Twilight's Dadanon

>You are Twilight Velvet.
>And you have fucked up.
>This isn’t a ‘set the oven to broil instead of bake’ level fuckup.
>This isn’t a ‘forgot to pay the water bill and we’re showering at the neighbors’ level fuckup.
>No, it’s even worse than that, this is a ‘Oh hey honey, it turns out our second kid wasn’t yours’ level fuckup.
>You are currently sitting alone in your study, frantically trying to figure out how to keep your daughter from telling your husband that daddy was an interdimensional being
> She’s too old to bribe with candy . . . maybe books? Luna’s flank that filly loved books.
>She’s smart, maybe she can see reason? Maybe she’ll see it’s just for the best if nobody ever, ever talks about this. Ever.
>If only she hadn’t started studying thaumatic field fusion and inherited traits, then she never would have realized that it was a bit weird how powerful she was
>You mean, Twilight was always a smart girl, but sometimes she just overlooked the most obvious things because they weren’t in a book for her to study
>You could manage a solid stun spell (like any real unicorn mare should), but your hubby had all of the magical potency of, well, a night light.
>Your daughter was pulling off complete, reversible, biological transmutation spells at the age of five
>By the age of nine, literally the only pony left to teach her magic was A SUN GODDESS
>You shudder a bit. Celestia only knows what she was capable of now.
> Last you heard she turned a god of chaos into stone.
>Then unfroze him.
>Because ‘everyone deserves a second chance, even the reality warping tyrant that ruled before Luna and Celestia’
>You won’t admit to being scared of your own daughter, but let’s say you’re glad she never went through a rebellious stage.
>You’re wrenched from your thoughts by a knocking at your study door.
>”Hey, umm, mom? You . . . got my letter?”

>You are now Twilight Sparkle, and this is . . . whoo colt this awkward.
>In the course of your studies on inherited versus learned magical traits, you discovered that you were an outlier. Of sorts.
>One thing led to another, which led to consulting your mothers tax records for travel related business expenses, your own birth certificate, and weather reports that were nearly two decades old
>Which led to you realizing that for about half the time window you could have been conceived in, your mother and ‘father’ were half a continent away from one another.
>Next came three angrily worded letters, none of them sent.
>Then a slightly more neutrally worded letter that you did wind up sending, saying you’d be stopping buy to ‘ask some questions about the family tree’
>After that there was a good amount of stress eating, ice cream, hayburgers, and frantic pacing
>Finished that evening off with some light sobbing, feelings of betrayal, and an identity crisis.
>With all those things checked off the list, (You made sure to follow the list. You read in a psychology textbook about all the ways ponies cope, and decided to sample a few) you packed up and caught the next train back home
>That was yesterday, and now you’re here, standing in front of your mothers study.
>After a particularly awkward conversation with Da- . . . Night Light, you politely declined a sandwich, assured him that everything was fine, and headed upstairs to your mothers study.
>You gently tap on the door with your hoof.
“Hey, umm, mom? You . . . got my letter?”
>A faint glow envelopes the doorknob as the old, heavy oaken door swings open.
>The ‘study’, as you mother called it, was really more of a mare-cave with a desk.
>There’s a liquor cabinet, a stack of carriage magazines with stallions splayed across the front, and an ugly green carpet that never gets vacuumed
>As you close the door behind you, you notice the dartboard hanging on the back of it.
“You know that Night Light would throw a fit if he knew you were throwing darts inside the house.”
>And just like that, the tension in the air eases a bit.
>You and Velvet let out breaths that neither of you knew you were holding.
>”I know, but considering the circumstances . . . in for bit, in for a bag.”
>You turn to face your mother, who is attempting to look very interested in a newspaper that is two weeks out of date.
>You can’t help but smile a little. No matter what happened, your mom is still you mom, ill-conceived attempts at humor and all.
“So mom . . . I wanted to know a bit more about my paternal ancestry.”
>Your horn flares a bit, and you feel the familiar surge of power leaving your body as you soundproof the room.
>Velvet half folds, half crumples the paper as she flinches visibly.
>”Ahh . . . well, I think that Night Light’s grandmother was a pegasus-“
>You stare at her flatly, and she withers under your gaze.
>”So . . . you, ahem, know?”
>She squirms uncomfortably against her faux dragonhide seat, and almost appears to shrink down behind her desk, as if taking cover behind it.
“I have sufficient evidence to conclude that Night Light is not my biological father.”
>Your measured tone looks like it did more damage than if you were screaming.
>The strong, grown mare that was your mother had shrunk down to the size of a small filly cowering behind her desk.
>”I . . . I just wanted what was best for you. For everyone. I wanted to tell your father. I wanted . . . I wanted to tell you. But, when I sat down and thought about it, I decided that would be selfish. That I wanted to tell you because it was easier than carrying this secret alone. Tartarus, half of me is almost glad you figured it out.”
>She takes back a bit of her usual stature.
>”I didn’t want to destroy everything. We had just moved into a bigger house, Shinny was making friends at school, your father was so happy to have you to take care of . . . I didn’t want to destroy that. So, I hid it. I lied, and I’m sorry.”
>She’s looking very intently at the space just in front of your hooves.
>You feel a little sick to your stomach, and it’s not just the binge eating of greasball hayburgers
>You had known, yes, you were certain to a statistically significant degree (within reasonable error bars)
>But to hear the words come from your own mothers mouth, that your father wasn’t really your father . . .
>It was like a hoof to the gut
“Why?”
>You can’t help the slight emotional quiver in your voice.
>There’s a pregnant pause, the silence saying more than words would.
>In that silence is the immense regret, not for being caught, but for betraying that trust.
>There’s the weight of a secret, kept for a lifetime, being lifted.
>”I was young. Dumb. In heat. Your father . . . your biological didn’t exactly stick around. I don’t even know his name.”
>You cock your head to the side.
“You mean, like-“
>”NO! Not like a vagrant. Yeesh, I wouldn’t take advantage of a stallion like that. It was the neighties, and that free love movement met new age spiritualism, so I headed to a ‘tension relief lodge’.”
>She idly traces little circles in the carpet with her hoof.
>”I tried to convince myself that it was something that it wasn’t. I tried to convince myself it’d just be a relaxing massage, some scented oils, and maybe one of those fancy pheromone censer to help ease me through the heat. Your father was on a ‘just the stallions’ cruise to the Zebrican territories, and I didn’t have any friends in town. Not that I’d ask for help with a cooler at least. Just moved here, remember?”
>She sighs and sits, seemingly drawing some sort of catharsis from being able to tell the story.
>You do your best to just listen for now, your curiosity outstripping your anger.
>”So, I get up to this lodge, there’s the massage, the cute stallion receptionist, but then, they take me to this like, underground chamber, with all these weird candles, and tell me to climb onto this velvet covered half bed, half table thing.”
>That’s . . . not how you expected this story to go.
>”Then, there was some chanting, the candles got super bright, then . . . super dark? It’s hard to explain if you’re not there. Then he was there . . .”
>You can hear the slight awe in her voice, and it disgusts you.
>”Magnificent. Toned. Muscular like a minotaur, but, lithe, slender, and graceful. Before I knew what was happening, we were . . . well, you don’t want to hear about that part of the story.”
>A bright red blush burns against her pale coat.
>”When it was all over he just . . . faded into nothingness. Poof, gone like smoke in the wind. I assumed that there was something in the candle smoke. My heat was taken care of, I certainly felt I had gotten my money’s worth, and I hadn’t actually slept with a stallion. A month later I felt you kick. It was the first sign that anything was out of the ordinary.”
>This . . . this isn’t what you were expecting at all. You were expecting a fling with some floozy stallion after too many at the bar, or an old flame surging back to life in the presence of a stale marriage.
>After all, in your studies, you’d found that statistically, most affairs were consummated under the effects of alcohol, and with previous partners.
>You weren’t expecting to hear “I’m pretty sure I got knocked up by a ghost at a spiritual retreat”
“I wasn’t expecting to hear “I’m pretty sure I got knocked up by a ghost at a spiritual retreat.”
>You snort, a bit angrily.
>”There was nothing incorporeal about that stallion!” She says defensively.
>”Look, I tried to do some research on the place after I found out I was pregnant. They were long gone when I went back, entire place was condemned and demolished. All I came up with was a news clipping that the place had been shut down for using prohibited magic. All the other records are sealed.”
>She magics an old, faded scrap of paper out of her desk over to you.
“Fradulent Spiritualists Found Guilty of Dangerous and Irresponsible Magic Use”
>Huh. Okay. Wow. So, your mom isn’t the cheating scum bucket you thought.
>Unless this is all an elaborate lie.
>You examine the clipping intently, focusing your magic on it.
>It’s . . . authentic. The particular waterproofing spell used on the ink was only used for 12 years, including the date on the article. The paper in question has degraded the proper amount for its alleged age, no trace of forced, magical weathering,
>You can tell by the shape of the ‘p’ on Spiritualist that it was originally written on a Model 14 Weaver & Hort typewriter, which went out of production nearly 20 years ago, and only saw service with large news agencies due to its high cost but excellent performance and durability.
“I believe you.”
>”I know you don’t believe me but- wait what!?”
>You mother practically balks at you
“I believe you. I’m going to ask Celestia about this. She can have the ponice records unsealed, and I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”
>You feel a little trill of excitement run up your spine as you prance in place.
“Ooh, it’s gonna be just like one of my True Crime Mystery Books!” You practically squeal to yourself.
>”So . . . you’re not going to tell your father?”
>You are currently far too busy fantasizing about deerstalker hats and smoking pipes to pay attention.
“Nah, gotta go, bye!”
>With a flash of purple light and a crack, you leave your very confused, and extremely uneasy mother behind.
>Were you there, you would have heard her say, “I need a drink.” And go straight for the Applejack Daniels in the cupboard.

>You are Anon, and you just had the weirdest fucking dream.
>No really, this is the weirdest fucking dream you’ve ever had.
>Emphasis on fucking.
>You’ve fucked all kinds of things in your dreams. One time, you even fucked you, but with an awesome rack, and a vagina. And no dick, obvs. You ain’t a homo.
“Go back to /d/!” You yell at no one in particular, your studio apartment being empty, save for yourself.
>There’s a small surge of pride as you properly pronounce those tricky /’s fluidly. No easy feat, to be certain.
>Welp, time to turn these puppies inside out and maybe wash the sheets if you were pent up.
>A quick check downstairs reveals two things, one, there is no baby-gravy in your spiderman underoos
>And two, holy shit everything from your crotch down smells like it was submerged in a mixture of grape and blackberry jam.
>Pleasantly fruity, like that gay kid who let you cheat off of him in Calculus.
>Just like that dream you had, with the . . . purple . . . grape and blackberry . . . mare.
>Shit. You check your watch. Which you conveniently wore to bed last night. Because reasons.
> 3:41 PM blinks back at you.
>A quick glance at your alarm clock says 1:29 P.M.
> So that’s . . . like two hours and some change off. In one night.
>You like discount watches as much as the next guy, but this was a gift from your brother. His watches only lose 5, 10 minutes a day tops.
>Did you somehow get magically teleported to another world for two hours, bang the shit out of a cartoon looking horse, and teleport back? All in one night?
>Anon Jr. Tents a bit as you recall the . . . exceedingly vivid dream.
>The scent . . . the missing time . . . just how vivid it all was . . .
>You don’t want to admit it, but you must have coated random household objects with contact hallucinogens again while doing drunk science.
>Oh well, time to play “drink from the crumpled up water bottle with no label before going to work in the hopes that whatever it contains will either kill me or numb me to the stupidity of the common consumer” game.
>You’re a pro at this game.

>You are Stalwart Sentry, mare extraordinaire.
>Not to be confused with an actually stalwart sentry, because if you were gonna be honest (which you usually weren’t), you were kinda flim-flam at the best of times.
>They made you a clerk in at the evidence locker.
>It’s hard to bribe a cop inside a police station.
>Regardless of your incorruptibility due to the fact that there was no opportunity for to be corrupt, you were now fetching an old box of evidence from a property crimes case from like twenty years ago.
>Some dyke ass mare in a weird hat with a pipe had marched in like she owned the place, and slapped down an assload of paperwork on your desk.
>A cursory inspection revealed that it was record requests, and that they had all been signed by Princess Celestia HER BUCKING SELF.
>With all of the haste and diligence an underpaid civil servant could manage, you set about getting that for her.
>So, after you took two bathroom breaks and went to lunch, and she was still humming quietly to herself in the lobby, you actually started looking.
>Who organized this place? They suck at their job. Wait . . .
>Before you can finish that thought, you find the box you’re looking for.
>Oh, it’s this box. The one that seems to produce a faint buzzing just on the edge of your hearing.
>The box that you swear is just a little bit cold to the touch.
>The box that, on the long, late night shifts, whispers to you quietly, promising you agony and ecstasy in
equal measure.
>You were pretty sure you saw your dead grandmother down this row two weeks ago, standing in front of the thing.
>Thank Luna you could just pass this shit off on someone else. You were getting tired of having to replace the constantly flickering lightbulbs at night. Plus, some of the voices didn’t speak equestrian, and they were super distracting when you were trying to read Playcolt mags at night.
>Read
>Implying
> . . .
>You grab that shit and sling it at purplebutt so hard and fast she practically skids out the front door of the precinct.
>Metaphorically. Realistically speaking, it takes you about 20 minutes to sign everything over, get the transaction formally logged and filed.
>Hey, it’s not bad for a bureaucrat.

>You are now Twilight Sparkle.
>And holy hay is this stuff messed up.
>After taking the train back to ponyville (what, it’s not like you can fly)
>And packing most of the seriously cursed evidence away behind several layers of protective wards in the basement of your treebrary (what, it’s not like you have a crystal castle)
>You began to sift through the evidence.
>The spiritualist group was a spiritualist group alright . . . but like with actual spirits.
>They were doing all kinds of summoning stuff.
>The ghosts, monsters, demons, court, all kinds of summons.
>The spellbook that the ‘cult’ was using was written by an idiot who you doubt had a basic grasp of Equish, let alone ancient Sumareian.
>You would go through and correct the grammatical errors that literally riddled the incantation for the ritual you were prepping after you had finished summoning your father to this plane.
>You’d fix it now, but if you changed anything, it’s likely you’d get a different entity entirely.
>You scrunch harder. Allowing grammatical flaws to go uncorrected was something you’d only do for a blood relative.
>You do a quick rundown of the basement.
>Pentagrams? Check.
>Ritual Candles? Check.
>Salt ring in case of demonic incursion? Check. Double Check.
>Spike at a sleepover with the crusaders? Check. He always threw fits whenever you tried to rend the veil between your world and the screaming void.
>Light refreshment in the event that something horrible comes through and you have to blast it to kingdom come with your magic? Check.
>Mood lighting? Check.
>Thunder rumbles through the treehouse as you check that one off the list.
>Rainbow was a total sis and got the weather team to move up the storm that was scheduled for next week.
>It really helped set the tone for the whole ‘drag a creature from beyond reality into existence’
>That was probably the reason the cultists picked this one . . . your dad.
>Whoah, that’s a freaky thought.
>You just stand there a blink a few times as the rain begins to patter against the upstairs windows.
>You were preparing an unholy ritual of the darkest sorcery to summon an entity from beyond the veil.
>And that entity was quite probably your father.
“Deep breathing exercises Twilight, deep breathing.”
>You suck down a few deep breaths of cool air, calming yourself back down.
>Mispronounce something, and you might turn yourself inside out by accident.
>Aww cripes . . . you’re getting yourself psyched out again.
“C’mon Twilight! If three hippies with a butchered translation can pull this off, you, element of magic, have it in the bag!”
>You canter in place a little, and strike a fighting pose.
“Oh yeah, we’ve got it.”
>All things considered, this was actually a pretty easy summoning.
>All the others needed blood, or some kind of host body, or a serious sacrifice to maintain . . . whatever . . . in this world.
>This one just took a carefully drawn ring, a few candles, and the right words.
>With one last deep breath, you begin the summoning incantation.

>You mutter words of power, never meant to be spoken by a mortal tongue.
>Your breath carries an eldritch essence with it, and the temperature in the room drops to freezing in seconds.
>The sound of your voice echoes and distorts as you continue the chant, and the windows frost over with a sharp crackling.
>The candles gutter weakly as the shadows they cast grow long and menacing forms, no longer bound by the natural laws of this universe.
>It is too late to turn back, but you are beginning to have second thoughts.
>A pungent scent of burning hair and rotting eggs saturates the room, and you have to keep from retching as you power through the rest of the malefic syllables.
>A flash of lightning illuminates the room for a moment, but the sound of thunder is distant, and faint, like you’re listening from far away, or underwater.
>A dull roar rises from beyond the edge of your hearing, growing in intensity and volume as you near the last of this unholy call into the beyond.
>Your heart is stricken with terror, but you know that the only way out now is to simply push on through.
“-ANZILLU KASADU!”
>You scream the last two words at the top of your lungs, as sounds seem to be dying inches from their source.
>Your throat hurts from the force of your cry, but you can barely hear yourself over the pounding thrum that seems to be coming from the place between your ears.
>Suddenly, darkness.
>Not merely the absence of light, like one would find on a moonless night, but darkness, true and deep.
>It coats you, everything, reality itself in a wave, and you’re drowning in it.
>Things that no mind should ever have to bear comprehension of writhe and play about one another in an infinite danse macabre.
>You can . . . feel . . . things scratching at the edges of your mind, the weight of infinity bearing down on your meagre consciousness like a wave washing over an improvised life raft cast adrift on an infinite sea of madness.
>Never before have you felt so helpless . . . so weak . . . you realize now that thinking your magic could save you from such forces was the penultimate sin of pride, surpassed only by the belief you could control them.
>To resist is to be destroyed, and to succumb is to be eternally damned.
>You can feel your mind coming undone at the seams, your thoughts are no longer your own, and as your awareness of your own existence is wrenched away, a bleating whimper escapes you.
>A call for help, for protection, for a harbor in this storm.
“Daddy!”

>You are Anon.
>And you are in hell.
>Not like burning pitchforks and red dudes hell, the more mundane kind.
>Retail hell.
>You have been arguing with this short, fat, frumpy, toad-human hybrid of a woman for what feels like an eternity.
>Everything about her was unpleasant.
>Her face was bloated and puffy, with wrinkled jowls flanking a broad, lipless mouth.
>Said mouth was perched beneath a fine moustache, like what one would expect to see on a pedophile, or DVD rewinder salesman.
>Above that, sat a hooked and beak like nose.
>If she smoked, and from her pungent odor and pus yellow teeth you were fairly certain she did, she would have been able to do so freely in the rain, due to the size of the schnozz that protruded from between her beady, rodent like eyes.
>Okay, so she probably wasn’t that bad, but she’s been trying to pass off expired, fake, and used coupons off on you for 30 minutes.
>”No, I have coupons. You have to take them!”
“I’m sorry Ma’am, but that’s a coupon for a free burrito at Taco Bell. This is a Sears.”
>So far, she’s tried to pay for a food processor using two denied credit cards, a wad of pesos (not Nuevo pesos, the old kind), and an assortment of monopoly money and buttons.
>”It says 20% off, and I’m not going to let you con me out of my hard earned money!”
“That offer ended. In 1986. Even if it were 1986, you’d have to spend $100 to use it. Which, you also haven’t done.”
>She huffs at you, giving you the stink eye before stuffing her pudgy, sausage-like fingers back in her purse.
>Every time she opens it, you get a good look at the crisp, fresh, hundred dollar bill just sitting there, always rejected, always ignored.
>Like a strongman contender at a crossfit gym, you were at an absolute loss as to what the fuck was going on.
>Finally, perhaps realizing that she was out of luck in the coupon department.
>”I demand to see your manager! I’ve been marginalized due to my gender! If  a MAN had tried to pay with these coupons, you wouldn’t have given them a second glance!”
>You can’t even stifle this sigh.
>She’d spoken to her twice already. She even gave her a 20% discount. The second time she came back, she upgraded it to a 30%.
>You glance over your shoulder and make eye contact with her.
>She’s reading a Cosmo magazine and chewing gum.
>Your eyes meet over the cover picture of some obscenely photogenic woman with 3% bodyfat and a dress so low cut you’re fairly certain they photoshopped her nipples out.
>It only takes a moment, but in that moment your communication was perfect.
>>”If you make me go over there one more goddamn time, I will make sure that you clean every women’s restroom in this store, every day, for a month.”
>Fuck.
“I AM THE MANAGER!”
>You shout exasperatedly, throwing your arms in the air like you just don’t care.
>The toad goes quiet at this, her dumb, glassy eyes narrowing at you slightly.
>It takes her a moment to process this obviously fallacious claim.
>”Well . . . I want to talk to your regional supervisor!”
“AAAAUUGH!”
>You just scream in incoherent rage at the sky, cursing whatever gods there might be above or below who had doomed you to such a fate.
>The store was suddenly very quiet.
>Wow, that’s a lot of people staring at you . . .
>The looks from the staff were ones of sympathy.
>The customers wore a mixture of confusion and surprise.
>You let out a long, slow breath through your nose as you slowly lower your arms back to your sides.
>Your voice creaks out in a high pitched, slightly pained whisper.
“You know what? He’s here today. In the back. I’ll. Go. Get. Him.”
>You punctuate every word by grinning wider, and leaning in a bit closer until your noses nearly touch.
>God this woman has pores that look like craters on the moon.
>Before she can open her mouth and let another intellectually draining travesty of English grammar splutter out, you bolt from the checkout area toward the back.
>Not today. There just wasn’t enough of your patience to go around today.
>You head for the supply closet. The one with cleaning solvent in it.
>The janitor, Marcus, whom you had gotten to know after an incontinent narcoleptic stopped in to grab some emergency Imodium for his stomach virus and had fallen asleep in the middle of the isle, was always stashing things in there.
>You shudder at the memory.
>Some smells couldn’t be washed out, for they stained your very soul.
>You reach the closet shortly after your PTSD flashback ends.
>After stepping inside, you lock the door behind you, pull out your phone, and begin searching for the bottle.
>The emergency bottle.
>A 95% pure bottle of ethyl alcohol.
>Marcus had kept at least one stocked in here in case of another . . . Brown Sunday.
>To be fair though, it was really more of a ‘Brown with Bloody Streaks Sunday’, and it wasn’t the dust bowl, it was a porcelain bowl.
>An alcohol bath was the only way to get the smell out.
>So, with a cough and a wince, you took a seat in the pitch dark cupboard, and began fighting with the cap.
>Before you could reach your succulent, pain numbing, paint removing nectar, the whole world began to vibrate, and white spots started appearing in your vision.
“This is it. I’m finally having an aneurism. Thank FUCKING GOD.”
>You just go limp, begging for the sweet release of oblivion to take you.

>You are Anon.
>Still.
>The light has faded back away.
>No sweet release of death for you today.
>But Jesus Christ did somebody just rip one in the supply closet?
>Smells like fucking burnt hair and ass in here.
>Rotten ass.
>You're pretty sure you're the only one in the supply closet.
>Why does it sound like it's raining?
>Why is the supply closet suddenly really tall?
>And round?
>And not a supply closet . . . whattheshithappeneddidIdieorsomethingholyfucking
>. . .
>Rebooting . . .
>Okay.
>So, you're tripping balls for the second time in the past 24 hours.
>Looks like the unlabeled water bottle had a little bit of a delayed kick to it.
>Time to take a close account of your situation, and try and ride this shit out.
>Marcus will find you, throw a blanket over you, and cart you out the back if just assume the fetal position long enough.
>Unless this is after the comedown, and you're missing like a good six hours.
>You check your watch.
>Pressing a small button on the side of the knock off Cassy-Oh Real Quartz ™ Watch, the backlight turns on.
>5:73.
>Oh, cool, you're dreaming.
>You remember reading somewhere that clocks get all fucky when you're asleep. Something about the brain can't do that abstract shit like time and make it work in a dream.
>You thump your watch triumphantly. Just another weird ass, super realistic lucid dream.
>The display flickers, and the two horizontal prongs of the three come back on.
>5:33.
>Dammit. Not dreaming.
>So, hallucination is still on the table, along with brain hemorrhage.
>You reach up and touch your face in the near pitch dark.
>Not numb, so probably not a stroke.
>You stagger to your feet, and take a quick look around the pitch dark room.
>It's pitch dark.
>You don't see shit.
>There could be 15 melanin enriched gentlemen in here with you, and as long as they didn't smile, they'd be fucking invisible.
>You take out your phone, flick on the flashlight app, and take another look around.
“Shit.”
>You swear. And, to be honest, you don't stop with “Shit.”
>You swear a lot. You swear a blue streak.
>You swear so much a sailor would consider it unnecessary.
>You however know exactly how necessary it is, because you just woke up in what appears to be a chamber built into the root system of a tree, inside a series of pentagrams, surrounded by an assload of obvious ceremonial candles.
>This is it. This is how you die. You don't get the nice, peaceful, quick aneurysm you wanted.
>Nope, you're gonna get sacrificed by a bunch of  devil worshiping cultist wannabe's.
>Just like your guidance councilor in high school said you would.
>You've played enough Doom to recognize the pentagrams.
>You've watched enough Supernatural to recognize a ring of salt when you see one.
>You've worked the Candle and Decor section long enough to recognize a whole shitload of Luminessence Vanilla Pillar Candles when you see them.
>You've had enough weird erotic dreams to tell that there's a small, grape colored unicorn passed out on the floor inside her own respective weird ritual ring.
>Seriously, there is some major stink in here if it's overpowering those fuckin candles.
>You would have burned that uniform if you didn't think that it would just set the vanilla odor demon that had possessed it free.
>Right, demons, cultists, that's the real issue here. Stay focused Anon.
>You scan around the room another time.
>Hmm. No robed figures.
>You gingerly step out of your little circle.
>You ankle pops a bit as you step over the blackened ring that appears to have been burned into the stone floor.
>Taking a step over the purple unicorn you examine the table behind it for long, ceremonial knives.
>None to be found.
>You scan the walls for goat heads, a Saint Peters Cross, or perhaps some gaudy red drapes to signify an unholy sanctum of some kind.
>Only thing in here was a table, some candles, a book with what you imagine a 12 year old would consider a scary face drawn on the front, and that unicorn from your dream.
>. . .
>. . . . .
>You really can't handle this right now.
>You decide to make like a white girl, and not even.
>When that fails to rectify the situation in any meaningful way, you begin talking to yourself aloud, to try and measure through the situation in a calm and manageable way.
“That tiny horse with a horn is breathing Anon.”
>You watch its chest rise and fall slowly.
>The coloration is familiar . . . the hair stripe, the lavender coat . . .
>A soft, whining whimper escapes it's prone form as it shivers a bit.
>You shine the light on it's face.
“What the fuck!”
>You jump back, as you illuminate what appears to be a swarm of silent, black gnats swarming around its mouth and eyes.
>You swipe your hand through the swarm, the motes dispersing like mist in the sun.
“Seriously what the fuck . . .”
>With the weird swarm thing gone, you start to get a better look at the . . . creature before you.
“I think this is it. We're crazy. The customers finally drove us crazy, and we've invented a fantasy realm populated by unicorns and magic and demons to keep us entertained in the rubber room we got stuffed in.”
>Talking to no one other than yourself, you continue your inspection.
>As you look closer, you realize that this is . . . almost the mare from your dream.
>The color is darker, the face, smoother.
>The butt-mark is different too.
>So . . . not the same horse.
>You suppress the impulse to reach out and touch it.
>Now is not the time for such shenanigans.
>Memories of last night flit through your head.
> . . . now those were some shenanigans.
>Fond memories of bestiality aside, you seriously need to get a fucking handle on this shit.
>Taking a step back from the unconscious mare . . .
>You take a step to the side and lean over a bit.
>Yeah definitely a mare.
>You let out a deep sigh, running your fingers through your hair to calm down a bit.
>What would your brother do in this situation?
>Fuckin' Semper Fi, Rangers lead the way shit you bet.
>Probably some cool military training shit.
>Like, rappel up a wall and hang from a light fixture to shoot somebody.
>Or pushups.
>You hadn't spoken in a while. Or paid much attention to him when you did.
“Come on Anon, you're 0-2 here, let's come up with a winner.”
>You mutter under your breath, searching around the room for . . . oh for fucks sake.
>Stairs.
>Yeah, we're going up the stairs. Can't believe you missed the horse, then the stairs. Next thing you're gonna fucking miss is the ground when you fall down.
>Trudging up the surprisingly small and narrow steps, you find yourself at a door clearly designed for someone half your height.
“Optical illusion door?”
>You glance over your shoulder.
“Riiiiight. Tinyhorse.”
>You grab the . . . knob? Horses can work knobs here? Well, I mean, you know one horse that worked the hell out of one knob . . . but that's different.

>What the fuck is going on . . .
>So far we have a unicorn
>Pentagrams
>A spooky book
>Tiny fucking doors
>And a pretty nasty storm outside
“Okay Anon . . . time for some out loud thinking.”
>You open the door and step through into what appears to be . . . a fucking library inside a tree?
>A book-treepository?
>No way is this thing tall enough for a president to get assassinated out of.
“Putting these pieces together . . . what are the likely explanations?”
>You take a few steps into the main room, a large, open, round space, covered from floor to ceiling in books.
“Books . . . tiny furniture . . . tiny doors . . . summoning circles.”
>You wander through this strange fantasy world, becoming increasingly bewildered at the startling array of items that are tantalizingly familiar but just subtly different. To small, too wide, 200 years out of date, but all very recognizable.
“So . . . either I've been transported to a world of civilized, small, purple unicorns that live in trees filled with books . . . or I'm insane.”
>To be honest with yourself, apply Occams's razor, and door number two looks like a winner.
>You bend down a bit to look out one of the windows.
>A fairly fierce storm is raging on the far side of the glass, and you have no desire to go out into it.
“Okay, so let's go with crazy . . . what is the best course of action?”
>You mull this over as you wander into what appears to be a kitchen. The table comes up to a bit above your knee, like it might be for kindergartners or small children.
“Do whatever, because none of this matters, and you are completely separate from reality. Logic has no place or basis in the realm of a madman, so trying to formulate a logical plan of action is inherently pointless.”
>Damn son, that last bit sounded clever as fuck. You should talk to yourself more often.
“So planning for being crazy is pointless . . . what if we go with the really improbable option?”
>You creep back into the main room by the light of your phone.
>No bars. You checked. Plus, you hadn't actually been able to afford a cellular plan in months.
>A bit of freeware and wi-fi made it serviceable. Mostly.
>There seem to be more stairs leading up to a loft of sorts.
>Randomly, you wonder if there's a book on botany inside this tree.
>That'd be meta as fuck, a book about trees, printed on former trees, stored within a tree.
>You can't help but smirk a bit in the dark.
“So . . . we're going to actually say this out loud . . . we've been teleported to an alternate reality.”
>You words cut through the patter of the rainstorm easily, and sound just as dumb out loud as in your head.
“Well . . . fuck it I guess. None of this makes any goddamn sense, so looks like we're just gonna have to improvise.”
>You head up the stairs to the loft and look around, trying to find a clue as to what's going on.
>Or maybe some place to sleep off this bad trip.
>In some strange twist of fate, you find just that. A bed.
>It'd be a tight fit for someone half your height, so there's a bit of a 'cosmic fuck you' flavor to the discovery.
>The beam of your phone light runs across a nightstand, revealing a picture that catches your eye.
>You bend over to pick it up, curious as to who might live here.
>You've had your suspicions, but you didn't really want to come to terms with it until you were holding proof of it in your hands.
>It's a family photo.
>Or you would assume it's a family photo
>Herd photo?
>Whatever, it's more of the tiny horses with horns on their heads.
>And yes, you're going to refer to them as tiny horses with horns on their heads even though they are obviously unicorns, because your mind simply refuses to acknowledge that you're in a realm of ponies and unicorns and presumably rainbows.
>There are four of them, two big, two small, with the white small one slightly larger than the purple one.
>You recognize the smallest of them, clearly a younger version of your basement buddy sparkle-butt.
>You don't recognize the blue or the white one . . .
>You get a sinking feeling as you start to really examine the last one.
>You turn the photograph upside down, trying to picture her laying on her back.
> . . . and the resemblance is now perfect.
>You fucked up.

>You are running through a library.
>This, on it's own, wouldn't be a great thing, library's are quiet and calm places of learning, any situation that requires running in one must have a certain degree of urgency to it that is indicative of some kind of crisis.
>However, the particular library you find yourself running through is definitely not normal.
>For instance, it goes on forever, all the rooms have six walls, and every single book you've seen has been utterly incomprehensible gibberish.
>You are Twilight Sparkle.
>And this is not good.
>Your legs ache, your lungs are on fire, and you think your heart might explode at any second.
>The low rumbling groan begins building behind you again.
“Not-” *pant* “-again!”
>You wheeze out weakly.
>Galloping out of the room into the infinite catalogue of random gibberish, you continue to flee what you instinctively know is very, very bad.
>Your panic rises as you realize you’re not pulling away from it anymore.
>It’s not a fear of danger, or even a nightmarish terror that keeps you going, but a raw, and innate sensation of a sinister essence purusing you.
>You have no idea how long you’ve been running through this strange maze of books, you can’t remember running for more than a few minutes, but your body screams at you like it’s been hours.
>Time seems . . . off. As in someone turned time off, and decided to play the sequence of events by ear and causality was a bit of an afterthought.
>You knew you couldn’t outrun this disaster
>You can recall when you will fall into oblivion, it just won’t have happened when you remember it . . .
>You glance over your shoulder as the walls begin to buckle and shudder around you.
>All consuming stygian blackness devours the room you exit.
>You run your hardest, knowing that it’s going to be pointless.
>You count down the steps until the ground falls out from under you.
. . .
>You plummet in freefall for all of a half second before slamming into the floor, caught up in a blanket.
“Oww . . .”
>You groan softly.
>You survey your room, bleary eyed and confused.
>Sunlight streams in through the window above your bed, and you attempt to stagger to your hooves.
>You wince a bit as you put pressure on the injured joint.
>”Purple mares don’t bruise.” Your mother had always told you.
>Right . . . what a weird dream. First you dream that your mother had an affair with an interdimensional creature . . . and you were the result.
>Then you tried to summon it, but failed, and were trapped in an infinite library being chased by the abstract concept of malice.
“Spiiiike!”
>You call for your small, scaly assistant, trotting down the stairs carefully.
>The smell of burning pancakes wafts up toward you.
“Spike, don’t worry about cooking breakfast, I’m not . . really . . .”
>The rest of your sentence dies in your throat.
>Before you stands a tall, slender, clearly male creature that is wearing far too many clothes to be decent . . . and are those socks?
>Getting off topic here Twilight.
>This male specimen is frowning slightly as he attempts to free a char-broiled brick of a pancake from your most likely ruined skillet.
>”Oh good, you’re up. Sorry about the breakfast. The eggs came out fine, but . . . it’s hard to get the temperature right on a wood burning stove.”
>Your jaw goes slack.
“Please tell me I’m still dreaming.”
>His face splits into a wide grin, revealing pearly white, glistening, pointed cuspids flanking what appear to be serrated incisors.
>A random thought streaks through your mind from nowhere. ‘Mamelons, they’re not called serrations, they are called mamelons when encountered on the incisors.’
>You briefly wonder why you recall such obscure and utterly irrelevant trivia when you are about to be made into a side dish for an interdimensional aberration’s breakfast.
>He sets the pan down in the sink as a baritone chuckle rolls from his throat.
>”Finally, someone feels my pain.”
>You’re not sure if you should run, cast a defensive spell, cast an offensive spell, or beg for mercy.
>”Anyway, here, have some eggs. They turned out alright.”
>He sets a two plates of eggs on the kitchen table, before turning to you again.
> . . . okay . . . doesn’t appear hostile.
>”I mean, you don’t have to eat all the eggs, I just thought it would be nice to . . . Christ I’m a walking autism meme . . .”
>He strikes himself in the face with one of his upper appendages, his flexible, tentacle like manipulators running down his face as he lets out what you’re pretty sure is an exasperated sigh.
>He leans forward on the table, looking at you sideways as he takes a seat.
>”So . . . are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna eat?”
>He smiles softly at you this time, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly, head cocked to the side, his eyes twinkling with a bemused curiosity like a character out of your Japoniese cartoons.
>”Umm . . . hello?”
>Okay Twilight, you need to come up with a plan.
>How do you plan again?
>”Is . . . is everything okay?”
>He waves one of his forelimbs in front of your face.
>You track the intricate, delicate looking manipulators as they flit through the air lazily.
>First, we need to introduce him to this world, get him acclimated, then we can explain why we summoned him to this plane, begin building a rapport-
“YOU’RE MY DAD.”
> . . .
>You fucked up.

>You are Anon.
>And you were pretty sure you head mentally prepared yourself for everything.
>Mentally prepared yourself for anything, even.
>You mulled over the possibilities last night, weighing probabilities and likelihoods.
>You managed to come to peace with, yes, as a matter of fact, you had been pulled into another dimension, or something to that effect, populated by small unicorns.
>You managed to accept that you had ‘intimate relations’ with one the night before.
>You’d even managed to come to terms with the fact that it was likely the mother of the one that had brought you here.
>But you weren’t ready for that.
>You were never trained for this.
>Your current running theory was that every time a unicorn wanted to commit a crime against nature, you were conjured up to do the deed.
>That was just blown out of the water.
> . . .
>Or this was one seriously messed up unicorn.
>Wow, her face is really red.
>Like, literally glowing.
>This place must actually be magic to get that kind of blush going through fur.
>Wait . . . you . . . you’re a dad?
>You let your arms drop to your side as you stare off into space.
>Very simple words, ‘I’, ‘am’, ‘a’, and ‘dad’.
>You’ve used each of them independent of one another hundreds, if not thousands of times.
>This particular arrangement they’ve taken on hits you like a ton of bricks.
>The fact that you conceived your firstborn with a horse hits you like a ton of lead bricks, which are much denser than regular bricks,
>While technically there are fewer bricks in this metaphorical brick-strike, the amount of energy carried by each brick is substantially greater.
>You briefly consider freaking out, but quite frankly, you’ve done enough of that for the past six hours.
>You have a daughter. With a unicorn.
>Ooh, you like putting it that way. Sounds better than horse.
>You have a daughter. That’s a unicorn. With a unicorn.
>That almost doesn’t sound like beastiality.
>You’re uncertain as to what to feel right now.
>On the one hand, you never intended for any of this to happen, and you know that you have no business being a father, let alone to a unicorn.
>On the other hand . . . you’re getting this weird feeling in your gut.
>You can’t quite place your finger on what it is though.
>You have more than 60k in student loan debt that won’t go away even if you die, you’ve worked retail for the past 7 years in a position you’re overqualified for with nary a raise in sight, your family stopped talking to you after the “Whiskey Christmas”, and you’ve never had a relationship last longer than 3 weeks that wasn’t as toxic as Dzerzhinsk.
>You’re stuck in an alternate dimension populated by unicorns, there doesn’t seem to be a way for you to get home, and you’ve just found out that your crime against nature spawned progeny.
>You had a therapist once, and she made you stop coming after you told her about your childhood.
>Apparently she just didn’t need that kind of negativity in her life.
>This world is upside down, ass-backwards crazy, but hey, for some unfathomable reason, you’re not freaking out right now.
>And, while you’re still at a loss for words, that seems to be a lot better than your purple equine . . . daughter.
>She’s frozen, bug eyed, and practically vibrating with tension.
>You’ve seen people freeze up when they panic, but, this is a whole new level.
>She lets out a soft, high pitched whine as her chest begins heaving up and down.
>You’re pretty sure if you gave her a good nudge she’d fall over.
>You smile at her again, still on rocky ground with this whole situation, but you don’t have any other options than roll with the punches and see where this goes.
>Acting on instinct, you reach out and gentle tousle her hair as you smile softly at her.
>You didn’t think it was possible, but she tenses up even more.
>Your fingers worm into her mane, running down her neck as she finally relaxes a bit.
>Her eyes snap toward the floor as she slowly lowers her hindquarters into a roughly seated position.
>You work your way back up her neck to her ears, fingers tracing along their base as her eyes droop closed.
>She lets out a quiet sigh as a small shiver runs down her body.
>She begins to nuzzle your hand, your fingers gently trailing down her cheek as her muzzle presses into your palm.
>You take a knee in front of her, softly lifting her chin as her eyes snap open.
>You’re slightly taken aback by the depth and intelligence reflected in those deep, violet pools.
>Letting the comfortable, intimate silence hang for just a few seconds longer, you reluctantly break the silence.
“I’m Anonymous. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

>You are Twilight Sparkle.
>You’re pretty sure that the world is about to end.
>This is it, you’ve blown it, royally screwed up.
>You feel all of the blood in your body rushing to your face as his arm drops to his side.
>You feel your breathing growing heavy, and you let out a pitiful whine as you are utterly consumed by your panic attack.
>You feel light headed, everything in the room is too bright, you want to sit, run, go hide under your bed and make everything go back to three days ago all at the same time.
>You watch his feelers stretch out toward you in slow motion, and you brace for the end.
>You don’t even know why this would be the end but the middle of a panic attack isn’t the time for rational thinking.
>He makes contact with you, and you freeze as he ruffles your mane.
>You practically melt as his dextrous, soft, warm manipulators dance along your scalp and down the back of your neck.
>They’re so . . . gentle, and smooth.
>Any thought of him harming you with them is immediately banished from your mind, and the terror you were feeling goes with it.
>The floor suddenly becomes very interesting as you feel very, very foalish.
>He was your . . . father . . . after all. Why would he be angry to find that out?
>You slowly take a seat on the kitchen floor as he strokes your mane in a distinctly comforting fashion.
>You shiver slightly as his fingers brush against the sensitive place between your ears, just above your horn.
>That . . . you weren’t sure if it was okay that your dad was making you feel this good, but you sure weren’t gonna stop him now.
>You don’t really think about it as you close your eyes, and press your muzzle into his palm, warm, smooth flesh brushing against your lips as you breathe in his smell.
>It’s familiar, tantalizingly so, even though you know it’s the first time you’ve ever come across it.
>Even if your higher functions wanted to freak out, you could tell that dad was, well, dad.
>You feel him lift your chin, and your eyes snap open in surprise.
>You stare at him for what feels like ages, memorizing the curves, dips, lines and creases of his face.
>The eyes in particular, it’s like staring off into another world entirely.
>”I’m Anonymous. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“T-Twilight. Sparkle. Twilightsparkle. I mean . . .”
>You fumble, suddenly back in reality.
“My name is Twilight Sparkle, and, the pleasure is all mine.”
>You extend a hoof and do your best to put on a cheerful smile.
>This is actually going pretty well.
>A rich, throaty chuckle meets your ears as he takes your hoof in his . . . something . . . and pumps it up and down firmly.
>If chocolate had a sound, it’d be this stallions laughter. It’s deep, rich, smooth, and sweet.
>You mentally slap yourself.
>These feelings are not the kind that you should feel about your biological father.
>Genes attempt to perpetuate themselves, and you are clearly selecting on some basic, instinctual level.
>The lack of familiarity and upbringing conditioning is causing a malfunction in the less developed part of your brain, making you think he is viable mating stock.
>You take a deep breath and blow it out your nose.
>”Well Twilight . . . good name for a Unicorn, by the way, what would you say to heading out to a nearby eatery to grab something? I’d offer to buy but, I don’t think they’d accept my currency here.”
>He’s smiling at you again, but the sharp, pearly white teeth don’t unsettle you this time.
>It’s kinda . . . scary, but in a comforting way. Like being friends with the biggest mare on the playground.
>He may be kinda a monster, but he’s your kinda a monster.
>A very well dressed, charming, and attractive monster.
>Ohhhh . . . crud. He’s gonna meet your friends.
>You pray to Celestia they don’t embarrass themselves too badly . . .
>Then you pray to Luna that they don’t embarrass YOU too badly.
>Maybe it would be better to just eat in, take it slow, and introduce him in a more controlled environment . . .
>You glance at the charbroiled pancakes fused to the skillet, and the stone cold eggs sitting on the table.
“That . . . sounds like a great idea!”

>You are Twilight Sparkle.
>Still.
>You’ve always been you.
>It’d be irrational for you to have ever thought that you were somepony else.
>Mare, this colt makes it hard to think straight.
“So, umm . . . where would you like to go?”
>He laughs that wonderful laugh again, standing up to his . . . full . . . whoah that’s tall.
>Like, taller than Celestia.
>He stretches and pops with a soft moan as he rears up to full height.
>. . . well you’re just gonna file that away for processing later.
>”I’m not exactly a local here, maybe you should pick the place?”
>He takes a few steps toward the door.
>”Umm, do you need to grab a . . . saddle or something?”
“Why would I need a saddle? That’s . . . “
>You turn a slight shade of pink.
“L-lewd . . .”
>As the implications of such an article of clothing slowly dawns on him, as his eyes grow slightly wider.
>”Oh. That . . . makes sense.”
>You trot a few paces closer to him.
“Actually, I was going to ask if you were, you know, going to wear . . . all that . . . out in public.”
>Especially those socks . . . navy blue.
>You swallow hard and try not to stare.
>You suffer a critical failure, and stare even harder than if you had tried not to stare.
>”All what?”
>Right. Interdimensional traveler having no real grasp of local culture.
>Looks like you found the first topic of breakfast discussion.
“Okay, so, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but most ponies go around nude.”
>”You’re a unicorn.”
>Your next utterance dies in your throat as you think about how painfully stupid that statement is.
“While that is *entirely* correct, I am referring to the general group of equine species that inhabits the land of Equestria.”
>He looks a little crestfallen at this.
>”So many horse puns.”
>You ignore him.
“Clothing is broken down into three categories, formal, protective, and . . . intimate. Being expensive and difficult to manufacture for anypony other than a unicorn, it was initially only used when protection from the environment was needed. For example, by a Blacksmith would have a protective apron and leggings fashioned to protect him from the heat of the forge, sparks, and fragments of slag. The relative cost of manufacturing such a garment eventually became an indicator of wealth. Merchants began adopting protective wear of their own to signify that they were skilled at their trade, just like any craftsman, and were able to afford such expenses. This eventually led to an ever increasing-”
>Anon clears his throat and is now tapping his foot and giving you a look that says “I’m in need of meal, not a lecture on the historical evolution of clothing in an equine society.”
>You grin sheepishly.
“Well, long story short, things like underwear, stockings, and shoes became a sort of bedroom specialty.”
>You begin examining the floorboards for stains, as it’s much easier than making eye contact.
>”So you’re telling me, that all clothing, is essentially lingerie.”
“Not all clothing!”
>You assert rather weakly
“Just . . . the vast majority. There are certain trends which are considered high class and fashion. It’s not so much the trousers and shirt, but the socks.”
>Wow, is it hot in here, or is it just him . . . waitimeanyou-
>”Yeah . . . in my culture, this is about as conservative as you can get. I mean, I was a cashier. Dress shoes, khaki slacks, company polo and a belt . . . this outfit beats abstinence when it comes to preventing pregnancy. Or at least ties. Depends on your religion.”
>He starts taking his shoe off, leaning against the doorway to support himself.
>Oh, that’s a neat trick, you hadn’t really thought of the impracticality of putting on and taking off shoes as a biped.
>Suddenly you’re facing a strange, slightly smelly pinkish appendage with 5 little nubs on the end, each topped off with small, vestigial looking talons.
>You can’t contain your sudden burst of realization.
“Plantigrade, that makes sense why you’d wear shoes and socks all the time!”
>Your unease about discussing why a colt shouldn’t wear socks in public was overcome with a desire to know more about a fascinating and compliant entirely alien subject that you were about to have breakfast with.
>He did insist on putting his footwear (as you learned it was called) back on, but it was understandable to a certain degree.
>You try and imagine walking on rocks on just the frogs of your hooves and it makes you shudder a bit.
>You spend the next few minutes bombarding him with questions about the mechanics and evolution of his foot, which he answers to the best of his ability before rather telling you, in a rather overly dramatic fashion, that you should ask him about it over breakfast.
>”That is, of course, unless you want to learn more by performing an autopsy.”
>Those were his exact words.
>Colts, even when they’re from another dimension.

>You are the great bumper of heads on doorways, and you have gotten a crash course in ponyland.
>AKA: Equestria.
>You are Anon, and this is a fucking trip.
>You get a crash course in the different kinds of ponies, how not to be racist, why you can’t let people see that you’re wearing socks in public, the currency, the current political landscape, and the nature of their weather in the time it takes you to get from the book treepository to Sugarcube Corner.
>Seems to be not many folks about on the streets, but then again it doesn’t seem to be a very large town that you’re in.
>You get stares, and a few whispers, but they seem to be more out of curiosity than fear.
>”What an odd looking minotaur, so slender, and graceful.”
>>”Maybe they’re like, an endangered subgroup? Could explain why they’re out and about with Twilight.”
>The commentary typically followed a similar vein.
>Apparently, Twilight, your daughter, was a bit of a local celebrity.
>You feel a sudden surge of pride. You know that you haven’t done really anything to deserve it, but still.
>You marvel as you step inside what appears to be a massive gingerbread house.
>You are about to ask Twilight about her mother when you’re interrupted by a Pink bomb going off in your face.
>The explosion of fur, color, motion, and gasping goes off flying down the street before you can even begin to process what just happened.
“What was-”
>”Pinkie.”
>The way she says it in such a flat, dejected tone with a small sigh at the end both reminds you of yourself, and makes you fear for your future.
“Do I need to-”
>”Nope, don’t fight it, just let it happen. I know from experience, that just makes it worse.”
>That’s . . . pretty rapey sounding.
>”Window booth?”
>Twilight gestures with a hoof toward a sizeable seating area by one of the windows looking out over the town square.
>A large fountain gurgles away as half a dozen ponies mill about, setting up various stalls and stands.
“Sure.”
>You manage to squeeze into a booth designed for someone much smaller than you, but it’s not terribly uncomfortable. A bit like sitting in a chair designed for a 4th grader, except with more padding.
“So, Twilight, could you tell me about your mother?”
>You inquire in a low tone, spoken softly, with hands folded neatly in front of you.
>The eatery is almost devoid of customers.
>There’s a tired looking mare at the counter nursing a mug of coffee, but you’d wager they’re more interested in getting a warm meal and getting to bed after a graveyard shift than your conversation.
>If that mare was uninterested, Twilight was downright opposed.
>You can tell by the way her eyes are almost bugging out of her head.
>”I . . . I would rather talk about this later. And . . . umm, could you maybe, keep it quiet as to the ehh . . . nature of our relation?”
>”WHAT’S THIS I HEAR ABOUT RELATIONS?”
>You and Twilight both jump at the volume and proximity of the sound.
>”Hey there ‘Anonymous Stranger’-”
>The pink mare with a mane like cotton candy that just appeared out of thin air gives you a hearty wink.
>”-how do you know my good friend Twilight here?”
>She leans in close, her eyes half lidded in in a ‘come hither’ stare if you’ve ever seen one.
>”And how’d you like to know me?”
>She bites her lip, and you can feel her undressing you with her eyes.
>”In the biblical sense.”
>With each phrase she’s leaned in a little closer, and now she’s close enough that you can tell she smells like powdered sugar.
>You are a terrifying mixture of frightened, confused, aroused, and hungry.
>She’s suddenly enveloped in a field of purple magic.
>Frozen like a statue, Twilight gives her a gentle boop to the nose and she begins floating off into the air, like a very strange experiment aboard the international space station.
>You track her bubblegum pink form with a sick fascination as it gently floats up toward the ceiling, bouncing off with a quiet thump before lazily spinning into the back room.
>”Pinkie likes to meet new people. Sometimes she goes a bit overboard though.”
>You give her a concerned look.
“Is she okay?”
>Twilight sits up, cocking her head to the side a bit.
>”The spell you mean? Oh, perfectly fine. She gets a kick out of it. Honestly, she bugs me until I cast it on her some days. Something about ‘I am a leaf on the wind”.
>”Alright, sorry about that Twilight, and Twilights friend. What can I get you two for breakfast?”
>The pink one has suddenly reappeared. No sound, no motion, simply . . . there.
>Jesus Christ. How horrifying.
>”A stack of pancakes with a side of hashbrowns for myself. Anon?”
>You look around for a menu to order off of, before realizing that everyone that eats here has eaten here for at least a decade.
“I’ll, umm, have what she’s having.”
>The Pink one nods before . . . bouncing away?
>Twilight does have some interesting friends.
“Hey, umm, how’d she get out of your, you know, spell?”
>Twilight shrugs.
>”I’ve been studying that mare for as long as I’ve known her. Best answer I can give? By being Pinkie.”
>You’re going to have to keep an eye on that one.

>You’re Anon.
>And these pancakes are fucking amazing.
>You have literally never had food this good before.
>Of course, you’ve never been aggressively propositioned by a pink pony before.
>Or been to another reality.
>Or had a daughter.
>Really, it’s just been a day of firsts for you.
“Sho, uhm, Twohloght-”
>You do your best to speak around a mouthful of rich buttermilk pancakes and syrup.
>And you fail miserably.
>Ah well, at least you caught her attention, she was busy giving her own breakfast the same treatment.
>Swallowing, you idly gesture at her with a forkful of pancakes.
“So Twilight, I have a few questions. Serious questions.”
>You glance around for that pink spook.
>You don’t see her, but that’s no guarantee of safety . . .
>Twilight gargles out something indistinct around pancakes, and you can’t help but chuckle a bit.
>You’re not sure if you’re finding resemblance where it doesn’t exist, or if she really takes after you that much.
“Swallow first, then try again.”
>You think you hear a faint “That’s what he said” from the kitchen, but you’re not quite sure.
>She swallows hard, turning a bit red before looking up at you with that slightly guilty expression she was wearing back at the library.
>”Yes?”
>God that’s cute . . . the faint blush, the eyes that meet yours for a moment before looking down and away, the way she sits with her front hooves between her back legs, fidgeting a bit.
>Makes you want to ruffle her hair again.
>This isn’t the time for that though, now is a serious time, for serious questions.
“Why are we not disclosing the nature of our relationship?”
>You lean in a bit as you say it, lowering your voice to a whisper.
>You swear she turns a shade redder.
“It’s because I’m human, right?”
>You thought she might have been a bit flustered before, but now she’s definitely bright red.
>”W-what? No! That’s-”
>She leans in close enough to you that you can smell the maple syrup on her breath.
>”That’d be super, super racist . . . it’s just . . .”
>She leans away from you, and starts to tap her forehooves together.
>Her eyes seem to dart around the room, looking at anything and everything other than you.
>”It’s just that my mom’s . . . husband . . . might not take kindly to you being around. Or existing.”
“Oh.”
>The taste of the breakfast sours in your mouth.
>Unbelieveable.
>Just . . . you don’t know what to do with this right now.
>First there was the dimension hopping, then finding out you committed sodomy with a horse, then finding out you spawned a talking unicorn, now it turns out you’re a goddamn homewrecker.
>You close your eyes and let out a long sigh.
>This was so not your day.
>You were excited you wouldn’t have to close when you woke up this morning.
“I’m gonna take a walk. Just, around. I can find my way back to the Library. It’s the only building in town that’s a tree. I just need some time to think.”
>You step out of the booth and head for the door. Not like you have any money to pay the bill anyway.
“Just, why exactly did you decide to bring me here then?”
>Your tone isn’t exactly friendly, but it isn’t harsh. It’s an honest question, what exactly made her think this was a good idea?
>You don’t wait for a reply.
>You run your hands through your hair as you walk out the front door of “Sugarcube Corner.”
>This such bullshit. Of all the bull to ever be shat, this is the most that has ever been compressed into a single day.
>At least for you. You can’t really say that you’re mad at Twilight, because this obviously wasn’t her fault.
>You feel . . . guilty.
>But, you’re mad too.
>You’re mad because you feel guilty for this entire debacle, when you really don’t think it’s your fault.
>You didn’t go in wanting to screw some guys wife.
>You didn’t decide to knock her up.
>It’s only been one day, but you got attached to Twilight almost instantly.
>She has so many of the same little mannerisms as you.
>You don’t really know why, but she’s just as cute as a button to you.
>You never would have believed it if someone told you that you’d think of a pony as ‘cute as a button’, but here you are.
>You haven’t been paying all that much attention to where you were walking, but it’s not like you were super concerned about walking into a bad neighborhood.
>You got a few wolf . . . erm, pony whistles, but that’s it.
>Neigh-borhood.
>Pony-whistle.
>Fucking horsepuns.
>What the fuck was up with the clouds? Why is it so goddamn dark all of a sudden?

>You are now the whitest Princess.
>Also the most tea loving Princess.
>The most clerically savvy Princess.
>The tallest Princess.
>Arguably the best Princess, if you said so yourself.
>The top sun, if you will.
>And now that you’re done being smug, you really need to get Luna to calm down.
>”-felt it. Trust in my words and experience, sister. Thou hasn’t dabbled in the darker arts as we have, you have not tread the dark and lonely paths to power that oft seduce the overly ambitious. Ponyville is in dire need of our assistance. Something from beyond the veil has reached out, and ensared that place in its unholy grip.”
>You take a poised, elegant sip of tea.
“Twilight will handle it.”
>Ruling really became so much easier after you decided to delegate that ‘Element of Harmony’ business to some other ponies.
>Honestly, you don’t know how you managed with it before.
>You could barely get in a massage, a brunch, and 2 naps a day in when you handled it all yourself.
>Some days you had to skip the second nap!
>Luna lets out an exasperated huff.
>”Sister, while we understand that you place great trust in your student, we believe that her yearning for knowledge has been her undoing. We fear that she has summoned something in her research, whether in a bid for power, or out of unbridled curiosity we can’t be sure, but we can be sure that things that are not of this realm walk amidst the citizenry of Ponyville!”
>She punctuates this last statement with a stomp of her hoof.
>You take another sip of tea.
“Luna, this is simply not worth getting worked up over. Twilight and her friends have-”
>Luna interrupts you by shattering the stone beneath her front hooves.
>”SISTER. THOU WOULD DO WELL TO HEED MY WARNING. YOUR PUPIL CANNOT BOTH BE THE SOURCE AND SOLUTION OF THIS CALAMITY.”
>Small pebbles begin to float up off the ground around her.
>Her eyes begin to glow white as an eldritch wind begins to blow through the throne room.
“I bet you a week's desert it takes care of itself.”
>”W-what?”
>Everything clatters back to the ground as Luna reverts to her normal state, albeit slightly more confused than usual.
>You take a well earned smug sip of tea.
>Oh yeah. Definitely best princess.

>You are the purplest librarian in all of Ponyville.
>And you kinda feel . . . bad.
>Awful.
>He had a point.
>Why did you bring him here?
>There really isn’t anything good that would come of it.
>Your mother . . . well, she may have had a point.
>Statistically speaking, the odds of this ending well were extremely slim.
>Between the interdimensional summoning, the secret keeping, and unknown alien entity suddenly introduced to a wholly different society, there were at least a dozen disasters primed to happen.
>Night Light . . . no, your dad . . .  was a good dad.
>He tucked you in at night when you were little, cheered you on at your mathematics competitions, read you stories at night when you couldn’t sleep, and packed your lunch every single day you went to school.
>You didn’t need a new dad.
>And you certainly didn’t want to break up your family.
>Was it raw curiosity?
>Was it that obsession to know everything about . . . everything that got you into this?
>Or was it the fact that you just . . . did it. You never really even questioned why you were doing it, you just jumped into it and thought it was all going to turn out fine.
>You rest your head on the table with a thud.
>”Twilight . . .”
>A familiar hoof comes to rest on your withers.
>”Are you okay?”
>You meet a set of brilliant cerulean eyes, framed by pink, and set just above a very concerned looking frown.
“Yeah Pinkie . . . I just . . . I might have made a mistake.”
>Pinkie chuckles as she slides into the booth across from you.
>”Listen, I think you dodged a bullet with that colt. Any kind of colt that wears matching socks and underwear to breakfast . . . well either they’re a hell of a party colt . . . or a complete slut.”
>L-lewd . . .
“Nonono Pinkie . . . it’s nothing like that. He’s . . . well he’s a friend of the family.”
>That wasn’t entirely a lie . . . you’d like to think he was your friend, and you were a member of your family.
“I kinda brought him here, but now I don’t really know if it was the best thing to do. He traveled a long, long way, and-”
>Pinkie cocks her head to the side, her pink, cotton candy mane bobbing in front of her face.
>”So . . . he’s fair game?”
>You blink dumbly.
>”Because . . . I was lying about what I said earlier, that colt was so hot I was afraid the fire alarm was gonna go off. Seriously . . . all those clothes . . . and I mentioned the matching socks and underwear right? Pinkie sense tells me a great many things about that one . . .”
>She waggles her eyebrows at you.
>She breaks into a wide grin, and you can’t help but mirror the expression as you roll your eyes.
“Seriously Pinkie? You’re a hound.”
>”Hey, gotta chase if you’re gonna catch any.”
>Celestia bless this crazy pink girl.
>She knew how to brighten your spirit, and was a total sis about it.
>The sound of rolling thunder shakes you from your thoughts suddenly.
>Apparently, it caught Pinkie’s attention too, as she glances out at the rapidly darkening skies.
>”Weird . . . I thought they moved up the storm and had it last night instead . . .”
>That’s when you noticed the bright green wave of fire rolling through the marketplace.
“Oh crud.”

>You are Anonymous.
>And while you hadn’t managed to see much of ‘Horsetown’, you were pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to have a slowly rotating cyclone of tar black clouds above it.
> You were definitely sure they shouldn’t be a pillar of pulsating green light coming from near the center of town.
>And you were absolutely certain that whenever these two things got together that it was some apocalyptic shit about to go down.
>Alright, that’s not true.
>You originally thought this might just be another crazy part of this crazy world, but the running and screaming townsfolk put a stop to that kind of thinking.
“Shit.”
>That was all you managed to say before a wave of green fire rolled through the avenue, pouring around corners and out of alleyways before you even had a chance to soil yourself in terror.
>Luckily for you, green fire is far healthier than regular orange, or say, blue fire.
>You barely even felt it.
>If anything, it was cold, not hot.
>It was almost like someone turned on a really big fan for half a second, and then went on their merry way.
>You blink in dumbstruck silence for a moment.
>Then you notice it.
>The silence.
>Not seconds ago the streets were full of screaming, panicked, delightfully pastel miniature equines.
>You glance around, surveying the situation.
>Property and Possessions: Untouched
>Colorful Micro-Horses: Fuckin wasted
>Okay, good to note, while green fire is non-toxic to humans, and fine for the environment, it’s very bad for horses.
>Like tomatoes, or the green part of a potato in large quantities.
>Fucking hell, your mind always went to weird places when you were scared or nervous.
>You trot across the street, warily eyeing the sickly, green hued column of energy as you kneel down next to a fallen minty green unicorn.
>You spot the slow rise and fall of her chest, and you feel immense relief.
>They might not be human, but you’re not a heartless bastard.
>She doesn’t appear burned, or even hurt, but like the rest she’s completely non-responsive.
>You snap your fingers next to her head.
>Her ears twitch a bit, and her eyes flutter, as if she was trying to wake from a bad dream.
>Freaky.
>A low rumble reaches your ears, drawing your gaze back to the spooky shit happening a few streets over.
>Fuck.
>Okay . . . so there was a correlation between spooky shit and hurt equines.
>You didn’t like hurt equines, they were far too adorable to suffer such a fate.
>Ergo, you didn’t like things that hurt horses.
>Not a massive leap of logic to assume the mean green is the source.
>It IS a massive leap of logic, however, to assume you can fix this.
>Best thing you can do is book it, leave this to the professionals.
>You dust yourself off as you stand, getting ready to do your best Kenyan impersonation, but you have this tiny, weird thought at the back of your head.
>You start to wonder if that’s really the best course of action.
>This is a world populated by unicorns, pegasi, and talking ponies.
>One of which, you swear to god, had a rainbow mane and tail.
>There is so much magic, it’s literally causing a meteorological event
>If you’re going to talk about massive leaps of logic, assuming that your logic still applies is a pretty big one.
> . . .
>Well, in a land of unicorns and magic, the brave knight always wins, and the coward always dies in a gruesome fashion, right?
>You hadn’t actually read the legend of King Arthur, or any book that didn’t have at least a few pictures, but that sounded close enough.
>You might not be a knight in shining armor, but you could manage benevolent but misguided bystander.
>Taking a deep breath, you attempt to channel your patron saint of rage, hatred, and violence.
>Your first semester college roommate, Kenny.
>The Kenmeister was a six foot four, 220 pound MMA fighter who was meaner than a sack full of diamondback rattlesnakes, and about twice as dangerous to piss off.
>You don’t know what an MMA was, but Kendo fought the ones that were 220 pounds, so they were pretty big.
>Ken-stantinople was about as familiar with taking and dishing out pain as a mortal body could be, and still be in (mostly) one piece.
>And now you called upon him, your spiritual liege, to guide you through this crisis.
>You don’t know if it was the magic of the place, or if Ken Kardashian was just that full of rage, but you feel a faint call to violent action from the region just above and behind your testicles.
>You look around you, finding a convenient “Cast Iron Pan, Busted Chair Leg, and Robust Candlestick Emporium” market stall a few paces away.
>You hefted one of the chair legs that had been resting between a fine square skillet and a heavy pewter candlestick.
>You figured this counted as extenuating circumstances, and wouldn’t be considered shoplifting.
>You rest it on your shoulder, taking in a deep breath in through your mouth, and blowing it out your nose.
>You try and recall the two things he said to you when you first met.
>”Hey, I’m Kenny. My friends call me Ken though.”
>And, “If you ever call me Ken-doll again, I’ll fold you up like a pretzel, slather you in cheese, and eat you on my cheat day.”
>It’s now or never you suppose, and you take off at a quick jog toward what, best case scenario, is going to be a really bad day, or worst case scenario, a very short bad day that will last the rest of your life.

>You are Twilight Sparkle, and you were silently thanking spike for training you to always raise a bubble shield at the first sign of unexpected green flame.
>He had burped a lot as a tiny little drake, and you’d had to visit the barber more than one time to trim up the singed parts of your mane after a bout of indigestion on his part.
>The wave of fire had rolled through the square, and even through the cracks around the door, filling the internal space of Sugarcube Corner a few moments later.
>Pinkie was close enough that she had been inside your impromptu shield spell, and was taken completely off guard.
“Pinkie, are you alright?”
>Your voice was loud, and tone sharp.
>You’d seen too much, too often, to lose your head now.
>She blinks in surprise.
>”Twilight . . . I didn’t get a warning.”
>She looks at you, for the very first time in all of your crazy, dangerous, and in her case frequently zany, adventures, with a look of fear.
>”Twilight . . . I didn’t get a Pinkie Sense. Not a quiver, or a tingle, or even a twitch. Nothing.”
>She stared at you, frozen in place, her eyes slowly shrinking to pinpricks as she began to quiver in abject terror.
>She begins to babble incomprehensibly as you push out of the booth, trying to get to the door when you trip over something.
>You stifle as shout as you realize it was a body, but your worst fears are quickly allayed when you realized that the middle aged mare was breathing, even if it was fast and shallow.
>Not wasting any time, you levitate her up off the floor and onto a nearby table, doing your best to ignore Pinkie’s panic stricken state as you assess the mare’s condition.
>It was stable, for the time being, but as you probed and felt her aura, it was like dipping your hoof into a whirlpool.
>The life was flowing out of her, at a prodigious rate.
>It was all she could do to keep her heart beating.
>How was this even possible?
>Magic simply didn’t behave like this.
>You are shaken from your confused stupor by a loud crash and the clatter of silverware.
>Your head snaps over to catch sight of Pinkie crashing to the ground, having overturned a table before face planting, entirely unconscious.
“Pinkie!”
>You call out to her, rushing over, your horn lighting up as you try to prop her into a seated position against the base of one of the booth seats.
>It doesn’t even take a scan this time to see it.
>You can literally see the energy being torn from her body, it must have caused her to faint.
>It’s like a faint blur around the edge of her form, like chalk sidewalk art running in the rain, or sand being swept away in a river.
>You can feel it too, like the drain of a particularly powerful spell tugging at your energy reserves.
>You do your best to shake it off, this was almost nothing compared to that time you placated an Ursa Minor.
>Still, you needed to find where all this energy was draining to, and fast.
>You could take the strain, but some of the elderly ponies around town couldn’t stand up to this for much longer.
>Glancing around, it looked like you were the only one who could take the strain.
>And Anonymous! He was out there too!
>You mentally slap yourself.
>If you had handled the situation a bit better, he would be here right now, where you could at least make sure he was . . . safe? Safe from what though? Could you even protect him?
>The summoning . . . had you closed the gateway before you passed out?
>. . .
>Oh sweet Celestia no . . .
>If you had left a rift to every realm connected by infernal summons . . .
>You prayed to every power you believed in, and even a few that you didn’t, that Spike was still at Sweet Apple Acres.
>You run as fast as your legs will carry you back toward the Library, and nearly fall down when you round the last corner.
>A powerful blast of wind sucked the strength from your body, its fell nature cutting you to the bone with a coldness that shouldn’t even be possible.
>Even as you stagger toward it, you’re blinded by the pillar of light emanating from a crater that used to be your home.
>You’d be stricken by pangs of grief for your destroyed home if it weren’t for the overwhelming panic that you were doing your best to force down.
“SPIKE!”
>You shout at the top of your lungs, your [spoiler] hoarse [/spoiler] shriek barely audible above the heavy, rumbling roar of whatever unnatural thing was attempting to claw its way into the world.
>You summon up a great spell, drawing on deep reserves of magic you normally wouldn’t touch outside of an emergency situation, but you were fairly certain this qualified.
>A spell of warding, of banishment, of sealing and sanctification, meant to blast anything in that rift back from whence it came and to plug the gaping tear in reality.
>The charge built on your horn, a mass of crackling purple lightning slowly being shaped into a sphere larger than yourself, by several times over.
>You let loose the tremendous concentration of magical power in a single blast, the power of the spell blowing out windows on both sides of the boulevard, and singing the ground beneath its path of travel, before it suddenly halted, and began to shrink rapidly, draining away into nothing.
>Squinting in exhausted confusion, you made out an odd shape, almost lost in the blinding brightness.
>Something deep inside you, even before you realized what you were looking at, told you to be afraid.
>It was a fear born not of experience, or even evolution, but of the soul.
>A thing that should not be stepped out of the light, its dark majesty freezing you in place with its oppressive presence.
>The fear of an incomprehensible void fills your soul in that moment, before a high pitched shriek filled your ears.
>You don’t even recognize that the shrieking voice is your own, you’re much too frightened for that.
>In your mind, you are a helpless child again, trapped in a nightmare where you can’t wake up.
>Again and again you have placed faith in your abilities that had always carried you through, only to find that they were not enough.
>A bitter, icy laughter fills the air, or maybe just your head, you can’t really be sure, and it probably doesn’t make a difference.
>”You thought you could elude me? That your wretch of a sire could save you from my grasp? I am Nehzek, the Aphelion King, the Dead-Speaker, the Great Devourer. I am not merely your death, I am your end.”
>It has a voice is a mixture of high and low tones, synthesized from the buzzing of a thousand flies and the sound of meat tearing.
>It was not something meant to be heard by mortal ears, and those that did were not given enough time to comprehend its nature.
>You try and scream again, but this time, no sound comes out.
>It is upon you, suddenly, not particularly caring for the concepts of time, or distance.
>Those were for lesser beings.
>As you stare at the shadow, growing ever larger, it feels like someone has put your heart in a vice, and is actively sucking the breath from your lungs.
>You struggle look up at its face, and find a distorted skull of bleached bone, long faced, like a horse, but with horns like a bull.
>The eyes, 4 of them, bore into your own, glowing with an unholy light, and thick black ichor seeps from between its fanged jaws, causing the ground to hiss and burn where the droplets strike the ground.
>Swaddled in rotting cloth, it must be at least 8 feet tall, its twisted bipedal form towering over you.
>Strips of flesh, which you doubted were the creatures own, dangle from moldering bone, inscribed with icons and symbols that make the eyes ache of those who look on them.
>Four arms project from its torso, each pair of limbs meeting in front of its chest in a cruel mockery of prayer.
>The smell of rotting flesh and sulphur washes over you as the skeletal form floats at you silently, its feet hanging inches off the ground.
>If every muscle in your body wasn’t frozen in terror, you’d soil yourself.
>Not even nightmares were this terrifying.
>”Your gods will prostrate themselves before me, begging for mercy, offering your kind up as sacrifices to my insatiable hunger, and when I have gorged myself on every last morsel of life on this plane, I will consume those pitiful charlatans as well. Of all the simpering creatures to befoul this existence with the disgusting stench of life . . . Twilight Sparkle, you are my favorite. For it was you who invited me to this grand feast, and as is befitting of your status of host . . . I will use your body as just that. Within the darkness of your corrupted body and flayed soul, I will forge an avatar that will darken the stars.”
>It tilted its head back as its mouth unhinged itself, and a thick, glistening, wet tendril of rotting meat studded with ossified barbs and weeping sores slithered out, coiling loosely around its body with a disgusting squelch.
>The forked tip inched toward you slowly, drawn in by the heat of your still living body, or perhaps the raw essence of your terror.
>You want to run, to scream, to flinch, to flee, but all you can do is stare into the orbs of baleful light glowing deep in the recesses of the abominable things eye sockets as the impossibly long tendril gently caresses the side of your face.
>”FUUUUUUUUUUCK-”
>The tendril slurps back into the fell creature’s head as it whirls around toward the source of the sound.
> . . . Anonymous?
>You identify the object flying through the air as your biological father a half second before he plants both his feet on the things chest and drop kicks it halfway across the street.
>”-YOOOOUUU!”
>He crashes to the ground with a grunt, and, after recovering surprisingly quickly, hops to his feet, hands clenched into fists of rage.
>”Keep yo nasty ass mouth tentacles THE FUCK. OFF. MY. DAUGHTER.”
>Anon punctuated the last few words of his command with several powerful, stomping blows to the creature's chest cavity, crushing it like brittle paper mache.
>You collapse to the ground, it’s powers no-longer holding you frozen in place.
>Apparently, the sheer surprise and ferocity of his assault had taken the creature completely off guard.
>It was far less intimidating when it was folded up heap of strange bones in the gutter.
>Before you could muster up a spell to assist him, Anonymous was laying about the creature’s head and shoulders with what appeared to be a scavenged chair leg.
>Each blow reaped a fresh crop of shattered bone and spattered ichor.
>While your magic had done nothing but amuse it, blunt force trauma seemed to have the desired effect of disabling it.
>This was becoming rapidly evident as it attempted to defend itself from the savage beating Anonymous was dispensing, succeeding only in having its arm ripped off, then used as an improvised club.
>You were awestruck for a moment, by the terrible fury and savagery with which he was ravaging this creature, this nightmare made manifest.
>You idly wondered if this was the freak strength that some stallions displayed when their foals were put in harm’s way, able to single hoofedly lift overturned carts and the like.
>The absolute fearlessness of his assault caught you as well.
>The utter disregard for self-preservation as his body was spattered in that caustic ichor, and how he seemed to utterly ignore it, even when his improvised club had begun to smolder from the acidic, tar like substance seeping from what you would best describe as his victim.
>Perhaps he really did care about you. It’d be unreasonable for him to immediately assume a paternal role, but it’d also be equally irrational to believe that he wouldn’t experience basic male nurturing instinct toward his offspring.
>You had only really known each other for the better part of the morning.
>But, you couldn’t really deny that on some level, you had connected instantly.
>”Twilight! Are you hurt?”
>You snap out of your internal dialogue as you suddenly realize that, one, you are still in the middle of a crisis, two, there is still an abomination from beyond your reality in the street, and three, a colt had done almost all of the fighting.
>His brow, furrowed with concern, was a stark contrast to the savage grimace he wore during his bout of single combat with the beast.
“N-no . . . not physically at least.”
>You manage to stammer out.
>Your legs felt like jelly, your vision was starting to blur, and you were barely strong enough to manage a teleportation spell.
>Brightening up immediately, Anonymous shoots back, ”Good. Then help me get fugly here back into whatever hellhole he crawled out of.”
>He’s currently holding . . . about half of a shattered skeleton, now completely inanimate, save for the glowing orbs resting in the thing’s skull.
>One of its legs is missing, and all of the arms are gone.
>As anon stands and hoists its shattered frame onto his back, the leg finally gives out, exploding into dust as it falls off and impacts the ground.
>Only the skull remains intact, the rest of the body simply crumbling into dust as the fetid burial shroud is blown into the light by an intangible wind.
>”Huh . . . that’ll be easier to carry.”
>Anon nonchalantly lets the skull drop to his side, hanging on to one of the remaining horns, the other having been broken off somewhere in the fight.
>You stare, slack jawed, from a mixture of magical exhaustion, shock, heart pounding terror, and utter bewilderment.
“What did you . . . how . . . what are you?”
>He glances over his shoulder at you as he shrugs.
>”What? My third step-dad was a tax lawyer. This guy-“ He shakes the skull at you. “-is some pansy shit compared to that.”
>He leans in closer to you, eyes wide.
>You have two thoughts at this moment, one, that you never really considered that your father might not be from the same type of world as you, and two, you really should have asked him more about his world, rather than just talking about his feet on the way to breakfast.
>The way he’s dealing with this . . . you’re starting to understand why the summoning to bring him here was so sinister.
>Nodding solemnly, Anonymous strolls toward the dimensional rift connecting equestrian to half a dozen dead voids and hellscapes, as if he was taking a leisurely stroll in the park, showing off a new saddlebag, rather than preparing to hurl the binding vessel of a greater incarnation of death back into the howling void that spawned it.
>He pats his leg gently with his free hand. ”C’mon kiddo, we’ve got a world to save.”
>Silhouetted against the rift, with trails of smoke rising off his clothing from where the caustic vital fluids were burning it, you feel a twinge of confidence.
>Your dad, Night Light, tucked you in, read you stories, and checked under your bed for monsters.
>Anonymous, your father, came to you from across dimensions when you called for him, saved you from a dark god, and then tore it limb from limb for threatening you.
>There was a strange warmth spreading through your chest as you did your best to trot after him.
>Sure, you were out of breath, your body ached from where your muscles had been frozen in place, and you could feel the last of your magical power being sucked from your body into an infinite, dead void.
>And sure, this was pretty much all your fault.
>But . . . you were still stuck with a creeping certainty that everything would turn out alright . . . because Anonymous was here.
>You didn’t know it on a conscious level, but as you fell in line behind him you held your head a bit higher, and there was just a bit more confidence in your step.
>Your father was here. He’d protect you. Make things right.
>Maybe it was the extreme fatigue talking . . . but you believed it.

>You were exhausted.
>Mentally, physically, and magically.
>You make a note, the next time you were overtaken by the impulse to bring something, anything, into your world from another, just don’t.
>You felt like you were standing in an ice cold river, except instead of sucking the warmth from your body, it was the life that was getting sucked out of it.
>Your legs felt like they were made of lead, and your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it over the dull groan of the portal you had accidentally left open.
>Anon, on the other hand, seemed completely unphased.
>”Twilight . . .”
>It takes you a few moments to register that someone was talking to you.
>”Twilight . . . how are we gonna close this thing?”
>Right . . . good point.
>You ponder just exactly how to seal an interdimensional rift, something that was quite frankly believed to be fringe science, pseudo-magical theory.
>Had you not been so focused, you would have heard him say, “I have an idea.”
>The rift was a non natural event, so it had to have been sustained by something . . . which could be anything from an energy siphon, a runestone imbued with a massive amount of energy, or even an extra dimensional, physical construct.
>It might not even be possible to close the rift from the outside.
>You were so engrossed in the potential sources of power to the rift, and what might be the best way to disrupt them, that you missed it when Anonymous hefted the skull at chest height and flung it whirling into the rift like a particularly morbid frisbee.
>You did not miss, however, the resulting explosion.
>More significantly, the resulting explosion, did not miss you.

>You are Anon.
“FUUUuuuUUUucking OUCH.”
>And sweet nondescript deities did that hurt.
>Felt like you just got hit by a 200 pound linebacker.
>You reach up to rub the dust and dirt out of your eyes.
>Tossing Mr. Bones Wild Skull into the beamy green was probably a bad idea.
>You’re lying flat on your back, and staring up at the clear blue sky.
>Clear blue sky was a good thing, that meant that everyone probably wasn’t doomed.
>You manage to sit up with a grunt, and take a look around.
>Things were pretty messed up.
>There was a very large crater where the Book Treepository used to be.
>At least you were pretty sure that’s where it was.
>Your ears were still ringing pretty bad, so a concussion wasn’t out of the question.
>All of the windows you could see were blown out, and the ground was pretty . . . scorched looking.
>You glance down at yourself.
>Your shirt was toast, literally toast, with black, nasty, spooky jam smeared all over it.
>Eugh, even smelled awful.
>Your shoes were, fortunately, melted off rather than on.
>You could only imagine you had stupid explosion cartoon hair, considering this place seemed to run on cartoon logic.
>Any explosion strong enough to throw you should have ruptured every capillary in your lungs, and turned you into a walking corpse.
>You take a deep breath, and make a pleasant note of the fact that you aren’t drowning in your own blood.
>The khaki slacks were totally fine, those people at Scotch Guard don’t fuck around.
“Well Twilight, I think we can call that a win for the good guys.”
>You glance around, looking for your small purple protege.
“Twilight?”
>You look over your shoulder and find her about 15 paces back.
>She wasn’t moving.
“Shit!”
>You scramble to your feet, ignoring the shooting pain in your legs, arms, and chest..
>You stumble as you run toward her, skidding the last few feet on your knees.
>You’re no horse doctor, but you can tell she’s in bad shape.
”Hey . . . c’mon, just . . .”
>Rolling her over onto her back, you press your ear to her chest.
>You hear a reassuring, rhythmic thump . . . thump . . . thump . . .
>It’s slow, but it’s strong.
>You pry one of her eyes open, and her pupil contract quickly in the midday sun.
>That’s . . . good, you think. Heartbeat is good, pupil contraction means no brain damage . . . right?
>No . . . even vegetables did that.
>Your head is pounding, you can barely think straight right now.
>Shit. Dr. Phil would be better than you right now.
“I need a doctor! Somebody, anybody get me a doctor!”
>Your voice sounds ragged, and desperate, which were both fairly accurate representations of how you felt right now.
>You scoop her up in your arms for the second time in 24 hours, and struggle to your feet.
>Not a small feat between her dead weight, your fatigue, and the trauma from the blast.
>Her head lolls back limply, and you hurriedly shift her in your arms to better support her.
>Cradling the back of her head with your hand, you tuck her up against you as tight as you dare.
>She groans softly, her forelegs weakly pawing against your bruised chest as you take off down empty streets, looking for someone, anyone who can help you.
>A single thought floats through your mind from a biology class in highschool.
“Good, if she can move her legs, that means her spine wasn’t severed.”
>Fear, you feel fear.
>It takes you a second to realize that’s what it is.
>It hadn’t quite set in when you saw the rift, and you hadn’t had time to be scared of . . . whatever the fuck that thing was.
>Now you were afraid.
>Afraid that Twilight, that the daughter you just found out you had, was hurt.
>Afraid that you wouldn’t be able to help in time.
>Afraid that you wouldn’t be able to help at all.
>Afraid that you might be making things worse, carrying her like this.
>But more than anything else, you were terrified that this incredible little mare with the heart of a lion was going to slip through your fingers without you ever really getting to know her.
“Can somebody get me a motherfucking doctor!”

>You are Dr. Feel Good, M.D.
>And sweet Celestia your head hurt.
>Your stomach was doing flip flops, and the second you opened your eyes, you regretted it.
“Uurgh . . .”
>You groaned as you pulled yourself to your hooves using your black mahogany desk.
>A you sent half a dozen patient files tumbling as you did so, eliciting another groan.
“Great . . . just perfect. That’s gonna take at least half an hour to sort back together.”
>Your dismay over future paperwork was cut short, however, by a commotion coming from just outside your office.
>Suddenly, your door burst open, filled with the robust form of Nurse Red Heart, her sharp, barking tone cutting through the din of confused groaning and crying coming from outside.
>”Dr. Good, there’s been a detonation about a klick and a half out. We’re gonna be swamped with casualties within the hour, I’ve got nurses setting up a triage station out front, and we’re already moving extra beds out of storage into wherever we have floorspace.”
>You blink, confused by a few things.
>One, you weren’t sure why you had just been on the floor of your office.
>Second, you had no idea what a klick was.
>And thirdly, nurse Red Heart seemed to be bleeding from a fairly sizeable head contusion.
>Her head snapped to the right as she yells at some unseen individual.
>”I need two dozen units of O+ from storage to the aid station, bucking yesterday!”
>You can see shattered glass on the floor of the hallway, and the cries of several dozen confused, distressed, and injured ponies began to assail your ears.
>This was not the type of medicine you practiced.
>You removed warts, set sprained wings, and gave suckers to little fillies and colts after they got their shots.
>You’d done triage work in med school, but that was 20 years ago, Tartarus, they’d changed the right way to do CPR since then.
>This was chaos, and madness, and so much more than you were ever trained for.
“I . . . what . . . I don’t . . .”
>You blather incoherently.
>You couldn’t do this.
>It was just too much.
>And with that, you fainted.


>You are Chief Hospital Corpsmare Red Heart, or just Gunney Heart when things got thick.
>Retired, but it sure as shit didn’t feel like you were retired.
>This situation is all kinds of bucked.
>Dr. Good just fainted, which was one less body to do triage, and one more body to do triage on.
>If there’s anything that you learned in Operation Gulf Swarm, it’s that when it rains, it bucking pours.
>You snarl as you push your way past a dazed nurse in the hallway.
>At least you didn’t have to worry about Changeling infiltrators here, just incompetent staff.
>Of course, then again, you had to constantly remind Majors Barns and Hoofihan to stop playing doctor with one another and be ACTUAL doctors.
>You grab the nurse by the scruff of her neck.
“Get it together! Find a broom and sweep this shit up, the last thing any of us needs is a shard of glass to the frog.”
>Stopping at the aid station, you drag a passed out nurse away from your desk.
>Your head won’t stop pounding, there’s blood in your right eye, and you were about to clock out from a 16 hour double shift when the IEB went off.
>Improvised Explosive Bug for those out of the loop.
>Rummaging through your desk, you force feed yourself a half a dozen caffeine pills, grimacing at the bitter taste as you bite down on one to speed things along.
>Going to be a hard day.
>Half your corpsmares were casualties, the other half were too wiped out by that . . . event . . . to lift much more than themselves.
>Tartarus, the only thing keeping you going was a mixture of anger, discipline, and stimulants.
>You heft a patient back into their wheelchair, and shove them in the nearest room.
“Keep this hallway clear!”
>You step around the shards of glass, blown in from a few offices that faced the center of town.
>No patient rooms facing that way on this floor, and you quietly held out hope that it had been a shaped detonation.
>If it wasn’t . . . you probably had a dozen patients who looked a lot like hamburger on floors 2 and 3.
>You dragged a nurse up off the floor that seemed a little less groggy than the rest.
“Check on rooms 203, 205, and 207, give me a situation update as soon as you can, check for lacerations caused by flying glass.”
>You give her a shove towards the stairwell, not hard, but enough to get her moving.
>Of course, if it wasn’t a shaped detonation, and you had a radial blast that shattered windows at 1500 meters, you might actually not have that many casualties to take care of, as grim a thought as it was.
>The dead don’t take much urgent attention.
“You there!”
>You point a knife hoof at a civilian that had managed to stagger to her hooves.
>”M-me?”
“Yes. You. Follow me.”
>You carefully trot down the hall and open a supply cupboard.
“Take this broom, sweep all the glass in this hall into the nearest empty office you can find, we can deal with it later, for now, get this hall clear.”
>She swallows hard.
>”M-mam . . . I’m just a visitor.”
“I didn’t ask if you were a visitor, you’re gonna save lives today whether you like it or not. Move.”
>You put on your best gunney growl, the kind that puts the fear of Celestia into even the E-4 mafia.
>She gets to work, and quickly.
>She’s confused, and frightened, but doing something you don’t have time to do.
>You skirt a few of the larger shards of glass, silently missing your old combat boots.
>By the time you make it to the lobby, most everyone else is already back on their feet, if a bit shaky, and the injured are coming in by the dozen.
>Most are from suddenly being knocked unconscious, falls and the like, but you have two power tool injuries from a construction site that are urgent, and one stallion that was making a stew and fell on his knife when he passed out.
>Went straight into his gut, and the poor bastard’s wife pulled it out, not knowing any better.
>You have him 50-50 odds to make it through the night.
>Between the blood loss and the potentially septic wound, he was your top priority right now.
>Thank Celestia that Feel Good was only general practitioner, your resident surgeon, Dr. Clean Cut was already in.
>You sent the receptionist to find him, and to get Operating prepped while you ran triage up front.
>The nurse you sent upstairs reported back in, no injuries, but a few broken windows. The blinds took most of the kinetic energy off the shards.
>As you finish directing a pegasus with a broken wing to an exam room, the skinniest male taur you’ve ever seen barges into your aid station out of breath, bleeding, and with a mare in his arms.
>While that caught you off guard, the specific mare he was holding was more important.
>Twilight Sparkle, element of magic.
>She’s saved Ponyville so many times, it doesn’t even merit mentioning when she does it anymore.
>She’s also the personal student of Celestia herself.
>”Nurse . . . I need someone to see to her immediately.”
>You hold up a placating hoof.
“Calm down sir, we’ll get her into triage immediately, can you give us any info on her injuries?”
>He gently lays her on an improvised cot, which was just cushions off one of the break room couches with sheets thrown over.
>Make do or do without.
>He’s worried. Real worried.
>You can smell the shock all over him.
>That, and . . . holy hay this Mino has been through the grinder.
>What you thought was fur is actually clothing, but it’s been set fire to, covered in some nasty tar like substance, and torn up by . . . something.
>He’s pockmarked with shrapnel wounds, he’s bleeding freely from over his left ear, and both of his hands look like someone took a belt sander to his knuckles.
>Still steady though, good.
“Listen, we’re short handed and up to our eyes in casualties. You look like you can carry a pony no problem, so I’ll get her into X-ray, and you lift, shift, and heft whatever I tell you to in the meantime. Deal?”
>He might be the skinniest Mino you’d ever seen, but he was still twice your size, easy.
>He nods.
“Good. Start moving benches out front, and beds from storage up here.”
>Never look a gift Minotaur in the mouth.
>You’d never really understood the saying, but now, here you were, with a gift Minotaur, you certainly weren’t going to question the wisdom of it.

>You were Celestia.
>Aaaand maybe . . . just maybe . . . you shouldn’t have been so flippant about things.
>Your sister-
>You glance down into the courtyard, where she’s marshalled nearly a full compliment of her beloved night guard.
>Yeah, she was freaking out.
>The explosion was bad.
>She knew that.
>You knew that.
>Your advisors knew that.
>What Luna had failed to really think on before putting together a slapdash military intervention was ‘how bad.’
>There’s no point in sending in a team of stealth commandos when you needed doctors and aid workers.
>And there’s no point in sending doctors and aid workers when the town has been caught in the grip of an otherworldly power beyond mortal comprehension.
>As much as your little ponies liked to believe otherwise, you and your sister were mortal, at least in the technical sense.
>You were not impervious to all forms of harm, and only extremely resistant to the flow of time.
>You blink your head clear.
>This behavior was odd. Odd for you, certainly.
>You hadn’t been this somber since . . . since before you’d dealt with the ‘Nightmare’.
>You sigh internally, a mixed sense of dread and deja vu coming over you.
>Time to talk to the nerds.

>You are Anonymous, and you are wiped out.
>You had gotten Twilight into an assessment room quickly, and the news had been good.
>It was the magical equivalent of heat exhaustion.
>Between fighting the spooky green glow, fighting the spooky skeleton, and the raw magical blast, she’d gone beyond the limits of what doctor accepted as survivable.
>And, in the doctor's words, she’d done it “By a factor of 10”
>You didn’t know what exactly to make of that, but she was resting, and was allegedly doing well.
>You’d spent the last 10 hours lifting, shoving, moving, applying pressure to, and cleaning up after dozens of ponies.
>They needed the help, and it kept your mind off of Twilight.
>. . . well, it was keeping your mind off of her.
>You finish stowing the stretcher in the basement, before hustling back up the stairs to look for your daughter's room.
>Red gives you a wordless nod as you pass the nurse’s station, directing you toward Twilight’s room.
>It’s dark outside now, and the hallways are caught in a gloomy, half illumination.
>With things settled down, the hall lights have been cut, only the bedside lights from individual patients remain burning.
>The faint, warm glow from the end of the hall indicates that someone is in Twilight’s room.
>You pause, wondering if it’s a good idea to go in. You were sort of a dark secret after all.
>”I can hear you out there ya know . . .”
>You recognize Pinkie’s voice.
>You sigh, and push the door open.
“Hey . . . Pinkie.”
>You’re met with a rather toned down Pinkie.
>Her hair had gone from poofy to flat and straight.
>Her sparkling crystal eyes had dropped to a matte blue.
>It’s as if someone had sucked the life out of her.
“You doing okay?”
>She smiles weakly.
>”Better than Twilight.”
>She nods at the sleeping mare hooked up to an IV bag..
>”I just wanted to make sure she had someone here in case she woke up . . .”
>She lets out an adorable yawn before rubbing her eyes.
>”And now I’m pretty sure that I won’t be awake for much longer.”
>She takes a long look at you.
>Her eyes narrow a bit, not angrily, but as if she’s squinting at something far off, not just looking at you, but through you.
>”You’re not just a friend of the family, are you?”
>You knew she was perceptive, but that’s just scary.
>Knowledge of the unknowable . . . something gnaws at the back of your head about that.
>You have far more pressing concerns, though.
>Time to decide, lie through your teeth to keep your daughters family life from exploding . . . oh wow that’s a lot of irony for one thought.
>Or tell the truth, and hope she doesn’t tell anyone else.
>Before you can answer, she stands up, and quietly canters past you into the hallway.
>”Just come up with a good answer soon. Once the other girls know about Twilight being laid up in the hospital . . . they’re going to come visit. Not long after that, her family will be knocking down doors to get to her.”
>She pauses, and smiles softly at you.
>It’s an unusual expression on a face that you can only remember as being split wide with a near manic grin.
>”She’s the heart of our little town . . . so . . . thanks. For saving her.”
>She trots away silently into the darkened corridor.
>For some reason, the air feels heavier than it did a moment ago.
>Met unicorn daughter you didn’t know you had.
>Almost lost said unicorn daughter.
>Almost die at hands . . . err . . . whatevers . . . of what’s the closest thing to the devil you can imagine.
>Survive town wrecking explosion
>Spend the next several hours-
>Your rollercoaster of emotional highs and lows is brought to a screeching halt by a soft murmur from the knee high bed in front of you.
>You drop quickly to Twilight’s side, and gently wrap her hoof in your hand as her eyes flutter open weakly.
>”Oh . . . hey . . . so we won?”
>You can’t help yourself, seeing those brilliant eyes open again brings a faint dew to your own.
“Yeah . . . we saved the day.”
>She smiles goofily, whatever was in that IV must have been doing good things.
>“We always do, Elements of Harmony . . . umm . . . a lot. Bad guys, zero.”
>She weakly waves her foreleg around, nearly clocking you in the face.
>”You look awful.”
>She nods sincerely, as if informing you of some deep truth, while her eyelids flutter from her struggle against the sedatives.
>Taking a quick stock of your attire, you do in fact look like hell.
“You’re not wrong, Sparky.”
>You don’t really think about it, but you boop her on the nose gently as you say it.
>”M’not . . . Sparky . . . thasha . . . boy . . . name.”
>Her snout scrunches up at your touch, and her hoof slips from your grip as she reaches up to rub it, as if trying to remove any trace of the offending digit’s contact.
>Her speech is slightly slurred, and her eyes are never more than half open now.
“Whatever you say . . . Sparky.”
>You can’t help but grin as you say it.
>”Nooooo . . . “ she wails softly, her head drooping back as she drifts off to sleep again.
>You’re not sure your heart can take much more of this level of adorable, but it feels clean again. >This pure little momen has washed away the panic, the stress, the fear, and the anger of the entire day.
>You don’t know how the future’s gonna pan out, but you do know that you wouldn’t trade her and moments like this for anything in the world.
>Taking her hoof in your hand again, you gently stroke her forelimb with your thumb as she drifts off to sleep.
>Your stomach growls as you let out a sleepy yawn of your own.
“Gotta get somethin to eat . . . just . . . gonna lay my head down for a bit first . . .”
>You slump over on the bed yourself, your adrenaline fueled super-endurance finally throwing in the towel.
>You dream of a small cabin, in a vast meadow of wildflowers, where the sky is always blue, and the air perpetually smells faintly of crisp spring rains.

>You are the biggest Sun-themed equine to ever sit upon a golden throne.
>And that means that you’re really struggling to identify yourself with anything other than “Celestia.”
>The nerds had arrived.
>”-and as with all non-laminar fields, there is no real way to predict or contain the contaminant flow without completely draining the area of all Marechevian energy.”
>You sigh.
>The nerds had arrived in force.
>You sat in the throne room, your sister adjacent to you, surveying the mess of useless information before you.
>In your hooves you were holding a several foot long scroll that was a rather inaptly named “brief” of the situation.
>And in between the two was a very anxious looking minister of science who had spent the better part of the last day trying to figure out what on Equestria was going on in Ponyville.
>She had spent the last half hour saying, what essentially boiled down to, “Some pretty bad magic.”
>You glance over at your sister, to gauge her reaction, only to find her clearly asleep, her head propped up by her hoof.
>You resist the urge to facehoof, maintaining a stately composure for your audience.
>You give her elbow a discrete, telekinetic nudge, and watch as she crumples like a house of cards, her face slamming into the armrest of her throne with enough force you can hear it.
>Her head literally bounces back up, as she whips her head about, dazed and confused by the . . . kinetic nature of her awakening.
>”-mhmm what I was awake!”
>She blinks rapidly, rubbing her eyes with her hooves as she attempts to play off the fact that she had been completely checked out for the 20 minutes or so.
“Perhaps you would like them to demonstrate the issue in a more . . .concise manner?”
>You offer, goading her smugly.
>Truth be told, you only had a vague notion of what the scientifically inclined mare had been on about, but you weren’t going to miss chance to rub your sisters snout in it.
>”Ahm . . . ah, yes. That would be . . . most appreciated.”
>Aaaand there’s that familiar shade of scarlet peeking through blue fur that you were looking for.
>Hoofpumps internally.
>While you gloat, your nerd mumbles something to themself, and then scuttles off to . . . nerd.
>You didn’t write your own speeches.
“Dearest sister, have the days been too long for you?”
>You say it with just enough false concern that everypony other than Luna would think it was a sincere question.
>She stares daggers back at you, rubbing her sore cheek.
>”No, only the idle talk and inaction that stymies our attempts to defend our citizens.”
>Yeesh, okay, maybe time to ease off . . . you’ve had your fun anyway.
>The lab coat wearing unicorn returns, with some rocks, a few glass chess pieces, a fish tank, and what appears to be the better part of the refreshments table.
>You cock an eyebrow . . . this should be interesting.
>”Alright, your majesties . . . to put it succinctly . . .”
>The flighty looking caramel colored mare begins filling the fish tank with water from the refreshment table.
>”This fishtank, is our world.”
>She places a small castle on the far right side of it.
>”This is Canterlot.”
>A sunken treasure chest goes on the far end.
>”And this is Ponyville.”
>You nod approvingly.
“Go on, you needn’t be so nervous.”
>You offer a kind smile, with a slight nod.
>The mare coughs into her hoof, while mirroring your gesture.
>”Right. Sorry. Umm, so, this-”
>She levitates a small rock into the air above the tank.
>”Is the entity we believed breached the dimensional barrier approximately 26 hours ago.”
>She drops it into the tank next to Ponyville with a quiet splash.
>Hmm. Well, that doesn’t seem so bad.
>Wait a minute.
“Did you say 26 hours?”
>The mare nods vigorously.
>”That would be correct, our harmonic observatory detected a substantial ripple in the characteristic background waveform of Equestria.”
>Okay . . . time for you to look foolish.
“The visible event occurred only about 12 hours ago, why the delay?”
>The mare brightens up, a broad grin forming on her face.
>”Well, that’s the interesting part! See, there was a second breach! Or, more specifically, an aftershock of the first breach.”
>She levitates another stone, this one looking slightly damp, and larger.
>”This clay ball represents the second entity arriving in our world.”
>She drops it in, with a much larger splash, and as you look closely, it appears to be disintegrating.
>”Now, this isn’t the same as the first, this one immediately began shedding exotic particles that have no business outside of a lab. Highly dangerous, highly toxic, and highly . . . nasty.”
>Her face scrunches up as she says it.
>You watch with concern as the clay begins to crumble and fall apart in the water.
>”Now, it’s not exactly a perfect model, the real thing just shed the particles, but, it’s good enough for this next part.”
>She takes ahold of the small stone, and, moving it underwater, smashes the clay ball with it, sending a cloud of murky brown filth all through the tank.
>She stirs it around a bit for good measure.
>”The two entities . . . interacted. And the first entity, destroyed the second, and I mean, destroyed-”
>Luna interjects “How does thou know this?”
>You really need to learn the names of your advisors, you can’t just keep thinking of her as ‘mare’, it’s really rather rude.
>Of course, they have an irritating habit of dying every few decades, so it’s a sisyphean task.
>You unconsciously sigh.
>”Well, your highnesses, it’s really sort of . . . wild supposition that me and the girls threw together from the data . . . but the waveforms overlapped briefly, and then there was a massive pulse, followed by random noise.”
>She gestures to the tank.
>”The contamination then spread aggressively, but shifted from a linear increase, to a raw impulse, with a logarithmic decline.”
>She looks at the two of you eagerly, waiting for you to make the logical jump.
>You don’t.
>”Umm . . . right. The first entity destroyed the second entity, so violently, that it just got smeared across half of equestria, resulting in a form of magical contamination that while not dangerous, would substantially interfere with the natural magics of most living things.”
>That got both your and Luna’s attention.
“How so? And what else can you say of the first entity?”
>Your nerd mumbles something into the collar of her lab coat, before smiling apologetically.
>”I . . . well, even calling it an entity was wild supposition. This thing could be a fractal waveform, a sentient construct, something that we can’t even comprehend, something that might drive you mad just to see it, if it can even truly be ‘seen’ at all.”
>The wild, excited look on her face really, really doesn’t suit the terrible news she’s delivering.
>”It’s fascinating, really!”
>The grin on her face slowly melts into one of deep embarrassment.
>”Ehh . . . is what I would say, if the situation were different. The interference can manifest as anything from an inability to perform one’s natural talent, to terrible luck, to an ill tempered mood, to . . . well, any kind of disharmony really. Best way I can describe it . . . it just makes everything shittier.”
>She lets out a gasp and clamps her mouth shut in shock at her own foul mouth.
>”I . . . umm, well, that would be one effect of the contamination.”
>She murmurs abashedly.
>Luna responds first.
>”And how would we begin to clean up this . . . contamination?”
>All that comes out of the advisor is a long string of technical babble so dense, all you recognize in it are a hoof-full of prepositions.
>Gonna be a long night.

>You are Twilight Sparkle.
>And you are terrified.
>Something has you, wrapped up tight in it’s foul tendrils, strangling you.
>”Shhh . . . it’s okay Twilight . . . it’s okay.
>Something is running through your mane, across your scalp, and down your neck.
>”I’m here, don’t cry . . . “
>The soft, masculine voice . . . you recognize it after a few seconds, and cease your struggling.
>Your father . . . the tendrils slowly become arms, and you recognize the sensation against your scalp as someone brushing your mane.
>The warm, earthy scent of his embrace floods your nostrils as you suck in a halting, half-choked breath.
>You feel the tears running down your face, soaking into his shirt as he clutches you tightly.
>As you let out a wrenching sob, you twist about to bury your face in his chest.
>”It’s okay . . . you had a bad dream, that’s all. Nothing more than a bad . . . bad dream.”
>He pats you softly as you press your face into his ruined shirt.
>The warm feeling of his embrace envelopes you like a blanket, and warms you far more than the cheap hospital sheeting can.
>As you cry into his chest, you can hear the steady, mechanical thump of his heartbeat, a metronome for you to focus on as you attempt to regain your senses.
>”You’re safe . . . as long as I’m here you’re safe.”
>He croons softly into your ear, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other stroking your back as if you were but a filly.
>Compared to him, you are, and you let yourself imagine his massive frame shielding you from the horrors of your nightmare.
>The black tide of their vileness crashes upon him, like storm surge breaking upon a rock.
>You’re safe. As long as he is there . . . you’re safe.
>The words echo through your mind, and you focus on it as you slowly come to your senses.
“D-dad?”
>You sniffle quietly.
>”Yes dear?”
>He gently wipes the tears from under each of your eyes, using the back of his blunt-taloned finger.
“Please don’t let go . . .”
>He chuckles that soft, rich growl of his, a baritone rumble that instantly establishes him as both dangerous predator, and stalwart protector.
>”Never dear . . . never.”
>You sit like that, for quite some time.
>Your head tucked up under his chin while he gently strokes you.
>Eventually, your breathing slows down to match his, and the sound of his rhythmic, methodical pulse plays a percussive harmony to your own
>The panic fades from your mind, and the dream so terrifying, is now distant, and indistinct.
>Your faculties slowly return to you as you shake off the last effects of your slumber, and the terror of your nightmare.
>You almost don’t want to come to your senses, it just feels so . . . nice, to be held like this.
>Your stomach growls, loudly, shattering the atmosphere like a sledgehammer to a blown glass hummingbird.
>”So you’re hungry too?” Anon says with a laugh.
>You nod, slightly embarrassed as he lays you back and tucks the sheets in around you, like you were some kind of child.
>To be fair though, you did just wake up crying from a nightmare . . .
>Actually, no, that’s not any better.
>You’re a grown mare, this sort of behavior should have been put to rest just after hoof sucking at age 6.
>You squirm as he tussles your mane.
>No fair! He’s bigger . . . that’s all. Just, his size . . . invokes developmental instincts of submission and helplessness.
>That’s it.
>”Tell you what, I’ll pop down to the cafeteria, and see if I can grab us some food. I’m starving too.”
>He gives you that toothy grin that makes you shiver.
>Cuspids . . .
>As he leaves the room, you suddenly find that there’s a lot more air in it.
“Get a grip Twilight . . .”
>You huff as you roll over, maybe pouting a bit.
>That exchange had stung your pride.
>And the part that stung more was that you weren’t sure you cared all that much.
>You weren’t obsessed with your marely reputation like Rainbow was . . . but if any stallion saw you acting that way with your dad, you’d never live it down.
>Your dad . . . there you go thinking of him like that again.
>You had been hasty earlier.
>Your dad was Night Light . . . but Anonymous had shown himself to be ready, willing, and fully able to take on the role.
>You sigh . . . Anonymous.
>Did you have any real reason or right to bring him here?
>Well . . . no, not really.
>You were curious, and hadn’t thought about the long term consequences of your actions.
>Consequences that included vaporizing your home, endangering the lives of everyone in Ponyville, and potentially Equestria.
>Destroying your family was actually one of the better potential outcomes from all of this.
>Guilt hangs over your head like a stormcloud.
>What if Night Light finds out?
>What if he and them . . . Celestia forbid . . . met?
>What if in Anon’s culture, it was only proper for them to have a trial by combat to see who the rightful parent was?
>You stifle a gasp with your hooves.
>What if they actually fought?
>Night Light didn’t stand a chance! Anon would crush him with those powerful hands of his, those pointy teeth . . . such savage strength . . .
>He would just seize him . . . pin him down . . .
>WHOAH HEY NOW.
>THAT’S NOT AN OKAY THOUGHT.
>You quickly recite the periodic table of the elements to yourself to keep that particular fantasy from going any further
>Fortunately, before you can have any more incestuous thoughts, an entire parade of ponies pours into your room.
>Fluttershy wafts in silently, ahead of the others, and takes a seat in the chair anon was just occupying.
>Pinkie bounces in, an entire food cart tied to her tail . . . somehow.
>AJ and RD seem to be arguing over something.
>”-explosion way bigger than that in my day.”
>AJ just lets out an exasperated sigh, as Rarity brings up the rear, Spike in tow.
>They all look tired, and when they see you laid up, the tired expressions shift to worried ones.
>Rarity is the first to speak . . . you think. They all sort of start at once.
>”Goodness dear, whyever did you think that you had to deal with this sort of thing alone?”
>”Oh my . . . you’re hurt . . .”
>”Buck my north 40 and call me a stallion, really did a number on ya, didn’t they?”
>”Jeez Twilight, I know you gotta save the day and all, but maybe save some for the rest of us next time.”
>”I brought snacks!”
>”T-Twilight!”
>Spike leaps up onto the bed, and nearly knocks the wind out of you as he wraps you in an aggressive hug.
>His spines poke you in the face as he murmurs something indistinct into your neck.
>Everyone else in the room quiets down, letting you have a moment with Spike.
>”I . . . I thought you were . . .”
>His tiny body shudders as it tries to process something too horrible for him to comprehend.
>”I thought I wasn’t gonna ever see you again . . “
>He finally manages to choke out.
>You can feel scalding hot tears trickle down his face and into your coat, as you do your best to return the embrace.
>This . . . so this is what it was like.
>You try and comfort him, gently pat his back with your hoof like Anon had for you.
>He cries his little eyes out, and everyone in the room looks away, in a sort of unspoken acknowledgement that this was a personal matter.
>Finally, his tears dry up, and he calms down.
>”I’m sorry . . . I just didn’t know what to do . . . and the Library was gone . . . and I didn’t know where you were . . . So I went to Rarities.”
“Clever thinking there, my number one assistant.”
>You gently prod his nose.
>He’ll be alright.
>If he’s still together enough to crush on Rarity, he’ll be okay.
“Seeing as . . . well, I don’t have a home anymore . . . would it be-”
>Rarity raises a hoof.
>”Dear, it would be an insult if you had to even ask. Ma maison, est ta maison.”
>You nod gratefully.
“Just until we can get things back together again.”
>”Iffin ya need help puttin a structure together, the Apple Clan is at your service.”
>AJ doffs her hat to you, along with a flourished bow.
>You smile, with true gratitude.
>Applejack didn’t just throw offers like that out for anybody, and she’d stand by it too.
>You’d seen the Apple family knock together a barn in an afternoon.
>It almost took Dash longer to knock the old one down than it took to put the new one up.
>”I’ll make you 14 ‘Get Well Soon Cakes’!”
>Pinkie bounces in place-sweet Celestia that’s too close too fast- right next to you, a manic grin affixed in its proper place.
>She leans in close enough that you can smell the coconut on her breath.
>”Not 13, not 15, 14. Exactly.”
>Dash shoves her out of the way unceremoniously.
>”I bet a charity airshow would raise a decent number of bits.”
>She puffs her chest out.
>”And one starring yours truly would have you rolling in enough dough to buy two libraries.”
>You can’t help but giggle a bit at the smug, cocksure grin RD is sporting.
>”I can . . . take care of Spike . . . if you needed some time to recover.”
>Fluttershy offers weakly.
>”Or I could . . . umm . . . animals . . . “
>She trails off, and begins pawing absently at the floor.
>Such good friends.
>”Well, it sure looks like someone is popular.”
>7 heads simultaneously snap towards the door.

>You are Anon, and, whoah, that was kinda freaky.
>5 ponies and . . . is that a fat lizard?
>Whatever.
>Five ponies and a something just looked at you like something out of the Omen.
>Or, maybe Children of the Corn.
>Something spooky.
>You gingerly set the tray of food you fetched from the kindhearted lunch-stallion on the end table, next to Twilight’s bed.
>The orange one speaks first.
>”Who the hay are you?”
“I’m Anonymous.”
>You try to answer succinctly, and with a smile.
>Because this is the worst thing.
>You still have no idea what you’re going to say when they ask you what your relationship to Twilight is, so, you’re gonna stall for time.
>”You look like Tartarus.”
>The rainbow haired- you knew you had seen a rainbow maned pegasus!
>The rainbow pegasus chimes in.
>Before you can rebut, she takes a sharp elbow to the ribs from the orange one.
>”You know better than to talk to a colt like that!”
>”Well you started it with the ‘Who the hay are you!”
>The blue one does a terrible imitation of a country accent.
>You grimace a little bit at just how bad it is.
>Oh look, the orange one is hitting the blue one with a hat.
>How exciting.
>”Girls!”
>Twilight barks, making everyone in the room flinch.
>”I would hope that my dear friend Anonymous won’t be too put off by your foalish antics.”
>She says through grit teeth, glaring daggers at Combination Blorange.
>”Anonymous, meet my friends. Fluttershy, Rainbow Dash, Rarity, Applejack, and you’ve already met Pinkie Pie.”
>She waves at you vigorously, as if you might not have seen her.
>Sweet lord above . . . the names.
>”This is Spike. He’s a dragon.”
>You, on impulse, extend a hand to Spike.
“Ehm . . . how do you do.”
>He takes two of your fingers in his claw and shakes them, all the while staring up at you wide eyed and slack jawed.
>”Whoah . . . he’s tall.” is all that he manages to mutter.
>You smile softly at him, immediately recognizing the sound of a child’s voice.
>You take a knee, and get good look at him in the eye.
“Good to meet you Spike.”
>You smile at him warmly, and he turns a bit red, quickly retreating to Twilight’s side.
>Shy little fellow, you muse, but well mannered enough.
“And the same goes to the rest of you.”
>There is an awkward silence as you stand, and all eyes in the room are fixed on you again.
>”Soo . . . what are you?”
>Jappleack it hitting Rainbow Splash with her hat again.
>”Stop. Bein. Rude. To. The. COLT!”
>Every slap of her Stetson acted as a punctuation mark.
>You can’t help but laugh at the scene.
>It’s a pleasant, light hearted reprieve from what are admittedly dark days.
“Human. I’m a human. And, at this moment, a very, very tired human. I’m looking for a place to . . .”
>You look down at yourself.
>You need to shower.
>You need to shave.
>You need to shit, let’s be real here.
>You need to eat.
>You need to sleep.
>And you really, really need to get a shirt that doesn’t look like a lovecraftian horror spit up on it.
“. . . whooo. I’m looking for a place to get my life back in order?”
>You say it with a halfhearted grin, but everyone else in the room seems to be aghast.
>The orange one steps forward first.
>”Now, I don’t mean nothin improper or untoward by it, but you’d be welcome to stay with me and mine on the farm.”
>Aww, adorable little appulhorse is turning red.
>She’s pulled down the brim of her hat to try and hide it, but she’s blushing.
>Top cute.
“I’d be sincerely grateful for the hospitality, ma'am.”
>You give her a stately bow, and she only gets redder, pulling the hat down over her face entirely.
>FORTY CUTES
“Well, I know it’s early, but I’ve been up a rather long while, and as you can see, I’m a bit of a mess, so-”
>”Iwanttomakeyounewclothes!”
>W-what?
>The white supremacist horse, you mean, Rarity, clears her throat.
>”I, ehm . . . I would be flattered, if, you allowed me to . . . make you a new set of clothes.”
>Why is everyone so . . . nervous all of a sudden?
>Did you do something to unsettle them?
>Horses spook easily, you know that.
>You attempt to discretely sniff yourself.
>You can’t smell anything . . . so that probably means you reek.
“I . . . I would owe you one hell of a favor.”

>You are Rararara . . . and did he just sniff the air?
>HEKNOWS.scroll
>You clamp your immaculately styled, fabulously luxurious, causes colt’s to swoon-
>SWOON!
>Ahem . . . you clamp said tail down harder than . . . oh by Luna’s starry mane it’s hard to think.
>You can just smell the raw . . . masculinity . . . pouring off of him.
>You have no idea how Twilight has managed to stay ‘friends’ with this exotic Adonis.
>”I . . . I would owe you one hell of a favor.”
>ANDIWOULDLIKETOSPENDTHATONDICKINGS
>Your legs quiver a bit as you struggle to keep yourself from winking.
>You glance sidelong at Dash.
>You’re fairly certain you haven’t seen her wings spread that wide since she hid inside the stormcloud that made up part of the stallions locker room shower.
>You don’t even need to look at AJ to know that she’s probably leaving a stain on the floor right now.
>That frame, so perfectly proportioned . . . his hair, oh god he’s running those scandalous looking things through it.
>He smiles at you, and as his lips part, the pointed fangs of a predator poke out at you, gleaming so brilliantly.
>Your breath hitches in your throat, but you don’t want it to.
>You force yourself to breathe in, and allow the scent of his unwashed body to flood your nostrils.
>The scent creeps up inside your head, and floods your brain in a mixture of desire and pleasure that makes you go weak at the knees.
>Your eyes roll back a bit, and you stagger forward, almost fainting.
>Powerful limbs flash down and seize you, hoisting you into the air, pressing you deeply into the source of it.
>You coat is painted into a dull grey by the grime that coats him, but you hardly care.
>Even the filth that cakes him makes him seem more noble to you.
>You see the concern in his eyes, so sparkling and bright.
>His lips move, and you see their soft shine, and wonder what joy it would be to press your own against what must be like the tenderness of silk woven from clouds.
>Words may have been spoken, but all you hear is a haunting melody that draws the essence from your soul. Indistinct, and echoing, all you know is that you desperately want to say yes to whatever it is this creature asks.
“Yes . . .”
>You whisper in a breathy, soft tone.
>He smiles again, and by Celestia, it puts your heart in your throat to see it.
>His countenance is like that of a king, regal and dignified, regardless of his sullied garments.
>Bloodied but unbowed, a warrior prince.
>Yes . . .  you quite like the sound of that.
>He will be your king, and you his queen.
>Every mare will be envious of your prize, and every stallion will be cowed by his sheer presence.
>And every night, you will retire to the highest tower in the kingdom, and he will ravish you senseless, his-
>”RARITY!”
>You flinch at the sound of your name.
>You attempt to twist to face her, but find yourself awkwardly constrained by a set of warm . . . oh dear.
>Free of your fugue state, you find yourself clutched tightly to Anonymous’s chest, while he looks down at you with an expression of serious concern.
>”Are you sure you’re alright miss Rarity?”
>You don’t know whether to be flushed with embarrassment, or to just be regular flushed.
>You cough daintily into your hoof.
“Ahem . . . sorry. Yes, I’m quite fine.”
>Several sets of eyes bore into you.
>One angry, one confused, and several envious.
>You’re lowered to the floor gingerly.
>You meekly skirt him as you head for the door.
“I’ll ehh . . . get to work on that new outfit if you’ll follow me?”

>You are Anon, and you’re pretty sure that you should go.
>The white one took a step toward you, stumbled, and nearly fainted.
>You managed to catch her, but . . . that seemed to really bother the other tiny horses.
>Seems when you snatched up their friend, that fear turned to anger.
“Are you okay?”
>She manages a weak “yes . . .”
>Her eyes flutter, and you can feel the heat of her body even through her coat as her face flushes.
>Ooh, man.
>She doesn’t seem well.
“I think Rarity here should get home, she doesn’t seem well.”
>Applejack and Fluttershy seem to be frozen, bodies rigid, stuck in a fight or flight pose.
>You can tell by the wing extension on Rainbow Dash that she’s about to rabbit out of here.
>You question Rarity again, trying to reassure her friends that she’s in fact, quite safe.
“Are you sure you’re alright miss Rarity?”
>You say it in your ‘talking to small children and scared animals voice’.
>Her cheeks turn bright red, and her pupils shrink to pinpricks, with what you assume is terror.
>”Ahem . . . sorry. Yes, I’m quite fine.”
>You gingerly lower her, doing your best not to scare anyone else any further.
>She slips around you, managing to stammer. “I’ll ehh . . . get to work on that new outfit, if you’ll follow me?”
>The tone in the room is decidedly hostile . . . and as much as you’d like to stay and watch over Twilight, you don’t want to ruin things with her friends.
>As you back out of the room, you bow meekly, trying to look as harmless as possible.
>You turn, following the little marshmallow horse down the hall, her squiggly, curled tail bouncing up and down as she went.
>Must be the tiny-horse equivalent of an up-do, like eighties big hair.
>Still, the color of deep lavender was lovely.
>Maybe you just had a soft spot for things that were purple.
>She glances back at you, and turns red again.
>You snap your head to the right, and flush yourself.
>Shit . . . she just caught you staring at the horse ass Anon . . . that’s not cool.
>They’re already acting like you want to eat them . . . now they’re gonna think you’re a sexual predator . . . predator.
>Wait, that makes it sound like you rape predators.
>Predator sexual predator.
>That would make you a predator . . . that’s also a sexual predator.
>None of these things are good Anon, not if you’re trying to make friends.
>You follow along in silence for a while, avoiding eye contact as she looks back at you a few times, to make sure you aren’t perving on her.
>Not that you’d perv on a miniature horse.
>Yeesh, you weren’t that desperate.
>Well, you were that desperate, but you still had the self respect to say no.
>Alright, you’re still lying.
>You lost your self respect in a game of cards during your freshman year of college.
>Look, you weren’t gonna fuck that horse.
>That was the takeaway, even if the reasoning was a little foggy at the moment.
>You realize that you’ve walked a good deal of the way from the hospital, trailing behind ‘Rarity.’
>Still not entirely over the horse names.
>You work up the courage to break the silence, in an attempt to at least make it less awkward.
“So, Rarity, do you live far from here?”
>She does a startled half jump and stumble, catching herself.
>”Why, I, yes. I do. Umm, quite close.”
>You groan internally.
>She definitely thinks you’re a creep.
>Asking about where she lives . . . yeah, that was a good way to open this conversation.
“Sorry, not to . . . ergh . . .”
>You facepalm.
“Thank you. For . . . well, everything, really.”
>You round a corner and begin walking up to what looks like an oversized carousel with windows.
>The sign out front says ‘Carousel Boutique’, so, yeah . . . nice observation captain obvious.
>She coughs and mutters something.
>”N-no trouble.”
>The doorknob glows as she pulls the door open, gesturing for you to enter.
>A kind gesture, holding the door for you, though, you suspect it was simply because she didn’t like the notion of you staring at her ass as you held the door for her.
>You’re not a degenerate! Really!
>The inside is . . . bigger than you expected. The ceiling is tall enough for you to stand, with plenty of headroom.
>Probably the most headroom of any building you’d been in so far.
>You might even go so far as to say, max headroom.
>The lights click on as the small white equine has to push past you to get in.
>Whoops, don’t block the door.
>You quickly step out of the way, and look around at all of the small furniture, and tasteful throws.
>It was . . . well, rather tasteful.
>I mean, you were expecting a girl named Rarity who lived in a boutique that was a clothes designer to have a bit more of a frilly, fru-fru pad.
>It’s flashy, no doubt, but there weren’t any stupid words like “Love, Home, Family” written on the walls, there were a minimum of throw pillows, and you didn’t see anything pink.
“Nice place you have here.”
>She turns scarlet again.
>Riiight . . . that’s not menacing at all.
>You feel like a mobster in a bad eighties movie.
>Hopefully Twilight could smooth things out between her friends and you at a later date.
>Especially after they were so generous in offering to house and clothe you.
>Pretty loyal friends.
>You found it admirable.
>”Ehm . . . if you feel the need to freshen up, the bathroom is upstairs, on the left.”
>Rarity seems to have disappeared off into a backroom.
>You glance down at yourself.
>You look like you walked off the set for a Tide commercial, where you played the ‘before’ actor.
“Thanks.”
>Maybe it’s just when they see you . . . your alien-ness unsettles them.
>Such thoughts are best reserved for contemplation when on the can or in the shower, you conclude, and head upstairs to clean up, because by god you needed it.


>You are White Pride Equestria Wide.
>By which you mean Rarity. Of course.
>And there’s nothing racist about being proud of your coat color!
>It’s not like you were bragging about being a unicorn . . . that’d actually be racist.
>You shudder a bit, as you imagine your guest stripping . . . climbing into a bath, and scrubbing himself down . . . all over.
>You slap yourself, physically this time.
“Keep. It. Together. Darling.”
>You rub your stinging cheek.
>Maybe a bit too much force in that . . . but you’ve gotten your wits back about you.
>That colt . . . eugh. Whenever you felt his eyes on you . . .
>Then the voice . . . the smell . . . oh by Luna’s buttered teats . . .
>You literally couldn’t stop yourself from rubbing up against him as you walked in the door.
>Like an animal in heat . . . you’re ashamed of yourself.
>He’s been nothing but an upstanding stallion of virtue and character.
>Even if he is a walking heap of sex appeal with only two legs . . .
>You hear the water kick on upstairs.
>Pipes wheeze and rumble as the air flushes out of them.
>. . . it had been a while since the guest bathroom had been used.
>. . . it had been a while since ANY of the ‘guest facilities’ had been used.
>Ponyville was a small working town, and colts seemed to like working mares.
>While your fashion sensibility and immaculate personal grooming would have made you a smash hit with the fairer sex in a cosmopolitan center like Manehattan, it was surprisingly hard to get a date in this little town.
>You let out a little sigh while you levitate over a bolt of high thread count black silk.
>All the colts around here pined for mares like AJ and Dash . . . Pinkie pulled more dick than a urologist.
>You sublimate your sexual frustration and lack of maresculinity into what is shaping up to be quite a fine design.
>You’ll need his exact measurements when he gets done, but, knowing a colt, especially one ‘that’ filthy, he’ll be in there for quite some time.
>You hum yourself a little tune as you compare varying thread count materials, and different shades of cloth for the trim.
>The faintest red stripe around the lapel would be dashing, daring even, but almost in a way that’s a bit . . . too aggressive.
>It’d look fine on a colt, but on his massive frame, it’s just a bit intimidating.
>No, a classic, refined looking suit would do him well.
>You’d have to get a look at his pants though, it’d been awhile since you’d done work for a minotaur body shape, and his knees went the other way . . .
>In the end, you settle on a magically fortified blended fiber material in matte black for the pants and jacket, and a plain white silk button down to go beneath it.
>You’re debating on whether or not the tie should be green or red when you hear the water shut off upstairs.
>You probably had another fifteen minutes to decide, and begin your preliminary cuts before he made it downstairs.
>You hum to yourself, trying to figure out which would better match his eyes.
>”Hey.”
>You spin about with a start, to find yourself staring at . . . him.
>Hmm. That’s a lot of not fur or clothing.
>You’re suddenly rather sad that you went with the oversized, plush cotton towels for the guest bathroom.
>Spiky, coltish wetmane. Saving that image for later . . .
>He seems . . . embarrassed?
>Right, you’re staring.
“Ah, Anonymous. That was . . . quicker than I was expecting.”
>He smiles at you, but, can’t hold eye contact for more than a second.
>”Umm, well, here I am now. I . . . ehh . . . I would have put my clothes back on, but that would have defeated the purpose of the shower.”
>He grins sheepishly. Or, he grins wolf-in-sheep's-clothing-ly.
>Canines.
>You shudder.
“Yes, understandable. I do need to take your measurements, that is, unless you don’t want these clothes to fit you.”
>Professionalism mode, engage!
>He nods. “Right, well, where do you want me?”
>In bed, on top of you-
>CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE: PROFESSIONALISM MODE DISABLED.
>You chuckle nervously, as he looks at you with some confusion.
“Over here darling, just stand on the platform while I get your measurements.”
>Well, at least you didn’t say it out loud. He only thinks you’re insane.
>He stands, and takes a T pose as you levitate your measuring tape around him from a respectable distance of the complete other side of the room.
>You gather the measurements of his barrel, shoulder, neck, inseam . . . though he jumps a bit at that one.
>He coughs to try and conceal the little hop he did when you measured the circumference of his thigh.
>”So, umm, about earlier . . .”
>OhsweetCelestianosparemywrechedsoul.TIFF
>”I’m sorry-”
“I’m sorry-”
>You both blurt out at the same time.
>You both look at each other with the same confused expression.
>You both start laughing at the same time as well.
>”Alright, I’ll bite, you first.”
>Crap. And he was doing that nice laugh of his too . . .
“Ehehe . . . well, back at the hospital-”
>He holds his . . . hoof with wigglers on it up.
>”No, I’m the one who should apologize. I know I’m alien, and large, and . . . well, smelled pretty ripe. I didn’t really think that it would cause such a stir. I didn’t mean to frighten anyone. I’m harmless, really!”
>He smiles warmly.
>Oh you sweet innocent child.
>You pause for a moment, to actually think about what you’re thinking about.
>Metacognition was always Twilight’s thing, but you’re allowed to develop as an individual every now and then, right?
>Not everything -has- to be dresses and suits, right?
>Right. At the moment, you have a soaking wet, towel clad exotic stud standing before you, with your magic wrapped firmly about his thigh.
>You can quite literally sense the rippling cords of muscle barely contained by a thin layer of smooth, furless skin in your aura’s grasp.
>And yet, you weren’t a drooling, gibbering mess like you were at the hospital.
>. . .
>Yeah, you’re still not Twilight.
>No idea why, but whatever it was about him that was driving you nuts isn’t there anymore.
>He’s cute for a . . . whatever, definitely, but you don’t want him to bend you over the nearest piece of furniture right this second.
>You resume with your measurements, making sure to get his glutes and calves right so it could accentuate his features in all the right ways.
“That’ll be it dear, please, the guest bedroom is upstairs, last room on the left.”
>He says something in acknowledgement, but you’re too busy being the best Celestia damn dress/suit-horse this two bit town has ever seen to do more than nod.
>It’s strange, almost as if some other force had taken control of you, compelled you to find him irresistibly attractive.
>Twilight had done that thing with the want it need it fiasco a few months back, maybe there was something like that afoot?
>But then why had it stopped once they got here?
>So many questions, so few answers.
>Your deep, deep thinking is interrupted by a twin combo of startled shouts, one clearly male, one clearly . . . not.
>Wait . . . was Sweetie staying with you this week or . . .
>Sheeeeeit.
>You hear the clatter of hooves on the stairs as Sweetie Belle practically prances down, with the widest shit eating grin you think you’ve ever seen stretched across her little filly face.
>”Heyyyyyy Rarity . . . I uhh . . . bathroom . . . shower?”
>She’s staring off into the distance with that dopey eyed smile of a filly who just found her mom’s playmare stash.
>This night literally can’t go any worse.
>You let your head bang against your work table.
>This is not going to go over well with your parents.
>You hear the downstairs bathroom door lock and click, and do your best not to hear anything that comes after that.
>Phrasing . . . by Celestia the phrasing . . .

>You are Anon.
>And, you’re also probably a sex offender now.
>Fuckin great.
>All you wanted to do was to climb into bed, and try and sleep off this disaster of a . . . of an indeterminate period of time.
>And instead, you just scarred a little girl for life.
>You groan into your pillow.
>Goddamn this bed was comfortable.
>You worm your way deeper under the ridiculously high thread count sheets.
>Almost comfortable enough to make you forget that you’re probably going to go to horse jail for indecent horse exposure.
>Why does the bed have to be this nice?
>It’s even big enough for you.
>As you settle down into the plush bedding, a contented sigh escapes your lips.
>This was sooo much better than the rubberized XL-Twin you stole from your college dorm.
>There is a gentle knock at your door.
>Right. Horse police here to horse arrest you.
“It’s not locked.”
>The door creaks open as you weave your fingers behind your head and lay facedown into your pillow.
>”Ahem . . . Anonymous . . .”
>Oh. It’s nice clothes equine.
>You roll over, and sit up, desperately trying to think of a polite way of saying “Oh, sorry about traumatizing your daughter.”
>”So . . . I see you’ve met my sister . . . Sweetie Belle.”
>She has the same thousand yard stare that you do.
“Yeah.”
>The subsequent awkward silence hangs longer than black man in the rural south during reconstruction.
>”She’ll be staying in my room.”
>Rarity leaves the subtle implication of “you fucking child molester” unsaid.
“Alright.”
>The door closes again, and you let out the most awkward breath of your life.
>Well, at least it wasn’t her kid.
>Wait, why does that make anything better?
>Nevermind, you’re just gonna go to sleep, and try and forget that this ever happened, and hope that you don’t wake up with a taser pressed against your neck.
>You quickly succumb to fatigue, and manage to not accidentally molest anyone before the dawn of the next day.


>You are Princess Luna.
>You’re also slightly indignant that your title was downgraded during you . . . leave of absence.
>You much preferred the title Midnight Queen, but . . . apparently now that was a brand of lubricant.
>Why on earth an individual would need lubricant was beyond you, it’s not like they had any siege engines to maintain, or a portcullis to silence.
>Regardless of its frivolity, you found yourself quite . . .taxed by the current situation.
>You’ve been attempting to quell the surge of nightmares that have been plaguing the land for the past three days now, ever since that rift was opened.
>Your sister had taken over your civic duties, spending endless hours discussing, conceiving, and funding a plan to eliminate the ‘taint’ that was scattered across equestria by the destruction of one of the extradimensional entities.
>You had yet to pay a visit to ponyville, or even send a scouting party, as Celestia had insisted that things were well in hoof there.
>While it was not your place to question her judgement, you personally feel that she places too much faith in the reports of her pupil, Twilight Sparkle.
>From your understanding, she may very well have been the source of the incursion, and you know all too well the corrupting power of that which lies beyond the veil of this realm.
>You keep your suspicions to yourself for the moment, as voicing them without solid evidence would only strain things between you, and leave an opening for those most profane powers to capitalize on.
>You flit from the dream of a small child, the monster lurking under their bed banished with a brilliant beam of moonlight, the offending spectre having been only the half glimpsed shadow of a forgotten toy.
>You sense something unusual.
>Pain, horrible pain.
>Terror, far beyond that of what you had encountered this night so far.
>A terrible rage, tempered by a grim resolve.
>This dream shines to you like a lighthouse in a storm, a great conflagration of emotion that you would sense even if you were still residing in the waking realm.
>Focusing on it, you attempt to observe.
>What should be a gentle trickle of ideas, images, and emotion, is instead a torrential flood that unseats you, and pins you down as you’re forcibly immersed in its full depth and breadth.
>The bitter twang of blood and smoke fills your nostrils, and your ears are filled with a discordant cacophony of screaming, bass rumbles of massive creatures, and the sounds of violence and war.
>You struggle to open your eyes, and regret it, as they are assailed by the harsh sting of blown sand and brilliant midday desert sun.
>As you blink to clear your vision, you’re deafened by the ear-splitting roar of . . . something above you.
>Squinting, your head snaps up, making out a black . . . dragon? Made of steel, with no wings, it hovers above you, as glittering bits of golden metal rain down as fire erupts from the side.
>The bipedal form of some exotic creatures collapse into the dirt down the streets, their bodies jerking and bucking as fist sized chunks simply fly off, turning the bone dry sand into a sea of tiny, glittering rubies.
>It’s too much, all of it is too much.
>Your mind aches, and the sensory overload threatens to make you puke.
>What is this . . . what dream is this?
>You’re punched in the chest by . . . a wave. A pressure wave, as the world slows down.
>You see a limb, twisted and shattered bone arc lazily through the air before you, as you are thrown to the ground.
>A smaller creature, perhaps half the size of the others, flashes across the street, waving a crude implement of iron and fire in your direction.
>You hear the crack of supersonic flight whizzing by your head as his body stumbles and drops, a good portion of his head having disappeared into a haze of bone and brain matter.
>He takes two more steps, the body unaware of it’s demise before it collapses to the ground, clearly dead as his tar black skin mottled with crimson vitality slams into the backdrop of off white sand.
>Terror and bile rises up from your gut, as you try look away from the brutality before you, but there is no where to look that isn’t rife with suffering and murder.
>A face, twisted with rage is nestled behind a miniaturized cannon, channeling a kind of fury that as you bear witness to it, sears your soul.
>The glint of canines, the din of wrath, the smell of death.
>The lords of Tartarus wouldn’t dare tread upon this plane.
>You look down, trying to find enough calm to free yourself from . . . the word nightmare is insufficient for this level of butchery.
>But even the ground upon which you stand is no relief from the ruination in which you are steeped.
>A creature lies heaped at your hooves, spread out like an eagle on his back.
>His pale, hairless face, caked with filth and blood, bears an expression of shock.
>His body shudders weakly as you feel his crystal blue eyes boring into yours, pupils dilated, locked in a soul to soul bond as his life flees his body.
>You do not know how long you stare, it feels as if you have been trapped in this perdition for aeons.
>You break the gaze, finally taking in the rest of his ruined body.
>He weakly grasps at the yards of entrails strung out where his legs should be, as he hamfistedly fumbles with a cloth pouch on his chest.
>A folded and crumpled photograph tumbles from his weak grip as he tries to open it, caught in the powerful wind of the metal creature above.
>He throws his hand out after it in a futile attempt to catch it as it blows away, and you catch the glimmer of a simple metal band wrapped around one of his few remaining fingers, now slick with his own gore.
>You can make out perhaps four figures on the small square of paper, but the layer of blood smeared across its surface distorts their image far too much for you to make anything out as is disappears down the long road, lost in a cloud of rotor blown sand.
>A few words weakly sputter from his torn and bloodied lips, “Home . . . wanna go . . .”
>He stops shuddering.
>You vomit.
>You’re in your bedchambers now, lying amid ruined silk sheets.
>A puddle of half digested delicacies from the last dinner party you attended begins to soak into the mattress beneath you as you shiver in a cold, adrenaline fueled sweat.
>You . . . you never want to feel that again. Never want to see that again.
>The smell of blood, ruptured bowels, and gunpowder.
>The ruined bodies, smashed by engines of war so potent you couldn’t even grasp their most basic functioning.
>You focus on your breathing, and try and clear your mind, try and put such . . . evil . . . out of it.
>It doesn’t work.
>You feel the sand grinding into your frogs, and those clear blue eyes boring into yours . . . the hatred, the anger . . . the unadulterated malice that rolled off of the entities in waves.
>It was a murderous instinct, not trained, not drilled, but a desire to maim and kill simply because . . . something else was there that could suffer their wrath.
>Your mouth is filled with the bitterness of bile, and the burning sensation in your throat is growing worse as you sit and stew in the hellishness of it all.
>You stumble to your hooves, and shamble weakly into the lavatory joined to your bedchambers.
>You feel another surge from your gut, and you barely make it to the sink before you begin dry heaving bile.
>Your telekinesis turns the shower on, full blast, cold, and you collapse into the stinging, needle like hail of ice-cold water, curling up into the fetal position as you try and override the lingering sensations of the dream world with the numbing cold.
>You cannot think, you cannot get your mind in order . . . it’s just replaying itself over and over.
>Every little detail forces itself to be remembered, accounted for, and experienced in full again, and again.
>The bloody ring.
>The roar of the black machine.
>The glint of fangs.
>The child’s two steps.
>It just keeps looping.
>Over.
>And over.
>And over.

>You are Anonymous, and the shit you do to try and bond with family.
>Why the hell else would you read the AAR for Somalia.
>You hoped it would would give you and your brother something to talk about, other than the fact that you’re ‘wasting your life as a civilian’.
>Your plan worked too well, and you couldn’t get your brother to shut up about it.
>On the one hand, you never knew your brother could tell such a vivid story.
>On the other hand, you’re probably the only person who has nightmares about the battle of Mogadishu that wasn’t actually there.
>You sit up and whoa nelly that’s some soft cotton against your Johnson.
>As you rub the sleep from your eyes, you begin to remember where you are.
>Right, Rarity, the white horse, took you in, let you bathe, put you up for the night, and made you clothes.
>And then you flashed her little sister.
>Ehh . . . just gonna stay in bed a while longer.
>Someone gently knocks at your door.
>You sit up slowly, mentally shaking a fist at the universe that has decided you are, in fact, not going to stay in bed a little while longer.
>”Mr. Anonymous?”
>That voice is slightly higher pitched than, and obviously younger than, Rarity.
>Greaaaaat.
>You exhale slowly, and try and figure out the best way to defuse this bomb.
>Damn the american public education system, you only covered literal bomb diffusal and active shooter situations in high school.
“Yes?”
>The door creaks open, and you hastily bunch the covers up over your . . . wait a minute you’re a guy.
>You let the covers drop, but keep your hands firmly in your lap.
>There’s a small, also white equine with a far lighter lavender stripe of curly mane standing in your doorway quite abashedly.
>Next to her floats a neatly folded suit.
>”I umm, brought you your clothes . . . Rarity burned the others.”
>She idly paws at the ground, and only makes fleeting eye contact with you before examining the finishing nails in the floor with a profound intensity.
“Thank you.”
>Your tone is measured, and careful.
>Why the hell would Rarity send her up here after all this?
>The suit levitates over onto the bed with a quiet tinkling sound.
>Fuckin unicorns.
>Wait no-
>”So . . . are you gonna put them on?”
>Wait . . . what?
>You look long and hard at the little filly.
>Phrasing, lord above the PHRASING.
“Yes?”
>That wasn’t supposed to be a question, but as her eyes flicker up again, and you see the scarlet on her cheeks, you realize that you may not be the molest-er . . . you might just be the molest-ee.
>You don’t like those eyes.
>It’s the same way you’d look at a prime rib cooked to perfection.
>It’s the way a wolf looks at a deer.
>It’s the way David Cameron looks at pigs.
>You don’t like those looks, especially when you’re the pig-deer steak.
>The suit levitates a little closer to you, dropping back down onto your lap.
>You swear you feel that magic field tingle across your leg as it dissapates.
>”Well . . . there it is.”
>Yeah, no. This isn’t gonna happen.
“Would you kindly close the door?”
>The hope rushes out of her like a deflating balloon.
>”Yeah . . . “
>She slouches as she says it, and lets out a quiet sigh before turning around, and closing the door behind her.
>Oh wow . . . that’s . . . kinda heartbreaking.
>What the hell Anon, that’s like a six year old girl that wants to perv on you and you’re feeling guilty because she’s sad you’re not gonna let her?
>You’re half flattered, actually.
>This is . . . definitely not okay.
>Nope, not dealing with this, not now, not ever.
>You slide out of bed, and begin to don your new clothes.
>And they are some fine threads if you do say so yourself.
>But you don’t because the 90’s are over and nobody says ‘threads’ when referring to clothing anymore.
>Evolution of language aside, the clothes are way nicer than anything you’ve worn before.
>It’s tailored; snug without being constricting.
>It’s sleek; fashionable without being flashy.
>It’s comfortable . . . just really comfortable. Is this silk?
>Your boys downstairs are going absolutely wild for what you assume have to be some kind of silk or satin briefs.
>You look and feel a whole new man in these.
>As you turn to head for the door, you hear the rapid clatter of hooves on hardwood.
>You also notice that there’s a keyhole big enough that you could literally drive a truck through it.
>Hotwheels, but a truck none the less.
>You begin to groan internally, but, you know what, screw it. You tried, right? That’s gotta count for something.
>The latch is a bit lower than you’re expecting, but then you realize that head height for everyone else here is roughly the perfect height to hit you square in the junk.
>Mental note: Don’t get in a fight here
>Mental note two: Too late, already did, kicked lovecraftian ass
>You step out of your little guest room and into what looks like a better homes and garden catalogue.
>Damn. This place is waaaay nicer than your apartment.
>Tastefully bland paintings hang on the walls, a lavender rug runs the length of the hallway over a hardwood floor, and every brass fixture in the house is polished to a shine.
>It has a pleasant blend of modern aesthetic sense, and rustic, old fashioned construction.
>Stephen King could pick this house up, drop it somewhere in New England, and you’d believe it had a two hundred year history.
>You’re shaken from your architectural musing by the sound of silverware clattering downstairs.
>” . . . told you to take it easy!”
>That’s definitely Rarity.
>You make your way downstairs, stepping over a cat that had placed itself just perfectly at the foot of the stairs to have its tail stepped on.
>It gives you a baleful glare as you step over it, like it wanted you to step on it.
>You round the corner and enter the main room, overflowing with equinnequins, dresses, and brilliant fabrics studded with enough gems to make De Beers hire shady paramilitary companies with international charters to guard the place.
“Gonna have to ask about that . . .”
>You mutter to no one in particular.
>”Sorry Rarity, just, it’s reflexive.”
>That was definitely Twilight . . . when’d she get here?
>You duck to enter the small kitchen, and find three very surprised ponies inside.
“Hey, did I sleep through breakfast?”
>You offer warmly, trying to speak softly.
>Last time you’d had a conversation with more than just Twilight they seemed to spook pretty easy.
>Well, except for the little one.
>You glance at Swootie Ball . . . the tiny white one, whatever.
>Yeah, she’s got the hungry eyes aimed at your junk.
>Fuck.
>”Oh, you’re up, good.”
>Rarity smiles, and takes a few steps toward you.
>”Twilight was released just a few hours ago. It’s nearly noon now.”
>You balk.
“What? Really?”
>Twilight and her nod in unison.
>Sweary Bowl bobs her head up and down . . . and pokes her cheek with her tongue as she does it.
>Rarity does a double take as she finally notices the sheer lewdness of her younger sibling.
>Unicorns are very sensitive to lewdness apparently.
>She scowls.
>”Yes, and with you up, you may take care of Twilight while I return my sister to our parents . . . early.”
>Her eyes narrow as she says it, into a laser like death-glare.
>White Lavender Pervert doesn’t notice, and continues to wiggle her eyebrows at you as she is telekinetically dragged from the room by her older sibling.
>Twilight winces visibly.
>Paternal instinct: ENGAGE
>Oh hey a subsystem successfully engaged for once.
>You drop to one knee, and examine her for any obvious source of discomfort.
>You rest one hand on her withers as you look her over.
>Besides what appears to be a series of bandages wrapped around her horn, you don’t see much.
“Are you alright?”
>Your face twists with worry, and your heart drops, laden with concern.
>She nods, an expression of discomfort still prominent.
>”Yeah . . . just, that was . . . really awkward.”
>You let out a bit of a relieved chuckle.
“Yeah, at least I’m not gonna terrify that one.”
>She gives you an odd look, her face scrunching with confusion.
>”Terrify?”
>God that was adorable.
“Yeah . . . back at the hospital. You know, everyone was freaking out, kinda froze, angry staring . . . even you were a little bit.”
>She turns a very interesting shade of scarlet at that.
>Your heart is nearing its seizing point, you’re not sure this level of cute should be allowed in a civilized country.
>”That’s . . . question, what kind of olfactory acuity do humans possess?”
>Now it’s your turn to have your brow furrow in confusion.
“What? Umm, well, relative to most other creatures pretty terrible I suppose.”
>What does that have to do with anything though? Is what you want to follow it up with, but you’re cut off.
>”Well . . . that wasn’t anger. Or terror. Well, maybe a little envy, but . . .”
>She sighs.
>”It seems that you exude a very particular or perhaps even unique blend of pheromones that interact with equine physiology in a very . . . very potent fashion. Most other creatures utilize scent as the primary means, or at the least a substantial contributor when it comes to matters of communication . . . or attracting mates.”
>You blink twice, still baffled as to the hard left turn the conversation took.
>She lets out a little huff and closes her eyes tight.
>”Alright, I’ll just come out and say it. Your body . . . secretes . . . compounds that make the averageponyveryaroused.”
>She blurts out the last few words all strung together, and slowly shrinks in on herself as she does so.
>It’s so distractingly precious that you almost miss what it is she says.
>You don’t, unfortunately.
“Oh.”
>Well . . . the way you smell makes tiny-horses wanna jump your bones.
>You suddenly notice that your hand is resting on your daughter.
>OH.
>You quickly withdraw.
“I umm . . . ehh . . .”
>You stumble over yourself, a stuttering mess.
>If you’re accidentally encouraging some kind of weird father daughter incest thing-
>”It’s okay Anon, apparently it doesn’t work on me.”
>She coughs, and it sounds oddly like ‘mostly’, but you can’t be sure.
>You let out a sigh of relief before slumping to a seated position, leaning up against the cabinets beneath the kitchen sink.
>Holy shit this has been awkward.
>”When you were in the hospital with me . . . they ehh . . . weren’t angry. They were jealous of Rarity . . . whom you were holding.”
>And it continues to get worse.
>”So, that’s . . . why all of that.”
>Both of your faces are bright red, and neither of you can make eye contact.
“So . . . the thing with Rarity’s sister?”
>Twilight shakes her head.
>”No, that’s just fillies being, well, young fillies.”
>You nod, making sure to examine the intricate pattern of tiling that ran across the kitchen floor.
>Twilight lets out another muffled cough, and you rub the back of your neck.
>This entire thing is pretty much the most cringe worthy experience of your life.
>On the one hand, you make the ladies crazy for you.
>On the other hand, all of those ladies are horses, and a third your size, maybe half, tops.
>You need a drink.
>A really, really stout drink.
>For about three days.
>Twilight idly draws a hoof through the grout patterns of the floor.
>She’s doing the same thing as you, just physically, instead of mentally.
>You suppress a chuckle.
>Like father like daughter.
“So . . .”
>You endeavor boldly to break the awkward silence, but don’t have anything to really back it up with.
“ . . . breakfast?”
>You gesture over toward the table.
>Twilight lets out a relieved sigh.
>”Yeah, how about lunch?”
>She throws a subtle nod toward the window, revealing the sun high in the sky.
>You nod silently, and stand, straightening out your . . . damn this suit is classy looking.
>She smiles, her ears perking up as she trots over to a set of saddlebags embossed with the same symbol that adorns her flank.
>Her horn flickers to life, and the bags stir slightly.|
>Before they move, however, she lets out a gasp of pain, dropping forward as one of her legs gives out.
>Your paternal instinct system seems to have been unphased by the awkwardness, and you find yourself swooping in to save her before you even realize what’s going on.
>”Oww . . .”
>She gingerly presses a hoof to the base of her horn, and you can see a weak halo of purple light flickering around the protrusion.
>”Right . . . no magic use.”
>She grins sheepishly.
>”I’m fine, really, let me just grab my bags and we’ll go out to get something.”
>You back off, but a flicker of worry runs through you, regardless of her assurances to the contrary.
>She bends down to pick up the bags in her teeth, and tries to fling them over her shoulder, but after a few quite frankly embarrassing tries, she lets out a snort of frustration.
>Taking the bags in hand, you gingerly drape them across her back.
“Rarity did ask me to take care of you, after all.”
>She looks away from you, slightly uncomfortable, apparently torn between protesting at being treated like a child, and thanking you.
>In the end, she just smiles at you weakly with a nod, and canters toward the door.
>”Buck!”
>She curses and stumbles as her horn flares again.
“ . . . Let me get the door.”
>She nods, her eyes screwed up tight as she grits her teeth against the pain.
>You open the door, and gesture for her to go through.
>”Ladies first . . .”

>You are Queen Cel-
>Wait whoops, freudian slip there . . . Princess Celestia.
>And you’re really, really tired of court.
>Your sister has been in her room far too long, you understand that she combats the nightmares of ponies across Equestria, but it’s past noon at this point, and she does it all while sleeping.
>You sign another treasury expenditure release form with a sigh.
>You muse on how much easier it’d be if you could set people on fire who disobeyed . . .
>Shaking your head briskly, you banish the thought.
>Apparently the corruption affected you as well.
>Perhaps even more strongly than most, as you possessed an abundant magical presence.
>Ehh, haven’t been worried in a thousand years, not gonna start now.
>You shrug to yourself as you levitate another stack of papers over.
>The paperwork for the cleanup had occupied most of the morning, but it looked like a solid solution was in place. A few dozen collection crystals in key locations, keyed to certain harmonic frequencies would act as traps for the exotic particles, and keep them suspended within their lattice, and could then be stored safely for, well, ever.
>Not the best solution . . . but not the worst either.
>Definitely the cheapest.
>You wince as you look at how many zeroes are on the next treasury request form.
>Gonna have to postpone that order of new golden armor for your personal harem-
>You mean guard.
>Personal guard.
>Just, very athletic, fit, and aesthetically appealing all male personal guard.
>You levitate over a cool glass of water from a nearby tray of refreshments.
>Yeah . . . that’s all.
>Your little fantasy moment is rudely interrupted by a frazzled looking aid.
>One of Luna’s you think.
>”Princess Celestia! Come quickly, there’s been an incident involving your sister!”
>This had better be good . . .

>You’re still Celestia.
>And, ‘incident’ was a massive understatement.
>This place was a disaster.
>Faint sobbing echoed from inside the bathroom.
>The place looked like a tornado went through it, and up-chucked up on the bed while it was at it.
>You tentatively canter across the room to the slightly ajar bathroom door.
“Luna . . . are you alright in there?”
>The sobbing is half stifled, half gasping, almost entirely covered by the sound of the shower running full blast.
>There’s no answer.
>You take the initiative, and push the door open, striding in to find your sister curled up in the fetal position on the shower floor, her eyes bloodshot and pupils shrunk to pinpricks.
>Her feathers are skewed every which way, and it looks like she might have sprained one of her wings in a fit of thrashing.
“Sweet Solaire . . . what happened to you?”
>You turn off the shower, and magic up a towel to wrap tightly around your sister as you help her to her hooves.
>”It’s still here . . . one was evil, sadistic, and cruel . . . but what remains is worse.”
>She stutters it out, her lips even bluer than usual from the near frozen shower.
>The castle drew its water from the snowmelt on the mountain, and couldn’t be more than 40 degrees fahrenheit.
“What? Luna, you’re not making sense.”
>She lunges at you, seizing you bodily by the shoulders.
>”THERE IS A HERALD OF A PLACE THAT EVEN TARTARUS FEARS, HIS MADNESS AND BUTCHERY WILL MAKE THE STONE OF THE EARTH TREMBLE.”
>Eugh, royal Canterlot voice.
>She looks away from you with a thousand yard stare, practically foaming at the mouth.
>”I have touched his mind, and if but a fraction of his sickness is left within this realm . . . all that we cherish shall wither and die a most agonizing death.”
>Her eyes roll back and she faints, her body slumping against you.
>. . .
>Well then.
>Somebody had extra crazy flakes this morning.
“Fetch some servants to tidy the place up, and have her taken to my chambers to sleep off this . . . fit.”
>You command the aide that brought you here.
>With a flash of power, the two of you are now within your far more radiant and splendorous chambers.
>Levitating your younger sibling over to your bed, you briefly wonder if you should change the sheets first, but figure the servants can deal with it.
>You tuck her in quickly, before pondering her words.
>Probably wouldn’t hurt to pay Twilight a visit, make sure everything wasn’t as apocalyptic as Luna was suggesting.
>At the least, you get to have dinner without a bunch of nobles doing their best to impress, influence, or seduce you.
>You shudder.
>Noble bloodlines means inbreeding.
>Inbreeding means uggos.
>As you wander down toward the front gates, you spot one of your personal guard.
“Soldier, I want my chariot prepped and ready as soon as physically possible. I have business in Ponyville.”
>He salutes smartly, and flaps away with all the vigor he can muster.
>Sure, you could just teleport there.
>But, then you wouldn’t get to stare at some of the finest asses the military could produce for the next six hours.
>Choice makes itself really.
>Should change your name to “Thebestia.”
>Ehh . . . maybe not.
>Could be misread as having something to do with beastiality.
>A hyphen would fix it . . .

>You are Anonymous, currently crammed in a restaurant booth designed around a creature that had twice as many legs, and half as much mass as you.
>The result is ample foot room, no knee room.
>Twilight struggles to grip her fork across from you, attempting to shovel what looks to be some derivative of spaghetti into her mouth.
>With her horn out of service, she was forced to use her hooves, just like every other regular pony and pegasus, you assume.
>It would seem, however, that she’s quite accustomed to using telekinesis for everything.
>When it comes to hooves, she’s rather inept.
>Between her poor coordination, and tendency to drop the utensil before it reaches her mouth, she’s making one hell of a mess.
>Every time she fails, she gets more flustered, tries harder, and then fails even more spectacularly than before.
>You might even go so far as to say, she’s losing her spaghetti over losing her spaghetti.
>You might say that, but then you’d be a raging autist.
>You’ve been content to watch this little debacle, eating your own BLT in relative silence.
>Blueberry, Lettuce, and Tomato.
>Fucking disappointing is what they should have called it . . .
>Her angry thrust of a fork sends half the food on her plate onto the table, nearly spattering your suit with tomato sauce.
>Alright, it’s time to stop.
>You gingerly, but firmly take both of her forehooves in your hands.
“Twilight.”
>She looks up at you meekly.
>”. . . Yes?”
>You sigh, and take the fork from her.
“Do you need help?”
>She swallows audibly, her eyes shrinking to pinpricks.
>”Umm, no, I mean- I can handle myself just fine.”
>She flounders, her embarrassment at her own ineptitude growing until the it was a red glow on her cheeks.
>You unwrap your own unused cutlery, and, taking your own napkin in hand, wipe the mess of marinara sauce off your daughters chin and face.
>She squirms beneath your touch, pulling back, pressing her head against the red vinyl of the booth cushions.
>Doesn’t make much of a difference to you, your un-equinely long human limbs closing the distance as she tries to escape your assault of gently cleaning.
>”Stop!”
>She squirms, her face scrunching adorably as you lick the corner of your napkin before resuming your scrubbing in an attempt to get some of the more stubborn sauce off her face.
>”Eugh . . . we’re in public!”
>She begins to protest further, but you’re already done by that point.
“There. Now, open wide.”
>You stab into what remains of her dish, twirling the fork with your dextrous fingers until you gathered up a compact but reasonable bite of Twilights lunch.
>”This is demeaning.”
>She scowls at you, her eyes flickering toward the other patrons to see if anyone was watching her being fed like a child.
>You lift the fork to her muzzle.
>She crumbles, caught between the embarrassment of making a public scene and the embarrassment of having her father feed her.
>Swallowing her pride, she opens her mouth weakly as her ears droop.
>You smile softly, that familiar pink returning to her face as she wraps her lips around the fork, and drags the bundle of noodles off with a quiet slurp.
“Was that really so bad?”
>You say chidingly, but with affection.
>She wriggles in her seat, pawing nervously at the space between her back legs as she rolls her shoulders in, trying to make herself as small as possible.
>You chuckle.
>Her head droops, and her glance only flickers up towards you intermittently, before she answers weakly.
>“No . . .”
“Good, now, open up.”
>You gather up a fresh forkful, and she wilts even more.
>”This is so . . . foalish . . .”
>You let out an “Mhmm” that’s so black and sassy you could be on pancake syrup bottles.
“Does it look like I care?”
>You cock an eyebrow at her.
>She gives you a nervous chuckle and a half grin.
>”Umm . . . no?”
“Bingo. Now, you need to eat your food so you can get better.”
>You feed her another bite, this time with far less protest.
>You continue talking as she chews.
“You get better, you don’t have to be subject to my ‘demeaning treatment’ any more.”
>You throw up some air quotes and overemphasize ‘demeaning treatment’.
>She lets out a little snort.
>It’s not quite a laugh, because her mouth is still full, but she’s smiling again.
>And so she lets you feed her the rest of her meal in quiet silence, mostly from embarrassment, but you could tell she was enjoying the attention a little bit too.
>When the check arrived, it was your turn to be flustered.
>Your wallet, phone, and keys had all been in your now dearly departed work clothes, and even then you don’t think that USD was considered valid tender here.
>The server was presented Twilight with the bill, instead of you, surprisingly.
>Probably took one look at you and knew whatever kind of money you were carrying wasn’t the currency of this realm.
>Regardless, it saved you a bit of face.
>You had to help Twilight fish the gold coinage out of her saddlebags, but all things considered, she seemed far less flustered by that than being fed.
>Personally, you’d have been more mad about people rummaging through your wallet, but, to each their own.
>You walk her back to Rarity’s place, the Carousel Boutique, as the sign outside was labeled, discussing whatever sort of subject came up.
>The girl was brilliant, to say the very least.
>It wasn’t so much that possessed a deep knowledge of some things, it was that she possessed a deep knowledge of just about everything.
>She went on with incredible passion about everything from horticulture to macroeconomics, and always with the same level of clinical understanding that could have been either pulled directly from, or put into a very comprehensive textbook on the matter.
>At first it was sort of daunting, trying to keep up with her, but, eventually you just learned to throw in a question of clarification here and there while letting her run wild.
>You were, well, proud.
>Smart as a whip, brave, kind . . . you could do a lot worse.
>It sticks in your throat a bit that you can’t really take credit for all of that though. You didn’t raise her, you didn’t teach her right from wrong.
>You weren’t there for any of the big moments, learning to walk, first words, riding a bike . . .
>Okay, maybe not riding a bike, but the question still stands.
>The two of you meander through town, as she gives you a tour of the place, doing almost all of the talking.
>It gives you time to think about a lot of things . . . and wonder about even more.
>Like what the hell happens next . . .
>Your thoughts are interrupted by a yelp of pain.
>You’ve returned to the Carousel Boutique and Twilight, mindful soul that she is, tried to get the door for you.
>Using . . . three guesses . . . magic, magic, or magic.
>Oh look, she’s wincing as he holds a hoof to her bandaged horn . . . that probably means it was magic.
>She lets out a quiet ‘eep!’ as you scoop her up.
“Alright, that’s it. You’ve lost your everything privileges.”
>She squirms in your arms, but a stern look puts an end to it quickly.
>”What you did at the restaurant was demeaning, but ultimately necessary. This is just insulting.”
>Twilight says flatly, clearly nonplussed.
>The two of you stay like that, locked in a battle of wills, the two of you glaring at each other, unwilling to back down.
>You boop her on the schnozzle, causing her to go crosseyed, and do that adorable scrunch that you’re rapidly becoming addicted to.
>Sure it’s gonna make your heart explode from cuteness overload, but it’s a noble death.
>She huffs, as you deposit her on the couch inside the main room, but smiles a little as she does so
>You have every intention of making sure she stays there too, so you head to find some board games, make two cups of tea, and enjoy an afternoon in with your daughter.
>You the corners of your mouth uptick slightly at the thought, just as they always do when you think of her.