> Someone Came With Her
>  by chromewasp
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Sawgrass
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	“So you're going down to Sawgrass?” 

The man eyes you from under his ridiculous white cowboy hat, and for a second you wonder if he's trying to hit on you.  Then you catch the cynical smirk smeared on his face like a grease stain.  It's the signature mark of the Small-Town Asshole.  Hoo, boy...just when you thought this bar couldn't get any worse.

Still, no use escalating matters.  You nod and take a sip of your beer.  Non-alcoholic, of course: you still have a bit more driving to do.

“Huh.  Now, why the hell would you want to do that?” he asks, the shit-eating grin becoming a bit wider.

“Why do you care?” you shoot back.  

He puts up his hands.  “Hey, now.  I was just curious, you see?”  He's raising his voice now, and the other patrons are starting to notice.

Indifferently, you take another sip.  “Listen, man, I'm just minding my own business.  Can you mind yours?”

“You're after the copper, aren't you?”

“The...what?”

He chuckles.  “You think you can fool me?  I see a lot of your type comin' down to Sawgrass.  Place is a goddam treasure trove for scraphunters.”

“Look, I don't know what you're talking about,” you sigh.  “I'm a writer, okay?  I'm doing a book on ghost towns.”  Not entirely true, but not exactly a lie, either.  In all honesty you weren't sure why you were heading to an abandoned village in rural Nevada.  The idea of a side trip to that place just...appealed to you somehow.  Something about the scenery and the isolation, you thought.

He lets out a bark of forced laughter.  “Ha!  This guy here's a real smooth talker, ya see?  A smooth talker!”  The other bargoers stare blankly at him, not quite drunk enough to see the humor.

Fuck you and fuck your hat, you think.  Disgusted, you pay your tab and leave before things get out of hand.

You step outside, relishing the way the temperature is vaguely tolerable now that the sun is setting.  The sky is like a painting, the clouds dappled with brilliant orange and red hues.  The cool dark desert stretches out in every direction.  

You sigh peacefully.  Little scenes like these are what you've been trying to find in your trip through the Southwest.

Suddenly the bar's door swings open behind you.  You look over your shoulder to see the drunk from before.  There's a strange light burning in his eyes, as though he's about to cry.

“You stay the hell outta Sawgrass, you hear?”  he bellows.  “You ain't welcome there.”

He wipes his mouth and staggers back inside.

Ooh-kay.  Shrugging, you stroll back to your car and hop inside.  You've marked Sawgrass on your GPS—it's only a couple miles away, in fact--but it'd be stupid to try and make it there in the dark.  So instead you drive over to a place called Juan's Mexican Fiesta Motel, which you're pretty sure is the biggest insult to Mexicans you've ever seen.

After getting your keys from a creepy guy with a mustache at the front desk, you go to your room and plop down on the bed.  Fuck brushing your teeth; you needa sleep.  Despite the itchy and suspiciously stained covers, you manage to drift off in record time.  Go you.

As soon as you start to dream, however, things get a little more complicated.  

You find yourself standing in pure darkness.  A horrendously cold chill washes over you, and you shudder.  It's so hard to breathe in this place: each gulp of air is like trying to drink liquid nitrogen.

But that's not your only problem.  Faintly you feel the presence of someone nearby, and the apprehension makes you freeze with terror.  

A patch of darkness lightens slightly, forming into a shape, and then into a moving figure.  You can only see the faintest outline, but you get the impression of a tall and monstrous creature with a long, bearded face.

“Welcome to the back of your mind!” it proclaims.  “Before I forget, I'm just gonna throw this out here, chum: I feel kinda sorry for you.  One more day as a human, and then...well, I'll get to that later.”

“Who—what are you?”  you stammer.

The creature laughs coldly before stepping closer.  The beard...the horns...the cloven hooves...

“Satan...” you whisper.

The draconequus pouts, folding his arms childishly.  “Aw, seriously now?”

You give him your best wicked grin.  “I can troll too, Discord.”

He does a double-take before his long face lights up with glee.  “Yes!  I knew this was gonna be fun!  Follow me!” he squeals before snatching you up and carrying you down a yellow brick road that appeared out of nowhere.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“Nowhere in particular,” he says casually before you both smack into a wooden sign labeled “NOWHERE IN PARTICULAR.”

“Oof.  Always gets me, it does,” he sighs as the two of you get up and dust yourselves off.  A landscape is materializing around you, solidifying into a cartoonish desert with tumbleweeds bouncing across the sand.  About a hundred meters ahead lies a dusty little town.

“You see,” he said, leading you on to the town's outskirts, “heading off to Nowhere in Particular can lead you to some interesting places.  There's hundreds of Nowhere in Particulars across the globe.  One of them is a little town called Sawgrass.”

“Where are you going with this?” you ask.  

He grins.  "You see, Sawgrass happens to contain a portal to Equestria.  You're a brony, right?  I figured you'd be interested."

It seems that this dream might be pretty fun.  "Will I get a chance to start a rap battle with Diamond Tiara?"

He yawns.  “One thing at a time, brony boy.  At this point I'm supposed to tell you a bunch of mumbo-jumbo about 'ley lines' and 'thin spots in the dimensional membranes,' but that'd be boring.”

Suddenly he's wearing a caricature of a cowboy outfit, complete with a ten gallon hat and a duster.  “So I'll sing it to you instead!” he says as a harmonica blasts out a catchy little melody.  Seconds later the harmonica is joined by a fiddle, and then all hell breaks loose as Discord starts to sing.

What happens next is a blur of surreal sights and bizarre lyrics delivered in an exaggerated country drawl. The song is wild cacophony of old-timey Western music and oddly eloquent explanations of metaphysics.  At one point you get caught up in a square dance with what may or may not have been a crowd of cactus-people.  

Mercifully, the musical number finally comes to an end.  Exhausted, you collapse to the ground.

“What did you think?” asks Discord, beaming.

“Why did you keep calling me a mare?” you ask.

“Huh?”

“You must have said it sixty times, for chrissakes.  That thing about 'swing your pardner, yipee ki-yay, let's show this mare the Sawgrass way'?  What the hell did that even mean, anyway?  It sounded perverted.”

“You, my friend, have a dirty little mind,” chides Discord.  “Care for some brain bleach?” he asks, holding up a bucket bubbling with caustic chemicals.

“Yeah, har har.  Anyway, this dream is getting kind of old.  My subconscious can't keep up a Discord impression for shit.”

Discord puts a claw to his chest in a parody of indignation.  “Oh, you wound me!  You think I'm just a figment of your imagination?”

“Well, duh,” you say.  “Why would you be telling me all this crap, anyway?   Aren't you supposed to be the bad guy?”

“How terribly rude!” he mock-sobs.  “Although I admit you have a point.”

Suddenly he is behind you, riding on a wooden rocking horse that neighs and bucks.  “Long story short, you're in for quite the experience at Sawgrass,” says Discord.  “Something terrible is about to happen in that place.”

“A marathon viewing of Newborn Cuties?” you ask.

Discord rolls his eyes.  “Oh, hush.  Look, do you want to save Equestria or not?”

“Why would you care?”

“Would you believe me if I told you that I had reformed?” he suggests, a small halo appearing over his head.

“Not really.”

“Oh, nuts.” Discord stretches the halo out and uses it as a hula hoop, grinning devilishly.  “How about this: if Equestria falls, I want it to be on my terms.  Does that fit better into your narrow-minded little ideas about the Mighty Discord?”

“Sure, okay.”

“Splendid!”  He snaps his fingers and suddenly the two of you grow to the size of mountains.  The little desert town now looks like it's part of a model train set, and you can see a tiny radio tower jutting from a hill on the northern border.

“As I explained earlier, there's a portal of sorts in Sawgrass; a gateway to Equestria.  This,” he says, tapping the radio tower with a squeal of bending metal, “is where that portal is.  You need to get there by noon tomorrow.”

“Why?” you ask, marveling at how oddly specific this dream is getting.

“Someone is going to cross the portal at just that time,” says Discord, leaning in slightly to glower at you.  “A sorcerer.  Very powerful, very evil.  He has some rather nasty plans for Equestria.”

“Of course he does,” you say dryly.

“Don't be like that! You think what I did was bad?  I'm Princess Cadance compared to him,” he says, morphing into her but retaining the same head.  It's a shudder-inducing sight.

“Oh, Shining Armor,” he squeals in a mocking falsetto.  “Whatever will we do?  If only a certain human had just listened to Discord about--”

“Okay, I get it!” you snap.  “Look, I'll humor you a bit more, but only if you never do that goddam voice again.  Promise?”

“Pinkie Promise!” chirps Discord.  He morphs back into his “usual” self, if such a word could be applied to him. 

“Yeah, whatever,” you sigh.  “So what am I supposed to do about this, anyway?”

“I want you to stop the sorcerer.  What else?”

He catches your raised eyebrow.  “No, you don't need to kill him or anything like that.  Just disrupt the ritual he'll use to cross over.  It should be easy, provided you and the others can withstand his inevitable magical rampage.”

You blink.  “Others?  Magical rampage?  What?”

“See, that brings up another important point.  You'll be coordinating with some other helpers I found: it'll give you the best chance of success.  As for the other point, there's a--”

Suddenly a shrill beeping sound fills the air--the alarm clock, no doubt.  The world around you begins to slip away.

Discord suddenly looks panicked.  

“You'll do this, right? For me—I mean, for Equestria?” begs Discord.

“Even if I believed you, I usually don't remember my dreams,” you say matter-of-factly.  “Smell you later, homes.”

“Wait!” he wails.  “There's one more thing!  This has to be done just right!  There's a very high chance that he'll cast a--”

Your eyelids jolt open.  Jeez, that dream was fucked up.  Something about Discord and dancing cacti?  Whatever, you decide as you walk to the bathroom.  The last clutches of the dream slip away as you take a shower, and soon you're not even sure if you dreamed at all.

But something lingers in your mind.  Something about Sawgrass...

After you get dressed and packed up, you realize your hands are shaking.  Butterflies flit about in your stomach.  You feel like you're back in third grade, looking out fearfully at the audience just before the school play starts.

What the hell is bothering you so much?  It's just a quick side trip, and you don't have any big plans for the day.  Why the anxiety?

The unease persists even after you check out with the Freaky Mustache Man at the front desk.  You get in your car and grab a quick granola bar from your pack for breakfast.  No time for anything more filling: you just want to get this visit out of the way.

As you drive down the lonely county road, you find yourself repeatedly checking the clock on your dashboard.  11:36...11:37...

To hell with this, you think.  Abruptly you pull over and give yourself a mental bitch-slap.  This is your vacation.   You don't even need to go to Sawgrass, let alone follow a schedule.  

You play with the idea of just turning back and continuing on to Arizona, but by now the anxiety is lifting.  No, you don't need to go to Sawgrass.  But you still kinda want to.  You'd just drop by for a moment, take some pictures, and act as though this little psychotic episode never happened.  Right.

You continue down the road, make the final turn, and a quarter mile ahead lies Sawgrass.  You slowly cruise down the main street, taking in the atmosphere.

Just like you expected, it's a depressing little place.  Most of the buildings have been bulldozed, and the few that still stand are hollow, boarded-up shells.  The sidewalks are broken ruins with ragged shrubs poking out of the cracks.  “VISIT MAGNIFICENT MEGAN'S PONY RANCH,” a decrepit sign shrieks.  “NO. 1 PLACE IN SAWGRASS.”

You pull up to an abandoned lot and climb out of your car, camera in hand.  The heat is sweltering out here, but you can handle it. 

You can mostly handle the heat.

Never mind, it's pretty close to intolerable.
> Departure
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Taking a swig from your water bottle, you trudge onward.  Already you're sweating fiercely.  You drink in the sights around you, fascinated by the town's post-apocalyptic atmosphere.  

From what you had heard, Sawgrass was evacuated a few decades back due to the discovery of dangerous pollutants in the soil.  Back in its heyday it had a few dude ranches and a reputation for horse breeding, but now it's just a sad little cluster of nothing.

It's a great place for photos, though. Especially if you're a fan of horror movies.  It looks exactly like a place where mutants would lurk, or where your worst Freudian fears would suddenly come to life.

Idly kicking a poor rock that was just minding its own business, you mull over what to do next on your trip.  The Grand Canyon is a must.  You also heard--

Whummm.

You pause for a moment.  What was that?

Whummmm.  

It's a low, throbbing hum, sounding like some sort of massive machine.  You can feel it in your teeth and deep down in your gut.  It's coming from somewhere behind you.

Half-expecting to see a flying saucer, you turn around.  Nothing looks out of the ordinary at first.  Just a few old buildings and a radio tower.

Whummmmmm.

A strange blue glow is starting to build on the top of the tower, like St. Elmo's fire.  

Whummmmmmmm.

What the fuck...

Just when you think disaster is about to strike, the glow vanishes and the noise subsides.  The pitiful breeze abruptly dies, leaving you in eerie stillness and baking heat.

Huh.  What the hell was that?  Some sort of atmospheric anomaly?  Okay, so that's a pretty weak explanation, but there isn't much else you can think of.  Whatever the case, your curiosity is piqued.  Maybe there's an opportunity here.  If that weird stuff starts happening again, you could take a video of it.  That shit would go viral, no doubt.  

But there is another factor that urges you to the radio tower, something that you can't quite explain.  You feel a slight surge of the anxiety you felt earlier in the morning, but quickly ignore it.  Your gut instincts don't have a very good track record, if that incident at Red Lobster last week was any indication.

As you approach the radio tower, you notice that a dusty black sedan is parked nearby.  It seems you're not the only tourist here.  

The base of the tower is boxed in by a rusty fence, preventing you from reaching the ladder.  No matter; you're not one of those idiots who needs to climb everything taller than ten feet.  You just want to get close enough to get a good photo in.

As it turns out, there's more than enough opportunity for a picture, but not in the way you expected.  As you get closer to the tower, you see that numerous odd items have been arranged in a circle around its base.  It's a motley collection of masks, bronzeware and small sculptures.  

Some weird guy's art project, perhaps?

You hear a rush of air off to your left, and turn to see a tall man wearing a glossy black coat.  He is peering curiously at you, as though you're yet another strange little artifact.  

“You are an intruder,” he says.  There is little emotion in his voice.  His eyes are a dull black, the same color as his matted hair.

“Look man,” you start.  “I'm not looking for trouble. I just wanted to see what was going on, that's all.”

“Are you one of them?” he asks.

“I'm sorry?”

“One of them.”

“I don't know what you're talking about...”  Your heart is starting to race faster.  You suddenly get the image of this freak burying your corpse in the desert sands.

“I am not a murderer,” the man says.  “And I have much better ways to dispose of...unwanted things.”

Okay, so apparently now you're dealing with a psychic psycho.  Panic is starting to grip you.  You stare at him, wondering when your legs will decide to stop locking up and let you run far, far away.

“I am going to ask again,” he says.  Now a smile is finally creeping onto his gaunt face.  “Are you one of them?”

Fight or flight?  Flight, you decide in a flash.  Without another word you turn and run, hoping that the bastard's black coat will give him heat prostration if he tries to chase you.  

Suddenly it feels as though you've slammed your shins into a concrete block.  You tumble over, crying out in pain.  

“You are wise to be frightened of me,” the man says as he paces up to your rolling form.  “Have I introduced myself?  My name is Maximilian Trask.  I am the last and greatest sorcerer on Earth.”

That sentence would have made you chuckle in the past.  But here, out in the desert with no one but you and this madman, it is the most frightening thing you have ever heard.  As if the situation wasn't mind-rending enough, you can't shake the feeling that some small part of you had expected this.

“You caught me in a good mood, so I will give you one more chance to answer the question.  Are you one of them?”

“Stop right there!” a familiar voice cries out.

You roll on your side, still in too much pain to stand up or even talk.  It's that jerk from the bar!  He's standing about twenty feet away, his face set in a scowl as he trains a chrome revolver on Trask.   A young guy is standing by his side, looking distinctly worried despite the taser he's holding.

Slowly and mockingly, Trask holds up his hands.  “Ah...so he was the bait,”  he says.  “Your timing is a bit off, though.”

“Shut up!” the jackass-turned-savior snarls.  “Now listen real close, twinkle toes.  I want you to pack up those little knicknacks of yours and get the hell outta my town.”

Trask gives him a thin smile.  “Such a performance.  I almost believe you really are just a backwater squatter, Aaron.  Would you like to explain to these gentlemen why you're so interested in the portal? Or why--”

Looking about as friendly as a rabid wolverine, Aaron cocks the hammer on his revolver.  “I ain't in much of a talkative mood, you see?  And if you're smart you'd do a little less talkin', too.  Now get to work before I blow your goddam head off.”

Your head is spinning, and it's not just from the pain or the heat or even the fear.  The nagging sense of deja vu has become almost unbearable.  It seems to erode your sanity, scattering your thoughts like leaves.

“This is getting tiresome,” Trask says, yawning.  He glances up at the bright midday sun.  “Ah, it's time.”

“Time for what?” the young guy asks.

“Time for our departure!” booms Trask, his voice deep and inhuman.

Through the fence at the base of the tower you can see a pitch-black sphere materialize.  Despite emitting no light, it leaves a searing bright afterimage in your vision.

This all happens in less than a second.  Aaron and his companion look every bit as wide-eyed as you are, and Trask doesn't let the distraction go to waste.

“Let the broadcast begin!” he laughs.  Blue streaks of lightning leap from the tower's metal frame, stabbing into the dark sphere.   The wind howls like a hurricane, nearly deafening you with the sheer noise.   

Gravity shifts, dragging you towards the sphere.  It's sucking everything in!  You desperately try to dig your fingers into the dry soil as your legs start getting pulled into the air.

The fence groans against its posts before its links snap explosively.  In an instant the black hole consumes it.

“I will see you soon,” says Trask, strolling gracefully into the rift.

Helplessly you look over at Aaron and his friend, who are both fighting a losing battle in their struggle to hold on to the ground.  Suddenly Aaron's buddy is airborne, his slight form shooting through the air like a dart.  His scream is abruptly cut off as he vanishes into the darkness.

“Daniel!” Aaron howls.  The stricken look on his face is a shocking contrast to the impression you had of him from the night before.  There's none of the cockiness, none of the ignorance: just pure human anguish.

Now your grip is giving out.  The muscles in your hands burn with pain, begging for rest.  You manage to last only a few more seconds before you're suddenly rocketing backwards, pulled free by the black hole's irresistible force.

You feel much more resigned than frightened now that your fate is out of your hands—literally in this case.  Whatever happens, you just hope it will be over soon.

The darkness swallows you.  There is an overwhelming assault on your senses as your brain scrambles to understand your surroundings.  Flashing lights and alien sounds, hallucinatory smells and phantom sensations.  You spend an unknowable amount of time in this blind and maddening state, and it is with great pleasure that you realize that all is finally still.

Your face feels blistered and hot.  Groaning, you slowly open your eyes.  

The landscape you see is at once alien and familiar.  You're in a desert, the sun brutally beating down on a parched landscape populated only by tall brown cacti and dry shrubs.

What causes your jaw to drop is the fact that everything appears to be cel-shaded.  As your vision clears, you start to notice other oddities.  The exaggerated hills, the ludicrous rock formations, the spirals in the clouds...wait.

You know this style.  Holy shit, you're in Equestria!

You're pretty sure that if you shared the same cartoonish qualities as your surroundings, your jaw would have crashed through the ground and plunged into the center of the planet.

Your mind races.  How did you get here, again?  Something about a creepy sorcerer guy and a portal and--

Clearly that was utterly fucking crazy.  Your heart sinks a bit at the conclusion that this must be an elaborate dream, and you're still snoozing away at that one crappy motel.

“You're not in a dream, my friend.  I'm afraid this is all quite real.”

Shit, it's him again!  You whirl around to see Trask smiling wickedly at you, and your throat goes dry.

“Perhaps this would help convince you?” he asks.  Instantly you feel as though you've been stung square in the back by a hornet, and you let out a yelp of pain.

“I've been wondering,” says Trask, assaulting you with another jolt, “what do you little white knights get out of meddling with my plans, anyway?  You're not Equestrians.  You fellows don't owe them anything.”

He steps closer.  Another jolt.  But now you're starting to get used to his spell.  A plan forms in your mind.  It's an insane one, but it's a plan nonetheless.  You pretend to be crippled with pain, kneeling down and sobbing for mercy.  Once he gets close enough, you're going to kick his gaunt ass.  Ooh, unpleasant image, you realize.

There's still the matter of his telepathy, though.  What was that one trick you saw in a movie once?  Something about imagining a brick wall?

He's only one step away now.  You bunch up your muscles, ready to swing at him.

Then he laughs.  “I see.  You want to fight me, don't you?  I suppose I can't blame you.  Clearly, trying to run didn't work out so well the last time.”

You sigh and stand up.  Clearly, there's only one other option...

“I give up.  I pledge my allegiance to you.  Do what you want with me, master.”

For once, it's his turn to be surprised.  You have to admit, it's pretty weird seeing him look astonished for once.

That's when you knee him in the balls.

He cries out in pain, collapsing to his knees.  You're not a sadist, but...damn.  Trask deserved it a hundred times over.  The sheer catharsis of the experience takes you to the top of Mount OhFuckYes.

“That was not very polite,” he scowls.  You respond by punching him in the face.  Sadly, it seems to hurt your fist much more than it hurts him.  You clutch your hand, moaning.

The bastard is starting to smile again.  “You can't do this very well, can you?  Not with those fluffy little hooves.”

Baffled, you stare at him for a moment.  Then you notice something strange about your hands:  they're unnaturally pale.  You look closer and see that they're covered with a layer of short snow-white fur.
> Vicious Frontier
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Your hands are wracked by a spasm of pain as they transform even further.  Your fingers blend together, forming one giant digit for each hand.  The two digits flare out and flatten, morphing into hooves. 

You had played around with these sort of fantasies online, but to experience it was...downright horrifying.

“Cute, aren't they?” says Trask, his smile widening.

Enraged, you take another swing at him.  You would have connected had it not been for a horrific cramp in your back. 

“Why do you keep standing up like that?  It's not natural for you.”

That triggers yet another spasm.  Your back contorts, and and it feels like your spine is being squashed in a trash compactor.  A second later you feel the same horrible compression in the bones of your legs, and you cry out again.  The clothes you're wearing are getting baggier and baggier as you shrink.

After the pain subsides enough for you to regain your focus, you find yourself staring into Trask's grinning face.  Growling, you try to headbutt him.  

All you end up doing is just bonking him lightly on the nose.  He snickers at this.

“Trying to nuzzle me, now, are you?  How adorable!  You have such a cute little snout.  And who couldn't love those big green eyes of yours!”

This is the worst one yet.  The pain is outright blinding now as your head changes to accommodate his whims.  Your eyes widen and shift, granting you a greater field of vision as they switch from “predator” configuration to “prey.” You want to scream, but your jaws are too busy stretching out into a short muzzle.

“And look at those cute little ears?  They're almost as pointy as your horn!” he says.

Your ears are yanked upwards, morphing into more equine versions.  A white-hot spike of agony stabs you in the forehead as a short spiral horn emerges from it.  

Trask steps back, admiring his handiwork.  “You're coming along quite nicely, if I do say so myself.”

You charge at him, knowing it will bring you more pain.  But you just want to get one more hit in—one more, goddammit!

“Don't trip on that exquisitely long tail of yours,” he comments as you do just that.  “Did I mention how well it matches your mane?  Lustrous white with platinum streaks...truly stunning.”  No sooner has he said that when your new mane spills into your eyes.

You left your pants behind when you charged at Trask, leaving you in nothing but a tent-like t-shirt.  Now you try to pull the garment off, desperate to get untangled.

“Here, let me help you,” Trask says.  He kneels down and lifts you out of your shirt.  Looking down at your form, you gasp with shock.  He's turned you into a little white unicorn!

You try to twist yourself free of his grip, but he's too strong.  Besides, you're now only about half his size.

“Oh, don't try to leave just yet,” says Trask.  “There's one more thing for you to see, young miss.”

You want to retch with pain and fear as your genitals twist and invert.  Your manhood is swallowed by a growing slit, becoming a marehood.  Your two Orbs of Dudeness are the next casualties, getting sucked in to become ovaries.

Two small mounds emerge from your crotch, and you gulp as you realize what they are.

“What do you think, little pony?  Go on, speak up.  I want to hear that wonderful voice of yours.”

“I think you should go fuck yourself,” you snarl.  In an instant your hooves fly to your mouth, your eyes going even wider than they were before.  Your voice...goddammit, your voice!

“So soft and melodious, isn't it?” says Trask.  “I think it fits you quite splendidly.”

The horror of your transformation finally catches up to you, and your eyes begin to water.  Your breathing is rapid and shallow: you're entering a full-fledged panic attack.

Trask smiles sadistically and sets you down on your unsteady hooves. 

“Run away, little pony,” he says.  “You should settle down and find yourself a nice stallion.  I'm sure your foals will be precious.”

His voice sounds distant and distorted as panic strangles your mind.  You need to get away; you need a place to rest.  You need a place to scream and cry yourself to sleep.

Trask gives you a slap on the hindquarters. “Didn't you hear me?” he asks. “Run, or I'll hit you with a regression spell, too.”

Somehow your legs finally cooperate.  Although your new legs cause you to stumble at first, you quickly manage to break into a respectable gallop.  Fear has a way of teaching you to run.

You realize that it doesn't matter if you're dreaming or not anymore.  As Trask showed, pain is quite real in this world.  And no matter how hard you try, you can't wake up.

So that leaves you with only one option: keep running.  Your vision blurs as your eyes flood with tears.  You're beginning to sob, and the unmistakably feminine sound of your voice makes you want to cry even more. 

Trask has made a mockery of you.  He has twisted your fantasy into a nightmare.  He has robbed you of your humanity and your masculinity, morphing you into a weak-kneed little unicorn mare.  Now you're alone and afraid in a world you thought you'd be so overjoyed to see.

Never before have you hated someone so badly.

Cacti and eroded rocks pass by like film footage on an endless loop.  Exhaustion creeps into your legs like a slow-burning fire, and your throat is drier than the sand under your hooves.  But you don't dare to stop.  You'll never stop until you're safe from that monster.

But your escape quickly proves to be a nightmare in itself.  The desert floor is treacherous, bristling with jagged rocks and prickly pears.  You trip more times than you can count, earning dozens of scrapes and cuts.  

This torment goes on for what seems like hours.  Your body cries out for water and rest, but it is nothing compared to your mental state.  Your mind keeps replaying the trauma of your metamorphosis, locking every humiliating moment into your memory.

You're not even sure where you're running.  For a while it seemed sufficient to simply run as far from Trask as possible, but as you become increasingly tired and dehydrated, a new source of fear arises: how are you going to survive out here?  With the exception of your own tears, you haven't seen any water in this desert at all.

But then your luck finally changes.  Squinting at the heat haze on the horizon, you can see a dark set of shapes materialize.  It's a town!

Is it a mirage?  You don't even care at this point.  All that matters is that you finally have a place to set your sights on.  Best of all, it gives you something you haven't felt in a long time: hope.  It is a mighty boon indeed, for it lightens your hooves and dulls your pain.  Maybe after you get some water and some rest, you'll find someone who can help you. 

Someone with the ability to instantly reverse spells and provide a gun that shoots anti-wizard bullets, you think bitterly.

Finding a way back home was another goal, but it wasn't nearly as urgent.  In a worst case scenario, you could live with being stuck in Equestria.  But to be stuck as a mare...

You distract yourself by focusing again on the town.  You're now roughly half a mile away, so the mirage theory is looking dubious.  If you want to exert yourself to death chasing a settlement locked eternally in the horizon as a darkly poetic allegory for your life's dreams, you'll have to look someplace else.  

Just as you start to allow yourself the faintest hint of a smile, fate gives you the middle finger.  With a wet squish, your hooves sink into what feels like thick mud. You look down and find yourself knee-deep in what looks like a discolored patch of sand.  You try to step out, but all you can do is wiggle your legs helplessly.  

So close to the town...only to get stuck in quicksand.  Of course.
> Tricksand
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Racking your sun-baked brain, you try to remember what you're supposed to do in situations like this.  Wasn't it something about slowly lifting your legs and not panicking?  You try just that, and to your astonishment...

Nothing happens at all.  You're just as stuck as you were before, with the added benefit that now you're slowly sinking.

Apparently quicksand works differently in Equestria.  You quickly forget the “don't panic” part.  Eyes bulging with terror, you put all your might into raising your forelegs.

“Ow!” a shrill voice squeals.

You blink.  Obviously, heat exhaustion is starting to set in.  You need to get out fast, so you try even harder to pull free.

“Ow!  Stop that, you little No-Fun Fannie!”

With a low rumble, a mound of sand rises up in front of you.  It has a face: two depressions near the top form its eyes, and a wide crevasse near the bottom forms its sneering mouth.

“Sheesh, can't you take a joke?” it says, sneering.

Meeting a sentient pile of quicksand with a bratty little kid's voice is hardly the strangest thing that's happened to you since landing in Equestria, but it still leaves you at a loss of words.

“I...what?” you stammer.

“Ugh, you are such a boring boreface.  Why don't you go back to your boring friends in Boringtown?”

The sandy muck trapping your hooves begins to loosen.  Resolving to leave and pretend this incident never happened, you try to step back onto solid ground.

The creature gives you a wicked smirk.  Suddenly a giant tentacle made out of wet sand erupts from the ground, wrapping around your waist before you can give even a peep of surprise.

“Fooled you! Fooled you! Neener, neener, neener!” it taunts, relishing your fear as it wildly waves you through the air.

At this point you're starting to wonder what kind of cruel god watches over the universe.  Is he sitting back right now and laughing his ass off?  Or is he one of those Lovecraftian deities that inflicts horrible fates just for sheer hell of it?  Considering the madness you've been through this afternoon, you're suspecting the latter.

The sand monster only laughs at your pleas for release. Its obnoxious antics go on for several more minutes, spinning you around and gleefully tossing you in the air before catching you with a sand-trampoline. 

Its games aren't truly dangerous, but the same can't be said for the sun.  By now your throat feels like it's lined with hot gravel.  Your head swims, the world seeming to spin before your eyes.  At best you have only a few minutes before you lose consciousness.   

It's a pretty pathetic way to die, but you're too tired to try to struggle free, and you're quickly becoming too tired to care.

Suddenly you hear the sound of hooves galloping across dry ground.  

“Put her down!” 

The voice is firm and masculine.  You weakly turn your eyes to the speaker: a white-furred unicorn stallion with a light green mane.  His steel-blue eyes are locked on the monster, his mouth twisted in a scowl.

“Why?  Is she your girlfriend?” the sand monster jeers.  Obviously the taunt was aimed at the newcomer, but it stings you the most.  “You're gross.  I bet you want to get her gross girl cooties.  Well, I'm not gonna let her go, so bug off!”

The unicorn's response is to fire a searing bolt of blue energy at the creature, instantly severing the tentacle it's suspending you with.  You plummet plot-first onto the ground with an undignified “oof!”

“Not fair!” the sand monster wails.  “I'm gonna go tell my mommy!”  Sobbing copiously, it oozes away from the two of you and off into the distance.

“Are you all right, miss?” the unicorn asks you.  The term “miss” makes you want to cringe, but at this point you're just fighting to stay conscious.

You look up at him, your eyelids drooping.  “Whadd...was...that?” you croak.  Your voice sounds disturbingly faint and tinny. 

The unicorn's  eyes go wide.  “Miss?  Stay with me!” he cries, starting to levitate a water canteen out of his pack.  “You need to--”

The world dissolves into a colorless haze.

Some indefinite span of time later, a high-pitched whine sounds in your ears.  Strange fuzzy shapes swim across your vision, and for a moment you have no idea who you are.  You have no name and no form, no memories and no sense of time or place.

Then the memories start to flood back, and all you can do is moan pitifully.  The phantom sights and sounds fade away, replaced by harsh reality.  You don't want to open your eyes.

You feel something being pushed against your muzzle.  Without thinking, you purse your lips.  Cool water floods down your throat, sweet and refreshing and wonderful.  

Your eyes flutter open.  A gray-bearded earth pony is leaning over you, watching you sympathetically from behind his ill-fitting spectacles.  He's clutching a small canteen with his forelegs.

“Where am I?” you groan.  You're lying on a soft bed in a small room with wood plank walls.  Bright rays of sunlight filter in from the dusty windows, painting golden squares on the floor.

“The Appleloosa Clinic,” says the pony, offering you another sip from the canteen.  His voice is gruff yet gentle.  “'Mighty lucky we found you when we did, stranger.  I heard you ran into one of those tricksand pits.”

“'Tricksand'?”

He nods sadly.  “Awful things, they are.  I don't blame you for not knowin' much about 'em.”  He sighs and glances out the window.  “You gotta watch yourself around these parts, stranger.  Appleloosa has taken a turn for the worse.”

Your heart sinks as you ponder the doctor's words.  It sounds like getting everything back in order is going to be much harder than you thought.

You both sit silently for a few moments as the desert wind howls against the window panes.  The doctor awkwardly clears his throat.  “Mighty rude of me to not introduce myself, miss.  Name's Doc Tumbleweed.”

Miss.  You're getting so incredibly sick of that word.  It frays your nerves like a razor slowly slicing into a powerline.  Fatigue has eaten away at your self control, and soon your mouth is moving on its own.

“Don't call me that!” you snap, your face suddenly feeling red-hot.

Tumbleweed is taken aback.  “Pardon?”

Your anger finally forces its way free.  “Stop calling me 'miss!'”

His eyebrows shoot upward in regret and surprise.  The canteen tumbles out of his hooves, spilling itself on the floor. 

“I'm sorry, miss—ah, heck! I'm sorry!  I didn't mean no harm,” he stammers, wincing as he prepares for another angry outburst.

He looks so very weak and sad, and suddenly you feel ashamed of yourself.  This almost causes you to lash out yet again, but then you realize how pointless it all is.  Doc Tumbleweed's only sin was that he tried to be polite to you.  How was he supposed to know what you'd been through?

Maybe you could tell him what happened.  But would he believe you?  To the rest of Equestria you're just a poor, strange mare suffering from the aftereffects of heatstroke.  

“No, don't be sorry,” you sigh.  “It's not your fault.  I've been through a lot of bad things lately, and I just...snapped.”

“I see,” he says softly.  “Do you wanna tell me what happened?”

You shake your head slowly.  “Not yet, no.  I hope you can understand.”  

“Fair enough, miss—oh, darn it to heck, I did it again!”

“Don't worry about it,” you say, smiling weakly.  You're not ready to tell him your whole humiliating tale, but perhaps there's still a way to get help.

“Listen,” you ask, “I know this is a weird question, but...is there anyone in this town who can break a curse?”
> Sonora
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Tumbleweed stares at you for a long moment. You're afraid he's about to burst out laughing, but then he casts his eyes downward.  

“Stranger,” he sighs, “you have no idea how many times I've heard that this week.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, put off-balance by his words.

“Somethin' strange has been happenin' to Appleloosa lately.  All sorts of strange critters are turnin' up, the wells are goin' dry, the crops are all withered and brown...it's unsettlin' the settlers and cowin' the cowponies.”  

He fixes you with a grave gaze, his voice lowering slightly.  “A lotta folks claim there's somethin' rotten at work.  They say it's a hex, or maybe some kinda bad magic seepin' up from the ground.  Whatever it is, Sheriff Silverstar saw fit to bring in some magic experts from up north.”

A spark of hope lights you up.   “Could they help me break the curse?”

He chuckles.  “They wouldn't be 'experts' if they couldn't.  It was one of them who found you, in fact: a decent young fellow by the name of Fairweather.”

A small smile crosses your muzzle.  Suddenly it seems like things might not be so grim after all.    Getting changed back would be the first step to ending this nightmare.  Then maybe you could find a way back home, and--

--and leave Appleloosa to its fate.  Your stomach sinks at this realization, and sinks even further when you remember Aaron and Daniel.  You hardly know the two strangers, but you can't just leave them behind.  They had tried to save you, and they deserve at least as much of a chance to go home as you.

Perhaps, though, that's a problem for after you're back to your old self.  Your transformed body feels maddeningly weak and vulnerable, as if your muscles have turned to butter.   The idea of going on a rescue mission like this is downright terrifying.

“I need to talk to these guys.  Where are they?” you ask, starting to rise from the bed. 

“You ain't goin' nowhere,” Tumbleweed says sternly, putting a hoof on your chest.  “You need to rest.  Besides, Fairweather and his pals are out of town right now.”

“Then I'll go find them,” you protest.  “You don't know how important this is.”

“What's important is that you don't push yourself,” he chides as he places a wet washcloth on your forehead.

“You have no idea what I've been through!” you snap, trying to push his hoof away.  “Now let me go!”

You don't want to spend a second more like this, damn it!  Faintly you realize that your cheeks are flushed, and there's a growing rasp in your sickly-sweet voice.  Dizziness shakes your world as you struggle to get out of bed, and you tumble to the floor.  You bash your head against the wooden boards, sending stars streaking through your vision.

Hot tears run down your cheeks, but they're not from the pain.  Your curl up on the floor in a sobbing mess, hating yourself and the man who did this to you in equal measure.

You're pathetic, a small and unsavory part of you taunts.  It seems to speak with the voice  of Trask.  You're pathetic, and you'll never be anything else.

You barely notice as Tumbleweed calls in a nurse to help you back onto the bed.  You hardly feel it when he puts a fresh washcloth on your head, and you almost don't hear him when he finally speaks again.

“I don't know what you've been through, stranger.  But rest assured, I ain't gonna hang you out to dry.  As soon as the ponies you're lookin' for get back, I'll bring 'em over here and we'll see what we can do.  That sound alright?”

Sniffling quietly, you nod.

“There's only one thing I ask in return,” Tumbleweed says, “and that's to let yourself rest.  I'll get you fixed up, stranger.  It's on my honor.”

You lock eyes with him, blinking back your dwindling tears.  “Thank you,” you manage to say.

“Think nothin' of it,” he says, trotting out of the room. “Just give me a shout if you need anythin'.”

"Oh!  One more thing," Tumbleweed says, poking his head back into your room, "I never gave you a chance to introduce yourself.  What's your name, stranger?”

You barely stop yourself from telling him your real name, which wouldn't particularly work with your new sex.  Your mind races for some pleasantly generic substitute, but it pulls up nothing but blanks.

Tumbleweed raises an eyebrow.  "You all right?"

"I'm fine, just a bit distracted," you say.   "My name's...”

A name finally pops into your head, seemingly from nowhere.  “...Sonora.”

Tumbleweed smiles earnestly.  "Sonora, huh?  Not a bad name.  Anyway, I should give you a chance to sleep.  I'm sure you've had enough of me for today.”  

He excuses himself shortly afterward, and idly you wonder where the name “Sonora” came from.  After some brief contemplation you remember a little detail from your vacation plans: right about now, you were supposed to be in the Sonoran Desert.  You had promised to take some panoramic shots of the landscape for a friend.

You sigh plaintively.  Soon your loved ones will start wondering where you went.  It's yet another incentive to get back, and yet another drop in the ocean of hatred you have for Trask.

And yet, the only thing you can do is wait.  You lie there for a hellishly long time, doing nothing but staring up at the rough timber ceiling.  Every now and then Tumbleweed or his nurse drops by to give you a drink or a tiny salt tablet, but never with any news on the magic experts.  

Eventually the daylight begins to fade.  It seems you'll have to spend the night here, and the prospect is deeply unappealing.  As exhausted as you are, you have no idea how you'll get any sleep. Your mind is caught in an endless loop of self-recrimination and frustration.  If only you had skipped the trip to Sawgrass...if only you had stayed away from the tower...if only you had stopped Trask...

You replay each mistake in your mind like a neurotic director pouring over every frame of his movie.  Eventually the memories become so intense that you start to forget where you are.  Slowly and insidiously, your vision blurs to a grainy smudge.  A low thrum sounds in your ears, eventually coalescing into a steady beat.  It is the sound of your hooves as you gallop madly across an impossibly vast desert.

Faintly you feel that something is off; that this doesn't make sense.  But those doubts disintegrate when you discover that someone is chasing you.  Someone with limitless energy and an acidic laugh.

Forcing yourself to look behind, you see Trask walking towards you. His steps are unhurried, and yet he rapidly gains on you despite your lunatic pace.

You scream and try to run faster. 

"You should watch where you're going," Trask declares.  Suddenly you trip over something that bites painfully into your legs. You stumble face-first into the sand, scrambling to try and get back on your hooves.   

But there's nowhere near enough time.  Your pulse hammers in your ears as Trask walks up to you and stoops down.

"Why are you running?” he asks, staring coldly at you.  “Do you think I'm the worst thing in this desert?”

You can't bring yourself to say anything.  He nods slowly, a thin smile creeping across his face.  “That's the answer I was looking for.”

He stands up and paces off to the side, his boots thudding heavily through the sand.  Not daring to even blink, you watch as he walks over to an unfinished radio mast.  Three guy-wires truss the structure like leashes, and you realize it was one of these cables that made you trip.

Trask gazes silently at the antenna before he looks back at you.  “Don't you want to know what I'm planning?”

“I couldn't care less,” you spit, almost instantly regretting it.  Your heart races as he steps closer, your limbs cold and numb.   

Trask chuckles. “You're becoming an Equestrian faster than I thought.  So narrow-minded, so clueless...and yet, so useful.”

You are jolted out of the nightmare by a rooster's crow.  Sunlight the hue of egg yolk pours through the window, and already you can hear the steady clip-clop of hooves as the ponies of Appleloosa go about their business.  

The memories of the dream fade mercifully fast, but you still have more than enough reasons to be anxious this morning.  Now that you've recovered from the heat, you'll finally have a chance to see if your transformation can be reversed.  

Stretching your unfamiliar limbs, you wonder where you'll be at the end of today.  Lying down in your own bed, fully restored and brought home?  Or will you have to find a way to sleep with the knowledge that you'll never be--

--never be yourself again.  The prospect infects your thoughts like a virus, and it takes all your discipline to counter it with a heavy dose of cautious optimism.  

Your stomach churns.  You feel like you're about to give a speech to the world.  From the hallway wafts the sweet smell of toast, but it only makes you feel even more sick.

"Mornin'!" a cheerful voice calls. You turn your head and see a plump orange earthy pony nurse carrying a small tray heaped with food. She sets the tray down on a side table and stares expectantly at you. “You're Sonora, right?  Nice to meet you; name's Sharp Cider.”

She sets the tray down on a side table and stares expectantly at you.

“Don't be skittish, darlin',” she coaxes.  “Breakfast is complimentary.” 

"Thanks," you say, "but I'm not feeling very hungry."

"You sure?" she pleads, giving you a look that an army of orphaned baby bunnies couldn't match.

You sigh. There isn't much defense against that line of attack. Gingerly gripping a slice of toast between your two front hooves, you take a tiny bite.

Soon you're nibbling on the toast like a nervous rat. It's much coarser than any other bread you've tasted, and somehow this makes it perfect. You finish it so quickly you almost bite off your own hooves.

"Did you make this?  It's amazing," you say.

Sharp Cider beams beatifically. "Aw, shucks. It's just some buttered alfalfa bread."

You swallow, fighting the sudden urge to cough. Yes, life, you mentally sigh.  I get it. I'm a horse.  I like horse food now.

As you get started on your second piece, a shocking thought flashes through your mind: this tastes better than bacon.  Even more blasphemously, the thought of eating meat at all is strangely...unappetizing.

"Are you all right?" Sharp Cider asks. "You look like you just saw the Tommyknocker."

"Tommyknocker?" you ask through an unladylike mouthful of bread.

"Oh, just a silly lil legend 'round these parts.  Care for some apple juice?"

"Thanks," you say, clumsily grasping the glass and taking a sip. It's a perfect blend of sweet and sour, sublimely cold and refreshing. You let the taste linger on your tongue for a bit before you press again.  "But really, I want to know.  What's the Tommyknocker?"

Sharp Cider blushes slightly.  “I havta admit, I don't know all that much about it.  Fairweather's gang would probably be the ones to talk to.  You still want to see 'em, right?”

“Of course!” you say, a lot more eagerly than you would have liked.  

“I think I saw 'em over by the saloon a little while back.  Want me to send for 'em?”

“Won't be necessary,” you assure her.  “I'll go over there myself.”

“But you haven't finished your—oh, never mind.”  To your equal surprise, you've utterly demolished your breakfast.  Not a single crumb of toast or drop of apple juice remains.
> Back in the Saddle
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	“I suppose you can leave,” she continues, “but you be careful, alright?  Don't go anywhere alone.  And no heavy liftin', no runnin', no swimmin', no wrestlin', no horseplay, no muleplay, no--”

“I'll take it easy,” you assure her as you awkwardly climb off the bed.  “I don't have a whole lot planned, anyway.”

You look back at Sharp Cider, suddenly feeling ashamed. "Thank you," you say. "Without you and Tumbleweed, I'm not sure I would've..."

She smiles softly. "You're welcome, Miss Sonora."

You blush at the title, but by now its sting is wearing off. If things go as you hope today, you won't have to put up with much longer anyway.

If. Almost subconsciously, you reach out with a foreleg and knock on wood before you step outside. In a world with a sadistic wizard on the loose, it doesn't seem all that unreasonable to indulge your superstitious side.

As soon as you're outside, the sun makes you feel like a clay pot in a kiln.  It doesn't help that you've been gifted with a fur coat that you can't take off.  Just standing out in the sun for a few seconds makes you wonder how you survived yesterday's events.

Gingerly you step off the porch and on to the hot, dusty street.  You clench your teeth, expecting to experience something like a barefoot walk through Death Valley.  You have the mental image of your fluffy white hooves blackening from the heat like...well, marshmallows. That joke doesn't seem particularly funny anymore.

But when your hoof touches the ground, all you feel is a vague sensation of warmth. You feel the blistering heat rising from the gravel, but it's only a minor discomfort.

Impressive. It seems your hooves are either excellent insulators or they just don't have enough nerves to tell you to get the hell off. As much as you want to have hands and feet again, you have to admit there's a few perks to having hooves.

You canter on, feeling disoriented as you watch the citizens of Appleloosa happily trot about.  A breeze gusts through the town, cooling you but also reminding you of your utter lack of clothing.  You freeze, suddenly feeling like you're in one of those horrible nightmares where you show up to your job au naturale.  

Your fear grows as you notice you're getting a few glances that border on stares.  You cringe, expecting cat-calls at any second.

“Mornin', miss!”  a rotund stallion says as he trots up to you.  “You enjoyin' your stay in Appleloosa?”

Alright, chastity shields up.   “I guess,” you say guardedly.  “Wait.  How did you know--”

He chuckles.  “--know you ain't a local?  It's simple: you don't dress like one.”

You blink.  “Look, if it's rude for me to go around without clothes, I--”

Now it's his turn to look baffled.  “No, no.  I'm talkin' about hats!” he says cheerfully, tipping his Stetson at you.  “Name's Ten Gallon, proprietor of Appleloosa Outfitters. We've got the finest frontier apparel in the west—or the east!  And we've got a convenient location, too!” He points at a rickety little shop to your left.  It's wedged between two larger buildings like a popcorn kernel stuck between teeth. 

“I might pay it a visit,” you say.  In an alternate reality, perhaps.

He beams.  “Make sure you do,” he says, trotting over to the store.  “We've got a clearance sale on dusters!”

As mildly annoying as that encounter was, it takes the edge off your anxiety somewhat.  If aggressive sales tactics are the worst you have to fear from the stallions of Appleloosa, that will make things monumentally easier.  

You continue onward, looking for the saloon.  Appleloosa is just like you remember it from the show: a quaint little frontier town almost small enough to fit on a football field. The main street is the only road of any significance, lined with  stereotypical frontier shops.  Squinting from the glare, you spot a rugged wooden building with a large sign showing a salt shaker.

That's the saloon, no doubt.  You allow yourself a little smile as you trot to the front porch.  At least this town isn't hard to navigate.

You take a deep breath and push through the weather-worn batwing doors.

The interior is dim, lit only by sunlight spilling through the doorway and the dusty windows.  There's a few pool tables off to your left, and at the far side of the saloon is the bar proper.  It's a varnished slab of dark wood that's clearly seen better days, and a mustachioed earth pony is wiping it off with a soiled rag.

More accurately, he's pretending to clean the bar top.  His attention is focused on three other occupants of the saloon, watching them with wide eyes and tight lips.

Perched on the bar stools with body language as friendly as gargoyles, two stallions spit fiery accusations and insults at each other.  The third patron, a white-furred unicorn, massages his forehead as he sips from a chipped tumbler.

He looks distinctly familiar.  Is he Fairweather?  Not wanting to mistake him for someone else, you shyly walk up to the bar and take a seat a comfortable distance away. 

“That's a goldarned lie!" the nearest pony cries. He's a slim red pegasus with a chili pepper cutie mark, his watery blue eyes wild with rage under the bangs of his messy black mane.

"You know what I think?" the earth pony sitting next to him hisses.  "I think you're protesting too much."

"Fairweather!" the pegasus cries, looking over at the third patron. "Help me out, here! You saw what happened! Tell 'em he's wrong!"

"You're both wrong," Fairweather sighs as he takes another slug. “We all slipped up.” 

"Can I interest you in a drink, ma'am?" the bartender nervously offers. You barely suppress a jolt of surprise: you almost forgot he was there.

"Thanks,” you say, “but I don't have any money on han--er, hoof."

He sets a salt shaker and a glass of water down in front of you, smiling sheepishly. "It's your lucky day--we're offerin' free drinks to first time customers."

You hesitate for a moment before realizing this might work to your advantage. You have no idea how you're going to bring yourself to walk up to Fairweather and tell him about what happened to you, so a little liquid courage might be handy.

"Thanks," you say to the bartender, smiling in what you supremely hope is not a coquettish way. His cheeks go red for a moment before he nods and darts away like a skittish minnow. 

You're starting to think the free drink policy doesn't apply to stallions. Sighing, you gracelessly grasp the shaker between your hooves and sprinkle some salt into your glass.

"There's no use dwelling over it," says Fairweather. "We're not even sure what we saw."

If you had a built-in Curiosity Alarm, everyone in the bar would be deaf. 

"What did you see?" a smooth feminine voice asks. It takes you a moment to realize that you were the one who said it.

Fairweather does a double-take before he flashes you a grin. "Good to see you're still kicking around.”  His smile falls when he sees your drink. “But I'm not sure you're ready for that much salt..."

Confusion reigns for a second.  Suddenly you realize that you were so distracted that you practically emptied your salt shaker into your drink.

Like most mortal beings, you've done more than a few stupid things in your lifetime. What you do next is a worthy addition to your Golden Book of What the Fuck Was I Thinking.

"I can handle myself," you say, and then you gulp your drink down in one fell swig.

The experience is much like trying to snort salt like cocaine. 

You.

Just.

Don't.

Do.

It.

The God of Salt punishes your arrogance by sending you into the worst coughing fit you've been through in your life. Your throat feels like the Dead Sea, and soon you're not entirely sure it exists anymore.

Once you've finished hacking like a five-year-old trying to make fun of a smoker, you look into Fairweather's worried eyes and begin to tell him the truth.

You feel very light and free now, and you're baffled as to why you were so reluctant to tell anyone about your problem earlier.  Some boring part of your brain is saying something about “you're drunk, you dumb shit” and demanding you “stop before you do something even more stupid,” but to hell with that.  The world is a simple place now, and you're going to solve all your problems in the blink of an eye.

“You see, my parents never loved me as much as they loved my pet turtle," you explain.

Fairweather cocks his head to the side, confused.

"Railroad tracks. Wolf tracks. Yakity sax, don't talk back," you elaborate, feeling faintly frustrated as to why Fairweather doesn't seem to understand.

"Miss, are you all right?"

"You don't love Reggie!" you shout, jabbing an accusing hoof at him. "Reggie was an albino, nyeegh!” Then it hits you: you've gotten so far into your witty summary of your life story that you haven't told him about what happened.

"I'm a human!" you screech. "I mean, I was. A stupid evil wizard turned me into this.  He took his radio tower and then he ruined everything. None of this would've happened...if you could've just kept your stupid evil wizards off our nation's streets!"

That was a zinger, right there.  But he still doesn't get it. "How do I get turned back, bus station man? C'mon, how do I get turned back?”

Fairweather just stares at you.

> Here's to the Ranger
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare up at him, blinking in confusion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fairweather looks down, lost in thought.  

“Tell me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's official: life hates you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your manic laughter melts into wet, miserable sobs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Son of a bitch!” you scream, your voice quaking with rage.  
> The Melancholy Cowpony
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	This isn't supposed to happen, you think. I'm supposed to like girls.  I'm supposed to get easy access to steamy locker room scenes. I'm supposed to find a sexy lesbian girlfriend. I'm supposed to be swept off my hooves by a handsome stallion with a--

Argh, no!  Damn your imagination!  Damn it!  But the more you try to suppress the image, the stronger it becomes.  Your mind is caught in a loop of carnal fantasies that are simultaneously terrifying and tantalizing.  You feel an almost unbearable heat wash over you, and you tremble even harder.  

You lie there sprawled out on the floor for more than a few agonizing minutes, cringing every time a new image is shoved into your mind's eye.  But the dirty thoughts aren't the most painful ones.  

No, the most painful thoughts involve you in a wedding dress, prancing up a white aisle alongside an unseen groom.  They involve bridal showers and honeymoons.  But the absolute worst thought to cross your mind...

...involves a tiny foal cuddled up by your side, gently nursing from your teats.  

Trask's words seem to echo in your head.  You should settle down and find yourself a nice stallion, he had jeered.  I'm sure your foals will be precious.

Your blood goes cold.  Are these urges all some sort of mind control?  Have you really been making your own choices, or has Trask been making them for you?

One thing's certain: you'll kill him for this.  This thought serves as a small reassurance.  Unless Trask is some sort of desperate masochist, the idea that he would allow you to consider murdering him doesn't seem likely.  And if that's all some sort of elaborate plot to make you think you're still in control, then...well, fuck his shit.

It takes a few more minutes before you regain your composure enough for yet another unpleasant revelation to sink in: you're a blank flank. Now you know all too well why all those ponies were staring at you on the street. It must have been like seeing a woman march around in public wearing a preschooler's outfit. 

Abruptly you get the depressing mental picture of yourself sitting in the Cutie Mark Crusaders' clubhouse, your head slumped in shame while Sweetie Belle tries to cheer up her fellow unicorn. Okay, so it's also a somewhat adorable image, but it still makes you want to groan. 

Looking downcast enough to make Eeyore cringe, you finally get up and trudge out of the bathroom.

You don't have the energy to even try to get some more saltwater. All you want is just a good place to slump over and sigh.

You collapse onto a suitably dingy booth seat, taking a deep breath and blowing it through your teeth. It's a surprisingly satisfying sound. You stare blankly out the scratched window, watching the ponies go about their easy, Trask-free mornings. 

You know that you're starting to slide into self-pity, but you don't care.  As far as you're concerned you're the unluckiest creature in this town, and maybe even in Equestria.  

You wonder how the citizens would react if they knew the truth.  How common are superpowered villains around here, anyway?  Do the townsponies have some sort of official policy for dealing with them?

You wonder if Fairweather and his gang could even do anything against Trask.  Maybe it might be worthwhile to tag along with them to see what they're capable of.

Or maybe it might turn out to be a colossal waste of energy; a label that you're starting to apply to pretty much any action that doesn't involve staying at the bar.  You don't even want to waste energy weighing your options.  Right now, you just need some time to sit around and feel pissed off.

Out of the corner of your eye you see the bartender staring at you, looking like he's about to say something.  He shakes his head and goes back to polishing the bar top.  Smart stallion.  He knows when a mare is Not in the Mood.  

Eventually, you slip into an emotionally deadened haze.  Your eyes lose focus, and you scarcely blink.  Soon you've almost completely lost awareness of your surroundings, and mercifully few thoughts cross your mind.

The haze is finally broken when your eyes drift to a strange spot on the far wall.  There, in the grain of the timber planks, is an odd pattern that looks vaguely familiar.  Almost serpentine, but not.  Almost equine, but not.  Almost like...

A tiny outline of a certain draconequus.  You're about to pass it off as just a freak coincidence, but suddenly it opens its little wood grain eyes and catches you with a devious grin.  

That's when the goddam thing speaks to you.  “Welcome back to dreamland!  That was a nasty little turn of events, wasn't it? I'll have you know that you have my deepest condolences."

“Let me have my hangover dream in peace,” you snort. 

The little outline marches up to a knothole and vanishes before the sound of rubber being stretched assaults your ears.  Then, like an elephant somehow shoving itself through a doggie door, a full-sized and three-dimensional Discord squeezes out of the knothole.  As soon as he's loose he topples from the wall, landing with a wince-worthy crash.  

“What the hell are you doing?” you demand.

He calmly stands up and dusts himself off.  “What, you thought I'd never come out of the woodwork?” 

You simply glare at him.

He hangs his head and sighs.  “I see this hasn't been good for your sense of humor.”

With oily grace, he slips into the booth next to you.  “If it's any consolation, the whole thing about you getting turned into a mare wasn't...entirely unexpected.”

You blink a few times before answering.  “What?”

“Ah, yes,” Discord sighs.  “You still don't remember the dream, do you?”

“No...” you say uncertainly. You had a dream about Discord, right?  But what was it about?

Discord seems to read your mind.  “Allow me to refresh your memory,” he sighs before poking you on the top of your head.

All in one horrible moment, the memories of the dream you had before visiting Sawgrass rush back to you.  Images flash through your mind like a a freakish slide show, hastily merging with fragments of Discord's words.  

--“one more day as a human, and then...”--

--“why did you keep calling me a mare”--

--A look of horror on Discord's face.  “There's a very high chance that he'll cast a...”--

Just when it seems like your train of thought is about to go permanently off the rails, Discord lifts his finger off your head.  The memories suddenly feel like Tetris blocks falling into place—satisfying, on some strange primal level.

Yet this is quickly swept away by a rush of raw red anger.  “You bastard!” you yell.  “You fucking bastard!  You knew exactly what Trask would do!”

He shrugs sheepishly, twiddling his claws.  “Well...not exactly.  It was more of a 98.32% probability he'd use the mare-o-morph spell on the first person who tried to stop him.  Given your--” he pauses to noisily clear his throat, “--activities online, I figured you wouldn't mind.”

“'Wouldn't mind?'” you rage.  “In case you didn't fucking notice, Trask did this to humiliate me!”

You glare up at him, subtly enjoying the hurt look on his face.  “And why the hell were you watching what I did online?” you spit.

He bites his lip, looking faux-innocently up at the ceiling.  “Oh, just gathering information.  Anyway, this would have all gone a lot better if you just had the courtesy to remember your dreams.  You could've met with the other helpers, and then we could've proceeded with the plan.”

“And what plan was that?” you growl.

“You were supposed to be a distraction.  Granted, you ended up providing one anyway, but the key was all in the timing.  Your friends Aaron and Daniel were supposed to sneak up on Trask while he was casting the transformation spell on you.  Those spells take a lot of concentration, so he would have been a sitting duck.”

Discord draws a heavy sigh before continuing.  “But instead, you came into town late and with no idea what to expect.  All our delicately laid plans went down the drain.”

“What makes you think I wanted to be involved, anyway?” you shoot back.  “What, was I supposed to let Trask turn me into a mare and then just walk away?”

“My, my.  You're quite the cynical one, aren't you?  If you wanted your humanity back, all you needed to do was make Trask undo the spell.”

“Yeah, because an evil fucking wizard would just go, 'okay, I'll turn you back,' just because I asked him.  Fuck you,” you spit.

Discord rolls his eyes.  “Oh, don't be such a sourpuss. If there's one thing Luna and I have figured out about Trask, it's that he's a coward.  Get him in a corner, and he'll do anything to keep his freedom.”

“Wait—you and Luna?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.  “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I'll get to that later,” says Discord, with a casual wave of his claw. “Now listen, here.  There's a chance for you to become human again.  Don't you want to know how?”

“Why the hell can't you turn me back?” you say, staring scornfully at him. “Ah...let me guess: I need to do something for you first.”

He indignantly puts a claw on his chest.  “How terribly presumptuous!  Believe me, if it was that easy to break the curse, you would've been human before you could say...you could say..."

He shakes his head.  “Oh, never mind.  You see, our friend Trask is more than a simple thug who happens to have magic.  He happens to own a little trinket called the Paradox Amulet.”

He snaps his claws, summoning to life the midair image of a necklace studded with sharp shards of black jewels.  “It makes him and his curses quite invulnerable against masters of magic.  As you might guess, these include the princesses and myself.”

“So we're all screwed,” you sigh.  “Yeah, I kinda guessed that earlier.”

“Let me finish!  You see, Trask made a very big mistake by turning you into a common unicorn.  If you can learn to use your powers, you might just have a chance at beating him.”

“If you need a 'common' unicorn to stop Trask, why can't you just ask Fairweather?” you mumble.

“Oh, I don't know,” Discord shoots back.  “I just supposed you might like to actually do something, rather than just mope around.  Besides, Fairweather needs your help.  Go out there and fight, kiddo!  Get Trask on the ropes, and you can make him turn you back.”

“And I'm just supposed to assume you don't have an agenda behind all this?” you scoff.

“Oh, drat,” he puffs, turning to face the far wall. “Luna, she's still not believing me!” he calls.  A strange hum fills the air, and the wall's wooden planks begin to ripple like water.  

You almost soil yourself when Princess Luna literally walks through the wall.  The alicorn of the night carries a weight to her presence that can't be explained: she's simply here, surrounded by an aura of majesty that makes you feel weak and young.  For a second you're a child again, caught dozing off in the middle of class by a respected teacher.

She evaluates you with dispassionate dark blue eyes, her star-spangled mane rippling in a nonexistent breeze.  You try to say something, but your mouth is too busy gaping.
> Choose Your Tombstone
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	“It is tempting to dismiss Discord's words,” she says, striding briskly up to you.  “But I can assure you that he speaks the truth.  My sister and I have enlisted him in our search.”

You still can't say anything as Luna plods closer.  At last some of the coldness leaves her eyes, replaced by sympathy.

“I know how strange it is...but he understands a criminal mind far more than Celestia or I could.  His aid is another step down his road to redemption.”

Discord gives her a polite nod, tipping a garish hat that didn't exist until a second ago.  “Oh, you flatter me, milady!” he gushes.

Luna ignores him.  “A choice awaits you.  If you choose to avoid the sorcerer, you will also avoid your chance to return to humanity.”

At last you finally manage to speak.  “There's no point,” you sigh, looking down at your slender  form.  “I couldn't beat him as a human.  I definitely can't beat him like this.”

“Your victory is not assured,” says Luna. “You will need to learn many new skills, and push yourself to limits you thought impossible.  But even if you do not succeed, you will show the sorcerer what he fears the most.”

“What's that?” you ask.  Your mind drifts back to the moment right before you kicked Trask in the groin.  For one immensely satisfying second you had seen his smug smile melt away, revealing a cowardly little man who was confused and terrified when his victims fought back.

“Defiance,” answers Luna.  “Our foe believes himself to be more powerful than the forces of nature.  He does not understand how anyone could possibly stand against him; much less a commoner.  This offers you a unique opportunity.”

You start to lift your head off the table.  “Look.  I want to stop him as much as you do, but...I just need some time to think about how I'll do this.”

“Make your choice wisely,” says Luna.  “But you will need to make it soon.”

An inexplicable sense of dread claws at your gut.  Your heart races, your pulse pounding concussively in your ears. The colors in the room drain away like paint down a sink.  

Something feels deeply wrong, but you have no idea what it is.  Suddenly looking panicked, Discord darts to the bat wing doors, leaning against them to brace them shut.

Wham! Something pounds against the doors, and the draconequus grimaces from the effort of holding them closed.

Wham!  “It seems our friend Trask,” grunts Discord, “figured out how to Sleeptalk.”

“Sleeptalk?” you stammer.

“It's the spell that made this conversation possible,” says Luna, her face knotted with anxiety.  “Have you seen him in your dreams before?”

A memory flashes through your mind: an image of Trask, smiling and gazing up at a half-built radio tower.  Something about the tower seems disturbing, like it's a giant skeletal finger.

“Yes--last night!” you blurt. 

Wham! The doors are about to fly off their hinges.  Discord desperately tries to stay rooted in place, his clawed feet gouging long tracks in the floor.

Luna gazes at you with wide and worried eyes.  “Don't listen to anything the sorcerer tells you.  Your mind is your own, Sonora.  Remember this above all else!”

You're just about to object to the name “Sonora” when the dream pops like a soap bubble.


“'You alright, miss?” a voice asks.  Someone is shaking you awake.  It's the bartender, staring at you with wide eyes that his thick spectacles magnify to absurd proportions.

“What does it look like?” you mumble.  You barely even heard his question: most of your mind is far too busy deciding what to do next.  Unlike before, you remember the dream in every bizarre detail.  You can't be sure how you feel about this change.

Like it or not, it seems you've taken on a central role in Discord's plans.  As little as you trust Discord, you have to admit you'd take him over Trask any day in the lifetime of the universe.  And even if you really are just a weapon in Discord's battle against Trask, it's a role you can live with.

But was he really telling the truth when he said he was working with the royal sisters?  Maybe the arrival of Luna was just an illusion he conjured up.  

Or maybe Discord is just a manifestation of your id.  Hell, maybe this whole situation is just a hallucinatory manifestation of your subconscious doubts and fears.  Maybe your transformed state is just an allegory to your repressed worries about your body image, maybe Trask is just a metaphor for your fears of humiliation, maybe this bar is just a representation of the “safe place” you retreat to in times of worry, maybe Fairweather is your imagination's attempt at introducing an erotic component to--

“No,” you hiss out loud. “Just...no.”

“'Pardon?” asks the bartender.  

“Nothing,” you say.  Flushing red, you try to rub your eyes, quickly discovering that marshmallow hooves aren't exactly suited for that task.  “How long was I asleep?”

The bartender glances at a brass watch strapped to his hoof.  “Only 'bout an hour.  You runnin' late for somethin'?”

You're more than a little apprehensive about joining up with Fairweather.  Will he really teach you how to fight?  You were just starting to get comfortable with the idea of resigning yourself to whatever happens next.  Now life has given you your controller back and yelled at you to keep playing its game.  Will it be worth it?

You think again of Trask's face in the one moment of triumph you had over him.

Maybe it's worth at least a little try.

You want to sit here for only a few more minutes, but you know if you keep saying that, you'll never get around to leaving.  To your amazement, you slide yourself up and out of the booth. 

"No, I have time," you say as you drift to the door. "I just need to..." You never finish the sentence.  It wouldn't make sense to the bartender, anyway.

You push through the bat wing doors and step out into the blistering sun. Outside, most of the citizens are staying well within the shade. The shadows are short now, almost invisible. As if on cue, the town's clocktower strikes noon.

Feeling faintly lucky that you ended up with a light coat, you look for the sheriff's office. Just like in the show, it's within convenient walking distance of the saloon. 

This is it, you vow as you canter to the building. No more excuses. No more hesitation. This is where Trask's downfall starts. Clumsily nudging the door open, you look inside and...

Hesitate. The sheriff's office is an atrocity against cleanliness. Ordinarily you wouldn't care, but this is pure insanity.

It looks like some madman's vision of an IRS office. Gargantuan stacks of yellowing paper rise up from the floor to the ceiling like makeshift columns, teetering precariously.

The smell of paper and dust is so strong that you can't help but sneeze. Dammit, even your sneezes sound cute and feminine!

“Something I can do you for, ma'am?" drawls a familiar voice. Sheriff Silverstar leans out from behind one of the paper stacks, his bushy brows raised with curiosity. 

"Fairweather told me to meet him here," you say, studying the sheriff's expression carefully. You aren't exactly keen on pissing off one of the most important ponies in the town.

"Fairweather? Hah, so that old rascal's finally roped in a new recruit! That's what you're here for, right?"

"I just wanted to tag along, actually," you say.

Silverstar rummages through a pile of papers. "Makes no difference; you'll havta do the paperwork anyway.  Let's see here...cactus cat pet license application...dust devil compensation form...ah, here we go! Application form for joinin' the Spellbreaker Deputy Unit.”

He practically shoves the paper in your face. "Fill it out before you talk to Fairweather. Now if you'll excuse me," he says, "I havta finish up some paperwork of my own." The look on his face is the look of a man drifting to the edge of his nerves.  What the hell has gotten into him?

"But--" you start to protest.

"Can't talk! Jus' finish it and take it ta Fairweather—he's out on the back porch!" he hollers, disappearing into a sea of papers.  "Pencil!" he adds, tossing one over to you.

You stare grimly down at the pencil resting before you. Can you pick it up with your hooves? No, it just slides out. Magic? As much as you try to channel your inner Carrie, it seems telekinesis isn't something you can just pick up, no pun intended.  So you end up awkwardly snatching up the pencil with your mouth, scowling at the bitter woody taste.

You make a few experimental marks on the back of the sheet.  You can write....sort of. Your penmanship is suggestive of an epileptic gecko frantically scratching graphite-dipped claws against the paper, but after some practice you can make reasonably straight lines.

You flip the form back over, your stomach sinking when you realize that it's all written in symbols that don't even remotely resemble the English alphabet.  But before you crumple the paper up in sheer frustration, you notice something even stranger:

You can read them.  And stranger still, when you try to write out your answers, you unconsciously write the letters in the same bizarre script the form is written in.  Just like in the show, the writing in Equestria consists almost entirely of cutesy little symbols, like someone spilled their Lucky Charms out onto the paper and decided to trace each piece.

The more you try to figure out how you're doing this, the more confused you get.  The questions certainly don't make it any less frustrating. They start out by demanding your name, your background, and your aspirations.

All right...so now it seems you've got to fabricate an identity. You decide that Sonora is a citizen of Manehattan who recently moved to Appleloosa.  It was her encounter with the Tricksand monster that sparked her interest in learning how to help keep the town safe. Half-assed, but it should work.

Level of magical aptitude?  You suck the pencil fitfully before circling the answer: Minimal/none.  Hell, you couldn't even levitate the pencil.  This will definitely be awkward to explain to Fairweather.

Eventually you get to a section that appears to be a waiver.  In tortured legalese, it painstakingly describes all the risks and dangers you accept by joining or accompanying the Spellbreakers, including but not limited to: curses, hexes, jinxes, hijinxes, magic-induced injuries, various unwanted enchantments, nightmares, ruined manes, bruised knees, bruised egos, saddle sores, cactus jabs, getting silly songs stuck in your head, and Restless Hooves Syndrome.

Trying to ignore your growing headache, you sign at the dotted line.  There's something especially painful about signing your new name on that form, like you've just signed away your right to be yourself.  

You look up from the sheet, spitting the pencil out onto the floor.  You want to check with Silverstar to see if you've done it right, but he's too busy burrowing deeper and deeper into his den of paper misery.

Right, so now to see Fairweather.  You roll up the paper and clutch it between your teeth before stepping outside and trotting to where Silverstar directed you.

As you near the building's back porch, you hear a high-pitched undulating hum mixed with a sound like wind chimes.  You quickly recognize it as the sound of charging magic.  Cautiously you round the corner to see Fairweather perched on the deck, his head held low while bright blue energies swirl around his horn.

Six round targets have been set out a couple dozen meters away from the porch.  Fairweather unleashes his spell on each of them, reaching out and punching them dead-center with six simultaneous bolts of blue lightning.  It isn't unbearably loud, but the sharp crack of energy makes you wince.

“That,” he says, turning coolly to face you, “was a certain spell called 'Six Shooter.'”

Holy shit...he's trying to impress you.
> Magic of the West
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	“It's not nearly as hard as it looks,” he adds, blowing the smoke off his red-hot horn.  

The roll of paper drops out of your jaw.  Oh, no.  Nonononono.  The universe has got to be kidding.  That kind of innuendo is an atrocity against all things decent.

“I'm sure it's not,” you say, feeling your muscles bunch up as an overwhelming urge to back away takes hold of you.  “Not hard, I mean.  I mean, if you're talking about the spell.”

He raises an eyebrow in honest curiosity, his horn still glowing like a hot poker. “What else would I be talking about?”

It takes you a moment to come up with a suitable answer.  “I...never mind.”

Fairweather shrugs and levitates a glass of iced tea to you.  “Care for a drink before we get started?  This kind of thing gets you thirsty fast.”  

“No thanks,” you blurt.  “Wait, actually, uh, sure! Why not?”

Fairweather nods nonchalantly.  “I think you'll like it,” he says before the magical glow leaves the glass.  It falls to the ground and shatters in a spray of glass and tea.  You flinch back in alarm.

His deep blue eyes regard you with confusion.  

His deep blue eyes...

Nergh!  What's he saying now?  Something about “why didn't you catch it?”

“I'm sorry?” you ask, baffled.

“Eh, it was my fault.  Should've told you before I let go,” he sighed.

“But I couldn't have caught it,” you protest.  “I was too far away.”

He looks even more confused now.  “You...do realize there's something called 'telekinesis,' right?”

Oh, no.  

“I...” you manage, “can't do that.”

It had to come sooner or later, but that doesn't make the hot blush leave your cheeks.  For a second Fairweather looks at you like a man discovering his date never got potty trained.  You shift your gaze to the rickety wooden floor, vainly hoping it will suddenly split open and swallow you.

“It's the heat!” you ejaculate, blushing even harder when you realize how wrong that sounded.  “I mean...it's this weird thing I've developed.  All that time in the desert...I think it did something to me.  I try to use magic, but nothing comes.  I can't remember any spells...I can't do anything!”

The story is fake, but the tears you try to blink back are quite real.

You hear the soft creak of wood as Fairweather slowly trots up to you.  You can't bear to bring your head up to look at him.  

You feel his hoof press against your chin, gently lifting it up until you're gazing into his eyes.

There's something captivating about his expression.  It's a strange mixture of sternness and tenderness; something that seems unique to him.

“Never say that again,” he says.  “There's no such thing as a pony who can't do anything.”

As you stare into his eyes, you wonder what he's thinking.  Is this the part where you both break out into some smarmy musical number?   Judging by the lack of a soundtrack, it seems you might be safe from that possibility but that doesn't change the fact that he's looking into your eyes and it's really hard to turn away because you don't want to look awkward because then that would make you look like a--

At that moment he turns away, and you feel like a steam boiler that was fixed just before it could blow itself apart.  The unicorn plods over to a small stack of dog-eared books resting on a stool, carefully pulling a hefty black tome from it.  

“I figure it would be best to start with the simple things,” Fairweather explains as he levitates the book in front of you.  He opens it, but not before you can read its cover: 


Everything You Wanted to Know About Magic 
(Also the Things You Didn't Want to Know, Too)
A Comprehensive Guide
by Timothy Hay, The Enchanter


He flips to a page labeled “Lesson One: Levitation.”

Although most unicorn foals are capable of basic levitation skills, every now and then an adult “unicorn” comes up and tells me, “Durr, I don't know how to make stuff go floaty-floaty. Can you teach me?”  At this point I want to throw something at them, but given my already questionable reputation, I have little choice other than to humor them.  If you are one of these ponies, you should feel sad before continuing to read.  Do you feel sad now?  Good.  Now let's begin.

You give Fairweather a skeptical look.

“He's a bit obnoxious at times, but his methods make it worthwhile.”

You look back at the book, only to find that the rest of the page consists of strange symbols.  

“What language is this?” you ask, perplexed.

“It's not a language.  Those little symbols are to help you focus your magic.”

You regard him with an even more confused look.  “How?”

“Think about each symbol on that page.  Try to memorize each one of them.  Magic is all about focus and concentration: sometimes, it helps to have visual cues.”

Returning to the book, you set to work on committing each symbol to memory.  One of them is a line connecting two  x-marks.  Another is a simple arrow pointing upward.  Another still looks like a box with four arrows radiating from it.

Soon you can clearly visualize each exact symbol in your head.  “What now?” you ask.

“Look at the object you want to pick up.  Then start thinking about the symbols, and about how much you want it to start floating into the air.”

You focus your gaze on a small rock lying next to the porch.  “Okay...”

Okay, rock, you think.  You are going to fucking move.  I want you to move so much that I'm going to start thinking about lines and arrows and boxes.  What do you think of that, punk?

The rock remains undisturbed.  You grit your teeth and give it another try, but still no luck.  You gather all of your will for the third try, which you know is always the charm.  And then...

Absolutely nothing happens.  If that rock had a face, it would be giving you a pretty smartass smirk right now.  

“It isn't working,” you sigh.

“Probably because you're overthinking it,” suggests Fairweather, leaning casually against the porch's railing.  “Keep in mind the symbols are just a way to help you focus.  They aren't the source of the magic itself; that part comes from inside. Think about what the symbols mean to you.  'To you' is the important part.”

You think about the first symbol, the line connecting the two crosses.  It makes you think of connections, and from there you get the image of a network cable linking two computers together.  The second one is simple enough: upward momentum. You imagine an elevator shooting up to the top of a skyscraper, from the basement to the top floor in the blink of an eye.  The third one reminds you of a car at an intersection, its engine revving up just as the driver decides where he wants to go.  The car has no control; only the driver does.

You look back at the rock and screw your eyes shut.  You think about how much you want your magic to connect with it, just like setting up a computer network.  You want it to shoot up into the air, just like a high-speed elevator.  And you want to move it where you want it—over to you, you decide.  Just like a driver making a u-turn at an intersection to go back home.

You feel something peculiar deep inside your bones, radiating from your core and flowing to your horn.  Subtle vibrations tickle your nerves, like you're a living tuning fork. The feeling isn't unpleasant, but it's shockingly unfamiliar—in fact, you've never felt anything even remotely like it.  A small gasp escapes your lips, and your eyes flutter open.

The feeling fades while your eyes adjust to the harsh desert light.  You look for the rock, but it's gone.  What the--

“Look in front of you,” says Fairweather.

The book is now sporting a new granite paperweight.  Your face lights up.

“Did I...” you start breathlessly, unable to hide your excitement.

“Now, what was that about not being able to do anything?” Fairweather asks, a wry smile on his muzzle.

You know how pitiful your achievement was compared to the magic other unicorns could perform--hell, even unicorn foals--but that doesn't dampen your elation in the slightest.  For a moment you feel like a kid again, finally learning how to ride a bike.

But soon your smile fades.  You're not supposed to be happy, damn it!  You're supposed to get this over with as soon as possible.  Returning home is priority numero uno.  Right?

Fine, so maybe—just maybe—it might be okay to enjoy a few things about your change.  It's not like you're becoming any less human for taking a little pleasure in the thrill of magic.

Are you?

It occurs to that you might actually miss the ability to use magic once you get back to normal. As brief as your little foray into the mystical arts has been, you're startled by how much you want to learn more.  It's tantalizing, like taking a tiny sip of the best wine in the world.

“You still with me?  You look a little dazed,” Fairweather remarks, a concerned look in his deep blue eyes.  Yet again you blush.  Damn it, why did you have to end up with him?  Why couldn't you have been saddled up with one of those old, wizened teachers instead?

He's starting to look even more confused as you struggle to respond.

“I'm fine, just...lost my train of thought, that's all,” you offer with a forced smile.  You need an emergency escape from this, fast.  Salvation comes when your eyes fall on the scroll of paper you'd dropped on the floor earlier.  “Hey, I just remembered.  I think you forgot to check my paperwork—you know, the stuff Silverstar had me fill out?”

He looks confused for a second more before recognition dawns on his face.  “Ah, yes.  The Sheriff's been acting pretty strangely about that stuff.”

“I figured something was wrong,” you murmur.

He nods and leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Just before the town started having...problems, he was caught up in a fight about plans for a new railroad.  An express line, directly connecting Appleloosa with Las Pegasus.  They thought it would be the boost Appleloosa needed to stop being a town and start being a city.  So there was a big push to make the town more 'civilized,' and supposedly that meant more rules, more laws...and much, much more paperwork for people like Sheriff Silverstar.  Trouble is, the plan fell through.  Silverstar ended up taking most of the blame: he got accused of not taking the paperwork seriously enough.  He took the whole thing quite personally.”  

He sighs.  “So now he does paperwork at the slightest provocation.  He's terrified of being seen as a slacker in case they start talking about 'civilizing' Appleloosa again.”

“So this has become some sort of compulsion?” you ask.

“You could call it that.  He used to be the kind of sheriff who always went charging into action, but now?  Now I barely ever see him outside his office.  And do you know what the worst part of it is?  Nopony actually wants him to do paperwork anymore.  But he can't seem to get that one day out of his mind, when the town paper called him a 'good fer-nuthin' bumblin' basket of fritter crumbs.'”

You're about to comment on how stupid it is that he'd go so nuts over an insult like that, but on some level you can empathize with him.  As you've discovered in the past few days, humiliation leaves the slowest-healing wounds.

> Spellbreakers
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Fairweather shakes his head.  “It's a big waste of his potential, if you ask me.  Now, where was I?”

You motion at the small stack of papers.  “The forms I filled out.”

He sucks air between his teeth. “Right, I got a bit sidetracked there.  Let's see what we have here...”

Deftly he levitates the papers into the air, examining them with a thoughtful look on his face.

“'Sonora.'  Not sure why, but it seems to fit you.  It sounds--” Somehow you know what word was coming next: pretty.  

Something flickers across his features. It's hard to tell, but it looks an awful lot like embarrassment.  It's the first time you've seen him look that way, in fact.

A childish part of you takes faint satisfaction at seeing him off-balance.  Up until now, it's been outright painful how many times you've slipped up compared to him.  Maybe things will start to even out. 

“Oh, never mind,” he says, recovering quickly but not completely.  “Anyway, um...you're from Manehattan?  What sort of job did you have before you came here?”

“Like I said on the form, nothing that would really matter in this line of work...” You let out a tiny nervous laugh. “Shoot, that sounded kinda stupid.  Not exactly a ringing endorsement of my resume.”

That raises an eyebrow from him.  “You've already proved a lot by showing up for this interview in the first place.  Don't put yourself in a box—it's a bad habit, and an even worse habit for anyone who wants to use magic.”

Before you can respond, the frantic gallop of hooves sounds from around the corner.  One of Fairweather's friends—Big Iron, if you remember right--stands before the two of you, his brawny, powerful form shaking with each gasping breath.  Thick beads of sweat rolls down his caramel fur and drips onto the cool wooden planks of the porch.  To say he looks exhausted would be like calling Death Valley “warm.”

“Fairweather!” he cries.  “Trail Heads!  Up north! Old Washington's ranch!  Three of them!”

Fairweather's lips tighten, his eyes narrowing.  “Again?”

Big Iron slides pitifully to the ground and takes a few more gulps of air.  “Yes!  Found him...on the other side of town. Explained to me...what happened. He's too frightened...to go back.”

Fairweather facehoofs.  “He never learns, doesn't he?” He shoots a glance at you.  “This might be a good learning opportunity.  Feel free to tag along.”

You don't have much of an idea as to what he's talking about, but hey.  It's an opportunity to see the Spellbreakers in action.

“I might be interested,” you say.  “But what do you mean by 'Trail Heads?'”

“Don't blame you for not knowing about them,” Fairweather explains as he straps on a canteen and an extra saddlebag.  “They're a species of magical pest that started showing up recently.  The best way I can describe them is, well...how would you put it, Iron?”

Big Iron has finally caught most of his breath, as well as some of his effete demeanor.  “Picture, if you will, a crude stone sculpture of a snarling, disembodied head.  Envision it with a most dreadful set of incisors, and an even more dreadful temperament.  Now imagine that this sculpture has come to life, and is quite fixated on making a meal out of you.”

You give Fairweather a doubtful look.  “Are you sure I should be along for this?  It doesn't sound like a job for beginners.”

“Big Iron's just being melodramatic,” explains Fairweather, adjusting his saddlebag's straps.  “As vicious as Trail Heads are, they aren't any smarter than the rocks they're made out of.  Besides, they're never much larger than a bowling ball. If any get too close, just kick them away.”

“If they're so harmless, why'd they scare someone off his own ranch?” you counter.  

“To a lot of folks, nothing's scarier than what you don't understand,” sighs Fairweather.  “There's been an explosion of nasty new monsters out in Appleloosa, but I can't get anyone interested in learning about them.”  

He looks back at Big Iron.  “Oh, and did you see Habanero anywhere?  I swear, if he's napping again...”

Big Iron shakes his head briskly.  “Fortunately, no.  I met with our feathered friend on the way here, in fact.  He shall meet us at the ranch.”

“Ah, good.  That should be everything, then,” says Fairweather.  “What about you, Sonora?  You ready for this?”

“Ready as I'll ever be,” you reply.  In truth you don't think you'll ever be “ready” for hunting down a bunch of magical stone heads, but you figure you'll manage.

“Then let's get going!”  Fairweather says, leaping off the porch and onto the hard-packed desert floor.  He hits the ground running, his hooves carrying him at a respectable gallop. Big Iron runs along with him, his tank-like body taking several seconds to build up speed. 

You find yourself a little more interested in the two stallions' well-muscled hips than you would have liked.

“You coming or not?” calls Fairweather, slowing down to look back at you.   The realization of what you were just doing makes it hard not to groan.

“Sorry, just got a bit distracted,” you say distantly.  Drawing in a deep breath, you step off the porch and follow your two companions to what you hope will be the turning point of your struggle against Trask.

The three of you gallop your way to the ranch mostly in silence.  You have to keep forcing yourself to relax your muscles, which continually get bunched up like knotted steel cables.

This isn't going to be hard.  You'll just watch Fairweather and his friends curbstomp some evil critters, and then hopefully you'll leave with a better idea of how to use combat magic.  You're not going to get hurt.

But as you think about it, you realize it's not the fear of bodily harm that's getting you tense.  It's a feverish hope that you'll get a chance to make yourself useful.  You're getting increasingly exasperated with your role as the clueless newcomer, and you want to finally start showing everyone that you can stand on your own.

Daydreams creep into your mind as you near the ranch.  You envision yourself howling in defiance as you unleash a seizure-inducing blast of energy, vaporizing a swarm of snarling stone heads with Trask's likeness.  What if you have some huge source of inner power that your anger can unlock?  Sure that would be kind of stupid, but at least it'd be satisfying.  You imagine Big Iron and Fairweather staring at you with gaping mouths, rendered speechless by the sheer awesomeness with which you saved their lives.  You picture Fairweather smiling at you, and then--

Fortunately for your continued mental masculinity, a familiar brassy drawl breaks you out of your reverie.

“Y'all are nothin' but a buncha slowpokes,” taunts a red pegasus lounging on a low-flying wisp of cloud. The chili pepper on his side marks him as the same pony Big Iron was sitting next to in the bar earlier today—this must be Habanero.  “Gotta admit, I was startin' to wonder if y'all were pullin' somethin' on me.”

“Such a prospect can be tempting at times,” notes Big Iron.

Fairweather rolls his eyes.  “Save it for later, boys.  We've got a ranch to save.”

“Hey, we can afford a lil' joshin' now and then, right?” grins Habanero, disappearing into the cloud and poking his head out from the underside.  “'Sides, I did some scoutin'.  There's only six Trail Heads, all grouped up on a path by the well.  Easy pickins, if you ask me.”

“Where's the well?” asks Fairweather.

“Oh, I don't think you'd understand.  I think it'd go...well over yer head.”

Habanero snickers as he dodges a magically hurled rock.  “Okay, okay, that one was a groaner.  Anyway, we just need to make tracks straight north from here—the well should be easy to spot.”  He flutters off the cloud and lazily lands by Big Iron's side.

Without further argument the four of you make your way to a dusty, desolate northwards path.  It's hard to imagine what the appeal of having a ranch around here would be.  It has a splendid view of the harsh, beautiful desert that surrounds it, but there's something strangely depressing about this place.  It doesn't feel rustic or serene.  It just feels...dead.  Like what little life it had before has been sucked out of it.

Your walk continues for several more tense minutes, and you find yourself struggling to keep up the pace of the rest of the group. Unlike the nightmarish run you had yesterday, however, you now have the luxury of taking breaks when needed.  Still...the sooner this hike ends, the better.

“Habanero?  If this is another one of your dreadful excuses for a joke,” Big Iron growls as the four of you trot down the seemingly endless dusty path, “So help me Celestia, I will--”

A chorus of bestial voices interrupts him. "Nyearghh! Grrr! Hraagh!" 

Up ahead, visible now that you've cleared a small hill, you can see the monsters.  Six stone heads hop up and down and chase each other in a hypnotic circle, their granite faces locked in menacing snarls.  Each one is only about a quarter of your height, and if you'd still been human you could've easily stepped on them.

In a strange way they almost look cute, with comically exaggerated mouths and big awkward noses that droop like overripe pears.  Marble-sized stone eyes dart back and forth suspiciously under heavy, overstated brows.  They look like misplaced decorations from a haunted house ride, desperately searching for a way back home.

They speak an incomprehensible language that consists mostly of grunts and snarls, carrying on some conversation that you suspect could be summarized as, "Duhh, we wanna stomp around and bite stuff."

Fairweather leans close, and suddenly your heart beats a bit faster.  But to your mixed relief and disappointment, his only intention is to whisper something to you. 

“Ugly little things, aren't they?  Trail Heads.  See the way they've picked out this particular place as their territory?  Right next to the well?”

Indeed, the Trail Heads are only about a stone's throw away from a small well.  

“That's what they've gotten infamous for.  They always stick to paths and trails—hence the name—but they have a knack for finding the most inconvenient and frustrating spots imaginable.”

“Any idea why?” you whisper back, still gawking at the bizarre stone beasts.  

“Why do Tricksand pits need to play pranks?  As far as I can tell, their only goal is to make our lives miserable.  Maybe that's how they get their energy.”

“Who cares?” says Habanero, stretching his wings.  “I say we jus' get rid of 'em and do the thinkin' later.  What do you think, boss?  Standard operatin' procedure?”

Fairweather studies the Trail Heads a second more before nodding.  “Yeah...we won't need anything fancy.  Just hang back here, Sonora.  This shouldn't take long.”

Big Iron cracks his joints casually.  “Hm.  These ones seem to have especially kickable noses.  This should be entertaining.”

Fairweather spots your inquisitive look.  “Breaking their noses makes them vulnerable to magic,” he explains.  “It takes a bit of teamwork to take them on—you'll see how we do it in a moment.”

You watch with growing interest as the three stallions tense up, readying for a charge.  “On the count of three,” Fairweather mutters.  

“One...”  he says, raising his voice.

Finally one of the Trail Heads notices the team.  “Yeealgh!” it screams.

“Two...”

The Trail Heads start gathering into a wedge formation, snorting and snarling as they prepare to meet the stallions with a charge of their own.  Instinctively you begin to back away.

“Three!”

Habanero springs into the air and unfurls his wings in one seamless action.  Like an Olympic swimmer treading water, the beats of his wings are efficient yet explosively forceful, rocketing him straight into the snapping swarm of Trail Heads.

Fairweather compared the Trail Heads to bowling balls, but what happens next makes you think of them more as bowling pins.  In fact, you can almost hear a familiar hollow clatter as the creatures are thrown violently in all directions.  

Even several seconds later, Habanero still hasn't turned around for another pass.  You suspect he's built up so much momentum so fast that it's difficult for him to turn around.  Meanwhile, the Trail  Heads are starting to hop upright, gazing at the three of you with hateful glares.

“Big Iron!  Now!”

“You needn't remind me,” the muscular stallion sighs before leaping into action.

He seems unconcerned by the way the still-dazed Trail Heads awkwardly try to snap at his hooves.  Just before they can finally land a bite, he lashes out with his piston-like legs and catches two Trail Heads straight in their oversized noses.

Two simultaneous cracks ring out as their noses shatter into dust.  Still snarling, the two Trail Heads sail about the length of a semi-trailer through the air before crashing to the ground.

Wham!  Soon the number of Trail Heads with intact noses is cut down to two.  Only a moment later, Big Iron snatches up the last pair with his forelegs and cracks them together, turning them into Sphinx of Giza lookalikes.

By now Habanero has returned, panting slightly as he flutters to the ground.  Big Iron steps out of the way as Fairweather trots over to the Trail Heads, who now look as sociable as rabid wolverines.

Fairweather freezes in place, closing his eyes.  The Trail Heads gather around him, preparing to gobble him down like a Thanksgiving turkey.  

“Uh...guys?” you murmur as they draw closer to Fairweather.  You're starting to realize just how unpleasant it must be to get bitten by one of those things.  As blunt as their teeth are, you really don't want to know what kind of injuries they can inflict.

You're just about to leap in to try and save Fairweather when he opens his eyes.  

They blaze like miniature blue suns as azure sparks leap from his horn.  The air stinks of ozone, and static electricity tickles your nerves while a high-pitched buzz assaults your ears.

Your awe starts to transform into fear.  Memories flash through your head; you remember the summer midnight thunderstorms you endured as a child, and the way they made you want to hide under your bed.

But there's no way to escape the sensory overload.  You can only watch as it builds to a climax...

And then releases.

Six bolts of blue-white lightning arch out from Fairweather's horn, snaking down in blinding bright zigzags to meet each of the Trail Heads.  A thunderclap splits the air, and the Trail Heads tremble for a half-second before erupting into showers of splintered rock.

The blue glow fades from Fairweather's eyes.  While you're glad to see him back to normal, he looks like an insomniac who just finished a marathon.  Rather than the quiet confidence you've started to associate with him, he just looks...tired.  Pathetic, even.

The four of you sit there in near-silence as the last few fragments of the creatures rain down on the sand.  It seems to take ages for someone to finally speak, and it's Habanero who breaks the silence.

“Now what in the ding-dang-darn vaults of heck was that for?  Showin' off?  You coulda gotten us killed!” he rages.

“I wasn't...trying to,” says Fairweather, sounding sick and faint.  He seems to be having great trouble staying upright.  “I'm sorry...I don't know--”

Cold laughter fills the air, sending a tingle down your spine.  It comes from everywhere and nowhere at once, but far worse is the realization that you know that laugh.

The fragments of the Trail Heads levitate into the air, soon joined by a cyclone of blowing sand.    There's a maddening frenzy of movement as rock connects and sand melts into glass, culminating in a blinding flash of light.

When your eyes adjust, you see that not only have the Trail Heads been restored, but they have been joined by a new companion: a humanoid figure fashioned from stone and sand.  It wears a familiar long jacket and wide hat made from black glass, and its thick granite arms are arrogantly crossed.  Two molten pebbles set into its shadowy face form fiendish red eyes.  It has no legs, floating atop a small cyclone of sand like some sort of malevolent genie.

“A Dust Devil,” says Big Iron, his voice tight and choked. “This is...not desirable.”
> The Ecstasy of Green
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Your ears pin themselves flat against your head, and your mouth is as dry as the dust you stand on.  Your mane is practically standing on end, and your legs quiver as your brain frantically tries to choose between fight or flight.

“What now?” you ask, your voice much shakier than you'd like.

“We beat the cud out of 'em,” Habanero yells, shooting straight towards the Dust Devil.

You've seen way too much TV to not know how this is going to end.  You wince, expecting the pegasus to get his scrawny ass handed to him in a brutal demonstration of the Dust Devil's power.

Which makes it all the more surprising when, with a loud crack of shattering stone, Habanero lands a hefty hoof-punch on the monster's jaw.  The creature recoils, bellowing an unearthly cry of outrage.

Habanero doesn't make a clean getaway.  One of the swirling rocks from the miniature tornado serving as the Dust Devil's “legs” catches him on the base of his right wing, and it's enough topple him over.

The Dust Devil sneers and jabs a contemptuous finger at the wounded Habanero.  Quickly the Trail Heads start towards him, but before they can take a chomp out of him the pegasus is suddenly dragged back towards your group.  You notice a bright blue shimmer wrapping around his body; the same glow that Fairweather's horn is emitting.

“Right, so maybe that wasn't the brightest idea,” Habanero admits as he skids to a halt in front of Fairweather.

“I must say, dear boy, you skirt an uncanny boundary between bravery and idiocy,” Big Iron remarks as the Trail Heads hop closer.  “And yet...I'm tempted to explore it myself.”

“Wait!” Fairweather calls, but it's too late.  With a startling burst of speed Big Iron charges the nearest Trail Head, trampling it underfoot like a shrew caught in a buffalo stampede.  Habanero starts after him, but he cries out in pain as soon as he starts to move his wounded wing.  

“Son of a whip-snapping wick-whacking dish-smashing argafarghanaaargh!” he cries, rolling on the ground in agony.

“Stay where you are—I've got a plan,” Fairweather calls.  

“And--oof--jus' what in the hay is that?” growls Habanero through gritted teeth.

Fairweather's response is to fire a near-seizure-inducing beam of energy straight into the chest of the Dust Devil.  It jolts back, its glass longcoat cracking from the massive discharge of power.  Its head droops pathetically, and it starts to teeter back and forth as Fairweather's barrage continues.

Just when you're starting to think it's finally about to collapse, its posture suddenly straightens.  A wickedly intelligent smile lights up its crude features, and then Fairweather's energy beam starts to change.  It becomes a sickly powder-blue, growing jagged and uneven.  

“It's suckin' out yer magic!” Habanero yells, barely dodging a snapping Trail Head.  Out of the corner of your eye you can see more of the monstrosities rising from the earth.  “Stop the spell!”

“I can't!” Fairweather cries.  He's looking more and more faint and sickly every second.  Big Iron barges through the swarm of Trail Heads, desperate to come to his aid.  But he's too distracted to notice them regrouping, and quickly he's locked in a losing battle with the monsters.  Habanero catches you with a heart-wrenching look of despair just before he himself gets hogpiled by a snarling wave of Trail Heads.

Your stomach manages to drop even further as it finally becomes grimly clear that unless you do something, everyone is going to die.  The Dust Devil folds its arms again, flashing you a malicious grin as it basks in the glory of its approaching victory.  

"Bury them," it hisses, its voice an unnerving imitation of the man who undoubtedly created it.

Something flexes in your mind.

And then it snaps.

If this is going to be how it ends, you won't give Trask the pleasure of submission.  Snarling in a way that you're surprised your delicate throat is capable of producing, you reach out with your magic and connect it with a hefty-sized rock to the right of the Dust Devil.  Rather than imagining an internet connection, this time you envision a massive harpoon gun, spearing the rock with tendrils of magical energy.

Once the connection is firm and taut, you proceed to the next step of the spell.  Rather than an elevator, you use the image of a massive jumbo jet taking off.  The rock shoots into the air with such speed that you almost lose your ethereal grip on it.

Control.  That's the last step.  You think of a giant wrecking ball smashing into an apartment building, imagining yourself at the controls.

This all happens in mere seconds.  But even so, one of the Trail Heads manages to hop over to your right foreleg and sink its teeth into your shin.

You cringe from the pain, but it's not enough to break your concentration.  Still imagining the giant wrecking ball, you swiftly hurl the rock at the Dust Devil, grunting from the sheer mental effort.

The creature tries to dodge out of the way, but the speed of your throw surprises even you.   The volleyball-sized rock crashes into the Dust Devil's head with a satisfying crunch of pulverized granite.

Abruptly the beam of energy snaking out from Fairweather's horn stops.  He gasps in relief, and the look of supreme gratitude on his face gives you a warmth you can't decide if you like or not.

Though the Dust Devil is still standing, it's obvious that your little reenactment of David and Goliath has left it in poor shape.  Its stone head is barely holding together, and its cyclone “legs” don't look like they'll keep it aloft much longer.

“Not bad,” wheezes Fairweather, giving you a weak smile.  “I'll owe you a drink when we're through with this.”

Your attack also seems to have broken the Dust Devil's link with the Trail Heads.  The little stone creatures lie motionlessly on the ground like heaps of demented garden ornaments, and from the two largest piles burst out Habanero and Big Iron.  

“Now, then...” snorts Big Iron as he glares at the reeling Dust Devil.  “I believe you said something about 'burying' us?”

“N-no!” the Dust Devil shrieks as the two ponies launch into a full-on charge.  Sickly sparks dance along the features of the lifeless Trail Heads as the Dust Devil tries to resurrect them.

To say what happens next is a one-sided battle would be like saying that blast furnaces are warm.  You vaguely wish you could join in as the two ponies proceed to systematically smash the Dust Devil into pieces, but you're not sure you want to get caught by one of Big Iron's sledgehammer-like kicks.

Besides...you're riding high on the sheer awesomeness of what you just did.  You stopped a monster that even Fairweather, a unicorn with God-knows-how-many years of intense magical training, had no hope of defeating.  

But you've gotten something much greater out of the battle than bragging rights.  What really makes your spirit soar is the knowledge that you just might have a chance at making Trask pay.  

“Mighty fine work out there, Miss Sonora.,” grins Habanero.  “First day, and yer practically already a Spellbreaker.  Yer just mah kinda mare.”

“You wish,” scoffs Big Iron.  “Listen not to that rapscallion's honeyed words, milady—he inflicts this upon any female who casts her eyes on him for more than a second.”

“Ah think I hear a lil' jealousy,” says Habanero.  “Now listen here--”

“Are you implying you have anything I would be jealous of?”  says Big Iron, rolling his eyes.  “How droll.  How positively droll.”

“Might wanna blow your nose, fancypants,” shoots back Habanero.  “Yer soundin' kinda snotty.”

Big Iron stops in his tracks.  

“What did you just call me?”

“Yeah, yew heard it right.  'Fancypants,'” Habanero spits.

Big Iron isn't glaring daggers at Habanero: no, he's glaring giant flaming chainsaws. 

“You'd best take that back,” breathes Big Iron, his voice like steam rushing out of a boiler about to blow itself apart.

“Nah, ah think I'll leave it where it is, fancypants,” scowls Habanero.  “But if you wanna try an' make me, go right ahead.”

Big Iron snarls in wordless rage and charges at Habanero.  The pegasus tries to dodge out of the way at the last second, but Big Iron manages to compensate.  

The two snarling ponies grapple with each other with truly animalistic fury.  “Aren't you going to do something?” you ask Fairweather, who gazes upon the spectacle with little emotion other than mild annoyance.

“They do this after pretty much every mission,” sighs Fairweather.  Meanwhile the battle has become enveloped in a cartoonish puffy cloud of dust, with struggling hooves occasionally emerging before getting pulled back in.  You're pretty sure you see more than a few multicolored stars shooting from the fight, too.

“You wouldn't know it,” Fairweather continues, “but they're the best of friends.  Sometimes I wonder if they're even more than that,” he says, his tone the verbal equivalent of a wink and a nudge.  	“Anyway, I think it's some weird kind of stress relief for them.  As much as he likes to claim otherwise, Big Iron loves a good brawl just as much as Habanero.”

“Don't you ever worry about the injuries?” you ask, wincing as the sounds of the scuffle grow more and more violent.

“No.  And you're about to find out why,” Fairweather explains.

As if on cue, the dust cloud kicked up by the fight begins to fade.  Habanero lies limply on top of Big Iron like a wet towel, the pair of them panting so heavily that they can't utter even one more insult.

“Wanna call it a draw?” coughs Habanero.

“Yes...I believe that will suffice,” wheezes Big Iron.  

Surprisingly, the two haven't sustained any injuries beyond just minor scrapes and bruises.  Looking a bit like children caught in the middle of a tug-of-war between their favorite toy, the two stallions are soon trudging sheepishly along after Fairweather.

“Happens every time,” Fairweather says.  “Now, then.  About those drinks I promised you...”

“Don't worry about it,” you assure him, hoping he doesn't hear your growling stomach.  “I've had more than enough for today.”

“Dinner, then?”

Damn, this guy is insistent.  And what's worse is that you kinda like him for it.

“I'm hoping you're not gonna turn this into a date,” you murmur, doing your best to inject a bit of humor into your voice.

Fairweather shakes his head vigorously.  “Of course not.  Strictly professional.”





“Oh, dai-di-dai-di-dai-di-dai, dai-di-dai-di-dai!”  the bargoers sing, upending more than a few glasses of saltwater as they dance on top of the table.

“I suppose this isn't the best way to reward a good days' work,” Fairweather says, rubbing a hoof against his forehead.

“Hey, at least it's got atmosphere,” you say in between mouthfuls of delicious greens.  You resisted the urge to order another saltwater cocktail in favor of a cold bottle of sarsaparilla and an ominously named “Trail Dust Salad.”  As it turns out, the “trail dust” is actually ground-up spiced cheese, peppered liberally on a heap of luscious leaves of lettuce and juicy sliced tomatoes.  

Back home you would have considered it a forgettable meal.  But now, with your altered taste buds, it puts the most tender and succulent of steaks to shame.  

On some level you're troubled by the loss of your omnivorous tastes, but compared to the other changes you've endured it isn't too distressing.

For now, you just want to bask a little in the glory of what you supremely hope will be the first of many victories against Trask.  And if salad must be your reward...you will relish it like a fat man finding the last strip of bacon in the universe.