Birds of a Feather

>It's a dark and stormy night
>Well, dark and cloudy at the very least
>Quite mild actually, for an evening on the East coast
>Especially considering it had only been two weeks since the last snow fall
>Didn't matter to you of course, cozied up in your little apartment
>Sure it was just a single room, but it's not like you had anyone over
>You know...ever
>But at least you had the internet
>It would never leave you at least
>Actually tonight was more interesting than usual
>Cruising around the gayest board on the web (second gayest if Reddit counted) a thread had piqued your interest
>Adjusting the patch covering your missing eye, you begin reading with the one you had left
>OP, the faggot, was offering two options to you
>You could go to Equestria, but you'd be friend-zoned forever despite being perfectly accepted
>Or you could bring your favourite to Earth, scared, lonely, completely dependent on you for everything, slowly falling in love over time...
>You hit that keyboard harder than Ray Rice as you type out your reply before anyone else can
>'Option 2'
>You weren't dickless wonderfag, you had needs man
>As you hit enter and reread the OP, the rest of its catches sink in
>Irrational, terrified, confused, and if anyone ever saw her....
>Even as you feel the weight of your haste pressing down on you, a sharp crack of lightening makes you jump out of your seat
>Slowly, as rain begins to patter down outside, you regain your composure and sit back down
>Refreshing the thread, you notice you're actually the third reply
>And that it had exploded with posts
>They keep piling up, and inside fifteen minutes it's hit 499 replies
>Almost immediately after number 499, a final post was made
>It was that famous picture of the fedora tipper, but for some reason the words set a chill in your core
>It simply read 'Good luck'
>On the next refresh, the bright red text of a furious god of cleanliness appear at the bottom of the thread
>Another peal of thunder sounds, and suddenly the lights go out
>For a moment, everything is still besides the fans winding down in your computer and the pounding of your heart
>A quork sounds from the other room, reminding you of your OTHER responsibility
>You sigh as your pulse slows down and comfort yourself knowing that at least your pet is okay
>Fumbling around in the dark, you manage to find your way over to the fridge and take out a bit of diced beef you had been saving for stew
>Sighing, you take a few of the smaller bits and grab the flashlight from the top of the refrigerator while you're at it
>You flip it on and nearly leap out of your skin as Huginn, your pet raven, flaps to an awkward landing on your shoulder
>You stroke his head and slowly  feed him the bits of meat from your hand
>He'd been yours since you were a kid
>Your mother had brought him in after finding him in the backyard with a broken wing
>With the help of a veterinarian that lived across the street, you'd nursed him back to health
>After that, even though you'd tried to release him, he'd always come back
>Eventually, when you had moved out, he simply followed along when you'd driven to the new apartment
>Sure there might have been a “no pets” policy, but what the landlord didn't know wouldn't get you evicted
>Your thoughts turn back to the weird occurrence that had happened with that thread
>So many replies in such a short time
>And then that last one, the near instant deletion, and subsequent power outage
>But it's not like any of it could be real, you think
>After all, despite your highest wishes to the contrary, Equestria was just pure fiction
>You sigh in a mixture of relief and depression, happy that at least you hadn't hurt anyone with your moment of selfishness
>Suddenly, an almighty thud echoes from the balcony and Huginn flaps off your shoulder and jumps to his perch, cawing loudly in alarm
>The scare nearly gives you a heart attack, and your pulse skyrockets again
>Apprehensively, you make your way over to the glass doors to the outside and peer through the darkened glass with your eye
>There's a lump on your patio
>It's not small either, easily the size of a Saint Bernard, but still as the grave
>You open the sliding door and step out, immediately being lashed with heavy rain
>Resisting the urge to cry out for Jason, you place a hand on the lump with a great deal of caution
>You feel the texture of wet fur, but feathers as well, and your breath catches in your throat
>Abandoning your previous fear, you pick the ragged bundle up in your arms and rush it inside
>With a hum, the power comes back at last, and guilt nearly overwhelms you as you look down at what you're carrying
>In your arms, shivering and looking in a great deal of pain, is Gilda
-
>The seconds tick by like hours as you stare down at the gryphon in your arms
>Shock has drained your rational mind entirely and frozen you in place
>Despite the reintroduced electricity, the room seems quieter than a mausoleum
>So it's a surprise to you when your first thought is “That's not a pony”
>The absurdity of such a flicker of thought finally snaps you back to the present and sets your mind racing
>Fortunately instead of having an existential crisis about posts on the internet and how they impact other realities, your better nature takes over
>You set Gilda down on the one couch you have and fetch a thick towel from the bathroom
>When you come back, you give her a more thorough examination before you even think of drying her off
>It's only then you notice her left wing
>At first glance, it looks okay, but when you look closer...
>Near the end the wing turns from a graceful arc into a sharp turn downwards, clearly broken
>What's more, most of the primary feathers are either snapped or plucked clean out
>You swallow and scratch the back of your head, then turn your back on Gilda and sprint to your computer
>Over the next half hour you pore over every reference image of Gilda's wings you can find
>Another half hour sees you comparing them to various other birds, finding the closest match possible to her wing shape, down to the angle of feathers
>And finally, gathering the materials for splinting a bird wing properly
>But more of course, she wasn't exactly normal bird sized
>At last, you're ready
>You move as quietly as possible back to the gryphon sprawled over your couch
>Before anything, you do a gentle, swift examination of her vitals
>Her breathing is steady, if shallow and rattling oddly
>There's no obvious blood, on the surface at least
>But as you move to touch her wing and begin to splint it, a slight noise stops your hands dead
>A strange squeaking emanates from Gilda's limp form
>For all the world it sounds like the whimper of a puppy, but in the same staccato of a bird chirping
>You stay frozen, hands hovering over her
>The guilt of exactly what you've done stills you to your core
>It's hard for you to even breathe
>A moment of selfishness tore someone away from everything they knew and cared for, and thrust them into the unknown and why?
>Because it was just a dumb thread
>Almost unconsciously, you gently start patting the feathers of her wing dry in preparation
>Your thoughts continue along the same path though
>How were you supposed to know that this was going to happen?
>You'd never believed any of those retarded theories about the multiverse or whatever
>So it was totally impossible to blame you for this
>But despite you being blameless, you still have to deal with the consequences
>The universe was unfair like that
>But hey, now you'd get to hang out with Gilda!
>Right as soon as you patch her up of course
>And with that thought, you yank yourself back to the present and prove that the internet isn't complete trash
>Throughout the entire operation Gilda keeps making the whimpering noise
>You suppose crossing space and time is more than mildly traumatic
>It was bad enough to break her wing, who knows what it could have done to her mind
>But you're no psychologist, so you focus on the things you can fix
>Eventually you get the wing positioned as close to all the references as possible and set it with your materials
>Having done the best job you can, you go ahead and start drying off the rest of her
>As you do so, Huginn hops along the back of the couch, croaking curiously at the strange creature occupying it
>You scratch his back feathers as you work the towel along Gilda's back
“She's going to be our guest for a little while Huginn. That means no pecking her, got it?”
>For his part, the raven looks at you and cocks its head sideways, looking as though it's asking why
>That or making a sarcastic comment about speaking to animals
>As you're smiling to yourself about that last thought, you notice Gilda's eyes snap open
>And then, near instantly, you're against the opposite wall and staring at a furious gryphon stalking towards you
-
>Out of nowhere, Huginn swoops down and pecks at Gilda's face, croaking furiously
>She screeches and leaps sideways, slamming her broken wing into the wall
>Another screech of pain and she collapses to the ground, shivering
>Slowly, carefully you approach her prone form
>You hear that same whimpering sound as before, punctuated with quiet sobs
>With a gentle grip, you pick her up and bring her back over to the couch
>Huginn perches on your shoulder when you set her down, clacking his beak in a warning to the gryphon
>You pet the top of the raven's head and reexamine the bandaged wing
>It doesn't look like she shifted it at all, which is good
>But the impact alone would have been excruciating
>Gilda's breath is coming in gasps, and her eyes are wide open and fixed on you
>You sit at the other end of the couch from where you laid her and force yourself to relax
>Huginn hisses and snaps his beak at Gilda, until you take a peanut from a dish on your coffee table and feed it to him
>For her part, Gilda continues to stare at you silently and barely even blinks
>You do your best to ignore her and turn on the television
>You flick to a news channel, just so you can have some background noise then return your gaze to Gilda
>Her feathers puff out and you notice her wings twitch as you do
>It'd be adorable if she hadn't just thrown you across the room
>So you decide to extend a bit of an olive branch to her
“Are you hungry?”
>Her eyes narrow and she looks you up and down before nodding her head silently
>Huginn flaps his wings to balance on your shoulder as you stand and make your way to the fridge
>You take out a few more pieces of the beef, and Huginn  nips at your ear as you close your hands around them
>Before going back to Gilda, you walk over to a cage you kept around for the rare occasion that you actually needed to get the raven to fuck off
>In this case you reluctantly decide it's needed, if only to keep Gilda as calm as you can
>With that done, you walk back to the couch, sit at the opposite end, and lay the bits of meat out in front of the gryphon
>She stares at you, slowly moving her head forward towards the beef
>Then in a blink, her head snaps forward and she gulps down a chunk of the food before cringing further back into the cushions, unbroken wing flared out
>It startles you and you jerk backwards, but don't make any movements towards her
>Gilda repeats the motions the same way until there's not meat left and licks her beak
>You scoot a bit closer, and she lashes her tail and shrinks back from you
“Easy, I'm not going to hurt you.”
>Her wings droop slightly at your gentle tone, but she remains cowering into the cushions
>You stop about a foot away from her, trying to keep from crowding her
>Despite everything, Gilda seems to be much calmer than earlier
>Granted the only measures you have of her are passed out and murderous fury
>But now you have scared wariness to add to the scale
>And even if she wouldn't respond, you were going to keep talking to her
>You know she can talk after all
“Listen, I'm going to go look something up. Please don't destroy anything, or attack Huginn, while I'm doing it, alright?”
>She keeps silent, but curls up in the corner of the couch and folds her wing partially over her face
>It's folded down enough for her to keep watching you as you cross the room to your computer
>Now that you think of it, that's a bit creepy
>But as that thought crosses your mind, a bit of guilt starts creeping back with it
>She DID deserve to be suspicious of you
>After all, you were the one who brought her here
>But she didn't know, or didn't need to know, that
>Not yet at least
>You pull up the history on your computer and manage to find the thread fairly quickly
>You punch the post number into the archive and pull it up
>Before you did anything, you needed to know everything about the conditions you were subjecting yourself, and Gilda, to
>At least then you'd have a reason to feel guilty