me up with all the stuff it's got to show. Now, since you said you ain't gonna be here for long, would ya want to shoot the breeze while you're staying? I know it's a mite strange to ask, but some company would be lovely, and who knows, a small chat might just give me a bit of what it takes for me to nod off. Whaddya say?” He was polite enough, and I was smarter than to believe that males were unapologetic devotees to the whims of their primal wants. I definitely wasn't, so there was that.

I joined my appendage with my chin. “Mmmh, let me think about that.” On one hoof, I could bid him a courteous farewell and go looking for Embee, but on the other hoof, staying put meant neither of us wandered around in search of a serendipitous rendezvous. Additionally, if I could civilly converse with a male pony without acting like a ball of nerves, I would prove myself capable.

“Strange seeing just your head if we're gonna chat for a while, so would ya mind stepping forward?” he suggested.

I burst out laughing, unnerved at the prospect of displaying myself. Simultaneously, my tail nestled itself protectively over the characteristic female feature. “Ahh, yeah, that's true, I don't gotta, uh, need to . . .” My limb was still aloft; I gingerly lowered it. If I was going to show myself, I'd have to be ready and relaxed. “I could, but I won't. I have my reasons,” I said, trying to sound calm. It occurred to me that I easily equated my present form to that of a human's. Unlike humans, being unclothed was common for ponies, so I didn't need to worry (inordinately) about being admired in the wrong way. I strongly suspected that being admired in the right way would feel wrong as well. However, I didn't have the foggiest on what made a mare's figure attractive to a stallion (and vice versa). The thought of taking a gander of that by appraising what I was aft from the neck turned my eyes, but I disallowed my head from following suit on the account of inadequate resilience to the high influx of body image dissonance. The mildly expectant look in his eye caught my attention. “I might know what you're thinking: for what reason do I stay here, out of sight?” I posited. Cursorily, I spotted the TV's remote on the nightstand and a blank paper slip tied to the top of the bed's steel frame.

“That's what's on my mind all right,” he attested casually. “I trust it's for a good reason, ain't it?” That made me realize I hadn't thought of a reason. I glanced to my left, spotting a radio on the nightstand over yonder.

“How should I say this?” As I dithered, I internally named the sufficiently unassuming stallion Plum Kissel due to the color of his eyes, mane, and coat. Coat? Idea! “Well, I've gone through a tumble, which means I don't look presentable. Don't ask. It's a long story that I really don't feel like recounting.” I spared a thought on how to make myself sound unworried. A small pitch-up, perhaps? “All things considered, though, I'm doing fine.” If I discounted the gap between my inner and outer self, that is. “My coat's so dirty and matted that you wouldn't believe. To give you a clue, it's more gray than white. I did wash my face a little, as you can see, but I think a few smudges remain.” I rubbed my cheek in an attempt to feel whether I was right. Alas, my hoof was insensate. The pastern was a different deal, thankfully. “Quite the embarrassment, if I may say so.” If not for my undeniably dissimilar intonation, that phrase would've suited Rarity. Wait? Could I be pretending to be vain as a justification to hiding myself? Although, to do that on purpose didn't appeal to me at all.

“I get that,” Plum Kissel's simple reply and gentle chuckle was a promising sign of him believing me. I decided to forget the Rarity allusion. “But ya don't need to be shy.”

“Shy? Oh, but I'm not shy,” I spoke in mild protest. Now I had to provide a counterpoint. “I'm soft-spoken, rarely make noise about myself, and frequently think on what I should say or not say. It might seem like I'm shy, but I'm not. Well, I'm probably not shy.” Maybe I actually was shy and just didn't like acknowledging it? I would have to think about that . . . later.

The look in Plum's eye evidenced scrutiny. “Is that so?” he mused, rubbing his chin, although he soon put on a friendly smile. “Well, it's beside the point. I was talking about how you carry yourself.” An unvoiced oops pulled down my expressive ears. “I'm telling ya, don't get all bothered for not looking your best. Ya seem to be a mighty fine young lady all the same.”

A young lady? “Right.” I looked away to hide my scowl. ‘You told me I shouldn't feel bad, so I better oblige, because telling me what to feel is more important than what I actually feel,’ my recalcitrant side thought sardonically, feeding off my negative emotion. ‘Potentially aggravating others by being assertive is too risky, so I must do what I can to meet their expectations, whatever those expectations are,’ I continued with arising dejection. ‘Furthermore, tiredness weakens my self-control, increasing the propensity of poorly-conjured thoughts and actions. Thus, it's imperative I stay keen and don't do anything stupid, taking every female pronoun and everything else that goes against my identity and self-esteem in stride. I just hate it, and I'm scared. I'm scared of this body, and I'm scared it'll leave lasting marks on my psyche. I feel so powerless, and angry at being powerless, but no amount of bitterness and anguish will make things right.’

“Listen. I'm guessing you're mild-mannered and thoughtful, and that's just fine. That look you got going on there, though? Makes me guess ya got upset about something. Do ya want to talk about it? Was it something I said? Did I misplace my words?” His peaceable tone encouraged me to relax. But why should I? He had hurt me!

“Yes, it was something you—” Wait, what was I doing? I couldn't take out my anxieties on him. This was just what I had to prevent from happening again! “No, forget what I said. You're getting the wrong idea. I'm not upset. Well, I don't mean to be. Definitely not at you. Uhm . . .” I bit my lip, trying to spur my mind into producing something perfect instead of slathering myself with criticism. “I'm sorry. I really am. I . . . I can be mild-mannered and thoughtful, like you said. I like being mild-mannered and thoughtful. It's just that . . .” My words stuck to my throat, and I had to calm myself. Strange how indignation acts as a façade for sorrow. “I don't know what came over me. It's been a very stressful day, and I'm weary. Both affect my mood, most likely for the worse.” My mind wandered back to how I had reacted as if being shy was undesirable. “Um, about being shy. I might be shy. It's probably true.” My eyes drifted over to the space between the bed and curtain. “Maybe it's nothing I should be ashamed of . . .”

“Ya think it's wrong being a shy?” he queried bemusedly, apparently having caught my mumbling.

“Shy?” I whispered to myself, feeling like I should agree that being shy was wrong. Females could be shy to their heart's content and . . . because I was male, I couldn't? As of the time being, I wasn't male on the outside, and had I not griped about inequality? Maybe I had been too reactionary? Maybe I was afraid of being honest with myself? I was cautious of potential repercussions if I were to align myself with reputedly feminine traits. What if I had those traits from the start? “I suppose it's not wrong,” I acquiesced, not wanting to pay mind to this dilemma any further. “But you did say something earlier . . . Um . . .” I was going to use my soft intonation to hopefully create a mollifying atmosphere. “Yeah, I can be talkative and carry a conversation, but I must feel safe and comfortable first, and really, I'm . . .” Wearing a frown of apology mixed with wariness, I dipped my head and glanced at the few specks of light the buildings outside produced. “Normally, I wouldn't hide myself like this, but I'm prone to being self-conscious. If you were to see me as I am now, I wouldn't feel comfortable being like how I like to be, and when I'm uncomfortable . . . I mean, I would feel like I can't be myself if you, um . . . you were to see how grimy I am.” Grimy looks or not, I would feel uncomfortable seeing myself. On that thought, I was certain a full-sized mirror would show so much pony that a humanized visage would be too incongruous to manifest. My reflection would overwhelm me, but being flustered was better than being terrified.

“Ya get fidgety when ya ain't feeling comfortable? ” Plum Kissel surmised after a moment.

“It's quite obvious, isn't it?” I replied, feeling like I was admitting a shameful crime. “Thanks for trying to understand, though.”

“It's nothing.” He waved his hoof. “Just take it easy. I ain't gonna chew you out, if that worries you.” The curtain was making my neck itch. Surreptitiously, I rubbed the itchy spot against the curtain. I then chose to wait and see if had something to say; a few relatively silent seconds passed. “So, if ya still got time to chat, what topic would strike yer interest?”

“Uh . . . I dunno?” So many topics I could choose from. I glanced at the nocturnal view behind the windows, recalling the common occurrence of helicopters passing over my apartment. I wasn't sure he'd care about aircraft as much as I did. What would be close to his heart? Masonry? Cooking? Gardening? I had no idea. I could ask! Well, he had asked what I would like to talk about, but that lead back to how my interests might not resonate with his. Conversely, his interests might not interest me. I could pretend to care. No, I shouldn't; that was insincere. Would he react poorly to my honesty if I said I was uninterested?

His protracted, leisurely gaze started evoking some concerns. He might believe I was in low spirits, starting a topic by continuing on how my unclean appearance didn't make me any less pretty. Or any less sexy! Maybe he wouldn't do that, though? He seemed too courteous to be brazen. Regardless, now I had a reason to prepare to absorb or deflect whatever disagreeable comments I'd receive with dignity instead of mortification or want of retribution. As an aside, the TV was advertising a documentary about an adventurous unicorn, who . . .

“. . . after years of studying and practicing a fog dispersion spell, I enhanced this camera to literally turn millions of cubic tons of water invisible! See these distinctive formations strewn about in this photo? Of course you do. That's the wreck of the bulk carrier Derbyshire and its debris field, five kilometers below where we're standing now! Unbelievable, innit!?” He sounded very enthusiastic, and whatever ship that was, I too was becoming thrilled as . . . I could catch the premiere of Under The Surface next Wednesday! Friday had just become Saturday, so—

“I'm assuming you're the kind of lady who takes pride in her appearance.” Plum Kissel's voice filtered into my mind. The critical amount of attention to what I didn't think of myself washed my small but eager smile away.

“Oh I . . .” Fortunately, I had set up some timely mental buffers just for this possibility. “Yes, I do value my appearance,” I concurred, combating my chagrin with a tone of equanimity. “Now don't get me wrong, I'm not a stickler for looking glamorous. I don't even flaunt my looks. That's just not me. A simple but tidy look does me well enough. But, uhm . . .” A long exhale gave me time to think of what to say. Or rather, have the fortitude to say it. “Taking care of my mane, tail, and coat, the combing and brushing, the conditioners . . .” I cast a sidelong glance, gritting my teeth. “And the makeup if I absolutely must.” My muttering was drowned out by the TV this time. Ointments and whatnot meant for females were acceptable; learning how to properly use them couldn't be an impossible hurdle, and couldn't be that different from their male counterparts. Makeup was a whole new ball game, however. I couldn't, for the life of me, differentiate mascara from eyeliner. Judging by the nomenclature alone, eyeliner was lighter and less showy than mascara—and eyeliner was applied to line the eyes. I hoped I wouldn't need to learn through practical experience. Anyhow, I wasn't done yet. “Rarely do I feel like I'm not forcing myself through a chore, but I think we can both agree that being neat and clean is a necessity I can't and shouldn't eschew. Well, unless I've gone loopy and enjoy the attention a completely disheveled look draws.” I smiled to make my joke more apparent. I surmised that the chore would take an hour to complete— I hated it already. “When I don't need to go anywhere, and I know nopony's coming to pay a visit, then I can forget the hassle. It's a special kind of liberty and an indescribable kind of delight when I don't need to go anywhere and I can be at home by myself, shaggy mane and so on.” I let out a short but soft sigh, convinced that my act had served its purpose. “Sorry. My drowsiness is getting the better of me, and I'm talking your ear off.”

“I got sleep teeming about in my noggin, too, but not enough to put my lights out,” Plum Kissel said in a lethargic but amiable manner. “Anyhow, getting a small load off your back eases the mind, and I say that's what everypony needs to do now and then. Talk away, if ya can.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I'm . . .” I was interrupted by a yawn that I did my best to hide by biting my teeth together behind my closed mouth. By the time I was done, I had some thoughts swirling about. To truly understand the plights of females would require thorough familiarization. My situation had partly incited my attempt to relate. There was also curiosity. Maybe empathy, too. Hard to say when my declining awareness made my overall behavior intuitive rather than contemplative. I then recalled that my bane as a male was facial hair. Stupid, annoying, prickly, itching, and absolutely good-for-nothing facial hair. At least I was spared from having hair on my neck. Except now I was hairy all over, but this was a smoother kind of hair. I was like a warm plush toy . . .That was a needlessly cute way to put it.

“So.” Plum Kissel's expression was so tranquil I couldn't help but think if he had secretly injected himself with a sedative. “Hearing a little rant like that from somepony other than my lovable sweetheart came as a surprise.”

I too was surprised. “Well well, how about that?” I murmured sneakily before chuckling, alluding to (the total falsehood of) knowing more than I was letting on. That my pretense had been so convincing it resonated with the presumable complaints expressed by his consort bothered and puzzled me, but I believed the good outcome was what mattered.

“That look and tone tells a story I don't know about,” he pointed out, smirking as if he knew that I knew more than he knew.

I hummed conspiratorially. “It was nothing but a glimpse.” A small glimpse to the mare's world. A world I knew almost nothing about, though I now knew he was in a (presumably) happy and loving relationship. That should help to quell my misgivings about him coveting me. Come to think of it, I hadn't felt comparable anxiety in the presence of Night Light, who might've seen something alluring in me on the account of her bisexuality. Her advance, while made in jest, had nonetheless thrown me for a loop. In retrospect, she seemed to spare little foresight to the consequences of her behavior, but that was a mental tangent I decided not to pursue aside from hoping she wouldn't be sacked for wrongful conduct or malfeasance. Anyhow, attention and affection from the opposite sex was normal and expected, although before today, I hadn't receiv—Wait, I had!

When I came home one late evening, a young (and admittedly good looking) blonde was outside my apartment's main entrance. She said she locked herself out, and when I opened the door to admit myself inside, she gave me a hug. That confused me just as much as getting a hug from an intoxicated friend along with a confession of (hopefully) platonic love. As I had been too perplexed to say anything else but a thanks, the blonde and I parted on good terms when she headed up the stairs while I took the elevator. Now that this was at the forefront of my mind, maybe Embee awoke feelings I unknowingly held for the stranger? Or maybe not? I wasn't sure. Be that as it may, if by some impossible circumstances I befriended the blonde—or any female for that matter—it would never develop into anything serious. I had doubts of a non-sexual relationship lasting once she made a request for coitus. Out of fear of committing social suicide, I'd never say that just the mere thought of engaging in that activity repulsed me. Being presented with the obligation to fulfill that duty would put me in a tight spot, but the conundrum was that I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings. If I declined, and she didn't take that as a reason to walk out, she could resort to guilt-tripping, extortion, and other forms of unscrupulous methods to get her way. It wouldn't be consensual and honest love, and being treated as an asset wasn't right. In fact, that kind of abuse would be extremely appalling—if it were male on female. For some reason, males were thought of to be always raring for action, and if not, then they had something wrong in them and deserved to be made fun of. What a deplorable injustice. But why was I even thinking of this cynical, hyperbolic, and depressing garbage? I had to think of something else. Something nicer, and optimistic, and soothing. Something . . . that was warbled about?

Soy beef so unbelievably excellent, it tasted just like the real thing? More warbling . . . ? Well, birds warbled. What was that one bird, though? It reminded me of a misty dawn over a lake so tranquil it was like a mirror, with the bird's call resonating from somewhere unspecified. It was . . . a diver? Gaviana Arctica? Well, whatever. I would never take up diving. I knew how to swim, but I wasn't fond of swimming in anything but a pool. Bodies of water were inexplicably scary. Ships were okay, so I could be on one as long as it didn't sink. Then it would be scary. Submarines were definitely out of the question. They were giant seafaring coffins that literally folded into themselves if they exceeded crush depth. That was even scarier. The submarines I liked were Yellow Submarine and Golden Submarine. The latter was a vintage race car, not a submarine.

“Hey.”

Who said that?

“Are ya listening to me? You aren't nodding off there, are ya?”

I raised my head that had somehow dropped. “Uh . . . No?” I blinked my eyes as, and nodding off upright was fish I called . . . Darn. Physically unsustainable! I saw his amused but inquiring face, and I had this body with the bad combination of nakedness and femaleness. I had to say why I wasn't showing it. “So, it's needless to say that how I look right now is so far from what I'm used to that, uhh . . . that I'm a little embarrassed,” I droned. To say that I was a "little" embarrassed looking and sounding like a female was an understatement. If not for my odor, I would probably smell like a female as well. Or like a horse. A female horse. What was I thinking about?

“That's been made quite clear already,” Plum Kissel said leisurely. What was clear was that his accent was close to Night Light's. I wasn't too good at identifying regional accents, unless they were very definable. Like Australian. That wasn't a regional accent. Accent was a Hyundai, and that was inconsequential.

“Oh, right.” It dawned on me that I had repeated myself, but also that he had denoted the redundant nature of a specific phrase. “It was a needless thing to say, and can you ever guess what I did when I said that?” I remarked with an exaggerated tone of fascination. “If something is needless to say, why say it then?” Wait, was I suppose to explain it?

“Ain't that one of life's strange mysteries?” He chuckled, apparently privy to the joke.

“It's one of nature's mysteries,” I recited a line from the third Ratchet & Clank game with pep in my voice. Then I got the giggles, and I realized I was a bit out of it. Trying to rub the sleep out of my eyes, I lightly jabbed myself in the muzzle. Amusingly, the discomfort was more effective than the rubbing would've been.

“Well, before ya nod off for good,” Plum Kissel joked. I presumed he had joked. I was tired for sure, but I wasn't nodding off. “Let me tell ya 'nother needless thing: I respect ya.” He respected me? That was unexpected, and welcome, I supposed. Consideration and affability was ordinary, but to specifically express respect? What instigated him? Had he said something I missed? “I'm gonna say that I ain't the kind to dole out undue pressure. I know that no mare can look fine and dandy all the time, and I wouldn't expect them to. So, trust me. I ain't judging you. Sure got a fair bit of muck on ya, but we're in a hospital. This ain't a place where looking your best matters, and I gather I ain't the first one to see ya in your condition. I was in much worse shape, and it bothered me none. Ya got a messed-up mane and some spots on yer coat, but that ain't such a mighty bother as ya make it out to be, ya hear?”

To that I hummed in comprehension, although I was plain bemused. “Yeah, I'm not too much bothered. Just the right amount.”

“Just the right amount?” he said, laughing. What was funny? I would hide from everything that reminded me of my sex, including even the kind-mannered non-verbal appreciation of my figure. He was seeing my face and hearing my voice. That should be enough, and he shouldn't ask for anything more. “Well, I ain't thinking any less of ya for not looking yer best and keeping yourself back there. But listen to me, rambling on about things that ain't relevant no more. I'm gonna say again that I don't wish no pressure on ya, but what ya might should oughta do is get going to find whoever you were with. Ya look to be on your last legs.”

How could I be on my last legs? I had four of them, which was more than two, so . . . Oh, wait. The phrase meant something else. “I'm beat, but not that badly. If I wanted to sleep, I'd go to a bed. If I wanted to find who was with me, I'd leave. I'm not in a rush to leave yet, so can you please continue? I'll try to pay more attention and not nod off.” Seriously, falling asleep upright? Not a chance! I'd topple over in seconds.

“Okay.” He seemed to hesitate briefly. I didn't feel like moving which seemed to be my primary reason for staying. “Well, jab my wrapped-up leg if I'm wrong, but ya don't seem to be the kind of mare who pays much mind to being ladylike. You just want to be the kind of mare you want to be. Right?” That was . . . almost correct; I still didn't like those pronouns.

“Hmm . . .” How should I approach the quandary? “Yeah, you didn't say that I absolutely have to show myself, and it's also true that I'm . . .” Being so evasive that I was talking about an irrelevancy. “Yes, you're right. I just want to be the type of . . .” I trailed off again, feeling like I'd have to do some self-analysis. I could try to do that, out loud, but gender-flip it? “Well, some, um . . . some mares are very feminine, others less so, some like to pursue interests outside the conventional, and the kind of . . . I'm kind of in the middle. Well, sort of. It's hard to summarize. I could talk about this and myself for minutes, but I'm gonna cut it short by saying that I'm somewhat unconventional and there's more to me than meets the eye. Uhm . . .” Like a shelf toppling and spreading its contents all over the floor, a plethora of disjointed thoughts and ideas spilled into my mind, the most pertinent one being how it was totally fine for a female to like male stuff or be masculine, because that was cool and awesome and empowering, but males were ridiculed and disparaged if they weren't the epitome of manliness. One of my secrets was that I had curved manicure scissors at home. They offered finesse a nail clipper couldn't. Nail clippers were just brutal. Like cutting hair with a hedge trimmer. Anyhow, one thought that seemed topical pertained to how I was starting to feel that males were pressured to hide their emotions and constricted into narrow roles, but females had more liberties in both. Except in countries where females had barely any liberties at all. That was truly horrible. Fortunately, genuine rights activists worked tirelessly to improve the rights and lives of those who deserved them the most.

“Ain't ya gonna talk some more?” Plum Kissel asked. As I stared at him, I imagined he would be something like thirty or so if he were human. He didn't sound old. “Eh. It's fine if ya don't want to talk more. We’re both tired ponies, and ya might wanna get going to who ya were with.”

“I'll go when I want to go,” I said, a little dismissive of his concern. Then I thought my decorum was harsh. “But okay, you have a fair point. A few more minutes and that's that. Speaking of thinking, I was thinking of something, and I do feel like talking, but on account of being tired, conveying a coherent and intelligent thought might require more concentration than I'm capable of. That doesn't stop me from trying. I can be quite persistent, you see.”

“I see it plain as day.” Plum Kissel chuckled. He seemed to do that a lot. “You might have me beat in sleepiness, but that don't seem to stop them big words from coming outta yer mouth.” I smiled a bit at that. I had received validation.

“Big words, huh?” I hadn't thought on what constituted a big word. “Mmm, I know many big words, such as . . .” I glanced at the floor, “Sophisticated, induction, countenance, alacrity, fortitude, etymology, entomology. Hahaha, I almost mispronounced those. They're almost homophones.” Something splendid came to my mind. “For your information, etymology is studying the meaning and origin of words, but entomology is studying insects, including arachnids. Arachnids are eight-legged, but insects are six-legged. Oh? But does entomology include caterpillars and worms? Hmm, I don't know. But if I see a word I don't know the meaning of, you can bet that I'll look it up, and I might even remember it in the future if it's a really memorable word. Like overmorrow! That's such a rare word that could be used more often. I need to remember that. Although, I'm not sure when I would need to use the more esoteric words. Would I ever need to say neoprene or protuberance, for example? How does protuberance differ from protrusion? Protuberance might have something to do with anatomy, I think. What's neoprene then? Was it some kind of rubber? Or used in rubber production?”

“Whoa there, ease up there for a second,” Plum Kissel faced the sole of his healthy hoof at me, laughing affably, yet a little nervously. “Don't ask me any of that. I don't got a clue what you're talking about, and ya don't gotta say every word ya know for that matter.”

“Oopsie. I got carried away.” I sounded like a ditz. Then I saw the sleep in his eyes, and my embarrassment changed to ear-drooping remorse. “Um, but if you think I'm bothering you and want some quiet and peace, you can kindly tell me to leave. No hard feelings.”

“Nah, nah. Don't feel bad.” His friendly rebuke raised my ears. “Unless ya truly go out of your way to get on my nerves, I ain't shooin' ya off. Ya ain't been a nuisance, and ya don't seem to be of that nature. I was thinking of saying again that ya oughta go looking for your pal, but I think they's coming for ya in a spell anyhow. I did have something else on my mind, but it's gone now . . . Gonna think and see if I can get it back.” He laid his head to the pillow with a yawn. Perhaps he'd fall asleep now? Then I'd have to leave. Sadly.

So many beds here, where I could slip underneath the comfort of a blanket, a pillow so soft, snuggle so happily that I'd let out cute little giggles, and I wouldn't be sure whether to like or fear that. I would laugh and cry at the same time, and I wouldn't know why. My eyes were starting to hurt. Tiredness . . .

“I promise not to doze off and leave ya hanging. Would be a mite peculiar turnaround, right?” Plum Kissel said humorously, lifting his head a smidgen. “But hey, got any clues when they's coming?”

“None,” I said simply. “Well . . . Soon, I guess.” He hadn't paid much mind to the TV ever since he saw my face.

“Okay.” With a yawn, his head descended to the pillow. Now that he was staring at the ceiling, I decided to ward off my sleepiness with an extraordinary action.

I dropped my head and turned it a bit to the left. With my head out of his scan range, I'd use my left hind leg to very carefully touch my ear. Just once, and lightly. While this was my idea through and through, reaching at myself in this manner was almost incomprehensibly weird. In addition, my posture starkly reminded me of my equin—

‘Oh gosh! Bad bad bad! Ow, ow, ow, ow . . .’ I wasn't in pain, but my left ear was tingling from tip to base so severely I couldn't breathe. Instinct was telling me the nuisance would stop if I gave it a touch; however, to do that would be undeniably counterproductive. I had to tough this out.

I heard a chuckle. “If ya actually gonna sleep, can ya please not do it there?” Plum Kissel advised.

“No, I won't,” I squeaked. ‘Okay, gotta stop being strained. Slow breaths, steady breaths, normalizing . . .’ I took a deep breath, then popped my head back into view, plastering a mellow look on my face. “I truly can't sleep. My friend hasn't—” Darn! I let that slip. “She's not here yet, and I've not gone looking for her. If she had come, she would be here, and if I had left, I wouldn't be here,” I explained. Then, I froze momentarily, a mild blush most likely tinting my cheeks. “That's quite obvious, haha.”

“Sure is obvious.” He scrutinized me. Thus, I believed my joke had fallen flat. Had I at least saved face? Maybe I hadn't. Oh well. As an aside, the TV was broadcasting a jazzy tune: saxophone, piano, and string instruments. The theme to Poirot? “I got a question for ya.”

“A question?” I was puzzled, but didn't anticipate foul play. “What is it?”

His expression went blank, as if something absolutely remarkable had come to his mind. Soon, his lips drew to a pleased, smugly foreboding smile. “It's a sentence or phrase that inquires for information, but that's not important right now,” he said nonchalantly.

“What?” I was utterly dumbfounded. That I wasn't in trouble was a relief, but the scope of his vocab . . . Wait!? “You kidding me?” I said chipperly. “That's so like from the movie Airplane!, hahahaha! That movie's so amazing and funny! You've seen it, haven't you?”

“That I have, and recently, too,” he affirmed with confidence. “Both of 'em.”

“That's so awesome! I saw the second movie last week. That scene where a door reads 'Danger Vacuum', and when Striker opens it, a vacuum cleaner attacks him! I was laughing myself silly!” Curtailing my amusement was ineffective, as I could not stop seeing the scene play in my mind's eye. I think I heard him affirm my rhetorical question. “Hahahah, but, yeah, you hadhaha a question?” I mustered. “A vacuum cleaner,” I whispered, jamming my pastern to my lips. “Pmfhthmhmhmpfff.” It was so bad at blocking off the passage of air. So hairy, too. Hair in my mouth? Gross. I surreptitiously spat out hairs; whether any were on my lips was irrelevant. But why was I laughing so easily? Silly, capricious emotions.

“They sure were amusing movies,” Plum Kissel commented. “Strange, but amusing. I gotta say, some things flew right over my head. Pun intended, of course.”

“Of course,” I said jovially, glad he enjoyed the wacky comedy classics.

“But, right, the question.” He took on a more sober outlook, which I tried to mimic. “So, if it looks like your friend's not coming, when are ya gonna get going?”

“Oh, ahahamahhum?” I reacted with a half-laugh, still a little too cheerful for myself. Get going? Away from all these alluring beds? I was doing quite well not being anxious-wrecked talking to a male pony, which was a fantastic accomplishment! Besides, I wasn't sure I needed to intervene if Embee was busy telling my predicament to Peachy. I would only damage my credibility by saying something irrevocably stupid and contradictory. “A few more minutes, and then I'll be going.” He raised one of his brows in doubt; I had sounded reluctant and apologetic.

“Fair enough,” he agreed after a moment's deliberation. “So, whatcha wanna talk about these few short minutes?”

“Mmmmh . . .” My brain produced specks that amounted to nothing coherent. Thankfully, all I needed was to give the blatantly obvious device a glance. “You've been watching that thing?” I gestured at the TV. “Anything fascinating come on it lately?”

“Without question,” he said, glancing at the ceiling in thought. “There's been so much I can hardly sum it all.” I believed he was trying to dissuade me, but I didn't want to call him out on it.

“Oh . . . Mmh . . .” I quelled a yawn. I recalled a spell that converted internal magic into a stimulant meant to postpone sleep, but it was a bit too intricate for my skills. That recollection didn't belong to me anyhow. “What's been going around in this world?” This world? That wasn't a slip of the tongue, was it?

“Sorry, I missed most of the news,” he said, frowning.

“Okay.” I was a little disappointed. But wait! He missed most of the news. “Well, what didn't you miss?”

“Ahh,” he hemmed, seeming a little thwarted. “Lemme think back now . . .” His brows furrowed, and he hummed thoughtfully. “Some country has been recognized by lots of other countries. Summeland? No, that ain't it . . . Somaliland? I don't know what's the issue, though. A country's a country, and it's on the map, ain't it? How can it not be recognized?” I had heard that name before. One of my neighbors was Somalian. He was friendly, but his thick accent made him hard to understand. “Anyhow, what more? Hmmm . . . How did that newslady say it? Continuing a recent trend across the world, ponies have formed a party in . . .” Was he trying to recite things verbatim? That was mildly funny, for some reason. “Slow . . . Slovenia? Slovakia? One of those. Political party. Not party party.”

“Cool. A party for ponies. Party time,” I said with a weary cheer in my voice, aware that I was becoming delirious again. “I know what party is, so no worries there.” A party for ponies meant the pony population had the right to vote, had a chance to be represented in a parliamentary democracy, could affect a lot of things, and something more that I couldn't think of right now. I was unsure if I got all those right. I favored transparency, direct democracy, and disliked that whole "first past the post" thing. “What's it named? Party ponies?” I presented a little joke. I wasn't a big fan of party parties. They were noisy and rowdy.

“Maybe, but translated to the language they speak over yonder,” Plum Kissel speculated. “I ain't sure. Slovenians or Slovakians . . . Uh, they speak Slovenish? Slovakish?”

“Slovenian and Slovakian, respectively,” I corrected lethargically. “I think.” I was always so unsure. Except when I wasn't. How obvious.

“Thanks. You seem to know a bit more than I do, eh?” Plum Kissel smiled courteously, which I reciprocated. “Thailand, after some debate, has finally agreed to grant . . . Ohh? Way-sass?” He was clearly puzzled. Why was he trying to sound sophisticated? I could tell him he didn't need to, but nah. Not worth it. He could think I was being condescending. “Whatever-the-things to pegasus ponies,” he finished woodenly. “They weren't let in the country because feet are dirty to the Thailandish. Sounds mighty iffy to me. Wiping them feet and hooves clean oughta do the trick if it's such a bother, shouldn't it?”

“Thailandish?” I uttered, thinking that was a misnomer. “Never mind. Sorry, I dunno a thing about how things work there.” Didn't Thailand go through a military coup every five years? And people vacation there? Crazy.

“Neither do I,” Plum Kissel said. “Well, today's storm front's passing, so it's sunshine tomorrow. That's it for the news.” He must've taken my inquiry about world events literally. “Gotta tell ya though, after that came this funny play about a human couple and their pony neighbors. My Next Door Neighbors. Stunna Shades, of all ponies, was a guest star. Ya ever heard of her?”

His question elicited a blank stare. “Uhh . . . maybe?” I shouldn't lie.

“The ‘I'm too cool for your absurd hijinks’ partner of Jolly Goodshow?” More blankness from me. “In the movie Ponyventurers?” I slowly shook my head. “Ya don't?” He seemed incredulous. “Well, I recommend ya see it! Got a sequel in the makings, I heard.”

“Okay.” Movies with ponies, TV shows with ponies? That was so nifty. Oh, sudden random recollection! “What were you watching when I came in?”

“It was . . . something about a factory on stilts out in the sea? A rerun? No . . .” Again, he was creasing his brows like he was compiling a convoluted . . . thingy. Concept! Compiling convoluted concepts. Reticulating splines? “Alpha, alpha . . . Piper Alpha? Whatever it was called, it went up in a fiery blaze long ago. I reckon it was a terrible thing.”

“That does sound terrible,” I said in a moment of somber soberness. I had a hunch lives were lost, and the best solace I had was hoping that those who were unlucky didn't suffer. “But hmm . . .” A factory in the sea, named Piper Alpha. A derrick?

“You know something?” Plum Kissel asked. “I get the feeling you've been here for a while.”

“A while, yeah . . .” I had been here since November. She had. Rosy had. “Piper Alpha doesn't ring a bell, sorry.” Maybe I would look that up once I could? Plum Kissel didn't regard the TV as an unparallelled miracle machine, which meant he had ample time to get acquainted with them, I guess? “Why did it burn up?” I queried.

“I'm sorry, I don't know,” he replied. “I passed out for a spell when it was on this thing.” He waved lazily at the TV. “I would been glad had I slept all night.”

“That's okay. Night's young.” I didn't want to discuss the grim tragedy anyhow. However, him dozing off reminded me of my dad—and I had to check that I wasn't thinking of a pony dad. It wasn't unusual for my dad to come home exhausted after work, often settling to watch TV for a few hours before he fell asleep. Keeping him awake when watching something together was an amusingly futile competition. On weekends, he spared time and energy for me. When and if he did. I was often busy in my room playing games, while he did something else like yard work. In hindsight, I should've appreciated the moments we had, but it hardly ever registered back then . . . No, I shouldn't think of this. My tiredness in addition to the endured ordeals coupled with the burden of my present status plus female hormones equaled heightened emotionality. Also, there was the convoluted psychological effect of being ostensibly female that provided liberties and opportunities I (sub)consciously took advantage of despite the risk of skewing my self-image further from its masculine origin. Whoa . . . That was a surprising spark of smartness. So, anyhow . . . What was this blank paper slip attached to the bed? A name tag, perhaps? Respecting Plum Kissel's intimacy, I chose not to approach and then flip the tag around without his explicit consent. I might have to tell my name if I did.

“Ngh.” He gave his leg a strict look, shifting in bed. “Darn busted leg of mine bothers me the most. It's the only thing that's kept me from getting good and lasting sleep.” His expression eased soon after. “I'm sure the next time's the charm, though.”

“I like your optimistic outlook.” A broken leg was no joke. Fortunately, I had never broken a bone. Knock on wood. “I hope your leg heals quickly.” I received a kind smile and a thanks for that. “Although, may I know how that happened?” More ways to stay awake and not go anywhere.

“Ain't no harm in knowing, I say,” he said in a laidback manner. “Know what makes a poor combination? It's inexperience, confidence, and a bicycle. Misjudged a corner on the trail, rolled down a hill, hit a rock on the way, and came to the gentlest stop when I smashed into a tree.” I shouldn't have chuckled at that. He didn't seem to take offense. “Long story short, lots of pain and a few prescriptions. It ain't so bad, though. A nurse kindly helped clean me up, I got this TV for myself, and the spinach crêpes were so tasty I couldn't believe I was eatin' hospital food. Come tomorrow, I'll be in the good care of my brother. Of course, I gotta give up some of my meager wealth to ride in one of them "iron wagons", as my brother calls them. Says they smell funny, too. It ain't a big secret he doesn't think highly of them. I just call them cars, and sure, they are a mite strange, but I'm fine with them. Things are how they are here, and I ain't one to make a fuss about it. Anyhow, being all banged up, I can't help out on his mustard turnip farm, but I can't have it all, now can I?”

“No, I suppose not.” I stared at nothing; my brain funneled the last of my reserve thinking energy into my thinking thingy. I pictured a pony in a taxi. Then I pictured the taxi. Then I pictured an iconic London cab. What was their real name? Routemaster? No, that was the iconic double decker. The point of fact was . . . “I like iworn . . . wern . . . wiron wan . . . gons,” I said out loud. Thought out loud. Why did I didn't I say sense? I meant . . . I really liked cars. Maybe all of them. I wanted to hug a car. That was weird to think of. I was thinking in not straight, in a curved manner. Vanner? Van. Minivan. Voyager, Chrysler. Caravan, Dodge. One and the same?

“Hello?” He waved. To rouse my attention? “You okay there?” Ow, my horizontal ears became vertical. Was he talking to me?

“You mean, me?” My cognition was like porridge. I would like some porridge. Rice porridge was the best.

“Yes, you.” He laughed. Was I supposed to laugh, too? I chose not to. “Ya got that "I'm sleeping with my eyes open" look about ya.”

I heard him, so . . . I had to acknowledge that I did hear him. “Mhm, okay.” Did he say something meaningful?

“Will ya do something about that now?” I think he asked for me to do something about sleeping? Not sleeping. I had to do something to stop sleeping. What was this "that" he mentioned? “A few minutes ago, ya said to go in a few minutes. Just to be clear, it's been a few minutes.”

“Yeah . . .” I started smiling, but the smile felt funny on my face. Maybe it was a cute smile? I was tired.

He didn't look as tired. “So, time for ya to be a smart filly and get going before you'll be missed.”

“But Imnota fwhl . . .” I wanted to sleep, and I wasn't a filly! I was going to say what I was! “Iwhm a mawnr.”

“Alright, I'm sorry. You're a mare.” No, he got it wrong, and then he laughed like not angry but friendly happy. “Just go already.”

“Gngh . . .” I looked over at the doorway that lead to the hallway that might lead out to where where where . . . where Embee was. Where there were no beds. Where I would say stupid stuff that makes nopony believe me. Unless I wouldn't say anything. Gold was silent and golden. “Ooh . . . Wasdat?” White shape with a brown hairy thingy that had pink? That whole thing that was part of me and shouldn't be. It would freak me out, if that whole freak out part in my head would freak out. I was feeling like laughing was the right reaction, but I didn't feel like actually laughing. Would it be weird if I held my tail in my quasi-arms? Would it feel soft to my face? Oh, I had something to do! “I gotta who find waiting I was . . . for me?” Okay, voice control was being broken. “I mean, I mean . . .” I was wiggling my weird limb in the air, because that helped me form words in my mind that then would go to my mouth. “That thing . . . something.” I hoped Plum Plum knew what I was meaning. If I knew, then . . . No, he wouldn't know. I hoped he knew enough. Connects the pictures to get the puzzle. Maybe if I closed my eyes and thought harder, but not so hard I would shut my eyes for hours. That could happen? No, I'd fall over. Wait, the TV was muted? It was not muted just moments ago. Did he turn it off? With his hooves? Or with his face? Either way, that was the opposite of clumsy. How marvellous! Maybe I could be opposite clumsy, too?

“So, listen. Since I know you're leaving and all, how about ya kindly turn off the lights and close the door on the way out? I would do that myself if weren't confined to my bed. I'd be mighty thankful for your help.” That . . . thinking . . . His idea was reasonable and nothing hard to do. Lights close and door off. My head felt heavy, just like my eyelids.

“Yeah!” Up with the head, and not to be so sleepy. “You was am . . . nice pony . . .” I was sounding so squeaky with this tired voice. It was almost laughably funny. Then I'd hear squeaky laugh. Then I heard it. I sounded weird. “We had happen . . . good talk and . . . thanks for . . . nights to you.” I backed a little, and the curtain went over my skin. That felt a little ticklish, but okay. I could rub myself against something solid . . . Maybe later? I turned toward the door where the light switch was. Next to the door. Not in the door. I got there, walking unsteadily like in a sludge, which wasn't quite right. No sludge here at all. Only flat floor that I couldn't feel too well. Once where I had gone to, I stared at the switch . . . How would I make it do its thing? I had to touch it with hands, because that was how it worked, but I had pony body that had no hands and four things that definitely weren't hands. Stalemate. That switch was right in my face, too. Oh! The opposite clumsy thing!

I was so clever! I used my face to do the switching thing, and I had to keep my giggles inside myself. Why was that what I did that funny? I didn't get it. Anyhow, next was the door that was next to me. I had to go around it and push it shut. That I did. With my muzzle, because of no hands. Again, I was holding back giggles, because everything was so funny! I backed clear of the door, and bumped my behind into a bed. My body was full with embarrassment. Klim Pussel asked if I was here. He knew I was here, so why did he need to know what he already knew? He laughed a little, then said I should get to a bed if I wasn't going to leave after all. He could sleep now, not me. I was going to be silent until he was sleeping. Then I would go out so he didn't know I had left. That was an ingenious plan!

Darkness was very dark. I liked it. Soothing darkness, and twangy talk pony was not making the talking. My eyes were closed, so it was even darker now. I wouldn't like to leave. If I forced myself to leave, I would cry, because forcing myself would be uncool. Embee would come, and then we'd do what needed to be done, and I wouldn't cry because she lended support and was nice and kind and stuff. I wouldn't sleep now. I was standing, and sleep couldn't happen if I was standing. I didn't mean to be sleepy. I had been so valiant. Plymouth.

I raised my leg a little. The one on the left and back, because I had four. Kinda kept the tip of the hoof resting to the floor. This was a little weird. I was standing like my legs were locked and keeping me up. That was weird. I wasn't even wobbly. Being pony felt weird all the time, but no freaking out feelings. That was good and I was feeling nice and . . . ice cream . . . cookie dough . . . cold on a summer day . . . glistening things . . . wash and swish . . . the sound? Jimmy's sounds! Like . . . Twish twish twish twish twish. Not heartbeats, but something . . . Valves and rotation . . . Over head cam . . . Cute face car . . . Kisses . . .

Make Believe

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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.

Going Potty Is Not a Potty Thing

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

Chapter 19
Going Potty Is Not a Potty Thing

Trailing Embee by half a body length, I glanced at a person we passed. Being waist-high was somewhat unsettling.

My internal critique had become too intense to keep unvoiced. “I should've chosen my words better, Embee.”

“Huh?” She looked at me before realizing what I alluded to. “Oh, it's nothing to feel sorry about. You said what was bothering you, that's all.” She finished with a jovial giggle that felt a little mocking in my ears. I assured myself that I was misinterpreting it.

“But I could've said . . .” I bit my teeth as I gathered the necessary bravery. “Fillies room. No . . . Ah,” I finished with a mild huff, disappointed at myself. ‘Restroom! I could've said restroom! Geez! Darn my not-so-awake brain!’

“Hey, don't worry about it, hon,” Embee assuaged as we navigated past a woman strolling in the opposite direction.

Embee's mellowness made me think I was overemphasizing my concern. “Yeah, I guess you're right,” I conceded.

I caught a snippet of a topic that two earth ponies were having ahead. “. . . and leaky windows. There was talk of knocking it down,” said the mare of various grades of light brown and pale blue eyes. She looked so dispassionate that I first thought she was sleep-deprived.

“That would've been more than welcome, but the powers that be wisely chose to do the impossible by renovating this ugly and dilapidated colossus instead,” her yellow interlocutor with her mane in a tight bun complained. “This hospital wasn't built to code to begin with, and I bet it's only a matter of time before the same old problems crop up again.” I spied her cutie mark: a cleaved lemon. For some reason, the conversation didn't continue as we passed.

“She looks like a whirlwind pulled her through the mud. I hope she's all right.” I recognized that as the other pony's voice; her passionless tone was tinged with a speck of pity.

“She's no filly for sure, but why's she without a cutie mark?” the other noted nonchalantly. “Strange.” That I had become their new topic didn't bestow me with delight, but I had neither the time nor desire to intervene. A poster on the wall caught my eye. Brief as my observation was, I did get more than a glimpse.

Two distinct frames on a white background. The left side was completely black, with "Can you see me?" in thick, white lettering. "How about now?" was on the right side, except here the darkness was pierced by a few rectangles and curves of silvery white. Beneath these images was a happy pony, wearing white bands around his barrel, knees, and hocks. "Be seen, be safe!" There was something else underneath, but I had passed so quickly I hadn't been able to decipher the small print. I did deduce that the pony was wearing safety reflectors. That was pretty neat.

I was thankful I wasn't tripping over my legs, but I feared I'd accidentally squirt out a puddle. Were the muscles that kept the bladder contents contained unlike that of a male's?

Something seemed to have become stuck to me and was gently brushing my buns. I looked over my back to see what it was. The realization was almost immediate and my face creased with exasperation. As little use it was, I gave my tail a tiny toss. As if it could come loose . . .

We rounded a corner and suddenly I came face to face with a deep blue pony. “Awmh, oh,” I stammered, then took a few small steps back. “S-sorry?”

He backed away with a mirthful laugh. “Gracious gail, we nairly bamp'd aisader!” Then the cyan-maned stallion went along his merry way, sending a glance my way before he disappeared out of sight. I was paralyzed, utterly confused by his bizarre vernacular.

“Hey?” Embee called, waving at me by a door to the right a couple of paces ahead. “This is the place.” She pushed her hoof into the depression by the door.

I sighed in relief as the white door swung open inwards. “Finally.” When I crossed the short distance to her, it truly dawned to me that I was about to enter a place reserved for females! This was a criminal invasion of privacy! Maybe not literally criminal, though. Or maybe it was?

On a lark, I looked at the opposite door. An emblem there sported the shape of a male pony. “Well, what are you waiting for?” Embee queried, a trace of confusion both in her tone and expression. “I thought you were in a hurry.”

“Yeah yeah, but . . .” If I now expressed preference for the . . . colt's room? “Just feels weird when I'm not really a . . . uhm . . . mare,” I mouthed the last word silently a few times before I got it out. While Embee gazed at me with innocently curious but patient eyes, I deduced that the sign on the other door wasn't going to make me more male. Not physically, anyhow. Maybe not at all? “Never mind. I'm just being needlessly fussy. Fillies room, ladies room. Same difference, right?” Suppressing a nervous laugh I didn't want to hear, I strolled forth.

“Ah, not exactly.” Her comment made me balk just beyond the threshold and cast her a shocked look.

“Not exactly?” I echoed with a quiver of trepidation.

An assuaging look came to her visage. “I know, I know. What's in there is out of the ordinary, but using it shouldn't be a problem.” She cast a furtive look around, evidencing she was going to say something to me in confidentiality. “Vivienne,” she said in a hushed tone, putting on a soft and suppliant smile. For courtesy's sake, I faced her. “Being a pony is no doubt disconcerting, but nothing's changed in that thing there.” She lightly stressed the last three words, followed by a light but ostensibly encouraging jab. “Now go there, relax, and do as you normally do.”

I finally gathered a modicum of bravery. “But it's lots of . . .” A few timid words out. Then I groaned feebly. “I'm sorry, I really gotta go we'll talk later okay? See you soon,” I said hurriedly, performing an about-turn. I heard Embee cough lightly, as if startled. Did my tail swipe her in the face by accident? “Sorry,” I half-yelped. A little shaky, I reluctantly ventured into the controversial room.

“Okay. I'll wait right here. If something stumps you, or you need help, just give me a holler and I'll be there before you know it.” She then closed the door. Helping me at the simple task of emptying my bladder into where it was meant to? The humiliation would kill me!

At first glance, this was a sufficiently cozy and clean restroom with its brightly lit interior and white tiles covering every surface. I didn't see any flowers or other stereotypically feminine accessories or decorations, either. So then the only difference was that sign on the door? My sentiments about going where no man should go were perhaps overblown.

A low-mounted sink was in an alcove to the right. Of course there had to be a mirror! I cautioned myself not to look there. Now, the thing that I so desperately . . . Wait, it didn't look quite right.

Directly ahead in a nook of its own was a slightly elevated, lengthwise oblong plastic-rimmed porcelain bowl with what looked like a pitchfork or rowlock at its far side. Between this and the sink alcove was another nook, but whatever. I had to do my business into what amounted to a surreal floor-mounted sink? Seriously? This wasn't what I had expected to find here, and I had mistaken it for the regular thing. Oh well . . .

I approached the art gallery reject. Then I got cold feet and questions filled my mind: Why was the lid hinged to the side instead of the back? Where was the tank? The water only filled the hole? Did this operate with vacuum instead of water displacement? What if this thing was out of service and Embee didn't know? What would I do if the brown matter collided with the air screw? There wasn't a ceiling fan here, though, but if this thing started regurgitating . . . ?

My pressing issue made me wince, clearing my mind from the needless panicking. “This is no big deal,” I said faintly. “It's like a low . . . Well, sort of . . . Maybe?” The proverbial hourglass was on its last grains of sand. But I was dangerously short on courage! “I've done it into a shower drain. Once. This is much better than that, and is designed for ponies, so this should be super easy and not at all stressful or frightening. Nothing can go wrong.” My nearly voicelessly spoken pep talk didn't dispel my palpable trepidation. When I exasperatedly questioned what the hay was I trying to accomplish by dawdling, I finally poked a hole into my illogical indecision. Nonetheless, I spared a withering stare of dejected resignation at the fixture. “Just have to turn around and position myself carefully but quickly,” I whispered breathlessly as I performed. “The tail,” I squeaked tinnily through a grimace. Took a few painstaking attempts to command it just right so that I could hold it securely aside and thus prevent its soiling when I opened the metaphorical sluice. At the last second, I gathered what the rowlock was for: I positioned my tail through it so it wouldn't fall into the bowl. What good was this colorful and hairy appendage, anyway? My hind legs with their seemingly unusual articulation made sitting down slightly more challenging, and motor finesse for squatting had become unavailable.

At last, relaxation. Although, I exercised some restraint in fear of splashback. Naturally, I was glad I hadn't wet the floor, and . . . my eyes were turning moist. ‘Why's this happening? That I was disconcerted bemused me. “It's like doing the number two, just more fluid,” I rationalized, closing my eyes. Why I was whispering to myself? Could I make my dysphoria abate with a voice that served only to remind me of it? I didn't know. I had just woken up; exposing the logic from beneath my emotions was cumbersome. What wasn't hard to deduce, however, was that doing the number one sitting wasn't unsettling in itself. I had to do the cleaning all by myself in my own home, so it stood to reason that I minimized making a mess. Hence, eliminating stray torrents meant I didn't need to wipe the seat or clean the floor. Unfortunately, this pragmatic practice had to stay a secret, as I had a hunch that its revelation would be met with jeering. Doing the one and two in one sitting was normal, so what made eliminating the latter from the equation a laughing matter? I didn't get it. I wouldn't be surprised to be utterly clueless to some social customs. I was regarded as a bit of an oddball among my friends, even when they were as sober as a judge. I doubted they'd be so opinionated that being level-headed was beyond them. Anyhow, I hadn't come to this small space of solitude to reminiscence and review.

My immediate urgency had been dealt with. Another thing had arrived to the queue, but I had dithered about the issue by thinking about irrelevancies. The matter couldn't be postponed indefinitely, and the perfect solution being directly underneath me contributed to my consent. Never had I imagined to receive such intimate and incontrovertible evidence of females being no different from males in this regard: both had to do the number two.

I thought back on how I'd do this natural occurrence at home. I had a small folding stool that greatly helped me get in a stable and comfortable position to do the needs. It was stored between the washing machine and the wall when not in use. Except this wasn't a memory belonging to me. Still, that I . . . she hadn't renovated her bathroom to be more pony-friendly was puzzling . . . because electronics and whatnot had taken priority. Not digging that in hindsight. Although, the cell phone was a relic bought from a flea market. But she was resourceful. Much like me. Or I thought my resourcefulness was hers. Or the other way around? Darn overlapping identity aspects.

Done with my business, I began looking for paper. Worryingly, I didn't see any. However, taking paper to not one, but two orifices that I knew to be in close proximity of a third was disconcerting and nauseating. Inadvertent touching of the untouchable, as loathsome as the mere thought was, couldn't make me skimp on personal hygiene. One glance down brought up another obstacle: I couldn't hold paper. Not with hooves, anyhow; I wasn't oblivious of my telekinesis.

I had no reason to stay seated or see the truffles ready for donation to the sewage system. To my immediate right was a tile in the wall with a very recognizable icon that told me all I needed to know. Gazing upwards at the wall to avoid sighting my waste, I held my hoof on the edge of the lid as I carefully lowered it. I couldn't feel the lid, though, so I had to peek a few times to affirm it was tagging along with my limb. Depressing the lower half of the button summoned the big flush. As a small detail of curiosity, the lid had a protrusion, presumably to facilitate its raising by wedging a hoof under it.

This room was shaped like an F flipped on its head. In the space between my present location and the sink alcove a square panel with a hole. Next to it was a sign that depicted a series of happily smiling pony-shaped figures. Then it dawned on me that these were instructions for the panel. What was this thing?

“To use the . . . LadyFresh?” A small laugh slipped into my voice. That name was so ridiculous I spontaneously thought of a hypothetical name for antiperspirant for men: Dudeorant. “Press the button on the floor . . . Five seconds until . . . Press it again to cancel . . .” I shut my mouth; I didn't need to quietly recite select parts of the instructions.

The silhouette was applying her hoof to a flat shape on floor, and truly, beneath the panel and offset by an estimated twenty centimeters was a hoof-shaped elevation that I hadn't noticed prior. According to the illustration, I was to . . . “Oh?” The forwardness of the instructions imbued me with mild shock.

However, my discomfort was temporary, as I studied the instructions and the device with growing suspicion. It dawned on me that the signs were plastered on a separate panel, most likely concealing the components for this contraption. In any case, the device would disperse disinfectant mixture that supposedly was an effective sanitizer? I wasn't sold on that procedure, most likely because having my intimates sprayed with soap was never part of my routine!

I sighed heavily. “As if being a mare couldn't get any worse,” I muttered dejectedly as I depressed the button. A tiny, green light lit up with a soft buzz. I then positioned myself to receive an unorthodox and humiliating hygiene treatment, not forgetting to hold my tail aside. My only solace was a hope that the inventor of this preposterous apparatus was a pony, and had tested it personally. This brought up an old video game-related memory of Captain Qwark being a test subject for the infamous Crotchitizer. Oh, the shrieking . . .

Since I was a smidgen worked up—and had something at the very end of my digestive tract—I chose to bow a little. “You fresh me, I fresh you,” I said as I glanced morosely at the wall-mounted joke, soon followed by a sound not unlike that of a raspberry blown through tightly pursed lips. That . . . didn't make me feel like a winner. Should I have abstained from such a juvenile form of defiance?

My rumination was interrupted by the sensation of slight moisture beneath the base of my tail. My initial dismay was slowly eclipsed by incredulity. “What? That was it? Just a small burst?” I had been ready for something much, much worse. I turned around, disbelieving that I was actually disappointed. I had to test the machine just to see what actually came out. A small but short condensed cloud of vapors that dispersed into nothing soon after their ejection?

Left speechless, I peeked towards what was thankfully unseen. Was it actually clean now? I wasn't going to spread germs and nasty odors around, was I? My solids had been solid, and passed very cleanly. I hoped I didn't have drops of yellow tucked in a fleshy nook. Ugh . . . That thought put a sickeningly graphic image into my head.

A faint but sweet scent lingered in the air, which I assumed to be present at the base of my tail as well. I wasn't even feeling any moisture there anymore, so . . . all was good? I shot a glance of uncertainty at the ludicrous device as I began to head for the exit. One press of the button by the door to unlock it, and I had a path out.

Embee greeted me with a complacent look. “How did it go, hon?” Her positive attitude was putting a small smile on my face.

“Not too badly.” I moved clear of the door; Embee closed it. “After some initial uncertainty, I did my thing quite well, and then I got sprayed in the butt,” I summarized glibly.

“You were what?” Embee wheeled to face me, sporting a quizzical stare.

My smile warped into a grin that would've benefited from a squeak “Ahhah, you heard me.” A short but awkward moment before I developed a remorseful frown. “I should not have said it like that. Or at all that.” I pawed the floor, unwilling to look at her anymore. “I was trying to make light of the situation.”

“It's alright, hon, I'm not mad at you,” she said, and not a trace of disdain was on her features. “Caught me off guard by your choice of words, that's all.”

“Oh? I see. Well, um . . . that's okay.” A relative silence ensued as I began to retrieve my sangfroid.

“So, you used the LadyFresh?” I could tell that she intended to express sympathy, but the trace of amusement in her tone stood in contrast with that. I managed a strained laugh in return and an aversive glance. “It's, uh . . . a divisive device.” The successive use of two similar-sounding words was mildly funny. “Some are fine with the thing, others hate it.”

“Are they in every restroom?” I felt sorry for every pony who was coerced to or coerced themselves to get hygienated. That wasn't a real word.

“I don't think so,” she replied. That was good to hear. “This hospital is a test bed for some inventions. Been a boom of them lately now that they're going from diagrams on paper to functional prototypes.” Diagrams on paper? Probably meant blueprints.

“Functional prototypes, mmh,” I mused, but a sarcastic remark eluded me. I settled for the next best thing. “Better than nonfunctional, I guess.”

“Nighty used the LadyFresh once, and only once.” Mirth tugged at Embee's lips, but not mine. “You should've seen her. She was fuming, claiming it was a bidet with every flaw refined to perfection. I too gave it a try, and in my opinion, it's—”

“Sorry sorry, coming through,” a person donned in a dark jacket said indifferently as he hurriedly navigated past us; the intervention roused me from my impassive state.

“I must apologize to you, hon,” Embee resumed soon after, recovering from her surprise much faster than I did. “It didn't occur to me that you'd use it, and I'm sorry for the humiliation and anxiety it must've brought you.”

“Oversights happen,” I said laconically. I tried to think of something more to say, but I was thwarted by the fear of saying something that'd potentially make her guilt more severe and prolonged. “Anyhow, hygiene's important, so . . . what choice did I have? I just couldn't go dirty,” I defended my decision. I looked around, checking if we were being listened to. We weren't. “I would've used paper, you know? But, um, there was none.”

“I understand,” she said consolingly. “Think of the bright side. This might have been the first and the last visit to the fillies room.” I surmised she alluded to that Peachy would help me regain my humanity. I shouldn't hold my hopes too high and believe everything was destined to be resolved in an hour or two. Nothing I could do would expedite things, but Embee's optimism at least gave me a small morale boost.

“Yeah, the last time—” Another person walked past us, startling me slightly. “The last time I'll have to endure the LadyFresh, too.” I sighed. Intimate femaleness and the reminder of being a four-legged creature of smaller stature educed a spell of discomfort.

“That's really bothering you, is it?” Apparently, my indisposed demeanor tugged her empathy string.

“Yeah, it is, but it's not serious. I'll get over it,” I replied, inadvertently imitating Fluttershy's soft intonation. I then raised one foreleg, cast a glance from the corner of my eye toward my back, and saw my tail make a lazy upwards motion before settling to its relaxed state. I wasn't sure why I did this. Some form of pony body language at play?

“Would you like to file a feedback ticket?” Embee's demeanor and tone were so affably placid, I couldn't say whether she was serious or joking.

Knitting my brows and shooting a gaze to my lower left, I contemplated the proposition. “Well . . . It doesn't seem relevant. I got a shower to take, and soon. Kinda starting to feel itchy again.” I took stock of the row of chairs lined against the wall. A spontaneous thought recommended I rub myself against them. I seemed to be so convinced of hooves being dedicated only to locomotion and support that I subconsciously assumed I had to deal with skin irritations by alternative means.

“Let's not dawdle, then.” As usual, I remained by her side, half-a-body length behind as we began walking.

‘My first and last time showering as a pony? I can do that.’ Showering was a necessity that I had to endure, but I wasn't afraid. All I had to do was to act sensibly, and definitely not fuss about.

“Hmh,” Embee vocalized a small chuckle as she glanced at me. “Pardon me for bringing this up, but the way you were unsure of going into the fillies room, I want to know if everything really did go well in there.”

“Pretty much.” I didn't expect her to request extra convincing. Had I made the impression of pretending things were fine when they weren't? “I was anxious at first, but once I sat down, I started feeling quite okay. I don't need to elaborate my opinion on that silly hygiene contraption, do I?”

“No, no need to. I'm happy that you did well.” We passed a few empty chairs lined against the hallway wall. Then Embee cast a glance at me. “Sat down, you said?”

“Yeah, sat down,” I echoed, puzzled, but soon chuckled a little nervously. “Well, you don't mean I'd do it standing up, do you? That's uh . . . That's how guys do it.” It was fortunate Embee wasn't looking at me. Else, she might've seen the subtle misery on my face. Had I said that I wasn't a guy, the self-betrayal might've shattered my composure. All of a sudden, a humorous epiphany made me laugh on the inside. “With some training, I wager I'd be in the same ballpark.” More like no training at all! My for-once confident assertion evoked a delighted laugh from Embee.

“Confident, huh?” Her encouraging comment introduced a layer of coyness to my bravado, and I had to fight myself not to divert my gaze in shyness. “Well, for mares, it's perfectly normal to do it standing up.” I barely wrapped my mind around that when she resume talking. “But the fillies room I brought you to?” I presented a hum of curiosity. “I thought what it had was pretty close to what you were used to. That's why I decided not to escort you to the closest fillies room.”

“What?” I became both irked and confused. “You mean we didn't need to go walk to the other end of the floor?”

“Now, don't get frustrated, hon,” she reproached gently, sparking a pinch of shame; was I getting on her nerves? “I know you don't have it easy, and prefer not to do things the pony way. I was certain you wouldn't take it lightly if you had to use a—” The final word did not register, because I was sure she did not say that.

“Wait, stop.” To my surprise, she stopped. I, too, halted in my tracks. Albeit nonplussed, I gave her an askance look. “To use a what now?” I did not believe it started with a "U" and ended with an "L".

“A marenal,” she enunciated unambiguously.

I was so dumbfounded and incredulous that I was left blinking. “A marenal?”

“Oh, right. You're not from here.” Shame transitioned on Embee's features and she dropped her voice. “Sorry, hon. I can't believe I forgot there's more to this than just a young woman stuck in a mare's body.”

Now it was my ears that drooped. “Yeah . . .” I scavenged a sad smile. “It's a world of difference.”

“That's quite poetic, hon.” Her smile was happier than mine, although I could tell that she wasn't downplaying my predicament. Apparently this was such a sensitive topic that neither of us came up with anything immediate to say. I merely stared glumly at a streak of light reflected on the floor. Something in me insinuated that her not knowing of my true gender kept me safe from hardships; to be looked down upon and shamed if or when I behaved atypical to a male was a powerful, compelling fear. “But you know what a urinal is?” Her question pricked my ears despite my rue.

“Of course, but I never used one.” I didn't mean to say that much, but considering she believed I was a genuine female, I supposed it was kind of fine. Judging by her reserved giggle, she may've taken my accidental admission as dry humor.

“Well, it's like a slimmer and longer toilet affixed to the wall.” She said toilet? Why did I regard that word as exempt from her vocabulary? Maybe because it was too crass for a pony? “You hold your tail aside, back over the lip of the thing. It fits neatly between the legs, you see. Then you do what's natural, and there you go! All done.”

I hadn't asked to know that much, but I wasn't revolted. “You make that sound so simple,” I said in astonishment.

“Being no stranger to it might explain why.” She let out a small laugh. I was so absorbed in wonder that I didn't immediately notice she was peering at me as if a smidgen sorry. “Did I blow your mind?”

“Yeah,” I responded, mental pictures keeping me absent: a urinal, then a horse, then downsize both until the horse was a colorful pony—

“If I had led you to a marenal and explained what to do, would you have actually used it?” Embee said in a nonplussed but inquisitive tone.

“Humh, would I?” Facing away from a pony-ergonomic urinal, holding my tail sideways, and releasing a golden stream from between my buttocks? That was far removed from doing my business the normal way. The dismaying vision alone drew my eyes toward the floor, but I set them on Embee shortly. “Nah.” I gingerly shook my head. “Too pony.”

“It's alright, hon.” As she said that, I cursorily noted we were rather solitary for the moment. “You weren't pleased by the LadyFresh, so, hmm . . .” She certainly looked thoughtful with her hoof under her jaw. “A bidet, then? Would that've been okay?” I assumed the restroom we skipped had a bidet. Wasn't a bidet like a sink one sat on that then discharged a continuous stream of water at the nether region? That would've been acceptable . . . if one of my orifices wasn't erogenous . . .

“I don't think I'd react well to that, either,” my lowly response disguised my disgust. Then curiosity produced a question regarding fixtures for male ponies. Before I could voice it, a person walked past us.

“Mein Gott im Himmel!” a strained and exasperated, but unmistakably digitized male voice came from his pocket. Embee and I exchanged stunned glances before we set our eyes on the guy.

Procuring a phone from therein, he briefly glanced at the screen before answering the call. “Hey, dad,” he said in clearly feigned joy, as if reluctant to talk. As he distanced from us, I heard him continue tiredly. “This place is a big, mostly white building to the left, right after the bridge.” There was a beat. “You missed it? I swear, you'd lose your way putting on a shirt.”

“That as a ringtone?” Embee said to herself, chuckling. “Ah, but let's keep going, hon.” Her natural prowess at the art of four-hoof walking caught me unprepared, forcing me to a short but haphazard quasi-canter so as to catch up with her.

The two mares from before were coming our way. I mentally coined them nicknames: Mare 9000, due to her monotone, and Cleaved Lemon, due to her cutie mark. “. . . portrays the regal sisters in an unfavorable light,” the latter said, evidently displeased.

“How does it concern you? It's only a comedy, and not to be taken seriously. If they had a problem with it, they would've let it be known months ago,” Mare 9000 reasoned just as we passed. Her cutie mark was a pudding bowl filled with . . . liquid fudge?

“Hey look, that was the dirty girl without a cutie mark,” Cleaved Lemon commented with a touch of awe. Slightly peeved, but maintaining my pace, I shot her a cross look. The restraint that disallowed me from giving them a piece of my mind didn't extend to my tail; it rapidly flicked from one side to the other a few times before I regained control. “What's her problem?” she said superciliously.

“Experience tells me it's your imprudence,” Mare 9000 answered sardonically.

My problem was that I was too touchy about my perceived gender. I had to learn how to endure this with dignity. While it would save me a lot of trouble to be seen as my true gender by default, realistically speaking, that was impossible. I hadn't begun to surmount the threshold of telling Embee— “We're here,” she said abruptly, and we came to a stop.

“Oh?” A fog of puzzlement filled my mind. “Really?” Seemed like we had only walked two dozen paces and gone around a corner. “That's good.” I glanced back at the mares while Embee opened the door; they were strolling away from us, absorbed in their chatter.

So, we went into a square room decorated with white tiles on every surface. To the left was a small bench, a few simple white-painted lockers, and in the near left corner was a single covered socket with an appropriate warning about not touching it while wet. The shower was in the far right corner. A shower curtain was suspended from a curved rail, and the floor was recessed with a drain in the middle. “So, Viv? Can you take care of yourself?”

“I guess,” I replied cursorily. The shower head was affixed to the wall about halfway up the ceiling, and the shower controls were on the wall directly beneath. Actually, the controls looked nothing like I had seen before. A large dial, with a blue-to-red gradient crescent above it, paired with a vertical slider. “Figuring out how this works shouldn't be complicated.” I also spotted a sponge on a low wall-mounted tray.

“Nothing more complicated than to dial it to warm and then raise that smaller switch to get the water flowing,” Embee instructed with a flair of joyful aplomb, opening one of the lockers. They had large handles. Were they called handles by ponies? She inspected what was inside, then did the same for the second locker. “Now who emptied these?” She sounded somewhat miffed, but there wasn't a sign of it when she turned to me. “Please excuse me for a moment, hon. I must bring you some things, but I promise to be back as soon as I can.”

I smiled. “I'm not worried.” Her optimism was enjoyable and improved my confidence. I raised the slider to the top, the artificial rain fell on my back and I had to get out of there and I did with a leap and a vocalization oh that was quick!

“You okay?” Embee had rushed to my side, unquestionably concerned. With my mind in a flurry, it slowly dawned that I had spun around and was now staring at the shower with my forehooves to my mouth. “Hon?”

“Uhhh . . .” I increased the gap between limbs and mouth so I wouldn't get a taste of hair and hoof. “I'm . . . I'm fine.” My consternation changed to embarrassment, as I realized I had produce a high-pitched squeal that I hadn't predicted I was capable of. “Cold.” I gently placed my limbs back to the floor. “The water, I mean. It was cold . . .” A few chilling drops were taking their sweet time getting off me.

“I heard a scream.” A bespectacled, short-haired man was standing by the doorway. He resembled Gordon Freeman from Half-Life . . . “Was it you?” He sounded calm, but had a peculiar accent. Italian? A woman with short black hair popped past the door frame to catch the view. She didn't bring to mind any video game characters, though.

I hoisted myself up. Confounded by the audience attracted, I looked toward Embee for verbal advice. I gathered she was waiting for me to open my mouth, and was wholly unaware of the true cause of my perplexity. Setting my gaze on the two bipeds, abashment worked its way to my face. “Hah, well . . . I just, um . . . I made a sound. It happens.” Preferably, I would've denied the obvious, but that was about as pointless as insisting a smooth sphere had sharp corners.

“That's right. It was nothing serious,” Embee said to the onlookers collectedly, thankfully taking some of the burden off my back.

“It was only cold water, and when it's cold, and I don't expect it, and um, then . . . I yelped, because, you know, suddenly cold.” Ignoring how flustered I had sounded, I took myself close to the shower and stuck out my forelimb to literally test the waters. “And now it's warm. The water's warm, not the cold. But I guess, it sort of is, because the cold is now warm . . .”

“Are you all right?” the talkative Gordon asked. The way I was being looked at, I had a strong suspicion my sanity was being scrutinized.

“I'm, um, I'm fine . . . uh, just fine,” I stammered.

“Hey, no pressure, hon,” Embee said to me, showing me a reassuring smile. She then faced the audience of two. “I'm sorry, being the center of attention makes her nervous.” What a surprisingly accurate supposition.

“Yeah,” I affirmed promptly.

“I see,” the Gordon look-a-like said, nodding. “Well, you simply think about how you don't have to be afraid, and take it chill.” He had a courteous tone, but his accent intrigued me.

After sighing deeply and recovering some of my calmness, I unglued my legs and turned around lethargically. My wits then produced something possibly funny. “But not the shower, since a chill shower is uncool, which in turn is thermodynamically incongruous,” I explained, as if carefully correcting a misconception. The spectating female offered a two-syllable laugh.

“You're trying to be funny, but honestly, that was lame.” The anonymous female's words were as thorny as pillows, but accented Gordon gave her a disapproving glance.

“Lame as a lime since lame and lime seem same,” I responded spontaneously, albeit awkwardly, doing my best to smile puckishly.

“Wonderful display.” With the back of his hand facing me, he gave me the thumbs up. “You're now qualified to not be as boring as dishwater.” Based on his mellow but bizarre compliment, I had helped engender a casual—or an offbeat—atmosphere.

“Well, um, thanks!” Now that I had hastily overcome my bewilderment with a sufficiently cheerful response, I was going to ask them to leave. My eyes were relaxed, I pitched my head down a little with a furtive sigh, and maintained my small smile. This was going to be my demurely cute pose. “Anyhow,” I started with a soft croon. “Would the two of you kindly give me some privacy?” My inflection was so exquisitely sweet that I hardly believed it myself. It actually made me feel weird on the inside, like I was both curious and cautious of transcending past variable femininity into behaviorally female. This would be a recurring dilemma beyond doubt.

“We have better things to do than peep on a funny mare taking a shower, don't we?” he said to the woman next to him with a touch of humor. She concurred with a nonchalant hum. “Oh, but one thing, Embee—Or two. Is it fine if I call you Emmy? It has a nice ring to I think.”

Embee hemmed. “I prefer Embee, thank you.”

“A name like Mismysmas rings like a cracked bell,” the female quipped.

“That's very flattering,” he replied with benign sarcasm; she curled her lips to the side, facetiously unimpressed before leaving wordlessly. “But, eh. I'm sorry. Forget what I said, Embee. My idea was bad now that I think of it. You like your nickname, and everyone calls you by it.” This guy's parlance was truly activating my cerebral neurons. I wouldn't say he was Russian, though, even if the accent kind of sounded like it.

“Don't feel bad about it, Lucek,” Embee said gently.

“Thank you, but it's cool. No skin has come off my back.” That wasn't how the idiom went. “So, the one thing I want to say.” He reached into his pocket, retrieving what was most likely a phone. “I found a song that's much like by the band your sister plays in.” Embee's sister was in a band? So much for her being Rainbow Dash. Envisioning her with a Fender Stratocaster made both twenty percent cooler, though. “When you can, you can come and give it a listen.” For how long was this guy gonna stick around?

“Hey,” I interposed myself. “You can give me the requested privacy when you can. Such as now.” I still had my sweet tone going on . . .

He backed a little, facing his palms toward us. “Okay, okay.” He chuckled amiably. “I'm very sorry, miss.” There was that unspeakable honorific again. Resigned but piqued, a long sigh rolled out my mouth. “Don't get mad, please. You'll get your privacy . . . now!” Never having lost his easygoing decorum, he reached for the door. “Pa pa.” What a strange thing to say; he was evidently off his rocker—or on drugs. Also, what kind of a name was Lucek? Or would it be spelled Lusec? Regardless, he was finally gone!

“Way to go.” Embee giggled. “You sure asserted yourself there.” Her compliment colored my cheeks in bashful pink.

“Well, um . . . Yeah, I did,” I concurred.

“Say, do you think he assumed I'd stay here with you?” she followed with a rhetorical question.

“You could go and ask?” I suggested, although joking about two females sharing a shower was tempting. Perhaps Night Light would propose to do that? I didn't doubt she'd again try to get me out of the perceived closet—and then she'd try to get intimate.

“I wager he was yanking our tails.” Embee's smile developed into a smirk. “But when you asked them to leave, you didn't say the three of you, did you?” She emphasized the implied omission by placing her hoof to her chest.

“Oh, hahah, oops?” I tittered, flustered. “Maybe, uh, maybe I think you're so amazing I wouldn't want to be by myself?” I theorized jokingly as Embee approached the door.

“Maybe,” Embee insinuated lightheartedly, opening the door. “Anyhow, you can start showering any time you want. Oh! See that sponge?” Her gaze indicated where to look.

Politeness prevailed over sarcasm. “Yes, I do.” The sponge was mostly green, its white and rougher side facing us. “I'm guessing it's clean.” Because if it weren't, she'd advise against using it.

“I'm sure it is,” she said without a shred of doubt in her tone. “So, use it to scrub yourself, if you can or want to.”

I gave her a blank stare, then looked down at my maladroit hooves before cursorily eying the pliable sponge. Of course, the apparent incompatibility was of little concern when I had telekinesis. However, applying the sponge to myself would mean getting intimate with my physical self, which I predicted to be highly unsettling. “Well . . . I'll try, but no promises,” I said, not even bothering to downplay my trepidation. “Kind of have to go the hands-free way. I know how to spool up this horn on my head, but if I said it's like having disembodied hands . . . Uhh, no, that's not right. Like having a tactile sense beyond my body? Hmmh, that's closer . . .”

“Hey, just make it a priority to avoid upsetting yourself. You don't need to use magic if that worries you,” Embee reassured.

“Oh, no,” I shook my head lightly. “Using it doesn't worry me. I guess I'd worry more about how I'm using it so well after relatively short practice sessions. But that doesn't concern me as much as my conflicts between mind and body does.” I realized something, and then facehoofed. “Ugh, now it's me who keeps yapping. Okay, asking for your advice on how to cope with all sorts of things and talk things through would be great, but now's really not the time. I need to shower, and I'm wasting precious water.” I felt genuinely bad about all that unused water going down the drain . . .

“I'm more than happy to be of help, but you're perfectly right. We can talk later.” She took herself outside, apparently convinced I could take care of myself. “I'll see you in a bit. Just remember: Don't do anything you're not comfortable doing.” Then the door was closed. Her parting advice was simple, yet commendable.

The room was becoming humid, and the rushing water radiated warmth. I pictured myself from a third person perspective: discontent was evident on my face, as I had no clue what to do but become thoroughly soaked. That image reminded of my sensitive ears. They'd strongly disagree with the impacts of innumerable droplets. They didn't have to be sensitive, but such was the case with uncontrollable self-image clashes. However, they had been struck by water just minutes earlier, and I hadn't even noticed. “Okay, trial by fire. Er, trial by water.” I took a deep breath, steeling myself, then ventured toward the waiting cascade.

But wait! I had an astonishing opportunity here . . .

A Sense of Equinessence

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

Chapter 20
A Sense of Equinessence

I had reduced the localized rain to an irregular pillar, dialed the temperature to the coldest, and placed myself so close I felt the spatters land on my phalanges. I cast a glance at the door, wary of Embee returning at an inopportune time. My solitude did little to dispel my embarrassment as I, for lack of a better term, stuck my muzzle into the falling water and began lapping it. Refreshingly cold, and without a side taste.

With my thirst satiated, I licked my lips as I stepped back. Embee's return was inevitable, and if I did not accomplish anything by then, my ego would self-destruct. Not wasting another second, I returned the warmth to the shower and set the flow to maximum. I was interrupted. A tiny feeling just under my throat reminded me of the string and keys I was carrying. Acting like I was on a timed mission, I reached for the string in an effort to rotate it and find the knot. Poking a hoof at it did diddly, an unpleasant fact I could only sigh at. “Okay okay okay,” I mumbled restlessly, shooting a look up at my horn. I didn't see it; I saw only a mess of hair. “Now, how did I make this . . . Oh?” I felt a tingling and heard tintinnabulation. So bemused at my lack of a struggle, I momentarily forgot what I was going to do. “So, now to—” Pulling the string off without untying it was ineffective. After a second to let my mind focus, I was getting the hang of things. “There goes . . .” As impossible as it was, my eyes rolled to the right and tried to see the knot come unloose.

I was nervous . . . Why was I nervous? Could it be that my subconsciousness attributed object manipulation to my forelimbs, and with them firmly planted on the floor, I wasn't fully accepting my ethereal touch? Whether I was right or not, it shouldn't constitute a major impediment to the usability of telekinesis if I was attentive and patient.

The ends of the strings untwined, like two snakes falling from an embrace. Now that I had the string and accompanying keys off my person, I set them on a course to the bench. Wait . . . “Darn!” Only one key remained, and it wasn't the key to my home! The two items fell onto the bench as I immediately placed both forehooves to my face and groaned in exasperation. A moment later I desperately tried to get hooves underneath my body before my face could meet the floor, but one of them slipped and then the other and mild panic and I flailed for something to grab onto and then—

I was fine, I was fine, I was fine. I was . . . shaken up and disoriented. Where . . . How was I positioned? Flat on my belly. Left forelimb to my left, right forelimb to my right, both projecting almost straight forward. I had to get up, but the rear pair, outstretched as well, didn't fold the same way forelimbs did. That was a problem. I would have bend my legs at the knee and ankle, but that was easier said than done. I was being thwarted by my own physique. Technically not mine, but whatever.

I rested my head on my frogs, staring at the exit door directly ahead as I sulked about my predicament. Then it dawned on me that I was resting my head on my frogs. “Hmmh.” Did I have elbows? I couldn't say for sure, but there was something I assumed to be bone at the bend. My forelimbs were astonishingly flexible, too. That the same didn't apply for my hind legs dampened my awe.

Resting my forelimbs on the floor and crossing one over the other, my eyes soon affixed on them. “Do I have little dainty hooves or what?” I thought out loud, my morose tone blending a hint of Rainbow Dash's rasp with Fluttershy's softness. Something fell over my eyes, but knowing what it was wasn't an impossible puzzle to solve. “Ugh.” Barely had that left my mouth when I had an epiphany: I was directly beneath the shower—and I had not minded my ears at all!

“Well, amazing, I guess.” I was dumbstruck, but glad. Despite that, my mind began sending out messages of agitation, as if making itself look busy after being caught idling at its station. This late reaction was lukewarm; my ears twitched a few times. That minor loss of control was annoying, unlike the warm torrent. However, Embee could come at any minute! I had to get this hair off my face.

“Aow.” I flinched as my hoof impacted with my forehead with more force than I had intended. I had to be careful, and I was, but being somewhat sensitive to having a horn made me a little fidgety. Then I looked over at my left hind leg. “Oh, come on. Work with me,” I complained when bending my very-hard-to-see knee didn't yield the expected result. Where was my ankle? Did I have an ankle? Getting these limbs into a position whereupon they could raise me was becoming an exercise in futility. “Nrrrhhh!” I was trying to do something, but didn't know what I was doing, let alone the correct way to get back up. “I'm not inept, darn it,” I seethed, my waterlogged tail struggling to whip about. The thought of being confined to the floor due to ineptness along with Embee finding me in a humiliating state like this inserted growing dismay into my irritation. Resigned to stare at my rear half, a shred of curiosity soon suggested reaching over to touch it and my tail. I didn't act on it. It wouldn't provide a solution.

Short on ideas and with Embee's return looming, I pushed my front half up with my forelimbs. At an impasse again, I looked back to gauge how my legs were now. I was momentarily distracted; my tail was like a pennon attached to the end of my spine. “So weird,” I said, perplexed. However, my voice served as a stark reminder that I was staring down a female's back, legs . . . and rump. That all of this was unmistakably equine thankfully made any resemblance to a human's anatomy nugatory. Although, that it was equine was unsettling in itself. Anyhow, I couldn't let my mind wander off to contemplate trivialities!

The increased clearance between the floor equaled more space for moving my legs. Retracting my right leg proved a success. After I had three legs on the floor, getting the last one in place was no problem at all. No, now the problem was that I was explicitly aware of my quadrupedal nature. A familiar tinge of wistfulness resurfaced.

“Nicker,” I deadpanned, mocking the emphasis my preconception put on the "animal" part of the "talking animal" aspect. I let the facts of my physical attributes settle before I began to think what my next step would be.

I sent a plain gaze at the sponge behind me; it was still in its tray. I decided not to use it. Not yet, anyhow. As far as I could tell, I had no shampoo. Perhaps in a locker?

The shower's warmth didn't give me much of a reason to leave its influence, but wasting water to satiate my vanity was selfish. After some hesitation, I cut off the water. Dripping wet, but not as cold as I had feared, I sighed in mild relief. But without shampoo, what could I do? Wait until something happened?

As if on cue, I heard a rapping at the door. “Hey, hon. It's me, Embee. Can I come in?”

“Oh, um . . .” Dawdling, I briefly considered stalling her. “Yes. Yes, you can.”

Embee walked in, carrying a pair of cream-white saddlebags. After closing the door, she glanced at me, with no trace of anxiety on her features. I creased my lips into an imitation of herst. “How's it going? Is everything looking good?” she asked, reaching for her side and removing the saddlebags with a quick nudge. With her muzzle. Could I do that, too? That kind of dexterity was astonishing. “You look positively drenched.”

Her gentle joke was moderately uplifting. “Yeah, I wet myself.”

Embee burst into laughter, and my gaze gravitated down. I pawed at the floor like I was manipulating a touch pad. She collected herself soon. “I'm sorry.” She was unmistakably trying to hold in her laughter. “That was immature, and I shouldn't think it was funny.”

“I agree . . .” A tile diagonally to the right requested I look at it. “But it was kind of funny, wasn't it?”

Embee chuckled. “Yeah, it was.” That was great to know. She opened the saddlebag with her mouth, followed by looking at me with mixed curiosity and amusement. “You didn't wet yourself for real, did you?”

“Oh no no no,” I assured laughingly, my initial abashment waning. “If I had, I wouldn't tell you about it.” I looked at her askance.

Embee smirked. “The soaked bed sheets would have.”

I was momentarily lost on what she meant. Of course, I had been in a bed recently! “But ah, they are very absorbent bed sheets,” I coined a retort, going so far to speak in a sophisticated tone. “Not even the tiniest of discoloration thanks to years of research and development to produce the most fantastic fabric imaginable.”

“I see.” Her smile faded. “I doubt they absorb the stench, and I didn't detect a stench.” Clearly, she was playing a lighthearted game with me with her stoic mannerism.

I cleared my throat. “Therefore, we must concur that the bed being soiled is extremely unlikely.”

“Seems sound. Now, please excuse me, but I must go and discover if you left a puddle somewhere along the way here.” She strolled to the door. “Though it might've been cleaned up already, but I can ask around.”

I wasn't taking her seriously until she actually seemed ready to head out. “You really gonna do that?”

“Nope.” She cast a look over her back, her lips arched to an affable gotcha-smile. The door closed soon after she had spun around.

Joy came to my face, but I was so puzzled that I was momentarily speechless. “I was only joking.” How obvious.

“I knew you were, hon, don't worry,” she said mirthfully, turning around. “Me and my sister did these things where we tried besting each other, all in the name of fun, of course. You remind me of those times.”

“That's great.” My happy outlook hid an ultimately insignificant concern: being compared to a female, even indirectly, infringed my male identity. “She must like you as much as you like her.” I didn't want to say love, but . . .

“You're perfectly right. She's not the kind to show it very easily, acting all cool-faced and so on.” That was a little familiar; however, Embee's sister wasn't Rainbow Dash.

“Does she live with you here?” If she did, maybe I could meet her?

“Ah, no. She's among the griffons, in a band called Grifpony.” So much for my wishful and unrealistic . . . wish. Besides, I had more important things on my plate. “You might not know, but the griffons have endured several years of squalor and adversity, from which they've only recently began to recover.”

“No, I didn't know.” Years of squalor and adversity? Like Somalia, then. Except the north. “So, Grifpony, you were saying.”

“Yes. They bring griffons happiness, while also giving them an outlet for their frustrations.” How did that work? In the same way a romantic ballad did, I presumed. “Well, that's what one of the band members told me, anyway. ‘Music's a form of art that can express things words cannot.’ Makes sense. He writes the lyrics.”

“I guess he's great at it.” I could extract more fascinating information. “But what's your sister doing?”

“She's doing a wonderful thing that fills my heart with pride.” Embee saying that without a shred of embarrassment came as a mild shock to me. To be honest, I was a little envious that she could. Her witty response had earned a small chuckle out of me, but my question remained unanswered. “To answer your question, she's the drummer and a vocalist.”

“Really? That's cool!” My eagerness to learn more elevated my intonation to a range I wasn't yet quite comfortable with.

“It's more than cool, hon,” she said with a chuckle. I saw a glint of tiredness in her gaze. Had she not slept well last night? “But let's not get distracted. If we're efficient, I'm sure we'll have time for breakfast somewhere other than here.”

“Yeah, that's nice, but, um, you said we. Not me.” I gestured at myself, then at her and me. “We.” This made Embee's eyebrows arch with inquisitive puzzlement. “I prefer privacy, and . . . I want to try to take care of myself. It's . . .” My voice sank. “It's kind of a pride thing.” I then implored, “That's an okay thing to ask for, right?”

“Ahm . . .” Embee mulled over this proposal, tilting her head. “I suppose it's okay.” An unnatural silence descended into this small room. Maybe she was aware that my method wouldn't be efficient. “Well, at least let me help you get started.” She dunked her head into one of her saddlebags, emerging with a blue and white bottle. After she placed it on the bench, curiosity brought me in for a closer look. The label was blue, fading to a paler shade toward the top, and at the base were the contours of a happy pony's front half. “It's not what you'd find in a hair salon.”

“Ah,” I acknowledged her lighthearted quip. Colloidal? That was an unknown word. I'd have to look that up when I had the chance. As I read further, I gathered more info. “It's some kind of anti-itch shampoo?”

“That's right,” Embee affirmed.

“But I'm not feeling itchy anymore.” I glanced at the bottle with dubiety. “Could you've not chosen something—” From the saddlebag, she procured a transparent bottle containing orange fluid. “Normal,” I finished lamely as I saw an unfamiliar brand name inscribed in silver lettering. Beneath it was a blue sky within a gold-framed image, and wavy, magenta lines passing through the lower edge. No mention of pony, so I had to presume this was for humans.

“I was lucky to find that. Don't know if that's what you'd pluck into your bouquet, but it should work well for your mane and tail.” Embee then nodded indicatively at the other bottle. “The anti-itch shampoo is for your coat and skin, of course.”

“Yeah, okay, but . . .” I looked at my damp body with subdued consternation. “Can I skip that and just do my hair real quick?” My ears and voice sank. “I really don't like feeling too pony, you know?”

“I know you don't like to. You've shown impressive bravery and initiative showering without my help, though.” I would've taken her compliment as a backhanded insult if I had been in an exceptionally bad mood. “Try to have a positive attitude, hon. You're not going to be furry and four-legged forever.”

“Thank goodness,” I said with a sigh. “There's so much that . . .” I hadn't meant to turn my head, but now that I had, the sight of my latter half in its undeniable equine whiteness evoked abhorrence, shortly followed by resignation. “That doesn't conform with my self-image.” That barely scratched the surface. “Sorry for being a mood breaker. I'm happy this will be over eventually, but in the meantime, I'll have to do my best not hate all this . . .” I huffed lightly instead of saying 'horse business'. Was this how transgenders felt about their bodies? Would they even think of the bodies as their own?

“Which is why you probably don't want it to annoy you any more than it already does. Now . . .” Embee raised her forelimb to gesture at me, although her attention was briefly captured by the droplets falling from her hoof. I was damp, and the floor in our vicinity was wet. “Can I take a look at you?”

“Oh? Uhm . . . By all means.” I wasn't aware I had to give her permission.

She spent a moment scrutinizing me. “Close to clean!” That was something to smile about. I had cleaned myself up well! “But not entirely, I'm afraid.” Albeit not well enough.

“I'll just shower again,” I said with a slight groan and turned around back towards the shower. I couldn't believe I had failed at something as simple as showering.

“Naturally,” Embee said sympathetically.

“Uhhuh,” I mumbled as I started plodding back to the shower. Darn, I had been nursing an irrational hope that I wouldn't have to shower a second time.

“But listen.” I stopped and looked back at Embee with a small amount of hope returning to me. “I strongly recommend you use the anti-itch shampoo.”

“Why?” I asked, my hopes once again dashed at the prospect of a second shower, and using the shampoo would just add time and difficulty to it. I couldn't imagine that applying the shampoo to my person would be very comfortable either.

Embee, noting my fretfulness, seemed to ponder her words. “A pony's skin is delicate and can become irritated without proper care, and a body that doesn't itch is one less bodily issue you have to worry about,” she explained.

Her argument was solid, but so was my stubbornness. “Well . . .” Being itchy would be extremely unpleasant, on par with the frequent needs to interact with myself to counter the itching. Therefore, I . . . had to accept the high maintenance my entirely hair-covered self required. “Okay then.” I glanced at the bottle with muted contempt, but showed Embee a meager smile. “I guess it's nothing to get my panties in a bunch about.” My choice of words struck me like a wet fish-boomerang, compelling me to correct my blunder somehow. “Uh, because . . . I don't have panties.” My eyes drifted slowly to a random floor tile. “Aaah . . .” I made a light clicking sound with my tongue. “I'm feeling kinda naked right now.” Not to mention incredibly self-conscious.

“Humh . . .” Embee was calm, but evidently at a loss for words. Her hoof met her jaw. “I can imagine that bothers you, but you do know that ponies normally are unclothed, and you've not worn anything since this all started.”

“Yeah, well . . . that's not really helpful,” I commented meekly. “Uh, did you bring a towel?”

“I'm sorry, I haven't yet.” Embee's rueful look transitioned to a thoughtful frown. “Maybe I can check the lost and found for panties for you?”

My tension crumbled. “Ahahaha.” If I blushed any more fiercely, the pigments would start running down my cheeks. “That was supposed to be a joke, right?” I said, half-smiling. Gosh, panties on me? I would die of embarrassment!

“No, I wasn't joking, hon. I thought you'd want to have something.” She looked and sounded so sincere, I felt sorry for indirectly rejecting her idea.

“Well . . . Uh, you know that I'd . . .” I'd rather not wear panties, due to not having a compelling reason to. Or hadn't ever had a reason to. “I'd rather not wear only undergarments, because obviously, they are undergarments. Meant to be under . . . You know what I'm saying.”

“Don't worry, hon.” Embee seemed to take things with a relaxed mindset. “I think it's safe to ask if there are any clothes to borrow.” I wasn't sure I wanted to wear somepony's clothes. Pony clothes? Pony panties? “No guarantee anything will fit you, but I hope for the best!”

“So do I.” I did my best to match her concerted enthusiasm despite my reservations about wearing something I had never thought of wearing. My mind's eye was flooded with dozens of female underwear of various kind, finishing with Embee's head bursting through a white backdrop like it were paper, cheerfully announcing I could pick any of my liking. Speaking of garments! “What about the raincoat I won from that strange bet of yours?” I assumed that wouldn't make me look or feel uncomfortably feminine.

“Oh, that. I'm sorry, I had to forfeit it.” My incredulous and hurt expression did the speaking. “Peachy said the bet wasn't the issue, but my behavior. It wasn't proper, I had crossed a line, and I . . . She would be in a world of trouble if word got around.” Embee shook her head pitifully. “I'm really sorry about this, hon.”

Her regret softened my outlook, although I was somewhat disappointed, and also concerned by the ramifications of the games played behind the curtains. “It's . . . It's alright, I guess. I mean, let's not worry about it. I can't do anything about it.” Getting nosy would probably prolong her discomfort, and maybe end with me in a tough spot as well. I had enough on my plate already. “Wearing a raincoat under clear skies would be conspicuous, anyhow.”

“That's likely,” Embee agreed. Her being down in the dumps didn't feel right. Being down in the dumps was my job! How would I lift her spirits, though? I didn't want to be accidentally condescending or indifferent. But I had to say something!

“Maybe . . . Maybe being outside for a little while would be refreshing? For you as well. A really, uh, a delectable pastry will make the bad feels fade faster?” Something fell over my vision. It was my hair. I wanted to complain, but turning the discussion back to me felt selfish, so I kept my mouth shut.

“That's a good idea,” she replied optimistically while I was carefully moving my hair aside. “I could go for a fresh cheddar taco salad. And hey.” I finally had an unobstructed view of Embee. “It's nice that you thought of cheering me up.” She closed the gap between us and, to my surprise, gave me a small, quick hug, then stepped back. “I appreciate it.” That my poorly construed attempt at comforting her had led to such a strong response left me utterly confused.
“Yeah, I said what I said because that was what had to be said.” My impeccable eloquence couldn't be followed by anything more appropriate than a hoof to the cheek and a sigh of dissatisfaction. Embee found my reaction amusing. I didn't chuckle myself, but I saw the humor value at least. My eyes landed on the items on the bench. “Uhh . . . So . . . Use how?” Hopefully my exceptional verbosity and a tentative prod of one of the bottles Embee had laid out conveyed my uncertainty.

Eagerness radiated in her eyes. “Yes. Let's get to that.” My gaze fell back to the two bottles on the bench. “I'm sure you don't need advice on how to take care of your hair. The tail might seem like a puzzler at first glance, but it's not much different.” She indicated the anti-itch shampoo bottle. “For your coat, apply this on your body and then spread it with a wet sponge. Don't worry if it gets into your mane or tail. As long as you cover yourself from head to hoof, all's good. Wait five minutes, then rinse it off with water. That's all, I think.” Her expression was sincere and encouraging. She inhaled sharply. “Oh. Pardon me. A few more.” She dug up an item from the saddlebag. “If you want to, use this brush to remove loose hairs and any remaining dirt from your coat.”

That oval-shaped thing with a strap across it was a brush? “Ah, alright.” It looked more applicable for floor scrubbing . . .

“The second saddlebag has combs and brushes.” More brushes? “And a few other things you might be familiar with. Oh! I ran into Lucek on the way back. He pretty much placed his music device into my saddlebag, by "deliberate accident", if you can believe that. He's such a lovable goof.” She shook her head, laughing lightly. “I don't think he'll mind if you give it a look and a try. He said there was a song I oughta listen to, but I can't remember what it was . . . mmh, it's right on the tip of my tongue.” Apparently, the ensuing lull meant the name wasn't going to emancipate itself from her tongue. “Anyhow . . .” My gaze had fallen on the daunting anti-itch shampoo. There was no way. If I placed so much as a hoof on myself I would be paralyzed with anxiety. “Hey. Viv? Don't be discouraged. You've done remarkably well, all by yourself.” Unexpectedly, she gave me a brief but tender nuzzle. “Not bad for somepony who's not a pony.”

Confused, then abashed, I had trouble finding my voice. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” Her expression was that of kindness, but curiosity glimmered in her eyes. Had my demeanor nonplussed her? She cast a quick glance around, although her attention fell on the key and the string. Suddenly, those seemed to symbolize . . . something so profound I couldn't think of what it was. “All set? Shall I go?”

“Yeah, I'll do fine.” The key that . . . sets things in motion? Starter engine . . . Failing to come up with anything poetic, I vacantly observed Embee taking herself to the door. There, she hesitated.

“Not to knock on your confidence, hon, but will you able to do it all on your own?” My pride said yes, and my rationality said no; my mouth said nothing. The enduring silence wasn't helping my case. “Or do you think I should stay and assist? You know, it might be a time saver.”

My wits hurdled back into action. “Uhm . . . How about you give me ten minutes?” I pitched. That was a start. Now to develop it further. “If I'm not done by the time you get back, then we'll go with your plan?”

After a second, she agreed. “Sounds good to me. See you soon!”

“Bye!” I said as she headed out, and then I . . . became paralyzed with indecision. “Ten minutes,” I reminded myself, working up a shred of resolve. “Ten minutes to prove myself adept. Didn't I ask for this? Way to go, me.” I scanned the items on display, trying to figure out which one to go for first. Perhaps the purple-capped bottle with the orange liquid? It was the regular shampoo, wasn't it? Wait, it was conditioner? No, it states to be two-in-one? What was that? Or more specifically, how would I use it? Would something bad happen if I used it wrong? “Ugh. Females are probably experts at this by default. Probably.” Rainbow Dash might only dunk her head in water, shake herself dry, then stroll out wearing nothing but a face of nonchalance. Maybe I should go for the anti-itch shampoo? Being for the body, it was more familiar. Kind of. “A Sense of Equinessence,” I read out loud. “I'm already sensing enough of my equinessence,” I commented despondently.

My attempt to pick up the bottle started poorly; I knocked it over. I sighed dejectedly, watching it roll down to the floor. I offered my outstretched limb a withering gaze. “Magic, magic, magic,” I muttered flatly, aware that I was a little nervous. The tingling came, the bottle was wrapped in a white cloud, and shortly flew up to match my own (modest) height. Peering at the item, my slightly panicky mind diverged into briefly pondering how the characteristic sound of magic was produced, and if the light radiating from it extended beyond the visible range. I hoped I wasn't emitting lethal levels of radiation every time I lit my horn.

“Okay, how do I open this?” I had only held items, not manipulated them with precision. This one had a top with a sealed hole in the middle. Wait, what was I thinking? I had opened doors before, and performed other feats of telekinesis, hadn't I? This should be a cinch. “Hmm . . .” Invisible to the naked eye, a subsection of the magic field concentrated on the lid and pulled it upwards. It unlatched and rotated, but didn't come off. Had I broken it? No, the cylindrical lid was apparently a valve affixed on helical ridges on the nozzle. Interesting engineering design.

I sent the bottle to a position above my back. “Gnh!” I would have sent it. After gently rubbing my snout, I corrected the trajectory to pass around my head to where I wanted it to be. Alas, gravity alone wasn't coaxing an agreeable amount of the contents out. Preceded by a moment of messing with my disembodied grip, I squeezed the bottle and coated myself from nape to tail with the lotion.

Having placed the bottle on the bench and closed the lid, I breathed out a small sigh, relieved I had made this much progress. The fragrance in the air was difficult to identify. A mild, sweet scent. “The sponge.” It gained a sparkling bubble of white of its own. My initial reaction to spreading the lotion over myself was that of total rejection. I had to choose an easy start. Like my neck. From there . . . upwards. I couldn't ignore my face, though I wished I could. This wasn't any fun to do, but shaving was worse. Silver lining discovered. “Wooptee do,” I cheered flatly. All of a sudden, a horrible taste invaded my mouth. “Pheaw!” I had unconsciously licked my shampoo-covered lips, hadn't I?

The taste was unwelcome, but so was the sponge. It was an intruder that I was drawing down to my forelegs. I couldn't look at those due to entering a state of rejection and denial. “I have these,” I whispered, tapping the floor lightly in an effort to instill logic into my head. It seemed to work. If I kept my cool, I'd get through this self-imposed ordeal without any hiccups.

When I began working on my underbelly, some of my muscles contracted. This did not dissolve my determination, but I dared not to cover every surface on the account of clashing with the two little things that I was in fierce disagreement with. Then, something quite crucial came to me: I was applying this lotion to myself so that I wouldn't become itchy later. Having an itch between my legs would be unbearable.

Unwilling to make a swipe, I gently placed the sponge to what I rather not think about, and let it be there. Had I begun working instantly, I may've flipped out and annihilated the sponge for sexual assault. I compared this unspeakable tribulation to a woman-turned-stallion washing their dangly bits. The thought was gross. Revolting to the point of queasiness. However, how uncomfortable would it be if I had things lolling about freely and exposed? So . . . not having anything of that sorts was preferable? After some consideration, my answer was an intransigent maybe.

The sponge hadn't gone anywhere and was still pressed to my underside, reminding me of the impending chore. Taking a few deep breaths, I steeled my resolve and cautiously began moving the sponge around in slow circles. I methodically worked the shampoo into the fur around my nether region, taking extreme care not to brush up against any sensitive parts.

Concluding that I didn't need to torture myself further, I let go of the sponge with a short but pronounced groan. “Get outta here.” I punted it to the corner of the shower, relieved that I could soon become ignorant of a certain part of my physique once again. Immediately, I realized I had forgotten something, and groaned again. The sponge was shrouded in a new magical cloud, and soon after, it was over my lower back. I had the rear pair of legs to do. That was easy, but I mouthed vulgarities as I lathered my buttocks.

“Okay, you've harassed me enough. Now shoo.” I lethargically flung the porous annoyance into the air, watching it tumble into the corner from whence I had taken it. My voice echoed in my head. “Oooh, I can sound so soft and sweet, yet so sarcastic and contemptuous,” I crooned, then gagged silently. “Like Twilight if she were having a nasty streak.” I let that swim in my head for a moment. “Great. Now I nearly sound like her. Well, not that close, but . . . hmm.” A speck of optimism had sparked. “I could try to train my voice to sound . . .” My optimism deflated. “Not like myself, anyhow.”

Contemplations on the psychological effects of a voice that prevented the expression of my identity could prove very depressing. If I couldn't be the me that I preferred to be, then what was the next best thing? Time seemed to freeze. “I guess I'll be alright being Viv for a couple of hours more.” Because everything would be okay before sundown. How could I be sure? I couldn't. So . . . Embee had mentioned a music player of some sort, hadn't she?

Wiser from my recent mishaps, I didn't rummage through the saddlebag with my limb. A black, rectangular item stood out from the other items. Before I procured it, I reminded myself to be cautious of the magic conductivity and the energy balance. If the inner layer, which served as an insulator, was compromised, the magic would collapse on itself and potentially ruin the delicate electronic components. “Many thanks, not-my-brain,” I said sardonically, having realized where the information came from.

I assumed I had a little less than five minutes before I'd have to wash the lotion off my body; I could make the contraption play a tune for me while I wait. Surprisingly, the device lit up almost by its own. The language I was greeted with was nearly unidentifiable, but a few familiar words offered valuable indicators. The white letters on the blue background identified artist and song. I had to browse the catalog, but there came a problem: magic didn't seem to conduct electricity by itself. The absence of physical buttons meant I had to literally touch the screen. I placed the player on the bench, but of course, a hoof didn't taper into a narrow point, practically blocking the screen entirely. Even if I were to use my hoof, feasible precision would be an impossibility. Dismayed, but determined, I switched back to the ethereal touch mode. Now, I had to be careful. Magic didn't conduct electricity. Not in its nominal state, anyhow. Assuming my unrequested info was correct, I'd have a finger substitute by converting a fraction of the energy into miniscule bursts of electricity. A few drops of water on the screen were potential hazards. I could get rid of them by . . . No, not on myself. I was still wet. The cover of the saddlebag looked soft and dry. One little swipe and . . . Yeah, that worked nicely.

Now I was ready. Sort of. Holding my breath, brows knitted with apprehension and eyes on the device, I performed dry runs. I couldn't see the infinitesimal currents, but I knew I directed them away from the device. As I started to get the hang of this trick, I carefully sent a discharge to a corner of the screen; I assumed no vital components were at the extremes of the device. Now for the real attempt. “Ha,” I said in reserved glee as the catalog scrolled smoothly. I continued practicing until I was sure I wouldn't mess it up. Still, this was a little unwieldy, as I was deliberately tampering with the magic's self-stabilizing nature to enable this inventive method of manipulation.

Could I find a familiar song? These names were unpronounceable—until I got a lucky break! The titles were in moonspeak, but the artists weren't. I chose one song randomly. I heard nothing. Was it playing anything? The tiny speaker pushed out faint sounds. Guitars? I navigated to what I presumed to be the main menu. One of the icons there had to be a browser. No way could this be a mere music player.

The meager sounds unexpectedly exploded into heavy metal. “Oh, wow,” I said, staring at the screen in bewilderment as my ears passively collected sound waves. “Humh . . .” I had no idea what the song was about. It could be about cardboard boxes for all I knew. “This isn't bad.” Sort of like Iron Maiden sung in gibberish.

“Hm?” I raised my head, confused by what had obscured my vision. “My hair . . .” I complained, placing the player on a dry surface before hastily raising my foreleg up t—“Ow!” With an accidental, self-inflicted minor pain throbbing above my eye, I clumsily brushed my forelock away from my face. Barely had I placed my limb back on the floor when I realized something alarming. “My hair!” I hadn't done anything with it, and Embee could be back any minute!

Returning to the shower in the corner, the shampoo-for-humans bottle flew to me a moment later. I thought of catching it as I deactivated the cloud of magic. The bottle spun madly and hit the floor after it had bounced off my hoof—because it was a hoof. I sighed despondently, picking the bottle back up with the most common spell, then squeezed out a gob of the lotion atop my head. I had just snapped the lid shut when my mind froze.

I gave my frog a blank stare, then rolled my eyes up towards the unseen deposit of shampoo. Mildly annoyed, my focus returned to my stupid limb. “With this, huh?” Seemed like I didn't have any better ideas. Two was better than one, so I reluctantly sat down and started kneading my hair. I cringed every time I snagged an ear, though less and less so each time. I wasn't having fun, but my self-esteem demanded I do this annoying task myself rather than have Embee do it for me.

I was rushing it. After half a minute, I felt I had done enough. I spun the dial on the wall to turn on the water, then stood up. The torrent drowned out the music. In hindsight, the song may've given me some subliminal encouragement. Empowering me, perhaps? If I directed my ears just right, could I hear it again? “Yeah, that's good.” Casting a lingering glance at the saddlebags, a speck of apprehension infiltrated my mind.

My physical self was female. That meant I had a female's hair. So, unless something inexplicably gave me a boyish haircut, I'd have to figure out a look for myself. I cut off the water flow, but my return to the saddlebags was marked with tension. I found a chestnut-brown plastic comb. It wasn't so intimidating. What it could do to me was intimidating. Or what I could do with it, to be precise.

“Straight hair?” I queried warily, just to test if the idea was agreeable. My imagination ran off, depicting me with hair longer than my body held aloft by a light breeze. After imagining alternatives ranging from braided to pompadour, I figured that straight hair was kind of neutral. It wouldn't be long, just to my . . . Did I have shoulders? Or wasn't that the withers? This was confusing.

“Hey!” A rapping came from the door. “It's me, Embee. May I come in?”

Had ten minutes passed by already? I dropped the comb back into the saddlebag. “Sure you can.”

Embee strolled in leisurely, now wearing a new pair of larger, orange saddlebags. “How are you?”

“Uh.” She had asked the toughest question of all. “Pretty fine!” My faked perkiness seemed to widen her smile, but as the door closed her eyes fell on the player.

“Do you like that kind of music?” she asked. Her tone indicated that she didn't.

“Well, it's kinda neat,” I admitted shyly, unable to feign dislike. I gave the little machine a glance as Embee approached. As she began unloading her baggage on the bench, I voiced an important question: “Would you like me to turn it off?”

“Ah, no.” She had such a gentle smile. “If you like the music, you can let it play. It doesn't bother me that much.”

“But it does bother you,” I said emphatically. She was definitely assessing me and my demeanor.

“Don't worry. It's no problem, hon,” she assured, letting out a small chuckle. “At least it's not—” She said something odd. Ta-sy sa-me? “That song's stuck in my head, I tell you.” She didn't seem to mind that it was. “Anyhow, you look drenched, but you smell clean.”

“Woohoo,” I cheered reservedly. “Now I need to, um, become dry.” As I thought of drying myself, doing my hair, and whatever else, I started to doubt we'd have the time to go anywhere before Peachy's arrival. Indeed, where were my priorities? Did I really think I could go out and dine in a cafe?

“What's the matter, hon?” Embee's inquiry roused my attention. “You look a little glum.”

“Ahm, well . . . Just the usual things.” I didn't want to bring her down by suggesting we forget our little venture for a tasty pastry.

“Such as?” she gently pressed the issue.

My eyes drifted over to nowhere specific. “I had ten minutes to take care of myself, and considering the circumstances, I think I did well. Did I do well?”

Embee was slightly stunned by my sudden question. “Yes, I think you did.”

“Okay, good.” I was reassured, but being nervous hindered the coalescence of my thoughts. “I have to do something about my hair. I mean, I can't just leave it like this, but it's not really my hair, so . . .” A glance at her became a vacant stare, as her colors were gradually superimposed by mine. An assortment of mare faces I had seen in the cartoon appeared in my mind, each with my colors. They felt like nonverbal taunts, symbolizing how little difference—

“Yes, go on.” Embee pulled me back into the real world.

“Well, I can't look like myself, can I?” I blurted sullenly. Immediately regretting my words, I wanted to pinch the bridge of my nose. The tip of my hoof would have to do. It probably looked stupid. ‘A few hours as Viv can't be so bad. I'm only being insecure. I don't need to be afraid.’

“Hey.” Embee gingerly took my limb off my face, putting an end to my monologue of self-placation. Ashamed and dejected, I didn't give myself permission to look her in the eye, despite her compassion. “I have an idea.”

“Oh?” I was leery. “What kind of an idea?”

“You describe your hair, and I do my best to replicate it,” she suggested brightly.

I looked at her with confused disbelief. A friendly smile was on her lips, her eyes full of unwavering optimism, and I'd have to dash those without breaking her spirit? “Uh, yeah, I . . .” Trying to find the right words, I turned my head. Doing so, I felt something minor, but notable. “Well, uhm, I certainly didn't have hair growing out of my nape . . .” This fact unlocked another thought. “My hair's markedly different from what it was, so to have precisely the same style isn't possible.” Did I ever have a hair style? “Besides, I'm not good at describing my hair. It's just there, and I do something to it to make it look decent and . . .” Then it hit me. “You know, that's the thing!”

Embee, puzzled, glanced at my aloft limb. “What is?”

“Sorry. I'm not making sense, am I?” I briefly rubbed my chin as I gathered my thoughts into a more enunciable shape. “I had ten minutes to take care of myself, and I did a fairly okay job, but everything's not done yet. We came to an agreement that you'd do what I hadn't by the time you got back. So, how about you make me look decent? Nothing too fancy. Just, well . . . decent. Something that takes five minutes.”

“Five . . . minutes?” Embee repeated slowly, apparently doubtful.

“Yeah, only five minutes,” I restated, hiding my uncertainty. I hoped those tales of females taking eons to get their hair done were wholly unrealistic hyperboles.

“Alright, I'll see what I can do.” Embee was quick and eager, removing her saddlebags and procuring an item from the one she brought earlier. Bewildered, I turned to face her, my eyes focusing on the comb she now held. One end of it extended into a loop that curved into itself, forming a gap through which Embee's forelimb passed. “Now stand still, relax, and enjoy . . .” Her eyes landed on the player. It was still playing heavy metal. “Hey, do you think it's alright if we listen to something else? Something peaceful?”

Her request was amiable. “Not at all.” Due to a moment's error, my limb ascended by a few centimeters. “Um.” I wrapped the device in a white cocoon. I couldn't be sure, but Embee seemed curious of my ability. “What would you like?”

“Hmm . . . I was thinking of jazz, but . . . What was the name of that song?” she mumbled, pinching her memory. “Ah!” Then she enunciated the artist and song name, but . . . did I hear that right?

“Can you please repeat that?” I asked as I began to browse the catalog. As a side note, perhaps my worries of accidentally frying the circuits was unfounded. Anyhow, she repeated the name. “This one?” I flipped the screen around so she could see it.

“I think that is it, yes.” She verified with a smile.

“Well, five minutes.” I sighed, ready to give relaxing an honest try. ‘Five minutes until I look like a decent mare. Oh geez. Well, nothing else I can do but roll with it,’ I thought in dismay. ‘On the bright side, I'll get out of here soon. Feels like I've been here forever.’

Through Few Doors, Not To Wards, But Finally, Outwards To Outdoors

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

Chapter 21
Through Few Doors, Not To Wards, But Finally, Outwards To Outdoors

Having pressed the play button, I stared at the magic-enshrouded hardware, already planning to investigate if it could do more than just play music. I should— “Hey!” Startled, I looked over my back at Embee where she was doing something to my backside. “What are—Uh-oh.” Noticing the electronic device precariously slipping out of its flickering shroud, I deposited it on the bench before it could flicker out entirely. “Er . . . So uh, what are you doing?”

She blinked a couple of times, holding the comb aloft; my eyes glazed over its curved handle securing it to her hoof. “Straightening your tail hairs, hon.” Her puzzlement was superseded by an amiable smile. “Just breathe easy, I'll get this all done in thirty seconds.” The comb sank into my hairs. “If you let me,” she continued, half-amused a moment after my tail had freed itself from the tool.

“Uh, alright. Sorry.” Wrestling the fifth appendage to a lax position unsurprisingly mandated rigorous self-control. “It almost has a mind of its own,” I explained. “I'm unused to it and try not to do anything with it so that I won't be aware of it. It being the tail, not the mind in the tail. There's no mind in the tail. Well, yes. Or no. No, it's just a figure of speech.”

“I know that.” Judging by Embee's expression, she had gone from sympathy to mild bemusement. Nonetheless, her friendly appearance wasn't gone for long. “And don't worry, you don't have to stress yourself about this. I'll try to be quick, though.” She resumed combing my tail. “It won't hurt, I promise.”

“Yeah, but it's . . . It's new, and weird. I, um, I have to accept it and stay calm. That's, that's, yeah, a good idea. Gonna try that.” I took a deep breath. “Stay calm . . . Relaxed breathing . . .” A small spasm went through my body each time I felt a small tug near the end of my vertebrae. I had to distract myself . . . by starting a conversation . . . about . . . “This song? Um, that's playing . . . What do you think of it?”

“It's good, I don't mind listening to it,” she replied succinctly. Was she unimpressed? Did she subtly dislike it? She said it was good, so it was good. Was it? “Ah, the tail's done. Let me see if I should comb your hair now or . . .” She moved to my side and gingerly combed the hair above my eyes. Was that all? No. She sat down and . . . seemed to unravel knots in my hair. I ducked my head so she wouldn't have to stretch herself. My hair must've been a total mess, though. How she was unraveling knots with a comb and her other hoof was both puzzling and astonishing.

“It's not bad, not awesome. Decent song, I guess,” I contributed, a sweet and fruit-like fragrance with a floral hint wafting into my nostrils. But with all this shampoo and whatnot having been used, I couldn't tell if it was her scent. Granted, she was so close to me that her aquamarine underside occupied the majority of my vision. A little awkward, especially because of the occasional nudge to my ears and horn.

“This is the song Lucek said is like that of Grifpony? The singer's got a high voice, a bit shrill, I think. Not like my sister. Or any of the band members. I hear a resemblance overall with the style. It has the same sort of, 'roughness' Grifpony has, but this is . . . Hmm, I wouldn’t say tame. Less frantic? Sorry, hon, I don't know how to put it into words. I don't understand a single word of what she's singing about, so I don't have much to comment on the vocals.” She stepped back, and smiled before, again, visually scrutinizing my hair. I had kept an ear out to detect signs of disapproval or disappointment, but she had sounded unconcerned and mellow throughout.

“He, uh, Lucek said this is like them. Grifpony, I mean.” I had another good view of Embee now that she was standing beside me on three legs, with the comb in her raised fourth. My eyes were drawn to her brace with a heart on it for a cutie mark. Her musculature was briefly highlighted when she shifted her leg. “Do you like them?” I asked half-absently. How much strength did I harness in my hind legs? Was I comparably physically stronger as a pony? A female pony? That could be a huge issue—if my masculinity was based on raw physical strength.

“To talk and mingle with, sure, and I'm real happy that my sister's doing what she likes. She never felt that our hometown could fulfill her dreams. Always more outspoken than me. My dad, though, well . . .” Embee's laugh gave of a cue of warmth. “He's Ironstring Twang.”

“A celebrity?” I had caught on that he wasn't a no-name. Then I evaluated my behavior and my ears sank. “Oh, sorry, did I interrupt you?”

“Not at all, hon. He's known in town, and in a few others around. But in Manehattan or Canterlot? Maybe not widely. There's a fan club in Spitzburg.” Her eyes widened a tad, either out of incredulity or amazement. “Of all the places. Spitzburg.”

“Humh . . .” This was a moment where I'd rub my neck, clueless, but didn't in spite of the fact that I had the flexibility for it. “Okay.” Spitzburg? Was that in . . . Austria? No, that was Salzburg.

“You don't know what his music's like. The rare records shop here in town may have a few discs,” she hazarded to guess. A dedicated record shop? I knew of only one, and it had closed years ago. “But, ah . . . what was I saying?” Glancing down at the comb, she casually cast her limb into the air. The comb soared off, clearing my back with room to spare, and came to a rest on the bench after a harmless tumble.

“Nice throw,” I commented spontaneously.

“Thanks! So, where was I . . . Oh yeah. My dad, he sensed my sister was going to tread in his hoofprints.” She dug up a hairdryer from within one of the four saddlebags. “He wasn't thrilled about her joining up with a few griffons and ponies who were only passing through, but he's been all smiles about it since they proved to be an honest and friendly bunch.”

“Yeah, um, that's good.” I hushed my voice as I mumbled. “A hair dryer . . .” Anything I'd never had to use for my hair before felt . . . emasculating? It wasn't really, but it felt like it.

Embee left the apparatus on the bench and took the cord into her mouth. “M-hm,” she affirmed belatedly, walking over to a covered socket. She had heard me? Sharp ears. “Hwm mh ght . . .” she muttered. The socket, being above her head, was narrowly out of reach, a fact that clearly annoyed her. A spark of wit glinted in her eyes, and she reared and planted her forehooves on the wall, after which she was able to nudge the cover open and insert the plug. “Anyhow, I admire Grifpony's passion and commitment. They have talent, and their music's well made. It's not really my kind of music. Mostly. They've got two ballads I adore. The Shade That Trails, and Night Sky In Your Eyes. Do you like ballads?”

“Ballads? Hmm, ah, yeah . . .” What kind of a ballad was okay to let her know of? Something that I could admit to liking? Oh! “Don't let this name trick you, they're not actual scorpions, or poisonous, or terrifying, but Wind of Change by Scorpions is really great. You really should give it a listen, and learn the historical context. That really adds to its impact. On the other end of the spectrum is Rock You Like a Hurricane, which is really amazing as well. Truly an amazing, empowering rock-out song. But that's not a ballad, sorry. Got a bit carried away.” I liked some sensitive songs, too, such as Where Have All The Flowers Gone by The Kingston Trio. That one was so beautiful, so tragic, so moving, that it could bring a tear to my eye if I wasn't careful.

Embee hummed. “Rock-out song, you say? That could be something my sister would be all over. I like happy songs, though, with an energetic beat that get my legs into a rhythm.” Our chat hadn't stalled her for long; she wrapped her limb around the hair dryer.

“Yeah, makes sense. You like dancing games,” I recalled.

“That I do,” Embee affirmed.

“Uh, but . . .” I pointed at the saddlebags. “Um, no towel for me, huh?” Flimsy and vague notions about makeovers were trying to excuse me out of the inevitable.

“The towel's in the bag,” she replied without a missing beat. “You wanted things done quick, and a hair dryer is a lot faster than a towel. We'll soon see if it's needed.”

“Hmm, yeah. Maybe it will be.” On the topic of towels and what they could be used for . . . “Honestly, I asked for a towel . . .” My eyes averted. “For modesty.” I suppressed an impulse to paw at the floor. “It's impractical for that purpose, but, uhm . . . shrug?” I said, as performing it was impossible when standing on all fours.

“Shrug?” Embee's brows set into the quizzical position. “Ah, yes. A shrug. Uh, yes, you're right. A towel would fall off in a heartbeat.” She glanced up thoughtfully. “Might stay on if it were fastened with a sash. Like a skirt, if you will.”

“Hadn't really thought of that.” First panties, and now a skirt? What next, a bra? Or not. Those served no purpose whatsoever on this body. Therefore, I had to be thankful I wasn't compelled to wear them. “But the towel . . . It's not a proper piece of clothing any way you slice it.”

“True. I know something that is.” A smirk trickled to her lips. “But listen, aren't we talking an awful lot, hon?” My focus was drawn to the hair dryer as she gently wagged it in her grasp.

“Sure, uh, we definitely are,” I noted sheepishly. “Let's not dawdle. Um, I'm s—” The machine was turned on, the music was drowned out, and I closed my eyes as air began blasting at me. “—orry I was running my mouth and all sorts,” I continued under my breath. The temperature was pleasant, although my ears acting like air scoops disallowed complete relaxation.

“I know what you said about your—this hair not being like yours, but you got any wishes on how it oughta look?” Embee asked over the noise. Her question was tough, because I've never had to ask myself what kind of hairstyle I'd have as a female. Or more specifically, as a female sapient unicorn. In any case, what kind of style could I rock and still feel like I hadn't betrayed my self-image? How to be a convincing female, without being uncomfortably female? Did this question have any relation to something as basic as a hairstyle? “Viv?”

“Uh . . . Well, um . . .” I paused. Not only was I under pressure to say something, I had to aurally overpower the hair dryer. “I'm not sure! It should be okay as long as it's not complex or showy! Or unflattering!” I then reduced my voice to a normal level and began to speak my thoughts. “Like Uma Thurman's bob from Pulp Fiction. I don't get the appeal of that. Maybe it was a nineties thing? Hmh, each decade seems to have examples of popular hair that then looks ridiculous in hindsight. Like the mullets of the eighties, and in the late seventies, women had a dust bunny for hair. Not all, but some. Come to think of it, the mullet looked fine on MacGyver. He also looks a lot my dad. That's actually super awesome. Wow.”

“Oh, he does? Um, wait, who's Mag, uh . . . guy wear? What's a mullet, and . . . dust bunny hair? And who is . . .” A relative silence ensued. “I'm sorry, hon, I caught a few things, but you just made me feel like the bewildered newcomer I once was.”

She heard all that I said? And she had no idea what I was talking about? “Eh . . . Um . . .” The monumental challenge of explaining everything was daunting. I just had to believe I could do it. “So, uh . . . MacGyver was this guy, fictional guy in a TV show who often got out of sticky situations with the, um . . . the ingenious assembling and application of seemingly unrelated items. Mullet is his hairstyle. Long at the back, but short, er, normal otherwise. Dust bunny hair, ah . . . it's a style women had long ago. Kind of a frizzy style. Probably has a designated name. Not sure how popular it was. Uma Thurman's the name of the actress in a movie called Pulp Fiction. Supposedly it's a great movie, but nothing's ever convinced me to watch it in its entirety.” I sighed, feeling like a rock had rolled off my back. “I hope your curiosity is satiated.”

“I may have to learn more about those later. But thanks!” I could tell by Embee's tone that she was pleased.

“Yeah, any time. I'm sure I forgot a lot of important details, but you'll learn them once you do, uhm . . . learn them.” I noticed that the hot air from the hair dryer was going over other areas than my head. My coat was in need of drying as well? It didn't feel too bad. Like a warm shower, but without the wetness. I could've almost enjoyed it if I wasn't acutely aware of being a naked pony. Of course, now that was secured at the forefront of my mind. Annoying! It might go away if I thought of something entirely different, such as . . . a golf ball. I was picturing it, and . . . its aerodynamic properties. A perfect sphere created drag, but a sphere—

“That should be alright,” Embee said, the machine powering down a moment later.

“Oh? Already done?” My inquiry was replied to with a happy hum and a nod. “Well, now we can go!” Excited, I took myself to the door. But there, right as I was about to use the hoof-handle, I realized I had forgotten the key!

“With airy hair like that?” Embee asked laughingly.

“Airy . . . What?” I cast her a confused look, glancing at my tail a second later. It looked tidy—for a tail. As I considered that my mane must be just as neat, Embee set the hair dryer down and approached me.

“Viv, please,” she said, disbelief mixed with mirth. “I know you're eager, but . . .” I faced her without thought, and she promptly but gingerly ran her limb over my head, displacing countless hairs that I could feel waving like sea grass in a lazy current. “You think we gotta do something about this?”

“Undoubtedly,” I replied in mild aghast, having pictured a Koosh ball I had as a kid. “You know what to do?”

“I know exactly what to do,” she said confidently. “I've learned a thing or two from my mother—she's no stylist, mind you, but my grandma was. I have also done my sister's hair on a few occasions.” She procured a small, light-brown bottle with a black cap from the saddle bag. In no time at all, she opened it and applied a clear substance to the comb. Gel? Or . . . salve that prevents the forming of split hairs? I wasn't going to ask. So . . . if hair gel or whatever was a prerequisite for having what Embee believed was decent hair, then so be it. This unplanned extra measure meant I couldn't get my key just yet. “A style that won't turn heads for the wrong reasons,” she mused.

“A style that . . .” The comb's plastic bristles contacting my nape and then parting hair left and right threw my cogitations into a brief flummox. “A wild style, uh, a fluffy mane, yeah . . . it's too conspicuous.”

Embee hummed, acknowledging what I had said. “Let me tell you, that ruffled 'I flew through a storm'-look was perfect for one occasion. That, a lilac aerobatics suit, some eyeshadow and a touch-up of my lashes, and I was the graceful mare of the night and the enigmatic bane of baddies: Serene Wind.”

I pictured Embee in a Wonderbolt-esque outfit, thick eyelashes a la Rarity, and a voluminous, uncombed mane whipping in the wind. “She, um, a comic book character?” Hopefully, Equestria wasn't a stranger to the concept of comic books.

“You can say that, though legends say she's based on a real figure. Make what you will of that,” Embee answered. So I was right? “Hmm . . .” The combing paused. “A natural style . . .” she mused as she began to bring down the hair on my crown. “Yeah, should be no toughie to get done.”

“Alright,” I said noncommittally, levitating the music player to inspect the interface. The symbols were intuitive, so the foreign language posed no obstacle. Finding the minimize button was also easy. “Ah!” I cringed, shaking my head briskly.

“Huh?” Embee stopped combing. “Did I hurt you?”

I gave her an apologetic look. “No, not really. Um . . . My ears. I'm alright with them on a conscious level, but not instinctively. I'm sorry.”

“Don't feel bad, hon, I understand what you're saying.” She gingerly moved my hair past the root of my ears. “I'll try to be more careful.”

“Much appreciated,” I said faintly, placing my eyes back to the floating screen. Evenly spaced icons were laid over a low-altitude photo of a city consisting of colorful but old buildings. A Central European city? Possibly. In any case, what could this gridded ball icon be for? A gateway to a wealth of knowledge, of course! The first thing I'd take a look at would be . . . a text box with more moonspeak preventing access to the coveted treasure? There was an unusual letter in one word that puzzled me. An 'l' with a slanted line at the middle. “Haslo? Hasto?”

“Hasto?” Embee repeated, the grooming progressing unhindered. “What's that, hon?”

“I don't know. It's what this . . . Ohhh.” My moan broke Embee's brushing. “Password.” I gestured at the floating device as she looked at me with inquisitiveness. “It's a password. It's asking for a password.” Frustrated and annoyed, I nearly slammed the device on the bench. “Who locks their web browser with a password?!” This preventing of . . . Denied of information when it was literally within my reach . . . It wasn't fair!

“Huhm . . . I'm . . . I'm sorry, hon.” In spite of her confusion, she was sympathetic. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I am,” I replied with a tiny quiver in my voice, gathering myself before speaking again. “Oh geez. I took that a bit harder than I needed to.” Why was this happening? A number of vague explanations swirled in my mind, mainly related to psychology, hormones and frequent discomfort stemming from this strange form I was stuck in for the time being. But I didn't devote time to analyze them further, as it wouldn't really accomplish anything worthwhile. Best I try to normalize myself. “I could've looked up something of interest, but I guess I can't now,” I said dispiritedly as Embee carefully resumed doing my hair. I could've looked up detailed articles on magic. Or history of Equestria. Maps and geography. Geography? Places. Locations! “Say . . . Embee?”

“Yes, hon?” said the sapient, aquamarine pegasus that by all accounts wasn't a common horse from this seemingly mundane world.

“Where do you come from?” I asked, not turning my head to see her amethyst eyes and interrupt the grooming that would be over very soon.

“Equestria,” Embee replied. She didn't follow it up with anything. So, she had probably cracked a small joke, perhaps to alleviate my anxiety and brighten the mood.

“Color me surprised. I had thought you hailed from Tromsø, the seagull capital of Norway,” I said nonchalantly, but with a touch of feigned disappointment.

“Seagull capital?” She chuckled, incredulous and amused. “You know that from experience?”

“No. It's what I've heard. Never been there, because it's really far away.” The combing stopped. Finally. I may've just experienced the longest five minutes ever. “But where are you from? Please be a little more specific.” Right as I had voiced my query of curiosity, Embee took an oval-shaped brush out of the saddle bag, the sight of which made me frown with dismay. “Oh no, not more brushing . . .”

“Any remaining debris needs to get out of your coat and off your skin,” she explained as she returned to my side and slipped her hoof through the strap. “But if you really don't want to, all you need is to let me know.”

“I will,” I acknowledged submissively, unsure if I could let her know. Ugh. The plastic bristles were crossing over my side to my underbelly. “So, how about my question?” If she kept talking, maybe I would be less uncomfortable?

“Yes.” She was scrubbing my back now. Wait, this actually felt nice. Weird, but nice. “A day's journey from Canterlot, past the Smoothslope Mountains, is the province of Upper Northbottom. Along the road following Ten Crook Creek upstream resides the town of Pending. Funny story, though, settlers couldn't come up with a good name, but that didn't stop them from establishing a town. When any visitors asked, they were told that the name was pending. The name stuck. Of course, an official name was penned eventually. Sure, it's a special looking tree in the plaza, but Roan Oak simply hasn't caught on.”

“That's pretty unusual, and interesting. Don't know any towns that got their name by, well, not having a name.” Contrary to my preconceptions, few, if any, of the names presented were horse puns. “What's downstream?” I asked on a lark.

“Lower Northbottom,” Embee replied.

I was befuddled for several seconds. “How, um, logical.” Oh great. Embee wasn't squeamish about scrubbing my lower back, and . . . well, it wasn't my bottom, per se. Was it? “Have you been there?” I queried in a slightly higher pitch.

“I got relatives there, so yes.” Her voice was so casual, I could almost picture the face to go with it. No way was I going to show her my own disconcerted face. “If you wonder what's it like, imagine small coastal towns, like a chain of pearls, as they like to call them. Beyond the coast are hundreds of islands, the inland is flat plains dotted by farms, and mostly everypony speaks a language you'd hear only on that side of Equestria.”

“I can imagine towns and landscapes,” I commented. How does one imagine a language? I pictured a word book as an answer.

“They're an industrious lot, but they go easy on their weather duties.” Thank goodness, she was done scrubbing! Now the real relaxing could commence. “But they are friendly and unconcerned. Sometimes to a fault. It really demonstrates their . . . Hmm. What was that phrase? . . . Oh, it'll come to me.” She coiled her limb around the hair dryer's cord and yanked the plug out, the lid coming down with a snap; her carelessness made me cringe.

As she began placing items back into the saddlebags, I retrieved my lone key. The application of a brush on my body had left me a little shaky. Tension leaving me, I surmised. I was glad my telekinesis wasn't disrupted in any discernible manner. The last thing I would want was to make something explode. Not that I knew how to do that on purpose . . . But somehow I knew adhesive magic? A fairly simple spell and related to restoration magic . . . and I was again unlocking information from a brain that wasn't mine. Wait, unlocking? The key? This key that was hanging from my neck . . . unlocks doors, starts the engine, and . . . I was starting to see something through a mental fog. But what? Maybe the key to undoing my predicament? If I thought harder, I could see . . . a glimpse of . . . “Ow,” I muttered faintly as a spike of disorientation struck me. What had I seen? Bands of curved, muted colors in varying thickness. Like a rainbow's sick cousin.

“Veeders gaajin andens gaan,” Embee said all of a sudden. I think that was what she said.

Watching her stuff one pair of saddlebags into a locker, I repeated the phrase in my head as I had heard it, unable to make any sense of it. “Excuse me, what?”

“Nja mair. Dja haern mij reet. Ijk speek bitjen laavins,” she said, slipping on the beige saddlebags. Her bright visage contrasted with my utter dumbfound . . . ness? Dumbfound . . . ity? My mind was all twirly whirly feeling. “That's their language.” Embee looked a touch less casual. Maybe partly sorry?

“They? Who? Oh, the bottomers, uh, low ponies? Hold on.” The piece of electronic equipment that might've been more than a mere music player was still announcing its existence. Had it begun to play a new song? Regardless, I turned it off. “Okay, can you translate all that for me?” I queried, eager to learn something despite my confusion. Or maybe due to my confusion?

“First: Weather's going, and then it's gone.” The hairs on my back stood on end as I witnessed Embee take the device into her mouth and place it into her saddlebag. It wouldn't have teeth marks on it, would it? Or did she use her lips only? “Second: Yeah, mare, you heard it right, I speak a bit of Lowerian.” She cast a look around after that, possibly to check if anything was forgotten or misplaced.

“I bet you've learned more than a few phrases.” I cast a cursory glance at the shower, not seeing anything out of place—except the sponge!

“True. For example, 'Beijm' is a common greeting.” As Embee said that, I wordlessly walked to the two-toned sponge, and again exemplified how quick I was to forget that hooves weren't made for grabbing. However, I did pinch the green object between the backside of my hoof and . . . whatever nomenclature the underside of the preceding section of my limb had.

“Beijm? Okay. Sounds like it means something other than "How's it going, mate",” I said, doing a probably poor attempt at an Australian accent. After I had returned the item to the tray, I saw Embee smile. I assumed it was out of gratitude for the little thing I did.

“Pretty nice of you to put the sponge back.” She confirmed my assumption.

“And pretty scummy if I hadn't,” I quipped lightheartedly. Her giggle could mean a lot of things, though I took it as a positive response.

“So, right,” Embee started talking as we finally made our way to the door. “Beijm comes from 'sonnbeijm.' Sunbeam. The pleasure of a warm and sunny day to a friend, family member, or guest. It can also be a farewell.” I waited outside as Embee reached for the light switch, came out from the darkened room and shut the door. I kept myself beside her as we began to make our way to began to make our way back. “Another expression I can't forget is 'mejg,' used to express disappointment or disinterest. I've heard it originally describe a broth that was more water than veggies and flavor.” We weaved past a pair of stallions, one green and the other blue. Feeling momentarily uneasy by their smiles and possibly admiring eyes, I lost track of what Embee was talking about. “The towns are serviced by train.” The topic had changed? “It's a really pretty train, too, sparkling blue, like the sun's rays reflecting on the sea. It's got an official name, but locals simply call it Navse.”

“Navse?” I asked right as we turned a corner and into a corridor with two steel doors on the right. Elevators! But she passed them. Why? Weren't we leaving the hospital?

“I've heard that the trains were notorious for being late.” Embee and I stopped at a windowed corner opposite the elevators. What were we going to do here? “So, imagine, ponies waiting for the train, and when it finally arrives, somepony says "Navs en kamm." Sometimes humorously, or eagerly, or annoyedly if it's really late.” My visual mind constructed a lifelike picture while she turned her head to the open window. “Hey there.”

“Hey!” The mare behind the glass looked up from her papers. Gosh, that innocent and friendly smile and her brown, billowing, batting-like mane. It was oddly familiar! She was . . . like a pony version of the nurse from Wonder Boy III: The Dragon's Trap! “What can I do for you, Embee?”

“Just asking you to forward an item,” she replied, then nuzzled her right saddlebag open. After rifling through it for a few seconds, she looked at me, slightly embarrassed. “Uh, hon. You don't mind helping me out a little, do you? I can't get the thing. Phone, I think it was?”

“Uhm . . .” I was briefly dumbstruck of being asked for help. The nurse pony gazed at us with intrigue, and the two stallions from before had ventured within eyesight. I had to play my part and act like I was just a normal pony. “Sure,” I said as I peeked in. There it was, at the bottom of the bag, beneath some bottles and a brush. I almost went through with using my hoof, but the instance I felt my weight shift to three legs I rethought my plan. A magic globule enveloped the requested item and conversely displaced its captors.

“Much obliged, hon.” Embee smiled. Now she was staring at me. She started to look a little puzzled. “Can you give it to her?” She nodded at the receptionist.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, sorry,” I said, slightly preoccupied. Magic, me-pony, Embee-pony, and receptionist pony, but all in an environment that was very terrestrial. This was somewhat surreal.

The unnamed mare tracked the multimedia device as it floated over to her and onto her papers. “Who does this belong to?” she queried as her gaze lifted.

“Lucek,” Embee answered concisely.

The receptionist’s brows furrowed. “Sorry. I should know, but I don't know who that is,” she said, unsure of herself. I had to think of a name for her until she mentioned it. Or someone asked. Rece-pony? No, not good.

“Don't you remember? He gave you a box of delicious chocolate-covered prunes for your birthday.” If my eyes weren't deceiving me, I saw Embee furtively lick her lips.

“Oh!” The light brown mare's eyes lit up with realization. “It's, yeah, it's that man who was telling me the other day that a cheetah has the fastest bird.”

“What?” I mouthed, tilting my head. Why would a cheetah have a bird—a fastest bird? It made no sense. Had this Lucek guy been crushed under a lobbed menhir or something?

“He's quite the character, isn't he?” Embee said with a chuckle, evidently used to Lucek's insanity. “He hasn't recommended you a cartoon with four kids, one of whom is a zombie, has he?” That insane premise . . . might have the potential of being good.

“Nah.” A smirk creased recept-pony's face. “Well, not yet.” Both she and Embee giggled, while I merely presented a slightly uncertain smile so as to not look out of place.

“Anyhow, he, ah, lost that thing there of his you were just given, and I'm betting he wants it back as soon as possible.” I looked over my back for no particular reason as Embee spoke; the stallion duo entered the elevator as it spewed out two white-coated women and another male pony.

“I'd go myself, but I'm busy right now. I'll be sure to have somepony send it to him.” When I turned my attention back to the receptionist, she had taken the device into her mouth. A chill went down my spine.

“Don't bite it,” I said quietly as she vanished beyond a divider, worried more about teeth marks than saliva.

“Relax, I used my lips,” her carefree voice bounced into my ears, herself emerging a second later. I backed a tad, coaxing a difficult smile to my face in the absence of my mind assembling anything resembling a complete word. “So, anything else I can do for you, Embee?”

“No, that's all,” she declined complaisantly.

“Alright.” The chipper mare's deep blue eyes rolled to me, her smile becoming a little wider. “How about you?”

“Uh, me?” My smile faltered briefly. “Nothing. I'm good.” I glimpsed Embee shut her saddlebag.

“Let's keep going, then,” she casually commanded before looking at the receptionist. “See you, and thanks.”

When Embee walked past me, I made sure to not stay far behind. I bid the receptionist a farewell, too, suddenly feeling a touch bewildered. Maybe I was unconsciously entrenched in a belief that being pony was vastly different from everything I knew, which made me uncertain of anything I did?

“Hold up,” Embee said all of a sudden. I stopped where we had come to. I could still see the receptionist's corner, plus another load of ponies spilling out from the elevator.

“Um, where are we going?” I asked.

“Here.” Embee reached up to push a keypad next to the door we were by. Impressive precision doing that with a hoof.

“And what's in here?” I asked warily as I followed her into what seemed to be a small, darkened storage room. After she had stretched herself to reach a higher position, the lights came on. Awaiting her reply, I watched in silence as she strolled past the two metallic shelves in the center of the room. They were packed with translucent boxes. Acting on a superficial compulsion, I rounded the door and pushed it almost shut before I made my way over to her. She had taken her saddlebags off, opened one, and procured a bundle of keys. With them hanging by her teeth, she approached a nondescript box sitting in the corner among others of its ilk. She unlocked the padlock and nudged the lid open, as my curiosity prompted me to take a closer look. Amidst the packets, folded cloths, and other miscellaneous items was another small, translucent box.

“A cap and protective boots. I expected more,” Embee commented to herself, disappointed. She then turned her attention to me. “Well, these have been here for months, which means nopony's missing them. Or missing them enough to return for them. I guess they'll be auctioned off eventually. But let's see.” She took the small box and placed it on the floor. “Want to see if the boots fit?”

“Eh.” This would've been a perfect moment to shrug. “Why not?” I poked at the box lethargically, flipping the top open after I summoned my disembodied touch. “Protective boots, you said? Looks like the heel of a hiking boot trimmed to a thin sheet, with a hole in the middle and straps on top,” I described flatly. “It's like a sandal? Or maybe it's just a slightly fancier horseshoe.” Thankfully, without nails.

“They're called protective boots since they protect the hooves from hard surfaces, such as rock and pavement.” I saw a glimmer of cautious hope in Embee's eyes.

“It's still shaped like a horseshoe.” I turned the gray rubber shoe around and stuck my hoof in it, then sat down and used my free hoof to bring the Velcro straps together over my coronet band.

Without changing her expression or saying a word, Embee placed the other shoe before me. I repeated the process in equal silence. “Viv, I'm not pressuring you to wear them if you don't like them.” Her words instilled me with a sense of doubt.

“Yeah . . . Why should I wear these anyhow?” I took a look at the sole of the shoe. Or boot. Whatever. “Because . . . these hooves aren't mine, so, um, I have to act responsibly by guaranteeing they aren't damaged,” I answered my own question resignedly.

“You don't like feeling pony,” Embee recalled sympathetically. “But.” She dug up a purple-colored thing from the box. “Maybe this'll be a good counterbalance?” She stuck her hoof into the mystery item, stretching it into the shape of a typical baseball—

“A cap?” I verbalized what I saw. “I hadn't expected that.” Realistically, though, how would it serve as a counterpoint to being pony?

“It's what you'd normally like to wear, right?” Following a few seconds of hesitation, she perched it on my head and carefully adjusted it to fit. “What do you think? Good, or bad? Want to take it off?”

I tried to see the rim, but my hair was in the way. “I, er . . .” The cap wasn't of objectionable style, I had nothing negative to say about the color, and most importantly, it wasn't interfering with my ears or horn, so . . . “Yeah, I'm okay with this.”

“You sound and look a little happier,” Embee noted with delight in her tone and a smile on her face.

“Nonsense,” I disputed, fully aware that she was spot on. “I'm supposed to be perpetually downbeat and . . . and this cap's ruining my wonderfully done hair, too. All that work you did, undone,” I bemoaned histrionically. “Such a shame,” I continued, mimicking the eponymous Talk Talk song. Gosh, now I wanted to hum a few more verses.

Embee blew air past her lips. “You're such a contrarian diva,” she chided playfully.

“Ehm.” I wasn't vain, but saying that I wasn't could ruin the lighthearted mood. “Did you not once say I'm a prankster?”

“Okay, correction.” She cleared her throat and composed herself the face a dulled official. “Contrarian prankster diva.”

Although still in a playful mood, I frowned, aware that we were at the cusp of starting a game where I'd earn titles I wouldn't regard with honest admiration. A small razzberry was my ultimate rebuttal, which consequently caused her to burst into an unabashed, precariously infectious giggle. I held it in as I said, “Anyhow, let's get going.” I stood up and turned for the door.

“Ah, no,” Embee said quickly, evidently caught off guard.

“Huh?” What could we still be doing in this unwelcoming storage room? The answer was Embee prodding two more boots towards my hind legs. My exposed hind hooves. I looked down, and saw an obvious disparity. “Oh. Right. Four legs. Four boots. Or shoes. Or sandals,” I rambled in a careless tone as I put my hooves face to face with the boots. “Uh?” Well, my forehooves were face to face with the footwear. Confused, I performed a full 180 without delay. When I looked at my rear pair, I noted Embee had backed up, rubbing her snout. “Did, um, did something happen?

“Your tail—No, I'm alright.” She sniffed twice. Maybe she had almost sneezed?

So, I had to simply step on the shoes. Except now that I did, I was standing on them and the strap. I tried to free one shoe, but . . . “Ugh. I don't think I'm flexible enough to get it,” I complained as I gave up. “Also, my prehensile abilities are extremely limited, so . . .” I hope she'd catch the clue and give me some assistance.

Embee stared at the squished shoes thoughtfully, then drew a breath as she looked me in the eye. “So, how about using your magic?” she suggested gently.

“Hum,” I commented, feeling markedly witless. “That's . . . that's definitely a good idea.” Frankly, it had genuinely escaped my mind. “Should have thought of that . . . but, uhm,” I said in a fading voice; the cursory hypothesis about natural inclination for utilizing hands and the faulty adaptation to a unicorn form leading to the occasional forgetting of telekinesis wasn't heard aloud. Regardless, the shoes were liberated from their tight spot with a couple of steps, and then given a helping (magic) hand to reintroduce themselves to my soles.

“So, hon. How do they feel?” Embee queried, cautiously optimistic now that I was shoed.

“Well, hmm . . .” I panned my head to get a view over myself. I was certainly aware that I had four legs, but wearing shoes really seemed to make it harder to disbelieve. Consequently, I began to feel desolate. “They feel like nothing,” I said dispassionately.

“Really?” Her amethyst-colored eyes widened in honest surprise. I quickly stole a glance toward the open door, checking that we hadn't gained an unwanted audience.

“I have hooves, Embee. They're insensate. You know that just as well as I do.” Well, that was curt.

“Oh . . . That's true,” she concurred dejectedly. Now she too was sad, and much more open about it than I was. Time to brighten the mood. Somehow.

“But it could be worse,” I continued in a more relaxed manner.

“It could?” I couldn't tell whether she was doubtful or fearful.

“Yeah, I . . .” What could be worse than being a feminine-voiced cuddly pony? I wasn't blatantly feminine, so I could act like a tomboy. But what form would disallow that? “I could be a poodle.”

Embee developed a confused smile. “Viv the poodle?” Then she laughed.

“I'm pretty sure you have a wonderful picture in your mind,” I hazarded, unamused. She at least tried to look sorry. “I can think of better things to be.”

“Oh? Do tell. I'm curious.” I was about to reply with the obvious when she continued. “I don't need to guess what's the best, but if it had to be anything else but that.”

“You cunning rascal,” I chided, but she only giggled.

“A cat?” she guessed.

“No,” I replied firmly. “Is that what you'd be?”

“Mom dressed me up for a special festivity. Maybe you've heard of it? Nightmare Night? If not, I'll skip the story for now. But everypony is dressed up that evening. What was I?” Her aversive gaze was deliberate. “Meow don't know.”

“Hah, clever.” I smiled meagerly. When the silence became protracted, Embee's liveliness waned.

“Well, I told you mine, but you don't have to tell me yours. It's okay.” She began to tidy up, but I felt I had an obligation to fulfill. I couldn't take and then not give.

“Er . . . I, uh . . . feel awkward saying this, but when I was younger, I thought dinosaurs were neat, and I had a game, a video game, with a . . . the avatar, um, playable character. I thought, I think he's awesome and uhm, he's not a dino . . . but . . . I fantasized how cool it would be to be a dragon.” Embee had picked up the keys and closed the box where I got my borrowed (and sparse) apparel from as I talked. “Of course, recent experien—”

“Awh dhwgn?” she said through her teeth as she secured the padlock to the box and locked it.

“Uhm, yeah. I was—oh.” I reminded myself that she might've pictured dragons as fear-inducing, fire-breathing, humongous troublemakers. “It's a different kind of dragon. Purple, walks on fours—is that unusual? I dunno. Uh, it's about . . .” How would I estimate the height when doing that might put my limb at the same height as my head? Wait, that was it! “About my present size, and um . . . not dangerous. The kind you'd be friends with, and think he's cool, and . . . uh . . .”

“And looks cute?” She guessed while putting on her saddlebags.

“Uhm, I suppose?” The adorably cute, or the different type of cute that strongly hints at romantic affections? Could I even pretend to think that—

“Well, well. Never would have guessed it. Viv the dragoness,” Embee commented, giving me a sly look.

“Eheh, yeah, well, no, um, kind of, not really, or maybe . . .” I stammered, my imagination acting on its own accord to visualize a confident, feminized PS1-era Spyro clone in my colors. “I'd rather be a dino,” I finally blurted, bowing my head down immediately after. “A cool dino. Maybe raptor. Dunno,” I added, nearly voiceless.

“Don't feel bad, hon. I wasn't making any fun of you,” Embee reassured kindly.

“I know you weren't. I'm just . . . just embarrassed. Not even sure why . . . it just feels so . . .” I said meekly, my vision wavered for a moment, and I found my hoof half off the ground, uncertain if it should go up or stay down. The past twenty-four hours had stressed my integrity and self-image to their breaking points. Personal revelations, intense emotions, and unexpected female changes were simply building to another climax and throwing things out of proportion again.Or at least that was what I theorized. Could be a really flimsy theory. Probably was. But to prove its flimsiness I'd have to test it extensively.

“You okay, hon?” Seemed like I was giving her a reason to worry. I assured her I was fine and restated that I was embarrassed. Nonetheless, she observed me quietly for a few long seconds. “Alright. Well then. One little thing, and then we can go outside. Follow me, please.” She started for the door and slipped through the gap.

“Woohoo,” I cheered shyly as I followed her. I let her close the door. “Oh . . . kay, where are we going?” I asked, confused that we distanced ourselves further from the elevators.

“Not far.” As soon as she said that, she turned toward a door and effortlessly pushed it open. The room was plain. Windowless, colored in beige, and beside the door was a sole potted plant missing half of one blade, as if bitten. Posters possibly pertaining to healthcare and a couple of paintings framed in glass were on the walls. In the center of the room was a very low particle board table encircled by plaid pillows. “I can't go outside without a few necessities,” Embee explained. A smaller room was to the left, lined with lockers; there was one frame with her name in black on a gray tag. “Normally, only staff can come in here, but nopony's gonna raise a big stink about you being here.”

“Okay.” Still recovering from my general bemusement, I vacantly observed her opening the thin metal door. Figuring I could spend my time on better pursuits than persuading Embee to second-guess herself, I looked back towards the center of the room and spotted a newspaper sitting atop the low table. Adorned with an eager smile, I approached the table.
All was going smoothly, until the floor gave under. Well, the floor hadn't budged; the pillows I stepped on did. Unfortunately, sudden loss of foreleg stability was a relatively recent and startling concept to me. At least my landing was soft.

“Hm?” Embee looked over at me, undoubtedly having heard my ungraceful collapse. “Ah.” A smile spread on her face. “Decided to get comfy?”

Not sure how I was positioned, aside from upright and facing Embee, I stole a quick downward glance without pitching my head. “Mmh, yeah.”

“We won't be here for that long, hon,” she quipped, apparently assuming my plopping down was a nonverbal remark.

“So you say,” I shot back, feigning indifference. She merely laughed through a closed mouth, then pulled a yellow saddlebag from her locker. While she wasn't looking, I gave myself a brief inspection. Forelegs sprawled out on the edge of the pillow, and my hind legs folded almost one on the other. And there was my tail, that I sent a command to by accident. Then I did it a few times on purpose. Gosh, it looked and felt so . . . “We-ird,” I mouthed, half-creeped out. I'd never get used to this shape, would I? Perhaps that was a boon in guise?

Anyhow, the newspaper. I reached for it . . . and didn't quite get it. Too far way. A sigh passed through my nostrils. Oh . . . It wasn't too far away. I had a magical spire on my forehead. I wrapped the paper in a fluctuating telekinetic bubble and dragged it to myself. Now I could turn off my cranial rod and check if the front cover had anything interesting.

A quick glance to the paper's upper side brought to my attention that this wasn't a national publication, but one of those free, city papers that promoted and reported local events. Anyhow, back to the main attraction.

Ads. Lots of ads. Normally, I would ignore them without a second thought, but being in a parallel world created an exception.

20% sale on boat paint and related paraphernalia. A renovated pizzeria offering free pizzas for the first fifteen customers for the entirety of next week. Even an upcoming car expo. Featuring legendary Group B rally cars? How cool was that! Maybe not as cool as the Ponymporium, a retailer of various Equestrian goods. Buggies, fabric, furniture, and more. I'd go there out of curiosity, if it was nearby. The address corresponded to a department store that had been vacant for a couple of years. Wasn't a small place, either. A dedicated two-story building with a roomy underground parking lot.

In defiance of my quadrupedal nature, I tried to turn the page over. The results were far from elegant, but counted as a moderate success, and so, I put my eyes on the written article.

It was something about theater. Theater . . . One of those institutions that never died, yet nopony I knew actually went to them, and certainly never mentioned them. However, I had gone to the theater as a kid thanks to, I suppose, a culturally conscious school. The only significant memory I recalled was people dressed as yellow baboons, one of whom frequently bent over to expel smoky gas with the sound of a foghorn. Classy.

Anyhow, this article exuded enthusiasm. Good for them. Or him. Or her. Who wrote the article? Raspberry Spark? Ponies in radio, ponies in print. Did that name hold a meaning? Related to the Razzie Awards? No, that seemed extremely unlikely. Maybe the name, Raspberry Spark, symbolized that even bad performances can lead to an epiphany? In any case, I only glossed over the article. The next page . . . had a picture of some kind of mammal with a red eye and robotic body parts. It was the headlining picture for what was playing in theaters. Movie theaters, that is.

Lugging a pair of miniguns, this cybernetic cousin of a camel is the face of the off-the-rails action movie spoof Llamanator 2: The Alpaccalypse.

Some other movies were also listed, such as American Jesus, a satirical comedy; Ponyventures 2, a screwball comedy; Odin Ubit: A Dark Destiny, a docudrama; Edgeworth, a science fiction—

“Time to get up, greenbelly.” A familiar voice and something prodding my side brought my eyes up from the literature. I only needed to glance at the aquamarine shape to identify it as Embee's leg, from where I trailed it up to her smirk.

“Okay, um . . .” I did as suggested, although it was made difficult due to the combination of a pliable surface and inadequate understanding of equine motor skills. My higher brain functions initiated once I was on firmer ground. “Greenbelly?”

Embee's smirk had mellowed to a much more approachable smile, which promptly changed into that of realization. “Oh, right. It's what a lazy pony's called where I'm from.”

“Because . . .” I drawled expectantly.

“A lazy pony lays on the ground so much, their coat gets stained green by the grass,” she explained.

“Huh. Interesting.” Always nice to learn things that evidently originated from pony culture, though I was downplaying it outwardly. Not cool to be called lazy, after all. “Well, that's . . . something that doesn't apply to you, being so green and all.”

She chortled. “Wow, you're shrewd, aren't you?”

“Uh, yeah, I can be,” I said, doubting myself just enough to shy away from giving a straight yes. I stole a quick look toward the locker room. “So, ah, we're done here?” I continued as I turned my eyes back to Embee.

“Yes,” Embee responded gladly. “We can go now.” In a few short seconds, we were once again trekking down the hallway, back towards the elevators this time. As we did, I sensed something unusual. Or rather, the lack of something, which was unusual. It was only when we stopped by the elevator that I understood what it was.

“I didn't realize how much these shoes quiet my steps,” I said to Embee, holding my limb aloft. “And you’ve got shoes, too. I . . . hadn't really paid much attention to them.” They were yellow, just like her saddlebags and hair, and with a hard-to-decipher insignia running across the straps. “They look kinda nice. Suits your hair color.” Also, she was wearing a plastic ankle ring.

“Thanks!” she replied to my half-thought compliment, glancing pleased at her forehooves. Then, the elevator doors parted. A sole occupant walked out so briskly that I barely caught a glimpse of her face.

“Ugh,” I muttered, disliking the loud clacking of her high heels.

“Ugh what?” Embee queried. “Something wrong?”

“No, It's fine. I just . . .” Would she need to know? I couldn't think of any harm in her knowing. “I guess sensitive hearing and proximity to high heels isn't a good combination.” I explained once we were within the steel cube. “And I honestly don't like the sound they make in any case. Don't know why, really.”

“Hmm, okay.” She gently struck a button on the panel. Fortunately, it wasn't too high up. “I take it you've not often worn high heels.”

“Not often? Hah,” I sneered. “Never in my life.”

“Oh.” Seemed like my impudent opinion had stumped her. “But aren't there occasions that require wearing them?”

“No,” I said firmly. “They look uncomfortable, are detrimental to the feet and posture, horribly impractical . . .” Wait, I was getting too deep into this pretend-female persona. “I'll cut my tirade short and say that I have nothing good to say about high heels.”

Embee's look was that of pensiveness, whereas mine was that of unshakeable nonchalance. “Well, I guess a woman knows better than a mare.” Ouch.

“Yeah,” I affirmed, furtively uncomfortable, embarrassed, and then ashamed. How could I ever break it to her that I wasn't a true female? Moreover, only now did it dawn on me that I had several moments in privacy where I could've let her know. But then again, did she really need to?

The doors opened, the din of chatter symbolizing how little privacy we had now. It was almost daunting to step beyond the comparative solitude of the elevator into the hallway beyond, but I followed Embee steadily. We ventured past several doors, chairs, people, and ponies on our way to what I assumed was the outside.

We were halfway between the sliding doors and the hospital’s reception desk when Embee stopped and looked at me. “Viv, why're you so quiet all of a sudden?” I didn't reply. I looked down at the lobby floor briefly, then out towards the sunlit exterior, where a short, concrete, multistory parking lot stood on the other side of an empty road. An ambulance was parked outside the hospital doors. The man inside was writing on a board placed over his steering wheel. “Why do you look sad?”

“I'm . . . I'm not sad,” I lied to Embee, but I was actually remorseful. Opposite the ambulance, on the right, a maroon pony walked past, his gaze alighting on me for a small moment as he walked in and went to wherever he was going. The encounter left me a little unsure of myself. Certainly he couldn't see me as what I really was? Could anypony else, though? Could I take that risk? “I'm nervous. Scared. Of going out there.” I realized that the confidentiality of our conversation couldn't be guaranteed in a hallway, so I sidled closer and whispered, “You know, I'm not really a mare.” I shuddered, the confession hitting hard.

“I know you're not,” she said compassionately, curling a limb over me to give me a hug.

“No.” I dodged under the offered hug. “Please, don't do that, not now,” I pleaded apologetically, then promptly moved to a corner where the wall met the vestibule. I needed a moment to gather myself. Crying alone was one thing, but crying in public? I couldn't let that happen. The judgmental stares would devastate me.

“Sorry.” Evidently Embee had followed me to my niche of extremely tenuous solitude. The precise point where the floor, the wall, and glass pane's frame met was free of dust. No point in staring down there, but where else could I look? “If you're really frightened, if this is really that tough, well . . . you can bow out of it anytime, no problem. We don't need to go outside.”

I kept staring at the floor as I quietly said to her, “I can't. Not when I'm so close. But . . . truth be told . . .” This wasn't going to be the truth I wrestled with the most. “I don't know pony etiquette, or how to behave like one. I'm afraid somepony's gonna see through me and immediately tell that I'm not the real thing.”

“Don't sell yourself short.” Her tone was such that picturing a tiny, bashful smile on her wasn't hard “You were able to trick me well.”

“For about ten minutes, and I was doing a pretty poor job at it, too,” I specified sardonically, easily recalling last evening's events in the break room.

“Listen, hon.” Embee's cautious optimism seemed gone, replaced by benign seriousness. “If a poor attempt was good enough, then you got nothing to worry about.”

“I just feel that if I mess up in some way, things will go awry faster than you can say 'tubular frame.'” I checked our surroundings, in case we were being listened to. “What if I'm asked what's the population of Equestria? I don't know the answer to that.”

“Neither do I,” she said, tone unconcerned. “Does that make me not a pony? What kind of trouble will I be in?”

“You can give an estimate, but I can't,” I whispered exasperatedly, ignoring her role reversal puzzle. Or . . . maybe I shouldn't ignore it. “So, er, if you, well, I were to bungle up knowing something that's common knowledge, I . . . I don't know what kind of trouble I could get in.”

“You say if, but I get this feeling you're convinced it's a when.” I was surprised she said that. She couldn't know I was . . . definitely not thinking like that. At all. It wasn't a when, though I kind of . . . No, I had to have faith in myself. I'd counter Embee's deduction by . . . showing her a morose face, and not looking at her, while still kind of doing so. Because I was still right, but . . . not really right. Half-right. Or a smidgen less than half-right. Thirty-forty percent right? “I know you like to be cautious, but I'm pretty sure you want to go outside, too.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Unknown to her, I had mentally acknowledged that I had gotten cold feet and I should do something to . . . warm them up.

“Please don't give into pessimism and think that the worst, whatever it might be, will happen. It won’t. Ponies aren't going to pry for details. To them, you're just another pony walking down the street. Don't forget, I'm with you. If somepony strikes a chat with us, you can play the quiet type and I'll do the talking.”

“That sounds . . . good.” A shred of rationality was persuading me to think sensibly. “I guess I can't really do anything else other than be myself, even at the risk of being, well, unponylike. I mean, I can't convincingly fake being from a completely different culture, and realistically speaking, it'd take forever to learn a fraction of what you know. So . . . alright, I'll do what I can to keep a low profile, like you suggested. That's not really so far from what I usually tend to do.” I would have continued our hushed dialogue, but then the noise started. I turned my head toward the disturbance, my directional microphones seemingly amplifying its intensity. Somewhere out of sight, a terrible sound was being made. Worse, it was becoming louder, and coming closer. There was no mystery unveiled when I saw it being carried from the depths of the hospital. My only solace was a desperate wish that this perturbation was only passing through. “Oh no,” I bemoaned when it didn't come true.

“Oh no what?” Embee queried, clearly not bothered by the noise. The noise. That horrible noise, right next to the reception. It was one of the most reviled sounds in existence, an aural abhorrence that could transform a placid pacifist into a manic murderer.

“Agh, I can't bear it,” I said as I cringed. “I gotta get out, now.” Without any hesitation, I ventured out as quickly as the doors permitted. When I was finally outside, I drew a deep breath, extremely relieved that the torture was over.

Speaking of the outside, it was sunny and quite warm. Some puddles here and there from yesterday's rain. Moreover, there wasn't a crowd out here. Just a few people coming and going down the gradient to the right. The ambulance I saw before slowly passed me, down to the street, where it turned right to merge between a silver sedan and a medium-sized white truck. That truck had artwork on it that evoked my curiosity. Only a few steps and it was clear: A transparent bottle cradled by the vegetation of a yellow field, a gleeful light-yellow pony with a blonde braided mane smiling excitedly at the discovery. Above all that was something written in a bold, descending hue of orange: Trigo Limpio.

“That was a sudden change of heart,” Embee commented as she came by my side. “What convinced you?”

“Ahh, you see, there, um,” I dawdled, unsure of speaking my mind. A momentary glance down at the pavement dug out a random piece of trivia from a dusty corner of my memory. However, quoting Michael J. Caboose for comedic effect would still be too direct. “Appointing me as the caretaker of an infant would be a recipe for disaster.”

“How does that relate to trotting out . . . Oh, you don't mean that, do you?” she doubted, frowning sadly.

“It's hard to stay cool when I'm subjected to one of the most infuriating sounds in the world,” I explained, starting to steadfastly descend the sidewalk, whereas she had become stunned. “Of course, that's just my opinion. Sorry, I guess.”

Her shoes didn't muffle her steps much as she hurriedly caught up to me. “Uhm . . . Maybe motherhood would convince you otherwise?”

“Hahaha,” I laughed flatly, feeling queasy. “Maternity is unconditionally out of the question.” Carrying an unwelcome parasite in my body that I'd have to pass out like a ginormous kidney stone was almost as desirable as contracting cervical cancer.

“How, how can you say that?” Embee's sorrowful demeanor prevented me from opining strongly.

“You may possess everything that's needed to be a good parent, but I know I don't. There's nothing in me that says 'Yay! I want to have children!', and as far as I can recall, that's how it's always been.” I had mindlessly headed right at the junction of the hospital road and the street, and was now at another, much busier intersection. Privacy was impossible here, so I withdrew to the lawn and to the shadow of a towering tree there. Embee followed. “It's kind of a big deal—I've not even spoken to my parents about it. I'm pretty sure they wish for grandchildren, and I . . . Well . . .” I kneaded the yellow and orange leaves on the ground. “I feel genuinely bad for letting them down, but . . . I'm not the type to . . .” Reality seemed to knock me on the head as I realized I was face-to-face with a being that just a day before only existed in fiction. “Why am I . . . Why do I open up to you about these things?”

“Might be because you trust me,” she guessed.

“That seems likely,” I admitted without missing a beat.

“Well, if it makes you feel better, you can talk to me about anything,” Embee offered. I was happy she could offer that.

I contemplated that as I cursorily looked at the cars now that the lights had turned green. One had its window open, and out poured a fragment of a song: “Whenever you need someone, to lay your head and heart upon . . .” How apt.

Thereafter, my attention was briefly held by a billboard erected on the lawn. It depicted a portrait of a brunette on a white background and a puce-colored bottle on her palm. “So, I, um, I'm sorry about being blunt earlier. Some things just don't gel with me.”

“High heels, a baby's cry . . .” she itemized with a slight touch of lightheartedness. “Anything else you'd like to tell me about?”

“I don't have a list readily available, sorry.” I smiled weakly. “But, uh, you don't think I'm wrong in some way for being . . . not excited about . . . having offspring,” I said in a diminishing voice, and with a few pauses so that the few people strolling by on the sidewalk wouldn't overhear us. Possessing male parts would make the experience . . . No, even then I wouldn't engage in the act.

“I admit, it's unusual, but it's how you are, hon. Nothing wrong with that. You're not harming anypony.” That took a load off my mind. “I hope your parents will understand, though, when you tell them.” If I would ever have the courage. “Just don't accept offers of being a foalsitter. Er, babysitter. Alright?” That was a good way to make a serious situation a little less serious.

“I'll be sure not to,” I said with a small laugh. My attention was stolen by an unusual sight on the street. It was the yellow pony and her stoic compatriot from earlier, wearing helmets, and riding a quad!

“Is this safe?” the yellow one cried fearfully, clinging to the driving mare like her life depended on it as they stopped at the lights.

“It's safe as long as you don't yell into my ear,” she cautioned in a collected monotone. That I could hear it was astounding. Anyhow, in contrast to the yellow one's plain white helmet, hers was red with a few black dots on it. Like a ladybug! That was kind of . . . cute? Yeah, cute. Then, they turned to the left and soon were out of sight.

“They were driving a quad.” I said to Embee in astonishment. “Is that legal? I mean, it must be legal. Is it?”

“There's no law that bars a pony from acquiring a license. I suppose there's been no need to, since our bodies aren't much good for driving,” Embee explained.

I eyed her, envisaging her in the seat of several vehicles, many of which ultimately required distinctly human features and dimensions she lacked. However, an exciting exception had already been provided. “You can get a license and a quad if you have the money.” Although, I'd most likely request to be the driver if she did have a quad!

“I got wings,” she said with a flair of confidence.

“But not right now, because your wings are covered by your saddlebags, and I'm flightless, so you and I have to walk.” Unadjusted to my softer vocal attributes, my jesting but innocuous singsong tone afflicted me with a momentary abashment. “To where?” I glanced down the street both ways. Beyond this very intersection was a drive-in burger place and a short, uphill dead end road ensconced by apartments. Unlikely we'd go that way. Across from us was a grocery store and a bank. From the latter emerged a pair of blue, purple-maned ponies, one unicorn, the other an earth pony, each wearing saddlebags.

“I know a place not too far,” Embee replied.

“How far?” I asked, glancing down at my legs with a modicum of apprehension.

She sighed, apparently sensing difficulties. “I'd say a minute if I were to fly, but walking might take about ten or fifteen minutes.”

That time frame didn't expound on the most crucial factor. “Distance?”

“Uh, let me think . . . This wider street we're by, we go to the left two blocks. I think they're called blocks.” When she looked at me with a questioning face I verbally affirmed she got her terminology correct. “Then right another two blocks, and hmm, a left, and . . . It's just by the river.”

“Okay, I get the picture now.” I had retrieved a map from my head and drawn an approximate path to the destination. “That will probably take ten to fifteen minutes, if I keep a good pace.” Another glance at my legs. All four of them this time. “I'll . . . I should do fine.” I was about to embark on a test of endurance, composure, and perseverance.

“You've just got to believe in yourself, and you'll do great!” Suddenly, something drew her attention, her eyes full of surprise and alertness as she stared past me.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked as I looked over myself to scope out what she could possibly be fixated on. There were a pair of ponies on the opposite side of the street, the same ponies who had left the grocery store a minute prior.

“Yeah.” Before I had any time to react, Embee removed her saddlebags in one swift move and unfurled her wings. With a powerful flap she shot into the air, making a beeline across the road to the two ponies. Then I saw what Embee had seen: The earth pony was grimacing and coughing while the other one was looking on, shocked, apparently at a loss what to do. Was this a serious crisis? Was the earth pony in danger of dying?

“Ohhh,” I moaned, feeling very restless as I watched Embee make a landing. Had she told me to stay put? Had she not told me to stay put? Should I stay here? Should I go to her? Could I be of any help? What was I supposed to do? What did my instincts tell me? I couldn't stay here! To stand idly was wrong. Negligent! I should get over to her even if she had the situation under control. No! Stop! I was being too hasty. I couldn't leave her saddlebags here! That meant I'd have to take them to her. By . . . wearing them. Wincing, I leaned down, fitting the saddlebags over my withers. Straightening, I fidgeted against the cloth rubbing through my . . . fur.

Street Scene

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

Chapter 22
Street Scene

I had to get to the other side of the road; Embee surely needed my help. The four-laned obstacle between us bustled with cars. An intersection stood directly ahead of me. I tried to gallop, but my limbs tangled themselves beneath me. I tripped and stumbled, but caught myself before I could topple to the ground. I stood still for a moment, eyes wide. It seemed my mind was racing faster than my body—I had to keep it together! With renewed determination, I took a deep breath, and moved at a brisk trot towards the intersection.

Ponies walked down the streets, oblivious of the crisis that was happening on the other side of the street. I trotted past them, keeping my eyes locked on the intersection. I was 10 meters away . . . 5 . . . 1 . . . And then I was there!

But there was no time to celebrate. I lifted a hoof to press the button . . . and stopped, scrunching up my face. Hoof? Shoe on hoof? Leg. Not use a leg, but use, er . . . what I saw . . . My nose? Muzzle? No, yes, face, foot? Ah! No time for this! I'd just have to use my hoof, and hope I hadn't stepped on something icky that would then be transferred to whoever next used the button!

I waited nervously for the lights to change, and caught quick glimpses of Embee across the road through the speeding cars. They seemed so much larger and intimidating from my height.

Finally, the cars began to slow down, and the lights changed. As quickly as I could, I trotted my way across the intersection. I passed by the idling cars, their presence large and frightening. A cold sweat settled underneath Embee's saddle bags.

Normally, I'd be cataloging each car, labeling make and model. The nervousness, however, ushered my automotive enthusiasm to the background of my thoughts. Weird. With a little hop of nervousness, I finally reached the other side.

I looked around and spotted Embee. She was standing beside the two ponies a little ways past a fast food restaurant. I started to trot towards her. She was maybe ten meters away from me, but . . . why . . . why wasn't she doing anything? What were . . . The blue pony with a purple mane was looking kind of . . . male. Actually, he was, and he seemed to be clearing his throat with a pained expression across his muzzle. The second pony was also male, and was standing beside his friend looking mildly concerned. So . . . I hadn't assumed their genders correctly from across the street, and it seemed the situation wasn’t quite what I thought it was either. My pace was reduced to a standstill by the onset of cold feet. I shouldn't be afraid, and I wasn't. I was just . . . hesitant.

“Eagh, that was bad, really, really bad,” the blue pony I had presumed to be seriously ill complained, clearing his throat again. He was an earth pony with grey saddlebags and . . . had some sort of weather meter device for a cutie mark.

The second pony was also blue and carrying saddlebags, but he was instead a unicorn and had a mauve mane marked by very thin, yellow streaks. “I told you so,” he said. “I tried one before you! The candy's got fire to it.”

“So you ate something hot?” I whispered to myself quietly, in a slight daze from having believed a calamity was unfolding. What were they eating? Potato chips with sour cream and chili? That would be delicious, not disgusting.

“Well, I thought you were in some serious trouble,” Embee commented, in post-relief unconcern. “I'm truly glad you weren't.”

“And aren't we glad we're right next to the hospital?” the unicorn with the yellow-streaked mane joked. “In case it actually was serious.”

“It is actually serious. Do you have something I could drink?” meter-pony asked, grimacing. “Anything will work.”

“Something to drink? Yeah, here.” A transparent bottle floated from the mauve-maned unicorn's saddlebag. His eyes were purple, like his magic; the meter-pony's eyes were lime green. And neither of them were wearing shoes. Or boots. No hoofwear at all. So they were shoeless. Barefooted? Barehooved? Bare . . . ly controlling my nervous impulses. I blinked, and focused my attention back to the conversation at hand . . . hoof? Eh.

“Thanks.” The bottle had a peculiar loop, which he slipped his limb through before unscrewing the cap with his teeth. Interestingly, the cap didn't detach. Perhaps a design similar to the shampoo bottle? The liquid inside was faintly colored red. Strawberry?

“Well, that doused the . . .” the unicorn said as the bottle was hoofed back to him, but was distracted when he glanced in Embee's direction. “Oh, hey, who are you?”

Her ears pricked in surprise. “What? Who am I? You forgot my name?”

“Hahaha, no no no. Behind you.” The unicorn pointed past Embee and toward . . . me? Uh-oh.

“Oohh. Yes, that’s my friend,” Embee told the two, and gestured at me to come closer.
Uncertain of what would unfold next, I only showed a small, nervous smile as I reluctantly trotted over to stand by Embee.

“Ah, alright. Your friend, then.” Meter-pony’s expression brightened. Was that a good sign? Certainly nothing awful would ensue. Hopefully. “I'm Weather Gauge. Gauge for short.”

“And I'm Skyward Beam,” said the unicorn in a similarly welcoming and happy tone. “We're cousins.” We stood in silence. Were they waiting for something? Why were they staring at me? “. . . and you are?”

I was . . . to introduce myself? What a fiendish proposition! Okay, okay, reality and courtesy dictated that I had to . . . think of something to say . . . something or anything. “Ahm, well-eh-uhm . . .” The traffic drowned out my mumbling.

Gauge tilted his head. “Uh, did you say something?” I responded with a tiny yes. “Really sorry, but I can't hear you. Talk louder, perhaps?” I couldn't do that, so I timidly looked down and began rolling a loose grain of gravel beneath my shoe. Until that grain landed between the seams of the sidewalk's tiles from where I couldn't recover it.

“Please excuse her,” Embee said to the two stallions. “She'd love to introduce herself, but, ah . . . she's been trying really hard to work up her confidence. You see, she's very shy and speaks softly. It's really noisy here, too. You understand? Not easy to hear. Oh and no, don't ask me to do the introductions. She's asserted that I can't do it in her stead, and trust me, she can be very assertive.” When she glanced at me, I looked slightly aside, attempting a smirk of contentment to support her story.

“I see. Hmh. Okay, introductions aren't needed when we've got places to go,” Skyward seemed to conclude after the shortest of ruminations.

“I suppose you got a point there,” Gauge relented, his voice unsure. “But hey, before we go, can you throw the candy into the trash over there before they spontaneously combust?” He gestured at a steel box by the fast food place.

“But a fire in a trash . . .” I was talking too quietly to hear it even myself.

“How about we give them away instead?” Skyward Beam suggested.

“Give them away?” Gauge said with skepticism. “Who'd want them?”

Skyward looked at us. Gauge's gaze followed a second later. Surprise made a fleeting impression before a doubtful scowl emerged. “Skyward. Why would you want these gentle mares to suffer?”

“Suffer?” Embee questioned, laughing incredulously. “What kind of sweets are we talking about?”

“These.” Skyward produced a blue bag from his pocket. “We wanted something unique and exotic. A flavor special to this world. Gauge here wanted a bag of––these aren't them––but they were named . . . err.” Why was he being so hesitant?

“Dog farts,” Gauge said bluntly. “Danish candy, I've heard.”

“That's . . . some candy.” Embee raised a brow as she looked at me, possibly presuming I had info to share. I wasn't particularly informed on the subject; she seemed a little dejected when I shook my head.

“I assume it's better than what we just had. Honestly, I'd rather eat rubber,” Gauge remarked dryly.

“Nice . . .” I said, but immediately realized I was still inaudible. “Marketing speech,” I continued in any case.

“I can't agree with you unless I chance it. May I have one?” Embee was approaching the sweets with an open mind when she had been presented with a negative impression? She had sounded confident, though . . .

“Sure.” Skyward turned the open bag sideways, then gently shook it to deposit the contents closer to the aperture. “A word of warning, they're . . . surprising.” His smile almost belied his repulsion as Embee plucked one of the notorious sweets into her mouth. That was when I got a good look at the artwork on the side of the bag. A-ha! I knew these candies!

“Hum, it's sweet. Hard, but fruity. Some kind of berry?” Embee analyzed. She had wisely not bitten—oh no! I must warn her immediately!

“Don't—” I was too late; a crunch signaled that the candy had met its demise. “Bite it,” I finished dejectedly, putting down my . . . shoe-adorned not-hand that I had impulsively raised, and then retracted as I had flinched. Judiciously steering my mind away from contemplating my feet, I discovered I did not have a clear view of her face from where I was standing, but it was nonetheless clear that she had become frozen. That lull was over in a blink of an eye. Invigorated, she dashed a few meters to the base of a tree on the lawn beside the sidewalk, spitting out her mouth's contents.

“Ew yuck! Gross! Awful! Eagh!” she cried in disgust, drawing bewildered stares from the few people in the parking lot across the narrow and grassy divider, but their curiosity was brief and they turned away shortly after.

“Gross and awful? They are, they are . . .” Gauge lamented sympathetically as Embee continued to cough and gag.

“Can—ech, can I please have some of that drink, too?” she asked as politely as she could. Gauge passed the bottle to her. “Much appreciated.” She took a swig, and then another, and began pitching her head upwards.

“You're welcome, uh, but heh-hey, stop, please? That's my Snapple.” Gauge determinedly took the bottle back when it seemed like she was overestimating his generosity. As he reached towards Embee, I noticed something: like Embee, he too was wearing a bracelet. It was dark blue, matching his coat color.

Embee had put her hoof to her lips, shocked. “Oh! I'm sorry for getting carried away . . .” She looked at me. “Err . . . do you want to try them, too?” Skyward tilted the bag by a few degrees towards me.

Facial expressions, ear positions, and . . . I guess my tail also counted. Communicating a reserved agreement with body language alone was beyond my abilities. “Wouldn't want to be the odd one out, right?” I braved to speak.

Gauge shook his head. “Still being too quiet there, sorry.”

Skyward agreed with a hum. He then approached me, smiling welcomingly. Probably. Alright, I had to stay cool. He was completely innocuous, and suppositions of him harboring amorous desires in immediate need of satiation was simply alarmist nonsense. He turned the magic-enclosed bag almost ninety degrees and rattled it lightly to help a bunch of oblate spheroids roll to the aperture. I was amazed none fell out. I couldn't pick one up due to being digitally denied, so . . . I put my face close and—jumping jehosafar! What an intense aroma!

“Pungent, aren't they?” Skyward remarked soon after I had drawn my head back. I offered a meager, abashed smile before retrying my approach. Collecting one with my lips seemed beyond my abilities . . . No I got one . . . Wow! Highly potent flavor! The candies had never tasted this strong before, but . . . it made enjoying the fruity freebie even better!

Gauge stared at me expectantly, and so did Embee, while I allowed my saliva to slowly break down the candy. Eventually, the hard shell would become brittle enough for the strong powder inside to escape and mix with my saliva. Biting the candy would unleash the powder at once, and to the unaccustomed, that could be a truly nasty experience.

“She's not gagging and spitting.” Skyward looked exceptionally perplexed.

“Yeah . . .” Gauge wore the same expression as he walked back to his cousin. “I can see that. Oh! what if she hates the candy as much as we do, but is being too courteous to spit it out?”

“Or maybe she's not a stranger to the candy?” Embee speculated. This wasn't a contest per se, but it was admittedly a cool little thing that I was "winning" it.

“Oh-hoo,” Skyward said with a tone of realization, having become aware of my expression. “That smile. You must be really pleased with yourself.” I averted my eyes.

“Yeah, you're so coy now, having played us. Good on you,” Gauge congratulated halfheartedly.

“Don't get too excited. Just wait 'til she bites it,” Skyward whispered. “I'm sure she'll—” Crunch went the candy, releasing the encapsulated ammonium chloride. This would've scorched my acute taste buds, if not for my past non-pony experiences granting them decent tolerance.

“She'll what?” Gauge asked flatly, while his cousin gawked in disbelief.

“Ah, yeh, hum . . .” he responded with immaculate intellect.

“So, what does this mean?” Embee inserted herself.

“It means she gets to keep the candy,” Gauge replied, snatching the bag out of its magic bubble with stunning dexterity and boldness.

“She . . . does?” Skyward's eyes locked on the bag Gauge held in astonishment, then darted around in search for what I presumed to be the expired cloud of magic that once held the bag. “Heeeyyy . . .” Skyward drawled admonishingly, then telekinetically repossessed the bag. “I'm sorry, but since I paid for these, they're actually mine.”

“And since I don't want them, you'll eat them all by yourself? I didn't know you were a glutton for punishment.” Gauge needled, to his cousin's chagrin.

“Well, I, er, I get to choose what I do with them . . .” Skyward turned to me and exchanged his scowl for a somewhat polite expression. “So, yes, dear, uh, oh gosh . . . what's-your-name, you can have these, if you wish.”

Embee opened her mouth, but then closed it. I had no idea why she did that. In any case, I glanced at my starboard portable container as I used a brief flash of magic to open it. As the goodie bag was deposited, I remembered that these yellow saddlebags belonged to Embee, and . . . it was doubtful that Skyward would inquire about the items within, which obviously weren't mine, and obviously were meant for ponies, and most likely meant for female ponies. Then again, conversations were unlikely when I was playing the shy type, and Skyward wouldn't inquire anyway. Reminded of their presence, I could feel the belt for the saddlebags fastened around my . . . . barrel.

“Right-o,” Gauge said, sporting that deep voice again. “How's we bi'em luvlay lai'ies ayr fon'est fa'wells an' gee'n goin?” Why the sudden and very poor mockery of English accent?

“How's . . . what?” Skyward stared at his cousin. “Who do you think you are? Jolly Goodshow?”

“Eh . . . I did a good impression, didn't I?” Gauge asked, using his normal voice again.

Skyward creased his lips. “Mmh, mmh,” he hummed, tilting his head from one side to the other as if nursing a stiff neck. “Three out of ten.”

“Harsh, but fair.” Gauge took the criticism calmly. His choice of words was coincidentally funny, though I was sure he had no idea who Zavomir Serdar was, or know of Battlefield: Bad Company for that matter. “Was that a laugh?” Gauge asked me.

“No, you're only hearing things,” Skyward said in a scantily audible voice as he put himself closer to Gauge. “It's all in your miiiiind.”

“You two really aren't giving her a break?” Embee said, probably worried my self-esteem was taking a pummeling from their jesting.

“Well, maybe. But I'm sorry, we have to break for it. Make a for it, I meant. Er . . .” Gauge's wordplay had apparently fallen flat on its face on the start line.

“Make for—what the hay are you trying to say? Did you sleep well last night?”

“Get going?” Gauge indicated toward a bridge further up the road. A constant stream of cars were cresting it . . . and . . . oh my! What was I seeing? Could it be? It couldn't . . . No no no, this couldn't be happening! It was! It was approaching, and I was so amazed I drew a breath in awe.

“Oh my gosh!” I couldn't believe it! “Look at that, look at that, look at that! It's a Morgan! Could it be a Plus Four? It's green. Glossy . . .” This was unbelievable! I had never seen a Morgan for real. The odds of that, and now, to see it so close . . . No way! It was slowing down. Oh, it was stopping! “Oh yes! It's a Morgan Plus Four! Isn't it wonderful?” It was so close I could smell it! Exhaust, sure whatever, carbon monoxide, whatever I didn't care. “ A Morgan Plus Four! This is the most awesome thing ever!” Those lines, those curves, those wire wheels, the canvas roof, the . . . the . . . the everything! “I can't believe this is real!” I was tempted to get close and touch it. But I shouldn't, and didn't. I didn't have the permission. But really! “A Morgan Plus Four!” I was smiling so . . . so smilingly! “This is so cool!”

And then it had to move on with the traffic, but I was simply too happy to care! My happiness scale was off the charts! “You saw that? It was a Morgan Plus Four!” I had to look back at the green wonder once again, marvelling at the piece of art on wheels. “Oh my gosh, a Morgan Plus Four! That was so super awesome!” Suddenly, I realized I was alone at being excited. “Umm . . . Why are you all staring at me?”

“I'm amazed you can talk,” Gauge explained pithily, earning a disapproving glance from his cousin.

Skyward said, “What my cousin meant to say is that he's happy you've overcome your shyness and thinks you're a pleasant and happy young mare with the voice to go with it.”

“Yeah, certainly . . . and you're um, a great . . . colt . . . I mean—” I was at the precipice of falling back to the shy persona despite the air of affability. Or, more likely, due to it. Inexperience at being on this side of the male-female dynamic wasn't beneficial to my confidence.

“So, hey, uh, what's a Morgen?” Gauge queried.

“Morgen? No, that's Morgan,” I corrected pointedly. “Also, for your benefit: Jag-uar, not jag-wire, the "e" in Porsche isn't silent, and, hmm . . . I'm confident soubaru is closer to the intended pronunciation than suburu.”

“Like I said, she can be very assertive,” Embee reminded the stunned Gauge. “And knowledgeable,” she added.

“Er . . . Without a doubt,” he agreed, producing a mollifying smile once his attention returned to me. “Excuse my ignorance, I'm but a humble weather coordinator. Can you tell me what's so fantastic about the Morgan?”

“It's one of the most awesome cars ever,” I replied promptly—in a perky tone that a flared a wave of disconcertion.

“How so?” he followed, curious.

“It's a work of art on wheels.” My brevity was unintended; the lightness of my voice was conflicting with my internal image at an inopportune moment. “There's a reason I say that . . . The styling harkens back to an era when it was common. Modern cars are technologically sophisticated, though I find their aesthetics insipid and unimaginative. I mean, people fawn over them and their tech and style, but I'm like 'yeah, whatever', and then I see a Volkswagen Transporter T3 and I'm like 'whoa awesome, that's so super cool'. Could it be some form of unreplicable mystique? Charisma and character? Maybe cars age like wine? I'm not fond of alcoholic beverages, but I think the analogy fits. I have heard of a British car. A Morris? It was produced in the hundreds of thousands in the seventies and eighties and got a bad reputation for being shoddy. If I'm not mistaken, a mere few hundred remain today. Goes without saying that value is inversely proportional with quantity. Pristine examples must go for a hefty penny. Anyhow, I digress. As was quite evident, the attractive design of the Morgan stands out among its contemporaries. They aren't mass produced, which makes them rare and expensive. The frames are crafted out of wood, to which the meticulously sculpted body panels are fitted to.”

“Excuse me for interrupting,” Skyward interrupted. “I'm sure what you're saying is great and all, but I'm having a hard time hearing—” A large delivery truck coasted to a stop by him. “Over all this—” The diesel engine growled, as if annoyed by his defiance and wishing to intimidate him into submission. He smiled sheepishly at me as the truck moved on.

“Oh . . . sorry,” I apologized, forcing myself to speak louder, if only momentarily. “I know that my speaking voice is soft, but I . . .” Their frowns and forward-pricked ears were dispiriting clues, I reluctantly raised my voice further. “I also now know that it's too soft to be heard.” Both ponies offered consolation and encouragement soon after. Though, being reminded of my voice almost nullified the positive effect.

“I don't know if I can share your passion for those things. I don't understand them, but it's cool, you understand and like them, and that's great. For you. I don't have a real opinion, even if you tried to assert one out of me, hehe.” Gauge gave a wink after his bemusement-mixed attempt at admiration. Skyward, in contrast, had held a placid look throughout.

“I should be surprised, but few things do anymore. Yesterday, I met a pony who was looking for buddies for his team of paint . . . paintball something. Throwing?” He raised a hoof, creasing his lips quizzically. “Whatever it was, we talked for a moment, and he said that paint thing was off the hook. Whatever that means.”

“Ponies who've been here a while tend to pick on some, er, lingo, and become amazed by earthian stuff,” Skyward explained to Gauge.

“Earthian . . . ?” I echoed in my mousy voice, confused and intrigued by the unknown word.

“Who knows, next you meet a pony who likes . . .” Skyward furrowed his brows, and soon drew a breath through pursed lips. “Those dance games!” he exclaimed, striking a hoof.

“Dance games?” Gauge laughed dismissively. “You couldn't have said anything crazier. I utterly failed at them. You failed at them. Our friends failed at them. We all got cross-legged and fell. You said it wasn't, but it was humiliating and embarrassing! So, no, not gonna meet a single pony who likes, or is even good at dance games.”

Unbeknownst to both stallions, Embee smiled knowingly and rolled her eyes. “I believe we've already met.” What an odd thing to say . . . Oh! She was sly!

“Yes, we have. Obviously. But I'm confused. Why do you—” Gauge paused mid-sentence, then looked around diffidently. “I . . . I stand corrected.”

Skyward chuckled with an air of intrigue. “Well, well, well. Perhaps she can help you feel humiliated and embarrassed? Er, less humiliated and embarrassed.”

“Oh, but we've got places to go, cousin!” Gauge exclaimed, then quickly appraised Embee and me. “Goodbye, and so long!” He took off with briskness. “Off we go. Trot trot!”

Skyward was befuddled. “Well . . . You two have a great day.”

“Likewise!” Embee responded. However, Skyward didn't follow Gauge, who was heading toward the bridge in the distance. Instead he approached me with a smile, putting me at minor alert.

“Enjoy the, um, well, I don't think they're sweet. I had expected them to be sour and sweet, but . . . they're candy. I guess.” The gesture was genuine and disarming. Then it hit me.

“Yeah, um . . .” I had received a nearly full bag of candy for nothing. Or very little. Maybe this feeling would subside shortly? “I know something stronger than sour and sweet.” However, he would not like that type of candy. In any case, I still felt indebted. Alas, I had nothing to give aside from a thanks. Or . . . did I? Could I really . . . ? I hadn't ever . . . But it wouldn't take more than a second, anyhow. “Anyhow, thanks for the candy,” I said kindly (and quickly) right after I had touched his neck. That was kind of a daring move. Normally, touching was done with a limb. Conversely, giving a hug would've been overmuch. Moreover, had Skyward used maple syrup as bodywash? He . . . also had bafflement written all over himself? Was that a blush forming?

“Sure. Thanks, uh, er-haha, I don't know you, lady, but introductions come before invitations for that.” What was he insin . . . Uh-oh. I had portrayed myself as a bit of crumpet. Best to talk him—and myself—out of this embarrassing mistake.

“Well, yeah, I . . .” Having a female's voice suddenly seemed to be the greatest obstacle to my plan. “I'll tell that, tell you that . . . You're great, don't get that wrong . . . I'm just . . . just.”

Skyward grinned and let out a small laugh. “Straightforward?” I ducked my head, tacitly confirming his guess. If only I was less inhibited. “Perhaps you try to be more assertive than you are and are more shy than coy—or doing a superlative job at giving that impression, ha ha. Kind of cute, either way. I appreciate the gesture, but I'm sorry to say that I don't have the time to take you up on the offer.” Did that mean he was politely rejecting me? Awesome! “Although, if you wish to find me and make a proper introduction at a better time . . .” He produced a tiny piece of paper and a pen and scribbled something on it. I was too discombobulated by the turnaround of my luck to react when he held the paper within my reach. When I started recovering, I . . . I could just say no. Just had to be assertive!

“Oh . . . kay,” left my mouth; the planned refusal was just too blunt to be voiced. This pony wasn't an abhorrent jerk, so I couldn't convince myself to be dismissive. How should I proceed? Pawing the ground wasn't producing any ideas.

“Hey, aren't those Marefect shoes?” Skyward noted. “Gotta say, they look fantastic on you.” A compliment for my . . . mare's shoes? They hadn't exuded a feminine aura. Until now. Well, technically, I wasn't cross-dressing. Anyhow, a look of gratefulness should prevent the alighting of his suspicions. “So, right, this . . . ?” he resumed after the silence had become prolonged, slowly advancing the pivotal paper closer to me, until it was right above my closed saddlebags.

“I will, I mean, uh, you will . . .” This situation had advanced so far beyond anything I could've ever prepared for. All I managed to produce was a smile out of pure confusion.

“And I will . . . put it in your bag for you? Ah, got it.” He then did that, looking a little nervous all the while. Was he frightful of instantaneous and excruciating retribution? “Alright. Um . . . My cousin's getting impatient. It was nice to meet you.” He bowed courteously. “Goodbye, and perhaps we'll meet again.” His tail aloft as if suspended by a wire, he joined the waiting Gauge, glancing over himself—at me—every few steps. “Shyness is a veil that conceals something wonderful, don't you think?” he supposed as he came close to his impatient cousin.

Gauge glanced at me, a wry smile adorning his face as they both started toward the bridge. “You expect to get more than a glimpse?” Where the conversation then lead to remained unheard due to distance, noise level, and my drooped ears.

“Wow.” Embee's astonishment brought me out of my dismay. “A nuzzle. You gave him a nuzzle?” she inquired, confused and curious. “I'm not sure what to say. Never crossed my mind you'd do that.”

“I, I, I was thinking he'd, um, um . . .” I was all nerves, but I was going to explain myself regardless. “A thanks wouldn't be enough for the candy, so I had to think of something better and, and, it was just a saying-thanks-is-not-enough-so-here-is-a-thanks-nuzzle, not a I-like-you-a-lot-let's-go-for-a-date-nuzzle. I wouldn't do that. Never. He's, he's ah, ah, you know? I mean, I mean, um, I'm, I'm—”

“Hon. Take it easy. Relax. It's not as bad as it may seem,” she said calmly. Or maybe she had instructed? Be that as it may, I should listen to her, I should not worry too much, because she would fix things. Somehow. “Now, let's keep going.” From standing to face-to-face, to being parallel. “Follow me?” She slowly headed towards the intersection behind us, away from the faraway bridge.

“I will.” I hesitantly followed, anxious for her help.

“So, to start off,” she began once we were waiting at the nearby crossing lights. “There are many kinds of nuzzles. Prods and sweeps. Upwards, sideways, diagonally, straight, curved, fast, slow, where it starts, where it ends. There's a lot more to than I can ever explain, I'm afraid. From what I could tell, he didn't expect an affectionate nuzzle.” She chuckled, amused. I supposed it was a tad funny. “Not everypony expects a nuzzle of any kind out of strangers, though don't take that as nopony expecting it. Customs vary between regions.”

“The bottomline is that I shouldn't have nuzzled,” I lamented, having admittedly become impatient of Embee's explanation. “It's so stupid. I did the equivalent of gazing at him seductively while doing an indicative caress of his abdomen and saying, 'Would you be so kind to introduce yourself to me?'” I shuddered, creeped out by the sultry female intonation unbefitting of me.

“I know you're regretting it, but please don't worry about it anymore,” she consoled.

“But I do,” I insisted woefully. “I gave him a false impression and . . .” The lights changed. As I cursorily glanced to the right, up an inclined dead-end street, I had a small epiphany. “Heh. I am a false impression.”

Embee came to a stop once we had crossed over, whereupon she studied me and my sad smile. “Because you put on the impression of being what you aren't?” The subtext was obvious.

My smile faded. “Pretending is the only thing I can do right now, and I'm failing at it.” Expressing myself without reservations while also acting like a convincing female pony couldn't be anything else but an impossible task.

“Oh, chin up.” Embee's optimism contrasted with my fears of committing embarrassing or conspicuously out-of-pony acts out of ignorance. “We met not one, but two ponies, and neither thought you were any less than the real thing. You were gushing about that unusual car, and they accepted it. You even got some candy, too! That's like a reward for a job well done!” Apparently, she was happy for me. It was almost uplifting, though treating the candy as a reward for deliberate deception felt morally questionable. “I can imagine that accidentally misleading Skyward to give you a date proposal weighs on you, but . . . you tried to clear up the misunderstanding, didn't you?”

“I did think about it, yeah, but I . . . couldn't.” My defeated response educed a drawn-out gaze of concern from her. She had called me assertive, and now I was proving her wrong. I was proving myself wrong.

“Well, all things considered, what happened isn't a major problem if you put it into perspective.” That she was sure it wasn't a major problem made me scowl. However, a shred of rationality slinked in, preventing my refutal of her assessment. I glanced back toward the bridge, just catching sight of the two ponies before they disappeared behind the bridge's crest.

“It's . . . true.” I struggled to relinquish my fretfulness. “It's not a major problem. It's only a tiny kink. Nothing more. He, uh . . . They think I'm a pony, and that's what I set out to do, so . . . Woohoo, reserved cheering,” I admitted meekly.

“That's the perspective. You're getting there. A pebble is a boulder under the magnifying glass. Keep that in mind, and work on instilling confidence in yourself.” Embee resumed walking down the sidewalk. I trailed her while pondering her apothegm in slight bemusement. “So, that Skyward? It's good his proposal was in written form. If he had asked you out there and then, you would've had to say no.” She was absolutely certain of that. I had to be, too. Now if I could also verbally affirm that.

“. . .You would've said no, right?”

“Is that even a question? Of course I would have,” I replied almost forcibly. “I'm not that, er, I'm not submissive. He was friendly, though.” On the account of knowing I could contradict my statement on submissiveness, I chose not to speak more.

“Yeah, he seemed nice. Awkward, but nice. Anyhow, I probably don't need to tell you to forget his proposal.” Her solution to my dilemma was simple, but I guess . . . it felt too callous for consideration. But racing back to Skyward and then rejecting his offer didn't seem any less uncharitable.

“He doesn't know my name, but if he did, I'd have a lot of explaining to do. Unless I don't go as myself.” Or rather, even less as myself than I already was. “It's not my place to make new friends for somepony else, not to mention a friend who mistakenly thinks that somepony is pursuing the whole romantic shebang.” Shebang. A wave of revulsion traversed through my person when my mind took upon itself to extrapolate that last word into the approximation of the tangible sensations. “Uh, had I . . . well, it's unlikely, but had I not been assertive enough, would you have done something?”

“I had thought of that myself, and it had me in a tight bind. I was afraid I'd create a stir if I were to step in.” Her apparent decision to stay on the sidelines was disheartening. “To be on the level, I was perfectly ready to take that risk,” she continued, restoring some of my morale. “Torch my tail if I were to embarrass you by making you look inept, though. Romantic flairs or not, talking to a stallion isn't that different from talking to a guy. Certainly you gotta have experience there.”

“I've talked to guys countless times, so, um, stallions, guys, same thing. No problem.” Talking to guys as an unwilling female made it so much more complicated, though. Social norms and unconscious expectations . . . I couldn't even begin to wrap my head around it.

“A little more confidence, hon.” She gave me a glance, which returned a second time as a stare when I remained quiet. “I'm sorry, hon. Do you want me to mediate in the future?”

“Well, maybe,” I said aversively, then retrieved my normal speaking voice. “You intervened a few times at, uh . . . other times, and did what you saw best to keep suspicions low. I'm, um—” Unexpectedly, I realized the large shop windows to our right were reflective. My eyes flicked to the side and caught a small glimpse of something white and decidedly in my control. The mere prospect of seeing a clear, full-body view of myself brought me to a halt, and I averted my eyes in a flash. However . . . “I think I got an idea.”

Embee had advanced past me by a few body lengths; she observed me with anticipation as she returned. “An idea? On what?”

I surveyed our immediate location; the sparse traffic on the sidewalk equaled adequate privacy. Although, I had talked about carelessly unusual matters without attracting difficult inquiries from outsiders, but . . . I still preferred caution right now. “What if I said I was unlucky enough to be temporarily transformed into a pony? By a spell? That's almost the truth.”

“Transformation spells?” Embee reacted with intrigue, followed by a thoughtful hum. “I've heard of them, but as far as I know, none can change a human to a pony. I can't say your explanation would be credible.” I sighed forlornly. “I'm truly sorry, hon.”

“It was worth considering.” I dragged myself onwards, as if my shoes had become lead. My optimism was defiant, however. “Hypothetically, if such a spell were real, could Peachy cast it?”

“Could she, hmm?” Embee's brows bushed in thought. “I don't know, to be honest. A transformation spell must require a lot more than looking for and then fixing up fractures and hernias. She's really good at that, but I'm afraid she'd be only half as good at magic outside her field.”

I couldn't avoid thinking of the results of that. “I'd rather not end up a faun.” That was less preferable than being a pony? I had to give this some thought.

“Fawn?” Embee wondered.

“Faun,” I corrected, feeling a shimmer of dejection settling in. I suppose I was more . . . accustomed to being assumed for a pony than mistaken for some kind of goat.

“I'm not familiar with whatever that is, hon. Well, in any case, I'd know more than almost nothing if I read Spellbound Paperbound, but it wouldn't surprise me if the magic you long for has a dedicated team researching it,” Embee's attempt to cheer me up didn't hit the mark. Or maybe I misinterpreted her comment? Better to have little hope than none at all?

“Yeah, who wouldn't want to be . . .” The current topic and my voice served as catalysts to heighten my discomfort. “Well, if this is their idea of a viable product, I'd file a complaint, demand compensation for the mental distress, and most importantly, ask about the return policy.”

“You certainly would!” Evidently, my wry humor amused her. Granted, that was the intention. “Some humor helps to lessen the burden, doesn't it?”

“My thoughts exactly.” I reduced my pace. “Er, on that note . . . Hold up for a moment?”

She gazed at me inquisitively as she came to a stop. “Something weighing on your mind?”

“Weighing on my mind? Hah, ehm, close, but not quite. The belt rubbing against my belly has begun to make me feel queasy, and carrying a load that I feel on my back and my sides isn't a joy.” In fear of offending her, I left unsaid that I didn't like being a beast of burden.

“Send the bags back to me?” She wouldn't have requested that if she wasn't confident in my magic.

“Gladly.” Glancing at my back, I became temporarily puzzled that I had traversed quite the distance from the hospital without being specifically aware of my cargo. In any case, I manipulated my magic to unbuckle the belt and gently delivered the items onto her. However, I left the belt open, as it most likely had been when she was carrying the saddlebags last.

“Thank you, hon. I was starting to miss these,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

“Sure you were,” I responded with lighthearted doubt. “Well, I feel better now.” Unburdened, too.

“A pleasure to hear.” As she said that, I noticed we were next to an establishment that, despite its name, had very little to do with subterranean public transit. A customer left the premises with a wrapped item in hand, and I detected the scent of spices and cooked meat wafting from it. Embee was continuing onwards. Needless to say, I found my place next to her. We didn't have to walk far before we came to another intersection where we had to wait.

On the other side was a brown pegasus with a long, violet mane, looking up at a red pony moving in circles high above her. “Get down already,” the mare commanded, sounding and looking ornery. “I'm getting tired of talking up to you.”

The red pony stopped in mid-air, his light blue eyes almost entirely shrouded by his orange hair as he gazed down. “Waste many long and boring days grounded while your internal magic slooooowly gets into harmony with the external magic, and you too would be spending a whole day flying and floating all cheerful,” he said with a half-mocking, half-pleased tone, then began circling in random patterns again.

“Yeah yeah, I was there once, but I had some restraint.” The mare's glower had relaxed to an unimpressed stare. Meanwhile, the lights had changed, so Embee and I plodded on.

“Big talk.” The flying pony stopped again right as we passed them. What was it he said? Harmony with internal and external. It almost seemed familiar. I should ask Embee if she—

“Hey hey hey!” It was the red pony again, his flying upright appearance being so abrupt that I stopped in my tracks. What was that thing on his lower—

“Oh, Norwegian curse word,” I said in mild aghast. Barely had I gathered my thoughts when his mouth opened again.

“Onowrigi-what? Er, whatever. Sorry sorry sorry.” He waved his forelegs side to side, wearing a cheeky grin. “Alright, I was about to, well, I'm gonna ask you: why don't you got a cutie mark?”
“Buuh . . .” What should I say when I had a direct line of sight of his implement in plain view . . . Though him being (presumably) anatomically correct should've not come as a surprise. How else would he empty his bladder? By perspiration? That would arguably produce the worst kind of BO ever.

Embee seemed to take an initiative, stepping forward while wearing a face of disapproval. Then, my mind put itself into conversation mode. “I . . . What? I don't? Have I forgotten to apply it again?” I looked at my bare hindquarters. “Aw, shucks. This seems to happen every morning,” I pretended to gripe, then regarded the insolent stallion with a sidelong stare. Embee let out an unfettered laugh.

“Funny.” Red pony, however, wasn't amused. “Seriously, why don't you got one? Well, not one, two. But you know, same thing.”

“Because I don't got 'em,” I responded, brusquely walking past him. “It'll come when it comes.” I expected that to seal this undesirable conversation.

“I was only asking a question.” He sounded like he had dissatisfaction written on him, which I confirmed with a glance. Also, he was about to trail me; the brown mare bit his tail and yanked him back.

“Come on,” she said a second after releasing him. “Don't you see you're annoying her? Leave her be. Please.” Her exhaustion betrayed her exasperation.

“Well alright,” he groused, apparently in surrender. As we distanced ourselves, I wondered if they were a mother and a son. Or siblings. Be as it may, I was happy and relieved that enduring his peskiness was over.

“Good going, sticking up for yourself finely there,” Embee complimented once we were out of earshot. “But I'm sorry you had to. Some ponies just don't know their manners.”

“People and ponies alike. Thankfully though, people don't fly pantless,” I remarked. The look in Embee's eye hinted of an incoming inquiry, which I decided to pre-empt. “Public nudity isn't really well-received. I can understand why, but some people, uh, take it too far, as if nudity is the highest of evils. I don't get that kind of mentality. I'm not squeamish. Sure, I can be initially discomposed, I mean, it's not a sight I wish to see, but if it's not exposed for nefarious purposes, then it's, uh, how should I put this . . . as harmless as pictures in an encyclopedia. Context is what matters. Some like to see nudity and, and uh, that's okay, I suppose. They just can’t help themselves from being perverse; it must be instinct. Instincts are like a river's current, and sapience is a boat. Some boats are more powerful and maneuverable than others . . . I guess some struggle in a stronger current, or have a small rudder, or weak engines.” And I was a decent performer who'd do a lot better being a seaplane. “Alas, some boats deliberately toss out their outboard engine and revel in being driftwood. They think of only themselves and are convinced the world is their oyster, making life harder for so many people. And I'm not saying that it’s just guys being lecherous rectal orifices. I mean, it's more common with guys . . . but degenerates are contemptible regardless of gender . . .” Those types of people are inconsiderate wretches. They deserve to be locked away from society and shamed for all of eternity.” Due to a few rotten apples, males had to collectively carry an unfair stigma of being guilty until proven innocent. However, even I had thought the worst of males recently . . .

“Viv. That last point. It's very scathing. Vindictive. You may want to instead consider the benefits of rehabilitation instead of punishment.” Embee's leniency brought a scowl out of me, even if I understood her rationale. “But I'm not a newcomer any longer, so I understand what you're trying to say and it's a grand pity you've been disrespected just for being a woman. I wish I could offer more than my sympathies and a promise to help. Try to keep your head up and don't let the adversities get to you, alright?”

“It's ah, well . . .” The conversation's change of course had flustered me, although I should've seen this coming. “I feel like my day's ruined when I receive unsavory remarks.” I had never received any, but . . . “The mere thought of it sickens me.” Because it would take my apparent femaleness, soak it with putrid filth, and rub it in my face with unrepentant malice. “I would never do such a thing myself. Doesn't matter what they're wearing, even a furtive leer is beyond me. I hope I'm not getting a lot of them right now.” I glanced about in momentary paranoia. “I'm practically unclothed.”

“You were anxious about being naked, I remember, but ponies go about their daily lives without harassment and disapproval. As for stares of lust, human and pony alike can have an eye for each other, but that's more of an exception than the norm. Human instincts tend to disqualif—” Her hoof broke the tranquility of a tiny puddle and I stopped as she did; she produced a quiet but dejected moan upon raising her soaked shoe. However, she seemed somewhat bemused when our gazes met, then ostensibly decreed her misfortune insignificant with a nonchalant chuckle before moving on. “Well, don't worry about guys staring at you like dragons ready to pounce loose gems. Some guy—or girl coming up to you all of a sudden with an invitation to intimacy is also very remote.”

The provocative art on the internet seemed like an ideal counterargument, but even I was aware that it was only a droplet in the sea of unprovocative art, reflecting the fantasies of a limited subset and not the barely controlled urges of the masses. “I . . . I suppose I can breathe more easily.” My being a pony granted me an almost guaranteed freedom from scorn and ravenous looks despite my undress . . . though mixed feelings regarding the whole "being pony" facet curbed my relief. Delving deeper into my psyche so as to separate rationality from intuition might—A pony passed us in a rush, and the pitapat of his hooves as they receded behind me brought attention to my own and their similar but subdued sounds. So where and what was I . . . I was unable to focus now. Darn!

“A small hypothesis, if I may,” Embee liberated me from the sound trap. “If you saw a guy naked, would you find that alluring?” Presenting a faked female insight was nothing short of extremely daunting.

“I uh . . . No, I don't. Never have, to be honest.” No pretensions, I decided after all. As I didn't have an eye and mind for guys, they were about as exciting as a slab of concrete. A woman could tell me that a crew cut and a defined jawline with a stubble equaled impetus to impregnation, and I'd think it was a wholly undecipherable abstract wrapped in an enigma sealed within a riddle. “Maybe women, uh, other women are different? I simply don't feel anything. Well, one thing I do. The p-uh, erm . . .” I wasn't comfortable saying that word in her presence. “The obvious features are unappealing. This applies to both sexes, just to put that out there.” My opinion on male genitalia was neutral only when applied to my own, though I easily equated female genitalia with a surgical wound—a particularly revolting thought to have under these extraordinary circumstances. “I find clothed more appealing. Not sure how that came to be.” Indeed, a naked woman looked "wrong," but was "better" with some clothing. “Maybe I'm just different? Anyhow, since they're out in plain sight by default, I assume you aren't fazed.”

“Fazed by what? Can you explain . . . Oh, that's right,” she affirmed, comprehending what I meant. “It's there and can be easily seen if looked for. Don't know why anypony would suddenly start hollering about hiding them, though. Seems absurd, like hocks, the nape, or tongues being declared obscene. It's only another part of a pony.” I had expected her to finish with a casually toned "so get over it" as a response to the quibbling of the ridiculously straight-laced.

“You make it sound so mundane, like they're not special,” I noted, astonished by her relaxed attitude.

“Hmmh, I've never thought of saying it like that, but in essence, you're right,” she said in an untroubled tone; I had to remind myself that she was from a society where au naturel was the everyday attire. “That reminds me. Right about the time I came here, some place in the world was pushing hard for ponies to be clothed in public at all times under the duress of legal consequences. Something about ending up on a list, and even prison. Thankfully, it drew so much controversy and opposition that it failed to pass. Going there should be all okay now. What was this place, though? It had a strange name . . .”

What place in the world had such an extremely and preposterously negative stance on nudity that even ponies weren't exempt? “Might it, uh, have been . . . Iran?”

“No, it started with another letter, or did it . . . Ind, imh, sing, sim . . . ? Ah!” She brightened suddenly. “Mississippi!”

“Missis—Wha?” Advanced society . . . backwardness still in abundance? I was having . . . clouds clouding the brain. If I were bumped into . . . might barely notice if it were a Stormtrooper riding an ostrich.

“Gotta tell you, I attended mandatory seminars about customs, culture and the like when I arrived here. Before I was here, in here, I mean, I was in Saguenay for a good while. A nice place, neither small or too big. I was in over my head, though, struggling to speak with some of the locals. Or most, on some days. Thank goodness for Ampoule acting as a translator! The two of us must've accounted for five percent of that city's pony population, too. But oh, it's a story for another time.” She . . . was talking? I had to get a grip of my wits. “Bar a few exceptions, people are clothed at all times, though in hindsight, it wasn't explained why nudity is frowned upon. It's kind of a mystery to me still.”

Again, I was in a position of pre-empting a question she had. “Don't ask me. I don't understand it either. Parents teach their kids a thing which they never question, and when they become parents themselves, they teach their kids the same thing and they never question it. Some kind of a self-perpetuating cycle?” I had suspicions that religion was involved, but my parents were as secular as they come. In fact, my mom was almost nontheist, which she attributed to her highly pious parents whom she openly defied in her teens. “A young mind takes the words of their elders for granted until something about it seems suspect, I suppose.”

Embee produced a sigh that seemed to combine mirth and pity. “Ah, that reminds me of an old man I met while I was there in Quebec. We had some small talk about different matters to pass the time with. To get to the point, though, he related a funny story from his school years. They were to be taught sexual education one day, but the books they got had their pages glued together by the teachers.”

I couldn't help but groan. “Prudish scruples should never obstruct educating a nascent generation.” Then, a peculiar thought crossed my mind. “Hey, but . . . were you taught . . . ?” Cute-faced sapient pony-beings existing in reality—as opposed to a kid's cartoon—being given lessons on sexuality, the details of pertinent anatomy, and intercourse . . . Allusions to it seemed almost unthinkable.

“Why yes, hon,” she replied unreservedly. “Everypony needs to know what maturity brings them, and no, our books weren't tampered with.” She chuckled, her frankness being both admirable and surprising. “I hope it was the same with you.”

“Well . . . yeah.” I was careful not to talk as we passed a small crowd. “Our teacher was quite upfront, being informative and serious on the functions and features of both sexes. Certainly a different kind of curriculum from math, literacy, physics and such. I'm sure many had figured out things on their own, while others had their misconceptions corrected. I was somewhere in the middle: indifferent, but not ignorant. It's a little funny now, but I hadn't anticipated . . . I was more than bemused when we were given condoms.” I had to pause briefly in order to halt the developing giggle in my tone. “It was a tangible symbol of maturity, if you will. The time to use it never came, and I don't think I threw it in the trash. It's probably somewhere among my stuff, waiting for its er, finest hour.” It would wait forever.

“Really?” Embee seemed humored, in a pleasant and affable manner. “In all seriousness, if you do find it, be sure to check its expiration date. I know you don't wish to have children. A compromised condom might ruin that plan entirely.”

Her wording allowed me to do a mental gender flip that nullified the disturbing implications. “Ooh, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Wonderful,” she said while I began to consider telling her that I wasn't pursuing intercourse. “Before I forget to ask, have you ever heard of an IUD?”

The acronym genuinely confused me. “No, I haven't. Have you?”

“I have. It's an intrauterine device, a form of contraceptive,” she explained promptly.

“I see. Where does it—Oh! Oh . . .” The picture assembled itself, and it was a highly unsettling image. “W-w-well, uh, just to let you know, I'm, I'm not accepting of foreign objects into, ah . . .” I said wanly.

“My sincere apologies, hon. I really didn't mean to upset you.” She certainly looked sorry. “You are very sensitive about your vagina?”

“Don't call it that,” I almost shouted despite my feebleness. I was in disbelief that word could come out of her mouth, so unabashedly and publicly, and worst of all, attribute it to me.

“Call what what? The vagina?” That made me cringe. “You don't like it? Why?”

“Merely a personal distaste,” I explained, unwilling to tell her the complete truth. “You're free to call it by that name in any other company. All I ask is that you make an exception for me.”

“Fair enough. You call it something else?” She was genuinely curious.

“Yeah, I do,” I answered and . . . a string of repeated nasty words in my mind reflected my consternation. “I, err . . . it's embarrassing, sort of, but I, uh, I call it . . .” Every term and euphemism I thought of felt either childish or vulgar, not to mention that the anatomical feature itself seemed nefandous in more ways than one. My opposition to possessing said feature compounded matters even further. I had drawn a line at begrudgingly acknowledging it, but now I was in a bind where I absolutely had to coin a term within a reasonable time frame. A mental catalog of unrelated references and images browsed in a blink of an eye yielded a sufficiently passable definition. “Edsel grille.”

“Edsel grill?” she parroted, either bemused or skeptical. “As in grilling food?”

“N-no, this is a different grille. It's . . . uh, a very defining feature of ah, proverbial vehicle . . . But it's just a silly moniker that I've adopted. Kind of an internal moniker.” I laughed sheepishly. “Long story. Awkward story.”

“So,” Embee began, apparently still puzzled by my esoteric response, “before I continue, it'd be good if I knew your relationship with your, ah, Edsel grill.”

“Oh, well, it's there, it works, for better or worse, and, er, I . . .” I chose not to say I kept my interactions with it to a minimum. That was just too honest at this point. “I don't talk about it much.” Or rather, not at all. “Never found a good reason to bring it up in a conversation, and it's not easily brought up anyhow with . . . somepony. Yeah, some pony. How about that?” Like talking to an alien. In a manner of speaking, she was an extraterrestrial. I moved in closer to increase the confidentiality of our conversation. “To clarify, I almost want to think I'm talking to another human. Interesting dichotomy of my subconscious side seemingly ignoring what's blatantly evident.”

“A kind of a selective predisposition?” she theorized.

“You could say that,” I agreed cursorily. “More importantly, though, I'm new to being naked in public, and I know it's okay for us, and I'm okay with it myself. Sort of. Our, this talk, it's uh . . . I'm feeling very self-conscious.” Certainly I was now jinxed, and I would accidentally rub my nubs against my inner thigh right as Embee would inquire about bras or female hygiene.

“And you want to talk about something completely different? Alright, I understand. Oh, and you can think of me as a human, if you like. We're just two women on a stroll to a café, aren't we?” Her jovial supposition didn't resonate with me.

“That's, ah, yeah, we are,” I said with a plastic smile, feeling a little rotten inside. Hearing a rumbling from behind, I spotted a blue bus coasting in the traffic.

An advertisement was plastered on its livery, the white lettering on the black-to-dark purple gradient promoting something "equi-cite". Whatever it was, the pony depicted ahead the phrase had her front leg raised, as if poised to saunter coquettishly out into the third dimension, and a flirtatious expression enticing to the stallions, but I had a fair guess men would also fall for it. enticing to more than just the stallions. Personally, I was reminded of Rouge the Bat—and Rarity. They were similar. White, eyeshadow, distinct eyelashes . . . Strange that which wasn't human was attractive in a manner that a human was. Or in some cases, more attractive. Not erotically. I knew myself. If I was presented with the option of good sex or a dozen fresh pears, I'd choose the fruits without a second thought. Pears were beneficial, nutritious, and tasty. Sex was . . . gross. Granted, I had never experienced it, but neither had I ever swam in fish guts.

“You got a topic for me, or are you lost in your thoughts again?” A voice floated in from the outside world, followed by a kindly laugh. That voice belonged to Embee. An anthro . . . She couldn't be because . . . No, a presumption that anthros were solely bipedal was incorrect. Something could be anthropomorphized by simply giving it a name. I could name a candy wrapper Leopold. In any case, a sapient pony was . . . still a pony. But sufficiently and intriguingly human. Maybe it was the eyes, or the mouth? The eyelashes seemed important, though I was clueless as to how they made the difference. There had to be more to this. The overall shape of the face? A more expressive face than that of a . . . spider? An arbitrary sum of features I wasn't able to consciously discern? That . . . presented a sudden, and disappointing end to my musings. Henceforth, I had to temporarily conclude that female ponies were kinda cute—for being quadrupeds. That I had comparable physical attributes meant I was cute as well. Tempted as I was to visually confirm that, a successful attempt would in all likelihood propel my consternation into the upper atmosphere of the nearest Jovian planet. Regardless, a few more questions had brewed in my mind for awhile that I had never sought an answer to: several female anthros had male admirers, but did male anthros have female admirers? What was the science behind the appeal of anthros? And . . . whoa, what was that bright red boxy beauty cruising by? Definitely early 80's design! I could just about spy its embossed name. A Dodge . . . Mirada? Never heard of it, but it looked really really cool! But why did I think it looked cool? There must be some kind of science behind that as well! “You are in your thoughts, aren't you, hon?”

“Uhh . . . In my thoughts, you said? Er, I was. Sorry. A small thing spiraled into the potentially profound. An almost metacognitive moment of pontification. I could tell you about it, but I don't know . . .” A sudden influx of potent scents broke my line of thought and slowed me to a halt. Discovering a florist's shop and the dozens of potted flowers placed on both sides of its door and on select spots under the green awning, I continued, “I can't focus on it right now.” Flowers outside in the fall? They'd freeze, if the day wasn't warm. On a whim, I looked back, and realized we had already traversed three blocks. Another bus rolled by, coming to a halt by the bus stop just ahead. I vacantly watched as a guy in a green-lime striped polo sprinted to it past us, and a pair of burgundy earth ponies walked out.

One of them had a dull expression. “So, let me get this straight? You actually went through it all and became an owner of a little shop out in the islands?”

“I can't believe it either! I'm so stoked!” the other said in a voice audible with giddiness as they ventured to the right, past a row of stone bollards to a cobblestone street. “I also get to learn and, get this, keep a secret recipe that had been passed down for generations. I feel so honored and humbled, oh my gosh, you can't even imagine . . .”

Embee blocked my view. She tilted her head. “Are you feeling well, or are you thinking deeply again?” I looked past her briefly; the two ponies were out of sight.

“Yeah, no. Er, I mean, yes to feeling well, and no to thinking deeply.” My branial functions returned. “I'm sorry. See those flowers there?” My attempt to gesture ran into a quadrupedal-pertinent conflict that I failed to resolve in a timely manner.

“Yes, I do see them.” If not for her kindly tone, I would've suspected her of being sarcastic. “They look nice. What about them?”

“I'm astounded that I can sense more than a trace of the fragrant scent at this distance. Feels more like I have a blossoming bouquet in my face. Makes my head spin.” Starting to discern the reflection in the window, I averted my gaze. Just to be safe, I took myself to the farthest bollard. A good ten meters or so.

Embee followed me there. “Ah, the scent's milder over here. Smart move, hon.” That wasn't the reason I relocated; I offered her a clever look regardless. Embee continued, “Question. What if you had a bouquet in your face?”

I remained hesitant, afraid my mind would replicate an unsolicited visualization of myself the instant I'd speak. “Ehh . . . I'd pass out?” I predicted. There was some visualization, but it didn't develop beyond fleeting colors superimposed over Embee's facial features. Said facial features developed a careful smile, though.

“Out of delight?” she hypothesized.

“I don't . . .” I had intended to say that I didn't think that was possible, but the lack of concrete evidence meant I couldn't be certain. “. . . I don't want to try.” How embarrassing would it be to get a faceful of flowers and crumble into an elated pile of fluff.

“You don't want to? That's fine.” She cast a lingering gaze at the flower shop.

“You want a go at it?” A funny mental image coaxed a little laugh out of me. “If you are knocked off your hooves, don't stay out for long. Keeping a watch over you can't be anything but tedious.”

“Don't wait. Give me a gentle prod and I'll get right up.” Her response to my jest was realistic in tone, and possibly in practice as well. “Oh! That reminds me.” The way her eyes rolled to an oblique angle suggested she had a pleasant memory to share. “I'll tell you as we go,” she said, heading past the bollards to the sidewalk next to the cobblestone street.

“Huh, uhm, oh-okay.” As stupid as it was, I was caught off guard by her continuing the journey. I was so quick in following her lead that my realization of stepping onto a slightly uneven surface was delayed. Just as surprising was the fact that I didn't lose my balance. This relatively new method of locomotion had become second nature by now, which was both good and bad. That I wasn't fumbling over myself was good—adaptation to my form fostering fears of identity loss was bad. I reminded myself that my stay in this body was, short of a verifiable guarantee, assured to be reversible.

“So, this summer, I visited a slumber yard,” Embee said casually.

“Ah, a slumber yard?” I said, putting on the airs of being awed, though I followed that with faked carelessness. “It's a yard where you go to slumber?” Of course, that was the closest approximation I had.

Embee giggled. “That's a fair approximation.” To that, I replied with . . . silence. I hadn't thought I was anywhere close to being correct. “A slumber yard can be indoors, but they're less common and popular. Think of an enclosure, with a grass, earth, or sand floor, but sometimes it's mats or towels. Or mattresses, with servings of food and drink. Those places are high class, and expensive.” We were on the left side of the street; it led to an empty clearing. To the left was another short street, also ending with bollards separating a busy road. We weren't going that way. Embee headed diagonally to the right, across to the sidewalk. As I followed her, she kept talking, “So, right, yes, you pay a fee, walk in, and lay down. In a moment, a caregiver will approach to give you a massage.” I glanced at the bright orange stone building to our immediate right. The shape of the large doors lining its façade indicated that it might once have been a place for carriages. In any case, I was supposed to be focusing on Embee's tale. “Nothing rough or hard. It's not that kind of massage. Gentle rubbing and stroking, a little scratching here and there, maybe some soothing music playing in the background if it's one of those places that has 'em. I can't tell you how relaxing it is; you'd have to experience it yourself.”

I was mildly taken aback by her suggestion. “Well, it genuinely sounds unique, but I've never been massaged. To have a pony massage me, that's um . . .”

“Pony?” Embee's tone pitched in surprise, then she laughed. “Oh no, not a pony. It's done by a human. Nimble and soft hands can be some kind of wonderful, I tell you.”

“Oh?” No hooves kneading my skin? “That is . . . a situation I've never been in either.” Yesterday, I had imagined caressing to be a pleasing experience. Now, the likelihood of this form imbuing me with exclusive delights conflicted with my apprehensions. “I don't know . . .” I glanced to my right, and realized I was slowing down in the middle of a street. Fortunately, aside from parked cars—and a lone dump truck trundling at a mild pace from over a block away—the street was empty.

Embee was waiting on the sidewalk, possibly aware I had fallen a little behind. “I'm not saying you have to,” she said in a mollifying tone as I caught up. “I was only saying it's not easy to put into words.”

The dump truck made a right turn, and disappeared behind the predominantly old buildings of this area. “Hard to put into words? Like driving?”

“Hmm, could that be a good comparison?” She took to the left at the Y-fork we were at. “What's driving a car like?”

“Oh, it's only the greatest joy I know!” My exclamation brought out my inner . . . elation. The sun's warmth didn't cool down my unanticipated blush. “Well, a joy that's tied with flying. I think my interest in airplanes began when I was maybe six or seven, but I can't recall when I became interested in driving. It feels more like an instinct. Even the oldest dreams I can think of had something to do with cars. A black Pontiac Firebird, a red Jaguar XJ6. Gosh, I was always . . . always disappointed when I woke up.” I had almost said heartbroken. “I didn't do anything wacky. Stunts or chases. Nah, the pleasure of being at the helm of such wonders was all I needed. The first time I got to drive, a real car, I was really nervous, but also extremely excited. I had finally reached a marvelous milestone in my life. Driving. It's just so . . . It's an amazing feeling that knows no equal. It's magical, and I wish you knew how magical.” I had gone from unbridled excitement to bashful enthusiasm. My eyes panned over the cars lining the short street. “You see these cars parked here? I have preferences, and am less enthused about the modern ones, but I'd be satisfied to some degree to drive any of them.” A glossy black pearl of Jan Wilsgaard's later artistry tucked between two minivans caught my eye. “I'd learn how it works and how it feels, and then I'd have a lot of fun. Not going fast, or such. Just plain, relaxed driving, delighted by extraordinary euphoria that defies description.”

“I adore your passion. It really sounds like it's, well, allow me to use this phrase. Like it comes from your heart,” Embee chipper tone bore a touch of dejection as we turned to the right to a quiet street next to the placid river bisecting the city. “I don't know how I could ever feel what you feel or have felt.”

“Unless you try driving a quad,” I teased carefully.

“I don't know about that either,” she said laughing lightly. “I saw that thing, and to be fair, I wouldn't feel safe on it. But I'm really happy for you,” she continued before I could suggest other vehicles she theoretically wasn't physically incapable of operating. “I suppose it'd be fair to say that you wouldn't be happy as a pony, even if it were your body and not somepony else's.”

“Exactly.” Then I saw the deeper meaning. “That's . . . that's so true. I'm not suited for driving when I'm . . . physically restricted.” Having one of my favorite delights denied dimmed my mood like a thick cloud blocking the sun. “And that sucks majorly.”

“I'm sorry, hon.” My dreariness wasn't lost on her. “Should I've been more careful with my words?”

“No, it's . . .” I couldn't say it was alright. I was perfectly willing to forgive her, but not give her an implicit consent to hurt my feelings. “It's just how it is.” A spark of defiance ignited. “But I'll find a way to make it work.” I saw something behind my closed eyes during a single blink. “And I uh . . .” What had I seen? Absolute darkness where a pair of trapezoid-like shapes stared at me, gradually brightening up until they had become blinding highbeams of a car. My car. “I almost had it.” I suddenly felt like I was enveloped in a thick fog of confusion, but just as determined to talk. “I had it . . . I had everything planned out and certain it'd work flawlessly, but I must've overlooked something or messed up somehow, and now I'm stuck in her body. I mean, I'm not her . . . not supposed to be here.” Again I saw the headlights in my mind, then a flashcut of the windshield wipers from so many angles I couldn't even begin to count them. There was something I was to understand here, but . . . “I don't . . . I don't get it.”

I nearly jumped when a bicyclist zoomed past us without warning. This was a pedestrians-only sidewalk! “Overlapping identities, memories, something,” I presented a cursory analysis, startled. I wanted to rub my head, but . . . doing that with a leg wouldn't feel right.

“Overlapping identities? Memories?” Embee noted with a small hint of vibrancy. “I meant to speak to you about that as soon as you woke up, but the opportunity slipped by and I regrettably didn't get a chance after. So, excuse me for being abrupt. I was skeptical of your story at first, but what Peachy discovered during that night convinced me you had told me the truth. She did a scan of you while you were asleep, not for injuries, but rather, she did the unusual task of inspecting your magic signature.”

“My magic signature?” I was both curious and sensing familiarity. Odd, but in light of the very recent event, not entirely surprising.

“Yes, every being, pony or otherwise, has magic within themselves. It circulates within the body and interacts with the magic around us on a constant basis. When it's in harmony, it helps pegasi fly and enables spellcasting for unicorns. When it's not, well, you can guess.” Her sober tone conceded momentarily for a tiny chuckle. “Anyhow, various factors inherent to bodily magic produce distinct and unique patterns, a magic signature. Peachy said that she discovered your magic signature exhibits, and I quote, an active interlaced supernumerary layer.”

“And that means what? That I'm just a . . . a wave of magic?” That my experiences, memories, existence—my entire self—could be reduced to the evanescence and diminution of a circulatory radio signal was unsettling.

“No, not at all.” Embee halted, and so did I. She came near, consoling empathy written on her face. “You're more than that, Viv. A person, a living being sadly in a body it's not meant to be in. Those times when you feel like Rosy instead of you, instead of Vivienne,” my nascent thoughts on the matter were paused as I consciously separated the names from myself, “that's when your displaced magic essence overlaps and interferes with hers.”

Embee had given merit to a most nightmarish possibility. “She's still here?” I asked in terror. If she was, then there was nothing in me back home and, and . . . and . . .

“No, don't be afraid, she's not there with you,” Embee assured right as my eyes begin to well up with tears. “If she were, we wouldn't be here. Two essences, two minds, cannot share the same body without debilitating cognitive and motor control conflicts. She's not doing that, as you know. She could be dormant, but Peachy said that's highly unlikely when her essence exists only as a passive.”

“Her, Ros . . . a pasv . . .iv, oh . . . okay. T-that's, that's . . . better, I think. Yeah, uh . . . yeah.” My future didn't look much brighter, but my trembling was arrested by sadness. “She's . . . she's dead?”

“No, she's not,” Embee said gently. “A dead essence is petrified. An active essence fluctuates with your mood as well as your constitution and health. A passive essence, however, circulates without a cognitive link. Your active essence, in a manner of speaking, flies above it. Being an active essence, it's more reactive and has a broader frequency than that of a passive magic.”

“Explains the intersecting.” Still so shaken up that speaking three words without interruption was a small miracle, I nonetheless comprehended Embee's exposition with the help of some minor visualizations. “You seem to know . . . Do these . . . mind swaps . . . Are they frequent?”

“I was relaying what Peachy told me, and gave you a brief overview on magic essence. Beyond that, I honestly don't know.” The corner's of Embee's mouth upturned slightly with optimism. “I'm sure she'll answer any questions you have when we get back. She'll have to do another examination so as to better understand—”

“When will I go back? To me? Myself.” Seemed my words of anxious imploration had to squeeze through a ball of concentrated fluff in my throat.

“I know that means a lot to you, more than I can emphasize, and I feel sorry letting you know that Peachy can't send you back.” That could've devastated me to the point of uncontrollable sobbing, but in the back of my highly disquieted mind, a nugget of rationality had anticipated the news. Defeated, I held my head down, blinking out remaining water from my eyes. “But she can help diagnose what's happened and how, and then contact an expert who can send you back.”

That was a bright fire in the abruptly fallen darkness. A warm fire I could stay by and not feel cold and isolated. But a fire needed fuel; I needed a time frame. “Will it take long?”

“A few days perhaps,” Embee answered softly. A few days of veggie diet, a few days of no-hands-all-feet, a few days of a voice as light and dainty as a feather, a few days of estrogen-influenced behavior and thinking . . . It couldn't be as intimidating and stressful as projected, but somehow, a few days seemed like it might last for weeks. “We should definitely hope you don't have to wait any longer than that.”

“Yeah, we should,” I agreed. In my emotional state, I felt gratitude for her that had to be expressed sincerely. “Not good with words right now, so excuse me for . . .” I could . . . not feel right about using my forelegs. I . . . was averse to nuzzling. But then I recalled that Embee had given a hug of sorts yesterday that I could perhaps try to emulate. “Doing this is my thanks,” I said faintly as I crossed my head over her nape and let hide meet hide.

“It's perfectly fine, hon,” she said while I fought tears behind my closed eyes. I was so not used to my emotionality. Nonetheless, I was comforted, and I granted my retinas access to light. A bicycling pair rolled by, their curious gazes and momentary deceleration spooking me just a little bit. It reminded me of one of my solo bicycling city ventures years back, where I had glimpsed (undetected) two women in a loving embrace in a grove off a quiet footpath. I untangled myself from Embee.

“That was good, wasn't it?” She was happy for me, whereas I had some surplus ocular moisture and felt self-conscious and embarrassed.

“Yes. I'm feeling better now,” I said in a squeaking tone. I cleared my throat, then cast a cursory look around. “Where's the cafe? I'm still willing to get there.”

“It's right there, Viv,” Embee gestured at a yellowish-orange, single-floor wooden building a mere twenty meters—so close after all this?

Briefly astonished into unresponsiveness, delight and relief powered me back up. “Alright, it's about time we had coffee, and something sweet and . . .” Recalling a recent acquisition, I put my magic to use and procured a single unit of candy from her saddlebag. “Comforting.” This fruity-flavored hard candy was sooooo perfect for this occasion. “Mmmhhhh.” Then I saw the half-smile on Embee's face. The other half hinted at doubt and disgust.

“I'm honestly glad it's good for you, but I've never had candy like that. It burned my tongue . . .” Apparently, her turning around and heading toward our destination meant she had left her questions unspoken. We rounded the white post marking the cafe's corner and into a gravel-floored yard. Low, concrete stairs lead up to the open door. Predicting we'd get our coffee and sugary goodness in a minute, I hastened the returning of my palate to its neutral state. Embee heard the candy being minced between my teeth. “How can you eat that?” she marveled.

“With my mouth.” My exact answer coaxed an unfettered laugh out of her—and I'd blush myself to the ground if I couldn't hold in my giggle. She then quickly ascended the stairs and . . . I should've been astute enough to take mental notes on how! When she vanished beyond the doorway, I raised a limb and took stock of it and the shoe. “With her legs,” I stated under my breath.

Fika?

View Online

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

Chapter 23
Fika?

Dipping into the comforts of my cherished memories, I brought back a pleasant recollection of that time when I briefly admired the quaint look of a little cafe. That was from the way back far time of twenty seconds ago. Oh, happy times . . .

To be impeded by a short flight of stairs was frustrating, especially when it didn't have a ramp for the disabled. Not that I considered myself disabled, but the neurological map of my body was slow to make the necessary corrections. If I had paws, I'd have direct tactile sensation instead of the negligible report transmitted through rubber soles and insensate keratin. So, to plan my moves . . . First pair of legs had to go on the first step and . . . then to the next? Followed by the trailing legs onto the step below? That didn't seem correct . . .

“Are you coming?” Embee's head protruded past the door frame, bemused eyes blinking on her blank face.

“Uh . . .” I broke out from my stunned surprise. “Yes. I only have a problem to solve,” I said in a moment of thoughtless honesty. A spontaneous glance over at myself; how to bring it up to the concrete plateau just a little ways up and ahead seemed like the puzzle of the ages. Just a little ways ahead? Up ahead? Up? Yes! I'd clear this problem in a single bound, with catlike grace!

I bent my back legs and with some assistance of my front pair propelled myself at the prerequisite angle and trajectory to soar to the correct height and from there make the perfect landing—whoa! Momentum! Brakes applied. Inertia! Rear brakes applied! That . . . that was a lot happening within a second. I was certainly relieved I had come to a controlled halt instead of pivoting face first into the concrete or caught by the banisters. Regardless, now that I was up here safely I could . . . meet the eyes of a still bemused Embee. “Ah, yes, the stairs . . . They're, hah, solved,” I said sheepishly, as if a single word encapsulated the explanation and defense of why I had employed such an unorthodox method to get here.

“That was the problem? You don't know how to walk up stairs?” she whispered in innocent disbelief.

“Well, um, not yet,” I whispered back uneasily, certain that learning the finesse of stair navigation was inevitable. A glance at the physical manifestation of the inevitable was partially obscured by that sort-of-myself that was equine-shaped and felt weird to look at and whatnot. This exact location, however, wasn't the place for self-reflection.

“Would you . . . have liked me to help you at that?” Embee asked as I placed my eyes back on her.

“That didn't occur to me . . . and it doesn't matter anymore, anyhow,” I replied, uneasy about being taught how to ascend stairs; I wanted to retain my dignity and learn on my own. “Shall we go inside now?”

Her expression brightened. “Yes, we will,” she agreed casually, although I had a feeling I had made a scene and . . . What? This place was empty? Well . . . All the better!

The walls and most of the furniture were of light brown wood and much more contemporary than the late 19^th exterior would've keyed me in on. A pop song of some kind was playing quietly, broadcast by a radio I presumed. Also, the pleasant scent of cinnamon and coffee were conspicuously strong. Oh, right, pony senses. That explained it.

“Welcome,” a deep voice greeted me from my left. That voice belonged to a burly and bearded twenty-something wearing a vivid red shirt on the other side of the counter, on which a couple transparent domes protected doughnuts and other pastries from the elements.

“Thanks,” Embee responded; he broadened his relaxed smile. “I'd like a cup of vanilla tea with milk, sugar and honey, please.”

“Straight to the point,” he remarked, amused. “Anything else you'd like to have?”

“Yeah.” Embee moved over to the glass cabinet at the end of the short counter, whereupon she began to leisurely inspect the contents. “I'd like that, please,” she poked a hoof at the glass. Beard guy relocated to retrieve her choice and placed a small round green cake atop the counter.

“Your tea needs some time to brew, I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.”

“Okay, now it's your turn to order,” Embee said to me. Me? But I had been feeling so peaceful here in this . . . comforting illusion of invisibility.

Anyhow, I'd act like my being a female unicorn was perfectly normal, and everything would be cool. For me as well. “Uh . . .”And I should not become apprehensive of my voice. “A plain mocha coffee with cream and sugar. Two pieces.”

“Got it,” Could-cosplay-as-a-viking affirmed.

“And as well . . .” Now to pick something to nibble on. While I peered at the foods, I also spied the name of what Embee had chosen: a princess cake. Although it did look temptingly delicious, I wanted something more nutritious and less sugary. A sandwich should do well. Just had to find one with ingredients friendly for herbivores . . . Cucumber, salad, and cheese should be friendly enough. If not, dyspepsia down the line would inform me otherwise. “That sandwich . . . uh, there.” I tried not to show how awkward I felt pointing at it with a leg. A basket on the countertop had a collection of oblong, dome-shaped items in checkerboard-patterned wrappers. I could've pointed at them as well, if not for my inadequate stature. “I'll have one of these, too. The blue one, in the basket,” I requested, hiding my transient dismay. The not-actually-confirmed-to-be-a-viking plucked the blue-stood-for-vanilla treat from amidst the reds, browns and greens. “That's all, thank you.”

“Alright,” he acknowledged and got to work.

“Hey, could you get us a place to sit?” Embee suggested, casting an indicative look over to a doorway perpendicular to the displays and a fridge. “I'll follow you soon.”

“Okay,” I agreed quietly, becoming aware of a mounting feeling of disorientation. This cafe had started to feel . . . Everything was taller from this perspective and that was affecting me, unconsciously at first. In any case, I had to find us a place. Wait . . . I had heard something.

I stopped, it stopped, too. I started walking again. The steady rhythm of a rubber mallet softly tapping at a wooden floor . . . beneath me? Oh . . . I had a lot to reconcile.

“What's holding you up?” Embee inquired, unconcerned.

“Uhm . . .” I gazed at her, trying to figure out an excuse that'd fall within the parameters of my pony-guise. The relative silence was . . . relative. A discernible voice atop a rhythm was audible. “This song . . . I've heard it before.” I didn't care about the song, and odds were I would forget it before we were done with our meager breakfast.

“I'll help your memory,” the barista said as he produced a phone, presumably from his pocket. “Let's see, let's see . . .” He caressed the device with his index finger. “Rock DJ, by Robbie Williams.”

“Mmmhhh . . . Okay. Thanks.” I hadn't thought he'd look it up. Come to think of it, I wasn't sure a song like that suited this small and rustic but modernized cafè. Anyhow, that was not up to me to decide; I had a seat to find in the adjacent room. Seeing how this place was vacant, I was looking forward to a well-deserved moment of relaxation and then talking about my magical mystery . . .

“Well-heheh-hello!”

. . . If the next room didn't have a solitary pony sitting at a low, round table. Worse yet, it was the only table I could see that was suitable for pony customers. Ergo, me, unfortunately. Despair and horror was trundling to my face, but I wrenched it into an eager smile. “Hi,” I replied to him in a tiny voice that made me sound more pleased than I . . . wasn't at all.

“Didn't expect another pony here,” the light gray stallion said happily.

“Neither did I,” I said, fighting to maintain my composure as I bravely took myself to the table and appraised the low, pastel-cushioned chairs.

“You know, it wasn't a complete surprise,” the pony resumed talking while I carefully maneuvered my equine self into the one o'clock position chair to his six o'clock. A twelve to his six felt too intimate, like a setup for developing a romance.

Now I had to defeat a cringe, as I once again had been reintroduced to the things I didn't like having located where they shouldn't be. Maybe I was sitting incorrectly? Maybe if I pulled my legs closer together to put myself in a slightly raised posture? This felt weird as well, but feeling like a pony was preferable to feeling like a mare.

“Heard some talking, figured it was girls, but I guess it was ponies. Isn’t it great to have some familiar company? You got a friend there or—” His bare hoof met his cheek. “I didn't say you weren't a girl, did I? I mean, you are, aren’t you?” He chuckled with a smile.

Delighted by the brilliance of this conversation, I simply sighed despondently and darkly said, “Do I look or sound like a colt to you?” How I wished . . .

His smile dropped like a stone. “Whoa-ow, oh oh, oh, def-definitely not,” he said, stumbling on his words. “You're certainly a girl. A really fine-looking young mare, to be precise. There's no mistaking that. Have I, er, did I offend you? It's not in my habit to do so. I'm sorry. Sincerely. Let's . . . Let's put that blunder behind us and start anew. Wouldn't be wise to play a song in the wrong key, right?”

“Sure,” I droned dispassionately, a nastier side of me wanting to vocally equate his green-white mane to toothpaste. Although . . . he was probably right. Let bygones be bygones.

“Allow me to introduce myself.” He placed his hoof on his sternum. “Name's Bent Fabric. Pleased to meet you.”

Logically, I should introduce myself. Unwilling to provide either my pony or human name, I gazed over what was on his side of the table. An empty plate with crumbs, an open and partially completed page of a crossword magazine with a pen laid over it, and a green juice box with a straw. I also spied a hint of bemused impatience emerging on his face. I'd have to buy more time. “So, uh . . . Bent Fabric . . .” A name like that aroused the notion of him being in the trade of dodgy items. An unfortunate misattribution, I surmised. “You're, uh . . . a musician?”

“Eh?” He mildly recoiled in surprise. “Haha, no. I'm not. A musician? Where did you get that from?”

“Well, uhm . . .” I would've shrugged, but that might've been unponylike—and I wasn't sure I'd maintain my balance. “You said singing in the wrong key . . .”

Bent laughed, humoured. “Oh, that's just a phrase I've heard said more than once. Well, believe it or not, I know very little about music. I've come over here on behalf of our family enterprise. Negotiate trade, discover new and exciting trends and textiles, but right now, I'm having a day for myself. Relaxation, wandering around freely, going to meet a few friends soon, that sort of thing. Say, if you ever find yourself in Nickergood Brook, get yourself to the corner of Main Street for The Corner Fold. Might find something that'd look great in your home—or on you.” He gave me a wink, probably picturing me in an elegant dress . . . “I could have a fine duffel jacket tailored for you to go along with your hat.”

“Oh?” Not a dress, then? A jacket? A gender-neutral piece of clothing? “I wouldn't mind that,” I said with a tinge of interest.

“Anyhow,” Bent carried on, “I came upon this little place by chance on my morning stroll. Nice and quiet, isn't it? Just two rooms or three, like it was once somepony’s home.”

“Once a home? I can see that,” I agreed, taking a cursory stock of the room. However, I was in a corner, where from I couldn't see into the first room. What was holding up Embee?

“But right . . .” Bent said. I realized I was still wearing my hat. Bad form! I reached for it . . . but I was wearing a shoe! These limbs weren't meant for grabbing. “You've yet to introduce yourself.”

Caught with my limb aloft, I rubbed my chin with my pastern and cast an oblique glance at nothing specific. “Well, I'm just . . . me.” My tone received an infusion of mild whimsy. “My name's a mystery, only known to a select few who've earned that special privilege.”

“Oh, that's uh, something . . .” He leaned back, stroking his chin, then tilted his head before smiling. “Can you grant me that special privilege if I offer a significant discount on that jacket I promise for you? Let's say, ten percent.” I hadn't anticipated him to begin bartering. Neither had I anticipated a growing discomfort at the very end of my vertebra. I had to expose my eyes to my white-coated backside to get a better idea of what was wrong.

My . . . right ankle, I supposed, had trapped a few hairs between itself and the seat when I sat down, pulling my tail into an uncomfortable position. ‘Stupid tail,’ I groused as I freed the hairs from under my leg and watched as I slowly slinked my tail through the back of the chair.

“Twenty five?” Bent upped the offer. I glanced again at my tail, believing for a moment that it would disappear in tandem with the fading discomfort. When I looked back, his lips had creased into a smile, and I smiled back just to appear friendly. He leaned a little forward and his eyes narrowed. “Fifty,” he said in a low voice.

Fifty percent off just to learn my name? I was genuinely astonished he'd go that far. However, I was technically penniless at the moment. “Tempting, but no,” I declined pithily, but cordially.

“No?” Bent was surprised, almost aghast. He collected himself quickly. “Ah-kay. How about if you get it for absolutely free?”

A free jacket! “That's quite generous,” I said . . . though, I didn’t mean to say that aloud. Bent smiled, and I felt like I had just stepped into a trap. “Well, hmm, I guess I have to give you my name . . .” His smile grew. “But only as soon as you can get me that jacket.” I smiled back.

“Yes, of course I can . . . Oh-hoh, you got me there. You're clever—and a tough sell. I can admire that, hmmh . . .” I thought my hat off my head while he was planning his next move; it was rude to wear hats inside. “You're being very enigmatic about yourself. Like the Duke, huh?”

“The Duke?” I repeated, concealing my fright with honest cluelessness.

“Duke.” Bent said a single word? What was this? A dastardly litmus test of sorts on Equestrian culture?

“Er . . . Care to elaborate on that?” I said carefully, fearful of showing my ignorance. If I only had a Holo-Duke to distract him with as I'd make my escape. Or would that be a Holo-Pony?

“Everypony where I'm from knows about the Duke. You've not heard of the Duke's tale?” Bent's query was devoid of any visual or verbal clues to a merciless tear-down of my pony-guise.

“Sorry, no,” I meekly shook my head, feeling a slight bit of shame for being in the dark. Sort of like my not having seen The Lord of The Rings movies, to draw a quick parallel.

“Alright, um . . . Maybe my town is not every town, heheh. Let me think about how to put that story in short form. Wouldn't want to prattle about it until you are bored. So, ah . . .” He pressed his lips and scrunched his snout as he thought.“Okay! The Grand Excursion of the Duke of Whinnypeg is a story of a humble but poor furnisher who was contracted by the town's mayor, and when rewarded with select riches and lustrous clothes for a superb job well done, decides it's ripe time for a vacation full of luxury as he had always dreamed of.”

“That summary was well articulated,” I noted in nonplussed disbelief. “Did you write it yourself?” Was he really that good, or did he have a hidden cue card somewhere around here?

“Hahaha no. I was paraphrasing the book's back cover out of memory. Poor memory, maybe, hahaha. It's one of my favorite reads, and I've been really itching to see the photoplay. Does this city have a theater?” he suddenly asked.

“Most likely,” I replied. What was a photoplay, and why was it in a theater?

“It's a big city, I think, so it must have a theater, maybe even two—or more. I should take a look if I come across any, but would the play be here, I don't think so, but . . . never say never . . . dhah-hmm, but when I was in . . .” His voice had gradually reduced to thoughtful muttering, apparently forgetting my presence.

Gosh, what was taking Embee so long?

“Ah, anyhow!” The unexpected resumption in volume almost pricked my ears off my head. “Figuring he could have some fun, you know, the duke, he presented himself as ah, heh, 'The Duke of Whinnypeg' as he lounged in the resort town. Duke, for short. Of course, when asked for his name, he said it was a closely guarded secret, or some such, just to never let anypony know his true identity. Hehehe, heh, you see, this is after his act has taken ahhuhhuh, a predictable turn when he goes, weeeell, afoul with his finances and . . . huhm?” His narration was interrupted by Embee's arrival. Finally!

“I'm very sorry, hon, the payment wouldn’t go through,” she excused her late arrival.

“Well hello!” Bent made his presence known. “How are you?”

“I'm fine, thanks for asking.” She took the nine o'clock seat. I was puzzled, and a little shocked. Did these two ponies know each other?

“That's very good to hear.” Bent cast curious glances at us. “You called her 'hon'. Are you her sister or friend or . . . ?”

“Friend,” Embee said warmly, taking her saddlebags off. I showed a complimentary smile, hoping she'd carry the conversation and allow me to take refuge in being a silent observer.

“That's nice, real nice. My name's Bent Fabric.” They were strangers? Why would a complete stranger ask about another's well-being at first sight? That was so weird. Also, he had extended his hoof out for a . . . hoofshake? Embee too was bemused, but her wits were quicker and reciprocated the gesture. Bent's eyes fell on her hoof and he hesitated briefly before the limbs were linked for the motion. Maybe he had expected her to remove her shoe before shaking his hoof, but had felt it wasn't crucial enough to speak about?

“Pleasure to meet you, Bent. You can call me Embee,” she introduced herself as I looked down at my shoes. Should I remove them? Would it matter? They were still legs and not the highly versatile digits I used to have. Ugh, I had to stop thinking about this lest a feeling of deprivation ensnare me in a debilitating blanket of depression.

“Get called Embee, humh? Embee and Duke.” I was Duke to him? Being referred by that moniker wasn't so bad. “Well, you're a girl, so that makes you Duchess.” Until he feminized out of courtesy . . . and consequently evoked a memory of an animated movie.

“Duchess?” Embee said in a rising pitch, arching a brow at me.

“I don't know, I guess I'm a cat now,” I said with an air of nonchalant tranquility, “Purr purr,” I deadpanned.

“A cat?” Bent laughed, humored. “You're a strange filly.”

“I know,” I said flatly. If only Bent would kindly leave so I could talk with Embee about my being an interlocked magic circle—or what was it?

“To be clear, my name is a contraction of Medical Brace,” she cordially informed Bent, whereas I realized she had caught on to my passive aggressive decrum before I or Bent had. “I'm a paramedic.”

“Ah, well, yeah, Embee rolls off the tongue easier.” Bent leaned a bit her way. “Name matches the cutie mark, I see.” He wasn't shy of checking her hips, and she wasn't offended. Peculiar, but . . . okay? I was happy that he was ignoring me. “Did your parents have a dream where they saw your name?” Prophetic dreams? That seemed too outlandish to believe.

“I doubt it. Names in dreams before foaling is an anecdotal myth that very so genuinely happened to a friend's grandparent's aunt. My story's that I had a habit of clinging on to my parent's legs long before I had any memories of doing so, and they hadn't thought of a proper name for me. I guess they thought I was like a brace for a leg. Makes for a funny story, doesn't it?” How did she know what she had done before she had memories of doing . . . Right, her parents must've told her.

“Yeah, yeah, certainly!” Bent glanced down at his empty plate and that magazine beside it. “But oh, think now, if they had seen your name in a dream, they would've been so amazed to later learn how right it was.”

“If it were right,” Embee adduced doubt.

“If it were? Don't give me that, hahah-eh . . .” Bent's laugh vaned like an oxygen-starved candle; apparently, Embee hadn't been kidding. “Are you seriously saying the dream can be wrong?”

“M-hm,” Embee affirmed nonchalantly. “I know a colt whose parents are competitive archers, and I heard from him they dreamt he'd be an archer, too. Little did they know he'd yearn to join the fire brigade. So, yes, I know a firefighter named Piercing Arrow. Go figure.”

“Wow,” I uttered, astonished. A firefighter named Piercing Arrow? What a dimension-breaking coincidence of cosmic proportions! Although, in all fairness, Pierce-Arrow’s logo wasn’t solely embossed on fire trucks . . .

“Wow indeed.” He didn't hide his amused behavior. “Think, Embee, if you had become you a shingler.”

Embee gave him a puzzled look. “Eh?”

“Or me? A musician! Hahaha! Or you a . . .” Bent looked at me while I had begun musing on the probability of a prophetic dream mispredicting the future. “Uh . . . You're ah, hmm . . .” What did he think I was?

“A cat?” I suggested, prepared to be attributed a very female-specific occupation.

He shook his head in confused amusement. “I don't know what you could've been. Definitely not a cat. But you've not got your mark yet.” Having to creatively explain their absence seemed imminent. “Might get them within a year? I don't try predicting these things.” Didn’t he just do exactly that? “I'm guessing they'll be about locks.”

I had to double take at his deduction. “Locks? Why?”

“You got a key.” He gestured. “Say, it's a bit strange looking. Not for a house, is it?”

The key, of course, and he had already made a fair estimate. “You're right, it's not for a house.” I heard the sound of walking. The radio, while rather muted, was playing something I had heard before, somewhere, sometime in the past . . . Oh snap! Rhythm is the Dancer!

The, ostensibly, sole employee of this cafe had arrived with our orders. “Here you are.” Tea and the princess cake for Embee; and coffee, a sandwich, and foil-wrapped chocolate-coated vanilla foam goodie for me—and a packet of sugar for my coffee.

“Thank you,” Embee said. My reticent nature got to me, and I merely nodded with a smile. I unwrapped the packet and deposited the sugars into the cup. My impatience took over and raised the white vessel to my lips. I had been waiting for this respite since yesterday, and . . . oh, this was so creamy and smooth. I could feel my concerns fleeting away. The experience would be heightened once the dissolving sugar added its sweetness to the mix.

“So, I'm really curious,” Bent began after the tall one had left. “Tell me about your key. What's it for?”

I took another sip. “It opens portals,” I said simply, sparked by a touch of playful wit.

My answer had bestowed Bent with anticipation, and seeing him stew in it for several seconds was mildly amusing. “Yes?”

“Portals.” Obscuring the truth and dissuading him from asking compromising questions was paramount; a riddle might help throw him off the trail. I took a moment to think. “Here’s a riddle: Two swing out, one rises, another falls, a fifth spins on a thread, and a final one initiates brilliance.” I then took a bite of my breakfast; soft bread with crunchy salad surrendered expected but satisfying flavors. Iceberg lettuce? Probably not harvested off actual ice floes.

“How vague, but oddly fascinating,” he said slowly, then scrunched his brows and looked down in deep thought. “Swinging and rising? Do portals function that way?”

“No, I don't think they do.” Embee sighed wearily. “It's a car key and opens it. Portals being a very different way to say doors,” she informed. “I guess a key does unlock doors, but . . .” Her voice trailed off, but not so far that it was inaudible. “Two swing . . . but spins?”

“You spoiled the riddle,” I reproved after my mouth wasn't occupied with delicious food, disappointed she had ruined my little fun. However, I wasn't truly upset.

“That riddle's too tough, hon,” Embee said to me with sympathetic dismay. I could've said something back, but not while I was having another bite.

“An owner of a car, oooh . . .” Bent expressed heightened intrigue. “What do you do with it?”

In disbelief at his obliviousness, I bemusedly replied, “Uh, I drive it.”

“Is that so?” he said with awe. “I always thought it was really difficult, if not impossible, for a pony to drive. How did you do it? Oh, right, right. Magic.” He waved a hoof by his forehead. “That must've been very helpful. But cars, ah, you know, they're not made for us?”

“I know that, but, as you deduced, I did the impossible, and wisened by that experience, I began researching . . . better . . . options,” my eagerness dissolved into trepidation as I realized the information I was relaying didn't belong to me, even though it felt like it did.

This amicable dialog had to end without piquing his interest further while also delivering closure. “Don't get any wild ideas of this being part of a grand endeavor with huge investments and research teams. It's only a project of passion of my own.” I saw the wide-eyed look on Embee of fascination—or alarm. I had a feeling she was poised to intervene if I was starting to behave unlike what she knew I was. “Now I'm mostly focused with finding solutions to, ah, the obvious shortcomings. If it works, good. If it can be replicated, good. If it can be reliably replicated, even better.”

“An inventor? I'm intrigued. Very intrigued,” Bent said, doing an enthusiastic clap. “Oh! Gotta tell you this before I forget, but a friend of my dad has a tool shed that once wasn't. See, he used it to sell wares all over, and fix it all over as well. Started out as a steam wagon he got from somepony in Manehattan, but it was of a wonky kind, on the account of the narrow spacing of the wheels in the back. Almost makes it a three-wheeler. It's a pretty fancy looking thing, like a train being driven backwards, if you ever saw one. Have you?”

“No,” I replied, perplexed by the nonsequitous tale.

“Of course she's not seen one,” Embee said rather boldly, giving concern that she let it slip that I wasn't a genuine pony. “Trotter Tricorns are hoof-made and there aren't that many. Stands to reason that they wouldn't be a common sight.” I relaxed now that my concerns had been alleviated. “Has your dad's friend ever considered parting with his shed for a considerable sum?”

“If you're trying to hint that somepony would care to buy it, I'm sorry to say, but no. Nopony sees any value in it,” he responded neutrally.

“But some one might,” I noted, my brain having produced images of vintage steam wagons maintained in immaculate condition by museums, preservation societies, and dedicated private persons.

Bent scowled in doubt. “Like I said, nopony cares to buy—Oooh, oh. Aaah . . .” Now he got it.

“Yes, think of what a boon it would be if someone purchased an authentic and extremely rare Equestrian steam wagon, and cherished it with care comparable to the most beloved pets and family members. It would be a very, very beautiful and priceless steam wagon. Cannot put a price on family and friends, after all.” My heart wept for knowing that many vehicles of the past, including irreplaceable and illustrious one-of-a-kinds, had been lost forever due to callous indifference and disappreciation of their immeasurable value.

“Didn't ever think of it being worth more than a bucket of sand. I must let him know and urge him to send feelers for an earthian buyer before his wealth literally rots away.” I was happy for having enlightened Bent, and potentially saving a small piece of Equestrian history. “Duchess,” he addressed me. I quickly tempered my chagrin. “How did your interest in cars begin?”

“Well, um, cars. I truly don't know. I was simply drawn to them.” Obviously, I left out the numerous amusement park rides, video games, driving school, and an instance of trying my parent's car on a vacant sandy lot.

“Drawn to drive a car . . . riage instead of drawing a carriage?” His play on words was almost cringeworthy, and also educed a debasing image in my head. Nevertheless, I kept my displeasure to myself, lest he believe I was too "high-class" to pull a wagon. “That pun was met with thunderous applause. Thank you, thank you,” he said, bowing as much as his sitting posture permitted. For being an excitable goof, his sense of self-irony was commendable. “But, er, yes, driving is difficult, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” a lapse of thoughtlessness let me say. “Sort of. Knowing how a car functions and knowing how to not drive poorly is . . . the easiest part of it all.” I had to extrapolate, placing myself in the driver's seat. “These, ah . . .” I held up my limb . . . of ungulate structure with a shoe; a jolt of disconcertment had to be firmly subdued. “Aren't the grippiest of things, and, uh, my dimensions aren't sufficient to reach the pedals, and . . . you know that already,” I said shamefacedly, realizing I had stated the obvious. “Which is why I use the most common spell.” Indicatively, the checkerboard-patterned confectionary rose briefly off the table for a moment. “It is . . .” The smile I had just developed faded because . . . I didn't need to extrapolate any longer. “All things considered, not that great.” I looked to Embee, awaiting her to redirect the conversation; her expression was that of perplexed suspense. Bent, in contrast, had his ears at a slight forward slant. Aware that I was in a bind with only one logical exit, I overcame my trepidation. “I mean, I've practiced decreasing the delay between thought and action down to a blink of an eye, but protracted, simultaneous multi-control with a high degree of precision is exhausting.” Not to mention, disappointing. How could I have ever foreseen and prepared for hands and feet having an edge over telekinesis?

“That's why you started a project, that I have to assume, involves magic?” Bent hazarded in a moment of sobriety. I affirmed it with a hum that might've been a little despondent. I had a sneaking suspicion that this enigmatic project may've been the catalyst of my troubles, but I didn't have a clear picture of what had transpired. “I have to say that you haven't really given any specifics on what sort of magic you're trying to use, but I still ask you, have you tried . . . uhm, what was it? I'm not a unicorn, sorry. Got unicorn friends though, but uh, I recall one spoke of a spell in passing one time . . . Alive spell, life spell? Tried that?”

“Uuuuhhhm, a give life spell?” I was uncertain how to respond: tell a bold-faced lie, or be daringly truthful?

“Hey, hon, are you sure you want to talk about that?” Embee said to me with a tone that subtly informed me of her concerns. I was, after all, talking about subjects I hadn't been personally involved in.

“What are you, her mother?” Bent laughed merrily, apparently mistaking Embee's attitude for overbearingness. “I'm sure it's not your place to tell her what she can or can't talk about as much as it's mine.” By the look on her face, I could tell she had not foreseen her valiant effort being thwarted so bluntly and swiftly; I had to rely on myself until she was able to try again. “So, ah, a life spell. Anything you can, or should I say . . . ” He glanced at Embee with raised eyebrows, but a relaxed expression, before his attention fell squarely back on me. “. . . Want to tell me about it?” So, I had been given the liberty of withholding information on my own accord, and he'd know if I did. Jubilations . . .

“That spell, ah, I must admit that it's very appealing, but, err . . .” I didn't have to rely on a past MLP: FiM episode, as I . . . now knew more than what that had shown. I took a larger sip of coffee to gain some tranquility and confidence. It also warmed my insides, a warmth my fur coat kept from dissipating. “It doesn't function so well,” I said sadly, shaking my head. I had so much on my tongue, ready to leap out explaining exactly why the spell was highly problematic. “If it did, steam would be mostly obsolete as motion power. A car's, well, it's not a wagon, even when it’s a Volkswagen.” I produced a mild smile; Bent didn't seem to get it. “Well, in a manner of speaking, a car is a highly complex wagon. Probably more complex than a steam wagon. The car I have is simple. Kind of a fortunate find.” This wasn't my memory, but I was thankful I had developed that awareness. “But I digress. I would not say that the spell's broken, but I wouldn't trust casting it on any device capable of limitless motion.”

“Limitless motion? Ah, yes, a thing that can, at least in theory, keep going endlessly, like a wheel on an axle.” Bent had surprised me with his quick deduction. “Why's that?”

“Well, because it's a thing that can rotate. Forever,” I joked. Reading Bent's wry smile, I inferred that he knew I had to give him the real answer. Silenced by trepidation, I stole a look at Embee; she had put a hoof to her chin, her body taut with anticipation as her wide-open eyes darted from Bent to me and back. “From what I understand, um, ah . . . it has a lot to do with spatial awareness. The spell tends to erroneously read a revolution as being slower than designated . . . which then causes increasing and uncontrollable acceleration. In fairness, perhaps the spell's not actually broken. I mean, maybe I'm just good enough to cast it properly? Maybe somepony who's more than ten times better than I could cast it properly? Some spells can be like that. Go figure.” I would've shrugged, but I accepted that I was sadly bound by a physique that relied on four-legged support, even while sitting.

“Excuse me, but I happened to look at the time,” Embee said, gesturing at a box-shaped clock on the wall—an ingressed face with pale orange pointers and digits. Peculiar. “You were to meet your friends. When, exactly?”

“When? Oh, that'll be at—” Bent's gaze locked on the clock for a few silent seconds. . . and so did mine. “Oh.” He cringed as though poked with a pointy stick. “Yes, almost now . . .” Caught in a flummox, he collected his magazine and pen into his bags, then put them on. “I'm sorry that my departure will be so sudden. I can't leave my friends waiting, but . . . Ah, maybe we will meet again? I'd be more than happy to learn more about you and your project.”

“Sure,” I replied, distracted by that clock . . . which reminded me of something . . . My car had a clock. Almost similar, somewhat recessed into the dashboard . . . It functioned just fine, and was illuminated by pale orange light. Why was this important? The clock worked by itself. I didn't need to do anything to it. The interior lights worked . . . just as they should. All things . . . normal. Magic theory to practice . . . Wait . . . No.

“Hello?” a voice said.

“Yes, hello?” I replied with a response to the . . . Embee, it, yes, her. What?

“Are you feeling alright?” she asked. Had anypony ever told her she has nice eyes? “You were staring into nothing.”

“I nunnot dot . . . I don't know. Uhm . . . I wasn't mentally present, was I?” I began to recollect myself. “I saw something, well uh . . . A memory was trying to intrude.” I glanced around and saw that it was just Embee and I. “Bent's gone, I see, huh.” Fortunately, Bent had left fast enough to miss my stupor.

“Yes, he said goodbye and everything,” Embee said as she looked toward the doorway, as if to catch him snooping on us past the frame.

“Okay, that's um . . . okay. More than okay,” I said, afraid of expressing my relief. I had wanted him gone, but to say that openly and brazenly even after the fact would reflect poorly on me.

Embee trained a concerned look on me, which she ended with a small sigh. “So, what made you become absent?” she inquired with some hesitance. “That memory you mentioned, it didn't come out unprompted, did it?”

“Well, no, thankfully no. I looked at that clock, and I then started remembering things that, you know, don't belong to me.” Should I also have said the memory seemed recent?

“You did talk about magic a lot, and in detail as well. Knowing you, that seems like a subject you wouldn't know much about,” Embee said with a subtly instructive tone.

“Stands to reason the clock was a contributing factor to the memory overlap. Maybe it wouldn't have happened otherwise, but water poured on fire equals steam,” I rationalized with a simile. “I had figured out that as long as I can separate the identities—her and mine—I'll be alright. Mostly alright. I don't embrace the experiences, to be honest, but neither am I freaking out about them anymore.” All I wanted was to be in control.

“It's fantastic that you’re handling this well, but you should still be careful.” She was apparently not as convinced of my abilities as I was. . . maybe I shouldn't be so confident.

“You're not saying I could get stuck in 'there'?” I asked in a small panic.

“No, it's not that dire, don't worry,” she assuaged. “From what I learned from Peachy, becauseher presence is passive, to get you out of 'there' isn't impossible.”

“A passive presence.” I had to think back on what Embee had said of my predicament before we had entered this café. “That is, I'm an active presence that's become entwined with her passive presence, and sometimes what's hers sometimes feels like mine?”

“Mostly right. Her traits, personality and memories, what makes her a pony, are there along with yours, and as you may have experienced, they can intersect,” Embee affirmed. “She herself is not there with you, which means she cannot grab on to you and not let go, so to speak. However, if she were there—”

“It would be the end of me, I know.” Two minds in one body equaled one body with no mind, and that was the last I'd think of that macabre possibility. “To retrace,” I continued before Embee had the chance to discuss the nightmarish topic, “just as I can descend from my flight level to hers almost unwittingly, I can also leave with almost no input of my own. However, ideally, I should have an altimeter and a TCAS.” I'd have to explain what those were—if she asked.

“Tea-cass? Uhmm, certainly.” Now she'd ask . . . Right? “Well, I think I get what you're suggesting.” She deduced what my jargon meant? “But consider this: can you tell yourself to wake up when you're fully asleep?”

“Uh, no.” My airplane of optimistic defiance suffered an engine flame out, but I took the initiative to restart it promptly. “But resigning to flying in the dark is unwise. You said I have to be cautious, and I agree, but I have to somehow know that I'm not myself when I'm not myself.” That gave me a bit of a pause. “Gosh, what a paradox,” I said to myself, mildly frustrated.

“That means you have to recognize the situation and turn away from it before you become enveloped by it. But of course, if you're already lost in the mist, then some kind of prompt is required to whisk you out of there.” She dipped her head in thought, continuing to ponder whilst she took a long sip of her tea. “It has to be a disturbance, a small, 'this doesn't feel right' feeling that tips you off.”

I raised a limb. “ As if anything about this would ever feel right. ” Taking a cue from Embee—and with a hope to maintain a steady mind—I took a sip of my coffee. Ick! It had already become lukewarm . . . “Unfortunately, a tentative measure is better than having none at all.”

“Do you like being a pony?” Embee asked while I was downing the last of my once-hot. . . drink. She asked me what now?

Stunned (and insulted), I stared at her in disbelief. I was so taken aback that I thought I'd have to physically force the levitating cup onto the table; I let it settle the 'normal' way. “I tolerate this because that's all I can do. It'd be a different story if this was my body transformed and I had done it by my own volition, and I could undo it with a snap of my fingers.” A glance down rendered that a critical folly. “Snap of my hooves? Or a tap?” I corrected, discombobulated. “I don't know how to snap my fingers. In fact, I don't even know how it's done. But that’s not the point . . .” Refocusing my attention on her, I asked morosely, “Why would you ask that? I thought you already knew.”

“Yes, I know, and I’m sorry that I upset you.” The apology was nice, but she hadn't answered my question. “That you were upset by the question, though, perfectly demonstrates your strong opinion on the matter, which incidentally weakens your connection to her.”

“And thus, easier to break?” I eased up now that I understood why she had asked; she had provoked me in a pursuit to observe a sufficiently authentic manifestation of my sentiments.

“Yes. You could cause a bit of a shake up somehow, and there you go.” Her eyes gravitated to her yet untouched cake; for a moment I had thought she'd call for a break. “A thought, a feeling, a comment. Something that goes completely against who you are.”

“Well, um . . . maybe she likes a certain food I can't stand,” I surmised flatly. “Though I'd rather not snap out of it when my mouth's filled with a nasty taste.”

“True. It has to be something that has a chance to happen at any time and frequently,” Embee stated the obvious but uninspiring truth. I sighed despondently. I didn't know much about card games, but seemed like fate had dealt me a bad hand.

“Ouch!” A gruff yelp suddenly emanated from the other room, soon followed by the sound of a rushing faucet; both I and Embee I had turned our attention to the minor commotion.

“Ah, ears,” she said to me. “Your ears.”

Puzzled, but also perturbed by excitement and an awareness of what I had, I asked, “What about them?” In response Embee's smile widened. It almost felt ominous. “Don't smile like that.”

“Sorry.” She returned to her sincere appearance. “Ears. How do you feel about them?”

“Well, I’d rather not feel them,” I answered. “I have very sensitive ears. Or am very sensitive to them. I don't want to touch them, or have them touched, without . . . without being prepared for it.” Then I wouldn't freak out severely. Only moderately, perhaps. “I was afraid you'd come over to test me . . . and, I hate to say this. But, if I'm not being myself, I guess you could . . . well, maybe it would bring me back.” Just the mere mention of the experience was harrowing. In fact, I was slightly trembling.

“No, don't worry about that now, hon, just relax,” Embee instructed gently, having noted my anxiety.

“Yeah, I'm a little on edge . . . But you know, it'd, when I'd . . . It would cause a feeling I don't want to feel but I can't get rid of.” Explaining this to her was a little hard to do when my voice wanted to give out. I took a silent but deep breath. “My ears . . . they follow me everywhere I go . . .” Again, my throat clamped up as I recalled yesterday's horrifying evening when . . . every part of me wasn't how it was supposed to be. “And I can usually forget about them, but when they’re touched . . .” Hiding my eyes behind my arm, I continued fragilely, “I don't want to be there again. I've been there and I don't . . . again . . .” I couldn't carry on any longer.

“Don't think about it, okay,” Embee soothed while I was fighting my emotions. I had to put my mind on something else other than that which made my eyes water and nose run. “Here.” Now fighting a reluctance to show myself, I took a careful peek; she was offering a tissue.

“Thanks,” I said weakly, though I couldn't take it with this . . . Of course. I had to literally ‘mind’ that other method. Also, I suppose I shouldn't feel too ashamed of myself. It wasn't Embee who'd perceive me negatively . . .

“Good day not to wear makeup, huh?” Embee said while I was busy transferring runoff eyewater to the tissue. A joke to lighten the mood?

“Hahaha,” I laughed spiritlessly, despite my effort to appreciate her attempt at comedy. I didn't even want to consider a situation that required paint on my face. “But it doesn't need to be the ears,” I suggested. “Probably shouldn't be.” Speaking of body parts, I thought one of my legs had become numb.

“It could be a last resort,” she said while I was adjusting my posture.

“Yeah, the first choice should be something less ups—egh.” I should've been more careful! I didn't want the cushion buckling and then brushing up against me where it shouldn't.

“Such as whatever that was?” she said with cautious curiosity.

I placed the tissue flat on the table and contemplated momentarily. “Maybe,” I hazarded hesitantly. Could it be worse than the ears? I couldn't be sure, and I didn't know if I wanted to be sure.

“And what was ‘that?’” she said. Was she going to guess what 'that' was? No? It wasn't a rhetorical question? This was all on me, then.

I bit my tongue, sighed deeply, and would've fidgeted if I had dared to. “Oh . . . uhh . . . I don't know if I want to tell.”

“Why?” she probed.

I ducked my head timidly and in a voice just a smidgen louder than the soft pop music filling this place, reiterated, “I don’t want to say.”

Embee laughed lightly in confused amusement. “Why not?”

Even I began to smile—out of embarrassment. “You're really not letting it go, are you?”

“Just spill it out and then it'll be over,” she reasoned. It was a compelling argument. If I danced around the subject and employed circumlocutions as I usually did, I'd only inconvenience myself until she'd put two and two together.

“Well . . .” How would I express this concisely? I think I got it . . . but saying it would require a bit of moxie. “My teats aren't supposed to be down there.” Oh droppings in Scottish colloquialism, I botched the wording! “Uh, I mean . . . I meant . . .” The, not my. And worse, Embee was smiling. “Come on, it's not really funny.”

“No, it's not, I'm sure of it. It's very serious from your perspective.” Was it not serious from her perspective? “I'm just happy we got this over quickly.”

“Whoop-de-doo,” I cheered plainly. I would have slapped myself hard in the face for my humiliating gaffe if not for the block of hurt at the end of my limbs.

“Don't be so sullen about your brashness. Maybe it's just not your style to be like that, but I can appreciate the directness of it. So, just this once, for my sake if not for yours, go easy on yourself. You did well. Also, if I may add, when I'm tending to an injured pony, it helps me a lot to help them if they can say what's hurting. Now . . .” Her thoughtful but apologetic outlook didn't portend well. “Not to downplay your discomfort regarding your teats—”

“Ugh.” My groan of disgust gave her pause. They weren't mine, and I didn't want to have them anyway!

“—but you seemed to react with pain.”

“Is there a difference?” I commented caustically through my teeth.

She wasn't put off by my surliness. “Yes, there actually might be. But I understand you, it's a tough topic, but please, stay calm and hear me out,” she ever so gingerly suggested. “Will you? Please?”

She would talk about those things . . . but she would hopefully only offer a simple and brief summary and that would be it. Just had to maintain my resilience and all would be golden. “Fine,” I conceded to her will, bracing for hearing displeasing information.

Nonetheless, she gave me a moment of respite before she opened her mouth. “You might not know it, but there could be an abrasion, a bruise, or a healing wound that's a cause of undue irritation.”

The imagery added to my nausea. “I'm not in the mood to take a look.” I had to again remind myself and be a little thankful that they weren't that easy to see and weren't two flagons of nuisance.

“No, you don't have to, but with your permission, I can.” Her audacity struck me dumb. Slowly, I began to realize that if something was . . . not all well back down there, it was to my benefit she identified it and have it treated . . . Preferably not immediately! Or immediately, if it was that severe. Hopefully it wasn't! But she'd only take a look first and . . . I could live with that.

“Okay, but make it quick,” I said in an apprehensive monotone, wanting to put my hands into an embrace over my ribcage—if I had the latter. Why, I wasn't sure. Some body language thing. “I'll have to get down—”

“No need to,” she dissuaded pleasantly, springing off her chair with the kind of elegance that'd make cats scowl with envy. She gestured at the table. “Simply brace yourself against the table and stand on the chair. Can you do that?”

“I guess.” Although bewildered by what was transpiring—or was about to—I did as instructed. As she approached, so did my fright. “Just—” No, I shouldn't speak so loudly; the bearded man in the other room that was very close by might come and witness this unusual event. “Just don't touch anything, please,” I whispered nervously.

“I won't,” she assured, her head partly beneath me. With one fear dispatched, another took its place; I was afraid I'd slip. The table's lacquered top would make it a slippery surface, but . . . maybe that was counteracted by the rubber soles on my shoes. How long would this inspection take? Time seemed to have become dilated, but a glance at the clock told me the thinnest pointer was progressing at its nominal pace. My car clock didn't have that . . . and that was all I'd think about that! Flying into a storm cloud was the poorest of ideas!

“Alright, all done.” Embee backed out. “You can sit down now and take a sigh of relief.” With a small tremble coursing in my body—and with utmost care—I placed myself back on the chair. Only then did I feel safe enough to breathe easy. “You don't have to worry. They look healthy.”

“Yay, they're healthy . . .” And in the wrong place, but also . . . weren't obtrusive, so . . good for me? “Oaaghh . . .” I moaned wearily, then mumbled as I closed my eyes, “I don't want to think about this.”

“How do you feel, hon?” Embee inquired, unquestionably concerned for my well-being.

“I feel like . . .” I was in dire need of tools of mollification. “Can you ask the barista to come here? I need to bury my face into his hands, since I don't have my own at the moment,” I requested in tired, squeaky voice. “That was a joke, by the way. Don't call him over here.”

Embee smiled, appreciating that I still had a sense of humor after all that what I went through. “If it helps you at all, we could discuss your tea—”

“No,” I cut her off with frail-voiced but strongly enunciated plea. “Not now. Maybe later. I don't know. It's too new for me. I can't, I'm sorry.”

“That's fine,” she said mellifluously. “You just got through a bit of a hardship, bravely might I add, but . . . if it makes you feel any better, you can have my cake.” She pushed the plate with her cake over to me. Her generous act of kindness and compassion almost brought a tear to my eye. That was highly unusual for me.

“No, it's your cake.” I gently pushed it back to her. “If I want one for myself, I'll buy one for myself,” I stated humbly. Then I realized I really couldn't do as I had said. “If I had money with me, that is. But thanks anyway.”

“No, really, I don’t want it,” she pushed the cake back.

I promptly pushed the cake back. “You've done so much for me already, I don't know if I want that debt to you.”

She took that as a mild jest, giggling. “It's just a cake.” But I had been rather serious, even if I had masked it with humorous tone.

“Be careful. A cake today; a mansion tomorrow,” I contributed to the light mood with an improvised aphorism.

“Think it over,” she said after chuckling, then gestured at the uneaten object beside my empty plate and cup, “while you eat your goodie?”

“Oh, yeah.” A chocolate covered marshmallow awaited me. If there was one thing that I could safely say was a plus about being a pony, it was the added potency of flavors. While I was using my mind powers to remove the foil off the treat, I noted that Embee hadn't begun eating. “Seriously, you can have that cake.”

To that, she laughed leisurely, “oh, alright”. She then dropped her head and—oh okay, that just happened . . . She had dug into her cake, and now had its innards lining her mouth . . . and affixed her bemused eyes on me.

“What?” she said, licking her lips unceremoniously.

I shouldn’t stare; it was impolite. “Eh, nothing.”

Simulacrum

View Online

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

Chapter 24
Simulacrum.

A relative silence had descended now that our conversation had ended. Some pop song was playing, and Embee was enjoying her tea. That is, whenever she wasn't inserting her face into the cake for a bite. The juxtaposition of that with her decorous tea drinking was rather bewildering. I should stop staring at her before she inquired about that,. I turned my attention toward the chocolate-covered marshmallow with vanilla foam in front of me.

“Hey, do you know what a jokester's favorite day is?” Embee asked whilst I was discreetly and self-consciously licking the last of the vanilla foam filling off my waffle-bottomed chocolate treat.

I had anticipated a different question. “Uh . . .” I floated the goodie to my mouth, granting myself a pretext to think for a few seconds more. “I don't know.”

Her cheeks puckered with a smile. “Jesterday!” she chirped.

Weak as the joke was, I was genuinely amused. “Ah ha ha ha, clever.”

“Yeah, I think it's funny, too,” she said with delight—and without a shred of irony.

I was bemused, but also curious. “But why tell a joke?” It had been unprompted, after all.

Confused surprise wiped her smile. “Why not tell a joke?” she replied, her positive outlook being restored soon after. “Seemed you needed a bit of cheering.”

“I didn't know I was mopey.” In all fairness, I wasn't all sunshine and rainbows, but definitely not depressed.

“Sorry. Have I misread your silence?” Compunction drooped her ears. “You hadn't said anything for a while.”

Her measurement of time was puzzling. “Less than a minute is a while?”

“Sitting silent with company is a little unusual for me, I guess.” Was she criticising me? Had she expected me to engage in small talk?

“I guess I'm not one to keep talking for the sake of talking.” That was a bit . . . blunt.

“Oh . . .” She leaned back slightly, as if a tad insulted, and also hurt. “Do you think we could have a substantive conversation?” she inquired carefully.

“Of course we can,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “Er, but talk about what?” Then I realized I had inadvertently given the initiative to her. Now I had to hope she wouldn't bring up something boring, or worse, something that was intrinsically female.

“Anything, really. Friends, family, hobbies. Whatever you like,” she suggested.

Friends, family, and hobbies? “Any . . . thing?” I should've been very happy that Embee threw the ball back to me, but it had sprouted a lit wick—and on some days, I just couldn't get rid of a bomb. “I'm . . . I'm honestly a little afraid to talk about anything when I have this looming fear of dropping down into some pony's memories without a way to propel myself out.” Maybe if I had a Bat-ladder, or was saved by the sudden appearance of an extraordinarily heroic porpoise?

“Don't worry about that now,” Embee assuaged confidently. “I'm here, ready to ruffle your ears to get you back.”

“With tears in my eyes?” I recoiled at the idea. “Yeah, sure, I'd like that a lot . . .” I protested, even as I realized that I didn't have a choice but to submit. “Well, I won't, but what must be done has to be done . . .”

“I'm really sorry.” My despondency was not lost on her. “But if it makes you feel any better, I can think of a milder approach. How about I, ahm hmm . . . Touch you on the snout—er, nose?” It was kind of her to correct herself. “What do you think of it?”

“Well, um, that's . . .” Something bopping this white thing in my vision would . . . perhaps not be so bad? Just weird. Not bad. Just . . . okay. It would be okay. “Yeah, it's acceptable. If it doesn't work, then you can use stronger methods.”

“Very well. Now, should we have a conversation or . . . ?” She glanced over toward the doorway leading to the other room and, of course, the exit. “If you're feeling tense, a few minutes of talking might help.”

“Yeah, perhaps. How about you tell me more about yourself?” As innocuous as that seemed, I realized the flaw in her talking about herself. “Or wait, no, don't. You'd talk about pony stuff, and that could put me in a trance.”

“And then I boop you,” Embee said, mimicking the motion.

“Comforting,” I responded, smiling lightly even if I was a tad perturbed. “I genuinely appreciate your joyful attitude,” I continued in a moment of sincerity.

“A bit of jollity makes life easier.” She drew a small, short breath. “But, you know, we don't really have to talk about me, if you don't want to. I could even try not saying anything about myself.”

The discomfort I felt for having so much power over her made my being a mare nothing but a minor inconvenience. “Well . . . I guess it's . . . it's preferable that you don't?” I said hesitantly, then sighed. “I'm so sorry that I said that. Just ignore it, forget I said anything.” Before she could interject, I added, “Could I have my candy, please?” It'd offer a little bit of an uplift in this moment of self-hatred.

“Yeah, ah, sure,” she said softly. “Here you go.” She dug up the crumpled, blue bag and pushed it across the table to me.

“Thanks, I'll . . . not get to them this way,” I said awkwardly. Instinctually, I had placed my limb atop the bag.

“Would you say that’s both good and bad?” Embee must be alluding to how I was divided on adjusting to my ponyness.

“Uh, hmm, maybe, I don't know . . .” My answer was just as ambivalent. Slowly, I opened the crumpled candy container with my mind powers. “I'll only eat one.”

“You can eat as many as you like. They're yours, aren't they?” They were, but I'd still desist from taking more than one. Explaining the moderation to her would be easy, if I ever deduced the logic behind it myself. Regardless, since I was taking only a single candy, I decided to go for my favourite.

“I prefer these brown-grey ones. They are the most potent.” I held said example in the air for her to see, shortly before ingesting it.

“Ah-a.” Her smile belied her opinion on the indelicacy. “What's it taste like?” she inquired despite her disgust.

I moved the hard candy onto my tongue and let it sit there for a brief analysis. “Like spicy licorice.”

This gave her a pause, during which her disposition didn't improve. “Is the hard shell made of the same fiery substance as its insides?”

“Yes, though maybe not as hot.” I took this moment to return my candy bag to her possession on the account of that I didn't have anything on me where to put them. Then I felt suddenly . . . very naked. But naked was normal. And accepted. And not strange. Certainly I could convince myself of it. Or not think about it.

Having diligently stored the sweets into her saddlebag, she rested her eyes on it after its closure, as if frightened they'd go up in flames. “I'll have to avoid picking the kind you like.”

Her spitting out candy shards at the base of a tree was fresh in my mind. “But you could've had worse,” I consoled nonchalantly.

Her brows curled. “There's something worse in there?”

I laughed lightly, having half a mind to jest that the bag itself would be an unhealthy snack. “No, not really. I meant that it could've been an entirely different type of candy.” The hot candy I had now was nothing to some other kinds. Compared to this, Embee's spicy fruit surprise might as well had been a breath mint. But in all fairness . . . “The two ponies, Skyward and Gauge I think they were, they could've, um, donated something dreadful. Like Hershey's.”

“Oh?” A glint of innocent curiosity washed away her frown. “What's that?”

“It's a candy that makes you hate America,” I quipped dryly.

She gasped. “Oh my, that's terrible. I'll be sure to never eat that! Who'd ever think of creating something so vile? I don't want to be hateful.” She . . . genuinely thought the candy held that kind of power over the mind? Hard as I tried not to, her innocent naivete made me chuckle. “Aha.” She eyed me with a warm eye of admonition. “You were joking, weren't you?”

“Yeah, ah, I was,” I admitted coyly. “It happens.”

“You have a funny sense of humor.” That was a compliment, I presumed.

“Better for it to be funny than not.” I was glad to have a friendly conversation sprinkled with jollity and playful humor. Seemed like I hadn't had one in a while. When was the last time I had fun with my friends?

“So tell me,” Embee said, interrupting my introspection. “What's the candy really like?”

“Like spoiled milk and puke dyed chocolate brown.” A fleeting thought surmised that in this world the candy might be better, or not exist to begin with. “Not sure why it's made, or why it even sells. I can only assume it's an acquired taste—and to that I have to add that some people probably have really poor taste. And don't throw that back at me. The spicy candy can be compared to peppers. They're often used as condiments, so while hot candy is unusual, it's not removed from the culinary realm. Spoiled milk, however, belongs in the trash, not in the mouth. And let's not even talk about the second alleged ingredient.”

Judging by Embee's expression, her stomach had just cringed. “Yes I agree, let's not.” Gradually, she eased her mind off the revolting impressions, then glanced down at her nearly empty plate. “I better finish this though.” When she began to lick the plate clean, I had to consciously command myself not to gawk. To keep myself occupied, I began to unwrinkle the foil wrapper as a mental exercise. In theory, I could undo each and every wrinkle, but that'd go down to the microlevels of telekinesis. Even that thought seemed to stand at the edge of that feared mental trap. “Well, do you think we should get going?” Embee asked suddenly. Her cake was no more. I assumed the same applied to her tea.

“Sure.” I placed the foil in my empty coffee mug. Embee donned her saddlebags. I only had a hat to wear, though I briefly wished for something more substantial, preferably to protect that part of me which I didn't think highly of. “I hope this seat was clean,” I said as I began to remove myself from it.

“I'm sure it was, and is, clean. This cafe is very clean. Stands to reason that the seats would be as well,” Embee reassured as I stood up . . . and remained perched on the seat like an indecisive cat. I had been sitting so long I had almost forgotten that I'd have to stand and move on all fours. A leap down onto the floor was a little daunting, not because of the distance, or controlling my momentum, but because I wasn't sure I'd be able to absorb the sensation of landing on hooves. Best I get it done before I overthought myself into petrification. Down I leapt and . . . it wasn't so bad. I was a little surprised. “Hon, I couldn't help but think here. You sat on that seat for a good while, and only now that we're leaving you worry it was unclean. How come?”

I cast a glance at the potentially contaminated furniture. “The last thing I want to worry about is grime getting . . . on my coat.”

It being a genuine concern wasn't corroborated by Embee's confused but inquisitive expression. “Sorry, hon, you tried to tell me something, but then chose not to. Any reason as to why?”

“I showered recently, as you know, and I, ah . . . Who doesn't like to be clean?” I tried to deflect lamely.

“Hey.” She approached me. “You don't have to be ashamed, hon,” she whispered as she took me into a brief but unexpectedly calming hug. “I get what you mean,” she continued as she backed off, “Don't worry about the grime that much, the vagi—ah, that, the . . . Edson grate?” I couldn't believe that she almost said the word I didn't want to associate with something I have. “It's self-cleaning.”

“Edsel gril—” Shock and disbelief took over as the meaning dawned to me. “It is?”

She cocked a brow. “You didn't know?”

“Actually, no,” I confessed accidentally, but quickly collected myself as I realized that I might've put myself at the precipice of a disguise-demolishing pitfall. “Or, huhm, now that I think of it, maybe I do. I mean, there's that thing called . . . discharging.” I had two wishes: To not experience that bodily function, but if that was too tall of an order, then wish No.2 was that discharge not be as messy as the one I had some familiarity with. “Well, now that the pieces have fallen together, I don't know whether to be thankful or revolted. So, I uh, I will be . . . thankvolted, ah-hah.” I would've punctuated that with a thumbs up . . .

“Wasn't this taught to you in sex ed?” My forced lightheartedness hadn't affected Embee.

“Probably was, but could be that I forgot. Maybe I wasn't paying attention?” I suppose since I had dodged the danger—I should distract her before I was back in the crosshairs. “Uh, anyhow, since we're leaving, should we return these plates and mugs . . .” Without hands, that seemed close to impossible.

“It's polite that you want to help, but you don't have to. The kindly man will take care of it, I'm sure.” Embee glanced toward his presumed location; he was unseen from where we stood.

“Okay then.” By coincidence, I noted that the softly playing music wasn't a nondescript pop tune anymore, but seemed to exude a bit of gravitas, with droning vocals imbedded within a steady tempo resembling that of the Velvet Underground.

“ . . . taller than his ears, and placed the apple on the hay. Now selling his tail for a smile, that's not a way for it to lay . . .”

“Well, that's not I'm Waiting For The Man,” I thought out loud.

“What?” Embee halted, having only taken a few steps. “Oh, the music, you mean? I don't know what that is. Or who it is. Ah, but this song . . . This could be by Moody Grimtone.”

“Who?” my curiosity spoke for me.

“Moody Grimtone,” she replied—and that was all?

“Note to self: Stupid questions begets stupid answers,” I quipped flatly.

Embee's laugh was that of playful mocking. “He's a pony from the Dustover, a town at the very edge of the Parched Canyon. Life's not so easy there, and that makes him different from most other musicians, and he makes different music, too.” By that, she meant brooding rather than bubbly? “Occasionally, an untameable wind comes through the canyon, carrying gravel and sand . Everypony stays inside until it has blown over, and during that time, the town's completely isolated. It can go on for weeks, and as you can imagine, things can become quite bleak. But producing spectacular dyes out of the iridescent rocks dug up from the canyon is worth it, I guess.” Suddenly, she glanced over herself as if a fly had gone by. “But what are we waiting for? Did you not say you wanted to leave?”

“Right when I started to get settled in here,” I half-joked as we began to make our leave for real. Honestly, this place was cozier than the hospital. Although, I really shouldn't feel like this was a place I'd rather be at, considering what was at stake. “So, what's on the other side of that canyon?” I resumed our topic. As the barista came to our line of view, I saw that giving his phone a single-finger massage had become his latest occupation.

“Have a pleasant day,” he presented a complimentary farewell that felt more routine than sincere.. Just as soon, his attention was quickly diverted by two dark-haired guys coming in, one of whom wore a conspicuous, white hoodie. It had a cartoonish rodent of some kind, holding a curved finger to his head and was captioned with yellow lettering that stated: I'm having a thinkeroo. The other person, who looked a lot like a young Robert Mitchum, was lethargic in his movements. “Oh, man, again?” the barista greeted them in a conspicuously unusual manner.

“He needs a coffee,” his healthy friend said, sighing. Seemed like this guy and the barista shared history. But why ask for a coffee?

“Noo . . .” the not-so-well guy moaned as he sat down by a table, whereafter his face disappeared into the embrace of his crossed, hairy arms.

His buddy sawed an index finger over his own stubble. “Okay. Not a coffee. Make it an espresso,” he ordered with the weight of a firm but understanding commanding officer.

“Noo . . .” his friend protested.

“A frappe?” I chipped in.

“Is he okay?” Embee said, evidently taking this seriously. “He doesn't look okay.”

“Noo . . .” The poor fellow raised his head, gazing at us over his arms with bleary eyes. He let out a weak, withering laugh of cryptic revelation, instilling him with short-lived joy. “Uhgh . . . No me pasa la cruda . . .” he said croakily as his head fell back onto his arms.

“It's nothing to get worried about, he will be okay sooner or later. You can count on it,” the all-okay guy said to Embee with a touch of exhaustion as he sat down by his compatriot, whereupon he began to talk to him in a different language. If his tone and gestures were any indication, he was giving his friend a stern scolding.

I gave a doubtful look at the barista, who creased his lips to a sorry smile and shrugged. “He'll be okay. If not.” He held up his device of long-distance communication. “Help will be a call away.”

“Well . . . It's on them if he's come down with acute radiation poisoning or something,” I said to Embee, taking myself to the exit and beyond; the barista guffawed at my wry humour.

At the concrete plateau of eventual descension, I was overcome by indecision. It was only a few steps, but how to do that on all fours, that were in essence toes, was still beyond my capabilities. While I was here, I heard Embee say goodbye—and a few cautionary words. She was a pony of healthcare, after all. A moment later, she was beside me, and thereupon, she read my expression.

“Alright. Watch,” she whispered. Of course, I was supposed to observe, so I could learn how to do it, but I unthinkingly gazed away so as to not look at her posterior without her explicit permission. Even though her behind was that of a pony and didn't resemble that of a human's . . . But the principle still mattered!

“Something on your mind?” Embee said, once again dispelling my contemplations.

“Yeah, uh, no . . .” Without further thought, I placed my forelegs on the first step. Then I'd have to move them to the next step down, and . . . feel uncomfortable standing at an inclined posture. Oh, why had I not thought of this earlier: I should've just made a small leap to clear the steps altogether! To get down to ground level, I'd have to simultaneously push with my hind legs and "walk" with my forelegs. If I didn't overthink it, then I'd be very chore-ohno-graphic!

“Umph!” Embee enunciated when my uncontrolled forward momentum was arrested by her broadside.

Caught in a flummox, I tried to brush off perceived post-collision irregularities, but seeing a shoed-limb put a halt to that. “Sorry, I thought I . . . Of course. That was the problem. I thought how to descend the stairs instead of relegating that to my instincts. If I have any, I mean, maybe I do, but they're latent uh—”

Embee giving me an unexpected but warm hug disrupted my thoughts. “Your front legs walked fine, but you did a kick with your hind legs.”

When she backed off, I made a deduction despite my confusion. “That was ah . . . a ‘you did well, six out of ten’ hug?”

“You're starting to analyze hugs now?” Embee said laughingly, eyeing me with bemused incredulity.

“Analyzing helps rationalize things, and it's also mentally stimulating,” I explained as we ventured to the street. “A mystery is a question without an answer, and curious minds are looking for answers. As you can guess, I have a curious mind.”

“But are there mysteries you don't want answers to?” she inquired further.

“Uuhh . . .” I was briefly overcome by doubt. “No, I don't think so. A mystery does not repulse. It attracts,” I countered. “What kind of a mystery is that which does not reward for its solving?”

A bicyclist passed us from behind, thankfully by a wide berth. “The kind that reveals an unpleasant surprise” Embee said.

A flock of autumn leaves carried by a breeze rustled along the street. “Were you thinking of a fruit-flavored hard candy with a spicy core?”

“Why, well . . .” she hemmed and chuckled. “Not really, but it's a fair example. They were inviting, and seemed benign. I should've known better, though, but I didn't believe those two ponies when they warned me. Shame on me.”

“Oh, well, it's a learning experience. Next time, um . . . check it before you eat it.” Reminded me of that clip of a TV host discovering a crushed candy stuck to his shoe, and then eating it. Gross! But it wasn't candy, but something his cat had chucked up. Gross times infinity! Also, how stupid could one be to eat something that was stuck under their shoe. Sheesh!

Upon arriving at an intersection, we waited for an approaching van to pass before we crossed. As we waited, I spied quite the fine thing. “Wo-how, look at that,” I said in a low, hushed tone.

“At what?” Embee asked, clueless and casting glances all around.

“There, on the other side,” I tried to verbally point at what was clear as day.

“Hm?” Finally, she was finding the mark. “Ohhh.” She looked at me with a wry smile. “Would you say that's a fine piece of a man?”

“Huh?” Her insinuation left me dumbfounded, along with cranking up my body temperature. I hadn't seen any people here, let alone guys . . . except for one who was walking away and down the street in jeans and a t-shirt. Perhaps unwisely light for early autumn. “No, uh, no. That's, that's not what I had my eyes on. What they were on is over there, at that blue . . .” In my flummoxed state, my embarrassment shifted to mild abashment. “I would say it's beautiful, but uhm, well . . .”

“That blue beautiful . . . Ah.” Embee finally saw the main attraction.

“Yes, that is . . . that I must take a closer look.” Crossing the street and turning right, I approached the spectacular legend. “Don't see these often, especially of this kind and in this condition. It almost looks untouched.”

“Uhm, okay.” Embee rushed ahead and gently halted me. She then pointed her already raised limb. “So, what is this thing that you're so fascinated about?”

“It's a Subaru Impreza WRX, I'm guessing version two, from the mid 90's. In blue and with gold rims as you can see, just as the iconic rally car,” I explained as I began to do an inspective walkaround. “This could be a 22b, though that'd make it exceptionally rare.” I stopped momentarily to peer through a window into the interior. “It'd be right-hand drive if it were, as I understand the 22b was Japan-only. So, this could be an RS coupe? I'd have to learn more about Imprezas to truly know.”

“To your credit, you know a lot more than I do, or expected you to know,” Embee noted as I continued my tour.

“I'm not seeing any obvious aftermarket parts or tacky modifications. That's great. The exhaust seems to be stock as well. I can tell by its oval-shaped muffler. Commonly replaced to produce a heftier sound, and sometimes improve performance. This car seems to be unmodified, though if I am wrong, then I must say I'm impressed at how subtle it is.” Having completed my lap, I returned to Embee. “I adore cars that retain their original condition. It's like a well-preserved piece of history. Many owners modify their cars, to set it apart from the factory standard, but in perhaps an ironic twist, it's those that remain unchanged that ultimately become the most valued.”

“Oh, um, I suppose that is ironic.” She looked at me, past me, then again at me. Her brows furrowed. “I'm sorry to say this, but it looks like any car to me.”

“Mmmhh, yes, but not quite. It's much more than just any car. Look at what's behind it.” We travelled a short distance to get a better look at the silver appliance of stylistic uncreativeness. “This here is a bulging, loaf-shaped bunker of metal and plastic that bears a face of that which wants to show the world that it's powerful and aggressive, grrrr.” I then groaned, as if reacting to a display of the described vacuous aggrandizing. “It'll be an underappreciated classic in twenty years,” I ironized as I turned around with swiftness. “This Subaru, however, now look at its face.”

“Face?” I heard Embee say in apparent confusion. That's what I had said, hadn't I?

Once we had gathered at the proper location, I resumed talking. “This is from the twilight of the era when the common car looked docile, when their headlights were four corners connected by straight lines, perhaps with some modest curvature. The Impreza differs by trading docility for confidence. Not aggression. Not bravado. Confidence. And assertiveness. It knows that it's not like the other cars. It's an athlete, but doesn't need to show off, because it knows that's for the insecure. Granted, the Impreza has a spoiler on its back and flared bumpers, but that's comparable to having a muscular build as opposed to being lean. I think.” A bloated "compact" quietly rolled by; I regarded it with contempt and disgust. “An unexciting city car with tapered headlights and a large air intake,” I muttered.

“Eh?” Embee said quizzically.

“That car over there had the look of that which hates everything. I'm sure its first generation was cute as a puppy, greeting everything with an innocuous and soft "hi". I wish more cars today were fun and carefree, rather than sharing the common and generic styling queues seen on almost every car. Everything has sharp, angry headlights, looking to be taken seriously. Where's the creativity? Where are the new Bertones, Gandinis, and Giugiaros poised to give a swift kick to this tiresome trend of homogeneity? I mean, when so many cars look feisty and ferocious, it . . . I don't know . . .” I sighed, actually becoming dejected.

“Neither do I know, but it, it's, uhm . . .” Embee's inability to contribute, while not unexpected, was discouraging and dismaying, and enkindled a feeling of self-doubt. Who in their right mind would want to be that jaded miser who lambasts the modern times and harps on about things being better in the old days? Though, on that note, I didn't like what constituted as popular music in my school years, but 80's music filled me with emotions I couldn't properly describe. “Ah!” Embee exclaimed. “Yes, it loses its meaning and effectiveness, and you then begin desiring for the different, or their diametric opposites; the unassuming and gentle. I'd certainly be beside myself with frustration if every dress was a poodle skirt with lace frills.”

“Yes, precisely,” I chirped. “I too would . . . Well, actually, I'm not that much of a dress-minded, uhm . . .” No, verbally referring to myself as a female demanded more bravery than I could muster. I also didn't know what a poodle skirt with lace frills was. “But you make an interesting point. Clothes and cars aren't the same, but clothes can be the means to express one's persona, and that'll be very hard to do if all clothes are the same. Much like cars, they have to serve my practical needs first, but it stands to reason that they have to synergize with my self-image as well. When it does, it feels and looks good; an important combination applicable to both cars and clothes! As silly as this is, I'd choose a Grumman-Olson P800 over a modern sports coupe. It just seems like it's more fun to drive. For being a no-frills utility vehicle, it's rather stylish, too.”

“I have to take your word for it.” Embee's neutral and unstressed acknowledgment indicated that my enthusiasm was, despite her commendable efforts, eluding her full understanding.

“But, um . . . I digress. It's possible that an apparent lack of aesthetical variation has sparked an interest toward the uncommon, or in this case, the past designs.” I gave the always-poised Subaru a once-over glance. “Designs that perhaps, I have to admit, were ubiquitous once. The datedness is what makes it charming?”

“Or as you put earlier, charming as a cute puppy.” I hadn't realized it earlier, but that sounded soppy. Although, I had said it with earnest . . .

“Yeah.” No point in trying to deny it. “I have a soft spot for cars that exude sympathy,” I said as I rubbed the pavement, combating my embarrassment. “In all fairness, though, this car's not cute and cuddly. Quite the opposite. Well, it certainly isn't ugly, but it's confident and uhm, what would be the opposite of cuddly?”

“Mmmmh . . . Masculine?”

“Masc . . . uhm, could it?” I looked back at it and her a few times, trying to decide whether to affirm her observation or employ clever wording to covertly distance myself from corroborating a notion that females appreciated masculinity in its many forms. Alas, time was short, and so, begrudgingly, I conceded to her presumption. “Hadn't actually realized that could be . . .” I said in an insightful tone, suppressing my chagrin.

“Maybe it's not? You have a keen eye for cars, so you'd know better than I ever could. But I can for sure say that masculinity doesn't exclude cuddliness,” Embee said with an air of sensual recollection.

“That's some, er, carnal wisdom,” I opined jestfully, and that was as far as I'd go with acting like I was a hetero female. Her giggle further emphasized how out of my league I was. “Anyhow, this Subaru's also honest and unpretentious, appearing as it is rather than trying to be what it isn't.” I had a sudden moment of realization. “I wish I could say that about myself,” I whispered pensively to myself.

“What?” Embee said. I felt a tug behind my cheeks as the relevant muscles brought my ears up. “Hon, I didn't hear you.”

“Well, uh, I said that, or tried to . . .” If I had only thought in advance what I'd talk about. Oh! “An honest car can be cute.” On second thought, I should've kept that to myself . . .

“A car, cute?” Embee was bemusedly intrigued.

The cat was out of the bag now. Hard as it was to admit, though, my apparent femaleness made it more permissible to express my softer side. “I wasn't sure if I wanted to say it out loud, but um, well, you said cuddliness and, um, I thought and then said . . . Yeah, a car can be cute. Like, um . . . a Volvo 144.” Though being rectilinear with hard lines perhaps made it masculine to some degree? “Some of them had these small wipers across their round headlights that gave them a mournful frown that seems to plead for a hug and to be told everything will be alright.” That was . . . femalish, but the real dilemma was on whether to permit or disallow it in the future. I would go back eventually, and as sad as it were, I'd have to then be extremely careful in where, to whom, and how I'd show this side of me again. Also, wipers . . . Something about them . . .

“Oh . . .” Embee moaned. “You'd hug a car?” She then chuckled warmly, and I too felt a warmth emerging all over myself. “That's kind of sweet.”

“It is?” I was genuinely surprised. “Well, of course it is. Um, thanks for understanding. It means a lot,” I said shrinkingly, relieved she hadn't laughed at me. When she wordlessly came close, I already knew what to expect: she did that neck-over-mine pony hug of soothing, empathy, and strength. Like an iguana puzzled by being gently petted, I cast a half-bewildered look around as I said, “Would be great if I had one of those cuties here, so you could see it for yourself. But they were common long before my time.” Being aware that not all of them had survived to this day made me sad. That then led to a dreadful deduction; some heartless miscreants might've actually gone out of their way and deliberately harmed those innocent-looking and completely defenseless cars! Before I could become visibly upset, I sighed and collected myself.

“Well, maybe we're lucky and see one?”

“Maybe,” I replied to Embee's inspirational comment, knowing that I'd then have to put my words into action—assuming I'd be given permission to engage in the interaction of compassion. “But a distinct and appealing look is exactly what caught my attention when I—Oh. Hold on, hold on, this isn't mine to have, but . . .” Images began to whizz before my eyes. “Uhm, be ready to bop me. What I'm going to do is risky, but I fully trust you to do the right thing.”

“Huh?” Embee was caught unaware, maybe just as much as I had been. “Yes, I'm ready.” Raising her limb into a ready position, I became briefly alarmed that she'd beat the literal snot out of me. “What are you going to do?”

“Okay, this will feel weird. I have to talk about things that feel like I was there, experiencing them, in third person . . .” I took a breath. “She wanted a car for a purpose. Found one that was different by its looks, but also upon further inspection . . .” She had requested to see the engine bay. “Less complexity . . .” The engine and its associated components didn't fill out the engine bay; the ground was visible. “Got it, the car, to home, hard as it was to drive, with the difficulties it imposed.” Aware of my increasing confusion, I shook my head lightly and paused momentarily. “In the evening, though . . .” I appraised the unrelated but sufficiently similar vehicle by us, then walked to its outer front wheel. “Checking the wheel, did she, I?” Hesitantly, I gently poked the rubber, mentally apologizing for the unsolicited physical contact. “I'm not sure what that was for. Maybe something was there? I . . . then went inside . . . closed the door. Was she . . . sitting on the seat? Yes. Content and eager.” Burdened with a nascent revelation, I faced Embee. “Have you, have ever . . . had an Oatsam?” I asked.

“Yes . . .” she said warily.

“Oatsam, is what?” Strained, I drew circles in the air to spur her to do the work for me.

“It's an oat cookie . . . and . . . well, they're good, and they come in a package of eight. Oh yes, the wrapper unfolds itself with the touch, specifically when you want it to come off. Some kind of an interaction with a pony's own magic.”

“And that's . . . What, really? It does that? That's amazing!” Although why was this amazing? This invention was hardly new.

“Hon, may I suggest that you stop,” Embee implored gently.

“Yeah, um, well, not yet. I want to know . . .” This stroll along the border of minds was taxing, but if I stayed on this course, I might unshroud the source of my crisis. “There, see . . .” I pointed at the car that I saw superimposed over this other one. “In that, in mine of hers . . .” I could see into it like it was a wireframe render. Pure light was ebbing and flowing like aurora borealis to the front wheels from the seat. I should've made that shorter by connecting it to the steering wheel. What had I connected? “A reactive spell . . . Touch, and it works . . .” The strange daze that I was in began to abate. “Telekinesis. It . . . is the projecting of magic to a desired, normally inert, object or objects. But that requires constant concentration, and controlling a dozen things for protracted duration requires the kind of constitution that I . . . not, she has not . . . Knew this long before . . . got ahold of a car. She ah . . . umh . . . oh wow . . . that's freaky.” The car's bumper pulsed alternatingly between gray and blue; it stopped when I prodded at it in confusion. As I lifted my head, the street lined by an unbroken row of inner-city apartments changed to a parking lot aside a gently curving road with a grassy field on its other side. I became transfixed by sheer confusion, as these two realities behaved like a lenticular image.

“Do you think I can help you a bit?” my pegasus acquaintance said; suddenly I attained a strange sense of clarity despite the bewildering event.

“Well, I truly don't know, but I'll gladly accept it. The most basic and common spell of them all is the mind-projecting spell. By studying it extensively and taking from what I learned, I was able to enchant sections of the car to respond and then maintain a link—” My friend abruptly raised her hoof and jabbed me in the snout. “Hey!” I cried out. Embee didn't even look sorry. “What was that for?” I reached to scrub my—I had a snout? And a hoof and . . . “Oh, of course . . .” Ponies had these, and that was . . . not so fun for me to have. “I . . . I should have not been so adamant . . .” I lamented ruefully, falling to silence as I contemplated expressing gratitude or asking forgiveness.

“Don't worry about, Viv,” Embee said, steadfast but soft. “Now, do you think we should go?”

“Might be a very wise idea.” Shakily, as if unfamiliar with how to move, I took myself from the street back to the sidewalk. I had a careful look around, afraid I had attracted a crowd, but I was in luck. This was a particularly quiet side street off another quiet street. The odd ability of seeing the appearance of my car that obviously couldn't occupy the same space as the Subaru remained. Speaking of wise ideas, I averted my eyes before I'd be sucked in again. “But I don't understand. How could that . . . Whatever she did, how did it put me in here?” As if to spite me, a strong gust drew itself over me like a carpet of unsolicited caresses.

“Maybe it didn't, but do you think Peachy can help you at discovering what did?”

“I don't know the answer to that,” I said, half-vacantly. Embee had taken me out of the fog, but the proverbial moisture lingered on. I hoped I could at least glance at a car without seeing it turn into an apparition.

“Then follow me so we can go ask Peachy herself what she knows and what she can do,” she instructed as she began making her way down the street. Unthinkingly, I glanced at the closeby Subaru. Or I think it was supposed to be a glance, but it held my attention just long enough that my vision was once again filled by the wireframe render, except now the aurora borealis was crisscrossing all over it. Spooked, I looked ahead, where this street merged with a busier one. As hard as I tried not to reflect, that vision showed more of what had been done. It wasn't only about controlling the wheels, but also the pedals, the gear stick, the windows, and redundancy—oh, no, no, no! I couldn't think of this, not now, not here, and maybe not ever!

“You're coming, right?” Embee called from a short way ahead. I took one step; a tiny pebble rolling with a complaint beneath my foot made short order of that. I had one look down and lifted a leg in puzzlement. I was in that strange and confusing moment again where I wasn't quite sure of what I was seeing or feeling. I was this thing, but I wasn't. “Are you feeling fine?”

“I-I am . . . I'm still recovering, soh . . . sorry,” I called back, or tried to. My high register perturbed me, even if it shouldn't. She was naturally okay with this voice, but I was only tolerating it out of necessity, and sadly, incremental—albeit reluctant—acceptance. I caught up to Embee, right as I found my will to speak again, though not the will to look her in the eye. “You must be mad at me.”

“About all that back there with the car just then?” Embee inferred correctly, then hummed lightly. “No, not at all.”

“Are you joking?” I couldn't tell whether she was serious or snide.

“I wasn't,” she said levelly, to my astonishment. “On the contrary, your approach was remarkably intelligent.”

Embee's unfaltering optimism and leniency regarding my obviously careless and unsuccessful venture was simply baffling. Inclined as I was to strongly refute her, I decided to tone it down to skepticism. “How you came to that deduction is beyond me, most likely due to my intellect being beneath yours.”

“Oh, now you are joking.” Embee's casual response instilled me with mounting exasperation, even irritation, not to mention that she indirectly suggested my intelligence was above or on par with hers. “But allow me to explain. You understood the risks, you had me on the ready for when or if you lose control, and I did precisely as you had trusted and expected to do. That to me is an example of forethought and planning.”

Tired of the unrequited praise, I let her know what I thought: “And to me it was plain improvisation.”

Smiling widely at me, she came to a sudden stop. Instinctively, so did I. “Well, then you're a natural!” she said brightly as she poked me lightly in the shoulder.

So stunned was I that not even my instincts could concoct the simplest of rebuttals, and my brain frayed further as it tried to digest her compliment. I had been ready—No, expecting her to call me out, that her doing the opposite was incomprehensible. How could she call me intelligent? I didn't think I was. I was only intelligent in comparison to the people I regularly interacted with. That didn't mean I was genuinely intelligent. At any moment, a person could make me feel dumber than a rock and that . . . That wouldn't feel great. But was it better to feel inescapably inadequate than to let the compliments potentially create a false sense of superiority? No, that'd only lead to deleterious and ultimately destructive depression. A middle ground had to be somewhere. Maybe that middle ground was humility. If so, slipping into the destructive, self-effacing mire was still a dangerous reality.

“Bit busier here,” Embee said suddenly. Indeed, I hadn't even noticed that we had come to the end of the street and were back at the heavily trafficked avenue. I promptly shelved my introspections. “Hmm, should we talk about something? A casual topic?” Embee suggested.

“I guess we could. Let me think of something . . .” I took stock of the active city life whizzing by, now with even more colorful ponies here and there. Some were above the rooflines, gliding along currents like birds. Two descended down to a windowed balcony on the third floor, shared words I couldn't hear, and were soon let in by a pony on the inside. Bedazzled by the sight unimaginable, I set a gaze on Embee that occasionally shifted to her saddlebags that hid her wings. Looking toward the house on the other side of the avenue, Embee produced a smile that all but said she too had entered homes that way. It was then I realized I had become so preoccupied that I hadn't noticed we had stopped. “Oh, um . . . I don't know what to talk about.”

“Really? I was so sure there you'd have it.” Bemused by the sighting of the flying, colorful divergences in reality, her amused chuckle didn't inflict me with embarrassment. Conversely, I replicated her initiative to resume our walk. “Well, I can do the honors. You talked passionately about that car back there, and how cars look. Care to enlighten me on what got you to do so?”

“I don't know, I just wanted to?” I replied, though afterwards I began to look for a deeper cause. I also had to check that we weren't in proximity to overly curious ears. “Could've been a subconscious compulsion fostered by a fear of losing myself, reducing the threshold of revealing what I feel strongly about, even if normally I'd be averse to talk about it.”

She cocked a brow. “Why'd you be averse? Haven't you talked about it with your friends?” She assumed I had friends? She wasn't entirely wrong, but . . .

“Oh, I've considered it, but I'm afraid those guys wouldn't care.” They'd laugh and scoff at my fondness for the plain, cute, and the older, restrained designs, much like how their love of tuning or drifting didn't impress me.

“Guys? Male friends?” Embee had produced a picture where I stood out for reasons I should've anticipated and prepared for.

“Uh . . . Yeah.” Did I want to reinforce her perception, though? Now could be a rare opportunity to cast some doubt, though. “But um, there's four . . . and with me, that's five, and well, that makes one of the guys, too.”

“Does it?” Embee, to my dismay, expressed the wrong kind of doubt. Now she probably thought I was desperate to fit in with a group where I didn't belong. Her false inferral combined with my nervousness robbed me of my courage, and I remained silent. “Well, didn't mean to make it a negative, sorry. It's really nice that you're getting along with guys, but of course, I must ask: Do you have female friends as well?”

Sadly aware that I had let my chance pass, I sighed. “Mom, I guess . . .” I replied apathetically. “But if you mean in my age bracket, uh . . . Cousins, but they don't really count, as I rarely see them, let alone talk with them.”

“Oh, that's a pity.” Under my current mood, Embee's compassion was mildly warming. “Don't they miss you?”

“Eh . . . Maybe. I don't know. If they did, they would've done something about it. It's not like I'm giving them the cold shoulder.” If we talked, though, I'd still be extremely unwilling to stray from the typical and prevailing preconception of masculinity. Sometimes, I envied females for having a cheering crowd urging them to kick stereotypes in the hiney, fight oppression in its many forms, and tell whoever inisted women can't pursue "manly" interests like enduro biking and whatnot can ski into a bog. But if an unchallenged Adonis of all time so much as suggested liking needlepoint, he'd forever be looked at askew as a deranged weirdo who sleeps with men. Double standards, why did they have to exist?

“So, how about a role model? Do you have any?” I put Embee's question under a microscope and tried to see if I could apply it to a character, real or fictional, that was both tough and soft. “I mean, a female role model?” She had to go there?

“I don't need any.” And the instant I gave my terse reply, I envisioned the mane six gasp in unison and then plaintively inquire for a proper explanation, to which I'd apologetically tell that a female role model wouldn't be constructive to my male self-image.

Even Embee had noted my acerbic rebuffal. “Can I ask you something?” she said carefully.

It was for the best I mellow out. “Sure.” I brought out a smirk. “You like to ask me a lot.”

“You can ask me anything whenever you like.” I was glad she was able to chuckle at my perceptive remark, as that meant the minor fracture in the atmosphere had been mended—though that was a strange analogy. “I'd like to ask you what kind of a girl do you see in yourself?”

“What?” I said in a tiny voice, completely blindsided and in disbelief. I wasn't even upset by her using that word. She would eventually use it, I knew, but . . . I wasn't one. I could pretend to be one passively. To actively, though . . . No, I couldn't—I didn't want to! “Did you just, I mean, you did call me that?” I stammered, my internal distress allowing my impetuousness a moment of control.

“A girl? Yes, I did. Would you say it is wrong?” Now I had a second chance to . . . permanently alter the mostly pleasant dynamic we had established.

“Well, calling me that is . . .” If she were convinced I wasn't female, then she might take a less appreciative stance to my vulnerability, emotionality and, yes, femininity. Assuming she'd even lend me the courteous benefits thereafter. “Er, calling me that feels . . . not right. I'm an adult now.”

“I'm not sure what you mean. Is there a cutoff age for being a girl?” Embee inquired bemusedly.

Genuine puzzlement emerged as I took a serious gander at her question. “Uh, I don't know. Never though it had a specific age.” However, concerning myself with a matter that shouldn't even pertain to me convinced me to distance myself from it. “Well, whatever. Seems it's just arbitrary after all.”

“Like its own heap paradox, huh?” Her knowing of that terrestrial concept left me speechless in astonishment. But that was to assume it was an exclusively terrestrial concept . . . “Let's settle it by decreeing that there's no cutoff age. You were a little girl, and now you're a big girl. Once a girl, always a girl!”

Initially irked, I reciprocated her onefold, albeit improvident, merriness with a smile out of politeness—but also as a means to conceal my discomfort and even terror. Just because I had been that . . . this for a little over a day didn't mean I'd always be. Would I?

“But let's go back to my question from earlier.” Hold on! What question? Oh no! “When you think of yourself, when you look at yourself, what kind of a girl do you see yourself to be?” I had an urge to bolt, but I was cognizant enough to know that wasn't a solution at all.

“Well, um . . . I'm . . . I'm not sure I want to . . .” I said timidly, daunted by her question, pondering whether this charade was worth enduring this self-identity crisis. Were I to cast off this adopted alias, I would . . . still have this face and this voice, shrouded in this impertransible veil of femaleness. Would I be more free, or more aware of how trapped I was?

“Are you afraid? You have nothing to be afraid of, hon. I'm not judging.” Embee had most assuredly noticed my dejected demeanor and reticence—and of course she could say that to another female! Alas, that benefit was too precious to risk losing with the revealing of my real identity. I might still have Embee by my side, but I'd be alone with my woes. But I so wanted to be honest . . . and I guess I could.

“The kind that acts stoic and cool, but is actually sensitive.” Considering that I hadn't been doing a stellar job at maintaining that façade as of late, my admission was easy to make.

“And by saying that, even that little, says that you're stronger than you give credit to yourself.” There was poetic, empowering beauty in Embee's simple words, but I felt drained, even a touch defeated.

“I'm glad that you said that.” I smiled appreciatively at her as I battled with a dilemma. I was being more like I wanted to be like, while being less like myself in identity. The horrible irony. I shouldn't have to be more like "Vivienne" to be more like myself!

“Here's a novel idea that I hope will ease your mind,” Embee started after we had navigated past a group of ponies and humans. “Be what you feel like you are, not what you think you should be.”

“I . . . Yes, I've been thinking of that, and it's . . . it'll take some time for me to . . . to not be afraid of being walked over. You understand me?” In all honesty, that was a lesser fear. Changing my character, even for the better, might be perilous when the connection to my true identity was precariously tenuous already.

“Yes, I do,” she said, taking a distinctly sober tone. “Just don't forget that you don't have to be afraid with me.”

“I won't, and appreciate that,” I thanked, painfully aware of how afraid I was of her warm and bright demeanor concealing a morning star of prejudice. I trusted her; I should trust her more, but . . . Could she have been right? Had I now encountered one of those mysteries I didn't wish to unshroud? I had to discover her disposition, though! Somehow. Sometime. Cleverly and surreptitiously. Or in other words, I wouldn't ever, since in trying to do so I'd obviously mess it up in more ways than one and end up humiliated, embarrassed, and disgraced.

“Want to talk about anything?” Embee suggested. It seemed like a warm invitation, oddly enough.

“Yeah,” I replied thoughtlessly, half-aware of my depressed tone. “If you don't mind, I want to talk about cars.” That would be great. It'd be a healing process.

“By all means,” she kindly granted me the permission and privilege.

“I once had a dream where I had a Pontiac Trans-Am, the black kind with a golden eagle painted on it. That was soooo cool. I wouldn't even drive it fast. I'd feel great just being in it, basking in its immeasurable awesomeness.” A billion images spilled across my mental eye like candy from a bag torn open too fiercely, and just as quickly as they rushed by, I had a hold of one for retelling. “Oh, that reminds me of that time me and one of my friends were playing this old racing game. His dad is one of the coolest, collecting old games and consoles. He must have a hundred games or more. So, anyway, instead of driving supercars, we used a cheat code to drive estate cars. That was a lot of fun, because, as the saying goes, it's more fun to drive slow cars fast than drive fast cars slow.”

“Estate car? Pon-te-ack?” Embee verbalized, both confused and intrigued.

With my spirits on the rebound, I felt like I could actually do this. “I'll try to explain . . .”

For Better and/or Worse

View Online

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

Chapter 25
For Better and/or Worse.

During our return towards the hospital, Embee and I had discussed cars in general despite her spotty understanding of them, not forgetting to summarize what a Pontiac Trans-Am and an estate car were. Our conversation meandered, as they tended to, coming to an unplanned stopover at an automotive icon from the land of the rooster. I had already described its appearance in brief, but I had to mention its sound as well.

“Just like how it looks like nothing else, then and today, it also has an unforgettably adorable purr with an undertone of, hmm, a whine?” Shame that only I could hear the sympathetic tin snail in my mind.

“A purring whine, you say?” Embee remarked dubiously. “And that makes it adorable?”

“For a car that was given very little, if any, consideration toward aesthetics, it does, hard as it is to believe. Accidentally adorable? Imagine that,” I said with the warmth of abashment as we walked up to the final pedestrian crossing where we waited for the signal. We were now a street away from the hospital, a monolithic concrete sugar cube that imbued me with both excitement and dread.

“Imagining is all I can do.” Our safe passage granted, Embee cast glimpses at the cars around us as we made our crossing, none of which I could call adorable, much less endearing. Pity.

“Hmhh,” I hummed, wistful for 'friendly' cars. “Well, as many words as I could employ, they won't ever make for a comprehensive image.” I took notice of a sizable collection of water at the base of the sloping road up to the hospital. “I could try scooping up water from a puddle and see if I can recreate it that way. Just like how last night with . . . when . . .” My unconcerned mood eroded as the events of that emotionally tumultuous time reemerged. “But I wish not to think or talk about that.” The brief and partial recollection had already placed an invisible burden on me that weighed my head down. Pushing myself up the gradient felt harder now that an increased awareness of my physical self had resurfaced. I didn't want to devote a thought to that, but it was all around me. This was only temporary, I assured myself. I should hold my head up, and not appear dejected. All would be fine soon, perhaps. Unrelatedly, two ponies standing ahead were having a friendly conversation.

“Look what I got here for you on your special day, to my best of friends!” The red unicorn floated a colorful book out of his green saddlebag.

“Whoa cool! It's I'm a unicorn, and what's a jacuzzi? Just what I wanted for my birthday!” The magic bubble transitioned from deep blue to mallow as the other, sand brown unicorn pony took hold of the hardcover book. “This'll go great with I'm a pegasus, and what's a nacho? You're the best!”

As we passed the duo, I had to wonder if the hug he gave the other was of romantic nature. However, I had been unusually unrestrained in hugging lately without expressing or producing romantic feelings . . .

I hummed, briefly intrigued by the book passing from one pony's magic shroud to the other's. “Having a decent grasp on my magic is incredible when contrasted with the fact that I don't know how to run,” I quietly notified Embee.

“I suppose that is quite the contrast, if not a reversal. You knew nothing of the former and never had to think on how to do the latter.”

“Obviously.” I directed an upwards gaze, slightly irked by her casual summarization of my ineptitude.

I nonetheless saw her pensive countenance, perhaps understanding that she had accidentally struck my self-esteem. “Do you wish to learn? To run, I mean.”

“Wha, oh, weh, uh . . .” Her earnest proposal sent a spasm of shock through my body that would've brought me to a halt if my subconscious maintenanceof my ambulation cycle hadn't successfully repulsed it. It did, however, make the very flexible end of my vertebrae curl skyward for a second. “I-I, it's, I did, err, to tea . . . I taught myself how to trot, so that's something, but uh, running, I . . . I'm not sure,” I stammered. Again, my head fell, and I observed my legs move into view and then trail out of view as I ambled onwards. I rebounded in disgust and mild horror, but nonetheless, I reasoned that knowing additional locomotive modes wascogent, even if attaining them required subjecting myself to psychological discomfort. “Yes, I'm sure . . . I have to know.”

“You have to? Do you want to?” Embee gently expressed her doubt, undeniably concerned for my well-being.

“No, I honestly don't want to,” I said in a droning, sullen tone. “But as much as I hate to admit it and . . . This is hard to say, so please excuse me if this sounds convoluted, but . . . knowing how to be what I certainly don't like being means I won't panic when I don't know how to be it. If I know how to run, I won't panic when I don't know how to run. Or I could just tell myself that I don't need to concern myself with any of that, since this'll be over soon anyhow. But I know that there's no guarantee I won't be . . . this . . . for the long haul.”

“Don't fear, it won't come to that.” Embee was prompt in diluting my concerns. “It's just a day, or maybe two. You'll do fine.”

“I admire and envy your optimism.” I sighed wearily, refusing to form even the simplest predictions of what two days of pony life could even be like. Actually, it wasn't the pony aspect that frightened me . . .

“Finally, we're here,” Embee said joyfully.

“Yeah . . .” We made it up to the summit of the low eminence the hospital stood on. My fate was inside, yet I was beset by arresting trepidation.

“Well, what's holding you?” she queried, giggling lightly.

“Uh, something, I don't know.” I was looking up towards the tallest floor, as if living out here, in uncertainty, was preferable to going inside to learn the brightness—or the bleakness—of my future.

“So, hon, what was that car called?” Embee drew my attention to the topic we had happily discussed a few minutes earlier. Despite my confusion regarding the question, I realized she was easing me out from my sudden petrification. “You once called it two horses?”

“Ahah, yes, 2CV, meaning, two horses, and uh . . .”As I held my gaze on Embee, I suddenly began feeling like I was staring at a mirror; perturbed, I averted my gaze. “I really shouldn't think we are that. You can think so, for yourself, but I certainly don't want to do the same,” I defied with a tinge of aggravation. “I don't, and I'm not, and I won't be, and I cannot . . .” I whispered with defiance . . . and I only needed to hear my thoughts spoken with the wrong voice to know how little it mattered.

“Oh, but I didn't say . . . we both are . . . I see,” Embee's tone changed from mild confusion to contriteness. “I'm very sorry, hon.”

Rueful of my testy decorum, the silent crying I was doing on the inside gave me a soft and, incidentally, conciliatory tone. “Don't blame yourself, Embee. I'm not angry at you. I'm only being sensitive and snappy, for reasons we both know.” I had meant to follow that with more, but aware that I would inevitably expose my inner turmoil in a public space, I sighed deeply instead. “Let's move on.” For saddening her, I castigated myself by taking the initiative of being the first to walk up to the sliding doors.

“Well . . . It's nice to have a sunny and warm day again, don't you think?” Embee asked with nary a sign of the sadness she once had. I presumed she wanted to reignite an amicable mood with weather talk. Hardly an exciting topic, but it wouldn't feature sensitive details to be overheard by uninvited parties.

“After two days of rough weather, sure,” I said neutrally as we navigated through the moderately busy atrium. At least my sensitive hearing wasn't being assaulted by the cry of a baby like it had last time.

“Two?” Embee's surprise nonplussed me, though my attempt to correct her was aborted by the feeling of diminution when a gathering of heedless but chatty people walked past us. “You said two days of rain?”

“Two, yeah . . .” I thought back, checked, double-checked, and triple-checked, and only then was I certain that my memory matched my statement. “It rained yesterday and the day before, though the first rains were lighter.” Another group walked by, spooking me slightly. Being amidst humans. Of average height. At least twice as tall as I was. This really shouldn't be unnerving. But it was because it stood in contrast to what I was and wasn't. I hated this!

“Sorry, hon, but no, it didn't rain for two days,” Embee countered.

“Chalk it up to discrepancies between parallel universes,” I whispered to her with mild difficulty while I subdued my skittishness. I then relocated myself to a nearby, relatively secluded alcove with two doors to . . . storage or maintenance rooms? I didn't care! Embee had dutifully followed me; I faced her. “Maybe the Golden Gate Bridge is green in this realm, I don't know,” I continued, trying to lessen my stress with a modicum of levity, though a spell of curiosity catched at the opportunity. “I wonder what else is different.”

“Wonder about that later, hon, and please wander with me this way,” Embee gestured towards something just a bit down the hallway; a glance that way revealed an elevator.

Knowing that meeting Peachy was prudent, if not belated, I trailed Embee obediently. As the doors parted, we took ourselves into the spacious enclosure of vertical motion. Unfortunately, it soon became packed with humans, which proved intimidating. My instincts were going into an almost primal state, putting me into a mode of a cornered animal trying to camouflage with its surroundings when escape was impossible. I wasn't really that what my instincts suggested, but so much of my body corresponded to that impression that I was unable to free myself from it, though a bastion of rationality held on. I was so absorbed in this act of predator avoidance that I didn't realize I had been staring with a blank intensity at the tiny gap where the floor met the door until the latter withdrew. As the occupants disembarked, I remained catatonic by my lonesome.

“Hey, you coming?” Embee was waiting; like in a trance, I joined up with her.

“I should consider the similarities instead,” I resumed talking as if I hadn't paused at all, my flat tone betraying my disarrayed state of mind. As if on cue, my mind went through a slideshow of matching details at high-speed. “The same home, the same furniture, mostly the same furniture, the same car, maybe the same car, it could be the same car . . . But so many similarities anyhow. Too many similarities. Too many similarities?” A sudden, apprehensive confusion caused my ears to droop and left my mouth slightly ajar.

“Yes, hon?” That was more of an inquiry on my well being than a wish for me to continue verbalizing my deduction. Presumably.

I tried to make sense of what my rhythmically spoken deductions and wildly oscillating feelings told me. “It's disconcerting.”

“Sorry, hon, I don't quite follow. What's disconcerting, and how so?” she asked, but a glance around her surroundings seemed to give her second thoughts. “Actually, try to think about it and have it figured out once we're with Peachy, okay? Can you follow me there?” After a moment's deliberation, I nodded my assent. Not many people here, but ponies instead. Less unsettling, fortunately, but I was still a bit on edge.

As we journeyed toward my fate through the corridors and past living creatures, I occupied myself with the cerebral challenge of converting abstruse emotions into apprehensible elocution. However, we arrived at a door sooner than I had expected; Embee rapped it gently.

“Peachy? You there?” Embee called out, with no response. “No?” Sidling over to the keypad adjacent to the door, she deftly tapped in the buzzer. When that too yielded nothing, she looked at me with a sigh. “We have to wait then.”

“Greeeaat,” I complained, annoyed that we'd now have to wait out here, where confidentiality was difficult.

“But we don't have to wait here.” Embee produced a mischievous smile and began playing with the number keys on the keypad. I felt nothing but demoralising inadequacy as I raised my own limb up for a brief evaluation. Seemed like taking this limb to my face-level, much less higher than that, demanded willpower equal to that of stepping over a campfire naked. “Huh, it wasn't that?” Undaunted, she attempted again. “Ah,” she breathed with composed delight, shortly followed by her pushing the door open. I didn't wait around to follow her in.

I was immediately intrigued by what I saw inside, least of which was the absence of Peachy. “What's with the, uh, new furniture and the cardboard boxes?” I counted six of them, a few closets, a few chairs of small size, and a bed that bore some similarity to that of a dentist's. “These weren't here the last time.” The door shutting with a noticeable thud earned my undivided attention. When my startled prey animal instinct faded, my eyes gravitated towards the far side of my back. That sight acted as a catalyst for my disorderly thoughts to coalescence.

“Maybe you don't remember, but this room was looking really sparse. Sometime around midday yesterday, many hours before you arrived, a pipe started leaking above her office, so she had to move to another until it's taken care of,” Embee explained, having put herself by the desk at the far end of the office. “This one happened to be vacant. Maybe it could become hers. It's only a few rooms over anyhow.” She then stared out one of the windows to the right of the desk. “I was sure we'd be late, not her.” A smirk drew on her as she shot a look my way. “On the better side, now we won't be late.”

I failed to reciprocate; a much more pertinent thought had taken priority. Alas, in my rush to speak, I made a vocalization that my mixed-up mind hadn't formed into coherent language.

“Yes, hon?” She ambled to me.

Rationality asserted itself and restored my ability to speak. “Disconcerting, ah yes, that I said, and with disconcerting I meant . . . I mean, if this were some random pony's body, rejecting the unfamiliar and unrelatable much like I do with the body itself would be almost instinctive. But if this is not that, but is . . . ahm . . .” Apprehension struck from the shadows and nearly disabled my speaking skills. “Is something closer . . . in terms of being identifiable.”

Embee's brows were knit tight. “You're talking about her being this universe's you?” Her deduction was astonishingly poignant and unexpected.

“You said what I couldn't bring myself to say.” However, now that she and I had broken the proverbial ice, I found an ounce of courage. “To be so physically disparate that it's often uncomfortable, yet being almost the same individual . . . That's unsettling. Disconcerting. I don't want to and can't be her. But the absence of one barrier between our identities is giving me a serious cause of concern.”

“Consider this then: you and she are completely different, but only a select few aspects stand out as a match due to their striking similarity.” Embee's voice of calm and reason once again set my fears aside just enough for logic to assert itself.

“So, instead of two close parallel lines overlapping, it's the intersection of two oblique lines, and I'm focused on that crossing because it's producing the brightest color?” I theorized.

The bemused look on Embee evidenced that the mental image I had verbalized wasn't easy to transmit. “Putting it that way, yes, I think so.”

My supposition, albeit cursory, motivated thinking on it further. “Those commonalities were then perhaps sufficient to blur the distinction between our realities and cause the swap of minds.” Embee's puzzled look again indicated she wasn't quick on comprehending the presented concept. I sighed lightly and decided to go and peer out the window while she caught up. Much to my chagrin, my stature meant I couldn't look down to the street. I'd have to actually brace myself on the window sill, though first I had to believe that the u-shapes at the end of my limbs didn't have or wouldn't gain the adhesive properties of wet soap.

“Ahh,” I heard Embee breathe in shocked surprise in reaction to my minor lunge.

I showed her an assuaging smile whilst I was technically standing upright. While still on all fours. With care I straightened my forelimbs while taking the necessitated steps with the other pair. “This is the only way I can get a good look down at the street. Normally, I would've pointed, but I don't feel like taking the risk of . . . of becoming unbalanced,” I explained, hiding a tinge of emerging sadness hidden behind annoyance. All these unnecessary complications just to satiate a speck of curiosity—“Aow!” Startled, I recoiled from the window, almost collapsing backwards onto my back. Reflexively having found my footing, I bit my tongue, subduing my flurry of emotions.

“Are you okay, hon?” Embee asked, having already come to my side. “What happened?”

“I, eh, ufh . . .” I drew breath, briefly dropping my head to meet a raised part of my limb. “I forgot I have a horn,” I told her with irritation in my quivering tone, then rolled my eyes up, whereupon I saw the two colors of my forelock. Mane. Hair! “It's just . . . I don't see it, the horn, so I guess I forgot it was there. Having it. Stupid really.”

“Not stupid. Understandable.” Embee gave me a gentle nuzzle. “Did it hurt, though?”

Comforted, I sighed. “No, it only felt weird. It has nerve connections, and having it slightly pushed into my skull . . . Egh, that makes it sound far worse than it felt. It was only a tiny tap, but I'm so not used to it. So yeah, I'm okay now. I'm only being awfully emotional over . . . kind of small things.” That was a prompt to analyze myself, but I didn't trust myself to make objective deductions when I wasn't calm and collected. I gave an indicative glance at the aperture to the sunny world outside. “I'll . . . I want to try again.” Undaunted, though heeding the words of caution spoken by Embee, I put myself back to making a reattempt at gazing down at the street. Maybe I'd spot a rare car by chance?

“Mind swaps, you were saying something about that,” Embee drew attention to an earlier but interrupted topic. “Uh, could a mind swap happen by itself?”

“It seems so unlikely, that it cannot be anything but impossible,” I said to Embee, who had relocated to one box, perhaps out of curiosity; I continued gazing down many floors below as I parsed together a more substantial guess. “Interuniversal mind swaps would be a common occurrence if all that was required is a few matching parameters from their respective universes.” A woman with a pram passing by a corner store below sparked an idea. “But if it received a push of some sort . . .”

“By what?” Embee said inquisitively, her saddlebag inadvertently sliding atop a cardboard box that then halted her approach to me.

“By what . . . Or whom, and if by whom, why?” I said while she effortlessly freed herself from the bind and, soon thereafter, her saddlebags, whereas I had begun feeling like I was playing the central character in a detective story. “Who else could've been there two nights ago at the perfect time and exact place to alter our respective fates? The evidence points at you-know-who.”

“That's a considerable leap of judgement, hon, and also a bold accusation you're making,” Embee, to my surprise, said disapprovingly. “For all we know, she may've had just as little to do with this as you do. It could've been an accident, or a completely unrelated event that affected you both. You shouldn't ask why, but how, and certainly not pass judgement so quickly.” Dumbfounded, I faced away from her in shame. She had spoken wisdoms I would've expected out of myself. “I know that you regard her with anxiety, especially fearing that her identi—”

“Don't say it,” I cut her off snappily, then immediately receded into staring at nothing in remorseful melancholy. “I already know. But I wish I didn't.”

“I'm sorry, but it's better to know, even when that in itself is frightening. Trying to ignore the danger doesn't make it go away, after all. It only makes you more vulnerable to it.” Embee's reason delivered in a dulcet voice helped my head up. That's when I saw in my peripheral vision a cap resting on the floor near the door. How and when . . . It must've fallen off my head when the door had spooked me. “Perhaps that fear also makes you associate undue blame on her? Whenever you speak of her, or refer to her, it's never by name, and with resentment and apprehension. To put it in another way, you're depersonifying her. Maybe you haven't noticed that you do, but I have.” Resisting obstinance, I had to ignore the contrived distraction of collecting the desolate cap and ponder on Embee's insight. If I was antagonistic toward . . . her . . . It seemed plausible that I was disposed to disagree with anything related to . . . or might it have been the other way around? Regardless, Embee was correct, and I'd be doing myself a pernicious disservice denying it. “Think for a moment. What could she possibly gain by, well, taking over your life and leaving you with hers?”

What would anypony gain from—Darned idiosyncrasy! “I don't know!” I cried out, frustrated and disturbed. Just to give myself a short breather, I decided to actually scoop that headwear off the floor. Alas, I was again not in the best of moods and tried to literally grab the item. Miserably, I sent it sliding across the floor to Embee. She beheld me with an empathetic gaze, then grabbed the cap with her teeth and laid it on a box. Enfeebled by my ineptitude, a bout of apathy engendered consideration for a risky endeavor. “I could know if I . . . If I try to think back to two days ago and learn what she knows.”

“You what?” I was numb to Embee's gasp. “Oh no, you should not do that.”

“I'm sure I won't, or I didn't do, or um . . .” Hold on. To where was that sentence leading to? I was trying to reference something I did? Or didn't do? “She did . . . didn't do . . .” Of course, now I recalled! I had assumed blame for my predicament rested on me. “I wasn't at fault,” I defended myself, as I . . . felt like my thoughts weren't here and confusing? Okay, what?

“Now listen to me and don't think on it further.” I was aware, I believed, that was my alarmed friend. I hadn't had any cause for alarm myself though.

“Okay.” Switches, levers, buttons, dials, and so on. All okay. Everything that was within physical reach had been connected and was functioning as intended. The wheels turned, and so did the pedals. All that was left was the awakening of the engine, and then I was ready to do a tentative test drive around the parking lot. But then . . . an anomaly? “Why . . . Why did . . . it do that? It wasn't supposed to . . .”

“Viv, Viv,” somepo . . . No! No? Oh-ne . . . van . . . two, three? “Vivienne?”

“Eh? Who?” That name . . . was for me? Mine? Name? Who said that name of mine that I associated with myself more than with the other . . . was showing me her hoof? Why was Embee—Uh-oh!

“Ah!” I yelped, having received her hoof into my face.

“Viv, Viv? Vivenne?” Embee called out while I was beside myself with embarrassment and exasperation. I couldn't do anything about having a light and high female voice, but I'd gladly prefer not to sound that feminine. “Are you okay now?”

“Yeah, um, t-thanks. I . . . I think I deserved that.” Collecting my composure—and as much as I tried not to—I rubbed my not-actually-injured snout. “It was a bit forceful, though.” Or was it a muffler? That was what ruminants had. Muzzle! That was what it was . . . what I lamentably had.

“Oh, well . . . Sorry?” Embee laughed nervously. “I'll try to be gentler, if there is a next time.”

“There will be, I just know it.” Caught in a spell of curiosity, I poked gently at my very visible nose, only to flinch when I realized the strangeness of this thing was too much for me to bear. That it was an integral part of my face only added to my stupefied disbelief. “And I'm not sure there really is a gentle way.” Regardless, explicitly aware that she might receive this next revelation unfavorably, I nonetheless had to at least test the waters. “Anyhow, I saw it, Embee, I saw it. I mean, I think I saw something possibly important.”

“I'm afraid to ask.” Embee sighed, raising her limb as if to take a vow. “What did you see, Vivienne?”

I could feel my muzzle protesting already. So, I too sighed, and decided to forge ahead despite my reservations. “Remember I said it rained for two days, and you said it rained only yesterday?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Alright, so,” I continued cautiously, “why use the windshield wipers when it's not raining?”

“Excuse me, but what are those?”

“You don't know?” I reacted snappishly, incredulous at her ignorance. However, I quickly saw the error of my temperamental behavior. “Sorry. It's those narrow components, often found in pairs, typically on the car's foremost window, but also as a single unit on the rear window on some cars, displacing accumulating water from rainfall but also to remove grime and dirt.”

I was interrupted by a gentle laugh. “Alright, alright, Vivienne, I got it.”

“So . . . Well . . .” Alas, I received a sudden pause, as I was seeing the windshield wipers of my car—or its counterpart in this realm—from multiple angles, both outside and inside. Thinking deeper on it despite my wariness, these visions seemed to be a collage of memory snippets and imagined and inexact extrapolations, and unlikely to provide a solving clue. “The, um, the wipers worked fine when I, sorry, she tested them earlier, but then seemingly activated by themselves right before she was to do a preliminary drive. Now, the question is, why did they do that?” I was frustrated but also puzzled by this aberration. Then it dawned on me! “Because it was raining when I had driven, er, uhm . . . from . . . I don't know. I can't recall . . .” I held a moment of silence for that loss of recent memory. “Moving on . . . It rained for me, but not for her. My car, when I had arrived, then occupied the exact spot as hers, and presumably and inexplicably combined with it during her run of the pre-drive tests. I saw, and can still see the stalk, er, the control lever for the wipers moving up by itself all of sudden into the active position. Perhaps her car was correcting itself to match mine. But unlike hers, my car isn't augmented with driving-assisting magic, at least to my knowledge, ruling it out as a probable inciter of this merger.” A major hole in my searching supposition became apparent. “However, if that's when this swap happened, how didn't I realize I was no longer in my own form? I would've immediately noticed it, wouldn't I?” I looked to Embee for answers. “Is it possible for two realities to become entangled, and then be unbound after an unknown duration, and that only once unbound were we displaced from our respective realities and bodies?”

As she blinked in silence, I realized once again I had delivered her a topic beyond her expertise. “Possibly?” she hazarded.

Disheartened, albeit undissuaded, I carried on. “While they, the realities, were um, locally interlocked, I was, err . . . we were unaware of anything being out of the ordinary, but only up to when they finally parted, which I guess to have happened when we were asleep . . . But what caused that separation then? And how come this ostensibly began with the windshield wipers? That doesn't make any sense.” I had an urge to scratch my head but . . . not with these things. I could've stepped on something dirty and then I'd transfer it to my mane. “But I'll make sense of it. I have to.”

“Not to bring you down, hon, but maybe it's not you alone who can make sense of it?” What was Embee on about, trying to discourage me like that? I might be on the cusp of discovery here if I just kept analyzing further! “She may not have known anything was seriously amiss. All what she did, and you did, could've been wholly unrelated to whatever caused this.”

“But I really need to know. I mean, I must know. By some means, somehow, I guess, I'll just think it, and that'll make it . . . then I'll know . . . because I kept thinking . . .” My determination faltered as I sadly realized that correlation didn't equal causation. I could put myself through the wringer and analyze recent memories again and again in an endless pursuit of answers where none could ever be found. “Embee, you know how hard I . . . I really wanted to know,” I lamented, crestfallen. “How am I to . . . Where do I go from here?”

“Giving up isn't easy when you've convinced yourself not to,” she wrapped rationality into a consolation. “To learn what truly happened must feel like the only question you have in your life, but hard as it may be to accept, you alone cannot answer it. Neither can I, though my joy would be boundless if I could. Don't take all this too hard though. Be proud of yourself instead. In little more than a few minutes you put together terrific theories that I'm sure Peachy would like to hear as well.” The door made an unlocking sound, betokening its opening. “Speaking of whom.” In walked a cream brown mare with a red, long, feathered mane. I was immediately shaken by nervous excitement.

“Ah, morning. Nice of you to finally get here—while I wasn't here.” She gave Embee a small, questioning smirk, who rolled her eyes in pretend innocence.

“Good morning to you as well,” Embee reciprocated as Peachy walked herself over to me.

“Hi,” I said proactively—with a thin whisper.

“Well hi to you as well. I'm very pleased and thrilled to meet you again.” Though no words escaped me, I too felt the same way—and also a little apprehensive. That glimmer in her eyes was of wonder in seeing a human stuck in the wrong body and a sincere desire to help me, not delight for having an experiment to play with? “Now, without any delay, and as the phrase goes, let's get down to brass tacks,” she took herself to her desk; Embee and I congregated at it as well. “I've gone over the notes I wrote, to get back up to speed on this matter, but it goes without saying that any new information you can provide can advance the resolving of your situation.” She opened a laptop computer I hadn't consciously paid attention to. “Embee told me of you and your believable arguments of your humanity. I feel it's fair that I'm up front with you: I must admit to you my doubts, anticipating your case to be symptomatic of some form of severe disillusionment or stress-induced dissociative fugue. However, Embee's statements along with her observations, and the peculiar magic signature in you, strongly corroborates you having told the truth.”

I gasped, awe-struck. “So that means my humanity's been verified! That's great news, yes!” I felt like I had come airborne by the elation and relief. “What else did you discover about me?” I asked with excited curiosity, right before a flash of dismay filled with an intense dread of losing face. Could she have discovered my true gender?

“Not much else, I'm afraid. Magic signatures can tell what you are, but not who you are or what you know.” She chuckled lightly. The magic signature couldn't tell my gender? That was a very close bullet dodged. “I cannot read your mind.” Was I in the clear, though? Had she been able to read my physical features? The image of a mare poring over a male body, even if it were to be mine, was certainly unwarranted, however. “I took the liberty of checking you for ailments, just to be sure. All signs pointed to you being perfectly healthy.”

“Cool.” I was still in such a tizzy that my reaction was flat.

“Embee told me a little about you. Perhaps this is kind of a formality in that regard, but I'd like to hear it from you.” Peachy looked at me kindly. “Your name's Vivienne?”

“Hm,” I affirmed hesitantly, unsure of if I wanted to go down this path with her as well.

“Last name?” Peachy said affably, creasing her lips to an expectant smile when I remained mute. “Vivienne?”

A feeling of despondency hung over me. “Uh, it's . . . hazy.”

“Alright. Vivienne Hazy,” Peachy shifted her attention to her computer.

“No, that's not it,” I interrupted, sensing my limp ears rebound.

“Oh?” she blinked confusedly. “It's not Hazy?”

“No. The name's not hazy. I mean, it's hazy in that . . .” I huffed slightly. “I feel like I should know, but I'm confused by a number of names. One of them is correct, but I can't tell which one. Point is, I don't know my last name.”

“Not at the moment, hon,” Embee consoled.

I should've been optimistic enough to vocalize a meager hum. Her bright smile, helpful as it might've been, was subdued by my wall of defeat. Peachy had put her attention back on her machine. “First name. Vivienne. Last name. Unknown, for the time being. Gender. Female.” Once again, I felt conflicted about this propagation of a false identity that conversely granted flexibility in the expression of emotion and anything and everything feminine, accidental or deliberate. “Well, no. I shouldn't assume,” she gently criticized herself. Was she tipped off by my unease? Paradoxically, I was exceptionally averse to surrendering my alias, even though doing so would be a significant relief. “Do you have a differing preference? Non-binary?”

I had a poor understanding of the spectrums. “Ah no, uh . . .” I said haltingly, bringing a smile to my lips even though I felt I was about to do a self-betrayal. “It's a bit silly, but I always feel uneasy drawing attention to it, but, yeah, I'm female.” The chance to set the record straight had been set so close I could smell it—and I had been too fainthearted to take it.

“Alright.” Peachy took the lie at face value. “And your age?”

“Don't you know not to ask a lady her age?” I said with a hint of sullenness, angry and disappointed at myself.

“A lady can ask another, can't she?” Peachy half-joked; I nearly groaned. “But in all seriousness, I don't mean to offend.”

“Twenty two, I think,” I guessed. “It could be her age.”

Peachy's left ear canted sideways. “Her?”

“You know, her.” Peachy's continuing bemusement convinced me to briefly hold up my limb to my sternum. “This, her. I don't want to say her name, and I expect the same from you.” Catching myself becoming perhaps a bit demanding, I softened my disposition. “If I may make such a request, that is. Be that as it may, I know what her name is, and it's not mine. It's not supposed to be, but it wants to feel like it is. I'm afraid that were I to be called by her name, I'll react to it like it were mine, and I'm really trying to keep our respective identities and personalities separate, even though that seems as futile as segregating pigments in water. I can tell red and blue apart with ease, but I'm most anxious about the shades of purple. Does the mallow belong to me, and mauve to her? I don't know, and not knowing . . .” I dropped my head momentarily as I sighed, having heard developing fragility in my tone.

“Try not to think about it, hon.” Embee comforted. “Everything will be sorted out in the end.”

“This is perhaps the worst kind of an identity crisis to have. But I digress. Twenty two. That could be my birthday, or her birthday, or a number associated with it. I really don't know.” However, it suddenly came to me that I was old enough to own a driver's license. “No wait, forget that . . . Let me think here.” A figurative drawer opened up that ejected images to my mind's eye. “Okay! I received a bottle of wine as a birthday gift from my parents and this feels . . . not many years ago, but . . . They know I don't drink, but I wasn't mad about the gift either, though, neither were they, I think. Maybe they had forgotten that I don't . . . But I felt bad, like I was being ungrateful when I was only being true to my principles.” This recollection came with unexpected emotional baggage. “I feel too sad about this, I'm sorry.” What was with me?

“Who are you saying sorry to?” Embee asked with a tone of gentleness that seemed to convey a congratulation. Bafflingly, I didn't have an immediate answer. I had . . . apologized for my behavior? For being just a touch sad? My relationship with my emotions must be poorer than I thought.

“Well, I'll put twenty two here, with a question mark,” Peachy stated soberly; however, something soon seemed to weigh on her mind. “Please forgive my oversight. I should've asked you the instant we met: how are you feeling?”

After the very recent failures of my own, I felt . . . “Exhausted, conflicted, dismayed, bewildered, distraught, frustrated, humiliated, embarrassed, and indisposed,” I summarized, feeling like even my voice counted as an enervator.

“Oh . . . my.” Peachy's hoof moved up to her chin. “Indisposed as well?” Of all the things she could've taken concern with . . . “Is it because of something you ate?”

“No. Funny though, as funny as it can be anyhow, is that all the things that I've had to endure, nothing's made me throw up,” I remarked sardonically, then exhaled resignedly. “Oh well, I should look forward to it with aplomb.”

“But Vivienne,” Embee so wonderfully reminded me that I had subjugated myself into portraying a female character. “You forgot one feeling.”

“Just one?” I said numbly.

“Hopeful,” she said with cheer, and much to my initial bemusement, laid a limb over me to gently rock me. “Actually, you don't need to rely on hope alone when that comforting feeling is supplanted, perhaps superceded, by knowing the anticipated outcome is assured.” She nodded at Peachy, who nodded affirmatively back at me.

“Careful with that kind of talk,” I warned Embee. “You'll make me feel better about myself.”

“And that's exactly what you want,” she said pithily, seeing right through my defensive reproach, and I couldn't counter her argument due to the simple fact that she was perfectly right.

“I see you two have formed a friendship.” Even Peachy seemed to read me better than I did. “That's great, honestly. It's doing wonders for your mood.”

“Well uhm . . .” Bringing this to my vocal cords shouldn't involve so much internal resistance. “In fact, that's putting it quite succinctly. That I haven't had to be by my lonesome has been a lifesaver, and made my life, as it is, a lot less arduous.” If I had more to say, it didn't materialize; Embee gestured her appreciation by laying her wing over my back. “Don't do that,” I whispered, “I might start crying.” She withdrew respectfully, perhaps knowing me well enough not to become bemused.

“To get back on track.” Peachy eyed her computer briefly. “My report summarizes most of what we know of your situation and how it came to be, mostly retold by Embee I must note.” I noted Peachy had a rubber shoe with a thin, peglike protrusion on its lip, perhaps to assist in using the computer. When she had donned that, I didn't know. “Let me begin by saying that transformations are not unheard of, Equestrian species to another by magic or enchanted items, accidental or deliberate.” While she quickly glanced at the screen, I tried to ascertain if she had insinuated I had been transformed. Or maybe I was simply misinterpreting her words. “Mind swaps, however, are rarer, as transferring minds swiftly and intact requires more magic than reshaping a body does, and this applies to cross-species transfers as well.”

“That's great and all,” I spoke up, feeling just a tad impatient, but also desiring to know if she could answer a question of particular interest, “but just to make a guess here, an imperfect transfer can lead to memory loss and . . . other selfhood-related irregularities?”

“That's a fair and astute assessment, yes,” Peachy said, astonished and, albeit reservedly, delighted. “You're a clever girl.”

“Yeah, I'm a raptor.” At least I could counter the unintended insult with pert humor. It did leave both Peachy and Embee confused. So confused, in fact, I worried they had taken it literally despite their confirmation I was human. “Gosh, it was a joke. I'm obviously not a raptor. I can't believe I have to say that.” I thought I'd follow that by jokingly saying I was actually a dragon, or a fox, but it'd only deepen their confusion. Although . . . I should've considered that they might've not known what a raptor was in the first place. Or maybe they did know? It was a bird as well, if I wasn't mistaken . . .

“Okay, uh, carrying on.” Peachy recomposed herself and perused her computer for a few seconds. “A mind transfer cannot be, or should not be partial. It's all or nothing. If the transfer cannot be made in full, the spell cancels itself. This is inherent to all magic, including spells, by the way. That the transfer has happened regardless is suggestive of a deliberately broken spell, or an unintended, though highly rare side-effect caused by another, unknown spell or magical event.”

It was like I had won an anti-lottery—without knowing I was a participant. “To have that kind of luck is astounding, to say the least.”

“It truly astounds me as well.” The disbelief in Peachy's tone was undeniable. “A seemingly accidental pony-human mindswap across the universal divides, the kind that's befallen you no less, is what I would've easily dismissed to be all but impossible.”

“I'm living proof of it not being impossible. But I grow weary of this debate over the whats and hows and assorted intricacies. It's not providing any sort of resolution.” Recognizing the effect my eroding patience had done on my decorum, I drew a breath to reassert my tranquility. “Let's skip to the point. Embee had told me you can't, but I want to hear it from you: can you reverse this cross-dimensional mind swap?”

“I hate to disappoint, but Embee's absolutely right. Sending you back is far beyond my capabilities.” With dejection I looked over at Embee, who unfortunately gazed back with sad compassion. “Determining your point of origin isn't what I can do, either.”

“I hadn't asked to know that, but, um, thanks anyhow.” While I was perplexed by the receiving of additional but unrequested information, a thought ventured to the forefront of my mind. “What can you tell me about her passive presence and what it has to do with me. Or what it does to me, I suppose.”

“Yes. Her passive presence is like a repository of her memories, personality, and traits. It's her essence, if you will. Naturally, in the absence of her active presence, you've become the active presence, with the benefit of your own, unique memories, personality, and traits. A mind transfer's supposed to seclude the passive presence so that it cannot be accessed by the new host. Since it hasn't, along with the transfer possibly being partial, identity conflations are sadly to be expected.” Peachy's serious but calm tone changed when she put on a positive smile. “However, you and her being different species is a dissimilarity that heightens rejection, making the overlaps, regardless of duration, temporary.”

I was, however, not reassured. “Clearly, that means the similarities are the ones that stick.”

“Unfortunately.” The look on Peachy was that of sympathetic dismay, as if she had hoped I wouldn't have made that deduction. “But if she likes strawberries and you do as well, then it's not so bad, is it?”

“Ughr,” I huffed, less disgusted by her downplaying of my anxiety than by my personality being tampered with, and much more fearful of any changes, no matter how minor, being permanent. “It's the principle of it.” A second later, a faint ember of hope convinced me to ask: “Are there any others who share my unenviable predicament? Would make it a bit easier if, you know, I had some . . . one to talk with . . . slim as the odds are.”

The sad look on Peachy's face gave me time to prepare. “Not as far as I know, I'm sorry.”

With my wish to be with someone who'd be able to perfectly empathize with me dashed, I had very little more to say. “I'm . . . I'm all alone then.”

“But I'm here,” Embee offered sympathetically.

“No, Embee, you're not here,” I rebuked. “You cannot understand and relate to my anguish and confusion because you haven't been inexplicably removed from your normal life and locked within a strange form that has virtually nothing in common with your own self.”

“You're right, and I'm sorry, hon, I haven't,” Embee admitted. “I don't have the frame of reference that you do. Though, if I may kindly suggest, consulting transgender support groups—”

“This is nothing like that and I don't care what you suggest! My predicament is absolutely not comparable!” Much to my horror and chagrin, her pitying but undaunted visage telegraphed just how wrong I was. Defiance petered on even as shame became stronger. “Well, fine, it's body dysphoria, I get that, but they're in disagreement with their sex, whereas I'm not!” That statement regarding myself was true on the account that I wasn't the sex I was now—and that made perfect sense. Having said it without the slightest falter was equally perplexing. However, with my indignance subsiding, and an uncomfortable silence hanging over us, another tone emerged. “Look, I'm . . . I'm sorry, about that, ah, that outburst,” I said peaceably. “You're the closest thing I have to a friend here, and I should not be so . . . brusque. I'm easily stressed and behaviorally confused, and I don't even know what you meant to suggest and assumed that it would be what I wouldn't like. But now I think I see what you might've tried to say, and I suppose it would've been really nice to have some others to commiserate with, but a group for transgenders isn't the right one. Even if I were just an unseen observer in an online environment, they ah, their, the issues are similar, but not identical, and I wouldn't feel a sense of belonging.”

“If you say so, and well, if things start looking grim, at least don't forget that you're never alone. You have us,” Peachy said, first carefully, but with developing gusto. “Now, if we may continue . . .” She then retrieved a plastic box resting at the other end of her L-shaped desk and put it before her. “You were able to earlier, I've been told, but are you able to use your magic at this moment?” she asked as she pried the box open.

“Yes,” I replied, nonplussed. “I actually should be overjoyed that I can use it at all. I mean, I was more than elated to do something as simple as lift a pillow by thinking about it. Magic's such a strange thing, too. Seeing and feeling without using either senses, like a continuous but soundless echolocation with tactile sensation.”

“That's an interesting way to put it, Vivienne.” Peachy then demonstrated her own ability. “I can pick up this pen and sense the wall behind me. It's not a true tactile sensation, however, but merely the magic relaying information.”

“Hmm, it has a range limit, about fifteen or twenty meters, at least for me. It's an impressive reach, but, well, I'm sure it could be farther . . .” And if I thought about that further, I might accidentally lose track of myself. “As important as magic's become to me, in all honesty, I can't help but feel bereft of what I can't use. There was an immediacy to them. Magic's more of a command that's issued and then performed, and I've yet to learn how to reliably reduce the latency to an acceptable level. Also, body language cannot be done with magic.”

“Excuse me, if I may interrupt, but what precisely can't you use?” Peachy didn't get what I meant? Had I been too vague?

“She means hands,” Embee helped her unicorn colleague.

Peachy let out a small moan. “Sorry to hear that.” I could not ignore her casting a glance down at my forelimbs. “You must be missing them an awful lot.” She certainly meant well, but I genuinely felt sickened by her directness.

“Do you have any idea of the immeasurable comfort I would've given myself so many times if I could've just buried my face in my hands? I don't have that now, and so I have to figure out other means, but there aren't. So I have, I have . . . nothing. That's what I have, and I'm feeling confused, anxious, and insecure.” I suddenly became aware of my voice breaking. “Excuse me.” I drew a breath and let it out as a sigh. Embee brought my eyes to her when she gently nuzzled me. “I should be grateful that I at least have and can use magic. I would be so utterly lost if I had only these useless hooves to . . . err to, um, to . . .” The irony of my now aborted rant following Peachy's poor expression of sympathy became unpleasantly apparent. I was in the presence of a pony who didn't have a spire of spellcasting on their head. “I'm sorry, Embee, I didn't mean to offend, but please, try to understand my plight,” I expressed my remorse, albeit defensively. “And I'm kind of emotional, and carried away by it, and that's not an excuse, but just an explanation as to why it happens, and uh, I kind of hate it because I'm not sure I'm supposed to be like how I am, but the circumstances are extraordinary and . . . huh?” Oddly enough, Embee's gentle giggle was comforting, halting my babbling temporarily. “You know, I envy your ability to do so much with hooves and not think of it as strange or insurmountable. I sometimes feel debilitating alienation and disconnect—”

“Stop stressing yourself out again, hon,” she said tenderly despite everything, with little effect however. How could I even believe to be on par with these magical ponies from a realm I had believed to be pure fantasy when I was more of a thinking and talking animal! Four feet and not doing so well with or on them!

“All those fundamental mannerisms and gestures that I couldn't and can't do and . . . and I have these big ears that signal my emotions by falling and rising, and turning towards every sound I hear and I cannot properly reconcile with them and I can feel those muscles right behind my jaw, and my spine extends to a long-haired protrusion that swings side to side when I'm annoyed and tucks itself between my legs when I'm scared and . . . and these are not things I, as a human, would have any reason to perform, which means they're instincts, and are also the most evident signs of the changes I've undergone and that makes me question how much I am truly myself anymore!” And then I stopped breathing. A primal flight reaction fostered by the feeling of heavy peril began surging through my veins. If I knew how, I'd run, though where would I run anyhow? There was no escaping from any of this and, and, and . . . and I had to stay calm, stay calm, stay calm . . . stay calm. A deep breath, and . . . okay. I was okay. I did well. Just a little shaky, and almost teary-eyed.

“Don't let your fears take control.” Embee was a little slow in taking me into a brief, soothing embrace. “It's not good for you.”

“A mild sedative can help with your anxiety.” Peachy's suggestion was enticing, but when a whiff of fabric softener could make me feel giddy, altering my behavior with pharmaceuticals seemed like a gamble rather than a guaranteed protection. I only agreed with coffee, and the occasional painkiller for when circumstances required it.

“No, no thanks, um, uhm, egh . . .” I let my tongue go across my lips. “I feel like even my mouth doesn't feel like it used to. I know I don't have the teeth of a human, but I'm talking about the tongue, the lips, and shape of my mouth. If . . . If I just . . . If I just had something that I could look at and feel comfort in knowing that it is me, an entirely unchanged physical connection to myself, then maybe I wouldn't be so stressed all the time.” My sense of self-awareness arrived to slap me in the face with a fish procured from Unhygienix's stall. “Or become so easily stressed, I mean, it just happened more than once within the past few minutes.”

Peachy held a thoughtful gaze on me, letting a careful smile emerge slowly. “If it's of any consolation, you're still female.”

I cringed, then laughed nervously. “I would've gone crazy if that had been taken as well.” I seriously hoped I wasn't correct.

“Don't be so sure, hon. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for.” Embee assured.

“How can you say that? I don't need my dysmorphia to be worsened by, well, ehh . . .” Expressing what I felt was most objectionable in being female was impossible when I was pretending to be safe and secure in being one. Further compounding my hesitation was that I'd turn my predicament on its head if I presented a convincingly earnest argument from the hypothetical perspective of a woman turned stallion, and I genuinely had neither the insight or resolve to do that. But I had to say something believable, that I myself could believe in, too. “Sometimes I have thoughts of fancy, small what-ifs, flights of curiosity, sparks of fascination, and, admittedly, mild but momentary disillusionments, but never to the extent where I think my life would be better if I weren't . . .” Unable to go against myself, I clenched my teeth behind closed lips. “In all honesty, I prefer not to ever find out what being of the opposite sex would do to me. Not long-term, anyhow.” A few days might be endurable. Any longer than that and I'd become genuinely afraid for myself—and I didn't want to think of that! “Can we please get back on track now?”

“By all means.” Putting her face to the box before her, Peachy pulled a long and transparent item hanging at the end of a thread. “Are you able to take this vial with your magic and open and close its lid?”

“Yes, I can, am able to, I mean. What's it for?” Unsure what it was for, I refused to do as asked.

“I was getting to that,” Peachy said with a small laugh. She had rested the questionable item on her desk. “It's so that we can get a magic sample.” Despite that simple reassurance, I had to thwart my own distrust and convince myself that she wasn't tasking me with self-harm. Wrapping the vial in a shroud, I labored briefly with its unplugging and plugging. “Hmm.” Peachy briefly scrutinized the vial as I disengaged my magic. “You did very well. Thank you.”

Unimpressed by the congratulation, I . . . Why was the vial glowing white? “Oh, wow, the magic's there inside?” Mesmerized by seeing a piece of my telekinetic force contained, I stared at the vial as Peachy carefully took it by the string and lowered it into a small envelope she had opened while I had been occupied with amazement.

Peachy laughed again, cocking a brow. “Yes, I said what the vial's for, didn't I?” she said as she sealed the envelope, “I'll have it delivered to the lab shortly for analysis, so we can learn what it can yield about your condition.”

“Uh, I hesitate to ask . . .” I raised my limb tentatively. “But will you also need to take a blood sample?”

“No, but I don't see any harm in it.” Her succinct answer came as a bit of a shock.

“Wehll, uhh . . .” My voice developed a tremble. “I-I don't like n-needles. J-j-us-s-st say-saying.”

“Relax. Contrary what you might think, we don't have any here. We'd have to go elsewhere to take a blood sample. But even so, the needles we use are of a special kind. Looks much like any needle, but it's a hollow tube with two microneedles attached to what resembles a downsized electric toothbrush. The needle drawing blood is serrated and gently vibrates itself through the skin, and the other administers a local anesthetic. It's practically painless.”

“Really? Aaah, ooohhh.” I shook as the tension left my body. “Incredible. Genuinely incredible.” Those kinds of needles must be invaluable to diabetics and others who must puncture themselves daily. “Anyhow, um, getting the, my results from the magic might take a day or two, right?” Just as I could surmise that to be true, I had to now surmise I'd have to live as a pony for that duration. Female pony. Such joy . . . but endurable. Yes. Endurable.

“It might be ready by day's end. If not, then yes, tomorrow or the day after at the latest.” She began tapping at her computer again, whereas I struggled with accepting that I no longer had to surmise the duration of my condition. This was concrete now, and I should try not to be afraid.

My head wanted to fall, but I couldn't bear the thought of seeing my feet. Even though the air wasn't moving, I was sure I felt it cascading down my sides like a dense fog, as if to make my form explicitly incontrovertible. “But . . . but how long must I wait to get back to living my life?”

“Not too long,” she assured, but the lightness in which she said it made it feel like it was a throwaway line. When she saw my scowl, she took on a placating tone. “I had contemplated keeping you here in the hospital from hereon, but as gracious and accommodating we can be, this place's a poor substitute to the soothing comfort of a home. True, I'm aware that it's not your home per se, but nonetheless, I feel safe permitting you the freedom to go there. In fact, it's crucial that you look, if you can, for a schedule or a calendar and ensure that all, if any, commitments, meetings, and events, with friends or family or otherwise, are circumspectly cancelled. This goes without saying, but I recommend that you ask for Embee's assistance. She'll be more than happy to help.” Embee took that as a cue to give me an empathetically confirmatory nod. “We can all agree that mingling with "long-time friends" you don't actually know would be unbearably stressful. I'll check if any appointments show up on this end and have them cancelled, too. Now, I know that waiting can be extremely trying, so I sincerely encourage you to remain patient, calm, hopeful, and perhaps most importantly, find ways to be happy and entertained.” Peachy made some inputs on her computer. “If it's not too much for you, I'd like you to later recount what's transpired since this unfortunate experience began. Just giving you a heads up about that, and as always, it's fine if you decline. I understand it's not been a pleasant time. On a brighter note, Embee might've told you this already, but I've messaged a friend I know who in turn knows a specialist on—”

“How long must I wait?” I interrupted, having become dissatisfied by the instructive monologue that I felt was avoiding answering a most crucial question.

Embee went up to the desk. “Excuse me, but I'd like to humbly ask you to be fair to her,” she implored.

Peachy bit her lip, but with a sigh, she steeled herself. “It's with much regret that I must say I don't know precisely how long the wait will be.”

Embee looked at me sorrily, expressing dismay at the response her persuasion had garnered. “Then make an educated guess!” I demanded. A terrified voice in the recess of my mind was trying to convince me that I didn't want to know.

Peachy's ears wilted. “Please, stay calm, and listen. I was very explicit in letting him know this was most urgent.”

Infuriation, a defense reaction, threatened to rise to the surface, but in a moment of clarity and understanding, I tempered, then quenched it. Belligerence and confrontation had no place here and served no meaningful purpose. Instead of sealing myself up with an erupting blaze, I laid myself open, and implored: “I cannot live in uncertainty. I won't survive living in uncertainty. I absolutely need and deserve an estimate, if nothing else.”

The silence that ensued could've made the vacuum of space noisy, and how she looked like she wanted to be anywhere else but here was a dreadful omen. “ Ah, well . . . fifteen, maybe only ten days,” she said, uncharacteristically timidly.

“Oh that's um, some two weeks abouts . . .” I said in a voice barely above a whisper. I meant to thank her for her sincerity as well, but nothing audible came out. I felt empty . . . Sad, crushed, hopeless? Oddly unmoved and tranquil, as if my emotions had been deactivated.

“Are you okay, hon?” Embee's queried.

“I don't know,” I replied, feeling like I was in a place of mystifying peace within the eye of a storm. It'd pull me in if I touched it—safer to stay here then then . . .

“My friend's in a distant part of Equestria and mailing him takes time, and then he has to contact the specialist. That takes several days, but I'm willing to admit that my estimate could be wrong, very wrong. That, and the exigency of this matter means the wait could be significantly less than ten days,” Peachy said. Explained? To inspire hope?

“Okay,” I acknowledged. Was she frowning? Out of worry? Why was she worried? I was fine.

“When I get the return message, I promise you, I'll send news of it to you immediately, even if it's in the middle of the night,” she continued.

“Mhm.” I still felt emotionally numb. I wasn't sure that was good, or going to last. This must've been a defense mechanism. A lull before the inevitable turmoil. Strange how cognizant I was of it, yet so resigned.

“Can you be so kind and take the sample in my stead?” Embee looked at me after having spoken her request. “She will be needing me.” I had a feeling that didn't portend well for me. But I was okay, just okay. Nothing was wrong.

I watched in silence as Peachy took the box and left. Now it was only me and my flight-capable friend here. In this quiet place with a sterile odour. What was next? Embee neared a bit, and I sensed she was about to give a hug or something of the sorts—and I receded instinctively. The storm ejected cold water on me before I knew why I had distanced myself from her. If she had touched me, then I would know that . . . I couldn't do this anymore. I'd have to accept it, and, no . . . NO! “I can't do it.” I looked away, trying and failing to put a familiar limb to my eye.

“Do what, hon?” Embee said softly but with urgency. “Tell me.”

I turned around, looking for a portal through which I could escape this all. But all I saw was the storm that I'd have to go into. “No, I don't . . .” I turned once more, and instantly recoiled when I looked down, frightened that the reflections of light on the floor were mirrors. “I can't . . . can't I . . .” I could reclaim peace if I braved the winds and made it to the other side . . . but it might not be the kind of peace I'd want?

“You can't what, hon?” Embee said empathetically, directing me to face her with the softest of dabs. “Can you tell me? I'd like to know.” Her gentle request was compelling, but . . . if I said it, then I couldn't unsay it, and that'd make it real. But it was real, just less so now. Kind of. Or not. I was scared. “I want to help, hon.”

“What's there to help?” My bitter repudiation was but a spark of skepticism betraying the nearness I was to despaired sobbing. I faced away from her once again. “It's . . . could . . . two weeks . . . and I . . . don't want to . . .” I hated and feared that I'd have to. “I'm . . . not this.” But I was—and I wasn't! For almost two weeks? “I can't do it.”

“Of course you can do it, hon, I know you can.” Embee had repositioned herself to facilitate face-to-face talking. “Listen, you have more tenacity and fortitude in you than you realize. You can and will make it through the hardships and sadness, even when it seems like it will crush you. Even if it were two weeks, don't think about that. Think this way: tomorrow will be one day less to wait, and with each passing day, the wait becomes shorter. It won't be so bad when I'm here with you, for you. You'll do alright.”

“I would, I had, afh, a few d-days, that I, coast it okay, b-bht,” I explained, my words overlapping with themselves. I was a mess about to happen. No, worse. I had a concern she'd have to know of, that I might articulate without breaking down if I tried. “But igh . . . idh . . . gham . . . don't . . .” Had to try harder and not hyperventilate. “Know, how to be, I'm not, want to, don't, no, I don't, not know, this, be, no, I don't . . .” This wasn't working! I was barely coherent.

“Try to relax, hard as it may, I know, but I also know you can do it.” Embee too had come to the same realization. “Now focus, hon. Collect your thoughts, and speak them to me.”

Yes. I had to get a grip on myself, if for just one sentence. A deep breath, and try to get this imploration through a duct that felt as narrow as a straw. “I need to, ah, to know . . . I don't know how to, and I . . .” That ended with a miserable squeak and a salty rill reaching my lips.

“Keep going, hon.” She laid her wing across my back while I stared fixedly down as a trembling something overladen with fright and anxiety. Something this—that I—wasn't, and I wasn't who I didn't belong in, in the form that made it impossible to be who I knew I was and what I was, and so what I was trying be and what I could be couldn't be who and what I was, meaning I was . . . what? “Don't stop trying.”

I glanced at her, but immediately closed my eyes and shook my head in rejection of what . . . I almost was. I was so afraid of . . . I couldn't force myself to be willingly ignorant! The truth was all around me at all times and I could feel it and I'd hear it, and I hated that I'd have to know how to and I was scared that I'd come to know and I was scared scared scared scared scared scared scared! But it wouldn't be in mind. Only in body, not in identity, only in body, only in body, and that was, that was . . . that was all? Maybe? Acceptable? Maybe? Hopefully. Maybe? I was reasoning with myself. Yes. I'd need help to . . . to be . . . something that this I was . . . and not speak it as a whimper. “I . . . don't . . .” No whimpering, no! No sobbing, not even the smallest of sobs. Had to keep it together. Steel myself, and get this pain voiced. “You know what you are and I know what I'm not, but I need help with that.” The vague wording did not dull the message I knew myself. It hurt so bad I gasped; a prelude to sobbing. But I reined it in. If I had actually begun to . . . then I wouldn't need help anymore. I would already be it. Or would it? No or yes, no or yes? I didn't know, but I was too frightened.

“Help with what . . . Ah, I understand. Yes, I can teach you how to be a mare.” That was terrible! Why did she say it? I knew she might say it. I should have expected her to say. I knew what she said was right. I'd need the help. Being this, having to be this, learning how to be this, knowing how to be this . . . but only for a while! It would hurt nonetheless. It was hurting now. I was afraid it would never stop hurting, and afraid it would stop hurting. If the former . . . I'd never be at peace, and the latter . . . I'd die. “Hang in there.” Too debilitated to resist, I let Embee take me into an embrace. “If you think it's two weeks, it'll be over before you even know it, you'll see.” When she said that, I moaned pitifully. How would I ever have the persistence and tenacity to stall, hinder, resist, stop . . . No, I wouldn't die! I'd be me, whatever happens . . . but not the me I was? Would I ever be? Was I now? I was scared. “But don't despair, hon, it can very well be less than that. The lab results might provide you the most wonderful surprise! Also, Peachy could be terribly wrong with her estimate, she said so herself. Since it's an urgent matter, I'm sure every step is taken to make your wait as short as possible.”

Her optimism had no effect on me. I was on day two of . . . Her optimism had no effect on me. The thoughts and memories of the prior day filled my head . . . and I didn't want that! Couldn't they leave me be? This was a bad day, much worse than yester . . . Was today really that bad of a day? Could it actually be less bad? Could I think day two was better than day one, and it'd improve from there? But yesterday . . .No? Yes. “I was in a bad way yesterday,” I said in this currently raspy, fatigued Fluttershy voice that . . . I was afraid to accept as . . . a normal trait.

“You were, but not anymore,” Embee said in her consoling, dulcet voice.

I wished I didn't, but I was recalling the wetness, the stinging cold, the stones digging into my skin, the intolerable, unending anguish . . . “I was in a really bad way. Truly awful . . .”

“Don't dwell on it, hon.”

“I was found.” And I hadn't been happy that I had . . .

“Yes, you were.”

I sniffed. “I could've died.” The light that had pierced the darkness, heading toward me . . . could've done it for me.

“We're very happy you haven't.”

“I was doing a terrible thing. I had given up. I regret it more than anything I've ever done . . .” I hugged Embee tighter, almost whimpering.

“That's all in the past now. You're getting better.”

“Because I have you.” I receded from her so I could look at her with somber appreciation. “More than once have you saved me from the maw of despair. Thanks to you, I have hope.” Right when my optimism was about to be rekindled, a horrifying reality threatened to snuff it out. “But, but . . . but she doesn't.” In mounting panic I gazed deeply into Embees eyes. “Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasesendhermessageanywayyoucantoletherknowtoholdon . . .” Her silence . . . a sad silence . . .

My life was crashing down with more heartrending effect than a flaming airship, and the untenable uncertainty . . . Up to two weeks of waiting just to learn that I'd have nothing to go back to? “Waiht thath lhnh . . . I can't, khn . . . can't . . .” I fell. Curled up. Sickening anguish. “Nnnnnnnh . . . Nohooo . . . no, no, noooo . . .” Why this . . . to me . . . Nothing I could do . . . I couldn't . . . couldn't . . . breathe right . . . Was . . . bad . . . No . . . no . . . no . . . end . . . End . . . this . . . please . . .