> Zecora the Gamedev
>  by SNAFU-Non
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> The Only Chapter
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zecora thou art, proficient in magics of code.
Looking at tall beauty as it strode.
A stallion, exotic; Office's candy for eye;
You do admire these hips, you're not gonna lie.
He turns the corner and the beauty is gone,
Naught but code; you have to press on.

To take your mind elsewhere you switch up your task;
Maybe you should model that new fancy mask,
Mare of many talents you are, let there be no doubt,
But distracted you are by male musk reaching your snout.
You don't dawdle, you focus on craft,
To create the model; if only a draft.
The hour is gone, you've been in a trance.
Fruits of your labor earn a bewildered glance.
It's thick, it's round, it's seven joints long;
Have you been working... on an alien schlong?!

Be Anon; be smart; be annoyed as shit,
At the horses who constantly insult your wit.
On a daily basis, no less.
You stop before you digress.
You'll show them; They'll all flippin' see
That you're not useless with your CS Degree!

These runes; tough puzzle to crack.
Where's the registers or at least heap and stack?
No jumps, no NOPs, not a single opcode,
Just magic and runes by the truckload.

Hired 'cause you're a colt and it drives you mad.
Just for the quota and not the skills you've had!
Ogled all day, met with salacious smile,
How'd they fare in your shoes for a mile?
Your cheeks burn as they admire your bottom
Or run headfirst into your scrotum
On accident, always, every time!
You'd be rich if for each you had but a dime.

Zecora you are, once and again!
You figured out next step to your plan.
There will be no contest - perish the thought.
No colt can resist your Zebrican plot.
He will be ensnared, hitched and bred,
Let no mare to be in your stead.

Be Anon, reasoning out loud,
By the hostile tech you will not be cowed.
The basis for all calculation is imperative change,
But the runes dance oddly, their movement strange.
You've been trying hard, documenting your way,
But to no avail, the shameful issue is here to stay.
There's an exit - you could ask for help.
But the mares will treat you like a pathetic whelp.
You don't want it; You ego will suffer a slam.
But you know when to fold 'em; Time to RTFM!

Thicc manual grimoire thuds upon the hardwood,
Read it from cover to cover you should.
"Should? More like must!", you utter
Of your pride it is personal matter.
You groan and cringe but take to the reading
And every line almost causes internal bleeding -
The language's obtuse; terminology trite;
All you see is more of the same magical shite.
You hold your head in a fit of despair,
No matter your skills, you're just not quite there.

Be Zecora once more, lusty no more,
Upset colts you're not looking to score,
You gently hug the despaired male,
With your every bit from your head to your tail,
You want him to smile, to laugh once again
Like he used when he got hired there and then.

You must be Anon for you are hugged tight,
By a zebra who's there for your plight.
You had it out for her, you're not gonna lie,
Her rhymes are adorable and so is her tie.
Her eyes take you to different place
As do her hips when she sashays.
She voices the question, and not oblige you can not,
For her cute muzzle has been with worrying fraught.
You relay your persisting, unmanageable woes,
Of programming failure and your runic throes.
She hums in your chest and offers to help,
You're so elated you squeeze from her a yelp.

In an entrancing embrace, a hug most devout,
Zecora you are, there is no doubt.
You get tingles from snootle to dock,
Thankful stallion gave you quite the shock.
You ask for a reason of this empathy transfer,
And he gives you quite the answer
"For you are the only among mare staff
That wouldn't condescendingly laugh
At my efforts, misguided but just
You offered to teach, unconsumed by lust"
He thinks and he adds, stroking your cheek
"I simply adore you, you're my kind of geek,
There shall be no further pretense
Let the petting of zebra belly commence"
He ruffles your tuft, what a beautiful catch
These fingers no one could possibly match.
You have a spare evening; you're ready to teach,
With a spark in his eyes many things he can reach.

Next morning you're awoken by a pleasing scent,
Of food being cooked to replenish energy spent.
You jump off the bed, stretching your legs,
After all said and done, only one question begs.
In the early morn only the screen,
Bathes the room in a radiant green,
Your hooves fly, showing runic tree unfurled
Message proudly stating, "Hello, my world!"

Like a proper mare, you took him out to a date,
Marching with head high as if on a parade.
Both of you enjoyed your together-time greatly
and one turned three, Anon's dressing ornately!
He's funny, he's kind, he's decent at cooking,
your lunchbox aroma has every mare looking,
searching confusedly, sometimes salivating,
from where the homecooked smell's originating.

But soon the tempo picks up, for the deadline's approaching,
and with Anon this subject requires no broaching.
Mares dart around like their tails are ablaze,
but he just stands tall is this work-frenzy haze,
observing, perhaps judging, maybe coming up with a plan.
You have a dilemma of your own - what are you gonna can?
Can't finish it all, not every thing will be making the cut,
management's tight scheduling landed you in a rut.

Anon rolls his chair towards you meanwhile,
greeting you with his oh-so-comforting smile.
You relay your woes, and he tells you to wait,
disappearing into office depths with his sexy gait.
Not long after he re-emerges holding two wide-eyed mares.
Despite the crunch he still got some stares.
He's firm, he's polite; he questions them gently,
with the right questions your work grows clear, consequently.
You beam at him, and he gives you a smiling nod,
before turning and hauling mares back, showing off his hot bod.

The runes fly by, clock hands tick away,
Anon is by your side, blessed is his stay,
with him, your productivity rises through roof!
Feeling your stress, he reassuringly squeezes your hoof.
You feel a genuine spark, but the pressure's mounting,
less than a day left and that's overtime counting!
Final hour, and he holds you like his greatest treasure,
You're not entirely sure how you earned this pleasure.
But in it, you find calm and a breath, so you push ahead,
reinvigorated to surmount without any dread!

It is done, just in time, the product went gold.
To the raving pre-reviews, or so you were told.
You perk up and find yourself hoisted in air,
hugged tightly much to collective envious stare.
Anon apologized and positioned you back on your seat,
but who'd hold a grudge against a stallion this sweet?!
His tired smile sends the shivers from your mohawk to tail,
your legs suddenly feeling so very ready to fail.
Hold it together, filly, you have to see it through to the end!
You open the box and give it to your alien friend,
"I know, Anon, it may be at inopportune time,
but I have to ask you if you will be mine?.."