The Proscenium Arch

'Hepzibah.' 'Hepzibah.' What kind of a name is Hepzibah? It's a Eweish name, I know that very well. But that's not why dad picked it. He picked it because my whole family loves the classics, doesn't matter what kind. And he thought his little pup could use a classy name like Hepzibah.

I came from a fairly normal Dog family, as far as we were concerned. Most ponies are unfamiliar with with Dog culture, and as a result have drempt up a romanticized, primitive, version of canine society. In truth, Dogs are generally just... ordinary. We have as many uneducated cave-slime families as ponies have hicks and yokels, and just as many middle-class sub-soil extra-Colonial dwellers, the kind with at least one degree-holder.

I know the score up top. Ponies think that just because their rulers were set out by Faust her own self they've got the monopoly on everything that's great, including intelligent citizens. Sure, sure, most ponies are a good collection of folks, and they've got good schools and stuff. But slag it, the attitude is hard to take.

So they think the dumbest scrap. Like, griffins are all living in sod cottages in kilts, or minotaurs all wear hairy loincloths and stomp around mazes, or, yes, Diamond Dogs are all ignorant cave-dwellers and any of the successful ones they see are impossible outliers. It never occurred to them that the really well-educated ones go back to the Colonies and work in their homeland.

There might be plenty of dust-back miners, construction workers, forge-tenders, and other things. They work in Equestria because we've got lots of those down in the Colonies. It's nothing special to do it there and it's hard to make a decent living. But we also have professional gem-cutters, and merchants, master masons, expert surveyors, not to mention mathematicians and magical resonance engineers. And doctors. It's not weird for a Diamond Dog to want to be or to be a doctor.

That never stopped the insults of ignorant ponies. “Dog doctors are too busy burying bones to fix broken ones.”

I did all I could to excel. It's not hard to manage in a good part of the Colonies. There are some pretty bad places, by comparison, where it's just easier to be a low-level dust-back that doesn't need to take the advanced courses. They're offered, but those schools have few takers in their advanced programs; the vocational programs have all the warm bodies sitting in them.

I suppose I was a bit unusual in my younger days. The braces didn't help any, they just made me stand out more. My heavy emphasis on the physical sciences rather than the magical sciences made me sort of odd. Most Dogs like working with magical gems, for obvious reasons, but I preferred my anatomy charts and physical process diagrams. I was the only one in school who, as a Junior, could run through all the steps of the Masquerade Process, the process by which Changelings converted emotion to their bodily fluids, and who knew it was called that because it was first described and precisely investigated by Doctor Masquerade.

The popular Diamond Dog folklore regarding Cutie Marks is that Faust gave them to the pony race out of pity. All other races had enough fortitude to pursue their destinies through sheer will and determination, but the ponies could only accomplish their life's goal with a visible reminder to help motivate them. That was never me.

I knew my destiny with exactness. I had a plan all charted out. I knew how I would move along, that I would dedicate myself to my studies. I wanted the grades that would impress every observer up the chain. I'd move on from high school to the best undergraduate college in the Colonies. I'd excel there, impress my professors and get them to sign a dozen letters of recommendation. I could probably get a decent scholarship to the Subterrene University. Then work my figurative tail off to get my MD, followed by residency at a good hospital.

I did all I could to stick with that, and I succeeded in the important places. My grades were kick-haunch good and even if I was excelling in non-traditional things I was getting notice from my teachers. They all thought I was going to make it. It helped that I schmoozed the Professors at Sub-Soil College, the best-rated undergrad school with the highest matriculation rate to Subterrene. Angles. We Dogs know them all. It's essential when you don't start out with air and space and you've gotta cut them all from the rock around you.

Schmoozing professors is often easier than it seems. It just takes a few minutes after class to get them to clarify a point which needs a demonstration to be understood, or asking about a related point that wasn't discussed to make the understanding seem more broad. Sometimes it's walks to their office discussing related points, sometimes it's trading recipes for stuffed luminescent fungi.

The steam-carriage went off the rails my last semester at Sub-Soil. I want to say it wasn't as bad as the terminology implies, but my plan was very specific. I had my notions, I had my ideals, but things change. The first indication that something would be different was while I went through the college fungi and lichen gardens with Doctor Peg, my anatomy and physiology professor. She was a sort of light amber Dig Dog, with the big underbite and pointed little ears. A good teacher, and not as gruff as she looked.

“The globular firestars are looking delicious. Would you care for some spores after they drop?” Doctor Peg asked, running her carefully blunted claws over the glowing red star-shaped patches of luminescence on the heads of the large, otherwise-white fungi.

“No thank you, Doctor Peg. I'm still cultivating the decorative blue filigree you gave me. I call it 'Citizen Blue,'” I said, with a warm smile. I had about as much fungicultural skill as the average cave rat, but blue filigrees are hardy and essentially idiot-proof. I didn't know but I suspected that globular firestars actually needed some form of competence. If it was a Dog or a pony or a Changeling I probably could have kept it going but as a fungus it would be at the mercy of my incapability.

“Glad you enjoy caring for living things so much, that's a vital trait in a medical doctor,” Doctor Peg said, adjusting the strength on one of the magical gems providing light to the environment.

“Can you give me any advice about medical training and, you know, how things work at Subterrene? The hang-out spots, the places to avoid, the really nice spots in the libraries where the magical light falls right and where it most smells like old books and stale coffee?” I asked, smiling, trying not to sound as desperate as I really was.

“First of all, I'm not a medical doctor, I'm a physical therapist and a dietician. Even if I have clinical experience I didn't do the hard track,” she said with a soft laugh and a little shake of one of the large glowing neon caps, to release a small sprinkle of spores onto moistened shreds of material for later cultivation. “And about Subterrene... I... wanted to speak with you about that.”

Panic gripped my heart and my stomach. I fought so hard not to let that show. That smile stayed plastered on my face. “What about it? I thought that you were going to write me a letter of recommendation; you're an alumna. I'm sure they'd give a letter from you some weight. I mean, I also got one from Professor Rent for the same reason but more never hurts...”

“That's not what I meant,” she said, gently, slowly making her way along the glowing rows of growth, with me following along like a lost and desperate puppy. “I meant... I know you have plans. Very, very specific and particular plans, chiseled out and measured out by rule and square, as is usual. But is there any shift-measure calculating in there?”

The cold fear clasped harder, and I furiously tried to imagine what I had done. My grades were top-tier in relevant subjects and unquestionably good in the miscellaneous general education subjects. I had no academic or criminal dings against me, and I didn't get pushy with profs. “I'm not an engineer...” I said, with a touch of hollowness.

“Yes, I know. You're a doctor in the making,” she said, taking a paper out of the lab coat she liked to wear. She unfolded it and passed it over. “You say Subterrene... but have you ever considered The Royal Canterlot University College of Medicine?”

I took the paper with some confusion. It was a notice to the faculty about placement opportunities for Dogs from Sub-Soil with excellent grades and recommendations. A few places were mentioned, including both Buaileam Sciath and Leanán Sí in the Griffin Kingdom and Mansa Mari Djata University in Zebrica. But there it was right at the bottom of the list. The Royal Canterlot University. “... Royal... Canterlot...”

“University,” she finished, taking the paper out of my stiff, stunned fingers. “You'd need recommendations, which you have, excellent grades, which you have, good scores on a few placement tests, which I'm sure you can do, and some initial fees. A government-backed student loan will cover what the scholarships and interest-free private loans don't. I'm honestly certain you can get away with a near-full ride, maybe some cost in the post-graduate period if you can't find a good fellowship. It's not your plan. But this opportunity can't be ignored.”

My mouth was dry as sand. The Royal Canterlot University's College of Medicine. The best medical school in the world. I had never even considered the possibility of a non-Colony school. Perhaps, in my wildest dreams I had considered a less prestigious topside university. “You think I can do this, and get the funding for it?”

“I think you're just dedicated enough for this. You've got eyes on the prize and all your tools at the ready. You want this badly enough that I honestly think you'll make it,” she said.

“What do I need to do? Where do I send all my transcripts and..?” I started asking, getting more desperate and puppy-like.

“The formal posting of all this information will come tomorrow. I wanted to show you this early so you could start arranging things and thinking if you want to make the leap,” she explained.

I didn't normally make decisions with great passion and quickness. I preferred clear-headed and slow contemplation, proper planning and such. But this time... “I'll get ready right now!” I shouted, running off with my tail wagging.

The usual things that followed that day took on an enormous new import, and with a new suite of attached requirements. I didn't just study for the General Aptitude Examination, I overdosed on GAE study guides, mainlined caffeine and took so many practice tests I could have vomited up paper strips with answers on them. I didn't just look into financial options, I did more research than the average accountant working for a national treasury. I pulled all the strings until they threatened to break to get the letters I needed.

I assembled a decent collection of information and pile of papers. Letters from professors, certifications of grades, my GAE results, a few personal essays regarding my academic and social history and intentions. I was ready. Mostly ready. The finances were up in the air. I was counting on an interconnected set of grants and scholarships and other things to take up a lot of the slack, though the initial fees would require a loan.

I was lucky, in some respect. I don't often think well of the general pony presumption of being very great, nor am I much of a fan of the subtle devaluation of other species (for obvious reasons) but a certain amount of pony sanctimony can be useful. Because of the desire to promote more Dogs in pony society grant terms are generous and the bits for education flow very easily. Pony financial institutions are also very generous about student loans for non-ponies with good credit checks and no outstanding problems.

I held out a lot of hope... a lot. So much that I didn't apply to Subterrene. Had I failed I would have taken a year off and probably bashed my head against a cavern wall for being dumb enough to put all my stock in wishing. But the letter came, and it was good and fat, stuffed to the gills with bright pastel papers and pictures of happy pony folks welcoming me to The Royal Canterlot University.

The next bit of time was just a blur. I was moving far away from everything I knew. I didn't live in a Canterlot-adjacent colony, after all. I had never been topside for longer than a few days, and I was going to be on my own, when before I had lived with my family. My whole life was packed into a few big boxes and a couple of suitcases, and I was conveyed, by steam-carriage, to an alien world.

Dog architecture is very strong, but it has a tendency to be dull. We carve from what we have and most stone is pretty boring. 'Austere' is the slag word the older folks use when they realize 'boring' is too on-the-muzzle. I get it. Straight lines and square construction holds up and keeps us safe. But when the only arches and curves are in natural caverns there's a bit of culture shock on going topside.

Everything was white and curved. Through the brass gates of the university the first thing that I noticed, besides the smell of millions of flowers, was just how blindingly white and gracefully curved everything was. The buildings all had decorative touches with floral and animal motifs, the material was all kept looking magnificent, and the whole thing was just as grand as I imagined it.

Culture shock can extend to weird places when things are fundamentally different. Coming from the Colonies I knew of very soft divisions between places. Spaces for habitation and other uses were carved out of the surrounding environment. We created our own air spaces and the difference between 'inside' and 'outside' is largely a philosophical matter. With nothing but open air, ponies needed to enclose their little bubbles of space and subdivide them as they saw fit. It was odd to realize that 'outside' meant something and that I wasn't still enclosed, and that inner spaces were not walls within walls.

I had applied for, and gotten, residence in one of the modest dormitories. I was humble, and wise with my limited funding. It was the sort of place that my kind of folk went. Not Dogs, but those who were there by luck or guile. They were the scholarship ponies, the desperate dreamers from poorer families, the million-to-one story supported by an entire community. Certain realities still held, and the expedient thing to do was get housed in the cheapest place for it. That was Amaryllis-Iris Hall.

It wasn't fancy but it was comfortable. I didn't care the carpets were thin and the walls were dingy. I didn't even care it was two to a room. It was sort of an opportunity to meet new folks. I happened to be paired with one of the few other Dogs, a bitch like me, but that was fine. There were ponies in the hall, as well as a zebra, three Changelings, two donkeys and a griffin who was our RA. I could still mingle with many species.

My roommate was a squat, the shortest breed, the kind with the jowls; she was a sort of off-yellow color with blue irises. Her name was Martha, and she came from the Colony closest to Canterlot, so she had the score. I wanted to make more non-Dog friends but I found myself talking to her a little more often than I thought we might.

It wasn't academic; like most Dogs she was there to attend the College of Magical Engineering. We had little in common, aside from age, species and a drive to succeed. But that combined into a kind of rapport. We were female Dogs, in a pony institution, realizing we were living and working in a very different world from home.

“So, do you know what you'll do after all of... this?” She asked me one lazy evening, waving her hands to indicate the dorm room and the area outside the window.

“Well, once the MD's done the degree from this place will give me the clout to seek residency at one of the good hospitals. Slag it, I can imagine it'll be Canterlot Royal Hospital,” I said, rolling my shoulders in a loose shrug. The plan had come off the rails in the best way. I could have the ego to dream big.

“I don't mean that. I mean the fun stuff. When you actually get to, you know...” She made a ring with one hand and inserted a finger into it to represent sex. “Like Mystery down the hall, but hopefully with more self-control.” Nothing about the pony Mystery was a mystery to the stallions on campus. They knew her inside and out. The only really mysterious thing was how she avoided getting knocked up.

I snorted and waved that off. “Oh come on, Martha. Is that really what you're thinking about? Not which company you'll work for or if you'll stay here, go back home or even brave the technological wasteland of the Griffin Kingdom to get a plum position where your rarity will let you negotiate a haunch-load of money?”

“I can think about that when I graduate. For right now I can focus on my own social future. Nothing wrong with imagining what kind of guy I'll get. Unless that's not your thing. I'm all for Bitch Burrowers. That's totally cool...” She said.

“I'm not a Canine Clam Cleaner. I like guys just fine. But I just don't think about it that much. I've got enough trouble remembering the baseline normal charts for all the species I'll likely encounter. I can't specialize until I start the graduate studies. Isn't that enough?” I asked, casting an eye on my Diagnostics textbook. I still had some more studying to do.

“Think of this as warming up your beside manner. It doesn't do you any good to be frigid and unfriendly,” she said with a cheeky grin. “So, which are you going to be?”

“Which of what am I going to be?” I questioned, peering at her a bit.

“Are you going back to the Colonies to get with another Dog, which is pretty usual. Are you going to stick around and try out some 'Equestrian sports' with one of the hooved guys out here, try something exotic like a minotaur or a griffin, or just go all out for it and have freaky, kinky Changeling sex like everyone talks about?” She asked me, with a prurient little grin.

“Hey! Show some respect! I live right down the hall,” Query said. The female Changeling had been trotting past our door when she overheard Martha's paw-in-mouth moment.

“Am I wrong?” Martha asked the Changeling.

“Well, no, of course you're not wrong. That's half the fun of being a Changeling and half the point of dating one, but don't forget to add 'sexually satisfying, nutritionally supplemental, and completely amazing' for full respect and disclosure,” Query said with a buzzing laugh.

“Ugh, I should move into the library, I finally found just the right spot...” I said, picking up the textbook. “What are you even doing out?”

“Oh, right. I'm heading to the dining hall. One of the listed entrees is globular firestars, and I sort of miss those. I came from a hive by a Colony, so I figure it's a good time to use the meal plan rather than just siphoning extra lust from Mystery next door,” Query said with another buzzing laugh.

“Sounds good, actually. Wanna come with, Hepzibah? You realize it's possible to read and eat at the same time, right?” Martha asked, hopping to her feet and heading for the door.

“Sure, I could eat,” I said, leaving the bed and following along.

“And we can continue on this discussion about which kind of guy you want on you,” Martha said with a straight face.

“I must suggest you pick 'Changeling' as a matter of personal, species pride. Sex with a bug puts a smile on your mug,” Query noted, also straight-faced.

That evening I realized two things. First, Query and Martha were both wonderfully terrible folks. Secondly, my carefully crafted life plan did, indeed, lack a notation box for 'get romantic with some member of the male persuasion,' and it certainly left open the question of what sort of male that might be.

I could certainly talk the talk when it came to sexually charged conversation, but I had very little in the way of practical experience. Some experience, but not as much as others. I was pretty sure I was behind the square, as they say, when it came to the mean, median and mode. My stats were fairly unimpressive but at least I wasn't just a virgin like Jolly down the hall.

Mostly I was unimpressed. Not that Dogs are bad lovers or anything. Changelings either. They weren't bad, but I just wasn't invested. I guess constantly having part of my mind either reviewing lessons or planning a life didn't allow for much time for emotional focus. I suppose in some sense I wanted a little spice as well. Something exciting, that really got my heart pumping and my breath panting.

Perhaps nothing as blatant as the kind of crazy scrap that most folks think of, but something just exciting, wild and crazy. Even if I only did it once, it would have been nice. Doctors have a certain reputation, after all. Doing crazy sexual things is a risk when a position at a hospital isn't assured.

It added a new wrinkle that at least gave me something to think about besides grades and assignments. Those were practically handling themselves. Entering as a Junior meant that I only had to pay for and go through two years of being just like every other desperate, grasping newcomer. After the completion of my undergraduate work, the real nightmare began.

I was at the University, proper, but not in the College of Medicine. I needed another exam for that, and had to fight for a slot. Matriculation was actually easy, for two reasons. Firstly, I was coming from the parent University and the prestige that was attached enhanced my status. And second, I'm not too proud to say being a Diamond Dog got me a kick up the list. Angles. I didn't even care about the occasional pony whispering about a 'wet-noser quota' or similar slag.

There was a slight problem with getting exactly what I wanted. Paying the Princesses. Maybe not directly, but it was their Royal University, I had to figure some portion of my tuition and fees was going to buy them armor polish and fancy brushes. Medical school is a costly proposition, and even with all the pony-guilt-influenced grants and scholarships I was looking at some shortfalls. Some serious, work-off-campus-somewhere-good shortfalls.

A Diamond Dog in Canterlot sticks out about as much as a Zebra in the Griffin Kingdom, and is about as well received. Cordially, but coolly. Sure, we've been living under them for ages but we didn't interact that much, not until the more recent era. The Canterlot ponies aren't all snobs and arrogant nobles, but there are enough that the attitude is generally to give outsiders the eye of scrutiny.

An educated bitch in medical school is a bitch when she's asking pony folks for a job. It's a hard sell for most industries. Appearances matter and it makes a lot of sense. Ponies down in the Colonies get looked at funny, and it's not a proud thing for anyone concerned. I looked for all the respectable things I could. Then I settled on a disreputable job that promised to put the bits I needed in my pocket.

'Disreputable' may have been harsh. It wasn't illegal, and was questionably immoral, but it wasn't the kind of job associated with a doctor-in-training. I dodged the cliché of being a stripper, but found a job wherein I put on fishnet leggings, high heels and skimpy attire and served mixed drinks to perverts, while convincing myself I was classier than a stripper because our place had a piano and carpets.

Cocktail waitress... a job invented by someone that wanted to see the performer of the job bite their tongue for tips. Tips were the thing, the important thing, almost the only thing. Tips kept my dorm room over my head, passable food in my stomach and droning professors in front of my face. If the tips flowed, my place was assured and I would find fewer creditors in my future. If they didn't flow I could expect to be grabbed with a gut-rending panic.

Males wanted different things when it came to a waitress. By and large, to be completely honest, they wanted snappy service, general competence and maybe a little positive attention. Mostly it was just average fellows, mostly stallions, who wanted a drink and to be alone, or to pretend to be alone. They drank and moped or drank and got pleasant and that was it.

Small subsets were stingy with their bits. They actually bothered to look at me and I didn't like it. Their hooves or talons were everywhere. They knew I couldn't say too much. I had to keep the job and they knew I wanted the bits that jangled in their coin pouches. Ponies, as well as the odd donkey, zebra and Changeling, were necessarily restricted to rubbing, with the odd magical pinch from unicorns and Changelings. Griffins... were just something else. Stroking, grabbing, pinching. Lustful brutes...

Worse than all the touching, at least in my own opinion, was the staring. Their touching was, in some sense, honest. They were sick perverts and de facto blackmailers, holding my bits hostage until they had finished touching me. That was not hidden, that was out in the open. But the staring, that was a lie. They smiled and they said their suggestive things and they touched me with naked lust. But they weren't seeing me.

I knew from the way they stared at my snout, or my arms, or the construction of my legs. These were sheltered men seeing something new. Not someone new. Something new. I was a novelty to them. A curiosity. I was a two-headed chicken that had flopped out of the jar of formaldehyde at the sideshow and wandered in to get them drinks. To think of it... even the honesty of their lust was tainted. It was just the newness of feeling some thing they had never felt. They probably regarded me as lesser just because I wasn't one of the species they always encountered.

One night, one griffin with one too many neat whiskeys actually restricted me from leaving. He was one of the big kind, whatever they call themselves in their language. He was with some friends but they were too sleepy to care, about one loud yell from a semi-voluntary cab ride. It was just me and him, and he had one talon on my chest, thankfully, and one on my thigh.

He pulled back, with some strength, and got me back against him. I'm not a slouch, Dogs are strong after all, but being an intellectual left me on the low end of strong and that piece of slag was probably whatever the griffin equivalent of a dust-back is, something extremely physical. I made a token effort to pull away, but I wasn't really going anywhere. He knew he was on thin ice, but he also probably could tell I needed to remain employed.

“Gimme a lap-dance, Dog,” he whispered. His breath stank of alcohol and worse, the smell lingering across my sensitive nose.

“It's not my job...” I said quietly, looking around and hoping someone was noticing.

“I'll give you a big bag of bits, just wiggle. Wiggle that doggy ass of yours and you can have it,” He mumbled. He was drunk but still somewhat lucid, the worst kind.

Unlike the cliches seen in bad novels and cheap porn movies, I didn't fantasize about him on me, or imagine the pleasures of domination. I kept the image of my future in mind, even as my body obeyed the command to move. I thought about wiping the fevered brows of young children of many species, about cutting cancerous tissue out of the old so their families could enjoy more years with one they loved, about telling folks they were pregnant and a thousand other images that were the lot of a doctor.

I did it. I wiggled in his lap, I ground against his body, but I hardly noticed. That said, it was difficult to ignore the heat rising from his crotch. I was in the world of medicine until I finally stopped. I didn't linger there, feeling pleasure from my shame and domination. The second his grip slackened I was away. He paid, a pittance compared to what he had promised but he tipped me for doing something very outside of my job description. That was the lowest point of my tenure there. The highest was yet to come.

I had noticed for a while that one stallion came in a lot and ordered moderated amounts of decent liquor. He was quite handsome as far as ponies went. Large and strong, one of the regal-looking unicorns with feathering over his hooves and decent muscle to him. His coat was a medium green color, and his mane a lush red. A strange combination of pretty-colt and suave fellow.

I noticed because he saw me. He didn't just look at me like a freak or a new object to be ogled. He looked at me and saw me. Somehow I could tell he was seeing me for what I was. I had never experienced anything like that from any of the other customers.

When I served him he proved that he was more than just another pile of scrap. He actually knew where my name came from and made a joke I don't think I would have let anyone else get away with. I was just charmed enough to actually come back on my break like I had promised. The first words out of my mouth were, “Tell me your name. You know mine.”

“Racham,” he said, with a small bit of pride. He looked like he had earned it. “No other names. I'm just Racham.”

“'Just Racham,' that's pretty unique. I like it. Now I don't have to be so self-conscious about my name,” I said with a laugh, settling in beside him.

“I'm glad my odd name has made you feel comfortable. I'm suddenly very interested in being so useful,” he said, giving me a smile. He looked handsome that night, and he never stopped being like that.

“Is there a camera recording this?” I asked. I didn't trust him. How could I have known he would be everything in my life? He was just a pony in that moment.

“No. I despise cameras. The cycloptean glare from that unblinking evil eye is unbearable. It takes in all the images for good or ill and vomits them across the face of the land, and all for the wrong sort...” he said, suddenly getting serious.

“Guess I don't need to ask about your favorite show,” I said with an uncomfortable laugh.

“Forgive me. I have some modest skill in drama and I may indulge a little bit, especially after some alcohol has loosened my tongue,” he said with an apologetic blush.

“Yeah, I can see it. You look like an actor. Actually, you look like a model but you talk like an actor,” I said. I was just saying anything at that point. But it was true.

“You really know how to make a stallion know he wasn't just making a fool of himself,” He said, and offered a smile. “I can tell this might be something.”

What it was was the start of a relationship. The check box was sure added to my life plan. And the name right beside that check box was Racham. He was charming, he was sweet, he had money. Still does, in fact. Intelligent spending and wise management keep him well-financed. I never asked for a bit out of him, of course. I stood on my own paws.

What I got from him was a place to stay, all the love I could ever desire and a stallion who said he would follow me wherever my residency would take me when I finally moved from the University to a hospital, if it needed a move. He was perfect. He had a lot of passion in his love, the kind of passion I had long desired. But there was something to his efforts. He held back something. If I knew then what I know now...

I would have gone on without hesitation, through it all.