Chapter 1――Weightless [Rewrite pending]

	[juli '14]


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	Waking comes slow and hard——cold rises within, light returns some.

	The world begins to apply, trickling in through tiny falling shards, harsh, dense, skewering nodes everywhere prickling static along your back, sides, legs. There is a throbbing that draws your focus, and warm and sticky blood sits nestled in your brow; its thick remnants enclose your eye's corner when you try opening them.

	Groaning, reaching out, finding more nodes, the achingly high-pitched sound of stones scraping against itself and skin echoing for hours on end. With it, more pain flares, senselessness a faint and rapidly fading memory left to pine for. Though now, brief clarity aims the mind's eye, towards wandering in the forest, towards raining and thunder, and running, towards dreaming of great and fleeting things and nothing, a grand nothing and Ashy——

	Rising, the rush of blood a heat through your body, muscles spasming and pulling——back down, back down, back down dammit—— But not before your eyes caught the heap of grey fur, and only grey, seemingly unharmed.

	Lying still then, listening to the pulse faintly ringing, faintly fading, the gravel now not nearly as much a nuisance as it had been. And, carefully, you try to open your eyes, mindful to stay down for just a while longer. The light spares no effort blinding you, sight blearily trickling in through two tiny slits. A wave of nausea sends shivers through your spine, though the urge to retch stays dormant for the time being.

	Sucking in a long-drawn breath through clenched teeth, you brace yourself and place a hand at your side and another on your head, a painful stinging spreading through your entire arm as you attempt to right yourself. At the first attempt the arm buckles underneath the stress and, limply, with a dull thud, you drop back onto the ground and the screams spread in the open air. A dog barks. With stinging eyes, the second attempt. More careful now, first rolling onto your side, pulling your knees up close to your chest. With as hardy a shove as you can muster, from the elbow mostly, you roll over like a wet newspaper until your upper body feels upright again.

	The blood pumps through you like boiling acid; though, with a careful glance, the light seems to have dimmed. The painful burning stays away as you try to make sense of your surroundings, vision swaying as if drunk, nausea rising from deep down again. Your sight lands on the heap of grey fur; you call out her name: the sound rasping, too, like gravel. Again.

	The gravel shifts away at the caustic trembling of your legs trying to hold your weight. Heaving deep breaths, the burning numbs and you find the opportunity to give yourself a once-over, vision slowly beginning to steady as long as you focus. The blow-outs in the raws are now joined by large strips of faded fabric limply flapping in the breeze, the skin underneath maimed and bloody. Luckily, the gashes don't seem to be very deep, though occasionally bleeding still. Further up, at your arms, there are more cuts, though smaller, and a few bruises. Altogether nothing too severe——you'd like to think so, at least.

	And now, whilst standing straight, mind somewhat cleared again, nausea yet to dissipate, you take a cautious step forward, inwardly muttering praise to yourself; the notion that nothing appears to be broken receiving a warm welcome. The aching of your head, paired with the sticky blood crackling as you frown are still reason for worry. But a hardy foolishness makes you take another step and another. Until you're crouching in front of Ashy, lying in the shade of the tree looming overhead. With a blood-stained hand, you nudge her gently.

	A strange, croaking sound rings in your ears as she twitches, then flutters her eyes open. Her muzzle scrunches whilst she kicks her hind leg, and twitches.

	“You okay, girl?” The rasping, wheezing sound your voice had been now more or less back to normal. As your hand pushes down on the mare's side, gliding back, tracking dirty-brown streaks along her coat, and she doesn't seem to mind, nor whine, you breathe another sigh of relief. Her legs, too, seem fine.

	But, there's still something not-quite… right. Then, you're not all too sure you're in a state for coherent judgement. For now, you blame the wooziness on how odd she looks——even if your sight is no longer rolling about aimlessly.

	At her side, propped up against the tree, you find the backpack sitting unharmed.

	Joining the waking mare, you sit down and begin to run through things again as you zip open the backpack, fishing out the first-aid kit, looking for some sort of bandages, hoping there'd be any left in the dented, years-long neglected little kit. That's what you get for thinking you'd never need the thing, you suppose.

	Still… not like you could've ever seen… whatever is happening coming.

	Bringing you back to wonder just what that is. Luck, though, finally seems to give you a nudge, however small, as you find a still tightly wrapped roll of gauze sitting at the bottom of the tin right next to a half-filled bottle of disinfectant. With a faint hiss it opens and with clenched teeth, you hold a finger over most of the opening, slowly pouring the burning alcohol all over your lower legs, unable to see where the actual wounds are through the caked blood and dirt. Sand and shards of gravel and frail pieces of dried bark and dirt of all sorts collect in a flow and run down your legs as the skin underneath begins to show.

	It's not nearly as clean as you'd have preferred, but nonetheless, you begin to pick at the plastic wrapping around the gauze, letting the bottle of disinfectant fall back into the tin with a hollow ringing. Some cuts are notably deeper than others, though nothing that looks like it needs stitching. Still, as the ringing in your ears decides to go silent, you wonder what might have caused any of this.

	Tearing your thumb through the center of the roll, you mostly note how bright it is out here now. The storm passed, sure, but the clearing's the only place this bright and you'd ran from there. Peeling the gauze loose, you wrap it around your leg, once. Then stop.

	And when you let your eyes glide in front of you, past the grass, past the gravely path and the claret drying crimson, up the stem of the trees, then even further up, where the branches are swaying in the breeze, tracing odd arcs, and the leaves vibrant in their back-and-forth coming undone though less-so than most, you halt at the dimly gleaming bright red of apples.

	If you can trust your own eyes——and at this point you severely doubt you can anymore——you're sitting in an orchard of sorts. “Just what the…?” At that, you feel a shifting at your side as Ashy nuzzles her head against your upper leg, still lying down, and a dog barks again, somewhere behind you.

	A woman's voice calls out, “Simmer down, Winona. What's gotten ya——” And the crunching of twigs rushes towards you and moments later, surely enough, a small white-and-brown flecked Border Collie stands in front of you and Ashy, barking its lungs empty. A stomping and muttered curses comes behind swiftly as she calls out again towards the dog. Finally, something seems to be working out for you.

	Using the tree's stem as support, you try to get back up your feet, the length of gauze around your leg falling and rising in the wind like a flag at half-mast. Turning around, the women's footsteps right at your side, you try to smile as politely as you can muster through the pain. “Excuse me, mi——”

	Rather than finding a woman, a small pony skids to a halt, a few feet in front of you. Now that, in itself, wasn't all that queer. The bright orange coat, on the other hand…

	With a pang of pain shooting through your leg, you limp further around the tree, searching for the woman. When the sight in front of you reveals nothing but trees, neatly planted in a raster, the blood on your brow crackles again. “Could've sworn I heard——”

	“What the hay…” she sounds again.

	Turning back, you still find only the pony, staring at you with an intense curiosity, and the dog. And Ashy lying underneath the tree, rolling onto her side, looking up at you. Crouching down, you lay a hand atop her head as she gets up right, and wobbles her way over to you to nuzzle herself against your chest. “I'm coming apart at the seams, girl. I th——”

	“H-hey, y-you let go of her!” The orange pony takes a step closer to you as you turn your head towards the woman's voice again, just in time to hear her speak up, “Go on, git… whatever you… Git! Shoo!”

	Some sort of half-guided fall, though it's mostly luck that you didn't hit your head against the tree——though you wonder if it'd even make a difference anymore——as you fall back on your ass, a sawn-off branch jutting out stinging sharply in your back and the nausea returns full force when she takes another step back and you see her opening her mouth again though the ringing in your ears is louder than ever before and wincing in pain, you slam your eyes shut and your hands against your head clamped between your knees. Then, quickly with the left, the grass underneath your hand like needles of glass, blindly feeling around until it hits the tin and you wrap your fingers around the empty glass bottle. Wearily, the slits of your eyes now thin as paper as you're turning the bottle around and around. “Can't be…” The etiquette a blur, trembling in your grip. “Just can't be…” What in God's name was in that thing?

	You feel something poking against your leg and when you look up, the pony takes a hurried step back, looking at you through worried, emerald eyes. “Are, uh… you okay?”

	Blinking once, twice. Trying to reattain your bearings proves to be just about impossible when you've got a talking orange pony standing in front of you. Hearing the woman's voice coming out of her mouth sends a shiver rolling down your spine, some gut feeling screaming at the wrongness of this and you scoot back, digging the branch deeper into your back, wincing.

	“You talk.” Getting out in the open absolutely doesn't help.

	The mare cocks her head, then bares her teeth in an grossly humane grin. “'Course I do.” She settles back for her frown quickly, though. “Mind tellin' me just what ya are? And whatcha doin' in my orchard?”

	Your head raising from between your knees, the throbbing and the ache especially poignant. “Concussion,” you weakly mutter, “Gotta be a concussion…”

	The mare's frown furrows deeper, the dog at her side wagging its tail happily. Then her gaze trails down at your side, at your hand atop Ashy's head, and her stained coat, before she takes a determined step forward again. “What did you to her‽”

	As if visceral, you let go of her, holding your hands up in display-innocence. “Nothing! I di—―” After a curt shake of your head, the orange pony is still there, glaring daggers at you. “Just a concussion… Don't have to answer, Anon. Keep it together. Just talk yourself through it. Yeah. That makes sense, right?” And the glare wavering now, unsteady between worry and fear in inequal parts. “Talk yourself through it. Find some sort of…”

	Reassuring yourself with a nod, you turn back to Ashy. There's no one there. No one at all. No dog and certainly not a talking orange pony with a hat. Digging through the backpack. Some water would do wonders, surely. Then you can figure out where to go from here.

	“Hey!” There she is again in that warm, southern drawl. “I was talkin' to ya!”

	The tarp has come undone, wrapping itself around most other contents of your backpack. What little was left of the first-aid kit now scattered loose, the radio and Ashy's brushes lying atop each other in the bottom, and the thermos too light in your grip. With a sigh, you let it fall back down.

	Nudging your leg again, you try to ignore the babbling mare, though, with little―—scratch that—―with no other alternative to turn to, your eyes land upon her emeralds again. “I said I was talkin' to ya!”

	“Yeah, I know. That's the problem.”

	She scoffs at that. “Hey, you're sittin' in my orchard, least you can do is tell me why!”

	Apart from the dog's panting, silence hangs between you and her as you're grasping for some sort of explanation, some way to make the pieces fall into place. You've got to be overlooking something here.

	A concussion, sure, but how? How did you end up here? Where even is ʻhereʼ? And even then, what kind of concussion causes you to hallucinate about talking orange ponies and apple trees?

	Maybe it's desperation, maybe some foolish hope that things'd make more sense if you just went over all the pieces again, but whatever your reasoning, you shrug, wriggle away from the stinging pain in your back and sigh. “I don't know.”

	The mare simply stares, her frown having already lost its momentum prior now shifting again, aimed, this time, towards concern and confusion.

	“It just started raining out of nowhere. Mind, the weather'd been terrible the night before but still… Then it starts storming, thunder like nothing else and she just dashed off, you know? And it doesn't even make any sense, she doesn't mind usually.” You place a hand atop Ashy's head again, aimlessly stroking her mane with trembling hands. “So I'm off after her, sprinting through trees and I thought I almost had her but then it just got sorta vague, you know? I mean, like… Just like there was nothing at all. Next thing I know it's like I'm falling and I'm here, my clothes all beat up and something must have hit me good on the noggin 'cause now there's a talking pony asking me, of all people, what's going on! Like I'm supposed to know!”

	The mare blinks slowly, somehow manages to take off her hat and puts it down, then scratches her head. With a nod, she puts her hat back on and with profound wisdom, she states, “Partner, that didn't make a lick o' sense.”

	“Tell me about it…”

	She gives you a once-over as well, halting at your legs, her face a wry grimace. “That there don't look too good.”

	Looking down, you find the gauze still sticking to the moist wound. With a firm grip you begin winding it up your leg; the gauze colors a soft pink at the pressure. “'s not that bad, really. Just a couple cuts…”

	“What'd you do?”

	Snapping the dressing loose, tucking it underneath itself, you start with the other leg though decide against it, seeing how the wounds aren't too deep and there isn't much left of the roll anyway. “…dunno. I just told you: I was running after Ashy, then there's this flash of light and next thing I know I'm lying here, bleeding like a stuck pig.”

	The pony raises a brow in confusion, mouths something you can't quite make out, then looks at your side where Ashy's sitting, her eyes wide—―too wide—―and eager. “You wouldn't happen to know what he's talkin' about?”

	Ashy blinks, then snorts.

	“Yeah, no, she ain't talking. I'm not that crazy yet.”

	Her head snaps your way again, frowning, before she sets herself down in front of Ashy. “Uh, 'scuse me, miss…?”

	Ashy cocks her head as way of answer.

	Placing a hand atop the orange pony's shoulder, you give her a shake, drawing her attention back to you again. “Look, I'm sure you mean well for a hallucination, but the day my pet starts talking is the day I'll start wearing pink dresses, okay?”

	“Yer what now?” When she's only met with the falling of your brow this time, she speaks up again, “What'd you just call 'er?”

	“My… pet…?”

	She immediately gets back up on all fours again, shooting a look at the dog. “What's that supposed to mean‽”

 	“That… she's my pet and I'm her caretaker? I don't know what you're looking to hear here, exactly.” You punctuate that statement by wrapping a finger around her collar and giving it a small tug.

	She turns towards Ashy again, exaggeratedly pointing at you with her hoof. “You ain't gonna let him do that, are you‽ I don't know what he did to ya, but you can stay here with us if h—―”

	You halt her as she tries to take a step closer. “I think that's enough out of you.” Humoring your delusions'd proven to get you no further and her pushiness is getting to you more than you feel like dealing with right now.

	But she won't have any of it, trying to squeeze her head past you, shouting at Ashy, “You don't have to let him do this to ya! Just come with me and we'll get ya―—” A hardy shove backwards halts her promptly. With a glare, she gets back up though as you do the same, towering over her, she seems to shrink back a little, her eyes flicking towards your legs.

	“You just try and kick me. I've dealt with stallions three times your size and I was trying to get to their junk. Go on, try. See where it gets you.”

	She's shooting daggers at you again, her tail pressed flat against her rear as she takes another step back. “You let her go right now, y-you ugly monster!” Her dog joins her by her side, barking and growling, baring its teeth.

	There's a thumping in your ears again, though this time you're all the more aware of your surroundings. And it's something instinctive, balling a fist, taking a step forward, the pony creeping back. Hallucination or not, you're not going to let some misshapen orange pony talk down to you. “Hey runt, screw you. I've never even so much as looked at any of my animals wrong. They're my life's pride. Don't you dare act like you know what you're talking about. You have no fucking idea. Absolutely none.” Blindly pointing behind you, you take another step forward though the mare shakily holds her ground. “She's not going anywhere other than with me. Got it?”

	“…I-I ain't letting you do that to her no more,” she says, her voice wavering. She paws at the ground and snorts, quickly eyeing you up again. With no further warning she storms towards you. There's neither rhyme nor reason to her attack; she's just going to ram straight into you. You've got nowhere near enough time to brace yourself.

	Something calls out your name from behind you. With a complete disregard for the mare, you turn on the ball of your feet swiftly―—though entirely per chance. In the corner of your eye you catch an orange blur passing you by. Ashy's up on all fours, mimicking the orange pony's grin. Then she opens her mouth wide, shouting, “'Non!”

	And you're staggering back. Balance becomes entirely too abstract a concept you just can't wrap your head around any longer and you're rushing towards the grass, stem of an apple tree roughly scraping against the back of your head before you're down. The dog barks sharply. The nausea kicks you in the guts far worse than the orange pony could've ever hoped to achieve. You feel a heat rising to your head and you wonder if the wound's opened up again as you try to open your eyes, holding onto the edge of consciousness with a failing finger's grip, trembling. Your sight blurry as you're scrambling upright. If you're out now, you're going to lose her. They're going to take her away.

	You push yourself back with your legs, the tree supporting you until you're sitting up again. The pounding in your head dims down. There's a fuzz along the edges of your side and you can't stop your head rolling to the side, dry-heaving your throat raw. Through the stinging blur in your eyes, you see Ashy rushing towards you and the orange pony rubbing her head, her hat a frayed heap by her side. The dog runs towards her.

	She buries her snout underneath your shirt again, nuzzling against bare skin and your throat burns red-hot with laughter. “No, Ashy…” you weakly mutter. Spitting the vile, acidic taste into the orchard. “Bad, bad pony…”

	She lifts her head up from underneath her hiding, her amber eyes sparkling brightly in yours. “'Non?”

	You reach out to her. When her coat, soft despite all the dirt, shifts underneath your touch, you start shivering feverishly. “No…” Your other hand then. “No, Ashy, no… You don't…” Writing off the orange mare as a figment of your imagination, some odd coping mechanism for whatever trauma you've gone through―—and are going through still—―isn't an effort at all. But Ashy… The mare you've owned since she was a foal… Talking…

	It's too much. Too out-there. No. Can't be real. There's no way this is real; this isn't happening at all. Your mind's just playing tricks on you. Your throat still burning and your eyes aching, stinging. A twig snaps.

	The mare, her hat back in its rightful place, stands in front of you both, the dog by her side.

	But it's so coherent. It's more absurd than anything you've ever seen before, but you're entirely aware of everything and the pain is just so real. Heaving a rattly sigh through your maimed throat, you slump against the tree, Ashy's mane a steady reassurance in your hand and you simply stare off into the distance, trying to clear your mind, trying to pretend she never spoke and you're still in the forest eating lunch whilst listening to an old cassette. Even the weather is nice.

	Ashy lies herself down at your side again and with a smile, you stroke along her neck. She nickers gently. Maybe you'd brush her mane later. Though you had to get back to the farm in time; chores still won't do themselves, after all.

	Then there's the clearing of a throat and when you look back down she's still standing there. The orange mare.

	She looks down, a queer sort of confusion flourishing on her face.

	Against yourself, you speak up, your voice a harsh, raw sound, “Yup, really looks like she hates this, huh?” Scraping your throat, spitting in the orchard again. It's a little better, though none smoother. The mare stands there looking all-sorts-of queasy, idly kicking some dirt away with her front leg. “No really, just look at her.” Bringing a hand to her tummy, Ashy rolls over, her ears folding down, her neck outstretched. “Clearly needs to be saved from the ʻugly monsterʼ… Where do you go off calling people ugly anyway? You ever looked in a mirror?”

	“Hey!” When your eyes find hers again, she quickly takes to looking down at the ground instead. “…Might've acted a mite hasty.”

	“Think so?”

	“You ain't gotta act like a jerk about it either!”

	“I don't have to…”

	There's always been something therapeutic to petting Ashy. This simple act, yet so sincere, so intimate, makes most days' struggles seemingly fade into obscurity. And when she rolls back on her belly and gets on all fours again, the first thing she does is nuzzle herself against you. This day isn't much like most days, though.

	With a smirk holding more arrogance than you even knew you had, you turn towards the orange pony again. “…But I sure can.”

	Pawing at the ground, she snorts indignified. “It still ain't right. She oughtn't let yo——”

	“Why? Why oughtn't she let me pet her?”

	Kicking her foreleg again. “…Just ain't right, I tell ya.”

	“Yeah well, that's hardly the only thing that isn't right then.”

	Regaining her composure, the mare's frown comes settling back in, though, this time, not nearly as spiteful. “What'd ya mean by that?”

	“…Ponies oughtn't be talking, for one.”

	“You… you ain't from around these parts, are ya?” she asks, far too chipper for your liking.

	Raising a brow, you shoot her a pointed look. “What gave it away?”

	“…Right.” She takes another step closer to you, hesitantly, and sits down in front of you. Eyeing your wounds up, she grimaces, then asks, “So… where's it you come from?”

	Scratching your head, you wonder if this pony might be able to help you out after all. Now, the town itself isn't all that big, but… “You ever heard of a place called Handy Mike's? This huge garage, four storeys high, right off… the highway…?”

	As the mare sets her hat down again, you already know your answer and sigh. She shakes her head. “I hate to break it to ya, but that didn't make a lick o' sense either, partner.”

	“Figured as much, yeah.”

	“Maybe my friend Twilight can help you out. She's got all sorts of books and maps of roads and those sorta things. She might know where you came from.”

	“You think?”

	The mare eagerly bobs her head up and down, and sets her hat back atop her golden locks. “Smartest pony I've ever met, for sure. We can go there now, if you want; she doesn't live too far from here.”

	“Another talking pony. Fantastic.”

	With a snort, she scoffs. “Well, you ain't gotta take the offer.”

	“No, I didn't mean it like that. It's just… weird, you know?”

	“Reckon I don't. You might wanna try to get used to that if we're gonna go into town.”

	Because that's totally a possible thing to do.

	“Why are you even helping me? You were going to turn my shins into splinters just moments ago.”

	“'Cause I want ya off my farm.” At least she's honest about it. “No offense, partner, but you're lucky Winona came to me. If my big brother'd have found you here, things would've gotten a mite ugly, I reckon. 'Specially if you'd try to get to his ʻjunkʼ. He can be kinda shy 'bout that.”

	“Hey, you're taking things out of context! I'm a professional a—―”

	“Now ya ain't gotta get all riled up about it. I ain't judging that sorta thing.” With a smirk that leaves you wordless, the mare gets up, stretching her legs. “And maybe Twi can make some sorta sense outta your story. Sun knows I can't.”

	You're not exactly keen on walking into a town full of talking ponies, that's a given. But if you're honest with yourself, you're at a total loss. This―sad and somewhat frightening as it is to admit―is your best, if not only, option. “Well, thanks, uh… for your help…”

	“Right! Applejack! My name's Applejack.” Now that, in itself, is rather up there on the recently developed ʻweirdness-scaleʼ you feel you'll be using quite a few times more today. The mare—―apparently called Applejack―—holding her hoof out towards you, expecting some sort of handshake however…

	Yeah, that's the new upper limit. For the time being.

	This trip can't possibly end well. Awkwardly grasping Applejack's hoof—―for normality's sake if nothing else—―you give it a curt up-and-down. “I'm Anon. I'm pretty sure you figured out she's Ashy.” Your pet turns towards you, her ears raising at the calling of her name.

	“'Non!” she happily blurts again.

	“That's a strange name,” Applejack says. “Anon.”

	You shrug it off. “Eh, could be worse. I've heard stranger.”

	“That almost don't surprise me. Wherever you're from's gotta be a strange place.” Just as you're about to retort, she raises a brow at you. “Well? We gonna sit here all day or you wanna go see if Twi knows what to do with you?”

	Getting up straight, you swing the backpack over your back, wincing at the sore spot where the branch'd stung earlier. “I just hope you're right about your friend.” With a sharp whistle, Ashy's right at your side.

	“Guess we'll see and find out.” Applejack turns towards the dog, lowering her head in front of it. “Winona, you go on back, girl. Tell Granny I'll be back in time for supper.” And at that, the dog dashes off like a rocket.

	“C-can… Can she talk?”

	“Who? Winona? 'Course not, she's a dog.” Applejack chuckles as she sets off along the gravely path. “You're a mighty strange one, Anon. Talking dogs… That'd just be silly.”

	You watch the mare walking in front of you, her freckled cheeks, and her large emerald eyes shimmering in the afternoon's glaring sun, and the Stetson bobbing up and down atop her head, and her ponytail-ponytail. “Right… That'd be silly.”

	And so, the three of you begin to walk. What should you expect from a supposed town of talking ponies? You have no idea.

	Hopefully, things would start to make sense soon.

	Apple trees surround you on all sides, reaching as far as you can see. As you're walking, Applejack turns towards you. “Hey, Anon?”

	“Yeah?”

	Her emeralds run over you again. “Your duds are kinda raggedy…”

	“Yeah, I know. Don't know what happened to them, either.”

	“I might know somepony who could help you out with that. She's real good with that sorta stuff.”

	“That'd be—―”

	“Reckon you'd do a lot better with my brother in pink anyway… Always had this thing for frilly dresses…”


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