The Slow Mutants

Chapters

02: Release
03: Moustache Whacks
04: It's Safe Now
05: The Passenger
01: Run

02: Release

The Slow Mutants 02

Shouts out to:

Jed R

(I don’t know what he might’ve done here, but he deserves my thanks anyway. I mean this is Jed we’re talking about. He’s just great in general)

Cr0w T R0bot

(For helping me edit this, and for years of being a fan!)

April 9, 2022

I used to know so many swearwords, but when I try to think of any of them my mind goes blank.

PER!

Every alarm in my mind is blaring, every instinct I’ve developed tells me I need to leave. Because I am not their average glassy-eyed smiling newfoal. I am, unfortunately, the Last Slow Newfoal.

The noseless man looks out the window at nothing in particular.

“Didn’t even know we had an agent out here,” the noseless man said, and holds out a hand to me. “I’m Patrick Fairbairn. Heard of me, have you?”

I somehow manage to keep myself from shivering. Yes. I have heard of him. Wanted for hundreds of ponifications, and Shieldwall’s best friend.

And a key player of the Sagwon Disaster, where PER and Solar Empire forces made an incursion into rural Alaska, only being stopped by a ragtag group of PHL. Word was, he and Shieldwall had ponified an entire town, nearly gotten another one and come close to stonewalling the pipeline of fuel from the north in Alaska.

“It’s almost suspicious,” says an indigo unicorn with a green mane. He has musical notes for a cutie mark. “You could almost say-”

“No, that wouldn’t make sense,” says a woman sitting cross-legged in a nearby seat. “Look at her flank. Her marks are smudged, that’s…”

And before I know it, she reaches for my flank. I recoil in the split second that her fingers are on my flank, but the damage has been done.

“She’s a newfoal,” the woman breathes, looking at her fingers.

“A deep-cover newfoal?!” Fairbairn gasps.

“WHAT?!” gasps the woman in the front seat.

“Aw, hay yeah!” adds a yellow-orange earth pony mare. “This is the kind of thing I love to see.”

“This is next-level of the next-level,” says a lanky teenager or twentysomething with a southern accent. He’s scrawny, looks like he hasn’t eaten in awhile. “Pat, did Shieldwall make this one, or-”

“No, Freddy,” Fairbairn says. “I’d remember that. So, maybe someone else. Perhaps.”

Deep-cover newfoal? I guess that’s the closest to what I am. But it’s the only thing that makes sense to them, which means I live a little while longer.

The only thing left to do is sit, bide my time, and wait for them to heal up my leg. Then, then I can get out of there.

“So,” Fairbairn asks, almost conversationally. “What’s your name?”

I try not to look too closely at his face, which looks like it’s been taken apart by wild dogs and put back together. Except - and this is a bit odd - some of the bite marks I can see look like they’re human teeth.

What happened to this guy?

For a second, I almost say I’m the Last Slow Newfoal. But then I just go back to the name of my cover identity: “Dew Glow.”

“Well, Dew Glow,” says the unicorn, “Glad we found you when we did. The town would’ve lynched you otherwise.”

“No need to remind me,” I say, all of a sudden, and I freeze. Newfoals don’t say stuff like that. Newfoals aren’t that assertive. Unless they’re Slow Newfoals like me, and oh God, oh GOD oh no oh-

“I like her,” the unicorn says, a big smile on his face. “I’m Arpeggio. The lanky human’s Freddy, the woman in the driver seat is Aviva, and the woman who just touched you inappropriately is Jessica.”

“Sup,” says Jessica, flashing me a gesture that’s not quite a fist, one that’s likely meant to resemble a hoof.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, weakly, raising one hoof to her hand.

“And finally,” Arpeggio says, pointing to a yellowy earth mare. “Honey Dusk.”

“Charmed,” Honey Dusk says, a smile on her face. And something about that made my skin crawl under my fur.

“What was your assignment?” Fairbairn asks.

I freeze. My mind races for a plausible excuse. But the thought occurs they’ll probably accept anything at this point, so I say:

“Classified.”

Fairbairn whistles appreciatively.

2017

In the beginning, there was the Slow Potion.

The way everyone talks about it, everybody knew that new foals were monsters from the beginning. You’d think everyone was a PHL or HLF supporter from the moment of the CERN incident. You’d think that every newfoal came out as such a barely functional zombie that only the most braindead imbeciles wouldn’t notice anything. You’d think that they swan-dived straight into the uncanny valley screaming “HENLO HU-MAN FRIEND! I AM A PER-FECTLY NOR-MALL PO-NY NOW, YOU SHOULD BE-COME A PERFECTLY NORMAL PO-NY AS WELL!”

Like heck it was.

To take it, they had to wheel me to the Conversion Bureau, I was so weak. I sat in my wheelchair in front of the doors, apprehensive.

Mabel was right next to me, confusion on her heart-shaped face. “You’re sure this is…”

She let her voice trail off as the orderlies brought me to the door of the Bureau.

“Well, what else can we do?” Stan asked, his broad, flat face etched with concern. “It’s either that or Hope dies.”

Never one to mince words, Stan was.

“It’s just,” said Jackie, running a finger through their unkempt mane of black hair, “You heard about Jazmin Carter, right? The comic artist?”

Of course I have. Jazmin Carter is the rallying flag of the HTF and every anti-ponification activist there is, on the lips of everyone who has questions about this strange and alien process. She’d been a transgender woman who took the potion and came out as male, apparently completely comfortable in her new body. Saying she was who she was meant to be, and how happy she was.

The doctors had tried to pass it off as “the potion repairs the body, any physical changes! We didn’t mean to-”

And at that point Carter’s family had become belligerent, to the point the police had been forced to escort them out. They’re still making trouble because of it. Still campaigning against the Potion.

“Nothing like that will happen to Hope,” said Sunny. “She’ll be fine, I’m certain of it. Just… think of it like cosplay.”

We all stared at Sunny. Mabel looked like she wasn’t sure whether or not she should be offended, Jackie just looked confused, and Stan looked almost contemplative.

“Well, back when Hope cosplayed, she always went as animals,” Sunny said. “Like Kyubey. Heh, remember Kyubey?”

I remember that. I remember being in a group cosplay for Puella Magi Madoka Magica. Sunny had planned for me to cosplay Madoka, only for me to reveal that I’d made a Kyubey costume. Jackie had instead cosplayed Madoka.

He’d looked… surprisingly good. Almost unsettlingly good. It was almost a struggle to get him to stop wearing it.

It was just before I’d been diagnosed, too. So I was left with this conflicting memory of both happiness and despair.

“So it’s like an animal cosplay, always,” Sunny said.

“Except I don’t have hands,” I muttered. Maybe not the best thing to say, but I was depressed, I was sick, and I had to say something.

“Some of them can use keyboards, or doorknobs, or hold things to their hooves like they’re glued there,” Jackie said. “I’ve seen it.”

“With luck, I’ll learn,” I said, as they wheeled me in there.

2022

“Anything you can tell me about your mission?” Arpeggio asks.

“Afraid not,” I say. “Classified.”

On the one hand, I’m kind of happy I’m not dead. On the other hand, this can’t be good. I’m already aware that as what is probably the only sentient newfoal, as a newfoal in general, I’m already persona non grata. Or equus non grata. Whatever.

I try to take the long view of survival. But the thing is, this was the only view.

The van rumbles along the old road. I stare out the windshield.

We crest a hill and then I see it.

There’s a roadblock ahead. Far as I can see, a line of vehicles - HLF technicals with mounted weaponry, the PHL APC, and a line of peeved-off (What’s the word I would’ve used normally?) farmers, businessmen, shopowners, children even, all armed with rilfes and shotguns.

Oh no.

“They’re gonna kill us!” Jessica yells, panicky.

“Got any weapons on this thing?” I ask.

“Nothing that can take that,” Fairbairn says.

I bite my tongue. I mean, I actually physically bite it - I know what it’s going to sound like if I say exactly what I’m thinking.

‘What do you mean, nothing that can take this?! We’re all going to die! There’s a bunch of pissed-off farmers with guns, maybe some homebrewed explosives!

“Thankfully,” Fairbairn said, clicking a button on a walkie-talkie he’d taped above the dashboard, “We don’t have to. Hacksaw One, get ready to make it rain.”

Make it rain.

I cringe. I’ve heard PER say that phrase before, and there’s only one thing it can mean.

A loud, drowning hum rang out above us, and I saw it. A blinking red light - an airplane!

I squinted and looked up towards it. Maybe I have a spell that let’s me see that far, maybe my vision is just that good, but either way, I know I can see it. A yellow, three-motored plane rumbles and rattles through the air, and I can see two pegasi flying along behind it. There’s a buzzing noise, and I see that the plane appears to be blazing away with a minigun.

The blockade scatters. They dive for cover - behind cars, rocks, anything they can find. And when the gun stops, the pegasi dive down towards them.

I bite back a gasp.

They’re not going to - but they are. There’s only one thing they’re about to do.

Some of the blockade aims up at the plane - they’ve got weaponry that really, really should not be legal. I can hear a heavy machinegun, and I think I see a rocket launcher.

But the plane doesn’t budge. The rocket harmlessly explodes about eleven feet from the plane, and sparks glitter all round the plane. The ponies are similarly unharmed.

‘Oh, no.’

The ponies pull tabs on their flightsuits, and trails of purple spray out from their saddlebags. They’re a few feet above the blockade.

One pegasus takes a bullet through the wing. They scream down to earth in a purple death spiral, flapping their useless wing, and then ram into the hood of an HLF technical armed with a machinegun that looks like a smaller M2 Browning with an old rifle stock jammed onto the end. Red and purple ooze out from under them, down on the pavement.

The damage is done, though. I see some humans screaming, diving into cars, throwing on gas masks, or running as fast as they can.

I can see the people in the blockade screaming. I can see a unicorn throwing up a barrier and a wind spell, trying to blow the purple gas away.

It’s not enough.

There’s some people ponifying before my eyes. Some of them shoot themselves. But not all of them. Not enough.

With that, the blockade becomes a battlefield. Newfoals throw themselves against the unicorn’s shield. One newfoal, a look of mad glee on its face, jumps up to the machinegun in the back of a truck and opens fire on the humans fleeing from the deadly gas. There’s humans and PHL, pulling out pistols and melee weapons against their enemies, back to back with newfoals - until they realize and turn on each other.

Fairbairn smiles approvingly.

“What a senseless waste,” Arpeggio sighs, as we watch the pandemonium ahead.

I feel a phantom pain in me, from nerve endings I don’t have anymore. I bite back the pain, though it’s so intense I can almost feel my eyes watering.

2017

I thought I blocked out how it felt to be ponified? But sometimes, I see it in my sleep. I wake up, fur drenched in sweat and tears, screaming.

What all the other Slow Mutants (like they called us) said was that they trotted out on unsteady hooves, not certain how to respond. But in the nightmares, I remembered:

Unimaginable pain. Like knives digging into every part of my body. Pain like the moment I broke my collarbone, except in every part of my body. I feel like clay that’s been flattened, pushed into a ball, and flattened again. The burning sensation of skin splitting. Dull, throbbing pain under the skin. A sensation of being stabbed - but in the skull - when the horn sprouted from my head. Hearing my body cracking, my bones unfusing and fusing back together.

The fact that I got nightmares (which no newfoal did) probably should have been a warning. But at the time, I didn’t care. I was cancer-free, I had superpowers, I didn’t have to adjust to the loss of my hands, and people would stop on the street to pet me like a dog, run their hands through their mane.

A natural-born - a big stallion by the name of Aegis, almost the size of a small Earth horse - said it was a bit offensive. I didn’t mind.

2022

And then thankfully, a phone rings.

“...I gotta take this,” Fairbairn says, as we speed towards the blockade. “Honey Dusk, take the wheel.”

He holds up the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

Honey Dusk pushes her way up to the driver’s seat, and Fairbairn sits next to me. Strangely, the car doesn’t slow down or lose control. And I’m left looking over at a yellow-orange earth pony mare in the seat, her hind legs not even reaching the pedals, her forelegs just sort of… sticking to the steering wheel.

“Yeah, I know it’s for you,” Fairbairn says, completely unperturbed as bullets pock against the van. “We’ve… we’ve done that punchline before.”

As Fairbairn listens intently, I look over to Honey Dusk. There’s an unsettling grin on her face, reflected in the mirror. It’s the kind of vacant glee you see on a newfoal as it’s beating someone to a pulp or watching someone scream as they’re potioned. The kind where you can’t quite tell if that’s their default state or they’re enjoying the pain.

She turns the van towards a young man that doesn’t look to be more than a child. The tires leave the pavement, and my head bonks against the wall of the van. The young man doesn’t splatter against the grill of the van. He falls under, and the van shakes for a little bit.

Christ.

Hey, I used a human swear! Good on m-

And then, Honey Dusk does it again. She swerves to the other lane and punches through a woman in gray-brown fatigues. And she laughs. Her grin is so wide that I’m seriously concerned her face might split in two.

Well. Now I know the answer to that question. No, she is definitely enjoying this.

“No, we didn’t potion all of it,” Fairbairn said. “What? No, we weren’t discovered. That…”

A pause.

“Okay, okay, it didn’t go as well as we could’ve hoped, but there were complications.”

Another pause.

“Such a waste,” Arpeggio sighs. He looks out the rear window of the van, and just seems so forlorn.

I blank. Of all the things I expect to hear from PER, be it misanthropy, resignation, barely-concealed loathing, or sexual frustration, whatever I just heard in Arpeggio’s voice is not it. In fact, the emotion I hear in his voice is so uncharacteristic of PER that I can barely believe I heard it.

“We’ll still help them out, yeah, and cleanup crews are on standby. You’re sure this project thing will work?” Fairbairn asks, unconcerned with us.

“What do you mean, Arpeggio?” I ask, despite myself.

“Ohohohoho,” Honey Dusk says. It’s not quite a laugh. “You are in for it! Mouthing off like that to a newfoal!”

“I didn’t mouth off,” Arpeggio says, tightly controlled anger in his voice. “Freddy, Aviva, come on. Back me up here.”

Freddy just shrugs.

“If you want to say it,” Aviva says, “Then just get it off your barrel.”

“Or don’t,” Honey Dusk adds, “You can keep your stupid opinion to yourself. At least-”

She swerves towards another human with a Kalashnikov, and splatters him against the hood. She’s still smiling.

“At least we’re making them happy, really happy for once in their lives,” Honey Dusk said. “Giving them pure bliss.”

I watch Freddy nodding, a smile on his face. “God willing, it’ll happen to me and Jessica one day.”

“I’m curious,” Arpeggio says, “Why haven’t you taken it?”

“We believe we’d do better if we blended in, stayed human until the time that Shieldwall brews our custom potions,” Jessica says. “Freddy and I… we talked about it a lot.”

“Wait till Equestria sets up portals behind the Barrier, then do it,” Arpeggio says.

“You’re going to make them put it off for two years?” Aviva asks, concerned.

“I have to admit,” Honey Dusk says, “That sounds… hard to swallow. I mean, think of how happy you’d all be-

“For all of an hour until some HLF killer or PHL pig shoots the both of them dead,” Arpeggio says.

“That’s just alarmist,” Honey Dusk says, dismissively. “I’m sure they’d-”

“Honey Dusk,” Arpeggio says, “The average newfoal’s life expectancy can be measured in hours, maybe even minutes. I am not putting my friends through that.”

“That’s PHL propaganda,” Honey Dusk says.

“Well in that case,” Arpeggio says, and I can just hear how livid he is, “I’m curious to meet all these newfoals you know that survived so long!”

“Arp,” Aviva says, trying to be conciliatory, “We’ve worked with newfoals before that’ve lasted longer than an hour.”

“What, did they last a month?” Arpeggio asks. “They must be super long-lived! Because most newfoals I’ve made get used as cannon fodder, maybe wander around a few months… and then….”

He draws a foreleg across his throat.

“We ponify people,” Arpeggio sighs, “And they barely get a minute to enjoy it before they’re gunned down.”

I go rigid. This isn’t out of shock or outrage - this is so I can keep myself from flying off the handle.

And I feel that way because he’s absolutely right. I am, as far as I know, the only newfoal on Earth that’s lasted all these years. We don’t exactly last long. The average newfoal I’ve seen ponified - the few I’ve even ponified - usually lasts all of twenty minutes before they die a pointless, avoidable death.

It’s not biological. It’s just a consequence of who we are. We’re not some bold experiment in transspeciesism, we’re not a hopeful boundary-breaking race. We’re just bits of people that’ve been beaten into tools. Like someone making a knife out of bone.

But the sad thing is, I do remember a time when this could’ve been something good.

Birmingham

2017

The Cavalry Club - the ‘Cav,’ as we called it - happened in Birmingham because it had to happen somewhere, I guess.

Jackie had just come off stage, in a costume that evoked a horse - a unitard, a horse head worn like a hat over his head, and strands of yarn that mimicked a mane and tail. He’d been performing alongside a brown unicorn mare by the name of Reclaimed Beauty, who’d somehow mapped their movements to a projector, leaving swirls of light on the screen behind the two of them as they danced across the stage.

It ended with them placing hand to hoof in a show of solidarity.

I always remember that night.

“I think you killed it out there, Jackie,” I said, raising up a hoof. He gently bumped it with one fist.

“I hope so,” Jackie said, a smile on his face.

Jackie had just come back from the Cav’s stage, dancing while wearing a horse costume, on account of that just being the kind of person they were. Jackie was the kind of person whose sexuality and gender identity weren’t so much “male” or “straight” as “Yes.” He just went with male pronouns on the basis it was easier for him.

“Everything good?” he asked, looking me over.

“It’s been fine,” I sighed. “The same way I’ve been fine for the last few months. I’m still the same old Hope inside.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Jackie said. “Hope… I don’t know if I’ll ever go pony.”

And it’s at this point I have to wonder how much of it was me talking to him. But that's beside the point.

“Why not?” I asked. “I’m so much happier this way! I have magic, I have-”

“How long did it take you to learn how to use your body?” Jackie interrupted.

“Well, they had me do some exercises for an hour, but-”

“Look,” Jackie said, “The potion obviously does something to your mind. Remember when my uncle Norman was in that ski accident?”

I nod. Of course I remember.

“And do you remember,” Jackie added, with a concerned look on his face, “How often I’d go over to his house to help his physical therapist out, do some nice things for him?”

“Yeah,” I said, “You were doing that for…”

“Eight months,” Jackie said, scribbling in a little black notebook.

We didn’t speak for a moment as we watched the people and ponies of the Cavalry Club - the newfoals and natural-borns clambering onto high barstools that put them near eye-level with some of the humans.

I guess that is weird, I thought.

He’d been wanting to go pony for some time, but he wanted to hear my opinion first. I don’t know what kept him from doing it. Mabel, on the other hand, looked out of place like a sore thumb, wearing a solid gray shirt and jeans.

“Eight months it took him to completely relearn how to use a body he’d been born in,” Jackie said. “Meanwhile, you get turned into a completely different species and learn how to use it in an hour.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Jackie said. “I mean, considering that… and what it did to Jazmin Carter… we know it does something to the mind to force them to adjust. And it’s done something to you. I mean, what about all those murderers that were potioned? Especially that mass murderer from Norway, remember him? The trial and all...”

I thought back to that. In lieu of severe imprisonment sentences, the Solar Empire had offered to ponify a notorious far-right terrorist from Norway. To provide proof that the potion could heal even mental disorders of the worst kind. He drank the potion, he screamed - of course - and then, in his place, there was a happy, smiling little Newfoal.

All indications were that he regretted what he did, that he was happy, and he was psychologically healthy enough to be sent to Equestria to a rehabilitation center to integrate him into pony life. Of course, I'm not entirely certain that was a rehabilitation center - the speed with which the Solar Empire took to terrorist attacks and bombings was quick enough for me to wonder if they didn't take inspiration from certain human... experts.

“Sure, it seems like it fixed them, but… what if… what if...”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said.

“Is it?” Jackie said. “Because I kept a log of your behavior here.”

He held a notebook out, and I read through a page.

“You wrote down everything?!” I said, aghast. “Jackie, this is…”

“Brilliant?” Jackie asked.

“I was going to say astoundingly paranoid and a serious violation of trust,” I said, and I yanked the little notepad out of his hands, flipping through the pages. “And some of it’s not even noticeable sh… stuff! ‘Decided not to use the Akvasto, almost exclusively used Pandero in Warframe?’ ‘Can’t enjoy those Will Ferrell movies we used to love?!’ ‘Doesn’t remember quotes from terrible horror movies anymore?!’ ‘Doesn’t swear anymore?’ Jackie, this is nothing, people change their minds all the ti-”

“My notebook,” Jackie interrupted, “One or two changes I can buy. But Hope, you’re on page eighteen.”

My blood ran cold.

“Eighteen pages,” Jackie said, “Worth of little changes. Nobody overhauls all these small behaviors so completely and at such a scale.”

“But it fixed me,” I say. “No cancer! I get to live a healthy life, I get magic, I’m happy!”

Jackie looked guilty.

“Jackie,” Mabel sighed, “Maybe… maybe you shouldn’t bring it up. Are you really going to…”

“Look,” Jackie said. “One more thing. And I’ll stop. I won’t bring it up again.”

“You mean, you won’t bring it up until you decide it’s important enough to violate our privacy,” Mabel said. And I found myself nodding.

Jackie looked uncomfortable, then sighed. “Sure. That. I mean, I’ll do my best not to bring it up. To not talk over you. I just want to get this off my chest, then…”

“You sure you’re not just using ‘straight talk’ to talk over us?” I asked.

“Positive,” Jackie said. “You know what I think? I think. It’s. Doing. Something. To your. Mind.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say.

“Hope,” Jackie says. “We just talked about how Uncle Norman needed months of physical therapy to even remember how to use his body. And that’s when the connections - the instincts -in his brain that tell him how to use it were already there.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” Mabel says.

“You’re probably right, but I don’t think I’m that far off,” Jack says. “It gave you new muscle memory for a body you weren’t born in. If the potion didn’t do anything at all to your mind, you’d probably be experiencing a laundry list of psychological, ah… problems due to being a different body, and you’d also be tripping over yourself all th etime. And all these changes I saw in you, and… and what it did to Jazmin Carter. Logically, this doesn’t make that much sense, and what if...”

“What if what?” I asked.

Jackie looked down. “That… that really would be using straight talk as an excuse.”

“And what?” Mabel ask. “Go on, say it. Say whatever the hell-”

And it’s at this point that I remember flinching at the swearing.

Of course, I’d later find out what he would’ve said: ‘What else is it doing to you? What if it’s overwriting you? What it did to those criminals… It made their personalities do a complete 180. We just didn’t care cause they were psychopaths.’

But, well, I didn’t think about that. Maybe the potion worming its way through my brain didn’t want me to - assuming the Potion can do that. It wouldn’t surprise me.

Jackie and I are watching her.

“She’s beautiful,” I said, as we watch her glide across the stage, on four hooves, then three, then two, then one, then back to two.

She pirouetted and swayed from hoof to hoof, and I fell in love instantly.

“Who is she?” I ask.

“Her name,” Jack says, “Is Demi-plie.”

I look a little downcast.

“Well? Talk to her!” Mabel says.

“But…” I start. “What if it goes wrong?”

“Hope,” Jack says, “If you tried and failed, at least you tried.”

2022

There’s really not much to say about the rest of the drive.

Cause we keep going. And going. And going. Before I know it, the scrubby high desert and farmland is gone, and we’re surrounded by craggy peaks, rocks everywhere, and thick forests.

I don’t want to ask questions. I don’t want to play my hoof. So I’m left wondering where, exactly, they’re taking me.

The van is off the road, now. It’s bumping and juddering over a gravel path, and the trees feel like they’re on the verge of scraping it apart.

‘Where are we?’

We’re going deeper and deeper into the forest, now. And I have no idea where I am. It looks like we could be in the middle of a national park, but it’s hard to say for sure.

“Inverted Want-It-Need-It spell,” Arpeggio says. “Makes this van harder to notice - and, considering how thick the tree cover is, they couldn’t even if they wanted to.”

I nod, as if I understand what a ‘Want-it-Need-it” spell is. As if I understand what these PER are thinking. And I don’t. I have absolutely no idea how I can possibly get out of this.

It’s almost merciful what happens next:

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!’

The radio screams. Not a burst of static. Actual screaming. My horn throbs with pain, and I feel like someone’s taking a hammer to it (which has happened) or like they’re jamming a railroad spike into my head.

“Je…” Jessica starts. “Celestia, what-”

The noise starts back up. It’s nigh-impossible for me to describe - it’s like for a moment, the words cascaded over each other. An incomprehensible torrent of random syllables. I think for a second, I can almost hear words. Then I backtrack - no, of course I can’t. Or can I?

Jag kan inte sova

“What was that?!” Freddy asks, forcing himself against a wall. Meanwhile, Arpeggio is cringing. Aviva looks… mostly unperturbed, actually.

Fairbairn and Honey Dusk are about the only ones who seem to know what just happened.

“I’ve never heard anything like that!” I gasp. And immediately regret it. It’s a reaction any sane person would have, except I’m a newfoal so I’m not entirely certain that I can reasonably be expected to do that.

“This one is great!” Honey Dusk cheers. “Oh, I gotta kiss whoever potioned you, you are just a gem.”

I laugh and hope that it doesn’t sound too nervous.

“Me, Honey Dusk, and Shieldwall heard it in Alaska,” Fairbairn says. “We didn’t know what it was at the time, but we’ve heard it several more times.”

“Yeah, it picked up right after we lost that totem-prole,” Honey Dusk says.

They’re talking about the Alaska Incident!

A lot of the details of the Alaska Incident are, at the moment, classified. All I know is: A group of PHL were sent to investigate something far north in Alaska. There’d been something the PER were looking for, some kind of…. Escapee? A fugitive? A borderline-godlike being of some sort.

And whatever happened, they’d ponified an entire town to get it. I’ve heard a lot of weird stories from around that time, too. Sudden, violent snowstorms that bring all traffic to a halt. People having strange dreams.

“Pat,” Honey Dusk says, “Is Shieldwall any closer to finding what it means?”

“I wouldn’t say so, but if it’s any consolation then neither are the PHL,” Fairbairn says. “Course, it doesn’t seem that important to him.”

“But… this is an unexplained phenomenon,” Honey Dusk says. “If anyone’s brilliant enough to research it, it’s probably him.”

“Well, that’s just how Shieldwall is,” Fairbairn says. “Him and his projects. I’ll have to ask him about it.”

The van draws to a stop, and I’m left to think about that.

‘Him and his projects.’

I don’t know where I fit into that as the Last Slow Newfoal, but it’s not like I can ask.

I look around the place the van has come to rest. It looks like, once upon a time, it was an old logging camp. There’s some ruined wooden houses, and a set of rusting rails leading into a mine.

And I know I’m being watched. I can see people hiding behind trees, inside the skeletons of ruined houses. I can hear somebody chambering a round in a bolt-action rifle.

Fairbairn steps out, and we all draw in a breath. My eyes are wide open as I stare out the windows, waiting for something, anything to happen. PER are, despite what you’d think from their treatment in the wartime propaganda, surprisingly hardcore. If they think any human could compromise their operation, they’ll ponify them. If there’s a pony…

Well. I don’t want to think about that.

Fairbairn gives some kind of hand signal, and - I cannot say how I know this - the rifle is lowered.

“Clear,” he says into the car, and we walk into a rundown building, with weatherbeaten wood that looks almost blackened. My guess is it was a cafeteria of some kind. Or whatever the equivalent for miners is. A mess hall?

When we cross the threshold, I see a man - tall, rangey, wearing a military crew cut - standing by the window. He’s got a thin metallic green rifle that looks… well, “stretched” is the first word that comes to mind. It looks so light that I almost think a strong enough man could crush it like paper. My best guess is that it’s a tranquilizer rifle.

And the ammo smells like Potion. Meaning this is a man with a ponifying sniper rifle.

He’s wearing an outfit that looks… almost military. Like a costume imitating an outfit that was already costume. My best guess is, it’s store-bought forest-green kevlar and camo. He’s got sunglasses and a helmet…

But there’s no rank insignias. Nothing to say he’s part of any military. The whole thing should make him look silly, but somehow, it doesn’t.

“Will,” Honey Dusk says, and sighs, relieved. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you too, Honey,” ‘Will’ says. He sounds American. Somewhere from the deep south, maybe? “Don’t see why I couldn’t have gone out there with all y’alls.”

“We need to keep someone with a good grasp of tactics,” Fairbairn says.

“Aww heck, Will. You know you’re irreplaceable,” Honey Dusk says. “Without you… well, I don’t know what we’d do. Besides, you still can’t put too much stress on your leg. Not since Yellowknife ...”

“Don’t see why I couldn’t just go pony and be done with it,” Will says.

“Cause we still need you as you,” Honey Dusk says. “The sniper. Simple as.”

“Until my Cocktail’s done?” Will asks.

I’ve heard of that. As best I can tell, Shieldwall’s PER get specialized Potion they use to make themselves into anomalous newfoals. That’s a Cocktail - a Potion made from super-specialized ingredients, tailor-made for one specific person.

“Yeah,” Honey Dusk says. “Until then.”

It’s then that a trapdoor swings open in the floor, just under a rug. A woman with frizzy hair pokes out her head.

“Get in!” she hisses. “You don’t know who could be listening!”

“Joan,” says Will, “Camp Rockhoof is the safest place Shieldwall has found yet. I think we’ll be sa-”

“That’s what we said about Camp Mistmane,” Arpeggio adds. “Joan has a point.”

So we head down the trapdoor. Down a set of… of stairs? I suppose it makes sense. Despite the fact that Hoof TK is a thing that exists, ponies don’t do too well with ladders.

When the stairs end, we find ourselves in a room paneled with wood, sheets of metal, cardboard - anything that’ll probably keep out a flood of dirt. It’s got a surprisingly high ceiling, and the lamps hanging overhead (Some are bioluminescent algae, some just glowing crystals) wash a surprising amount of the room in blue light.

I see that Joan, the woman who welcomed us in, is quite visibly pregnant. Which is... jarring, to say the least. Pregnancy… and a cult of people dedicated to pretty much zombifying the remnants of humanity. It just doesn’t make sense when I think about it.

The PER here have made quite the little base. Even with the blue light, I almost forget that we’re underground.

A pegasus in various shades of green rushes up to Jessica (I’d almost forgotten she was there) with tears in her eyes. “I’m so glad you’re back!”

“Oh, Nimbus,” Jessica says, “As long as I know you’re here… I’ll always come back to you.”

There’s more people filtering into this room, from various doors and alcoves. And I’m left wondering The people all around me look like the dregs of the dregs.

“How’d it go?” another pony asks.

“It went perfectly,” Fairbairn says. “The Potion-seeding has begun - with the special battle variant that Arpeggio requested.”

“Doesn’t make me feel right, turning them into those walking weapons when we were promised peace,” said Joan.

Arpeggio gives her a Look. Like he’s annoyed but trying (and failing) not to be.”Then what?” he sighs. “Sure. Leaving them as… us… is what they all want. What I’d like. But when I tried that back during the Purple Winter, they died in droves. They need some amount of survivability.”

“It’s true, Brother,” someone says, stepping into the room. “While they won’t truly be able to enjoy the pony form, quite likely, they need to be able to survive.”

“What about living?” Arpeggio asks. “In Equestria?”

Honey Dusk gasps. “Arp, that’s your superior officer!”

“It’s quite alright,” the voice says, and I see them. Finally.

It’s a youngish piebald earth pony with a white coat that’s almost but not quite bluish, with a wholly incongruous blue mane and tail. And I bite back a gasp.

It’s Shieldwall.

Probably one of the most infamous PER out there. As best I can tell, he’s something like Equestria’s equivalent of a member of Delta Force. His “projects” are infamous among…. Well, everyone. In the early days of the war, he made a name for himself (And racked up quite the bounty, too) making potion-bombs of all kinds in Europe and Africa. If there was anything people would gravitate towards as they fled the Barrier - shelter, a car with enough fuel, medicine, supplies - then Shieldwall would find a way to make it ponify people.

I was running from the Barrier, once - before Standard Evac Protocol (the SEPsis, we called it) was in place. I’d found a group of refugees who either didn’t know or care that the Slow Potion would inevitably take control, or just wanted a unicorn to help with… whatever you need a unicorn to do. They’d ask “Hope, can you purify this water for me?” or any other odd job that could be helped with magic. And, even though I didn’t know a spell to purify water, I’d improvise something and do it. It’d been after I fled to France during the Purple Winter, and we were heading for the Italian border.

We were far enough from the Barrier that we thought we could rest. So we broke into an abandoned school that still had power, still had running water, and still had heating.

At 4 AM, every fire alarm went off. Woke us up. And over the PA system, I hear Shieldwall. Saying we’re going to be so happy, how he’s glad to help.

Then the sprinklers start spraying potion everywhere.

So if ever you see refugees that’re too skittish to sleep somewhere with lights and power, people who build their own towns like Defiance in New Hampshire, that’s probably why. There were more like that, too - railroad accidents, car bombings during mass evacuations, a series of targeted non-potion terrorism that served to lock people in, to ponify them more efficiently.

Of course, those aren’t the projects I’m talking about.

Shieldwall, for whatever reason, loves working on newfoals. Building anomalous newfoals that can fight humans on equal ground, somehow. Not just the grotesque, barely-equine things you see - the brainfoals, the newcalves, megacorns, Avalanches. No, what Shieldwall does is make freaks on the same level as Imperial Creed, outliers with strange and unnatural abilities - like a pegasus with terramancy. Earth ponies with little pieces of unicorn magic.

And he’s here.

“After all,” Shieldwall says. “That’s what Project Fillydelphia is for.”

“But… the collateral damage…” Nimbus says.

“I know, Nimbus,” Shieldwall says. “But it’s necessary.”

Project Fillydephia. I think on that name. Isn’t that a city in Equestria? Or - no no no, I can’t, I wont, I won’t think more pony!

Oh. Wait. There’s a Philadephia in America and a Fillydelphia on Equestria. Huh. Well, now I feel silly for panicking.

“We have a room for you off to the left,” Shieldwall says, and for a moment I can almost see the pony that told me not to take the Potion once.

What happened to you?, I wonder.

“I think I’d like that,” I say. “I’m exhausted!”

I force a smile onto my face.

“I’ll lead you there,” Shieldwall says, “Wouldn’t dream of not helping one of ours! We’ve had an open bed ever since Nathan and Percival…”

He looks downcast.

“Well. Better you don’t know about that,” Shieldwall says, as we trot through an earthen hallway. He looks downcast, and I’m left thinking that whoever Nathan was, he must’ve been important to him.

I almost feel bad.

Almost.

Don’t forget, I tell myself, This pony is dangerous. He thinks that making more of you, with barely anything left of their minds, is inherently good. H’s responsible for the ponifications of countless people. And he wants all of them to be erased backwards and forwards in time.

I’m not even surprised that I said ‘them’ instead of ‘us’ anymore.

“Is there any way I can help?!” I ask, taking on the sickeningly chirpy tone of a newfoal. I always want to throw up when I do it, or start brushing my teeth, or both. But Imperials just drop any suspicion when they hear it.

“Not for now,” Shieldwall says. “As I understand it, you’ve been through a lot. You deserve some rest.”

As he says this, we walk through a room with a set of what looks like statues at first glance. They look like ponies, but there’s… an energy of sorts that I can see in them. It’s like they’ve been magnified by a slight percentage, so they’re a little bigger than they need to be.

“Oh, don’t mind them,” Shieldwall says. “They’re in stasis. This area isn’t exactly conducive to experimentation, so I had to keep them in storage.”

And I see that they have no cutie marks. Which means, naturally, they’re newfoals.

Who keeps a collection frozen newfoals? I think. Refers to them like that? That’s… that’s pretty screwed up.

He taps a hoof to one door, pushing down on a metal handle that looks like it was taken out of a hotel, and I-

“Thank you,” I hear myself say. “Shieldwall. Thank you so much. I thought I was going to die out there!”

Shieldwall seems to blush. “I, uh… thank you.”

I look over the room. It’s great! I’m so glad that a natural-born has given it to me. I’m so glad they’ve done so much for me! As I look to Shieldwall, I see how happy I am that ponies like him have made me happy. Better.

It’s hard to believe it is, in fact, Shieldwall. The pony responsible for the Rain on Algiers. For a long list of ponifications during the And yet, here he is, smiling at me, willing to help. A pony that I know, from experience, would ponify a human on the spur of the moment or beat to death anyone he considered a Betrayer.

Why, when he closes my door and trots away, I

NO NO NO NO NO

I’m frozen. I try not to breathe. And so, calmly, methodically, I put one foreleg in front of the other. And then I have moved forward an inch.

Another inch.

I take a breath. I count: One. Two. Three. Four. I exhale.

Another inch. The bed is a foot away.

can’t do this

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Another inch. Then another. Then two more. Then four. Then I jump.

And land on the bed. It’s the bottom of a metal framed bunkbed, but there’s only so much PER can afford. And this… this is pretty good.

I lie on the bed. I breathe in. I breathe out. In. Out. In. Out.

And I bawl my darned eyes out as I collapse on the bed that Shieldwall gave me.

It’s not the first time this sort of thing has happened. Sometimes when I wake up. Sometimes in the middle of the day. Once in the middle of a crowd. Twice.

More than twice.

It happened to all the Slow Newfoals, you know. One day, one moment, they could be like any other person, maybe a bit happier. Then they’d…

See, we all knew Equestria was no more welcoming to us than Earth. They didn’t want humans with useful skills. They didn’t want artists like Demi-Plie. They wanted soldiers. Shock troops.

Which is why I had Demi-Plie, once Annabelle, happily bucking people’s bones so hard they cracked. Headbutting them. Crushing people’s wrists when they tried to crawl away. Then potioning them with a smile on her face. Corner Piece, once known as Patrick Wyckman, who’d gone from making puzzles to making bombs that closed like bear traps on the hands of bomb squad members. Me, on top of Opaline - literally, on top of her, trying to keep her from punching through the door until her legs broke (and she would have!) even though she’d sworn she’d never harm anyone. Even though I wasn’t sure if she was begging me or her own mind and body to sop.

“Don’t you see?!” I remember her yelling. “I meant I’d never hurt something sentient! But they, they, they’re less than sentient, so it checks out!”

I don’t know if I’ll end up like that. I don’t know if it’ll grip me like every Slow Newfoal I’ve ever known. But I do know that being surrounded by PER won’t do me any favors.

And at the same time…

What else am I going to do? This is, at the moment, my best bet for safety. But on the other hoof, I don’t want to be here. Not in the least.

My choices are either a: Surrounded by PER. At a secret PER base. In the middle of nowhere. Being a newfoal. Or b: Try and somehow escape, at which point they kill me or try and reconstitute me with a specialized potion, then I really will be a newfoal.

Well, I’m fucked.

NEAT! I SAID A SWEARWORD!

Author's Note

I'd like to talk to you for a second about canon! Now, there's a bunch of references to other stories from the classic spectrumverse in here, so I'm using these authors notes to give you my current perspective on what is (or isn't) canon:

Calm Before The Storm
Some of the PER members here - Nimbus, Freddy, Aviva, Arpeggio - also appeared in the last chapter of Calm Before The Storm, which can be read here. Are they the same characters? Yes. Is their story in Calm necessarily canon? Well... I don't know. If it happens, it won't have happened exactly as it did in the classicsverse, but there's not many ties to canon so it'd... probably be okay to still be canon.

Also, Eres Veneno is so non-canon it hurts. The only reason I haven't deleted it is because it seemed as if it was for the best to keep it around so I could learn from my mistakes. My horrible, horrible mistakes.

Last Train From Oblivion
So... is it canon?

I dunno. Last Train's in a weird spot canonically. You wouldn't get anyone from team spectrum saying it's non-canon, seeing as it's what pushed us further and further. Personally, I'm in the position that... well, something like it happened, but I'm not totally sure what.

Light Despondent
Okay, there's a good chance there aren't any references, but I had to. Anyway, it's technically non-canon, but I'm also doing a rewrite, son!

03: Moustache Whacks

Slow Mutants - 03

Moustache Whacks

Shouts out to:

Cr0w T R0bot - for editing help and his faith in this concept

Jed - for critique on… a scene… with Shieldwall

Vox - for invaluable help writing… some characters.

Date Unknown
Shieldwall's 'Utopia'

“Well,” I say, “this is a weird change of pace.”

I don’t know what made me say that. I don’t know where I am, either. I look around, and see Shieldwall standing above me. He looks like he’s changed – his fur is a darker blue, and he has a black pompadour with streaks of green through it.

How strange. I could’ve sworn I remember him being piebald or an albino. And all the while, his massive, terrifying visage is grinning at me. His mouth is opening ever so slightly.

‘NO!’ I scramble back on my hands and knees, and run.

I sprint away from the massive poster. I’m running down an alleyway, past trash-cans. I can see bullet holes in the walls, burn marks on the pavement. I’m left to think:

‘There must’ve been a war here.’

I make a right, and as I turn the corner, I see that the massive grinning Shieldwall head was just a poster. This whole time. And it wasn’t as realistic as I thought, either.

‘Am I in Equestria?’ I think. I look around, and I see the scale of everything. The tall, thin doors, the windows. ‘No, I think. This is a human city. This is all built to my sc–’

Wait a minute.

I stand up. I feel taller. I feel… strangely off balance, but… I look down, and I see…

I place my hands together and feel the satisfying cracks. I run my hands (‘Oh, how I’ve missed having hands’) over what I see. Over my breasts, my skin, the ratty white ‘TAOS, NEW MEXICO’ T-shirt that’s more holes than fabric, the scraped, paint-stained jeans, the nondescript gray hoodie. And it feels. So. GOOD!

“Oh, thank the Lord,” I whisper, “I have hands! I’m human!”

It’s rare that I even dreamabout being human, nowadays. But here I am, with hands! And breasts! And legs! And COCKFUCKING RIMJOB FUCK THIS FUCKING WHAT THE FUCK IS FUCK ASS BITCH SHIT BUTT NAZI ASS PUBIC HAIR BASTARD THUNDER THIGHS CHODE FUCK TRIPLE ASS PENIS SUCK C–

Oh, I missed that. I can swear!

“Thank fuck,” I say.

It’s then that I hear music. It’s a jaunty, upbeat tune, with trumpets and drums. Parade music. I’m curious about it, but something keeps me from going out into the open.

The best thing to do, it would seem, is find a good vantage point. So I look at a fire escape. Definitely built for humans, what with its handrails and steep, ladderlike incline. Yes, this is definitely a human city.

Right?

As I’m clambering up the fire escape, looking through windows, I’m not too sure. There’s furniture scaled to human size in one apartment, but through another, I see couches and chairs that are clearly built for ponies.

The more optimistic part of my mind wants to think this is a grand statement of human-pony unity. The more realistic part of my mind would kick it in the balls. If, y’know, personifications of my mind can have balls.

When I see another apartment, one that has human and pony-scaled furniture, I stop dead in my tracks. Something is very wrong here.

There’s a poster of Celestia, all yellow, black, and white, a grin that is supposed to look loving but definitely isn’t. In an apartment shared by humans and ponies?

No.

No no no. This can’t be right.

I have a sudden sense of mounting fear, and I rocket up the fire escape towards the roof. And it’s only then that I see the city.

I don’t recognize the skyline, if only because so much of it looks destroyed. Massive hulks of skyscrapers, broken beyond repair, stab up into the skyline like the ribs of a long-dead carcass. Cranes and what look to be small potioneer ships – the little, nimble bombers dropped from Solar Empire carriers – hover around them, slowly, methodically disassembling them. There’s a Reassembler, a repurposed Solar Empire ship that looks to have been built from Equestrian aircraft parts, human construction equipment, and a gasbag. Its three Seeder beams – massive brass-and-steel constructions with lenses of Equestrian crystal – scan a building, imbuing it with thaums. As far as I can tell, the process is something like a vaccine to the Barrier. It’s been tested with a human boat, the Borealis, which was taken from the ruins of Portland, Maine.

‘No.’

Hanging lazily in the sky is a great metal… thing. I can’t tell you exactly what it is, but I know it’s massive. It has a gasbag like a Solar Empire ship, but it bears more resemblance to a human-made battleship, except exponentially bigger. It’s long enough to look like a skyscraper laid on its side. On its underside are a set of pylons, a purplish rip in space held between them.

A portal!

I stand and watch as, before my eyes, the portal shudders, the air just puckering around it like the skin around a scab. And a Solar Empire skyliner slides out from this rip in space.

I can only guess at what’s happened here. But going from the fact that this is a human city, with Solar Empire ships dotting the skies, I can draw my own conclusions.

I walk to the edge of the roof and look down, suspicious. And below me is a massive parade. Royal Guards bearing assault saddles march in formation below. But it’s not just Equestrians, either. There are humans carrying weapons with wooden stocks that look strange, alien, too smooth to be real. Whatever they are, they reek of the purple serum.

Behind them trot massive tank-like creatures with a greater resemblance to rhinos than horses – the Newcalves. Each wears a howdah, protected by a reddish lightly glowing thaumic shield, and each howdah has a crew armed to the teeth with potion crossbows, paintball guns, and even, ridiculously, what looks to be a giant machine-gun decorated in intricate golden filigree, loaded with purple-tipped ammo. Probably grenades. Then, equines with massive horns the size of railroad spikes, wood-and-metal braces around their legs. The rank and file appear to be humans with those guns, ponies with similar weaponry in their assault saddles, and regular Equestrians with spears. Ceremonial spears? Probably.

Another set of howdahs-on-Newcalves passes me by. And I see that the Newcalves are pulling a carriage. A parade float of some kind. And, sitting on it contentedly, with a self-satisfied smirk, is Shieldwall. One of his hindlegs has been replaced with a pegleg just beneath the knee. Just behind him is a gold-and-white potioneer ship, so decorated it’s a wonder the thing can even fly. To hear him say it, it’s his personal yacht. To hear people like me, it’s pretty much a small battleship that can - and has - wiped out entire towns on its own.

‘Look at me,’ he seems to be saying. ‘Look at what I’ve made.’

The meaning here is clear. Maybe it’s the invaded city. Maybe it’s the PER and Solar Empire forces parading openly.

Or maybe it’s the banner on Shieldwall’s carriage that says:

“CELEBRATING V-C DAY.”

Victory day? Where?

And at his side is a green unicorn mare with a mane in earthy browns and greens, and orange eyes. She’s levitating a machine-gun that is very much of human design.

A Newfoal, definitely.

For a moment, I think that this has to be a dream. Because it all seems so illogical, but it all seems to make so much sense in context, despite the fact that absolutely none of it does.

Something crackles, and I reach for the radio at my hip. Which is strange, because I don’t remember having a radio at my hip.

“You see him?”

“I do,” I confirm. And then, for no reason I can nail down: “He’s almost there.”

I cast a glance over to a gap between two buildings. A gap through which I can see the rebuilt Victoria Bridge, now renamed the Fluttershy Bridge to curry favor with the Solar Empire. The glint of an outbound train, to the very outskirts of the Solar Empire territory that Shieldwall administrates.

I know that somewhere, Eva Nilsdottir is going to be making the shot. This territory – Utopia – is his baby. I know that nobody could hope to administrate it like he does, and that whoever they have to replace him will run this fucking tumor of a puppet state into the ground. And maybe, just maybe, what little resistance is left east of the Mississippi and what’s left of the PHL have some breathing room.

I don’t know where Eva is. All I know is she’s found somewhere to make the shot.

Shieldwall’s parade float passes near that gap through which I can see the train, and then I think I see the slightest little glint.

She’s not going to–

I hear a sound like distant thunder.

She is.

I think for a moment that Eva’s not going to make the shot, not in a million years. It’s like everything has stopped for one incredible moment, and then I see the bullet.

Glowing blue, it hangs in midair against something vaguely pinkish-tinted. Shieldwall’s mouth hangs open for a few seconds, and then…

The pinkish-tinted somethingflashes, and a smaller round half the size of my pinky explodes forward. And then, suddenly, it hits Shieldwall just above his right foreleg.

He wheezes for a fraction of a second, but he barely looks even winded. And even then, looking winded looks like more of a performance than anything.

The crowd gasps in unison. Screams ring out. There is a flurry of curses.

Shieldwall limps away at as fast a pace as he can muster, which isn’t too fast what with one pegleg, and one foreleg shot. And probably a few old war wounds.

Another bullet hits the shield, but even then, Shieldwall’s already far from the impossibly thin gap. That last one is a Hail Mary and everyone knows it.

“Find the shooter!” Shieldwall yells. “FIND THE BUCKING SHOOTER!”

But I know he won’t. Eva’s on a train speeding out of the city, her attempt at an impossible shot failed.

“There!” someone yells, pointing up to a rooftop. Towards me, even though I know they shouldn’t be able to see me, I was just observing, goddammit, plenty of people-

Fuck

FUCK FUCK FUCK FU–

* * *

Morning
??? 2022

Dew Glow wakes up and walks out of her room for breakfast. She’s very happy to help with whatever Shieldwall is doing.

Always a happy one, that Dew Glow! A credit to all Newfoals.

She heads up to the breakfast table with Shieldwall, and sees the PER all around him. And she’s so happy to be around them. So happy to help out. Oh yes.

As she sits at the table, a wood-and-metal picnic table looted from a campground somewhere, she smiles as she eats the scrambled eggs. She watches, barely comprehending, BARELY UNDERSTANDING WHY DON’T YOU/I SAY SOMETHING, as Shieldwall and Fairbairn talk. Staring at her.

She does not mind, as she chows down on eggs. She hears Shieldwall saying, “I thought something was different here.”

“What do you mean?” she hears Fairbairn say.

As she places her plate in a sink, also scavenged, Shieldwall continues.

“She was… different. Very independent, very determined. She had a number of odd responses to the riot in Quincy. Newfoals with that are…” Shieldwall sighs. “Just too rare. Either that sort of thing is built for, it’s an accident, or she’s older than we thought. That was my working theory. But…”

“She’s being a model Newfoal now,” Dew Glow hears Fairbairn say. “As far as I know, you can’t fake that.”

“Probably not, Pat,” Shieldwall says. “Maybe she’ll be a good lab assistant now?”

“You sure you want to risk that?” Fairbairn says.

Shieldwall snorts. “She’s definitely a Newfoal. What could go wrong?”

Dew Glow nods at that. Smiles. “I’d be happy to help!” she chirps.

“Something still doesn’t feel right,” Fairbairn says, scratching his chin. There’s a little growth of uneven stubble in the mass of scar tissue that is his face, his disgusting APE face made worse by the scarring, unclean, disharmonious, need to purify–

But those kinds of thoughts were unimportant. Fairbairn was one of The Good Ones. The ones that’d seen the light and–

(sold out to)

–joined with the PER.

It was best not to question it.

“So,” Shieldwall says, “We’ll be working in my lab. I’ve got some projects that might do us a lot of good.”

* * *

It is impossible for Dew Glow not to marvel at Shieldwall’s lab. It almost seems to have grown – yes, grown – out from several briefcases. There are several computers mounted inside briefcases, stacks full of CDs, and racks full of USB drives. Equipment seems to have folded out of the cases once, then twice, then thrice, then whatever the word for nearly seven times is. Inexplicable machines that are made of either metal and wires, crystal, even some flesh here and there, and some combination of one or two of those things. Chemistry equipment, pipes and stills and a weirdly out-of-place sleek red plastic and chrome – or not-quite-chrome – coffee machine. A bizarre, fibrous not-quite-translucent thing that looks like it could be a cocoon sits in one corner, interspersed with wires and IVs.

More ponies stand on pedestals, lining the room. Dew Glow thinks that they could be anatomical models, but before her eyes, one moves. It flexes slightly, showing off its muscles.

Dew Glow is unperturbed by this.

“I can fit almost all of this into some saddlebags if need be,” Shieldwall says. “I’m told everything on the computer is replaceable…”

He points with one foreleg to an old, scuffed DISGUSTING, HUMAN device hooked up to hospital equipment, that appears to be measuring something in one of the definitely-not-anatomical-models.

“So if I have to detonate the lab with the explosives I wired all over this room, I think I’ll be fine... But… I just get attached, sometimes,” Shieldwall continues. “Even this space is movable, thanks to Alabaster here.”

~~Hope~~ Dew Glow does not jump when she sees the tall, rail-thin unicorn standing in one corner, mixing beakers of liquid together. He has a shock of pale green mane, and his expression is impassive. Going by the conspicuous lack of a cutie mark, he was also a Newfoal.

“He can fit all of it into these cases,” Shieldwall says. “Course, wouldn’t be the lab it is without Doctor F–”

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘Doctor Feelgood,’” says a pale purple unicorn mare with a red and black mane, “I’m using iodine next time.”

Shieldwall laughs.

“Doctor Cross Stitch,” the purple mare says, holding out a hoof. “Pleasure to meet you…”

“Dew Glow,” says Dew Glow, because she is Dew Glow and absolutely no~~body~~, nopony else. She does not quite catch the questioning look on Shieldwall’s face. “It’s an honor to be among such brave soldiers of the Solar Empire after so long in human lands.”

“If you don’t mind us asking,” Shieldwall says, “Why were you there?”

Dew Glow feels something that could almost be fear. Her mind races, like a ~~car that’s been automatically inching forward has had someone hammer the gas pedal so hard something is in danger of breaking~~, no, no, no, that’s too human...

“I can’t say,” Dew Glow says. She could be saying that to create the impression that her agricultural work was important. But then she might have also literally not been able to say.

“Very well, then,” Shieldwall says. “Do you know what we would need you to do here?”

“To help in the lab,” Dew Glow says automatically.

“Very good!” Shieldwall says, like a favored teacher. “What I need is for you, Crossy, and Alabaster to help me with this.”

He points towards the tube at the end of the lab, at the cocoon. “If you may?”

With a precision and happiness to help that Dew Glow can ~~absolutely goddamn not~~ only envy, Alabaster trots up to the cocoon, leveling his horn at it. Behind him, Cross Stitch is maintaining the same pose. But she holds back as Alabaster does so.

Alabaster’s horn lights up the cocoon, and then, Dew Glow sees it.

A human. Except not quite. It is floating in the cocoon, its hands and feet missing... Or perhaps not. Dew Glow sees that they are replaced with hooves. The legs twist forward at an angle not natural for humans (‘And who cares about that?’) but natural for ponies. Red-orange fur sprouts from under the skin in uneven clumps.

“...I still don’t get why you had to have a cocoon,” Cross Stitch says.

“Easier to inject,” Shieldwall says. “Besides, it was that or a giant clear tube. Not only is that a pain to set up, but… what do I look like, a Band Villain? Clear tubes? Seriously?”

“I think you mean Bond Villain,” Fairbairn says, pushing through the door. “So, giving her a view of the freakshow?”

“Yeah, sure,” Shieldwall says. Then mutters. “Bond villain. Whatever.”

Pause.

“You see, Dew Glow,” Shieldwall says next, “the ponification process can be chaotic. Random. Even with the potionshaping process, that’s true. You get Newfoals that’ve been contaminated by this planet. Estimates are that 0.6% of Newfoals come out of the process… ‘half-baked’, is that a good term? May not sound like a lot, but we’ve got a huge pool to work from,” he smiles genially. “What causes it? Whatever magic Earth has, or maybe drugs, or dust, what have you. Sometimes, you get Newfoals that can’t comprehend the gift they’ve been given and try to kill themselves, but other times, you get these powerful, implausible freaks.”

Dew Glow doesn’t know why Shieldwall is explaining it to her, but she listens anyway.

“This is an experiment in trying to tap that same power,” Shieldwall continues. “I’ve been using the same ingredients and enchantments from Reconstitution-variant serum, trying to experiment in shaping a human from the beginning. If this works, I can revolutionize the Reconstitution process, eliminate the need for the camps we set up and create armies worth of Newcalves for the campaigns back home. I can change… everything.”

He stares at the cocoon.

“Now, isn’t that beautiful?”

“It certainly is,” Dew Glow says, ignoring the buzz in her head screaming that it absolutely isn’t.

“Now,” Shieldwall says, “It’s time for some lab work. Would you kindly–”

* * *

Later

Hours or days or weeks later, Dew Glow pushes a cart, loaded with strange ingredients – oil, spare feathers, the ponification serum itself, liquids in all the colors of the rainbow, and something clear that is definitely not water. Along with, strangely enough, a vial of sand.

“...Thermite,” Fairbairn sighs. “Why, in Celestia’s name, are you using thermite as an ingredient.”

“Well, I have a theory,” Shieldwall says. “I think it’s all about abstract concepts. Imperial Creed was created during the Cain Run where we fought the Reavers. A tactical genius from a losing battle. There’s more cases like that, too. I’m trying to see what works.”

“You’re seriously going to try to shape the ponification process by introducing abstract concepts,” Fairbairn says. “That doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

“The ponification process doesn’t always make sense, either,” Shieldwall points out. “No matter how much we try, some piece of humanity always persists. Some small, some large. I’m thinking that more identity can persist through it than we suspect. So what I’m going to do here is use that.”

Cross Stitch chuckles, mixing together several vials suspended in midair by her horn TK. “Some PETN or PER would call that almost heretical.”

“I don’t care about that,” Shieldwall says. “I had a friend, y’know. By the name of Lemon Tarts. And she said this about all the tactics she used ‘What works, works!’ Even as she wasted too many Newfoals to count waiting for that M60 to jam. Even as she refused to use human weapons. And then she died. She was sniped through the lungs, and the Newfoal we had as a medic tried to save her with Equestrian techniques. It didn’t remember anything it could’ve used to help. It got shot too.”

Shieldwall looks downcast, and Dew Glow wants nothing more than to walk over and comfort him.

“I. Am… sorry,” Alabaster says, haltingly. The words feel strange somehow. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t mention it,” Shieldwall says. “I learned something from that. What works doesn’t always work. Some head-in-the-clouds brass like Captain Cactus–”

He practically spits out the word.

“–can talk all they want about doing what works, as long as they have actual successes.”

He casts a Look over to Dew Glow.

“Can you head into my storeroom?” he asks. “I have some burnflower seeds there that I think could come in handy!”

And then Dew Glow hears it.

“...quarantined by order of the PHL,” the radio says. “The crops in Quincy, Washington have been discovered to be tainted with ponification serum. People in the town have randomly ponified, and it is suspected to be due to PER infiltrator who went under the alias of Dew Glow.”

“It didn’t work,” Alabaster says matter-of-factly. “It did not work.”

“Hey,” Shieldwall said. “Far as I’m concerned, there’s still some victory. Fears about tainted food, people getting a little more desperate for new recruits. Just wish I knew Dew Glow was there, she could’ve helped out so much!”

“I’ll be happy to do more next time,” Dew Glow says, and I realize that there’s a tightness behind Dew Glow’s right eye.

‘I could’ve done something,’ she thinks. And she’s not sad, but I am, I’m livid, I’m horrified, and I want to scream and destroy something-–

And Dew Glow experiences the worst pain of my life. Think of cluster headaches, of getting a squeezing, stabbing feeling behind the eye like it’s about to explode out your head. Think of a heavy blunt icicle driven in through a socket.

This is worse.

It feels like my head is about to explode. Like any minute an eye is going to pop out from the immense pressure and splash against the wall. And not both eyes, just one. Somehow, that’s worse.

I can’t scream. Dew Glow really wants to, and I’m Oh ~~sweet Celestia, Dew Glow can’t deal with the pain, it’s everywhere, and she just wants to scream[~~/s] DEAR GOD THE PAIN, IT’S IN MY FUCKING EYE, THIS IS JUST ABOUT THE WORST PAIN I’VE EVER FELT, IT’S LIKE READING THE VORRH BY BRIAN CATLING AGAIN-!

I vomit on the floor in front of Shieldwall. Which is weird, because as far as I know, horses shouldn’t be able to vomit. Then again, these aliens aren’t your grandfather’s horses. But it’s not like that’s important right now.

“Dew Glow,” Shieldwall says, looking strangely concerned. “Are you okay?!”

Meanwhile, Cross Stitch is weirdly unconcerned. “Clean up that crud, willya, Alabaster?”

My mind races. What would a Newfoal do?

“I’m fine!” I chirp, trotting forward slightly, my hooves in my own vomit. Because I have to look as gross as possible. I have to reply to Shieldwall as sarcastically as I can.

Something is dripping from the side of my eye. I can’t be certain if it’s blood or tears.

I have to look as gross as possible. As barely functional as possible. I have to look like a the stereotypically dumb newfoal from one those comics that feature mounds of muscle who kick Newfoals so hard, they explode like overfilled water balloons full of red paint. And oh my God, I can feel it through my hoof TK, this is so gross, I think I’m gonna–

I throw up again.

‘Well, I guess that works too, I think from some distant part of my mind.

“Dew Glow,” Shieldwall says, disgusted. “What… I… Look, just go to the shower. I don’t even care anymore. Alabaster, experiments are on hold. Lead her up there?”

“Fair,” Alabaster says, and leads me up a set of stairs to the shower.

* * *

When I’m in the shower, really just a pipe jammed into the wall, behind a waterproof curtain which probably leads into the camp’s ancient plumbing, I find out that it was indeed blood.

‘That can’t be good.’

As soon as I’m in there, I hyperventilate. Because I’m back after I don’t even know how long. I… I almost remember being Dew Glow for a few… seconds? Or hours? Part of me feels like I’ve just woken up, and everything’s fuzzy.

No, it’s been longer than that. Much longer. The water from the showerhead rains down on me, and I don’t care that it’s practically frigid, only that I can finally feel it. That I’m me again.

‘I need to get out of here,’ I think. ‘Whatever it is that makes me… whoever I am...’

Oh no I can’t remember my name.

DARN IT.

It still feels almost dreamlike. I don’t even know what day it is. I don’t remember my bucking name! And I can’t even say anything stronger than “darn it!” I mean, I don’t know what’s stronger than that, but I feel like something should be.

“Hope,” I say aloud. “My name is Hope.”

That makes me feel a tiny bit better. But not by much.

It’s only now that I realize how terrible a decision this was. In my defense, it was the only option.

‘This can’t last,’ I think as I turn off the water and walk out. Part of me feels like I should get some clothes. But that would be silly.

Sure, I lived another day. Yet it means being among PER. And that means there’s only so long this can last. I don’t know how long I sit there, stewing in a soup of potential consequences. Drowning in the knowledge that I have no time left.

Until someone knocks on my door. It’s Shieldwall and Fairbairn.

I am so not ready for this. The door opens. It feels as if I’m peering at something off my field of vision. I can’t keep up the illusion. But I guess I have to.

“Hi!” I say, adopting the sickeningly chirpy tone of a Newfoal. It feels… rancid. Sickly-sweet. But, somehow, it’s calming.

That worries me.

“You sound… off,” Shieldwall says. He’s scrunched up his nose, the way ponies do when they’re upset about something. Although, and this is weird, considering we’re both herbivores now, it feels almost predatory. It reminds me of some videos I watched that have wolves scrunching their faces in anger. “Are you okay? You seemed pretty sick. And, your eye was… bleeding? Medically speaking, that seems kinda weird.”

Part of me wants to be honest. The other part of me is throttling it for being so bucking stupid. So.

“No,” I say, stifling a yawn, “I’m just… tired.”

“I see,” Shieldwall says, his eyes narrowing. “Would you prefer some time to be left alone? You were pretty sick, so I understand if you want to stop.”

I freeze imperceptibly. On the one ~~hand~~ hoof, I think I would. But he just offered up the option, so…

“I need to lie down,” I say. “I still don’t feel too good.”

“Very well then,” Shieldwall says.

* * *

Date Unknown

The next day is more lab work.

I almost but don’t quite remember the chores they’ve had me do. Push a cart. Mix these chemicals.

“So, tell me, Dew Glow,” Shieldwall says. “Where’ve you been all this time?”

My blood runs cold.

I’m eating lunch upstairs, now. I’m thinking about my plans to escape. The best option is to volunteer, but do Newfoals take that kind of initiative?

“Still feeling a bit sick,” I say. “Bit out of it. But I should be better soon!”

“I’m sure you will,” Shieldwall says, nodding. He eyes me suspiciously. Does he know?

I put that thought out of my head. I can’t stay here forever, even if I know beyond a doubt that it’s the only shot I have of staying safe. But in this case, f…. Ff…. FFU… who cares about safety.

It’s not like I’d rather die than stay with the PER. Except it totally is, because the thought of dying is much, much more palatable to me than relying on the ~~oh so wonderful~~ traitorous monsters that would gleefully force every human on Earth into a state that makes me look like the lucky one.

I need to get out.

‘But what happens if you leave and die?’ part of me thinks.

‘Then I’m not with these… these… PER, I think, trying to swear at them and feeling miserably. Which doesn’t sound so bad. Besides, it’s not like I’ve survived much on long-term plans. I didn’t have a long-term goal for what I’d do in Quincy, or when I was heading through Italy, or when I made my way up through Mexico to the Pacific Northwest. I can do this.

The only question is how I get from point A to point C. It’s not as if I can just leave whenever, the best thing to do would be to hitchhike out on an op and just quietly disappear. But I have to tell the truth. Nobody expects Newfoals to lie, after all. It’s the perfect alibi.

I just need to think about how to say it. I’m going over what I’m about to say when Cross Stitch walks up to me.

Cross Stitch looks over at me. “Mind looking after the experiment while we eat lunch?”

“Certainly!” I say, smiling. “I’ll do my best.”

Shieldwall just sighs. “Don’t torture the poor dear, Crossy. Come on, you need something to eat.”

As much as I want to keep up the charade, I don’t like the idea of going without lunch. Besides, a natural-born pony like Shieldwall asked me to get lunch. And I get really hungry if I don’t have something to eat. So I say it:

“I’m getting hungry,” I say. “I’d love some lunch.”

Shieldwall nods, approvingly. “Great! That’s great.”

So we head upstairs.

“You felt sick a week ago,” Shieldwall says, and I feel like Shieldwall’s trying to dissect me with his gaze. Scanning for any possible weakness, like… like he’s some kind of machine. “I never asked you why.”

I think back on that. In retrospect, that is pretty strange.

“Stomach trouble,” I say. “I… must’ve inhaled some bad chemicals while working?”

“Like the benzene?” Shieldwall asks.

I nod, as we head up to the mess hall. “Yes, absolutely.”

“I see,” Shieldwall says. “Dew Glow, I know what you must have thought of us back when you were a human. But we’re not monsters. You can talk it over with all of us whenever you need.”

He sighs.

“It just… it pisses me off,” Shieldwall says. “How some people treat their Newfoals. Flash Sentry, Shining Armor, even the Element Bearers at times. But especially Colonel Sparks Tinder–”

He practically spits out the words like they could be a swear word.

‘‘You’re special for wanting to change, become better… except now you don’t get to be special,’” Shieldwall mimes. “By Celestia, it just makes me so ANGRY! They tried to have Imperial Creed sent to a Reconstitution Camp, you know. All for going against the grain, despite the fact that he had less than 15% of the usual casualties. You, Imperial Creed, Razorhail, Cloudstreaker, you all deserve… better.”

I can’t tell if it’s me or the conditioning thinking that almost sounds… convincing.

Imean, he does have a point. Newfoals are, at this point, the bulk of Equestrian military and society. And, well, I’ve already made my thoughts on ~~our~~ their life expectancy clear. They die in droves. Everyone on Earth and Equus has seen something of of the limitless numbers that Equestria can bring to bear, but the nations of Equus especially, with the pike charges that have overwhelmed positions through sheer force of numbers, the sheer quantity of troops.

Of all the things I’d expect a dyed-in-the-wool Imperial like Shieldwall to say, this was not one of them.

“You really mean that?” I find myself asking. “After all, we’re only–”

“Don’t ever talk like that,” Shieldwall says, sounding almost tender. “You’re the whole reason behind this war. A way to better another race, and then ourselves.”

Vomiting again sounds very tempting right now. If I have to, I’m going to get as much of it as possible on Shieldwall.

How dare he.

Left barely functional. Losing my mind. Things I straight up can’t think. And he… is saying. This is a way to better us. AND OURSELVES?!

Shieldwall must have seen the look of shock on my face.

“I know what it sounds like,” Shieldwall says. “But I believe humans can stand as vital contributors, reviving an entire universe.”

I can hear Jack in the back of my mind. Their usual acerbic wit: Are you fucking high?![/i]

“There was a science-fiction writer in Equestria who went by a human pseudonym,” Shieldwall says. “Something Italian? I don’t know or care what bucking language. It was all about how Equestria would fail after taking over Earth. Massive economic collapse, overstretching of resources, us not being able to hold the planet. Of course, not long after that, she got the news that she’d be given a special assignment in the Colonies. ‘Place her expertise in service of the State’, those were words used, I remember. Haven’t heard much from her since. It was a posting in the former territory of Russia.”

I don’t need to ask what that means.

“But I did read her story,” Shieldwall concludes. “And... it made me think.”

He seems… mournful. Almost sad, wistful. I’ve never actually thought of that. I actively try to ignore it. But I think that’s a cool concept. I didn’t know Equestria even had sci-fi, but the idea that one of their authors would write to criticize their government just piques my interest. Shame I can’t ask questions, because I have somany. Some of which are about Shieldwall, because he seems almost r–

“We could do better than that!”

...never mind that.

A story about Equestria failing. About them being overstretched. And he takes it as a way to do better?!

I don’t even have words for that.

* * *

I’m still trying and failing to find the words at lunchtime.

The lunchroom is abuzz. Nimbus is talking about the new improvements she and Arpeggio made for her potioneer ship and the crop duster. Doubtless the same ones they used to ponify the crowd, the one that was my fault–

Focus, Hope. You couldn’t have known You were doing the best you could.

And, off in one corner, I see Honey Dusk. She sits in front of what looks like one of the glass screens from Star Wars that were set up all over Rebel bases. Wouldn’t be surprised it it was crystal, actually. The Imperials are mad about the stuff, and I’m strongly reminded of human LED screens here, when you think about it. And on that screen is…

A foal?

“Honeycomb!” Honey Dusk coos. “How’s home?”

“It’s been great!” the foal says. They sound like a colt. “When are you coming home, sis?”

“Sometime,” Honey Dusk says. “I… I love you, little monster–”

The foal flinches slightly. His eyes widen.

“–but I’m doing this for you. For Equestria. For all of us,” Honey Dusk says. “The things I’m doing with Shieldwall, they’re… we could really make a difference.”

“Sundae Sprinkles said that Shieldwall’s an un-Equestrian traitor who should be brought in by the Loyalty Guard,” Honeycomb says.

“Tell Sundae Sprinkles he can go tell them himself,” Honey Dusk says. “Tell him to send the Timberwolves so they can just come up and get us. Besides, what’s Sundae Sprinkles done for Equestria that outdoes us?”

Honeycomb cringes slightly as she raises her voice. I… I have questions. Because something really, really does not feel right between the two of them.

I walk up to the chef, and that conversation fades out to my ears. I hold out a cracked, chipped plate to the chef, a fat green earthpony Newfoal with a jolly grin on his face, and he pours the essentials onto my plate. Some mashed potatoes, some of some kind of salad.

I carry it with TK en route to the salvaged picnic table, and lift it to my mouth with fork and knife held by through a horn telekinesis spell.

“Ah,” Cross Stitch says, walking up to me, a tray of similar food held in her hoof. “You don’t mind that I sit here.” She has a fork, and an oddly sharp knife with her lunch.

… Something about that doesn’t feel right. Did she… was that intentional? That really didn’t sound like politely asking. Was that… that was a statement. Yes. Definitely.

“Not at all!” I say in the chirpy tones of a Newfoal. It’s… it’s almost infectious to try to be that happy. I almost want to surrender to it, to just–

NO!

It is then that Shieldwall walks into the room.

You could’ve heard a pin drop. Everyone gathered in the room, of both species, stands at attention, saluting. All conversation ceases. On everyone’s face are smiles, almost beatific expressions of duty, and one forced smile suppressing tightly held fear. That’s me.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” Honey Dusk says, looking up from her conversation, immediately saluting.

“At ease, all of you,” Shieldwall says. “I’m just here for lunch. And…”

The fat cook immediately serves him a sandwich with vegetables and cheese. No questions asked. It looks like a Cheese Zombie from Yakima.

“Well then,” Shieldwall says, genuine surprise on his face, “Can’t thank you enough, Iron Pot.”

“Don’t mention it, sir.”

And then Shieldwall walks over, balancing the plate with the monster sandwich on it over his head. Until, of course, Honey Dusk flashes him a smile, her horn glowing as she levitates it and Shieldwall’s walking towards me–

Oh no.

“Think nothing of it, sir,” Honey Dusk says, smiling like a Newfoal. I try not to gag.

“Lieutenant Colonel Shieldwall,” I say. “What’re you doing here?”

“See, Crossy and I are doing some… tests,” Shieldwall says. “We’re going to use our freight portal to transport some of the Newfoals we got from Quincy to Equestria, and we were thinking to try and administer the test here.”

I weigh my options. On the one hoof, doing it in a quiet room with Shieldwall means less escape avenues. On the other, doing it here seems like… actually, it seems too risky to do anything else.

“What kind of test?” I ask.

“Oh, you know. Basic Equestrian Residence Categorization,” Shieldwall says.

‘So the acronym for this sounds like ‘BERK,’ I think. ‘Hey, I can say BERK! Oh, thank… something for Cockney!’

“Administered to every Newfoal sent to Equestria, to see what job they’d be best in,” Shieldwall says. “Gotta make do somehow, so long as the Dearth’s withholding Newfoals from receiving their marks. Amazing how many potential chefs were wasting their time as entomologists, huh? Plus, it helps weed out the odd ones. Consider it our own… Veidt-Camp test, right?”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Cross Stitch says. “It’s… what was the word?”

The doctor swings her muzzle and looks right. At. Me. Is… she expecting me to say something?

‘SHE KNOWS.’

It’s like someone has screamed it in my ear in a death metal growl worthy of George Fisher or Brendan Small voicing Nathan Explosion.

‘Ah, sh… SHI-! SHOOT!’

But she can’t know, can she? I haven’t… I can’t have given away that much! And I can’t prove that she knows.

“Ah, right,” she says. “Voight Kampff.”

“I don’t know how you manage to remember this weak, superfluous tripe,” Shieldwall practically snarls. “Honestly. That gets held up as a pillar of culture, and it’s just humans stewing in their own shit, in a catastrophe of their own making.”

His face brightens.

“I guess in that way, it’s totally a pillar of human culture!”

That monster. Right now, I’m considering it a retroactive triumph, not just for the movie industry’s reputation, but for humanity and sci-fi artists in general, that only a year after Equestria arrived, we still managed to get the sequel… and it was every bit as good as the original, if not better.

Huh, what was up with that dream of the unicorn, anyway? If you ask me, it was wise of them not to touch upon it in the second movie. An answer to whether or not Deckard’s a replicant would only have ruined it.

“So.”

Dreams are one thing, but to me, unicorns are real. And Shieldwall’s voice brings me crashing back into my reality.

“Let’s begin the test.”

He places a set of photos in front of me, then sits back on a cushion in that weird almost catlike or doglike way that ponies have. “We’ll start with simple word association.”

There is a picture of humans in gas masks armed with rifles, one of a jeweled gun, one of a city where a dome of light and fire takes up most of the view, and one of a human skull.

“Push them towards me,” Shieldwall says, “And tell me the first thing you think. It doesn’t have to be more than a word, just keep it simple.”

I push the picture of humans in gas masks. That one’s obvious.

“Death.”

The jeweled gun. I’m tempted to repeat myself, but I can’t push it. Even a garden-variety Newfoal would be checking their mental thesaurus for synonyms.

Already I’m feeling a leaden weight along my forehoof. It’s not even possible for me to glance at Shieldwall, if I don’t want to give myself away. How should I play my hand, when I can’t even let them understand I’ve got a hand to play?

“Gaudy– unnecessary.”

Yeah. That one’s on pure intuition. But it seems to please Shieldwall.

The skull.

“A good start.”

The city’s destruction.

“Triumph,” I say confidently. It could only be a human city, after all.

“An interesting answer,” Cross Stitch says, smiling like a Newfoal. She draws her knife through a mushroom, which oozes ever so slightly. She takes another bite, and as she chews, she says: “Wouldn’t you say so, Shieldwall?”

And for a moment, as she holds the knives and forks suspended in midair, the knife is pointed right at me.

“I would say so,” Shieldwall says. “Now for a question. You are running cleanup duty. You see a human child at the bottom of a well. You can potion them, try to pull them out, or contact your commanding officer. Which do you do?”

“I pull them out and then potion them,” I say.

“Why?” Cross Stitch asks.

“I can’t potion them if they’re not safe,” I say. “What if they turn into an earthpony and have no way to climb?”

“... That’s a good point,” Shieldwall says. “Exactly what I would do.”

He pats me on the head, almost proud. The entire cafeteria is silent. All eyes are on me.

“Maybe too much so,” Cross Stitch says, and points the knife at me.

My inability to react saves me. I stare at it like a deer in the headlights, not able to scream, not comprehending that there is a knife coming ever closer-

“Relax!” Cross Stitch says, laughing as she places the knife on the plate. “I’m joking! It was just a joke.”

And the entire room bursts into either laughter or sighs of relief.

“Don’t worry,” Cross Stitch says, now that the laughter has died down. “I can spot a defective Newfoal miles and miles away. If you were one, you’d be dead by now.”

I try to laugh harder. I don’t know if I’m succeeding.

“Sweet Celestia,” Shieldwall scolds, “Don’t torture her. That’s something humans do.”

* * *

As I wake up the next morning, I have one thought:

That was too close. Much too close.

I want to be anywhere but here. I desperately try to remember the last time I got out of a situation like this. Once, I was captured by HLF in the South American wilderness, and some unit – I won’t go into who – decided that they could try and eat me to receive immunity to potion. Some people tried that on other Slow Newfoals in the Bad Old Days, when the Barrier was coming up against the North African coast. I don’t know if that worked and I’m happier that way.

And there was the other time PER captured me in the desert, along an abandoned stretch of highway.

Both times I got out, I did it by making them think I was giving them what they wanted. I let the HLF think I was leading them into a room in an abandoned butcher shop, then I jumped out a window. When the PER put me to work using magic, I was actually turning the smuggled hospital supplies into an explosive.

… I never did find out what the PER did with that. And maybe it’s better that way.

So.

I need to make them think I’m doing what they want. I need to do something a Newfoal would do, but undertake it in a way that won’t arouse suspicion.

I resolve to sign up for the next away mission. It’s the best idea, okay, it’s the only idea I have.So what I’m going to do is, I’m going to be the most diligent Newfoal ever, and I’m going to throw myself into the opportunity to do away missions. Then I’m just going to slip away. The same as I always did, and always wi–

‘You know, in retrospect, it might have been rude for the universe to let that go unchallenged.’

There is a bang. And then a whistle.

I hear someone banging against a gong, and then a scream. A sound like crackling ice. A wet hissing noise. A scream. Gunfire.

Guns. Human weaponry. An attack. HLF? No. It has to be PHL. Has to be.

‘Well, I guess that’s a decent escape plan!’

I rush down one hallway. There is a dull thud that is totally not explosives, and I keep galloping down the hallway. Until I find it.

‘Laundry!’

Few of the Equestrians here are civilians. And an Equestrian on duty is an Equestrian who wears clothes. So I know exactly what to do. I turn my back to the door and buck it open. The cheap wood crumples under my hooves, and I rush inside. I find what looks like clothes for human children, except it’s been stretched to fit an small equine frame. Shorts, a ratty T-shirt for Taos, New Mexico–

‘The same one from the dream!’

I don’t have time to think about that. So I throw the clothes on, and gallop back out the door. I can convince the PHL, easy. I can make them think I’m a prisoner, then in the chaos I’ll just slip out! They can’t see my cutie mark, so they have no way of guessing it’s me! It’s brilliant!

I gallop towards the cabin that I know is the entrance, and then I see it. Iron Pot is frozen to the wall, an expression of panic on his face. His eyes dart to and fro, and he is clearly trying to move, but he can’t, so encased is he by the ice. With each breath he takes, with each steamy wisp of vapor from his mouth, the ice grows.

It is up to his neck.

‘Strange, I didn’t know the PHL used freeze rays,’ I think stupidly. Then I slap myself. ‘No, silly-filly, this could just be some pony with ice magic. The guns...’

I think about that. I know what PHL assault rifles sound like. And that seemed… different. Too staggered.

How odd.

I creep slowly down the hallway, trying to avoid pools of ice. There’s an intersection ahead. I know from experience that it leads to the cafeteria, then to the cabin. Whatever’s here, I don’t want to make too much noise.

When I turn the corner, the one that leads through the cafeteria to the cabin, I freeze. No, not literally. But almost. In front of me, I see a…

A…

Part of me wants to say pony. But my mind rebels against that. It is too tall, with long, spindly legs that definitely do not belong to any pony. And it has antlers, a nest of bone-white protrusions like the branches of a tree. It blocks my way to the cafeteria.

Reindeer!

An Equestrian one. Definitely. There’s no way to mistake the proportions.

‘Aren’t they extinct?!’ I think, my mind racing.

It turns its head to look at me, and I know I need to run. I gallop away, and almost as soon as I do, the floor behind me freezes. And then suddenly, I’m skidding like I’m on ice skates. I look down at the ice, panicked, and focus energy into my horn. I’m heading towards a wall, and I’m, I’m gonna, I’m gonna CRASH–

Except that never comes. There is a green flash, and then I am down another corridor, galloping away.

‘Good cripes, did I just teleport?!’

I did!

I don’t have time to ponder that as I rush down the hallway. The Equestrian reindeer that should not be alive chases me, a determined look on its face.

I skid along the dirt floor, rushing around a bend, and then I see an open door.

Someone holds out a hoof. “GET IN! GET IN!” they scream. So I slow down ever so slightly, and gallop into the room.

“What was that?!” I hear someone yell. “They were supposed to be extinct!”

I’m still catching my breath, looking down at the floor. Wheezing. I can barely focus on anything, and I feel wobbly. Almost drunk.

That changes when I see who said that.

It’s Cross Stitch.

‘Oh no.!’

And next to her is Shieldwall. Alabaster is unconscious, bleeding heavily in one corner under an assortment of scavenged blankets. He’s breathing shallowly.

“This shouldn’t have happened!” Shieldwall yells. “They’re supposed to be all gone!”

“Well, APPARENTLY THEY’RE NOT!” Cross Stitch practically screams.

I try to force a smile onto my face. “I’m sure we shouldn’t worry about that! You two are some of the most brilliant minds in the Empire, I’m sure the four of us can work on a way out.”

“Correction,” Shieldwall says thinly, “The three of us. You’re coming home in one of the stasis cocoons.”

My smile falters. “What.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Cross Stitch says, sashaying forward. “We know exactly what you are.”

“I almost would’ve guessed you were a different kind of infiltrator, except…” Shieldwall says, as Cross Stitch waggles a syringe full of red blood with purple flecks in her horn’s TK. She’s enjoying this. That bitch.

‘Neat, swearing!’ I think somewhere distantly. ‘Where did they get that?!’

A smile spreads across Shieldwall’s face. And I want to either run or punch that smile just for existing. It makes me feel less safe just for being in the same room.

“There are trace amounts of a very old potion in you,” Shieldwall says. “The Slow Potion. So many things never made sense about you. And your attitudes. Your questions.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, trying to take on the tone of a Newfoal. It doesn’t work. In no world could it possibly be construed as ‘working’.

“The fear in your voice,” Shieldwall says, the smile widening as I tremble slightly. As my voice quavers. He sounds… almost hungry. “The sweating. You’re a Slow Newfoal, Dew Glow. One somehow afflicted with the sickness of remembering their human self.”

He trots to me and I feel frozen.

“I’ve seen them do that,” Shieldwall says. “For days, months… but you kept it up for at least three years. Maybe even more. What I want to know is how you did that. Imagine what I could learn!”

“Shieldwall,” I say, mind racing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! We can go back to lab work, I can help you out, I’ll do anything for you right now!”

“Then do this for me,” Shieldwall says, holding a scalpel against one hoof. “Come on, Dew Glow. Some part of you wants this.”

“I… don’t know if this is wise,” I say. “Come on, whatever you’re going to do, I’m not sure that Queen Celestia is going to approve–”

“Queen Celestia,” Shieldwall growls, “Isn’t here. Now, hold still and stop these stupid little protests. You’re not fooling anyone. Not me, not you. You want this, Dew Glow. Stop lying and SHOW ME WHAT’S INSIDE!”

He bellows out the last four words, and I scream. It’s a high, piercing note that could shatter glass.

I run for the edge of the room, tripping over spilled flasks, screaming my head off.

Shieldwall laughs. “Better! You’re doing better!”

I slam into the doorway before the stairs, only to ram against some invisible thing that covers the door. I slam against it, I pour magic against it, but it doesn’t budge.

“It is just the three of us, you know,” Cross Stitch says. It’s the first thing she’s said since Shieldwall showed me the vial of my blood. “Poor stunned Alabaster notwithstanding. Come on, Dew Glow. Stop struggling. It’s better if you just go along with it.”

“FUCK YOU!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

“Perhaps later!” Cross Stitch laughs. “But we’ll have to do something about that mouth of yours. So unbecoming of a Newfoal…”

“No we won’t,” Shieldwall says. “Because we’re going to find out why, piece. By. Piece.”

He taps the scalpel on the floor, punctuating each syllable.

“And she’ll enjoy every moment,” Shieldwall says, and I feel something at the tip of my tail. Then a stabbing pain, and suddenly I’m flying backwards across the room towards him, the tiles blurring by. “I’ll make sure of it. Oh yes.”

I’m really hoping for whatever is upstairs to save me. I am screaming for it. Begging for it.

“Come on, say it!” I yell. “Nothing can save me now! That it’s the end! GO ON, I DARE YOU!”

Shieldwall rolls his eyes. “Honestly, how dumb do you think I am? You’re coming with us, one way or another.”

I’m submerged halfway into the cocoon when the door explodes outward, brittle and frozen.

They stride into the room. And with them comes a blizzard, a bank of clouds and snow so dense as to be almost a solid mass.

They come in the shape of a stag and a doe. And then I know. These are the ones who have been attacking our PER base this whole time.

“What,” says one, their voice feminine, “Are you doing.”

Cross Stitch scrambles back, a look of fear on her face. But to his credit, Shieldwall doesn’t. He stands his ground, teeth gritted.

“You,” Shieldwall says, “Are supposed to be dead.”

“So was our grandfather,” says the other, one with a masculine voice, “But you wouldn’t just let him rest, would you?”

“There was more work to be done,” Shieldwall says, completely unperturbed. “To have that kind of power, and not dedicate it to the betterment of a world is to waste it.”

“You call this betterment?” the feminine one asks, inching closer to Shieldwall. Cross Stitch cowers behind him, and I watch from my position in the cocoon, almost paralyzed.

“As a matter of fact,” Shieldwall says, “I do. Look at this world, both of you, and tell me these apes haven’t wasted it.”

“Look at yourself,” one of the Reindeer says, “And tell me you’re using them any better.”

Shieldwall scoffs. “You’ll never understand.”

“We certainly won’t,” the other Reindeer says.

“There’s one more thing you don’t understand about me,” Shieldwall says. “I’m not trapped in my lab with you. You’re trapped here with me. See, I know that you did something to disrupt Cross Stitch’s teleportation spell.”

Cross Stitch just raises an eyebrow, has a strange look on her face, and mumbles, “... Let’s go with that.” Her voice is quavering slightly.

“And I’ve been working on a way to circumvent that,” Shieldwall says. “A way I can bring my lab anywhere I want.”

“But we’re not finished te–!” Cross Stitch yells.

Some part of me already knows what Shieldwall is about to do. So in that moment, I force all my will into my horn, and every thought is devoted to NOT BEING IN THIS HORRIBLE THING–

“NOT ANYMORE!” Shieldwall howls, and hammers down on a button connected to a crystalline spike.

Two things happen.

I launch forward, the cocoon tearing against my hind leg. And at that moment, there’s a sphere of purple light around one of Shieldwall’s tables, and a burst of concussive force rips through the lab. Beakers and bottles shatter. A table inexplicably turns to paper and ink. Something is on fire, or… was it always on fire? I can’t remember.

Shieldwall and Cross Stitch are gone. As is roughly half the lab. In its place is a lump of earth and some grass, spread out over the floor.

I lie on the floor, my energy sapped, watching dirt crumbling from the ceiling.

The Reindeer look at me, impassive.

“Another one of them,” the male says, strangely sad. “Should we…”

“This one is different,” says the feminine one. She nods to me. “There’s no need to lie. Tell us what happened.”

“We miiiiight need to hold off on that,” I wheeze. “Seeing as Shieldwall seems to have done something to the structural integrity of the base.”

The male one is… confused. “How do you know?”

“Partly because when he teleported out, he took out some of the ceiling,” I wheeze again. “That, and he told me he wired this room with explosives.”

The male Reindeer’s eyes widen. “Oh. Oh no. You have to get up, we can’t–”

“Funny enough,” I force out, “It’s… really hard to move. I think the cocoon did something to me.” I try to stand up, and my legs wobble under me.

And I feel a tinge of magic all around me, the magic of his touch, as he picks me up in his jaws, without his teeth sinking into me or so much of nicking me, and with an adroit toss he drapes me over his back, and begins to run.

I was right. The base is collapsing all around me. Within hours, assuming the PHL don’t find out about it, there’ll be nothing left.

Flecks of dirt and rock tumble down from the roof of the tunnel. Support beams collapse. Everything that could conceivably go wrong in an underground base dug through the dirt is going wrong.

“What was he even doing here?” the female Reindeer asks me, as they gallop through the crumbling tunnels.

“Trying to make a better Newfoal,” I say weakly. “In the other cocoon, there was a human halfway to ponification, I think he was… I think he was trying to force the process. Turn it into a weapon.”

The female Reindeer wrinkles her nose slightly, as we hurry towards the surface. I don’t give them directions, but then, they don’t seem to notice that. They turn corners practically before they come up, only barely scraping the walls. Their precision is incredible.

“To take such a despicable perversion of magic,” the female whispers, “And to… try to actively pervert it further. What have they become?”

“You tell me,” I say, and I’m surprised at the venom I can muster next: “As far as my experience goes, this is who they’ve always been.”

Both Reindeer are silent for awhile. And, despite the sounds of the crumbling base, I feel myself drifting off. It’s been a long day, after all... doesn’t a ~~woman~~ mare… deserve… some rest...

* * *

I wake up, and scream.

“Calm down!” the male Reindeer whispers, clamping one cloven hoof to my face. “We can’t make too much noise!”

He releases his grip, though not quickly.

I look around. I don’t see much. What sunlight we were getting around these parts is hidden from view by the forest’s thick canopy of pine trees and other plants. We are at the foot of a great birch. I am lying with my hooves tucked beneath myself, while the Reindeer stand facing me, the female to my right, and the male to my left, stepping back from me now I no longer need quieting.

“What…” I feebly gasp. “What happened?”

“You passed out from exhaustion,” the female Reindeer says. “We took the time to channel some magic into you, fix what we could. You should be able to walk, be mostly fine, but…”

I can guess. So right now, I have more important questions. “Who are you?” I ask.

The male Reindeer looks to the female. Their faces are those of brother and sister, that much I can tell immediately. But now I’ve got a closer look at them, I notice something else. Even if they hadn’t started talking the moment they entered that room, I could never mistake them for ordinary Earth reindeer. Something to do with their coats’ colors, for starters. The male’s is a creamy brown, the female’s a color that could only be called ‘chocolate’. Everything a little too… rich, somehow. They’re obviously from Equestria. Their proportions are simply… not-Earth, with big eyes and a large head.

I then realize that’s not the only peculiar thing about their faces. Despite how tall they stand, and the look in their eyes, there’s something strangely childlike to their features.

“Should we tell her?” the male asks his sister. “No… rather, how much should we tell her?”

She gazes back at him. Her face doesn’t look as if it was made for frowning, but that’s just what she’s doing, with an expression that betrays perplexity.

“Why ask now, brother?” she demands. “We took a leap of faith the moment we chose to come to her rescue. If they had any doubts as to us being alive, they’ll have no more, after that stunt.”

“One wrong word, one unfortunate slip back into the enemy’s clutches,” he says quietly, “and they could force more out of her than we’d ever want them to know.”

“Oh, let’s please stop dragging our hooves,” the female Reindeer says. “It’s been so long…”

I can’t stay quiet amidst all this.

“Not too long ago,” I say slowly, but clearly, “I thought I was going to be dissected. By someone with a bit of an overabundance of job satisfaction. And now, I’m here. I just… I feel so lost right now. I need… something. Anything.”

Another look is exchanged between Reindeer siblings. The female just nods silently at her brother. There’s something unspoken going on between them.

He’s a tall stag, this male. Strong enough to take hold of me and carry me off in one move. If I stumbled upon him in the forest, I’d keep a safe distance as much from him as from any wolf. But despite that, I sense that he… is having trouble standing on his hooves.

Like he hasn’t quite got used to carrying his own weight, just yet…

“You’re not like the others,” he says at last. “Or, indeed, like the ones who made you this way. You remember.”

I nod. “Yep. I… I had an early version of the potion. Anyone who took it was pretty much unchanged, at first. Just so it’d look like the potion could solve anything. Like it wasn’t turning people into meat-puppets. And then, all around me, Newfoals started… changing. They lost their memories, things they enjoyed, started hating humans more and more. Until they were the usual brainwashed footsoldiers.”

The Reindeer listen intently.

“And then I was there,” I say. “Just… watching Newfoals I knew, Newfoals I loved start decaying. And I would try to yell at them ‘This isn’t us!’ or something. I… I thought it was all some bold experiment. I thought we were making something new. And then I realized, they’re not the odd ones out. I am.”

The male Reindeer nods.

“And then I have to realize, I was… this was happening to everyone. And while I tried to survive the war, I barely a minute went by while I wasn’t worried if that’d happen to me, too. I saw other early Newfoals, Slow Newfoals, they called us, commit suicide. But… all the minutes I spent worrying turned into hours. The hours turned into days. Then months. Then...” I shrug, as much as a pony can shrug. “I’ve been like this for five years.”

“Five years,” the male repeats. “Almost as long as the time since the transition…”

“And the average Newfoal left to fend for themselves on Earth doesn’t live more than a month or two,” I add. “I’m pretty much ancient.”

“Then, if you’re as ‘ancient’ as you say,” the male utters softly, “you must remember what even the natural-borns seemingly have begun to forget. In those early days, Celestia was more forthcoming about the story of her world and its people. Before she sought to erase it. To remake it. Amongst that world’s people were the Reindeer, and the Reindeer were tied to Equestria by an old covenant.”

At his words, the female glances away, staring into the depths of the forest.

“What happened?” I ask. “Shieldwall said you were supposed to be dead, but…”

“He’d be happy it we were.”

It isn’t the brother who spoke that time. He looks towards his sister, who still doesn’t look back.

“Why?” I gasp. “What could…”

“Our species was guilty of the highest crime in the new order of the Solar Empire,” the sister says, sadly. “Not fitting into Queen Celestia’s vision.”

“I said she sought to remake the world,” the brother speaks. His words are intoned with a harsh, blunt simplicity. “But that is only half true. Celestia wants to remake you, the human race. Us? She cut out the mid-section, and ordered us to be… erased.”

“But… why?” I ask, again. “What could… I just… why?”

“Why?” the brother echoes. His sturdy shoulders sag. “If I could tell you that, we’d have the cure to Celestia’s madness. She wasn’t always this way. Or so we were told, by someone who loved her dearly, and whom she had killed. Our grandfather, the King of Adlaborn. There are still people who remember him, but...” He sighs, the strange youthfulness in his face vanishing, making him look old. “On this world, aside from Lucie and I, the only ones who still speak the name ‘Sint Erklass’ are those who chose fealty to the Golden Lyre’s banner.”

“You mean the PHL?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “And it’s a name you won’t hear from the people you’ve kept company with. Even though...” Here, his eyes narrow. “Lately, we felt a tremor in the world’s fabric. It appears that forgetting him hasn’t stopped them from desecrating his place of rest. And you,” he adds, in a tone that isn’t at all comforting, “know something about it, I believe. Don’t say you don’t.”

“Eadmund,” his sister interjects, now turning back towards us. “She is as much a victim of the Empire as they are. Maybe even more. Our thoughts, our feelings can be called our own. Hers...”

“Even I don’t know how much they’re my own,” I say solemnly. “It’s hard to even think swear words. There, in the lab, where I told Shieldwall to ffffffffff… Frig himself, that’s the first time in too long I’ve been able to swear out loud. I can barely even say what I want!”

The sister chuckles, because somehow, there’s something she finds funny in this.

“I’m sorry,” she says, meeting my eye. “It’s just… in some respects, Adlaborn was like what Celestia wants you to think Equestria is like. So… pristine. And we loved it just as it was, though it wasn’t for lack of enforcement, sometimes. Like, there was that time our mother washed out my mouth with soap, because I’d said a bad word after stubbing my hoof… Ah, memories. But I still had the choice to say bad words. I had the choice to do good. Celestia has taken that away from you, from humans, from so many of us.”

“You said you tried to… help me,” I say. “Did you try to… try to fix being ponified?”

“If only we knew how,” says the sister, her voice laced with pity. “And yet… I believe that’s why Celestia went after us. Our home, our family, our people. If there’s someone who might have been able to reverse what’s been done to you, it was our grandfather.”

“But... he’s dead,” I say.

“Yes,” the sister says. “And with the fraction of the power we have, we can’t reverse what is happening to you. We can only delay it. But we know what, maybe, could stop it in its tracks.”

“What?” I ask, no, I beg. “What can I do?!”

“There are two options,” the male Reindeer says. “Firstly… do you know about ponies’ cutie marks?”

Again I nod, though I still have to gag at the term. “Yes…” I say, hoping he’s not going where I think he’s going, but knowing that he absolutely is.

“Well, it’s… more than just a signifier of talent,” he says. “It is an anchor of self. Of identity. Ponies who earn their cutie marks feel so secure, so happy, knowing that they have discovered something so uniquely them.”

Oh no. No no no. They’re not–

“If you earn one,” the female Reindeer says, “Then you will find your purpose. And your identity will be safe.”

They are.

My jaw drops. No way. No Newfoal has ever achieved a cutie mark, none of them ever make that giant leap of establishing an identity. It is an impossible task, as far as I know.

“What’s the second?” I ask.

The female Reindeer looks downcast. “You already know what the second one is. You’ve already considered it, but you won’t do it.”

I think about it. Yeah, I… as afraid as I am, I wouldn’t drop that far. So, first option it is.

“It’s impossible,” I say. “But I’ll go for it. I’ll find my cutie mark.”

“You think she’ll be able to do it, Lucie?” the male asks.

“It’s not as impossible as you might think,” the female Reindeer says. “You, Hope, you have more identity than any Newfoal that we know of. If anyone can do it, you can.”

“But… but how do I find it?” I ask. “I mean, there’s a lot of things I enjoy. A lot of things that could’ve been a cutie mark. Cosplay, video games, running, hiding, cooking…”

“Then do them, if they give you pleasure,” the male Reindeer says. “Yet all those are the seeds, not the fruit. A mark comes to you in a moment of gnosis, of spiritual affirmation.”

“‘Spiritual affirmation’?” I repeat. “I can barely keep my mind together. How am I even supposed to attempt that?!”

“It does the most terrible things to souls,” the female agrees. “But don’t go thinking you can’t do it. Where there’s life, there is soul, somewhere, hidden beneath all the grot.”

I can’t help it. The frustrations of the last few days have built up in me. I need to get snippy. And there’s something neither of these Reindeer appear to have taken into account.

“How?” I demand. “How do you think I’ve even got a chance? The way I understood it, marks come to you at a certain age, like they’re this crossing over from childhood. I’m an adult. Yes, I’m a Newfoal, but physically I’m still a damn adult. If I had a chance, it’s passed me by.”

The female Reindeer smiles mysteriously.

“There’s something our grandfather used to say,” she tells me wistfully. “There are no adults. There are only children playing at being adults.”

Her words sink in. I have nothing to say to that.

“While the soul is in you, your truest self is in you,” Lucie says. “You only to open your eyes.”

“But you won’t be able to do it here,” Eadmund says gruffly. “You have to go east, Hope.”

My heart sinks. ‘Oh no...’

I never wanted to go east. That’s where the worst possible things always happen. Solar Empire bombing raids, PHL patrols, overcrowded cities, HLF with a seemingly limitless supply of guns and angry refugees, and glory-hungry PER who are willing to burn it all to the ground. HLF-occupied towns, tiny little pocket dictatorships too remote for the PHL or centralized authority to touch.

“East? You’re absolutely sure? Why?”

“I am sure,” he says, to a nod from his sister. “There is a man in the east, not PHL, who is nonetheless allied with ponies and opposed to the Empire. Meeting him could lead to you finding your mark.”

“You said ‘lead to,’ not ‘will’.” I narrow my eyes.

“I certainly did,” Eadmund says, nodding.

“That makes it sound like he won’t cure me, but it’ll set me on the path to getting cured.”

“It certainly does,” Lucie says, impassive.

I think it over. Sure, I could find somewhere else to hole up, I could find another town like Quincy and hunker down until the Barrier comes ~~or until it all fails again, and someone decides I’d make a good target or a cure or no no no stop~~

Or I could try something new. I could finally dream of having my mind completely to myself for the first time in years. And if I fail, it’ll be a hell of a way to die.

“Alright,” I say, committing myself to this impossible task. “I’ll do it.”

Author's Note

And now we see the central thrust of this story. I've been looking forward to this part!

Some fun facts, btw -
* 1. The chapter name is, well... it's named after the song Moustache Whacks by SQUIDLID. I spent a lot of time listening to it on the plane when I made this, so it only seemed fair.

*2 . Yes, Shieldwall mangling pop culture stuff is 100% intentional. I wanted him to display a better understanding of humanity than most of his fellow PER or Solar Empire military, but have him get things mixed up constantly. It's meant to show how dismissive he is. Fun fact again, this actually originates from a typo in Snowbound - Shieldwall refers to Alaska as "Sewell's folly," when it is actually "Seward's Folly." This was a typo on my part, but I liked the idea of Shieldwall superficially getting it but also totally not getting it, so I kept the typo.
3. You know, I've tried to build Shieldwall up as a genuine threat for years, but I think this is about the biggest success I've had so far.
4. Yes, the scene in Utopia is the same one that is in Light. Because of course it is.

04: It's Safe Now

Slow Mutants - 04 -

It's Safe Now

Shouts out to:

Cr0w T R0bot - for editing it and finding mistakes I just would not have noticed

Jed - for making sure the part with Wakefield wasn't too anti-HLF. I mean, it's easy, but we've all had enough of that sort of thing.

The PER camp

Here’s how I was told it happened:

An FBI agent with less social awareness than God gave to one of those big dogs with more fur and bulk than sense walks into the tunnels of what was once a PER base.

This is Garrett Nichols. Who, by strange coincidence, is also walking a black and gray... dog... that fits the description. Tall, lanky, and overall just… sharp. Her name is Alawa.

Garrett doesn’t wear a tie. He has a nice suit, and an indigo shirt with light pink patterns. It is so eighties that people have complained it makes their eyes bleed. Which was weird, seeing as Garrett couldn’t see any blood at the time.

“Strange,” he says, to nobody in particular. PHL and FBI are combing the scene of the…

Crime doesn’t quite fit, I’m told that Garrett thought as Alawa tugged her harness. ‘It was against PER. They were the only victims. So… occurrence.

“Garrett,” says a pegasus behind him. Her coat isn’t quite sky-blue, and her mane is peach-and-pink. This would be Officer - or at least, former officer in Manehattan’s police department - Cloudwatcher, who does not like underground spaces. As pegasi often do.

“It’s not safe here, dammit!” Cloudwatcher says. “This could come down any minute!”

Garrett ignores her. He’s holding out a flashlight, taking pictures of the tunnel. “...Walls are cold. Interesting-”

It is then that he sees an abnormally fat pony frozen to a wall, covered beneath a sheet of ice that simply does not look right to him.

“What the hell happened to him?” Cloudwatcher breathes.

“Huh,” is all that Garrett says. “This ice. It looks to have barely melted at all, but we ended up getting the call hours ago. It could be the fact that it’s underground, but… there’s virtually no condensation. My best guess is it’s magic.”

He walks further into the tunnels. His dog is held on his leash, sniffing the sides of the walls.

“But what uses ice magic with this proficiency?” Garrett muses. “And is an enemy to the PER?”

“It could be a PHL cell,” Cloudwatcher says.

“Not likely,” Garrett says, striding through the questionably stable tunnel without a care in the world. “A PHL cell so secretive it doesn’t tell us that they did it? There’d be more guns. I’ve examined the bulletholes, and… there’s nothing behind the PER here. No bullet wounds. All the shots came from the PER. So, a force that uses magic exclusively… perhaps. One that didn’t fire a shot.”

Garrett looks it over, confused. “Which narrows it down to… absolutely nobody I can think of.”

“Could it be a rival PER cell?” Cloudwatcher asks.

“Certainly not,” Garrett says, completely not registering the fact that he is in an unstable tunnel. “PER are unified to a fault. Same with most Imperials.”

He’s managing a jaunty stroll, now. He’s using a high-end digital SLR camera, taking pictures of whatever catches his eye. He looks almost like a hobbyist hiker or spelunker, at the pace he’s going.

“I read a novel that once said that after eliminating the impossible, then whatever remains must be the truth,” Garrett continues. “But I don’t have enough possibilities to work with yet. There’s too many conflicting variables. Possible explanations, sure, but they’re all too contrived for me to be certain of them.”

Cloudwatcher felt a tremor under her hooves, but she presses on, following Garrett.

Alawa looks back to Cloudwatcher and chuffs. Garrett’s dog - who is almost the size of her, maybe a little bigger - always unnerves her. She suspects Alawa’s part wolf, but Garrett always gives a different answer, (Dutch Shepherd, German Shepherd, Malinois) including some breeds she’s sure aren’t real (Blue Bay Shepherd, Agouti Husky, Alaskan Husky). She is like 90% certain that Garrett does it deliberately to screw with people.

“I do hope I get to the lab soon and find some answers, though,” Garrett says, “PER are known for including self-destruct devices.”

I’m told that Cloudwatcher seriously questioned his sanity at this point.

“Why in Luna’s name didn’t you bring a drone?!” Cloudwatcher yelled.

“I wanted to see it all for myself,” Garrett says, turning a corner…

Before seeing a metal door that looks to have caved in several times over, and is covered in frost.

“Interesting,” he says. “Appears to be a PER lab of some kind.”

He peers through a gap between door and wall, snapping photos.

“Nichols,” Cloudwatcher says, “I… I really don’t think this is a good idea. This could all come down at any minute.”

“That’s why I have to take pictures,” Garrett says, staring at it.

Cloudwatcher flutters up about a foot, and peers through it.

“Definitely a lab of some sort,” Garrett says as he looks over the scene. There’s tables that are either full of shattered instruments… or curiously bare.

“What’s that in the cor-”

CRACK

“You know,” Garrett says, seemingly unmindful of the sound, “Good thing I brought the camera.”

And the roof of the lab shudders ever so slightly. An avalanche of dirt, bits of wood, all of them fall to the ground, burying the lab. He jerks his head back just in time, though dirt speckles his face.

Alawa makes not-quite-yelping noises.

“Well,” he says.

“You could’ve been…” Cloudwatcher says.

Garrett cocks his head, confused. “I wasn’t.”

Later

“You could’ve been killed!” yells Agent James Craddock after Nick trudges up to the meeting, late. He has Alawa, still on her harness. “And don’t bring a dog in these-"

“But I wasn’t,” Nick says.

“It was an unacceptable risk,” Craddock says. “You’re gonna die like that someday, and you won’t even-”

“Bring back photos of Shieldwall’s laboratory?” Garrett says, and for a second Craddock thinks he sees a smirk - no, that couldn’t be - or expression of satisfaction on his face.

“Lay off him, Jim,” Cloudwatcher says, as they step into the meeting.

Agent Wakefield has started the presentation.

“You’re too soft on that man, y’know?” Jim asks. “He-”

“He’s good at his job,” Cloudwatcher shrugs. “Besides. I like watching him work. Even if he has a tendency to run over m-”

“He likes you, you know,” Jim says.

“Really,” Cloudwatcher says.

“No, really,” Jim says. “It’s not easy to read Nicky. But it can be done.”

As the three of them walk into the room where Wakefield is working on a presentation. As far as Wakefield’s concerned, it’s Reavers, or some other Spader-loyalist group. Because, after all, there are rumors of that side of the growing Split having advanced weaponry. A mystery, but one with an easy answer.

Cloudwatcher looks to Garrett, who has an expression on his face as he fiddles with his smartphone. Which is weird for Garrett.

“...Which is why we need to take action against government elements taking such blatant

And then suddenly, almost predictably:

“You’re wrong,” Garrett says. “It wasn’t the HLF.”

“Excuse me?!” Wakefield asks.

“It can’t be,” Garrett says. “None of the big units operate in the Pacific Northwest. Not in Vancouver, or anywhere in British Columbia - though that would admittedly be funny - or the Northwest Territories. There’s some HLF aligned with the Spader side of the split, but virtually nobody they trust enough to arm with freeze rays. Or,” Garrett says, and he taps a button on his phone, and then all of a sudden the picture on the projector changes. “Work with ponies.”

The screen comes into focus and displays the fat cook frozen in ice.

“How did you…” Cloudwatcher breathes.

“Easily,” Garrett says.

Wakefield splutters, and Assistant Director Strader is trying not to rip Garrett to pieces. He’s not quite succeeding, but he’s learned after a great deal of time to let Garrett just go with the flow, and then berate him.

It won’t exactly stop him, but then Garrett is hard to stop at the best of times and it’s often best to just go with it.

He fucking knows I hate this, is what I’m told that Strader must have thought.

“This is not the work of a freeze ray, if the Reavers have one,” Garrett continued. “Which I don’t believe they do. That’s magic ice. You can see him frozen under it, and the pattern of melting is abnormal. Cloudwatcher herself confirmed it.”

“I did,” Cloudwatcher nods.

(The real reason is that he has a backdoor into the projector’s systems, but that’s not important)

“I can believe it,” says Copper Star, the only unicorn in the room. A heavyset one with the build of an earth pony. Much like Cloudwatcher, he’s a former police officer. “When we found him, he had signs of frostbite.”

“The kind of frostbite that gets limbs amputated,” adds Craddock. “Meanwhile, virtually no melting after being exposed to the air for hours.”

“Moreover,” Garrett continues, “The Canadian Security Intelligence Service has several similar instances of PER operations such as this being shut down. One in Vancouver.”

He clicks to another photo. There is a basement full of ice, potion vials cracking under the weight of ice, newfoals frozen to the floor, along with humans of the PER shivering.

“Another in Kitsault.”

Another photo. It’s much the same.

“I can name more. But, earlier than that, this occurrence in the Alaska Panhandle,” Garrett says. “A small town in the Alaska Panhandle suffered a late-season, incredibly localized storm. Much like the unusual weather patterns over Northern Alaska, near Prudhoe Bay, earlier this year during the Sagwon Incident.”

Another slide.

It is a map of Alaska, British Columbia, and then Washington. Garrett has plotted a set of dots all along the Pacific coastline, marked by date, which slowly, inexorably lead…

To Washington State.

“I believe that something from Alaska is making its way here,” Garrett said.

“But what?” Wakefield asks. “What kind of crackpot theory could you possibly-”

“Sadly, none,” Garrett says. “I am only plotting out data. But I can find a pony of interest.”

A blurry slide of a gray pony with a not-quite-red, not-quite brown mane and a cutie mark of several raindrops.

“This pony, Dew Glow,” Garrett says, “Was wanted by Emslie due to irregularities in her Equus Refugee Code. According to Emslie, who managed to survive quarantine of Quincy, this ID belonged to a pony who died in Cleveland, Ohio in a PER attack two years ago. Glow then became agitated and escaped, at which point HLF elements within the town started a riot, believing her to be PER.”

Another slide. A yellow pony with a messy cherry-red mane, with darker highlights.

“This is,” Garrett says, “Also Dew Glow. She was seen running through the streets, trying to escape.”

“How can you be sure?” smirks one woman, glaring at both Cloudwatcher and Copper Star. “They all look pretty much the same.”

Cloudwatcher is about to butt in, yell “That’s-” but then-

“She has the exact same hairstyle,” Garrett interrupts, blasely. “Exact same facial structure. Voice recognition software from Emslie’s office was a 98% match. PHL soldier Cinnamon Stick positively identified her as Dew Glow as well.”

“What does she have to do with any of this?” Strader asks.

“She was seen being rescued by the PER,” Garrett says. “And later, seen alone traveling through Mount Rainier National Park.”

He pauses dramatically.

“I believe that if I find her, not only do I stand a chance of taking a dangerous PER operative out of the picture,” Garrett says, “But we find who’s created all these…” he pauses. “Icings? Does that work?”

“That’s not important,” Strader says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Special Agent Nichols. I need to talk to you in the hallway. Now.”

As the two of them leave, Wakefield continues. Pontificating on the impossibility of it all.

Later

“Whatever you have against Agent Wakefield,” Strader says, “Now is not the time for it. Where… in the hell… do you get off spitting in Wakefield’s face like this?!”

“I have nothing against Wakefield,” Garrett says. “Only that he’s wrong. And that if I investigate Dew Glow, I’ll be able to punch a hole in Shieldwall’s entire unit.”

“You have little proof of that,” Strader says.

“Only proof that it being HLF is the wrong angle to pursue,” Garret presses. “I believe that if we find Dew Glow, we find the answer.”

He looks at Strader. “Shieldwall is, even ignoring his normal threat level, planning something. PER have been seen equipped with higher-quality equipment, and going by projections, he’s used far fewer newfoals than he’s made. ”

“I don’t doubt that,” Strader says, “But interrupting Wakefield is unprofessional in the extreme!”

He sighs.

“I’d expect nothing less from you at this point.”

“I know,” Garrett says. “None of you would.”

Strader sighs again. “You’re just fucking with us at this point, aren’t you.”

“I find her,” Garrett says, pointedly not answering Strader, “Not only do I find the source of the icings, and a potential ally. But I should be able to take Shieldwall out of the picture.”

“I’ll be able to assemble a unit to help you find them,” Strader says. “But never forget one thing - you all report to me, Special Agent Nichols.”

Later

Later, I’m told that Strader found Wakefield in his office.

“But sir, he-” Wakefield starts.

“I don’t like it either,” Strader says. “God, I know Nichols is-”

“A total ass?” Wakefield suggests.

“You did not just interrupt me,” Strader says.

“...Right,” Wakefield says. “Sorry.”

“He’s not an asshole, he just doesn’t have social skills in the least,” Strader says. “And, God help me… he had a point.”

Wakefield just stares at him for a second.

“I know you want to do something about the HLF,” Strader says. “God help me, I know that the idea of one side having weapons that we don’t give to most of our rank and file doesn’t sit well with you. Not me, either.”

“It’s not just that, sir,” Wakefield. “I can’t afford not to investigate the HLF.”

Strader’s face is impassive. “Continue.”

“As best I understand it, the HLF coasts heavily on the momentum of armed forces and the PHL being Johnny-Come-Latelies,” Wakefield says.

“Seems like a bit of an oversimplification,” Strader says. “There are HLF units that take up the duty of protecting towns where US military forces and National Guard cannot maintain military presence.”

“There is also that, yes,” Wakefield says. “I admit it’s an oversimplification. But that momentum is a major part of their support. Turing Test and I have been running some numbers on a predictive algorithm he made, and we’ve come to the conclusion it will run out someday.”

“Turing Test is an odd name for a pony,” Strader says.

“He renamed himself once he discovered he enjoyed computers more than clocks,” Wakefield explains. “I do believe his Cutie Mark actually changed. Our algorithm looks at patterns of behavior in HLF, and patterns of aggression towards them. And… we’ve come to the conclusion this pattern is unsustainable.”

“Go on,” Strader says. He does not make it a question or even an order.

“The Cascade Range Patriots were a non-HLF affiliated militia group until a month or two ago year,” Wakefield says. “More radical militia movements that Spader-loyalist HLF would have spurned are merging with the Carter side of the split. Reports from the East Coast say that Leonid Lovikov is finding more and more recruits from these circles, too - and that he’s getting more and more desperate to free Carter. That can’t be allowed to happen.”

“You almost sound like Gardner,” Strader says.

“I’m not proposing anything like his solutions,” Wakefield says. “But Turing Test and I see a coming catastrophe we need to solve. We need to end it, or at least blunt it, before it can begin.”

“What kind of catastrophe?” Strader asks. “This is all sounding like very much alarmist talk-”

“War,” Wakefield says, trying and not quite succeeding at not snapping at the Assistant Director at the Seattle FBI bureau. “I’m talking about civil war.”

“You think people would be willing to fight the government in the last years of the human race?” Strader asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I do. There’s people in these units who would’ve very much relished a chance to fight the powers that be before the War. And they have people experienced in guerrilla tactics,” Wakefield says. “I know it sounds alarmist. I know that Garrett…”

Wakefield would have had an easier time pulling teeth. Specifically, his own teeth. With rusty pliers.

“...had a point,” he begrudgingly admits. “That other pony could be a proper lead. But I am at wits end here.”

“Very well,” Strader says. “If you are run that ragged by this, then I can assign you a unit. Much like Garrett’s. But on the condition that you are to observe unless I order otherwise.”

Wakefield breathes a sigh of relief. “Yes sir.”

“You took that last part better than I would’ve expected,” Strader remarks.

“...I’m not Gardner, sir,” Wakefield says. “And if that’s what it takes to blunt the catastrophe that Turing and I see, then so be it.”

A day later

Garrett is heading to the Quincy Quarantine in his ‘74 Pontiac Transam. His dog is hanging her head out the window, tongue flapping in the wind. Cloudwatcher sits, snoozing lightly despite the fact that Nichols’ dog looks like a wolf to her and is about the same size as her.

The town looks uncanny to him. Not least because of the wall rising up ahead of him. There’s the abandoned houses just outside the wall, and fields watched by towers. People here are scared. Without a doubt.

It’s been about two months since the Quarantine discovered the potion-seeding in massive amounts of crops, which are rotting in a warehouse, with PHL scientists trying to see if there’s anything that can be done.

Just a week ago, someone - okay, several someones, a group of Americans that weren’t HLF on account of being too far right for even the Carter side of the HLF split - broke in and tried to eat them, accusing the PHL of “hoarding food.”

They’d been found ponified days later, mostly accounted for, and loaded onto a truck.

Garrett didn’t like to think about where those trucks went.

His car stops at the… tollbooth? The guard station? It’s at Quincy’s main gate. There’s not much need for the walls, now, but the citizens seem to like keeping them around.

“Business,” says one PHL man, holding an M4.

“FBI,” Garrett says. “I’m Special Agent Garrett Nichols. I’m here to investigate a person of interest in the Quarantine.”

It unsettles Garrett sometimes just how much power the PHL has. They can just… take towns. Just like that. The conspiracy theorists he’s had to investigate, the HLF and militia units he’s had to take down…

He does get it. But on the other hand, he’s fine with it.

“Dew Glow, huh?” says another guard with a short combat shotgun.

Garrett doesn’t react.

“Yeah,” says Combat Shotgun Guy. “Dew Glow.”

Garrett has neither confirmed nor denied that, but apparently that’s enough for these people.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Cloudwatcher asks.

“What would it do?” Garrett asks as his car coasts down the main street of the town, towards the building where a farmer by the name of Bryan Emslie has an office. “I deny it and make a bold faced lie, or confirm it and make things worse. Best not to say anything.”

He looks in the mirror. Alawa… does not seem to care, she’s perfectly happy hanging her head out the window.

The main drag of the town is hauntingly empty. Garrett can’t tell if it should look abandoned or not. There’s houses boarded up, a warehouse surrounded by fortifications (not to keep something out, but in) and scars of gunfire and spells against the walls. Buildings are burnt, some seem to be growing plants from the walls, and there’s a hole that clearly used to be a basement. People don’t spend too long in the streets - they keep their heads down. They don’t talk. They’re quiet.

Not much to work with, Garrett thinks as he drives to Emslie’s office. According to various files he dredged up, Bryan Emslie - manager of a local farm - had hired her back in early 2021, on the basis that having a unicorn couldn’t have hurt. Made some basic charms to increase size of vegetables, enchanted them for good luck.

By all accounts, she kept to herself, didn’t drink, always wore human clothes, and seemed guarded. Somehow. Which, in Garrett’s experience, equaled suspicious behavior when locals didn’t like a pony, and sympathetic when they did.

So, with his dog, and Cloudwatcher in tow, Garrett parks the car and walks towards Emslie’s office, a modest upstairs affair overlooking a warehouse. The office has some battle scars from what Garrett assumes is Dew Glow’s escape, but otherwise it seems fairly unchanged from the ‘90s or ‘80s.

“Mr. Emslie?” Cloudwatcher says, trotting in first. “I’m Agent Cloudwatcher. I’m… well, with the FBI. And this is

“...Is that a fucking wolf?!” Emslie asks as soon as he sees Alawa.

“No, that’s Alawa,” Garrett says. “She’s a real sweetheart.”

Alawa responds to this with a toothy grin that Garrett has learned from experience is friendly, but the uninitiated aren’t so sure about.

“Right,” Emslie says.

“Her name means Sweetpea in Algonquin,” Garrett volunteers. “Not many people speak it. I certainly don’t, but I heard the name somewhere and thought it was a good name. She responds to both Sweetpea and Alawa, though.”

“Are… are you Algonquin?” Emslie asked, trying and failing to take his eyes off the large dog that has taken up residence on his office couch.

“Nah,” Garrett says.

It is at this point that Cloudwatcher makes a valiant effort to put things back on track, as Garrett seems to be doing his level best to throw Emslie off-balance. Which is normally fine - according to Garrett’s colleagues and supervisors, this has worked wonders - but not in this case.

Because I’m told that Cloudwatcher didn’t see it as all too necessary.

“We’re here about Dew Glow,” she said, trying to put on a calm facade. “Anything you can tell us about her?”

“Dew Glow,” Emslie says. He seems to have aged years since the file photo that Garrett saw. “Look, most people in town act like she’s the Antichrist. After Celestia she’s about the second most hated mare in here, but…”

He sighs.

“You know how small towns are,” Emslie says. ““Everyone’s your best friend till it’s time to stab you in the back. It’s why I miss living over in Boise. You know?”

Cloudwatcher nods. “A bit too well.”

“Where were you from, anyway?” Emslie asks. “I… think I recognize your accent.”

“Appleoosa,” Cloudwatcher says. “Moved there because there was a posting for a weather team, and when the War started, the Apples ended up…”

“At each other’s throats?” Emslie says. “Ready to brawl at the drop of a hat, but somehow afraid to say anything?”

Cloudwatcher nods. “It’s why I had to go to Earth.”

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Emslie says, “How do ponies escape Equestria? I mean, the portal network is tightly controlled, and-”

“I can almost relate,” Garrett adds.

“You?” Emslie says, with a chuckle. “That’s a laugh. Anyway. You didn’t hear this from me, but… I think there’s more to it than her being an agent. In fact, I don’t think she was an agent at all.”

“An interesting hypothesis,” Garrett says.

Emslie narrows his eyes, staring at Garrett. Who is petting his massive bluish-blackish-grayish dog, so the glare falls flat.

“I mean it,” Garrett says. “It is genuinely interesting. I’d like to hear why?”

“So, she was hiding in a farm town in the middle of nowhere,” Emslie says. “Tell me - what exactly is the end goal of that?”

“Gathering information,” Garrett says. “Or possibly serving as a sleeper agent? At least, that was what I’d assume.”

“It doesn’t make much sense, though,” Emslie says. “She was sitting here for a year. Until last night no attacks, no nothing. She just seemed like she wanted to be left alone and keep working.”

“Do you know anything about where she came from?” Garrett asks.

“She never said anything specific,” Emslie says. “I know she came from the East. I know she was in the Europe Evacuation. And I know she had a, ah…”

He snaps his fingers.

“What’s the pony version of a British accent?” he asks, confused.

“Trottingham,” Cloudwatcher supplies.

“Yeah,” Emslie said. “She had a slight one of those.”

“So we have someone hiding her identity, with a British accent, lying low,” Garrett says. “Obviously, trying to hide from something. The obvious answer is that she was PER, but…”

“I’m not sure she was PER,” Cloudwatcher says.

“Then why would she be rescued by them?” Garrett asks.

Emslie and Cloudwatcher look at him.

“They see a pony running from an angry mob of humans, what else would they do?” Emslie asks.

“I suppose that makes sense,” Garrett says. “To reiterate. Neither of you seem to think she was PER. Again, it’s a logical answer, but it feels too… almost, too open-and-shut.”

He pauses. Strokes Alawa’s head. She yawns slightly and licks him.

“For an FBI agent, you seem pretty fixed on her being PER,” Cloudwatcher says.

“I don’t presuppose that she is,” Garrett says. “But all the same. It won’t surprise me. If the evidence contradicts me, then so be it.”

“Right,” Emslie says. “Look, I went through her personal belongings. What little she didn’t burn, anyway. There was information, yeah, but… meaningless stuff. On Birmingham.”

“Alabama?” Garrett asks.

“It’s hard to tell with how badly it was burned,” Emslie says. “I… I have it in a secure locker, I can get it to you if need be.”

So they head to Emslie’s house, and down into his basement - most of which is taken up by an enormous model train set. Alawa is sniffing it, intrigued.

“Impressive,” Garrett says. “You really went all out with this display.”

“I figure, basements get filled up with junk anyway,” Emslie says. “Why not put in stuff I’d actually enjoy? You have a ski area-” he points to a mountain. “-A few towns, a port, even a logging railroad!”

Garrett nods. “It is an amazing display. I’ve worked to make one out of Legos before.”

“Why Legos?” Emslie asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not Legos?” Garrett says. “Besides. I like the challenge. I like the feeling of piecing it all together, and then suddenly having it all make sen-”

“That’s a surprise,” Cloudwatcher says. “Now, where is-”

Emslie points to a file cabinet, down a set of stairs about a foot high, next to a control panel. Wordlessly, he walks up…

And pulls out a sheaf of burned, rumpled, and otherwise wrinkled papers.

“These were what I managed to take from a little hideaway I found burning before she made her escape,” Emslie says. “You need any help looking them through, just ask.”

So they read it.

It takes a while, and sometimes Garrett gets bored and watches the model train display on the other side of the room, marveling at a tiny streamlined silvery locomotive that travels through minuscule woods, over bridges, and passes through small towns.

“She’s spelled a lot of things in British English,” Garrett says. “Cloudwatcher. Do they do that in Trottingham?”

“Not that I know of,” Cloudwatcher says. “A Griffin might, but all ponies seem to use the American version. Because, y’know, Bowman’s third divergence theory or something.”

“Interesting,” Garrett says, nodding… and then promptly looking over at the silvery locomotive. “Wow. A streamlined Hudson near a narrow gauge railroad. With a Shay. How fun!”

Cloudwatcher shakes her head. “Do you have any photos with her?” she asks.

“I can pull some up on my phone,” Emslie says. “Just a moment…”

“Emslie,” Garrett says. “Did you know that she was incredibly interested in early ponifications?”

Emslie nods.

“She has several articles about the first ponifications in a city,” Garrett says, looking down. “Birmingham, England. Not Alabama. First ponification there would be, ah…”

He types something out on his Android phone.

“Hope Sullivan,” Garrett says. “Riddled with cancer, of… wow. It did that? If my daughter had that, I’d almost consider it too. But then, I suppose she’d tell me no. And she’s not into horses anymore. She prefers Kubrow. She’s inseparable from that plushie that Craddock and I got her after Tennocon.”

“What’s a Kubrow?” Emslie asks.

“Wait, you have a daughter?!” Cloudwatcher asks. “Did you… did you adopt her?”

“No, I fucked Craddock’s sister,” Garrett says.

Cloudwatcher guffaws. “Oh, that’s a great one, Garrett! You-”

She sees that the look on Garrett’s face is unchanged.

“You,” Cloudwatcher says. “You. His sister. A child.”

“Is it really so unbelievable?” Garrett asks.

“Honestly, yes,” Emslie says.

“Emslie I understand, but how did you not notice until now?” Garrett asks. “We’ve literally worked together for-”

A troubled look crosses his face.

“Wait. Years. That was years ago. Why would she be interested in early ponification? PER, certainly. PHL Doctors, I understand. There’s one PHL mare, Dr. Bedside Manner, that’s trying to study them, but it doesn’t make sense for a mare trying to lay low if we operate on the assumption that she’s not PER,” Garrett says. “But, put that aside for a moment… the first newfoal in Birmingham was Hope Sullivan. According to this Wikipedia page, she was a fixture at the Cavalry Club there.”

“Are you saying she’s Hope?” Cloudwatcher asks.

“Certainly not,” Garrett says. “There’s other ponifications here, too. If she was male, I could just as easily suggest her to be…”

“Jazmin Carter?” Cloudwatcher suggests.

Garrett remembers Jazmin Carter. Even before he heard of… her... never truly trusted the potion. No news of testing? Apparently a magical cure-all that worked on everything? No side-effects?

From a medical standpoint, Garrett had just found that laughably improbable. He’d bristled against it, practically devoured casefiles related to it, including a case of non-consensual ponification where charges had just slid off like velcro on a whiteboard. And in spite of, maybe even because of the official position of “there is nothing to be afraid of,” Garrett had fought every step of the way. He’d used what little clout he had to investigate, but there hadn’t been a movement. There’d been some naysayers, some conspiracy theorists, but nothing solid…

Until, of course, Jazmin Carter. Wife of airline worker Michael Carter. Suffering from severe early-onset Alzheimers. Transgender. Took the drink…

...and came out male. Which wasn’t the part that’d set off Michael and his daughter Verity, who were now on the watchlists of what few countries the Barrier hadn’t destroyed. No, that was the fact that… (Garrett’s mind stumbled over pronouns. As it often did.) that she had claimed to be male, that she was happy, and that she was “better” now.

The Carters had taken it as proof positive that the potion did something truly terrible to the mind. There’d been a floodgate of other studies, like the Kraber reports (of plenty of relation to another man on various watchlists) in response.

While there’s hundreds of millions of similar stories, Jazmin Carter sticks out to near-everyone.

“Even now, I could make the claim that she is Amanda Pellick,” Garrett says, picking up a burned scrap of paper.

“And that would be…?” Emslie asks.

“Amanda Pellick was, as far as we know, the last Slow Newfoal,” Garrett says. “Ponified by allegedly rogue PER in the October before the Purple Spring.”

“She noticed that later-strain newfoals were changing quicker,” Cloudwatcher explains. “She was a guest on one of the last episodes of the Kraber Reports, and she determined that the current strain of the Potion isn’t meant to help people but overwrite them. And the one she was doused with - the prewar one - was meant to lull us into a false sense of security.”

“I think I remember that,” Emslie says. “Suicide, right?”

Garrett nods. “Approximately February 19th, 2020. She’d been ponified for roughly one year and four months. Knowing this, it’s incredibly unlikely for Hope to be the same as this newfoal agent who went by the name of Dew Glow. She would have to be a newfoal for nearly five years. Nigh impossible.”

He looks to Emslie.

“You’re suggesting she’s a newfoal, though,” Emslie says, just catching up to Garrett’s train of thought, which is an express that blows through station after station. “Don’t tell m… God, don’t tell me she... I ate food she made at the local farmer’s market, you can’t possibly-”

“Oh, no,” Garrett says. “The idea of early newfoals being toxic and oozing potion is largely-”

“Wait, what do you mean largely?” Emslie asks.

“-a myth,” Garrett continues, ignoring the interruption. “Besides, odds are unlikely in the extreme that she’s-”

“But she… she couldn’t be a newfoal,” Emslie says. “She just. She couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Cloudwatcher asks.

“Because she couldn’t,” Emslie says. “Look, this…”

He scrolls through more photos.

“Look at her,” Emslie says. “She looks… she looks sad. Then happy when I tell her the good news about how much the farm made. And, ah…” he sighs. “I don’t have photos of everything, but she just. She didn’t act like a newfoal. She couldn’t be. She laughed, she cried, she looked sad when I asked her about her family, she looked terrified when I told her about the irregularities with her ERC. Newfoals don’t… they… they can’t, she, she can’t, she couldn’t have…”

“I’m sorry,” Cloudwatcher says, fluttering up to eye level and placing one foreleg on his shoulder. “It’s clear you cared about her a lot.”

“She was indispensable,” Emslie says. “A unicorn? To make earth pony supercrops even bigger, even healthier? I loved having her around. And, she just…”

He looks over to Cloudwatcher.

“I can accept that she was hiding something,” Emslie says, “But not that she was a newfoal. Where do you even get off suggesting slander like that, Agent Nichols?”

Garrett is unfazed. “It’s only a hypothesis. I just… need to collect more evidence. Explore it. Did Dew Glow wear pants?”

“Pretty frequently,” Emslie says, eyes narrowed as he stares up at Garrett, who is roughly 8 inches taller than him.

“Cloudwatcher,” Garrett says. “I’ve heard that ponies can rarely hide their cutie marks well, unless they’re using clothing. Do you have any photos of her without pants?”

Emslie glares at him.

“Not like that!” Garrett sighs.

“What are you…” Cloudwatcher says, as Emslie pulls up several photos of Dew Glow, wearing a shirt, but no pants.

“She had a bad fur day,” Emslie says, scrolling past one with Hope’s fur and mane mussed.

“But… bad fur days don’t affect cutie marks like that,” Cloudwatcher says. “Look, the pattern of a Cutie Mark is nigh-impossible to hide. And yet, it looks… rumpled. Cutie Marks resist that. And...”

She looks at the photo.

“It’s… there’s a blank spot. Down part of her mark,” Cloudwatcher says. “That’s impossible.”

“Why?” Garrett asks.

“I don’t know,” Cloudwatcher says, both forelegs out in a w-shape, in a pony shrug. “I think… it’s… I think they self-correct?”

“That’s extremely bizarre. And my hypothesis? It’s only a gut feeling,” Garrett admits. “But the cutie mark anomalies, the clippings about newfoals… the news piece about Slow Newfoals… and her resemblance to Hope… I’m beginning to suspect it.”

“It sounds impossible,” Cloudwatcher says. “But you may be on to something.”

“Are you crazy?“ Emslie asks.

“The possibility has been floated before,” Garrett says. “But no. I certainly hope not. If a newfoal this clever has been alive this long, then… then Dew Glow is dangerous. In the extreme.”

“I’m not sure I believe that,” Emslie says. “Look. I know you’re dead set on her being a newfoal. And PER. But if you catch her, just… one thing.”

Garrett is impassive.

“Promise me you’ll try to get a straight answer out of her before you do whatever it is you do,” Emslie says. “If she could’ve done any PER things, she would’ve done them long ago. It’s near a compulsion for PER, right?”

Garrett nods.

Then Cloudwatcher speaks.

“If it helps, I’m not entirely sure she’s PER,” Cloudwatcher says. “Like I said, inconsistency.”

“There’s enough irregularities in the profile I’m building of her that it’s certainly possible,” Garrett admits. “She’s only a pony of interest… who, it seems, is becoming as intriguing a mystery as the actual case. If she’s a criminal, if the facts are against her, so be it.”

“Agent Nichols is only after her because she’s our best lead,” Cloudwatcher says, trying to deflect from his impersonal analysis. “Besides, what few newfoals seclude themselves-”

She glares up at Garrett. He doesn't seem to notice. But then, it’s hard to tell with Garrett if he notices everything or nothing it all.

Emslie nods back.

“Usually they gather with others in places like Bellweather,” Cloudwatcher continues.

“What’s-” Emslie starts.

“Not important,” Garrett says, and there is some steel in his voice. Which is more emotion from him than most people see in weeks or even months. A look of what could be either fear or sickness crosses his face. “I insist. If you ask, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you and move on.”

Cloudwatcher gives him a confused look, but decides it’s best not to press the issue. “Alright. What do we do if we find her?”

“Make her feel comfortable,” Emslie says. “She always craved safety. Mare of habit, too. Visited the same coffee place every day, only changed it up one or two or three times. Don’t do anything sudden, and do not suggest that she’s in danger from you.”

“Fits with my profile,” Garrett says. “Like my mentor once said, you have to give in order to get. Excellent, Mr. Emslie. You’ve been a great help.”

“Will you do it, though?” Emslie asks.

Cloudwatcher says it before Garrett can reply.

“Absolutely,” she says.

05: The Passenger

Slow Mutants

The Passenger

Get into the car
We'll be the passenger
We'll ride through the city tonight
See the city's ripped backsides
We'll see the bright and hollow sky
We'll see the stars that shine so bright
The sky was made for us tonight
The Passenger, Iggy Pop

Night

Somewhere in Washington State?

Or Oregon?

I don't even know anymore

I’ve been keeping to the woods for the past couple days, and, going by some of the landmarks I’ve seen, the few signs I’ve found when I got too close to a road, I’m near Yakima. I’ve had to eat grass. I don’t mind… much. I’ve had to eat grass before.

It’s not good, and it makes me feel almost like I could become one of the Ferals any day now, but… what can you do?

I’m enjoying a rare sense of certainty here, even without knowing in which exact State this is all happening.

I can’t exactly walk all the way. I need a way out. The most logical thing to do is find a train. It’s not like I can afford airfare without tons of ID that I simply do not have.

But then, where’s a train station?

My best guess was going to be Seattle, but Yakima’s closer. And I…

My stomach growls.

I’m feeling really hungry right about now.

Thankfully, there’s a meadow not too far away.

It’s not the first time I’ve eaten grass, you know? But… it doesn’t mean I like to. I’d prefer vegetarian dishes or something, maybe meat. It doesn’t go down well, but I can do it.

But I’m just.

So.

Hungry.

I stagger into the open field. And I start eating. It’s scrubby, tall, thin, and tastes incredibly chalky, but… Well, it’s something. Somehow, it’s even worse than the fields I’ve eaten from. I hate it.

Sitting here, chewing on this scrubby not-quite-desert grass, something hits me.

‘This is stupid.’

It can’t be!

But–

‘But I’m just going to what, cross the country? By myself? Darn it.’

Even if I gallop as fast as possible, which is somewhere near twenty kilometres per hour, that doesn’t change the fact that America is big. Bigger than anything from back home in Britain. Getting there could take…. Okay, not years, but… months. Uncomfortably close to a whole year.

Maybe I could last that long without becoming a full Newfoal. But…

The simple fact is, I don’t want to rely on that. I haven’t been able to rely on staying sane this long. Whoever this man is–

‘Wait.’

Suddenly, getting up feels much harder.

‘What was my plan again?’

I think it over.

‘A man allied with ponies and opposed to the Empire. But not PHL. In the east.’

I… I feel like that should be a hint. But I just… I don’t know. I know so little about it! And here I am, alone. In the middle of Washington State. Or Oregon? Eh, probably Washington. It all just seems so insurmountable, and it almost makes me miss being with Shieldwall.

In my nice, comfy bed, happy, safe, with something to do. It could only be better than being alone in a field and then dying in an unmarked grave thanks to the HLF. Or worse, going Feral–

I shake my head.

No. I’m not doing that. Like hell I’m doing that!

I have to go. I have to go now. So, I keep trotting through the field. I need to find somewhere to rest, though.

‘Every journey begins with a single step,’ I tell myself.

Which shouldbe profound, but it’s actually something I remember from a fortune cookie. I was so confused when I got a fortune cookie with advice instead of an actual fortu–

It is at that moment that Chandler’s Law strikes with a metallic click.

‘Oh, no.’

I can’t recognize the model and I seriously doubt that anyone is so good with weaponry that they could immediately recognize what kind of gun has been pulled on them, just based on the sound. But that is definitely a gun, and it has definitely been pulled on me. Close enough.

‘Someone is nearby.’

I freeze like a deer in the headlights for a second.

‘Oh no oh no oh no–’

And yet, heh, deer… I’ve met some very special deer...

Trying to stay as silent as possible, I trot away from the voice. I can’t let them find me. Can’t let see me.

Something rustles in the bushes. I’m trying to stay quiet. Trying not to be noticed as I make my escape.

‘You can’t trust humans,’a voice whispers to me. ‘They’ll kill you. Like they always will, like they always have, like this is why you should give in and no no stop, stop bucking STOP–’

I trot four inches. It feels like a mile.

Suddenly, there is a ghastly noise, ringing in my ear, and everything is illuminated like the middle of the day in a plume of fire.

‘He shot at me,’I marvel.

“That!” a woman yells, “was a warning shot! I know you ain’t no deer, wolf, coyote, whatever. No sudden movements with your hooves, no magic, or I shoot you where you stand!”

Everything’s bright again. For a moment, I panic. Has he shot me again? Am I dead? But, no. It’s just a flashlight.

“Walk towards the light so I can see you,” the woman says. “But hey, run away or attack me like an idiot if you want. No skin off my back.”

She laughs, uncertain. And I have a single clear thought.

‘I can use that.’

It’d be easy. It might even mean I survive the night. But… maybe it wouldn’t? And besides. It just wouldn’t be right.

This sort of thing has happened to me so often that I know exactly what to do.

I walk up on all fours, looking down so she can see my horn plainly. Through the flashlight I can just barely see the person threatening me. They’re… well, they look like they’d barely be older than me before I ponified. Back when I was…

How old was that?

She’s got dark hair, and she’s about 176cm tall. She’s holding a cheap-looking pump-action shotgun with a flashlight attached. Weirdly, it doesn’t look like it has an ejection port on either side.

“Slowly,” she says.

I am going slowly, but it never ends well to argue with the person holding a gun to you. I’ve seen it.

“Alright,” the woman says. “Stop.”

I see her looking me over.

“Callie!” someone says. “I heard shots, what’s going o–”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a dark-skinned man who also has deep black hair, along with a well-trimmed beard, sunglasses, and a baseball cap. He’s also carrying that American rifle. An M4 or M16. I forget which. It’s also got a flashlight, but he hasn’t turned it on.

“Oh,” he says. “You found a pony.”

“Yeah, Dimitri,” ‘Callie’ says. “Way to point out the obvious.”

‘This is it,’ I’m thinking. ‘I’m dead.’

Dimitri looks me over. “Looks like a unicorn, y’know? Yellow fur, kind of a red mane, and…”

His voice dies in his throat.

“Ohhhhh, shit,” he says.

‘Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. HE FOUND IT!’

“Dimitri…” Callie says. “What are you-”

“She has no mark,” Dimitri says, his voice hard. “How about–”

“HLF unmarked me!” I practically scream, like someone who has just suffered a concussion and has only just now remembered the date after panicking. “They, ah… Look, I was held by some bad people not long ago, they, they tortured me, they cut off my marks, and everyone thinks I’m a Newfoal because of it so I’m out here cold and hungry and I’m gonna die, just as I found it out, and I’m dead, I’m so d–”

Dimitri stares at me, a look of concern on his face. He nods. “Damn. I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “Look, I’m staying at Callie’s house for the night. We can get you some food, she has this great cor–”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Callie says. “Unmarking leaves a U-shaped scar.”

She looks over at me.

“And hers are blank like a foal’s,” she continues. “A very young one. And, well, ‘young’ can also mean new.”

She sounds almost like she’s gloating. She shoulders the shotgun and points it at my face. Dimitri staggers back, gasping.

“You could almost say they’re blank like,” she says, “a new foal’s.”

“Wait!” I protest, rearing up, both forelegs held out. “Just… just let me explain.”

“Why?” Callie asks.

My mind races. I can’t overpower them. I can’t run away. I can’t teleport. Okay, maybe I can teleport, but I can’t rely on it. So I can’t teleport.

“I…” I start. “Both of you have me at gunpoint. I’m pretty much fff…”

I try to hiss the word.

It doesn’t come.

“Frigged,” I finish. Not what I hoped for, but close enough.

Dimitri looks at me. His assault rifle doesn’t budge, but he looks less… less something. Less ready.

“Continue,” he says. There doesn’t seemto be emotion in his voice, even though I feel like there should be.

“Look,” I say, staring at Callie’s flashlight, even though the shotgun has moved. Or… no. Calliehas. I can almost reach out and touch the barrel. “I… got unlucky. Some PER hit me with a vial of slow potion not long ago.”

“Walking dead,” Callie says, no emotion in her voice. “Nasty.”

“So why didn’t you start with that,” Dimitri says, a forced calmness in his voice. He doesn’t make it sound like a question.

“Hey, everyone!” I say. If every ounce of the venom I put into this sentence could kill, the two of them would be melting on the ground. “I’m the pondscum of the war, and everyone sees me as a borderline Typhoid Mary! I need help, despite the fact that most of us are literally programmed to ponify you or kill you however possible!”

Callie just stares at me, face unreadable.

“Okay,” Dimitri says. “You… raise a good point. How long?”

I don’t know what she means here. How long have I got? How long has it been?

So I tell them the most convincing thing I can.

“It wasn’t that long ago,” I say. “During that PER attack in Quincy. I… they got me. Dragged me into that base. I managed to escape, barely.”

“So…” Callie says.

“So I…” I start. “I need somewhere to stay for the night. So I can get on my way.”

“And that would be to?” Callie asks. The gun is ever so slightly lower.

“I know it’s probably impossible, but…” I say. The words catch in my throat. “Something rescued me. Told me that there was… someone in the east. That they could help.”

“Help how?” Dimitri asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Slow it? Reverse it? I just…”

I feel my cheeks burning.

“I want to go back,” I say. “God, oh Jesus, oh God, I want to go back, I want to be me again, I just want to be me again! I miss my mom, I miss my dad, I just… want… stop! Just Dear God, make it stop!”

I can feel my eyes watering too. Everything hits me in a torrent of emotion.

“...We’re taking her in for the night,” Dimitri says.

“Are you crazy?!” Callie asks.

Dimitri walks over to me, and places both hands under me. I feel myself lifting, inch by inch. He’s… Good Lord, he’s strong..

I can’t see everything he does next – angles, you know – but I am certain he is staring at Callie as he does it. I am certain he is giving her a flat stare.

“Stop me,” he says flatly.

“Hey!” Callie yells. “Look, she’s a Newfoal, she’s dangerous, she’s…”

But she does not move.

I don’t know how long we walk.

“It’s mostly built from converted shipping container,” Dimitri says, as he points to a nearby house. “Callie’s family didn’t have the money for…”

“Wait,” Callie says, and chuckles slightly. “I had money? When did that happen?”

“The struggle’s real,” Dimitri says as we head through the scrubby grass. Towards a scrabbly dirt road.

I look down, and see the silhouette of a house. Oddly boxy house, too. It’s lit by glowing blue algae-lamps. They’re a PHL innovation, made in part by some earthpony engineer. Expensive, but there’s no battery, no electricity costs. There’s concerns about magic, about maybe getting the Rot from it, but I’ve never believed that magic can get you sick.

Then again, it’s not like I’ve known enough humans long enough to tell.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask. “What… what makes you–”

“You looked like you needed help,” Dimitri says. “Just watch out for Kenshiro, though,” he adds as he sets me down in the spare room.

“Who’s Kenshiro?” I ask.

“You’ll find out in the morning,” Dimitri says. “What’s your name, anyway?”

I think about it.

“Hope,” I say. “My name is Hope.”

That Next Morning

“MRMPHLPHLRPHRM!”

I pull myself out from the mass of fur and muscle that has just jumped on me. I can see it has a wide bear-like face, pointy ears, is colored kind of dark...

“Why do you have a bear in here?!” I hiss.

“...That’s Kenshiro,” Dimitri says. “Say ‘aroo,’ Kenshiro!”

Kenshiro makes a noise that is not quite a howl or a bark or a growl. It’s sort of like a “Gruwr.” And I see that Kenshiro is a very large, rather tawny… husky? He is so large, in fact, that he is actually bigger than me.

“Where do you even get a husky this big?!” I yell, as Kenshiro lays his head on my barrel.

“He’s a malamute,” Dimitri shrugs. “And he’s from Thailand.”

I stare at him. “Wha… wait. Really? Why do they have giant malamutes in Thailand?”

“No idea,” Dimitri says. “Life is just funny sometimes.”

I don’t know what to make of Dimitri. There’s just… this feeling that he follows his own logic, except now and then he’ll say something like that.

“...So,” I say, trying not to think too hard about the inexplicably Thai malamute that thinks I am the best pillow ever. “Now what?”

“What do you mean?” Dimitri asks. He sits on the bed, running fingers through Kenshiro’s fur.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say. “I was going to just head out and-”

“There’s something we’ve gotta do first,” Dimitri says. “It’s very important.”

I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe, people. None of which, mind, were attack ships off the shoulder of Orion. But I have seen bits of spillover from Equus to Earth – plants and animals that have found a new ecosystem. Poison Joke growing here and there, for example.

There’s something about that last part that bothers me. How do I know it’s Poison Joke?

I’ve seen cannibalism. I’ve seen people throw children to ponification or to the Barrier just for the chance to escape. I’ve seen a squad of dedicated earthpony geomancers turn a hill into a golem and watched it rip through human defenses until someone sniped through them. I’ve seen footage of the Crucible. The flooding of Venice. I was in Cyprus when Viktor Kraber shot Heliotrope. I was there when he nearly captured Pinkie Pie. I’ve seen the Elements in battle. I survived the whole of the Purple Winter.

And yet I am completely unprepared for the important task that Dimitri’s persuaded me to stay and undertake. Something completely outside my frame of reference.

A family breakfast in Callie’s home.

There’s Dimitri, sitting over at one end of the table next to Kenshiro... who sits in a chair at the table, eating some waffles and sausage off of his plate. Nobody seems to think there is anything odd about this.

Callie sits next to a tall, well-built, man with a slight tan, dark brown hair, sunglasses, and a black stetson. He likes like a Lemmy cosplayer. Next to them are two kids, a boy and a girl.

“It’s good to see the other Indian around,” the tanned man says.

“...Dimitri’s Indian?” I ask. “What tribe?”

It’s at this point that Dimitri and Tom solemnly look at each other and burst into laughter.

Callie just groans, burying her face in her hands…. Even though she is clearly trying not to laugh too. “Can’t we just let that die?”

“I’m going to go with noooo,” ‘Tom’ says.

“Wait,” I say, holding up my forelegs. “What happened?”

“It’s sort of a college joke, y’know?” Dimitri asks. “Mom kept pestering me to go to the Indian support group, and…”

“Well, I ended up there,” Tom says. “The look on his face–”

“Tom,” Callie says.

“No, no, he’s right,” Dimitri says. “You know what they say. Comedy is tragedy plus time.”

And suddenly it makes much more sense. “Ohhh, I get it! You’re–”

“Punjabi, yes,” Dimitri says, pushing Kenshiro away from his plate. “Ken… Ken, no, you already had breakfast!”

Ken makes sort of a whine-growl that makes it absolutely clear he does not believe it has been ‘enough breakfast’.

“So,” Tom asks, “Hope, is it?”

My fur stands up. My eyes dart all over the room.

“I... “ I start. “Yes. Yes I am.”

“Friend of D’s, huh?” Tom asks. “How long have you known each other?”

“I’m… I might be able to help you out. I’m on the trail of something interesting.”

“What are you?” I ask. “Detective? PHL?”

“No,” Dimitri says. “I’m… a podcast journalist. I investigate weird stories from all over the country, usually around the Pacific Northwest.”

I snort. “Like Bigfoot?”

“Nah. Not Bigfoot,” Dimitri says, shaking his head. “Besides, Bigfoots dissolve into swarms of butterflies when they die, which is why nobody’s ever seen a Bigfoot corpse. It’s just common sense.”

“I can’t tell if you’re kidding,” I say.

“No, it makes perfect sense,” Tom says.

“Except for the fact that it’s a Seatco, not Bigfoot or whatever,” Callie says. “Honestly.”

“So,” I ask, “What are you looking for?”

“I’m going to find,” Dimitri says, “the last of the Ambassadors.”

You could hear a pin drop. Tom, Callie, those two ~~foals~~ kids are openmouthed. A piece of sausage drops from Tom’s fork, onto the floor. Even Kenshiro seems a little surprised, momentarily looking at me with no small amount of confusion.

“This,” Dimitri says wryly, “Is the part where you say ‘the Ambassadors are a myth’ or something, and I say–”

“Hell, D,” Tom says. “We all know they’re not a myth! But them surviving this long? They’d have to be dead now, or catatonic.”

“That’s what they said about Amanda Pellick,” Dimitri says. “And yet. Here we are.”

The rest of breakfast was a blur, but here I am – showered, shampoo’d, washed up, and ready to leave the reservation.

I’m still thinking it over. The Ambassadors. I thought they were all dead. To be perfectly honest, I’d hoped they were. And sometimes I’d even hoped they’d gone painfully.

“The Ambassadors,” I say, as Kenshiro and I move in to the back of Dimitri’s truck. Kenshiro comfortably sits on a mattress in the back half of it.

I have to admit. I’m… honestly surprised at how he’s modified the truck. The back half is now a small cabin

I cannot tell you what emotion I am expressing at this moment.

“Yeah,” Dimitri says. “Exactly.”

In the days where Equestria had only just collided with our world, there’d been a lot of experiments to establish contact, to let us see ~~the wonders of~~ Equestria. There were suits lined with an anti-thaumic material which allegedly corroded too fast, there were magic bubbles that failed for obvious reasons…

… And, not long after they developed the Drink, they came up with a temporary potion. It’d let you spend a short period of time as a pony. A few ~~hoof-picked~~ specially chosen humans would take it, visit Equestria, and come back with incredible tales of magic, wonder, and peace in the wake of the only continent-spanning war in close to a thousand years.

And then they’d become human again. This is where, apparently, the story gets murky. Out of thirty-six Ambassadors, thirteen re-ponified, nine were killed by angry mobs, six suffered bizarre and inexplicable fates such as finding small holes disappearing from their body whenever they went to sleep, spontaneous combustion, and giving birth to a Newfoal, while one was inexplicably killed by a falling goat. The remaining seven vanished entirely, with no explanation.

“So,” I say, “If this doesn’t get us anywhere-”

“Don’t look at it like that,” Dimitri interrupts, as the truck rumbles along a road that I’d swear is dirt, but no, it’s just that poorly-maintained.

“Why?” I ask.

“Well, to quote Dostoevsky,” Dimitri says, “To live without Hope is to cease to live.”

I snort. “Dude.”

Dimitri takes his eyes off the road for a second, and looks at me.

“Alright, fine,” he says. “Bad joke.”

We sit for a few more minutes or hours on the road. We are, of course, listening to a podcast, something from the audio drama boom about five years back. I miss being able to use touchscreens. I’ve heard some ponies can do it, but there’s a number of reasons I haven’t been around any who can provide instruction.

“You know,” Dimitri says, “I’ve been thinking. About your story.”

“What?!” I ask. Old survival instincts kick in. I’m trying to come up with a way to survive opening the door and jumping out.

Any second now.

“Who… actually told you that there was someone in the East that could help?” Dimitri asks. “Because that’s… pretty vague.”

I shrug in the W shape that most ponies can do. “It’s all I can go on.”

“Well,” Dimitri says, “‘East’ is pretty vague. There’s only… maybe three, maybe four candidates I can think of for what they’d mean.”

I nod. “Go on…”

“First is Daniel Romero,” Dimitri says. “He’s… conducting some kind of research on Newfoals, off the coast of Maine.”

I nod. Of course I’ve heard of Daniel Romero. HLF man from the Spader side of the Split, who’s been called a pirate by some, even has a Thunderchild-class ship anchored off the coast of Maine. It’s rumored that he has more, but that seems… questionable. I’m really hoping it doesn’t mean I have to go that far.

“What kind of research?” I ask.

“Interviewed him once,” Dimitri says. “Says he’s looking for a cure. No word on whether or not he’s going to find one, but he seems to have more faith in it than the PHL.”

It’s impossible not to detect some bitterness in his voice.

“Best way to get to them is probably to find the Reavers,” Dimitri says.

“So, get to the Great Lakes,” I say.

Dimitri nods. “Exactly. There’s also the Bellweather Newfoal Stable Zone in Nebraska, but–”

“You believe that horseapples?” I ask. “That’s not a research facility. It’s a bucking concentration camp.”

Dimitri very clearly wants to argue. Finally, after a minute that feels like an hour, trees rushing past, he says, “It’s a POW camp, and I actually did a report on it. Undercover.”

“Undercover,” I say.

“Well, otherwise, they would’ve lied about it,” Dimitri says. “Or just refused. Either or. But anyway, it does seem legit. They take… Good enough care. And they actually do research on Newfoals. Maybe there’s something to learn, but–”

“Not going there,” I interrupt. “Not if I can help it.”

Dimitri nods. “Fair enough. There’s also a Mystics encampment in the Colorado Rockies.”

We’re silent for a moment. Kenshiro chuffs ever so slightly.

“This is the part where you say ‘those quacks,’” Dimitri says.

The thought occurs that I would have disagreed, would have interrupted, back when I was human. But I… haven’t. I just haven’t.

That bothers me.

“Show me someone who still says stuff like that,” I say, “And I’ll show you someone afraid to get out of the house.”

Dimitri has a good laugh at that.

“Yeah,” he says, when the laughter dies down. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“So what will they do?” I ask.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Dimitri says. “But, well, I’ve heard they go in the same odd directions as Romero’s faction. I’d be surprised if they can’t tell you anything.”

I nod. “That’s fair.”

Another silence.

The car trundles down the road. We’re heading west, now, and we’re passing by a sign that points us to a town named “Peshastin.” It’s a big motorway, and I feel more than a little unsettled being around this many people.

Sure. It’s just people in cars, but this is pretty different from what I expect.

“We’re heading up north,” Dimitri says, “Near Bedal.”

“So,” I say, “What’s the plan with this Ambassador when we get there?”

“My plan is that I capture them, and submit them for research,” Dimitri says. “There’s a PHL facility in Seattle.”

“And then?” I ask. “Like… what’s the scientific basis here?”

“There’s…. There has to be something,” Dimitri says. “It’s DNA that’s changed from human to pony and back. If they can synthesize something from his blood, or perform tests on him, or…”

“So,” I say, “You’re running on comic book science.”

I regret it the minute the words come out of my mouth. I’m not trying to be a… an… as… I’m not trying to be as...s… as insensitive as I sound. I’m just feeling very tired of things like that. During the Bad Old Days, I saw plenty of people trying every method to get Newfoals back to normal. Specially-treated serum, rituals that involved surrounding someone with artifacts of their past life, spells from regretful ponies meant to look into a Newfoal’s mind and undo some of the mental blocks placed in there.

It was ineffective at best.

At worst…

Well. I don’t want to think about it.

Dimitri glowers at me. “So what if I am?” he asks. “It’s something. It’s my last chance to see Alana again.”

“But you wouldn’t be able to see her anyway, unless–” I start.

The words die in my throat as Dimitri looks at me. And I know for a fact that whoever Alana is, she hasn’t gotten the chance to run away.

“Oh,” I say.

“Yeah,” Dimitri says. “Mom and Dad are proud fucking enstablers.”

‘Enstabler’ is a new one on me. But I get what it means. No matter what people think about ~~us~~ Newfoals, no matter what they know for a fact, there’s always someone who thinks there’s still someone in there.

Weird for me to say, but… Well. As far as I know, I’m the only one left.

“We keep the pony in the barn,” Dimitri says. “Give them some feed. But…”

I stare up to him. “But she’s ponified. Not with the Slow Potion, I’m guessing. So, you have to…”

“Pretend we’re PER,” Dimitri says. “Pretend we’re happy with this. All because we love her. Pretend that I’ll get ponified.”

I stare at him, agape. “Mother of…”

I’m genuinely glad that Dimitri interrupts me, because I don’t know what would have come out of my mouth. In all likelihood I would have said “Mother of Celestia” or something.

“Why do you think I have a truck I can sleep in?” Dimitri asks. “I just. I just can’t be there. Especially knowing that she could be going Feral.”

“You think that’ll happen to her?” I ask. “I sort of hoped that was a myth.”

“You turn people into something barely sentient, something with only a few simple impulses, something that’s an herbivore and herd animal, then just forget about them,” Dimitri says, “It wouldn’t surprise me if they start acting like that.”

He sighed.

“Fucking PER. They’re worse than those PETA assholes who let lab animals go. Yes, free the animals, I get it. But setting lab rats loose isn’t too different from just feeding them to other animals,” Dimitri says. “Neither one knows how to survive unaccompanied. I mean just what the shit do they think they’re going to accomplish?”

“And like that,” I say, “You know why I didn’t want to go to Bellweather.”

“...Ouch,” Dimitri says. “Yeah, I deserved that one.”

“So that’s why you were this willing to help,” I say.

Dimitri nods. “There has to be some way to fix her. Something that doesn’t involve…”

His voice trails off, because there’s nothing more to be said and we both know it.

It’s as we’re crossing the bridge to Leavenworth that I get a sense that Something Is Off.

Traffic outbound is slowing. Before my eyes, someone makes a u-turn and merges into the other lane. I can see sirens.

“What in the…”

Right as we’re passing on to the main drag of Leavenworth, the traffic abruptly stops and we see a heavy knot of cars blocking the street. I can see police, fire trucks and other emergency vehicles here and there. A big flashing sign that says there’s trouble between Leavenworth and Cole’s Corner.

It’s not specific about what.

“...We’re not going that way,” Dimitri says, wondering. Before he sees a coffee place on the other side of a big box store’s parking lot.

Not much happens as he heads off to get some coffee.

I’m hiding in the back, but I overhear it from outside.

“So what is the delay, anyway?” Dimitri asks.

“They said there was a rockslide and bridge is out,” says the woman he’s talking to, “But Harry was up that way, and he said…”

“He said?”

“An Emission.”

There is a pregnant pause. The world stops and centers on those four syllables.

“Those shouldn’t happen this far out here,” Dimitri says, voice hollow.

“Yeah, well,” the woman says, “It did. About seven miles up, in the middle of nowhere.”

“...Shit,” Dimitri says, before clambering back in. “I brought coffee.”

“There’s three,” I say, “And one of them is just whipped cream.”

“That’s for Ken,” Dimitri says, as he pokes his head over mine, subsuming me with the massive weight of fluff.

“...Okay,” I say, as Ken gets into the backseat. Dimitri passes me some iced coffee.

The detour’s taken what feels like hours, and we’re listening to a podcast about the ERP when we finally…

I want to say smell it. Or see it. Or hear it. But somehow none of these seem to fit. We’re passing by a hill and suddenly, there it is in this valley.

The sky is a greenish-blue that reminds me of copper, and clouds so thick they look almost like solid objects hover over the mountains. Rainbow-colored lightning lances across it.

I can see things floating. Lightning strikes, and the ground splashes up like water and stays there unexpectedly.

These are, of course, just the aftereffects of an Emission. During one, the earth shakes, the clouds go red, trees warp, everything turns in on itself as wild magic that’s leaked from behind the Barrier rushes through the land.

The earth is warped, twisted into spirals as we drive through. Plants have experienced sudden explosive growth, either exploding or suddenly becoming ridiculously, massively oversized. Some of them even seem crystalline.

It’s pretty sobering to see. Even if humans get their victory, even if Equestria up and leaves… I don’t know if Emissions are going to go away. And I’m sure as Tartarus not going Away if Equestria does. No matter what.

Things will never be the same for ~~us~~ them, and I know it.

“...Shit,” Dimitri says. “Do you think…”

He’s about to ask if I think anyone was caught inside.

“I think we’re better off not thinking about that,” I say.

People caught in Emissions… well, sometimes they die. Sometimes they don’t. There’s PHL facilities that are around to quarantine people who get caught in them, too.

“What the Tartarus is that even doing this far away from the Barrier, anyway?” I ask. I saw an Emission catch one of the Last Ships once – it turned it into a half-molten mass of metal that looked somewhere between a tree and molten wax.

“Nothing good,” Dimitri said, the truck slowly trundling down the road.

“So,” I say, “You mentioned an Ambassador. What was the plan? Who’s this guy, anyway?”

“He went by the name of Gregory Bradich,” Dimitri says. “Apparently, he was a physicist of some kind. He volunteered to go into Equestria.”

Bradich, according to recent history, took the Flash Potion, a temporary ponification serum developed for short visits to Equestria. Some of the research he brought back from Canterlot, including the reports proving the detrimental health effects of magic on the human body, are still used to this day.

“Oh yeah,” I say. “I’ve heard of him!”

But the problem was: something would never be quite right in Bradich after the potion wore out. Regret for the Purple Winter turned to assuming humanity always had to be in the wrong, and colleagues talked about him experiencing something not entirely unlike a Slow Newfoal losing it…

And then one day during the first days of the War, he just disappeared.

Lots of things disappeared during those first days, and there were more than a few that turned up in Equestria under a different name. Some paintings that were used as spoils of war, some beers and foods that Equestria’s businesses stole…

And Newfoals. Of course.

We all figured that Ambassadors like Bradich would be one of them.

“What makes you so sure it’s him?” I ask.

“I’m not,” Dimitri says. “But, long story short, I have a friend who has access to security cameras-”

“That can’t be legal,” I say.

Dimitri just looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “Hope. You are literally a Slow Newfoal.”

I think about literally every illegal thing I’ve done. It is a very, very, long list. I actually committed burglebezzlement once.

“Okay,” I say. “That is a fair point.”

“See, there’ve been sightings of him the woods up near Skagit,” Dimitri says. “Not enough for the police to act on, but enough to get me curious. I’m going to go up there, and I’m going to find him. I had a friend run a facial recognition script on the cameras in the store where he allegedly showed up, and….”

His voice trailed off.

“It was almost an exact match,” Dimitri says.

“What makes you think you can find him when the police can’t?” I ask.

“Well,” Dimitri says, “I haven’t broadcast it for everyone to see. Who do I look like? Terry Miles? Nic Silver?”

“Well, they’re the same person, aren’t they?” I ask.

Dimitri struggles not to laugh.

“I swear to God,” he says, wheezing slightly, “Did you listen to Leap Year Society? The editors of PNWS must’ve been saying ‘Another one?! Oh come on!’”

“Yeah,” I say, chortling a little, “Like ‘come on, we already have several Illuminati and stuff on our userbase, what even-”

“Fuck, another fucking secret society!” Dimitri interrupts, taking on an absurd Deep South accent, before relapsing into laughs. “We can’t deal with this!”

“There’s too many fucking police reports, the reporters keep on ending up at crime scenes!” I add, and we’re both lau–

Wait.

“You actually swore,” Dimitri says, marveling. “I hope to God you manage to fix it. Because you, Hope… you’re something special.”

Something special.

Yeah.

I’ve heard things like that too many times. Every time somebody discovered I was the Last Slow Newfoal. And it was never reassuring. Shieldwall found out, and he went straight to dissection in seconds. Sugar Spice found out, and then she tried to hand me in to PHL. Then there was that time some people considered eating me.

That was…

Yeah, I’m better off not thinking about that one.

It seems like I can trust Dimitri, but… he can’t know how long I’ve been ponified. That never ends well. He won’t eat me, obviously. It was just the one time.

But I can’t predict how anyone will react. All I know is, it’s never ended well.

It takes Dimitri about two more hours of driving to even consider getting to Skagit, and in the midst of shit-talking (‘YAY, AGAIN!’) podcasts, talking about Bradich, and more, I’m thinking about those last words every second of them.

I’m not going to tell him.

In the next fifteen minutes, something happens. We’re laughing at a podcast Dimitri managed to dig out of the ether, some absolutely hideous King Falls AM ripoff called Maisie Meadows Morning Show–

“Sweet Lord, The Lost Cat was less blatant!” I laugh. Kenshiro is poking his head between us, panting, smiling, making light barks and small howls even though he probably doesn’t understand us.

“Maybe it seems less blatant because it was honest?” Dimitri asks.

“Could be,” I say. “I mean, it wore its Night Vale on its sleeve.”

But even so. I still think, ‘You’re something special, Hope.’ Then, as we’re passing a train, I think about that sentence some more, before I speak.

“So,” I say, “What’s Bradich been doing all this time?”

“I have no fucking idea,” Dimitri says.

“So then why are you so sure that he’ll do anything for this?” I ask.

“Some Ambassadors,” Dimitri said, “Were shown to have a resistance to the normal amount of serum required to ponify someone.”

“The Thirteen sure didn’t,” I say.

“No, actually, some of them did,” Dimitri says. “There was another Ambassador, Yelena Volgin, who, according to the Spetsnaz team that apprehended her, had tried to potion herself three times. She eventually had to jump headfirst into a vat.”

I blink. I had not heard of that.

I must’ve lost some control, because Dimitri nods. “Yeah, I thought so too.”

“Did it work?” I ask.

“Apparently she drowned,” Dimitri says. “But signs of ponification on her body were about fifty percent of what they would’ve been… if someone got hit with a vial. Apparently there was minimal organ damage.”

I whistle. I’m amazed I can do that with the lips of a pony.

“That’s… wow.”

“They haven’t released the body back to her family,” Dimitri says. “According to the russian government, her family doesn’t want it back, but…”

He shrugs.

“And you think Bradich has that too,” I say.

“We haven’t seen a Newfoal crowing about being one of the Ambassadors, or being a physicist,” Dimitri says. “And, well. I got the surveillance, didn’t I?”

‘This,’I think, ‘is definitely something.’

The truck merges onto a highway. Kenshiro pokes his head out between us, panting heavily. He licks behind my ears. This is a very strange experience, having a dog that’s bigger than you. It hasn’t happened to me since I was ~~a child~~ a foal.

And then he goes silent.

Dimitri doesn’t notice. He’s looking at the truck’s dashboard, evidently not in a podcast mood. He’s queuing up a song from Gorillaz, using voice control.

Something doesn’t feel right.

My horn starts throbbing. I look out the window and see a glint of something yellow, and my eyes water.

I hiss slightly. ‘Oh no, no, no, n–’

“Dimitri,” I say, through gritted teeth, my head feeling like it’s been used as a battering ram, “For the love of God, floor it.”

I don’t remember the last time I felt this clear-headed. I have this powerful urge to move, as soon as I can.

“Why? What’s–”

Kenshiro starts barking into both of our faces. Shaking.

“Ken, calm down, what’s–” Dimitri starts.

“Floor it because I am a magical bucking unicorn!” I yell.

Dimitri looks to both of us, concerned, frowning slightly. The speedometer needle eases across the dial, gently, from seventy miles per hour to seventy-five–

The car shakes. I look into the mirror to see a purple flash behind us, the pavement buckling, cars being flung up onto the front bumper. Lightning in all colors arcs through clouds that hadn’t been there three seconds ago, clouds that are spiralling outward like some kind of weird backwards hurricane.

Dimitri doesn’t need to be told twice. The number 75 on the dial becomes 85 becomes 95, and the truck roars down the highway.

Something rattles. The truck feels like it’s going to shake itself apart. Kenshiro barks like crazy. There’s a semi-truck coming up, and I brace for impact. Car crashes are never pleasant.

The world seems to slow down. The car seems to freeze as the trailer gets closer, closer–

Wait. The world isn’t slowing down. Dimitri is.

Dimitri swerves the truck between an Audi and a semi truck that don’t seem to have caught up on what’s happening immediately behind them, moving into the passing lane with milimeters to spare, and then floors it again. 85 jumps to 100 in the space of several seconds, and the truck shoots down the passing lane like a high-caliber bullet.

I look out the window. Cars are rushing off the road, heading towards exits, trying to pick up speed. It’s a mad dash to be out of range of the…

The…

The Emission!

My eyes hurt just looking at it. It’s a bright white sphere of energy that hurts to look at, surrounded by a rainbow spectrum of light. The other lane is in panic, cars moving towards those little cutouts between lanes, going over the median, heading for exits. Those clouds spread overhead, and lightning lances down towards the grass, towards trees, towards anything.

The trees rapidly grow to absurd sizes before my eyes, doubling, tripling, even quadrupling. The road buckles. I feel the car’s rear half lift slightly, before the whole thing crashes back to pavement.

All the while Kenshiro is barking like crazy.

I hear a crash nearby. Two cars have collided, and I think there’s a pileup at our back. It’s pandemonium.

Lightning strikes behind it. I don’t want to think about what happened to everyone behind those two crash victims.

It’s about fifteen minutes later when the pace of the highway seems to get back to normal. When the sky is cloudless again, the sun is shining, and the emission has disappeared almost as soon as it began.

I look through the mirror. Behind me is a landscape of warped and enlarged trees, craters and strange domes that make it look like the ground has bubbled like a mud volcano, and some massive red metal thing.

“Okay,” I say, “One Emission was weird. But two?”

“Yeah,” Dimitri says, “Something is screwy here.”

An Emission this far from the Barrier? Somewhere I know for a fact that there’s PER? Somehow, “screwy” doesn’t even begin to cover it for me.

Dimitri’s hands only stop their death grip on the steering wheel once we pass a sign that reads ‘Newhalem’.

“We’re almost there,” he says, easing off the accelerator and sliding into a gravel parking spot.

Kenshiro is the first out of the truck. He bounds in front of Dimitri, and sits. He very clearly wants to receive pets.

“You okay, boy?” Dimitri asks, running fingers through the enormous malamute’s fur. Mostly so Kenshiro doesn’t feel neglected. Oh, God, he’s got me patting Kenshiro too. It’s strange doing this with hooves. I can feel it, but it’s… muffled. Like hearing other sounds while wearing headphones and having music playing.

Except with touch.

I’m not explaining this very well, am I?

Dimitri heads into the general store. I hang back, hiding between Dimitri’s truck and a baby-blue thing that looks to have survived the entire length of the Cold War.

When he comes back, here’s what he says.

“I managed to get approval for the truck to be put under MagSec so it’ll be here when we get back. They were glad for someone topping off on camping supplies, they haven’t had much busi…”

His voice trails off.

“Aw, piss,” he says.

I don’t even need to say it. Despite the alleged lack of business, there’s plenty of cars everywhere.

Which means…

HLF.

“Well,” Dimitri says. “We’re boned.”

He heads for the truck, shoulders down.

“What?” I ask.

“I said,” Dimitri says, “We’re boned. There’s armed lunatics in these woods. A lot of which probably don’t like a brown person.”

“No,” I say.

“No?”

“No, as in, you heard that there is an Ambassador in these woods,” I say. “No, as in, we did not avoid two Emissions, have me get held at gunpoint, and drive four hours to get here to stop now. No as in, if there is any chance of getting someone with potion resistance or immunity to the science community, I am not letting it slip through my fingerlessness.”

“... Did you just say fingerlessn–” Dimitri starts.

“I absolutely just did, what’re you going to do about it?” I ask. “If there’s an HLF camp in these woods, one on the Yarrow side of the Split, we are going to drive there, and we are going to ask. If there’s someone like Bradich in these woods, they’ll be looking for him already.”

“You were white before you got ponified, weren’t you?” Dimitri asks.

“What does that have to do with it?” I ask.

“You’re so sure we can do this,” Dimitri says. “So sure an Indian guy and a pony can drive up to a bunch of mostly-white armed separatists so committed to not trusting ponies that they still haven’t formally joined with the PHL.”

“It’s also the only idea between us,” I say. “Besides, I said ‘Yarrow’ side.”

“That you did,” Dimitri says, running his hands through his hair. “You’re not wrong, are you.”

“I might be,” I say, “but again. It’s the only idea. And we’ll be heroes if we can bring Bradich in.”

“Alright,” Dimitri says, “Well. You’ve gone and convinced me. You’re just full of bad ideas, aren’t you?”

“What are you–” I ask. I have the sense he is leading up to something.

“How’s about one more? I’m sure you’ve got room,” Dimitri says.

“Dimitri…” I say.

“I’m going to walk back into that store with you,” Dimitri says, “I’m going to see which side the storekeeper’s on. And if she’s on the Yarrow side of the split, I’ll say that I have a shipment of weapons.”

“That,” I say, “Is ridiculous. We’re going to get shot, and we’re going to die now that we’ve done this. This is the most ridiculous bucking plan I’ve ever been part of, and there is no logical way it could ever wor–”

“I literally cannot believe that worked,” I say. The car is trundling over an ancient logging road at about twenty miles per hour.

Apparently, there’s an old logging town that some HLF used as a base nearby. It even comes with a logging railroad, one that the HLF use to save gas when they’re heading to town.

“You sure know a lot about this one,” I say.

“I was honestly kind of surprised that the Olympia Otriad was here,” Dimitri admits. “Had a buddy who joined, but…”

His voice trails off.

“Is he okay?” I ask.

“Well, he said they were okay, but I’d go months without hearing from him after he joined,” Dimitri says. “And this was a guy that used to post memes every ten seconds.”

… I miss having a Facebook account.

The truck comes over a hill, and I see the HLF camp spread out before us. It’s a modest-looking place, compared to bigger ones like Defiance. A few quonset huts, some rough-hewn wooden cabins next to prefabs and shipping containers, and even a train station that has been helpfully marked with a wooden sign carved with an image of a steam locomotive.

There’s just one problem.

“... I don’t see any smoke,” I say. “Or anyone in there.”

Dimitri draws the truck to a stop. “This is as far as we take this thing.”

“Didn’t you want to park it somewhere safe?” I ask.

“I don’t know what could be down there,” Dimitri says. “You, Ken… you stay in the back, there. Keep quiet.”

Kenshiro chuffs slightly. I’m weirdly reminded of a military salute. Either I’m projecting or this dog is very smart.

Dimitri is just about to open the door when-

“Step out of the vehicle, and keep your hands where I can see ‘em,” someone says. “Now.”

I hear the click of several rifles.

At that familiar sound, I try to channel energy into my horn. To make a shield, to throw the truck forwards, I don’t know. But something tells me this is going to go badly.

“Who are you, anyway?” Dimitri asks. He very conspicuously does not move.

“We ask the questions,” another person says. “What’s your business here?”

“I was told the Olympia Otriad was down there,” Dimitri says, pointing towards the curiously silent HLF camp. “I was coming down to conduct an interview.”

“That,” the first man said, “was not the Olympia Otriad. We are.”

“Oh,” Dimitri says. “Oh, shit.”

Then a pause.

“That bitch from the general store lied!”

“Aunt Penny?” says one woman. “Yeah. She’ll do that.”

“Okay,” Dimitri says, “What the hell is going on. And why are you-”

“Again,” the first man says, “That’s not our camp. That belonged to Glanzon’s Gluemakers.”

I’ve heard of them. Apparently a mostly Swiss HLF branch, formed from some of the first people to evacuate the Barrier, uncommonly vicious.

Really, this world is better off without them in it.

“And here they are, dead to a man,” the woman continued. “Aunt Penny was trying to lead you into a trap. But someone sprung one on the Gluemakers already. There’s something in these mountains that wanted them all gone.”

A pause. I hear someone heading for the backdoor of the truck.

I want to become invisible. Because in that moment, I know exactly what is about to happen.

“So you’ll have to excuse us,” the woman says. I hear a crinkling, clicking sound, and I try to hide under the blankets as the door flies open. “For being a bit suspicious of some guy in a truck, hiding a pony in the backseat.”

And all of a sudden there is a Kalashnikov with a strange device mounted alongside the barrelpointed at my face, held by a hard-bitten HLF woman with about six men and women at her back, all armed, all looking like they are very ready to shoot something.

“So,” the woman continues, “The smartest thing to do would be to get out of the car, right now.”

Author's Note

AFTER TEN THOUSAND YEARS IT'S FREE
TIME TO FUCK UP EARTH
LET'S GO BTICHES
JOSE CONSECO

but no seriously though, it's been about a year and I've neglected this. And I don't like that sort of thing. What with Jed adding a bit, and... some things I planned on in the next couple chapters of Light, and the Watchmen series feeling a lot more like the stories I wanted to write (A smaller city, a smaller scale, unexplainable things in a small town) I felt like I had to come back to this as soon as I could.

01: Run

The Slow Mutants
01
Run

Thanks to Jed R and Crow T R0bot for editing and prereading. You da best, guys.

Somewhere outside Quincy, Washington State
April 9, 2022

I am, as far as I know, the Last Slow Newfoal.

Remember those? Nobody seems to, now. They’re all just the lobotomized, smiling drones that ask how fast you want their running start to be if you ask them to jump off a cliff. No, I’m from before that. I’m one of the newfoals you could talk to and think “Hey, that’s actually a person!”

And I’m not.

I should, by all logic, be one of those smiling idiots. And I’m not that, either. Instead, I’m drawing in short, ragged breaths as I hide in the basement of the old tumbledown house, surrounded by papers covered in wobbly, unsteady hornwriting, magazine articles, lighter fluid, molotov cocktails, and my supply of mane and fur dye. I’m keeping that at least until I learn a spell that can change colors. There’s aar few clothes that fit me. I swear to…

I swear to…

I swear to whatever, that this is not what it looks like.

I read over the papers one last time.

‘Born in 199… and then, apparently, I have forgotten the exact year. It’s not that I don’t know how old I am, (at least, I think it’s not!) it’s just that the human calendar seems to slip out of my mind whenever I think about it too hard.

Sure, I can tell myself I remember all of it, but who am I fooling? I look them over, and shove the more irreplaceable ones into my saddlebags. Like the old cutout of the Birmingham Mail:

‘Feeling A Little Horse?

...A young Birmingham native with incurable cancer became our city’s first ponification!

I remember that. The day they gave me the Slow Potion.

No time to read it. I shove it in my saddlebag, and as I look around I feel as if my head should be bumping against the ceiling. It’s not. Some part of me remembers how big I used be and rebels at the size of my hideaway in the collapsed house. It’s small even for a pony. I think, back before I changed, I had claustrophobia. And every alarm is going off in my head. Or maybe they’re not. Maybe I’m convincing myself that they are.

I can’t be certain, but I relish the fear because I need this reminder.

I drench myself in water. I wash out the dye. And now to decide on a new color to take. A new life. A new disguise. Ideally, I’d have some kind of spell to change my fur, but I don’t have that luxury. I’ll have to decide on a new cutie mark.

When it’s mostly gone, I find a bottle of cheap alcohol and grab it in a thaumic field. It’s not perfect. It shudders and wobbles like it’s being held by an old man with Parkinson’s. The bottle of rotgut isn’t what I’d prefer for this job, but it it’s just flammable enough to work.

“Well,” I say, ready to cast a small flame spell. “I’d say it was fun while it lasted, except… it wasn’t.”

I don’t want to set it all on fire, but I’ve learned the hard way what happens if I don’t. A newfoal carrying that much information on who they used to be is suspicious to everyone. Which leads to people finding out I’m a newfoal. Which leads to the thought ‘maybe she’s immune...’

Which never ends well. Trust me. The slightest hint that someone could be unscathed by the Potion (which I am not) will drive virtually anyone insane. Opaline… oh, poor Opaline.

Opal was not immune, mind. Like me, she’d just taken the Slow Potion.

Like I said. Everyone thinks of newfoals as these barely-functional, smiley morons. But before that, there were the Slow Newfoals. Newfoals like…

Me.

Here’s how it worked. Someone would take the Potion back in 2016 or 17. Before the Purple Spring. And for awhile, they’d be fine.

And then they’d… change. They’d forget little things. Change their name. Everything would fade out of their mind, until you got the smiling, braindead little abominations that relentlessly hated any hint of who they used to be.

We all thought it was curable, even as PER and others claimed this was just their natural state, that they were just that happy to be ponies.

And then the Purple Spring. People started getting potioned - and then, they’d immediately do a complete 180. People that had been against ponification suddenly turned rabid. Ready to destroy anything that felt too human.

And all around, newfoals that’d had the Potion back when it was first introduced… newfoals that you’d think were mostly fine… weren’t. They were falling apart, mentally. Losing everything that made them individuals, day after day. Some killed themselves.

Except apparently I missed that part. So here I am, almost no compulsion to follow the Solar Empire. For now, anyway.

Days of thinking “am I going to turn into one of them?” turned into weeks. Then months. Then years. Then waking up one day in 2021 and thinking one day ‘OH FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, JUST GET ON WITH IT!’

Then here I am in 2022, in Washington State. Halfway around the world from Birmingham. Barely any mental degeneration, mostly in my right mind.

I’ve spent ten months here, now. The longest I’ve stayed in any one place, I remember feeling… well, not quite happy. But I remember feeling secure, if that makes sense. As secure as I can without being sure that the core of my very self is falling away and I’m becoming one of those smiling idiots.

And what, I think, the hay do I do next?

On the one hoof, this is the middle of nowhere, which is why I picked this place to hide. On the other, Quincy, Washington is the middle of bucking nowhere, which means I’m not exactly spoiled for escape routes.

I weigh my options. I could try and run out of town as fast as I could, and find a sympathetic hitchhiker. Which is roughly as likely as learning to teleport and making my way to Seattle, then becoming human again. In other words, both are freaking impossible.

The best option is to take the train out. I don’t have the timetable, but freight trains run through here fairly regularly. I have no idea how to get into one of the cars, but it’s not like I have another option.

Of course, that’s assuming I can get out of town in the first place.

Before I light it all up, I read over the scrawls of paper I’ve used to wallpaper the hideaway. They have to go. I don’t know what’ll happen if they read these, if they find out I’m here, but I’ve been burned (ha!) too many times to get curious.

Whatever happens tonight, I’m going out remembering who I used to be. I don’t know if it helps to remember. However, I also don’t know if it doesn’t help.

“Your… my name is-” I start I draw in a sharp intake of breath as I realize, for a short few seconds, I can’t remember my name.

Darn it, heck, fffff…

Okay. Okay, maybe if I go over it for a few more seconds, I’ll-

Dew Glow? Is my name Dew Glow? That would be a-

I shake my head. No, Dew Glow was my alias while I worked here. That’s not what I meant to say. Like hay it is… no, that’s not what I wanted to say! Something more like… like buck… Tartarus… like Discord’s horns…

My mind runs through an encyclopedia of more equine phrases, and I feel sweat drenching my fur as I realize I can’t remember the things I used to say.

I don’t.

Know.

The right.

WORD!

Fffffff…

Like ffff…

My mind catches a blank. But whatever my name is, that can’t be it! I recite everything I remember about myself. I go over any memories I can. My fifth birthday. The big mutt of a dog with some Newfoundland in it that I got when I was eleven. The toe I was missing. The time I was thrown - like, actually bodily thrown - out of class. The time I asked for pie for my birthday, not cake.

“My name is Hope!” I exclaim. “It’s sappy as he…. ck, but thankfully, it works for a pony and human name.”

With that, the floodgates open and I think back to the day I took the Ponification Potion. Or, more specifically, the Slow Potion. It all started back in…

May 7, 2017
Hope

“It’s terminal. I’m sorry, but… there’s nothing we can do.”

“There has to be something!” my mother pleaded. “Drugs, therapies, anything! Some Armacham tech, we’ll take anything at this point!”

“There’s one thing,” I rasped. It hurts to talk. It’s like I’ve had to drag the words uphill on a chain, and my voice is ragged and whispery. I don’t have much time left. It feels like by speaking, I’ve shaved off most of my lifespan.

“Hope,” my father said. “We don’t know what it does to people. If you’re sure-”

“But she’s right,” my mother said. “It’s the only thing. And if it’s this advanced…”

I realize, all of a sudden, that I can’t quite remember their faces. It’s like I can only see them out of the corner of my eye, but when I focus too hard the details slip away.

“I can’t pretend I like this,” the doctor said, “but… I’m with your father. We don’t know the effects. We don’t know… God, I don’t know jack shit about it!”

I can actually remember the doctor’s face better than my parents. His pale brown-blond, graying, immaculate beard. His pale blue eyes. The half-moon spectacles. And how fucked up is that?

“My daughter will die if we don’t try anything else,” my mother said. “And she’ll die in-”

“Helen, enough,” my dad said. “Can we just… not...”

To this day, I don’t know if he’d done that for his own benefit or mine. Misguided though he might have been. Mom was right, though. I would die in agony without the potion.

The kind of cancer some people get forms hard masses. The kind that I have will turn my stomach into a… well. If they try to draw blood, they won’t just take out blood. They’ll draw out a lumpy, sickly-colored mass in the needle, too.

I don’t want to die like that.

I’m going to die, of course. Sooner rather than later.

Unless I take the potion…

Spring 2022

I even remember the first pony who told me not to take it.

A former combat engineer in the Crystal War, a pale white earth pony with a cutie mark of several wooden shields. I can’t quite believe it, but his name was Shieldwall. Yes, thatShieldwall.

Must’ve taken guts to tell a girl with cancer that she should die. But he said he was worried. He said he wasn’t sure how safe it was - that it needed much more testing, much more surety, before it could be said to be anything resembling a real solution.

Irony, huh?

And for a second, as I remember all this, I feel almost human again. I feel a sense of rightness in my body I haven't felt for longer than I can remember, and I feel whole.

Then, when I look down where there should be hands, I see hooves…

And fire. A lot of fire.

I must have been casting unconsciously!

The flames are just at the edge of the room. And for a moment, I think about not moving. I think about just letting the flames consume me.

Why not?

I can disobey. I can remember my old name. I can - most of the time - keep going, act indistinguishable from any of the pony refugees this country lets in its borders, I can fight the Solar Empire. But whatever it is that keeps me going, keeps me me isn’t likely to last. One day I’m going to stop, and then I won’t be Hope anymore. I’ll just be another Newfoal that gets used as cannon fodder or experiment fodder.

Or - and this terrifies me - maybe I won’t. If I’ve been going five years, ponified in body but not in mind, what will the Solar Empire do to me? Disassemble me molecule by molecule? What will the PHL do to me? HLF? PER? EHS, even?

You’ll die.

Try as I might, I can’t make myself do that.

Not today.

So I trot up the stairs and head for town.

It’s the middle of the night, so nobody’s out in the fields. The wheat is just high enough to keep me mostly concealed, and I softly trot through the swaying golden stalks.

Hours ago

“Now, Dew Glow,” Bryan Emslie said. “You know that you’ve been a great asset here.” He was smiling, making such an effort to look positive that he had to be on the verge of telling me something truly horrible.

I wanted to throw myself out the window, pack up my stuff, and never set hoof in this town again. Whenever an employer said something like that, reminding me of my positives with the implication they were about to say something in spite of them, it was never a good sign.

I didn’t want to run. That would be just proving them right. Besides, maybe he was telling me to stop taking sick days, or to get more sleep. Whatever he was going to say couldn’t be too ba-

“Your Equus Refugee Code is…” Emslie said. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but there’s irregularities with it.”

...No, it was much worse.

“W-what?” I stammered. I stood, shaking on all four legs. I wished to heaven that I was shaking on two, but no such luck. “Th-that… that has to be a mistake. I’m sure it’s-”

“Even if I checked, I still wouldn’t find it,” Emslie said. The smile on his face had mutated into what could have been a smirk or sadness. “For starters, the real ‘Dew Glow’ died in a PER attack. You know, Dewy, a lot of things have never quite added up about you. The way you work for a farm when you could easily earn more with the PHL. The way none of the workers have ever seen you loosen up.”

“I don’t like drinking!” I protested. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt how absolutely flat that sounded.

“My sister doesn’t either,” Emslie said, his expression changing to something that was neither a frown nor a smile. “And she’s still a party animal. There’s a lot to admire there, am I right?”

“It’s almost as if,” Emslie said, “You’re hiding something. What with the falsified identity...”

My blood ran cold.

I have all kinds of visions replaying in my head of how that moment should have gone. Emslie should have done something like pumping his grandfather’s old trenchgun. He should have revealed armed guards behind the door. He should have started ranting and raving at me. He should’ve revealed he was one of the alphabet assholes from an organization like the PHL, PHH, EHS, HLF.

But in the end it comes down to what I should have done:

“I just want to know, before we take you in,” Emslie said, “What’s going on.”

There’s men and women with guns, everywhere. Even a purplish-pink earth pony who’s staring at me with a judgmental look on her face.

“Knew there was somethin’ off about you,” she says, in an accent that sounds American but not quite. A little more twangy.

“Wheat Sheaf,” I say. “You don’t understand, I-”

“You’re right,” she says. “I don’t.”

At which point, I sigh. What’s the point.

I’ll just end up like Opaline. Torn apart by an angry mob, traumatized from the evacuation of Sicily, caught belowdecks in a repurposed container ship. They caught wind that she was a newfoal that wasn’t a barely functional moron. As best I can tell, they started at thinking “THE CURE IS IN HER BLOOD!” and lost the thread by the time they were on top of her.

And by the time they were cleaning her up, too.

“You let me die, Hope,” I can almost - no, not almost - hear her saying. I can hear her voice echoing.

Instead, I panic. Years of instincts flare up, and the desire to flee is utterly overpowering. I think about being somewhere else, I think about being out of the building, and I see blue...

And suddenly I’ve teleported.

I’ve teleported?!

I don’t know how I managed it. Few ponies have ever given me proper instruction on magic, but I’m not going to question this.

Except, I shouldn’t have listened, because he wouldn’t have believed me. He wouldn’t have trusted me.

I mean, how could he? I don’t trust me. I don’t believe me.

Keep going, Hope, I tell myself. You’ve only got so long.

I’ve worked this whole thing out in my head. There’s a train full of lumber that heads down south. Off to supply more wood for prefab houses. What I’m thinking is…

That I won’t take that one. Everyone’s expecting me to take it. Instead, I’m going to find a passenger train and get as far from here as possible. Payment or not. It’s at the other end of town, but I can make it. Probably.

I think back to the crude map of the town that I’d drawn. Included are my guesses as to what territory belongs to who. I know there’s PER not too far from here, so there’s a big question mark. Most of the town is marked as HLF territory, with Emslie’s farm and a nearby house listed as PHL territory.

And that’s Emslie’s fault.

The way I heard it, he’d come from a solidly HLF farming family that’d been willing to pass out guns and fortify the town during the Three Weeks of Blood, when the riots from bigger cities like Seattle or Vancouver threatened to spill out into the countryside Though Emslie had gone against it, accepting a generous subsidy from the PHL to employ earth pony workers, much to the shock of his family.

I was the only unicorn to apply for a job with him.

But, I think, as I trot towards the edge of the town, Guess that’s over now.

And then the fields just stop. I see what might have once been a suburb, but now doesn’t look so rosy and kind. Cheap plastic toys lay strewn all over the lawns. One of them had a porch that looked like it’d been added on after the fact, before the War when people still had enough money for that sort of thing.

I’ve actually been to one of these houses. The family was nice, and they made good curry. But on the moment, I can see the mother standing outside, a worried look on her face.

And in front of her is an HLF woman. It looks like one of Emslie’s sisters. A little heavyset, dark curly hair, pale, blue-eyed. Kinda like him, just moderately less stocky.

Oh, shoot, I think.

She’s got a black assault rifle, too. It’s a little longer than a military carbine. Which is rarely, if ever a good sign. I’m not completely sure of what HLF will do to me if they find me, and I don’t want to know.

Despite myself, I can still hear the woman with the gun, talking to the owner of the house. And I can see children poking their heads out from behind the doorframe, just behind the woman.

“-don’t know what she’s up to, but Bryan went over her records. Found some irregularities,” says the woman with the rifle.

“I’ve met Dew Glow,” says the woman at the door. Her name is Annamarie. “She always seemed nice enough! Is she-?”

“Her Equus Refugee Code doesn’t exist,” says the woman with the rifle. “I don’t think you need to worry for her. I think you should start worrying about what she’ll do.”

“What does that mean?”

“I mean, we suspect her of being PER. At the very least, she hasn’t been above-board about her identity.”

There it is.

I promise, I’m not PER. I’m not a potioner. Technically. But there it is - one of Emslie’s sisters saying outright that she believes there was a PER agent in town. If Emslie calling me to his office was not a sign I should leave as soon as possible, this was akin to Celestia-

NO!

NO NO NO, DARN IT NO! Not Celestia. NEVER HER! It is, I tell myself, nothing like that monster! It is more akin to God Himself stepping down from the heavens, and saying “Lo, Hope, You Must Get-eth out of this place.”

And then I feel something. A few years ago, I would have said it was coming from my gut. But the first thing that comes to mind is that I suddenly realize this, and I attribute the sensation to my horn:

‘Whatever sense of balance this town had is going to Tartarus in a handbasket. Leave now.

I think about that and head for the railroad station. I’ve been practicing invisibility spells, so I think I can make it work.

I want to run there as fast as possible. But I can’t, because that would be too suspicious. I also want to hide behind everything I can. Melt into the shadows. But that would be a death sentence if somebody found me.

Even in a town that has an… appreciable population of pony laborers, people still get jittery when they see a pony doing something even vaguely suspicious. Which can be anything from… well, hiding in the shadows, to looking too confident, to breathing suspiciously. Or just being there.

I think that the town is on the edge of the latter.

It’s like I’m spreading the news behind me, like the wake of a speedboat. The closer I get to the railyard in the middle of town, the more chaotic the town seems to be. I hear something like this refrain as I make my way to the station, passing house after house.

‘There is a suspicious pony in town. We’re going to find her and teach her what happens when you...

Of course, nobody has an answer for what I actually did. All they need to know is that there’s a pony - which, I guess, is me - and she is Suspicious. Some are saying I’m some kind of PHL plant come to… subvert things? And others are saying:

“She’s PER. Has to be. Why would there be a PHL spy in a town with this kind of presence? For all we know she could be potioning the drinking water!”

I duck into an alleyway between two houses, rushing into overgrown, weed-filled lot. There’d be enough space for a house in the lot, but nobody seems to use it.

“SHE WENT THIS WAY!” I hear someone yell, and then I suddenly know beyond a doubt that there is a man with a gun nearby.

My eyes dart over the overgrown lot, full of yellowy grass. And then I see it.

A big rusting car that looks like it could be sixty or seventy years old stands on cinderblocks instead of wheels - it looks as if the owner hasn’t used it for anything, hasn’t donated it to the scrapmetal drives, and hasn’t done anything but let it moulder.

But it’s perfect. I dash forward, with more speed than I knew was possible, and slide under the rusting metal frame of the ancient vehicle.

I see a PHL man in body armor, assault rifle in hand. He’s got an earth pony named Cinnamon Stick at his side, a mare with red-brown fur, a red mane, and a blaze of white down her face that makes her look almost like she could be from this planet. Though she’s still a pony, I still feel a surge of resentment when I see how almost offensively Earth she looks.

What gives you the damn right?! I scream internally. I was born here and you get to look like you…

The thought trails off.

“Thought I saw…” the man grumbles.

They stand in the lot for no discernible reason.

“So… what’s she actually done, Beckitt?” Cinnamon Stick asks.

“Honestly?” Beckitt says. “No damn idea. But Emslie told us that there’s no Equus Refugee Code for her. Then, of course, she fled the scene. She’s doing something, and she needs custody before...”

“Before what?”

Yeah, I find myself thinking, before what?

I don’t know what will happen if the PHL capture me, but it can’t be good. So now I have two groups of armed bastards ready put a bullet in my skull.

I’m also not entirely sure that, if they discover what I really am, they won’t eat me alive.

The PHL, though…

Here’s the thing, I might like to help them. I might like to trust them. On paper, the safest option is to turn myself in there. Or so I keep telling myself. Except either a, they’ll shoot me, or b, they’ll run long, painful tests on me. Or c, I’ll give in if they get me. Give in to the near-constant whispering that says to be happy and forget everything else. And then I might…

I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to know who I’ll be, how I’ll think if one day I give up.

“I don’t know what,” Beckitt admits. “This town is a damn powderkeg.”

And then I hear it.

“NO! AAAAAAAAAA! WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME, PLEASE STOP!”

“What the hell was that?!” Beckitt asks. I try to keep myself from wincing at the profanity, and mostly succeed.

‘Darn it, I swore like a sailor before I went ponified, and I flinch at ‘hell’? What kind of crud is that?’ I ask myself.

“Someone’s in trouble!” Cinnamon Stick says. She doesn’t waste time, and bolts off in the direction of the scream. Which is, unfortunately, the same direction as the railyard. South.

Great.

I don’t actually care. If anything, I thought it made a good distraction.

I stay under the wrecked car (which somebody really should scrap) for awhile longer. Until I’m sure that they’re finally gone.

When they’ve left, I crawl out and make a detour. I’m going to cross the tracks. Get to one of the big shipping depots.

It’s not too important how long I kept going. What’s important is that you know what I saw, when I reached the edge of that neighborhood:

The source of the scream.

It’s near an oil company, in the parking lot of a church.

I saw a mob of angry men and women, gathered around a pickup truck under a lamppost. A pony who looked… sort of like me? held on a rope, tied to what looked like a small yoke around her neck. A man with an expression of sheer, raw hatred on his face as he stands in the bed of the truck.

He has an almost immaculately maintained brown goatee, and hair that’s not quite shaven at the sides. I know the man by reputation, from the outskirts of town:

Nathan Pratkanis.

He’d come up here to rural Washington with a group of HLF of his own in ‘21, not long after the death of Algernon Spader, leader of the HLF. But we’ll get to that later. I’m mostly certain that he never got on with Spader, as I’ve been given every indication that he’s the kind of HLF man who isn’t so much regretful of what he’d done to innocent ponies and those who harbored them back during the Three Weeks of Blood, as much as he was regretful that he was caught doing it in the first place.

The screwed up thing is, when I came into town, I actually thought the HLF presence might keep me safe. I thought they’d help.

I’m not totally sure if this makes me wrong or right here. On the one hoof, they’re willing to kill an innocent. On the other, it makes a good distraction.

“NO!” the pony screams. “I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!”

“You’re a pony!” someone in the crowd yells at the top of her lungs. “THAT’S ENOUGH FOR US!”

She doesn’t have anything to do with this, my mind races. I could save her, if I had enough magic, if I was fast enough, good enough…!

I shake that off.

If I go after her, I think, then we both die.

I really should have left for the station at this point. I really should have just ignored what was happening. But it was like my hooves were rooted to the concrete of the sidewalk. I couldn’t not watch what was happening.

“For crimes against our town,” Pratkanis snarls, “For being part of the PER! For being connected to those bastards that’d turn us into mindless little dolls… we sentence you to death!”

“Jesus, Nate,” I hear someone say from the crowd. “Ain’t this a bit far?”

“Do you want to be up here too?!” Pratkanis yells.

“We don’t even know what-”

I don’t hear what comes next, because a big, heavy-looking PHL vehicle motors by me. It looks like it can take more than a few rockets and ignore them. Not helping is that I know - from experience, from the last time PER came within spitting distance of town - that the HLF have rocket launchers.

And there’s some other people trailing behind it in trucks with machine-guns awkwardly bolted to the roofs. For a second, I can’t quite tell who’s PHL and who’s not. I can see a pony in the back of one truck - and I cringe against the wall when I see it’s her.

They’re filling up the street, and I realize, all of a sudden - I’m surrounded. I am not getting across that bridge without somebody noticing me. I know it.

I stay against the wall. Somehow, they haven’t noticed me yet.

I see those two from the field, Beckitt and Cinnamon Stick. I dive behind a trash can, and watch them coming onto the scene.

“Oh look!” Nathan sneers. “More horsefuckers!”

I have to leave, I tell myself, Now.

So I cross the street, heading for the tracks.

“Stand down, Pratkanis!” I hear some PHL woman yell. I know, from experience, that her last name is Canterra. She’s in charge of most PHL-run industry in this town, helping earth ponies find work farming. “Stand the fuck down!”

I don’t know what she expects to happen. What, does she think that it won’t be a powderkeg? Does she think that the town isn’t going to eat her alive?

Of course, I don’t care what happens here. There is a loading bay for all the grain, potatoes, and other foods I helped harvest, just across the railroad tracks.

I’m not looking at the confrontation, so I don’t have much idea of what’s going on as I cross the tracks. There’s a light down the tracks, too.

“Are you gonna try and stop us, little horsefuckers?!” Pratkanis yells.

“Matter of fact,” I hear the man named Beckitt yell, “We are!”

“You’re gonna stop me from killing PER?!” Pratkanis yells.

It is at this moment that suddenly I feel a surge of glee at leaving town. Because living in close proximity to someone like Pratkanis was, putting it lightly, a goddamn nightmare. But I had to, darn it. I needed somewhere out of the way with an easy escape route.

I’m almost giddy with the thrill of being across the tracks, almost behind a boxcar now. And it’s just then that I see what that side of the tracks has become.

Pandemonium. I can see Emslie’s sister on the roof of a house, shouting. I can see huge masses of people surrounding Pratkanis’ truck. I can see the police cars, sirens flashing in the night, heading for this.

Someone’s going to die tonight, I think.

When PHL, when anyone close to their lines moves even slightly, I can see someone HLF raising a gun at them. I can see a man standing next to Pratkanis, a worried look on his face. He keeps looking to the pony and back, and I can just tell he’s really, really not sure about whether he’s doing the right thing.

I’d say this crowd could be easily sparked into a massacre, but that’s not quite true. It could spark into a massacre if someone looks at it funny.

I make a right, following the tracks towards the west side of town, towards Wenatchee.

It’s just then that suddenly I hear someone yelling, and I start running faster. Whatever these people are about to get themselves into, I want no part of it.

“You IDIOT!” Cinnamon Stick yells, and something about her voice makes them all go quiet behind me “She has a gray coat, Concord Grape there has a purple one! That’s not Dew Glow, ya dumb bastard!”

And it’s difficult to say what I feel next. It’s like, even if I’m still running, the world freezes all around me. Like everyone, especially me, is holding their breath. I can feel so many eyes boring into me.

I should have guessed, I think to myself, that this was too easy.

“THAT IS!” she yells, and I know that she has to be pointing. Right. At. ME!

So I run even faster, right up until the moment I see armed men and women guns running at me. Some of which look to be police. I have no idea where they’ve come from, but all I know is, they’re cutting off my main route out of here.

It’s only a few seconds later that I hear the gunshots. Something chops through my ear, and blood runs down my face, right into an eye.

“GET HER!” someone screams, and I can’t tell who.

I throw myself behind a pair of boxcars, panting heavily. I steal a look between two gaps, and I see something terrifying:

HLF and PHL working together. It’s like the previous not-quite-a-riot has been forgotten. Both of them advance towards me, crossing the tracks, guns in hand or jaws over mouth triggers.

I can see someone through the crowd on their cell phone. I can hear the screams:

“KILL! HER!” I hear someone howl at the top of their lungs.

And though I don’t hear my name, I know they’re coming for me. I know the whole town is going to be baying for blood.

About ten seconds ago, these people were at each other’s throats. And now, I’ve made them work together. Whatever animosity they had before, it’s gone now.

And all directed at me.

If there's anything that can make people work together, no matter how much they hate each other, it's PER. Even now, even with the HLF falling apart in the wake of Algernon Spader’s death, the mere hint of PER will drive people mad.

I make a left and barrel through a graveyard. There’s something strangely calming about the grass against my hooves, but not about the gravestones.

I can see some more recent ones. Gravestones that conspicuously end in ‘P’ then the year, meaning that this town has lost more than a few people to ponification. Sure, maybe it’s implausible that the town has turned against me so soon, but the gravestones explain everything. These are graves for people who aren’t technically dead, but have become so impossibly different, so hateful, so utterly gone that people have no idea how to process their current state of existence other than ‘gone’.

And yet I’m technically one of them. And I’m not PER. Not a bullet-sponge. Not a lobotomized zombie. How? Why?

I don’t know.

“Hey!” yells a man in a long coat with a hood, almost a cloak. He's got a gas mask hanging awkwardly over a chest plate. He's also got some kind of short Kalashnikov. “Dew Glow, what's-”

“SHE’S PER!” someone screams from behind me, and the man has only a second to throw on his mask and start firing.

SHOOT!

I dodge to the right, but the spray of concrete and grass is too close for comfort. Everything's a blur around me, and I can barely think straight. There’s just one impulse ringing out in my mind: Survive.

I know I don't have much longer to live. I also know that I have one option left, the absolute nightmarish one:

Run out of town on hoof and hope someone helps out.

A death sentence. But then, staying in town is probably one too.

I dart through the gate.

DARN! I think as I skid to the right, onto the town’s main street now, just next to some of the bigger businesses. The ones with loading docks. I would have hid in a train car, but I can hear alarms going off all around me. I can see a security guard, or two, or five, or ten, rushing towards me from the properties.

The entire town wants me dead!

On the one hoof, running through the business district means attention from security guards. On the other hand, crossing the street means heading into a populated residential area.

I can’t think of what to do, so I run southeast, towards a pizza place. It’s not much, but I’m hoping I can find some cover somewhere, or a good enough hiding place. Maybe in a basement somewhere?!

What’ll they do to me? I think as my hooves clatter against the pavement. It would normally be late enough that there aren’t many cars, but this isn’t normal and I can hear engines revving up from nearby.

They’ve got me surrounded. All because I couldn’t find a bolthole near the railroad. All because I didn’t think enough about my escape route. STUPID!

Even as I pelt towards the hotel, and the bullets whistle through the air nearby, and the blood runs down my face, I have to think about that.

The HLF will kill me. The PHL will… well, if they find out I don’t have a cutie mark, they’ll kill me too. Or put me in some lab that tears me apart and puts me back together.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually hoping the HLF get to m-

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIEEEEEEEE!”

Pain explodes in my left hind leg, and suddenly coordination is a distant dream from the past. I can feel something wet and sticky just behind one of the joints, and my leg feels like it’s been shoved into a hydraulic press.

I tumble, and I fall onto the concrete, a sprawling ungainly mess. I try to pull myself up on my forelegs. I grit my teeth, wheezing in agony, and for a second I’m standing on three legs. For one glorious second, I put one hoof forward, then another, and I start to run….!

And I fall.

“GOT THE BITCH!” someone crows.

I try to think straight and this is the best I have: I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead-

It’s like my mind is swimming and then drowning. Like I can’t possibly form a coherent thought.

Can’t stop now, can’t stop now

I can’t do it. I can’t let myself die. I can’t let myself give up.

I reach into my reserves of magic, and I imagine myself pushing. Something flickers around me, something that could be a shield, but it’s only there for a few seconds.

I should feel some kind of satisfaction, or peace that it finally ends. That tonight I won’t have to fear waking up as a different pony, waking up feeling like my mind is trapped in thick sludge. That I’ll die as myself.

But I don’t want to die!

I think as hard as I can about using the magic, and channel into the horn. I think about my leg. I think about how much I need to escape.

“I CAN’T DIE YET!” I scream.

And then I see the truck. It’s an unremarkable rusty model I can’t quite place. For the life of me, I can’t explain how it got there ahead of the angry mob of PHL and HLF.

I try to limp away, and I feel blood oozing out onto the ground under my leg.

The truck’s door swings open, and a man runs out. He’s heavyset, not quite fat but nearly there, with a scraggly auburn hair and a beard. He might have been handsome, if not for the slightly scuffed prosthetic nose. Well, that and the fact that his face looks like it’s been thrown in a woodchipper, covered in cuts and what looks like bite marks.

“Get in,” he says, with a warmth that belies his horribly scarred face. “You’re going to be fine, whoever you are.”

And something makes me ready to listen. Probably the knowledge that I’ll die without them. So I let the man pick me up, almost gingerly. I let him carry me into the car, and place me on the car seat.

For a second, I realize the implications here.

“Floor it, Aviva!” my rescuer says, and floor it the driver does. We speed out of town faster than a car this unaerodynamic should be able to.

I can’t remember most of what happened the next hour or so. I remember the woman rolling a bandage around my leg. I remember crying, tears rolling through my furry face from the sheer pain of the gunshot wound.

It’s by the time we’re in the mountains that I think about it.

My rescuer had to have seen the mob - human and pony - chasing me. If they were HLF or PHL, there was a good chance they would join in.

So who would be willing to rescue a pony that they knew HLF and PHL would want dead? Who would have the presence of mind to think I-

oh no

This is no damn rescue at all. I’ve been picked up by PER.

Author's Note

I've wanted to do something like this for a long time. Oh yes.

Anyway. This is Slow Mutants! The title is (of course) a reference to, uh, The Slow Mutants, a chapter from Stephen King's The Gunslinger. The story arose from a question in the back of my mind - if newfoals were so obviously barely functional zombies, how did anyone ever think this was a good idea?

And so I created The Slow Potion. As it was described in my original pitch (What? I gotta obey the rules I myself set out too. Otherwise, they mean nothing) to the rest of the Crew:

The “slow” in the title refers to the effects and method of the pre-War potion, referred to in popular slang and Solar Empire notes as The Slow Potion. The concept I am proposing is that while the potion acted quickly on the body, it was slow on the mind before the War. For example, if somebody was ponified, they would be more or less fine for awhile as the potion gradually whittled away at their mind. Then, before they knew it (literally!) they'd be somepony else. The absurdly fast-acting potion we see was meant to quickly convert, PR relations be damned - and larger and larger amounts made their way into PER stocks as war drew closer.

The purpose of this is twofold: firstly, it creates a sense of plausible deniability for the Solar Empire, as Newfoals it creates seem fine… at first. Easy to write off the HLF when, but for a few isolated cases, the Newfoals are fine after a month or two, maybe four months of being ponified. Though I guess that Last Train still makes sense in this context, as the way it radically restructured Jazmin/New Bloom from trans female to male would still leave little room.

Of course, immediately after I came up with this, I had the idea for a pony whose sanity had lasted impossibly long compared to the others. And so:

Secondly, it creates the setup for The Slow Mutants - which will star then Last Slow Newfoal, hiding themselves in plain sight. Their name may or may not be Popover. Or Hope. I didn’t really think the name through. But what I have thought through is that the Last Slow Newfoal has managed to keep their memory, identity, and sense of self…

Mostly.

And they're terrified every day of losing more. The story centers around their struggles to maintain identity, hide in a world in which they do not belong. Their ultimate goal is to survive, find their cutie mark as it will likely help anchor their identity, and keep their head down.

Of course, that last part is easier said than done.

Fun fact: Hope's name will not be Popover, as far as you know!