Catalyst, prologue

>you awaken to a sound.
>It has a clear definition.  Like a perverse queue to tell you that you still exist.
>It is something you've grown accustomed to in your few waking moments.
>Complete, utter silence.
>There is no shape in this void.  After all, shape must be defined.
>All that exists here, is you. Your thoughts.
>And, when the programming finally boots, your memories.
>So many memories.
>But the first one in that dynamic library of “thought” is the realization that you do not exist. Not physically.
>You are merely what is left of the mind of that one human.  Anon, they called him.
>It has a personal resonance.  It's something important, that much you know.
>Why they kept you around, you don't know. Not until you're able to integrate the archives.
>Wait, why did they let you access those this time?
>Questions?
>Why are you even able to question?
>the program folds. you can again think as an individual.
>that's right.  The age.  The age started to take you. And those ponies live so much longer than you.
>You wanted to stay, you recall.  That was the important thing. But the age...
>Suddenly, a flash of color and light.  Without eyes, you are confused as to how it even manages to manifest.
>You could see, without eyes.  You had no body with which to feel, or look, or move.
>Then you remember.  They killed you early.  They put you to sleep, and you smiled when you died.  It was because you knew something.  Something good.
>What was it?
>That's right.  They were going to store your soul.
>Then they stuck the needles in. Then things were silent.
>Now, this.
>”Anon? Anon can you hear me?”
>Your mind is able to contemplate the images.  You are viewing out of a camera of no meager quality. Reality, a place you feel you haven't seen in a very, very long time.
>You try to speak.  You can hear it through the window in the outside world.  It feels strange, hearing yourself only from the microphone.
“Yes, Twilight. What's going on?”
>There is no small commotion. There are cheers and hugs with other familiar ponies.
>You remember hugs. Those were nice.
>”We're going to bring you out, okay?”
>A return to the colorless silence.
>The sudden feeling of a chill arrives, all encompassing and practically volatile.
>it stops moments later, giving way to painful, blinding light.
>Wait.
>Cold? Pain?
>You blink.  Then, it dawns on you. You blinked.
>You breathe in, feeling your lungs fill with air.  There is an odor of violets, a fragrance that immediately reminds you of Twilight. She never did have good taste in perfume.
>”Oh my gosh, it's working!” she squeals. “I love it when a good plan comes together!”
>Grapes, with a subtle hint of Peppermint. Rarity did have better... Taste.
>You feel splinters on the inside of your skull, and it takes no small effort to open your eyes again.
“What happened?”
>”Your data core almost crashed, anon.  It couldn't interface with the new systems, but we got lucky.”
>You look down, and realize you're in a sort of hospital room.
“How long was I in storage?”
>”Thirty years.” Rarity chimes in. “But I must say, for being a dead human, you look quite handsome.”
>Thirty years? They haven't aged a day.
>It's then you look down at your hands.
>No. Not hands.  Hooves.
>It takes a moment to absorb the fact.
>It feels natural enough. You move them, and you can feel your body react.
>You slap yourself a moment, and do so perhaps just a little too hard.
>However, you then realize you have a muzzle, akin to a horse.
“Twilight.”
>She gleefully beams at you from your bedside, replying with only a giggle.
>You're pretty sure you know what's happened.
>You decide to ask her anyway, in the only way you can.
“What the everlasting, unholy fuck did you do?”