Someone Came With Her, Part 13

            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...

            “Oh, never mind.  You see, our friend Trask is more than a simple thug who happens to have magic.  He owns 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.

            “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, “has 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 insanity on a level you haven't seen since your locker back in freshman year.

	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 form 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 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.

	“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.”

	“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.