[AiE] Through a Filter Brightly Ch. 1 (cancelled)

>you wake up wheezing, just barely sustaining yourself with the miniscule ammount of oxygen you're inhaling
>and you're in a forest-WHAT THE FUCK
>how in the name of Christ did you end up in a forest?
>no, seriously, you can't remember anything
>moment one: you're in your home chillin' like a villain
>moment two: you're in a forest, and not the one near your house
>this one looks darker, foreboding
>you remember the creepypastas you've read in between updates to your favourite AiE stories
>this is when the protagonist is lost and wanders around, then some suspicious but not altogether worrysome shit happens, then it escalates, then he dies
>of course, that's the abridged version, but it ain't untrue
>you cough to try and clear your airway, who knows how much you'll have to run soon, if this indeed is a horror situation
>you  get up and walk at a brisk pace in a random direction
>now you notice that the trees are all gnarled and, for a lack of a better descriptor, malicious looking
>the lack of leaves does not improve their image, but you know they're still alive
>so far so good, there is no ominous fog rolling in, the trees are pointy and all somehow turned in just your direct-fuckfuckfuckfuckfukc
>DON'T PANIC
>just
>keep
>moving
>OK, so you're being watched by the very forest you're in, that's bad
>Currently there is no sign of anything else trying to harm or follow you, that's good
>you've yet to see a slender, well-dressed figure with a blank face anywhere near you, that's excellent
>you don't hear any noi—
>you don't hear anything besides yourself
>literally
>there is no wind, there are no birds, there is not a branch moving, not a dead leaf on the ground stirring, no gnats flying around, no rabbits, no foxes, no wolves in the distance howling (OK, that's good, actually),
>you can't even hear the trees turn towards you as you move around
>THIS IS BAD, THIS IS REALLY BAD, THIS IS FUCKED
>What unholy place does not have a single scrap of life in it?

>You don't move
>It's dangerous, you think, but moving could be even more dangerous
>all that noise could maybe attract something
>something beyond Earth, something powerful, something skulking, it would be a beast, it could also be a humanoid, but you know that it would be violent
>your mind brings back images of Smile Dog and Jeff The Killer
>NOT HELPING
OK, shut up, think this through, make a list of things you know
>1) You are sure that the trees are following your with their unholy gaze
>2) There is no noise apart from those you make yourself
>That's all you know
OK, now look around
>Slowly, with a certainty you'll spot It behind you, you move your gaze 90* to your right
>Nothing
>180* to the opposite side
>tentacle hand appendage moving inexorably for your mortal soul to drag to the depths of the evil pit in the center of the beating heart of hate
>You nearly piss yourself, but no
>Thank god it was just a branch and you're already over-stressed mind just saw what it wanted to see
>you almost cry with joy at this turn of events

>Now for the big one
>you inch your war around 90*, even though the last one was a false alarm your primal senses are screaming that slavering, desperate evil lurks just behind you, passionless, yet earnest about its mission of killing you in the most painful way possible
>It stands
>It
>It
>IT
>RUN
>RUN
>You dash, you jump, branches everywhere, grasping, tugging, burrying themselves in your soft skin, the forest is killing you, in wants you dead, it binds you, you run, you bleed, you leave a trail for It to follow, the trees are pure nightmare, their trunks growing faces of otherworldly hate as they all turn to you
>NOW they make sound, the splintering, cracking, SCREECHING of the wood, all wanting you to stay, stay and bleed, neverending torment as they pierce your stomach, wrench out your organs, stab your eyes
>horrible, unspeakable, unholy, hateful, evil, evil, EVIL, PURE FUCKING EVIL
>you dare a glance back
>It can't be seen, It's gone, you lost it!
>Where is It?!
>It's everywhere, It sees you, but you can't see It, the trees
>the trees are still scratching, still grasping
>you're bleeding from numerous open, some gaping, wounds
>Yes!
>Yes! Run! Run! Bleed out! Lose consciousness! It can't kill you if you die, It is going to lose its prey, Yes, the trees are doing you a favour
>you laugh maniacally at their twisted, bursting faces
>the ignorant wood is doing you a favour
>RUN!

>They cut deep, they cut true, not a single one missed
>your forehead was sliced open and you couldn't see a damn thing, but that didn't matter
>It wasn't going to win, not gonna lose either, but you'd settle for not dying by It's terrible skeletal, thin, pale fingers
>RUNRUNRUNRUN, CUT, BLEED, DIE, NOW! DIE! NOW! DIE! DIE! DIEDIEDIE!

>So much blood

>You're lying face down on the carpet of dead leaves
>you hear the footsteps of It coming toward you, somewhere on the edge of your already fading consciousness
Fuck . . . you . . .

>the crackle of fire wakes you
>something is in the air
>it smells like vegetables, but you don't know what exactly
>and it's warm
>you hurt
>it's not the tortures of Dante's Inferno, thank merciful God, but it hurts
>that's a good sign
>You try to move
>Your hands and feet are bound to four distant, sturdy points
>that's a bad sign
>Unwilling to open your eyes still you strain against your bonds
>it does nothing useful, it only forces the straps to dig deep into your skin
>OK, so this isn't Hell, thank God, but it could be just as bad
>a sick mountain dweller, someone driven insane by isolation could have trapped you
>intent?
>torture, cannibalism, rape, all of the above
>You think of all the possibilities and you laugh slightly, thinking to yourself:
Imagine the ego on me. Thinking the avatar of evil itself has come to kill me, only for it to actually just be Lester fucking Ballard
>the thought fills you with the slightest bit of mirth and you find the strength to open your eyes
>You're in a . . .  Cottage? Made for and by a dwarf, it looks like
>You swear you'd have to bend your neck a full 90* to stand fully erect in that little shelter
>The walls are a green-yellow-ish colour, with various bottles, canes, sticks, masks strewn about the place
>the masks look like something out of Africa
>if you were an anthropologist you could deduce which tribe they belonged to . . . maybe
>You look at the bonds holding you
>they are strips of leather tied around bed posts holding your arms and legs aloft so there's little chance of you escaping
Shit.
>then you look at your arms
>the wounds are still opened, but they aren't bleeding
>in fact all of the blood from your body has been completely cleaned off
>and your wounds have been packed with a jelly-like substance, at least that's what it looks like
>the wounds themselves just hurt because they're wounds like any other you had, but the substance does not add to the pain, the way the usual alien matter would if you rubbed it into your soft open flesh
>and it looks sort of dried
>well, at least you're safe from infection, you hope

>the bed beneath you is relatively soft
>not as soft as you'd like it, but if push came to shove you could easily sleep on it
>and it looked like you had no choice in the matter
>too bad you are too filled with adrenaline now to sleep

>you examine the leather straps holding you
>sturdy, not new, but definitely used often
>you can't bite through them, too far away
>you can't wiggle them off the posts, they are taught so that minimal movement is accessible to you
>summoning the strength of Samson you struggle, thrash and tug against your bonds and scream a righteous warcry
>too bad it doesn't work
>spending all that time in front of the PC certainly did nothing for your muscles
Step one if I survive,
>you think to yourself
Find a gym and apply as a member. Step two: fuck if I know, let's concentrate on fulfilling the criterion for step one first.
>Now there's the snag
>how do you get out of your current situation? You're not strong, you're not MacGyver, you can't reach shit
>but you can still speak
OP is a faggot
>verbal communicatory abilities are a go
Hey, crazy mountain-man, you're prey is awake! Might wanna get in here!
>the broth you smelled earlier is bubbling
>that's the only sound that you can hear
Shit.
>Wait a sec
Broth? Bubbling?
>You look in front of yourself and finally notice, consciously anyways, the cauldron
>Cauldron, shack, scary-ass forest, African-ish masks, loadsa bottles all around
>your heart jumps into your throat and you stifle a squee

>after your complete neckbeard moment passed (fantasies about fucking as many ponies as possible included, of course) your brain finally kicks in and you craft as cunning a plan as possible:
In Equestria, somehow teleported from out of own universe, still have full knowledge of everything MLP-related, use this to advantage, don't reveal to ponies, shit's gonna be so cash
''Is that the best plan you got?''
--I'll improvise on the way, this world ain't too tough to survive in.--
''On the TV-screen. Who knows what other bullshit there exists that they don't show.''
--Shit, good point. OK, after we're set free we go to Ponyville, find a job, save money.—
''What then?''
--I don't know, let's see how the ponies react to us and then we'll either move out to some big city or just lead an easy life in Ponyville. Or live like a hermit if they consider us a freak of nature. Depends.—
''OK, now that's what I like to see. Alright, now let's call to Zecora. Uh, without mentioning her name.''
--Yeah, yeah, I'm not an idiot.—
''Says the guy who's first idea was 'oy, let's go fuck a few ponies, Yellow Quiet best pone'''
--Oh shut up, you were thinking it as well.—
>You stop arguing with yourself
>these things tend to go out of hand very quickly, you being a smartass and all

>OK, so you've been calling for Zecora for about... 15 minutes, maybe, and still nothing
>she must be out gathering herbs or something
>Or maybe she's in Ponyville getting Twilight and Fluttershy so they can examine you
>That makes sense, actually
>You guess it would be best to wait

>And dear sweet Jesus, you wait
>it must have been a fucking hour and they're still not there
>So this is why the producers employ timeskips
>the audience would claw their eyes out from the boredom
>you would too if your hands weren't restrained

>74, Zecora has 74 bottles of assorted somethings on her walls and floor
>well that was fun
>you wish the hut... Shack... Who cares was built out of bricks so you had even more things to count
--Why don't we do a bit of mathematics?—
''That's fucking boring.''
--No, let's make it interesting.—
''OK, how?''
--Let's do a calculation of how many teats there are in Equestria, based on how many ponies we can name.—
'' . . . Dude, you're one sick fucker, you know that?''
--You got any better ideas?—
''Not right now, no.''
--Well, let's get to namin'.—
>Twilight, Fluttershy, Applejack, Rarity, Pinkie, Dash, Mrs. Cake, Mayor Mare, Bonbon, Lyra, Cherrilee, Grannie Sm-
''FUCK YOU, I'M NOT THINKING THAT!''
>Cherrilee, Trixie, Celestia, Luna, Fleur de L-
>You hear a bunch of neighing-sounds from a distance
>no, they're not really neighs, but they certainly sound similar
>they are getting closer to the abode
''This is odd. This is Equestria, why aren't they speaking English?''
--Your guess is as good as mine. Let's see how the whole thing develops.—

--Call me Miss Cleo, mah nigga, 'cause I is psychic.—
''You do realise that if you used that accent in south central LA you'd be dead right now?''
--Nigga, hush. I is 'bouts tah meet Puhple Smart, Yella Quiet an' Nigga Pony.—
''Well let's not talk to them in Ebonics, at least.''
--You ain't no fun, you lame ass cracka.—
''You're a lame-ass cracka, yourself!''
--Mm-mmm, now I know you din jus' call me a---
''Shut up and talk to them!''
>you decide it's best to be chill, after all they don't want to think of you as a violent ape (despite that being humanity's profession)
>you wait until they're all within your line of sight and say
Yo, what's up?

>they speak amongst themselves in a language you can't understand
>again, with those neigh-ish sounds
>it sounded more like they were manipulating the neighs, for a lack of a better word
>different pitch, different length of the sound, pauses in between the sounds, different body language to each sound, different facial expression
>each pony tries to speak to you, but the results are less than spectacular
>you'd have a better chance of swinging a dick in a maternity ward without angering anyone than understanding what in the hell they're saying
>you try to speak to them in all the languages you know (all one of them), but to no avail
>you'd gesture if you weren't indisposed
>although an idea does come to you
>you catch their attention with a very British
Oy!
>and with your right hand you attempt to draw a rectangular shape in the air
>you then imitate a writing motion with your hands
>it's a long-shot but it's better than the futile efforts at communication so far
>you repeat the motion a couple of times in response to their inquisitive expressions
>Twilight opens a saddlebag and retrieves a pencil and a notepad
>you point directly at them enthusiastically
Yeah, yeah! Those! Bring 'em here.
>epiphany dawns upon Twilight, figuring that you were talking about those two items
--She may be purple...—
''Lavender, to be specific.''
--But she ain't super-smart.—
>she hovers the two items over to your right hand
>you grab the pencil and start...
>what do you write?

>obviously since they don't speak English why would they read or write in it? Shit, why would they even have the Latin alphabet?
--So what do we write?—
''Who says we have to WRITE anything?''
--Aaaah, I see what you mean. Imma draw a penis!—
''You twat!''
--Calm down, Queen Victoria, I was just kiddin'. Imma draw the swastika instead!—
''Now I know you're fucking with me.''
>You draw the piece symbol and, more as an afterthought, a depiction of a human holding both hands open and up at head height
>you hope they'll be able to understand it means 'I come in peace, worry not, your plots are relatively safe from ravaging'
>they all examine it for a while and talk to one another
>after a short while Twilight approaches you and Holy Christ is she a sight
>not in a good sense, unless you've got a fetish for detail
>up close you can see the hairs on her face, the curvature and folds of her nostrils and mouth, the whiskers on her muzzle
>you glance at the other two and, while further away, you can still make out something similar
>how you missed such details is –Zecora takes Fluttershy off to another part of the shack, their backs turned to you- Oh right, the plot, I nearly forgot about it
--Hold on a sec . . . Even their plots—--
''Now's not the time, we'll make a note of it later.''
>Twilight levitates the pencil from out of your hand, bares her teeth (you thank god for the small mercy of her doing it the same way humans do) and points to them with the pencil, the points to you with it
--OK, so she has teeth. Hey, smart me, what do you think she wants?—
''See if we're keen on oral hygiene?''
>she repeats the actions, only this time lightly pulls your upper lip apart from the lower
''She wants to—''
--Yeah, I got it—

>you show her your pearly yellows
>she examines them closely
--Oh god . . . The face.—
''If we're gonna vomit at least do it when she moves away.''
>She writes something down on the pad
>she then rolls up your sleeves as far as they'll go and makes note of your arms
>she pokes your right bicep with the pencil
>you instinctively flex it
>it truly is a depiction of epic might, if epic might were a dying tree-branch wrapped in a thin layer of fat
>she pokes it again, you flex again
>this goes on for a bit until you figure out she wants you to keep it flexed, so you do it
>makes notes
>now she's examining your hand
>you let it relax as she moves the fingers around with her magic and examined them closely
>maybe she fears hidden weapons or something
>she's very gentle and doesn't push your appendages beyond their obvious limits
>that reminds you, you hadn't had a good massage in ages
>one more reason to get out of the shack and visit those two ponies at the spa, damned if you can remember their names
>not that it matters since you can't even pronounce them properly
>Twilight is done with your hand
>she flips over a new sheet of paper and scribbles something on it
>she shows you very rough, very beginner depictions of your hand
>the first shows your hand free from the straps
>the second is of your hand drawn with claws in a threatening pose crossed out