1 | Hello, Stranger
I wanted this.
That’s what I keep telling myself as I shuffle along the footpath. I came here for a reason, and if I was so insistent on staying stuck in this endless cycle, what’s the use? I may as well go back home and face the music like I already was. Going nowhere. Doing nothing.
I look up from the pavement and scan my surroundings. I’m still in the city, just not in the touristy areas. The shops here seem more personalised – fewer franchises and more locally-run stores – and the roads aren’t as well maintained. But I guess that’s pretty much true for just about every city: the centre gets all the attention, while the outskirts aren’t given their due. Crossing over into another universe doesn’t mean human nature changes too. If I can even call it that anymore.
I sigh. The air is cool, growing cooler. It smells of cold concrete and damp earth, even though it hasn’t rained since yesterday. Perhaps that’s just how things are on the fringe, lasting longer than they should, like brain freeze. I bunch my hands into fists and flex them, then clap them together and try to pull them apart, just to warm them up and give my arms something to do besides swinging.
Blind exploration doesn’t seem to be doing much good. Perhaps I’d have been better off wandering to the local tourism office and picking up a brochure or two, see what this place officially has to offer. But I didn’t, because… I don’t know why. It’s difficult to explain myself when impulse nowadays feels just as rational as thought. I walked, meandering through the streets and alleys, across the walkways and promenades, pretty much all day. And now I’m here, in the less fancy parts of town.
Not that this city markets itself to be one of the major hubs in Equestria or anything – it’s in a valley in the hills. You only need to walk an hour in any direction and you’re bound to find yourself climbing through forest. I can’t even remember what it’s called. Either I didn’t hear the announcer when I hopped off the train, or I didn’t care to. Probably the latter.
Past the buildings on my left is a ridge stretching from north to south, and the sun is gradually descending toward it, soon to disappear. It won’t be long before the sky darkens, and the land with it. And then it’ll just be me, the night air and the streetlamps for company. Besides the odd pony, or griffon, or kirin, or bipedal cat, parrot or dog, or any combination of them walking in groups of twos and threes, and once in a boisterous rabble of five. But they aren’t so much company as they’re obstacles to avoid, voices to ignore. Same as everything else.
I wanted this. And it hasn’t been doing me any good.
Sighing again, I crack my knuckles, then cover my mouth as I yawn and refocus on the path ahead. Or rather, where it leads to.
I slow my pace and idly gaze at the establishment on my right. The cobbled patio definitely loans itself a sense of flavour, helped by the hedges and potted plants, adding a dash of green to otherwise earthy appearance. Tables and chairs are in the open, but no one sits outdoors; the light comes from inside, filtering through foggy windows. They’re designed to prevent anyone from getting a clear picture.
It’s a pub. The Lucky Tap. And in the blink of an eye, I suddenly realise how thirsty I am, having shambled through the city without a proper destination since leaving the hotel this morning. I’ve had breakfast, lunch and a vegetarian burrito for dinner – practically everything in this country is vegetarian – but either this city has no water fountains, or I hadn’t been searching for them in the meantime. Knowing my luck, I just hadn’t been travelling anywhere near them. No time like the present to fix that issue, though. Might even help me with this funk I’m in.
Doubling back and wandering through the open gate to the courtyard, I cross the patio and walk up the steps to the entrance. If it’s styled after anything in particular, I can’t tell – it feels more like a generic, run-of-the-mill bar to me, just with a few country flairs added in: worn horseshoes hanging on the pillars, a weathered bench on the porch, and old-fashioned lettering on the signs. Even the dry colour scheme of burnt umber and sienna reeks of the wild west, like I could smell the dust of the desert if I closed my eyes. But I know that’s just because it’s drier under the roof here than exposed on the footpath.
The illusion dispelled, I press a hand against the door and push it open.
I’d never honestly cared for bars that much – usually too loud, too bland; more a home away from home for off-duty construction workers in my experience. It doesn’t help that I’ve never wanted to fall into the cliché of “sad guy drowns his sorrows in liquor”. If others want to go to one, then fine, but I’ll never do it on my own. Tonight, however, feels like it deserves an exception.
The interior is like a saloon from the olden days with a sleek coat of polish – dust cleared out from varnished floorboards, the electric lights fashioned from brass and wrought iron, the tables and furniture matching the aesthetic. Equestria really is a strange place; a moshpit and melting pot of time periods and cultures. It creates a strangely whimsical air, as if this whole universe is a mashup of children’s playsets.
There are only about a dozen patrons here, spread out across the seating area. A kirin catches my eye, and so does a medium-sized diamond dog, a tall pony from Saddle Arabia – the naming conventions are subtle as a freight train – and a gaggle of ponies in a booth near the far corner. I’ve heard Equestria itself hasn’t always been this diverse, but I guess I lucked out when it came to which city I’d visit next; I haven’t been getting as many weird looks since I came here.
The griffon bartender can’t help ogling me from the instant I step into the joint, however. Not his fault, but now that I’m walking up to the counter, I’m starting to feel more than a little conscious of myself – that I don’t belong, or might not be welcome. Nevertheless, he resumes and quickly finishes wiping out the inside of a mug and sets it aside, then shuffles along his side of the bartop toward me.
“Well,” he says, clearing his throat when I’m close enough, “this is a nice change of pace.”
There’s a tug in my brows: they want me to question him. But that wouldn’t do much good. I fold my arms against the far and sigh to myself, avoiding his direct gaze and examining the selection of bottles on the wall behind him. “Cider.”
He blinks, and from my periphery I see him wince disapprovingly as he wanders back down the aisle. “Not big on smalltalk, then. Alright.”
I feel a twinge at my core, but I refuse to show it, keeping my focus on the displays. I should’ve been more polite. No changing that now.
“Biggest, strongest or cheapest?”
I open my mouth, then close it. For some reason, even though I know what I’m supposed to say, or what I might want, having a choice thrown on me is too much to process. Not overwhelming, just… something that makes me stop and think. It shouldn’t, but it is.
“Strongest it is.” He reaches behind for an antique-looking bottle, uncorks the top with a pop that sounds way more forceful than it was, pulls out a glass from beneath the counter and fills it up to near the brim. “There,” he says, eyeing it carefully as he sets down the bottle and carries the glass over to me, “that oughta wet your whistle. For now.”
My body runs on autopilot, sliding it toward me once he places it on my end of the counter before I can even think about doing it myself. “How much?”
“Pay when you leave. I get the feeling you’re gonna order more.”
Sure, and then he can artificially jack up the prices when I’m ready to go, because I didn’t have a frame of reference beforehand, like right now. But I’m really not in the mood for confrontation, or accusing anyone of something they’re probably not doing. More likely I’m just seeing things that aren’t there, believing the world is worse than it actually is – both worlds, as a matter of fact.
“Thanks,” I reply, listlessly nodding without looking him in the eyes. I’m still being rude. I don’t mean to be, but I know I’m coming off that way, and although I recognise it, I can’t bring myself to do anything about it. Instead, after staring into my drink and feeling awkward for a few seconds, on the verge of mumbling what could possibly be an apology, I snatch the glass up, turn, and stroll away from the counter.
He mutters something under his breath, too quiet for me to hear. The ambient noise from half a dozen conversations doesn’t help. Maybe it was something about typical tourist behaviour, or maybe it was something about needing to order another bottle of cider – the strong stuff he’d topped me up with. Who can say?
I can handle my liquor, but I hope it doesn’t send me to the floor in an inebriated daze. I’m only here to pass the time, not find myself sleeping in a backalley on a bed made from garbage bags. Too far from the hotel to risk getting drunk anyway.
So, I pull a chair out from a table that’s close to one of the windows, sit down and scoot myself in. Comfortably awkward, sitting by myself, and I have absolutely nothing to do besides checking my phone for the time. Half past six. No signal. That doesn’t surprise me: mobile networks are practically unheard of here, where magic handles just about everything.
It doesn’t take long before I find myself sipping away in idle thought, about nothing in particular, and then everything all at once. History, metaphysics, the impossibility of transdimensional travel, weighed against my presence here. Whatever takes my fancy at any given moment.
And what nabs my attention after the fourth sip – barely a quarter of the way through my drink – is that the small group of ponies is getting up to leave. They exchange farewells, say their goodbyes, laugh and nod their heads and swish their tails as a show of enthusiasm… but not amongst themselves. No, the four of them who’re standing are moving elsewhere, but a fifth is staying behind. She’s who they’re bidding adieu to.
And she isn’t a pony.
Or, well, she is, but not quite: the fact she has the forelegs of a griffon is a pretty big tell.
I blink. She might be a hippogriff, then… but then she’d have a beak and feathers. And her wings wouldn’t be so leathery – batlike, even. And although it’s difficult to see from this angle, and I’m not entirely sure about the appropriateness of staring, I think I see one of those marks on her flank. Hippogriffs don’t have those either. So where this girl fits on the evolutionary scale is an absolute mystery. Not that every other living thing in this world is any less of a conundrum.
The four ponies begin to leave, shifting conversation from good wishes to what they did the week before, and how hard it was convincing someone to come along with them. I don’t pay too much attention, observing what happens without processing it. When they exit, I start searching for something else to not focus on. That’s when I realise that I’ve already found it. Or rather, her.
Not looking at her isn’t easy. It’s like noticing a chip in a coat of paint, or a beautiful mural around the corner of an alley: once you’ve seen it, you can’t really forget that it’s there. Whether you mean to or not, you always catch a glimpse – perhaps a part of you wants to be reminded. But why she catches my subconscious eye, I have no idea. Besides the fact that she isn’t like anything I’ve seen before. I can say that for a lot of creatures here, sure, but this one… this lady sticks out like a sore thumb.
Ought to be careful with my language around these parts. Wouldn’t want anyone getting the impression that I’m a bigot. I came here seeking respite, not judgement.
And I’m staring. And she’s staring back.
I lower my gaze to my drink and steal another sip. That was rude of me, I bet, same as I was with the bartender. For all I know, she probably doesn’t like being the centre of attention; the uniqueness would’ve seen to that. What’s a greater target for mistrust and ridicule than difference, after all? That’s how it goes in my world, it’s only fair to assume that the same happens here too, for all its diversity.
I concentrate on the diamond dog instead, his arms thick and clearly muscular, even beneath his clothes and fur. His fingers are short, padded and tipped with powerful-looking claws – perfect tools for burrowing through earth and rock, as I’ve heard they’re wont to do. Thankfully, he looks nothing like the costumes some people wear to fan conventions on my Earth: the exaggerated expressions always creeped me out, like they’re killer clowns and murderous puppets.
I could say the same for the ponies here, what with the large eyes and comparatively short snouts, but I’ve gotten used to them by now, for the most part. So long as I don’t dwell on it. It’s a balancing act and I usually get it right.
Nevertheless, I find myself glancing toward the oddity across the room, and that she’s scribbling something on either a notepad or cheque. Again, it’s tough to say from this angle. Harder still when I’m trying to be discreet, and worse when I’m peering over the top of my glasses. Short- or far-sighted, I forget the term, but that’s the affliction I have. And by the looks of it, so does she to an extent.
Her half-frame spectacles seem almost comically small compared to her eyes. They don’t even have any temples to keep them in place. And yet, somehow, they remain perfectly balanced on her snout while she continues working on whatever it is she’s working on. Just as remarkable is her penmanship, holding it the same way a human would in her hand. None of that unicorn telekinesis or fabled ‘hoof magic’ involved. I’ve seen some pegasi use their feathers like fingers, but her wings don’t seem nearly as adept. Too bad I can’t inspect her further without giving the game away.
That is, of course, until she peers up at me without moving her head.
I look away again. Eye contact isn’t always a bad thing, but among strangers it’s an unspoken taboo. I shouldn’t have been gawking. I knew it and I still did it. All because I’m too curious for my own good – because I’m searching for something, anything, to take my mind off the life that’s a literal world away from me. It’s not my place, nor anyone’s place, to make somebody feel uncomfortable in their own dimension.
Perhaps I’m better off wandering back to the hotel. Less chance of disturbing patrons there if I’m in a room by myself. Like solitary confinement, come to think of it, only more luxurious. But can I really be bothered? And more importantly, can I trust myself to get there?
With a sigh, I lift my attention to the rest of the interior again. The Saddle Arabian has taken to reading from a book with an elaborately decorated cover – black with gold trimming. It makes me wonder how similar in culture they are to the nations of the Middle East , and whether I’d have any luck heading south. Perhaps I’d discover my spiritual side after nearly dying of thirst amidst the massive, shifting dunes of the Great Sand Sea.
…Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, come to think of it. Not the near-death experience part of it, but visiting Saddle Arabia. I’ve always wanted to see what a real desert looks like, and learn how civilisation can survive such inhospitable conditions. Even if it doesn’t end up making me feel any better, I’m sure it’d be educational.
But then my gaze drifts to the pony’s right, further along the rows of booths, and I finally notice the mare I’d been drawn to has left her seat. More than that, she’s approaching me.
I quickly glance left and right, but there’s no mistaking this, and unless I make a hasty exit, there’s no escape from it either. Not that she seems particularly angry or anything, but if she’s coming to confront me, I don’t know how I’m supposed to defuse it. All I know is that I can’t afford to make a name for myself as someone who causes trouble wherever he goes, whoever he’s with.
And yet, the most I can persuade myself to do is stare at the polished tabletop and pretend that she isn’t in fact coming up to meet me. More so when I see her silhouette come to a halt and loom on the edge of my periphery. She’s big for a pony.
“This seat here seems much too empty. Mind if I take it?”
I snap to her in surprise, only to be met with eyes of amber, and pupils slit like a cat’s. Of course I’d expected her to ask me a question, just… not that. And neither her tone or expression are showing any signs of negativity; she’s being genuine as far as I can tell. And seeing as I didn’t have a reason on the tip of my tongue as to why I couldn’t talk, my hand moves on its own and waves permissively toward the chair. “By all means, I… don’t see why not.”
The soft smile she wears widens a touch and she makes herself comfortable. Once seated, and now that we have each other’s full attention, I can fully appreciate just how big she is – half a pony above the average height, I reckon. Certainly taller than me while we’re both at the table like this. “Sorry if I’m coming on a bit too strong… but while it isn’t uncommon to see a non-pony here, I don’t believe I’ve seen your kind before.”
Her accent is… odd. Hard to place. East European is the best I can describe it, but it feels wrong to leave it at that – too imprecise. And it’s then that I realise that she brought another glass of cider with her. Funny. Could’ve sworn she was walking on all-fours on her way here. She can’t have swiped mine, because that’s in my hand right now. Whatever the case, she emits a melodic giggle, apparently finding the situation humorous, and lifts the glass for a toast. “What brings you to this quiet corner of an otherwise bustling city, if you don’t mind me asking?”
I hesitate – still processing what’s happening, I suppose – then blink myself out of the thought and clear my throat, quickly lifting my own cider to join her. “Uh… sight-seeing, mainly.”
“Well, there are quite a few sights to see here! There’s, uh…” She feigns ignorance for a moment, betrayed by what I’m tempted to call a smirk with a sly edge to it, and begins searching for something to point at. When she seemingly can’t decide, she gestures to the whole room with a vague flurry of her hand. “The peace and quiet, for one, relatively speaking.”
The other brings the glass to her lips and she takes a quick swig. “Mmm, fresh. Just the way I like it. Perhaps Gunnarr bought a new barrel just this morning.”
I pause, then mentally shrug. Her accent still eludes me, but it isn’t terribly strong, and I wouldn’t go so far as Russian. However, if she’s set on having a conversation with me, I may as well show off my geographical knowledge. “From Sweet Apple Acres, you think?”
After another sip, she silently smacks her lips a couple of times, briefly narrowing her eyes at the ceiling in thought. “I’d pretend to be a connoisseur… but I have no idea. To me, it’s a good tipple, and I won’t turn away quality such as this.” She winks as she sets her cider on the table, though I’m not sure what for. “Been here long? Sight-seeing can take a lot out of you from what I understand, if you don’t pace yourself.”
This time I shrug for real. “Got here about two weeks ago. Came to this city just yesterday. I don’t think I’m at risk of burning myself out yet, so… y’know. I think I’m doing alright.” Stealing a sip for myself – more than halfway empty at this point – I savour the aftertaste as I think of what else to talk about. But the obvious answer is staring me right in the face, so I geture to her sedately. “Speaking of sight-seeing… I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sight quite like you before. If you don’t mind me saying so, that is.”
Her smile widens appreciatively again, and she runs her claws through her mane to neaten out a few strands that I hadn’t noticed were out of place. “Ah, that’s the sight I was thinking of. Not that I mean to brag. Mirrors are hard to come by when you’re outside the bedroom.”
My brows crease a little, detecting the hint of a bloated ego, but I choose not to comment and try to keep my reaction restrained. The less we butt heads, the better.
“I’m not entirely local either, as a matter of fact.” She giggles once more and washes it down with another sip of cider. “Came here for the work, stayed for the… well, work. But I have friends here. Good friends. Not a fan of cities, though, if we’re being honest, but this bar is a safe haven from all the noise.” She looks me up and down as she returns the glass to the table. “And I hope you don’t mind me asking… but what are you? Thank goodness for pegasus-friendly ceilings, because I’ve never seen a biped that matches your description.”
My brows crease a tad further. I can’t tell whether it’s in curiosity or concern. “Uh… Well, first off, I’m a human. And I’m surprised you haven’t heard of us because those portals to our dimension have been open for nearly a year.”
An eyebrow of hers arched, and a short, quiet, sheepish huff escaped her as she rubbed the back of her neck, ears lowering a fraction. “I guess it’s been way too long since I’ve checked up on anything not work-related. Seems like I’ve got some studying to do.” After a beat, her thus far typical chipper demeanour resurfaces. “Are you liking it so far?”
I shrug again, cautiously. “It’s not bad, I guess. Kinda weird how everything is the same, yet every talking creature is distinctly inhuman. Like, literally an entirely different species.” I move to take another drink, hesitate, then replace the cup and angle my head at her, squinting somewhat. “And secondly, before I lose track… what do you mean by thank goodness for the ceilings?”
She laughs, glancing at my whole physique. “Can you imagine how cramped you’d get if ceilings were made with only flightless ponies in mind? You’d be waddling around on your hands and knees. Can’t imagine that’d be too comfortable.” Then she straightens and recomposes herself, her expression suddenly growing more introspective. “Well, to be honest, that’d make me cramped too. As it would with the diamond dogs, Abyssinians and all the other big creatures here. I’m sure you’ve noticed that I tend to stand out in a crowd.”
I blink, then clear my throat. “I… did. But I didn’t wanna say anything offensive.”
“Oh, please, I’m used to it. No harm in stating the obvious.”
With an idle nod, I pick up my glass, only to hold it aloft as I stare at an indefinite point of air between us, wondering how to proceed. “Speaking of indoor spaces,” I mumble, mostly to myself, “you said you’re a workaholic?”
Her posture relaxes, her smile returning and ears twitching amicably. For however amicably ears can twitch. “Unfortunately. Hard not to be when you love your job. More often than not, I bring work home with me, and then turn up the next day with bags under my eyes.” She shakes her head at herself, sighing amusedly, and then looks up at me with a musing glint in her eye, as if toying with a thought like a wine taster might swill their drink. “But it’s nice to relax every once in a while. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Something in her tone irks me. Or maybe it doesn’t so much irk me as it makes me feel like there's more to this encounter than the desire for friendly conversation. What that would be, though, I don’t know, and I’m sure that something inside me doesn’t want to know. Why look a gift horse in the mouth, after all? So to speak. “I suppose.”
She hums, satisfied, and after sipping her cider some more, her eyes widen briefly in realisation and she returns her glass to the tabletop. “Oh, but where are my manners?” Offering a hand to me, she beams. “Hotkey. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
I stare at it for a long moment, inspecting its birdlike surface – so alien and yet so familiar – then meet her gaze and force a smile as I accept the offer and shake on it. My fingers are like noodles compared to hers, easily broken in two if she’d just squeeze. “Johannes Hladný. Likewise. But I still don’t think you answered my question: what… are you?”
Hotkey’s focus wanders into nowhere, and then she slaps her forehead with an audible thwack. “Me and my memory,” she grumbles to herself, rolling her eyes before sharpening her attention on me. “I’m a batpony. Mostly. Some call us thestrals.” She demonstrates by momentarily flaring her wings, then points to her eye. The one on her left has a little black dot on the lower end of her iris. “That’s why my pupils are like this, and my wings and fangs.”
“Fangs?”
The reserved smile she wears widens to a grin, flashing two elongated canines – not long enough to poke past her lips, but more impressive than mine, and perhaps more intimidating. Bad enough that she could crush the bones in my hand, but to be a vampire too? I swear, if she starts to sparkle in direct sunlight… “All the better to rip and tear with. But don’t worry, I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.”
“No thanks.”
She giggles once more and lifts her hands from the table in mock surrender. “Your call. But I don’t blame you for not knowing about us – we don’t usually venture past our homeland.” Then she begins inspecting one of her forelimbs with greater care, as if judging whether she’d applied enough nailpolish. “As for my claws… there was a griffon in the family a while back. These have appeared in pretty much every generation since.”
I blink in disbelief, then furrow my brows in what I can only describe to be a mute sense of morbid fascination. “You’re telling me a… and one of your… did…”
“Did… what?” she queries knowingly, then leans closer and lowers her voice, adding a husky tinge to it. “Bumped uglies? Engaged in several nights of passion so filled with love that the near-impossible happened?” Yet again, she giggles, and the slightly worrying look of hunger in her eyes fades into an expression of mirth. “Yep! And I’m quite thankful for it, or I wouldn’t be here!” Making a show of inspecting her claws a second time, her gaze grows more wistful. “Interspecies relationships aren’t unheard of, but they rarely end up with anything like me. I guess that makes me pretty lucky.”
I can’t tell whether I’m staring at her in shock, horror, or heavens forbid something else entirely, but I choose to shove it out of my mind. The golden surface of my cider suddenly seems quite interesting.
“I don’t know how other ponies do it, living without fingers. Well, I mean, they have magic in their hooves, but it’s strange how almost nothing seems hoof-friendly, like everything is designed for hands, not…”
I steal a hearty swig before continuing, finishing off my glass. I guess my nerves need the lubricant. “I honestly stopped questioning it a while ago. Seeing a pony hold a hammer in the flat of their hoof kinda does your head in.”
“Living in Equestria, I can’t say I relate too well… but it’s weird when you think about it, isn’t it?” She shrugs, and somehow while I wasn’t looking, her cider has refilled and shifted to the opposite side of her end of the table. Perhaps I just haven’t been paying close enough attention. “But hey, at least I have an advantage in some respects – I’m sure I’d make a decent pianist if I put my mind to it. Wouldn’t beat working with computers, though.”
I try glancing down at her flank, only to remember that the table is in the way, and I feel ashamed at myself for even thinking to do that. It’s a different culture here, sure, and the locals don’t mind showing off their tramp stamps… but it wouldn’t be so innocent if I were back on my Earth, and she was another girl there. Or woman, or…
…Maybe it’s just better if I keep the conversation going. “Is that your special talent, then?”
“Pretty much!” She pushes herself back and hops her rear end out of the chair to display her flank from around the table. Instinct says I should turn away, that this is completely inappropriate, but the proud look on her face as she observes her mark says otherwise – that I should be just as elated as she is, social norms be damned. “I’m a computer specialist. Fell in love with them when I was a filly, while they were still new. Or, well, new in my town. Earned my mark for assembling a prototype keyboard all on my own, and got it working too.”
I quirk an eyebrow, leaving the tattooed image of a dark grey keyboard behind and focussing on her. “You made one all by yourself?”
Hotkey nods, meeting my gaze and returning to her chair. “My own design too, meant for fingers like mine.” After scooting herself back into place, she reflectively watches her claws gently drum against the polished surface of the tabletop. “My parents were thrilled. They’ve always been very supportive, even when I told them what I wanted to study. They couldn’t really say no, anyway, considering how much of a tech whiz I was.”
“And I take it you’ve found your place, have you, since you’re working so much?”
“Indeed.” She chuckles, helping herself to another sip of cider, the source of which I’m still baffled by. “I graduated, moved here when I got this job offer, and been here ever since. My passion is what pays me, frankly. To be honest, my boss has had to chase me from the office a few times. Didn’t stop me from working at home, though.”
I peer out the large window behind me to the street. It was difficult to see through outside, but the glass is crystal clear indoors, and I notice that the streetlamps have been lit; night is fast approaching as the sun dips below the horizon. “But you go out with friends on occasion?”
“Well, more like I’m dragged out by them… but yes, and I’m thankful for that. I’ve already spent enough time staring at screens that I need to wear glasses, after all. If they don’t do what they do, I’d probably go blind faster than you could blink.”
I return to her and see that her expression has grown sheepish. I don’t get what’s so embarrassing about it, but this next question might shine more of a spotlight on her than she’s used to. Nevertheless, it’s something I need to know. “So why aren’t you with them now? Or, more accurately… why’re you staying with me?”
Yet again, Hotkey giggles, but this one feels more like a puff of steam from a boiling kettle than a genuine laugh – a release of pressure. “We finished our soirée, so they went home,” she informs, averting her gaze as she leans forward in her seat, elbows on the table’s edge and resting her head upon a waiting palm. “I was signing my name on the tab when I saw you watching me. I’m used to getting a few odd looks here and there, but… you seemed more confused than anything else. I thought I’d say hello. And the rest is history.”
A pang of guilt strikes me like a bolt of static electricity: I probably sounded harsher than I’d meant to be, maybe even confrontational. If that’s the case, the irony here would be worth a slap across the cheek. “I wouldn’t say confused. More… struck. Like, uh… amazed, for lack of a better word. Because I’ve… never seen anything like you before.”
She returns to me with a subdued sense of appreciation, the smile she usually wears shining through once more. “Well that’s definitely something we have in common. I wonder how long until we snap and go mad scientist on each other, vivisections galore.”
I snort, and I’m glad I don’t have any cider left to drink, or it would’ve sprayed out of my nose. “Don’t… scare me like that. I mean, I get it, we’re both aliens but that doesn’t mean we have to tick off all the tropes.”
“And what are those?”
“Probing.” I airily wave my hand about with as much care as I have for the topic. That is to say, very little. “Abducting someone, taking them to the mothership, strapping them down, examining them invasively. You get the gist. Typical vulgar comedy nonsense.”
“I wouldn’t be opposed.”
Refocussing on her, my expression falling to a blank stare.
She holds my gaze with the same pleasant smile, as if she hadn’t said what she’d clearly said, or that it wasn’t as brazen as we both know it is. But then, after a few moments of absolute silence between us, her hand walks toward mine on two fingertips. “Unless you prefer something more… mutual?”
I pull the hand closest to her away and stare at her in wide-eyed astonishment. “You…” And then I blink and shake my head and force myself to concentrate – to remember how I should be reacting. “No, wait, are you… are you seriously trying to…” But then I shut my eyes and centre on my breathing, and try to keep the repulsed twinge in my stomach from making me stand up and walk myself out of here. And when I look at her again, it’s with a heavy amount of reservation. “Is that… what you’re really after?”
“Mmmaybe,” Hotkey purrs, bringing her hand back and folding her arm flat on the table in front of her, drawing circles in the wood with a claw. She has, however, the decency to appear less eager – a tad disheartened, but still unashamed. “If that’s what you’d like. If not, then that’s fine. Completely fine. But… I’d be lying if I said I’m not… intrigued by the exotic.” Her attention flicks from her claw to me, and she’s strangely… heartfelt. Her splayed ears make her seem even more so. “And you, Johannes… are as exotic as they come.”
Although my expression doesn’t change much, it feels like I’m gawking at her, red in the face. I don’t blush easily, so I can’t be, but I know from the predatory look in her eyes that I’m right where she wants me. And I’m not sure how to feel about that. “I don’t know… whether that’s allowed,” I murmur hesitantly, glancing in either direction as if there could be hidden cameras in every corner; this has to be a setup. “Like, legally. Or something. In my world.”
“In your world,” she echoes, lifting her chin and arching an eyebrow curiously as she sits a little more upright. “Why would that be an issue? Don’t you have relationships with other species there, or even flings with them?”
“N-no.” I stiffly shake my head, feeling mortified for even hearing this from someone else – for being exposed to it. “And let’s not call it that, please. We’re not doing that. This is… fast – w-w-way too fast for me. And besides, humans are the only consenting species on my Earth. Verbally consenting. We’ve got a whole bunch of other animals too, but they can’t talk. Mostly.”
Hotkey blinks, then lowers her gaze and nods in comprehension, leaning back in her seat. “Must’ve been quite the culture shock, then. Can’t imagine what it’d be like if ponies were the only sapient creatures in the world.”
“Yeah,” I quietly, diffidently reply, more for my own sake than hers. Whether she truly understands, I’ve no idea, but I reckon that’s as close to an accord as I’ll get with her. I just want to put this thing to rest as soon as possible, because I didn’t jump dimensions just to… to do whatever it is she’s hoping for. It’s too soon. For plenty of reasons. “I mean, it’s not that I can’t find you… appealing, in some ways, it’s just…”
“I see.” She slowly nods, looking me in the eyes with a solemn smile. “I think so, anyway. So don’t worry, I’ll keep it friendly. No more advances.”
That was… an astoundingly quick reversal. So quick that I can’t help being suspicious.
Whatever the case, Hotkey doesn’t seem to notice, and treats herself to another sip of cider. And with that, she’s her amicable self again. “But steering away from the raunchy side of things, you’ve got me quite curious about your world. What’s it like? What kind of technology do you have?” And then her eyes light up like the front yard of a rich family’s house on Christmas. “Do you have computers?”
The enthusiasm catches me off-guard and I huff a laugh, then cover my mouth and clear my throat, recomposing myself. “Yeah, yeah, we do. But if you’re about to ask me how they work, no, I’m not the man for that. The most I can do is point to the on-off switch. Whenever I have a problem, I call up the IT guy.”
“Aw, you’re no fun.” She pouts in mock disappointment. “To think I thought you’d be interesting. But you’re just another tourist passing through.”
“I… resent that statement, actually, in the name of tourists everywhere.” Folding my arms, I turn my nose up at her. “Who says I can’t be interesting, just because I don’t share the same interests?”
“Nopony, I suppose, but it hurts your chances for something more… long-lasting, shall we say? If this ends up being that kind of friendship.” She stretches her back, scrunching her muzzle and squinting through the strain. And over the edge of the table, I catch a glimpse of something below her stomach: the coat of her undeside thins out to bare skin. And yet, when she folds her arms on the counter again, she smiles as if nothing is out of the ordinary. “What else do you have over there?”
Much to my chagrin, I’ve seen enough cleavage to know it when I see it, never mind the species. Not only is she breaking a promise she’d just made, but she lacks the finesse to pull it off well, and I bring my eyes up to meet hers with a straight face. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Well done, you’ve recognised a stretch,” she says with another one of her giggles, then strains her neck left and right until we both hear an audible pop. “Ooh, I needed that. Been leaning forward too damn long.” She arches an eyebrow. “Anything wrong with that?”
I continue to deadpan. “You know what I’m talking about. You did that on purpose.”
And then her brows furrow in confusion, ears flattening as she draws her head back a fraction. “Is… stretching taboo where you’re from?”
And, likewise, my expression falls into blankness, until a lead weight drops and rocks me to the core with how badly I’d misinterpreted everything. “Oh, uh… it’s just, uh… a thing. That happened. When you stretched.” I feel the urge to bury my face into my hands, but that might just seem like an overreaction. Instead, I satisfy the urge by tapping a finger on the wood and curling my toes inside their shoes. “And I don’t want to say much more than that or I’ll be making a big deal out of it for no reason. Just know that I’m not talking about joint-cracking, because I do that too.”
Hotkey blinks once, twice, thrice, no less mystified, then looks down at herself and repeats the motions. When I pucker my lips and curb my attention elsewhere, she finally understands. “Oh.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I… see.” She chuckles, then clears her throat and returns to propping herself up on the table’s edge. Her smile is self-conscious, but she doesn’t lift her gaze any higher than the centre of the counter. “Sorry. They’re… not something you want to see, are they?”
I quirk an eyebrow at the discomfiture in her voice. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“And you haven’t,” she replies matter-of-factly, sharing her smile with me, only for it to wane as her attention wanders down her body. “But that’s the trouble with being me: I’m too big. This table isn’t meant for someone my size, and I’m not just any old mare, so there’s more to see.” She blows a quiet sigh through her nose, then shifts her wings and looks at me once more with a soft expression. “Like it or not, Johannes, it’s only as awkward as you make it out to be.”
Like it or not. And if I don’t like it, the door is barely ten seconds away from me – the Saddle Arabian is opening it to leave. I could catch it before it closed if I wished. So, if I don’t feel completely comfortable here, why am I stuck in my seat, watching the exit gradually swing itself shut? Why don’t I find somewhere else to sit and wallow in my sadness? Why don’t I go back to the hotel and pretend like I’m not alone?
It’s simple. Whether I like it or not, I already know the answer. So, I remain where I am. And still I wonder why. “We usually cover up, back home. Men, women, children. Children get a bit of leeway, though, especially infants.”
Hotkey snorts. It’s a surprisingly equine sound, for all the noises she’s made before. “Naturally. Clothes here are more optional than anything, unless you’re a noble. I guess it’s different if you’re walking on two legs.” But then she peers up at the ceiling above me in thought and idly plays with a lock of her brown mane – the kind of brown that chocolate is made from. “Although… minotaurs are bipedal, yet they wear no clothes most of the time. But you seem to lack fur on your face and body, so… could that be the reason?”
“Partly. It’s not so much that we need clothes anymore, but not covering up usually means either you can’t afford it, or… uh…”
She waits patiently, then angles her head and rolls a hand encouragingly. “Or…?”
I grit my teeth for a moment behind a closed mouth, glancing left and right, then decide to proceed cautiously. “Completely baring yourself to someone else… like you are now… carries certain connotations. Intimate ones, if you catch my drift.”
With a satisfied hum and a flick of the ears, her smile widens. “And talking about intimacy is more taboo than stretching, I take it?”
I wince and risk a small, wry smirk, unsure whether that was meant to be a joke, a dig, or an actual question. “No,” I answer, opting for the latter, “you just need to have the right sort of company for that. Close friends and the like.”
“Family?”
“No.” I shake my head emphatically and sweep my hand through the air in a short cutting motion. “Noooo. If there’s one thing you never, ever, absolutely, one hundred percent do not want to do with your family, it’s involve them in your personal life, and especially in that regard. Trust me, I speak from experience.”
Her eyes widen a fraction and her ears perk up. “Sounds like there’s quite the story there.”
“Yeah, and if I were drunk, maybe I’d care to share it.”
“That could be arranged.”
“No, thanks. Last thing I need to worry about is whether you’re trying to make it easier to get inside my pants.”
With a scoff, she rolls her eyes and cocks her head bemusedly, putting a hand to her chest. “And you think I’m that kind of mare? For shame. You know me better than that.”
“I barely know you at all.”
“You know that I’m honest,” she solemnly avows , though she maintains a calm, collected and positive disposition. “I was upfront with you before, I promise you now: I’d never do that to anyone. As far as I’m concerned, we’re just two strangers enjoying each other’s company. If we become less estranged, then I’ll consider that a win.”
I pause, staring at her for a long moment as I feel a kind of… pressure in my chest – a warm, fleeting feeling – then gently knit my brows together as I lean a fraction closer to her. “And you’re really… comfortable with that? Like, if things stay platonic?”
“Then I’d have an extra friend.” She shrugs. “What’s there to complain about?”
Another pause, and I feel like I’ve been struck dumb; I truly don’t know what to make of this. But if she’s intrigued by me for the simple fact that I’m a human… then I suppose it’s only fair that I’m intrigued by her for this happy-go-lucky attitude. Right? I mean, that isn’t too much of a stretch, is it? And it doesn't actually mean anything, does it? All that says about me is that I want to get to know her better, to understand her more.
“So, if family can’t discuss intimacy with you, where do strangers and acquaintances fit in?”
My silence stretches on as I continue mulling over where we stand, and where this might be going, and what the limits should be. No one back home needs to know what happens here – that was the entire point of this trip: to forget. But like it or not, I still have a life, and I’ll have to return to it eventually.
I look toward the exit. And then at the bartender. And then at Hotkey. And I remain steadfast, seated comfortably in this chair. “It’s easier when you’re online,” I confess in a low tone, almost ashamedly. Almost. “Not face-to-face. Privacy helps.”
“Interesting.” She tilts her head to the left and squints at me, smirking shrewdly. “So, the less connected you are to someone, the more lurid you’re allowed to be with them.”
I lower my eyelids to half-mast, unimpressed. “Sure, because everyone goes all over the place, talking about their personal lives and propositioning people left, right and centre.”
She giggles again, covering her mouth as she shakes her head. “When you put it that way, yes, it sounds ridiculous. But what I’m saying is… if you think you like someone, you try your luck. If the worst happens, it’s usually just a bruised ego.” She shrugs and leans to the side a little, propping her head up on a fist as the other hand ducks below the table, resting on what I can safely assume is her thigh. “After all, how will you ever know whether someone’s interested if you don’t ask?”
I linger on where her hand ought to be, then find myself tracing the outline of her figure as I meet her eyes again, and the strange fondness she holds within them. Taking a deep breath and quietly drumming my fingers on the tabletop, I glance at the empty glass before me and wish It were still full. “You’re only interested because I’m different.”
“Perhaps. But the night is still young.” Her eyelids lower, her gaze growing warmer, and she slides a little closer across the table. “Perhaps there are other aspects that I’ll come to like about you.”
I inspect her closely, and for as long as I don’t say anything, I feel the tightness in my chest build, and my cheeks feel like they’ve touched hot metal. I shouldn’t be this easy to flatter. I shouldn’t be. And I want to think that I’m only getting red in the face because I’m embarrassed… but I know that isn’t true. And I feel guilty for it; it’s too soon. “I thought you said no more advances.”
With a shrug of her brows, she pulls herself back a tad. “One can always hope. But I'd still like to get to know you better. Shall we say… over a walk? I could show you around the city if you wish.”
Pondering the circumstances, I hesitate. If that’s how things are panning out tonight, I’d prefer to have a destination, so I know whether this is something I should avoid. But for whatever reason, I don’t ask the obvious question of what she has in mind. I suppose the prospect of decent company is all the encouragement I need, even if she’s a bit of a minx. “I… think I’d like that.”
“I thought you might.” She inspects something just above my brows, and furrows her own in a concerned look. “Another round of cider won’t cut it. What you need is a glass of cold water.”
I blink, then bring a hand to my forehead, and find to my surprise that it’s damp at the hairline. Sweating has always been an obvious tell with me – happens too easily and it just goes to show how hot under the collar this whole situation has made me. And I don’t want it. I’m sure I don’t. Why else would I be feeling that knot in my chest twisting my innards like a dishcloth? I shouldn’t allow myself to even entertain the idea, not only because she’s so different, but because… it’s too soon. To think like that. About anyone.
Barely two weeks in and I’m already getting hit on by the natives, hard. Maybe I was worried about something like this happening, but just didn’t think about it. And now that I am… perhaps it would’ve been better if I’d sat down and thought it through – considered all the emotions I could’ve been feeling, all the arguments I could’ve prepared.
Now I can’t even look her in the eyes anymore. It doesn’t matter if things don’t work out like she hopes they might: the fact I’ve left the door open to that possibility is damning enough.
“I’ll fetch one for you.” Hotkey flashes a benevolent smile as she slides out of her seat. Even standing on all fours, she’s almost as tall as me. “Feel free to tag along if you’re worried I’ll spike it.”
I stare at her blankly, unsure whether that joke was in poor taste. Or maybe I’m just making a mountain out of a molehill. She said it’s only as awkward as I make it out to be. And here I am, thinking that not five minutes after catching an accidental glimpse of… those. Easy for her to say when she probably gets off on that kind of thing.
She begins walking to the counter, and I watch her go, still trying to make my mind up about her. And more importantly, I suppose, about myself – about why I insist on staying with her.
At first, I focus on the back of her head, and whatever smug expression her mane is hiding from me – it’s what you usually do when someone walks away. But then, shamefully… I find my attention lowering to her hips. I don’t know if they’re swaying the regular amount, or if she’s adding a little extra, but I’m sure her tail is swishing more than it should.
My insides feel fuzzy, and not in a good way: it’s the same kind of nervous, bubbly warmth you get before talking with someone you’ve only ever crushed on from afar, or when you’re having a difficult conversation with your parents. Things could go wrong. You might be making a mistake. As a matter of fact, it’s likely that you are.
But if I don’t want to be alone tonight… she’s the only company I’ll have. May as well make the most of it, so long as it doesn’t go further than it should. Wherever that means drawing the line.
I stand up from my chair and stride after her, if only to keep myself from seeing something she probably wants me to. And I do my best to keep any and all inappropriate thoughts as far from my mind as possible. I’m lonely, not desperate. Certainly not enough to… go so far as…
Not with a pony.
She peers at me from the corner of her eye and smirks as I reach her side and match her pace. “Do you really trust me so little?”
“I trust you as far as I can throw you,” I mutter, watchful that I don't let anyone else hear me. “Doesn’t mean I can’t chase after you.”
With a flick of her ear and an arched eyebrow, she looks at me a little more properly, and with a straighter face. “Have I rubbed you the wrong way?”
I meet her gaze as we reach the bar, then fold my arms on the edge of it, lay my forehead over them and close my eyes, sighing. “I don’t know what I want,” I slowly, drearily answer. “I don’t know how I feel about this. I didn’t come here to… to experiment with myself, I can tell you that much. But I don’t want to leave you either.”
There’s a pause, where even the quiet drone of conversation in the background seems to have fallen silent. “You aren’t here just to sight-see, are you?”
Should’ve seen that one coming. I haven’t been doing a good job of hiding it. Still, my thumb taps on the counter in mild agitation, as if counting the seconds until my response. “I’m trying to distract myself.”
“From what?”
“Doesn’t matter.” With another sigh and after another beat, I shift my weight and lift my head. Somehow, two glasses of water have appeared on the bar between us, their outer surfaces glistening with condensation. Strange, because I hadn’t heard the bartender swing by, and he doesn’t appear to be at the desk anymore – perhaps gone into the backrooms. But if I haven’t been paying attention to certain details before, I guess this could’ve slipped under my radar too. “Can’t be helped.”
Hotkey pensively nods, hopping onto a stool. “Well then,” she says, retrieving the cup closest to her and holding it aloft, “let’s not worry about what was or what might be and enjoy what is.”
I stare at it for a moment, then give a dispassionate mental shrug and clink my glass against hers.
She downs her drink like it’s a shot of tequila, and shudders from it too. I guess it was cooler than she’d expected. And then, after clearing her throat, running a hand through her mane and recomposing herself with another smile, she returns to me and flutters her eyelashes. “So, would you like to sit around here some more, or take that walk I mentioned? The air is pretty good at this time of day. For a city, at least.”
How quaint. You know you’re in the modern world when the air you breathe varies in quality from dawn to dusk. But I look over my shoulder and peer out the window again, and see that the sun has well and truly vanished. Only its glow remains, and very soon that too will be gone. “What do you feel like doing?”
She traces my gaze, and appears to give the topic some serious thought. “A walk wouldn’t be so bad, I suppose. Could do with stretching my legs. Wings too. There are some nice places nearby you might like, actually.”
“Such as?”
After a beat, she smirks at me. “Care to take a leap of faith?”
I wince, angle my head and purse my lips. “That depends on what I’m diving into.”
“Nothing malicious, I assure you.” Her ears point rearward as tempered concern overtakes sly confidence, and she reaches out with her free hand to place it over mine. “There’s a place I go… when I want to clear my head. I think you’d like it too.”
It’s the first time we’ve touched since we shook hands, I soon realise, and although she has twice the bulk and probably more than double the strength, and despite her palm and fingers being covered in thick, rough, leathery hide… she’s gentle. And somehow that surprises me. It keeps me from yanking myself away from her, at any rate, even though I probably should. Not because she’s crossed a line or anything, just because…
Well, frankly, I don’t know why anymore. Force of habit, I suppose. And the fact I’ve never been in a situation like this. But as she said before, she’s been nothing but honest with me. That doesn’t mean I should take her at her word on everything.
Sighing yet again, I roll my eyes to myself, then bring the glass to my mouth and sip. There’s a slight metallic aftertaste, but I’m used to that from tap water, and I keep going and going until I’ve drained the cup dry. “You know what?” I say, looking her in the eye as I replace it on the counter, then lay my newly-freed hand over hers – a forelimb sandwich. “Maybe I will.”