The Conversion Bureau: A Place for Everyone

1. Fitting In

The office was incredibly dull and sterile. The walls were white and unadorned: not a single painting or picture could be seen. There weren’t even any bumps in the finish. The stucco had actually been flattened down before it dried, and the paint had been applied so carefully, coerced just enough that it was perfectly flat. The furniture was no better: white plastic and white cushions and white doorknobs and white carpeting.

The only patches of color in the room were the two ponies. It was almost blinding the way their pastel coats and manes stood out against the décor.

The secretary was the brighter of the two. Her mane and tail were freshly washed, and they radiated the subtle sheen that only brand-name conditioner could provide. The smell of grass—likely leftover from the shampoo—matched the green of her hair. Her eyes and ears had the lightest dusting of makeup, just enough to complement the pink of her coat and the green of her eyes. Her hooves were polished enough to shine, and every time she turned a page or moved something on her desk they caught a brief glint of light. Every color on her, from her eyelashes to her cutie mark, was vibrant and visible.

The other pony was downright dull by comparison. The conversion had fixed her body, but there was still a thin layer of dirt covering her—leftovers from Nicaragua, no doubt. It made her colors look faded.

Her tail had a few flecks of fabric stuck in it. She had been wearing jeans when she came in; the blue remnants contrasted greatly with the blonde hair, making them impossible to ignore.

Her face was little better. A few pieces of old skin littered her eyelashes and cheeks. She might have been Caucasian before the conversion, but there was hardly any guarantee; skin often lost its pigment after falling off the body. The bits stood out sharply against the blue of her coat.

Her wings were the worst. Like the rest of her, the dingy residue of her former body was impossible to miss. Even worse, they were incredibly unkempt. Feathers stuck out at odd angles. Lumps poked up where down had bunched together. It looked like she hadn’t preened in a week or more.

The secretary flipped another page with her hoof. White notebook. White pages. She made a large, sharp checkmark on the page with her mouth. White pen. White teeth. Her eyes scanned the page and then turned it again. White sclera. White necklace. The room was silent, save for the shuffling of paper.

The pegasus had been staring at the wall for many minutes, unmoving, unblinking. It seemed like there was a question that needed asking, but she didn’t want to ask it and be rude.

The secretary finally glanced up. White nametag, with “Soft Shock” written on it in black block letters. “Is something wrong, miss?”

The pegasus blinked slowly. “Where am I?”

“Acclimation Department, Conversion Bureau, Canterlot branch,” Soft Shock recited. “Don’t worry, memory loss is a completely normal side effect of the serum.”

“Why is everything white?” the pegasus asked. Hopefully she wasn’t overstepping her bounds.

“We don’t like to overstimulate fresh converts,” Soft Shock said. “It takes a while for the serum to settle, and we wouldn’t want any…primate instincts resurfacing before that.”

“Right…”

Soft Shock turned back to the papers. “Now, Heather. It seems you didn’t fill out your forms completely. Your name is no big deal, since your human one transliterated well.” Another turn of the page. “But you don’t seem to have listed any special skills.”

“Special skills?” Heather asked. Her voice was flat, monotone—didn’t want to insult the other pony with her attitude. Something told her that would be bad.

“Yes, everypony has one. Fresh converts haven’t earned a cutie mark yet, so we like to set them up in jobs they feel would earn them an appropriate one.”

“Cutie mark?”

Soft Shock smiled. “It’ll come to you. The serum can take a while to finish with the hippocampus and the amygdala.”

Heather turned to the secretary and her desk. The plaque at the front edge caught her eye. It was the only splash of color in the room, besides the two ponies. It was made of polished brass, with matching flathead screws attaching it to the wood. “Acclimation Department Head,” it read.

“So…I used to be human?” Heather muttered.

“Yes, you just took the serum a few minutes ago.”

“Did you used to be human?”

Soft Shock laughed. It was a very professional laugh—restrained and polite and measured, like her hair bun. “No, thankfully I was born a pony.”

Thankfully? That seemed an odd way to put it.

Soft Shock turned back to the paper. “Don’t worry, Heather. Most converts don’t list any special skills or job preferences. Cultural shortcoming, I suppose.”

“Cultural shortcoming?” The words stuck in Heather’s mouth slightly. What was supposed to be six syllables somehow ended up as seven or eight. The Equestrian language hadn’t felt strange until now, when she had to use it for something complicated.

“Yes, humans just don’t seem to emphasize self-discovery the same way ponies do,” Soft Shock said absently. Her eyes were still scanning her papers. “The only converts who have dedicated skills already tend to be old knowledge hoarders.” She made another check mark. “I can count the self-actualized juveniles I’ve helped on one set of legs.”

“That sounds bad.”

“Oh, don’t worry. We keep a few options for these situations,” Soft Shock finally looked up from her papers. “How do you feel about sex?”

“Sex?” They had claimed the treatment would muddle most pre-transformation memories, but that word definitely evoked something. Something which was pleasant but not necessarily nice. Something complicated. “I don’t know.”

“Not surprising. A lot of fresh converts have mixed feelings about it. Another one of those backwards mores, I suppose.” Soft Shock smiled. It was sincere and calming. Whatever negative feelings had been dredged up by the mention of sex, that smile was tailored to soothe them. “Let me put it another way. Do you like making others happy?”

“Of course I do!” Heather’s voice cracked a little, a tinge of panic seeping into the fracture. “I love making other ponies happy! I’m not selfish or anything, I promise!”

“Calm down, Heather. I didn’t mean it like that. I mean…” Soft Shock ran a hoof through her mane, pushing a few stray hairs back into place. “What I meant to say is, humans have a lot of, well, inhibitions and things. They treat sex like a chore or a job or a bargaining chip. Ponies are different—we think of it as a way to help others, as an important emotional service. Sex is a very common job. If you still have some leftover biases, then of course we can find something else for you to do…”

“No, it’s fine. I’m sorry.” Heather’s voice had settled back into the inoffensive monotone. Couldn’t upset anybody. Anypony. Not “anybody,” anypony. She had just gotten here and she had already come so close to ruining her new life. “I like making others happy, I do. I’m sure your recommendation has my best interests in mind.” She tried to smile, but her face remained neutral.

“Well, if you’re sure.” Soft Shock picked up the notebook again, flipped it open without looking at it. “We have a few places that are always looking for new workers. We’ll get you cleaned up, and then I can have somepony escort you there.”

Heather tried to smile. Once again, her mouth ignored her orders. “Sounds great.”

Author's Note

"People who cannot invent and reinvent themselves must be content with borrowed postures, secondhand ideas, fitting in instead of standing out."
— Warren G. Bennis