Campfire Stories
Admiral Biscuit
Some things were universal, it seemed. Love was one. While science continued the debate about whether or not non-human species could feel emotions like love (much to the chagrin of pet-owners), you had firsthand proof that they could and did.
But that wasn't really so surprising. Even if things hadn't turned out to be mostly like movies had led to you to believe, it was too much of a stretch to believe that an alien species could prosper and gain sapience without a sense of empathy for the other, and with that, a feeling of love.
Science could go on with its boring explanations of mirror neurons and modeling the self onto the other. Freudians could have their explanations of psychology, and fMRIs could demonstrate that humanity is nothing but a largish lump of cauliflower with electrical impulses; philosophers could debate what is real and what is not, and none of it really changed a thing. Humanity, as it had in the centuries before psychology and modern diagnostic instruments, continued on regardless.
At least, that was a reasonable assumption. You weren't there to see it any more. You'd somehow found yourself in a different world, a world full of sapient candy-colored ponies.
That they possessed their own humanity—or ponyanity—was beyond debate. They'd taken you in and cared for you; they'd given gifts with no expectation of those gifts being returned. They'd fed you and clothed you and given you shelter, and they'd patiently taught you their language. Many of them had become your friends, and their friendships had been just as varied as those you'd had back on Earth. You did silly physical things with Rainbow Dash and Applejack; calm and quiet things with Rarity and Fluttershy; intellectual things with Twilight Sparkle, and random things with Pinkie Pie. Every relationship was expressed differently, and yet they all helped make a whole. There was probably some German word for it in a philosophy textbook.
Taken apart, all six mares lived very different lives; yet together, they all formed a tight-knit group, one pony's weakness offset by another's strength. It reminded you of some of the cliques you had back on Earth.
In short, your observations led you to believe that humanity had much in common with alien races, and it was a relieving thought. Movies and books tended to focus on the differences—and there were many—but overall, the general similarities were more pronounced.
One of those similarities was fire. You'd been to a fair number of campfires during your time on Earth, and even on an alien world, the flames were no less compelling. As the night's chill set upon you, and you glanced up at a million million stars, the warm body pressed up against you and the dancing light of the flames was essentially no different than it had been on earth, a shared collective memory between you, the ponies, and tens of thousands of years of ancestral memory. Of course, just like humans, the ponies had lost the ability to cook actual food over an open fire, but just as on earth, charred food on sticks was no less tasty.
And after the snacks had been consumed and the night had well and truly fallen, it was time to share scare stories around the campfire.
It was fair to assume—as it had been on Earth—that said stories had only the barest grain of truth to them, and yet when you were in the wilderness with only the light of the fire between you and every monster that ever had been or would be, there was a fundamental sincerity behind them. And, just like the campfires you'd attended as a youngster, the group split into its own sub-groups—the storytellers, the listeners, and the skeptics.
As on Earth, the borders between the groups were fluid. Each story would have its own teller, and its own listeners and skeptics, so what was true for one was not for the next, and that was the way that it ought to be. Never before had you been around a campfire where the possibility of what might be was so pronounced.
Unsurprisingly, Rainbow had begun, and what her tale lacked in plausibility, it made up for in enthusiasm. You were unsurprised when at the end of it, Twilight had offered a critique, and Rainbow had challenged her to tell a scarier story.
The librarian had tried—but she got bogged down in details. If there had been a hoof-motion for a footnote, she would have used it.
Rarity's story had kind of stuck to middle ground. It was enough to make Fluttershy tremble, but not enough to make the librarian do more than shake her head slightly.
Pinkie's story had been interesting, but you had trouble following along. It could have done better without a couple of the non-sequiturs. Judging by the reaction of the rest of the girls, you're not alone in thinking that. Twilight ended up one plot twist behind, while Rainbow got stuck in a semi-permanent eye-roll. Pinkie didn't seem to care that her tale fell slightly flat; she promptly returned to toasting marshmallows over the fire again. One day, perhaps, you'll be sent to a world where all the s'more ingredients are equally distributed, but that isn't your world and it isn't theirs, either.
It's no surprise that Fluttershy failed to tell a scary story: at the end, you were rooting for the monster.
The fire burned low as Applejack told her tale. Unlike all the others, there was a sincerity in her telling that was somehow lacking in the others, and while it was perhaps a bit less frightening, you had no trouble believing that it's firmly grounded in the bedrock of Truth.
And now it is your turn. As six pairs of eyes turn towards you, you take a moment to yourself to drink in the scene. The flickering firelight casts spooky shadows across the glade, but at the same time, the warm body pressed against your own speaks of an intimacy which transcends species. It is only fitting that you, the stranger amongst them, tells your story last, and it goes without saying that your tale will be added to their canon and re-told around campfires much like this one. As such, there is a ritualistic feel to it, and you take one long slow sip of your cider before looking directly in the eyes of each mare in turn. All ears are—quite literally—on you.
You lean forward, letting the dying embers of the fire warm you, for the tale you are about to tell is chilling beyond belief, all the more so because it is absolutely true. Your six companions do the same, preparing themselves for what it about to come. As soon as Fluttershy huddles up, you clear your throat and begin your story.
“Let me tell you about the American political system.”
Author's Note
A One-Shot-Ober fic
