A Volunteer at the Bureau

by MagLocal

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Alternate Universe, Other, Original Character, Slice of Life, Human
Length: 76080

Sam Henry volunteers to work at a Conversion Bureau for three days. As he helps out fellow humans and Equus creatures, he considers his future in light of a fast-changing, magic-becoming Earth.

After the fatal fusion of Earth's and Equestria's dimensions, after the resulting Veil began its slow and magic spread over the planet, after the Conversion Bureaus were set up along with a whole slew of relief efforts and programs from Equus to help humans out in this crisis....

In the midst of this rising turmoil, Sam Henry travels to Los Angeles to volunteer at the closest bureau. On the surface, it's merely and purely an act of goodwill—airplane tickets are wildly fluctuating as panic starts to settle in. However, he knows that, in less than five years, his hometown would be changed into a magical place. There'd be no humans left back there.

As he helps out in the bureau, Sam's mind wanders into the realm of what to do before the Veil gets to him.

Set in the world of Alex Warlorn's The Conversion Bureau: Not Just Ponies.

Disclaimer: The photo used and modified in the cover, "Los Angeles", was done and is copyrighted by Danielle de Leon under the CC-BY-2.0 license. Access the original photo here.

Published 2018-10-02 16:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2018-11-28 14:12:14 UTC

An Orange Morning

In Los Angeles, South Sepulveda Boulevard was quite the busy road this sunny orange morning. Cars and SUVs drove on a leisurely pace, passing by stores and offices no taller than five stories—not much in the way of beeps and honks. A parking lot on the right would blind the unwary tourist with its vast array of cars and their sun-reflecting windshields, though his pegasus friend sheltered those eyes with an open wing. Another pegasus moved a cloud overhead, pulling it with a rope tied around it.

A minute’s walk later, one would find a black Uber car dropping off a flustered Sam. He hastily waved at the driver as he swung his briefcase around in a staggered gait, suffering under the heat of his button shirt and his thick hair.

He pushed the glass doors inside, sighing at the blast of cool, conditioned air.

It took Sam some time to get his mind untangled from the early hours’ rush, but when he did, he finally saw the inside of the bureau for himself. The brochure had somewhat prepared him for the job, but pictures couldn’t exactly convey sounds, smells, atmosphere….

The lobby was rather bright and happy with its yellow-green color scheme, complete with cartoon hearts painted on the walls, presumably to soothe whoever’s inside and reduce tension. Plants proliferated the room, giving off a mixed concoction of floral scents; no need for air fresheners when the flowers were just as strong as them.

At the lounge, both humans and...well, not humans were resting by chairs placed specifically to foster warm conversations, resting and relaxing by a coffee bar that also served some sandwiches—vegetarian options included for some of the converts and their native Equestrian counterparts.

He’d seen the odd pony or griffon before, but it’d staggered him to behold such a huge diversity of creatures after he’d flown into the city...even before that—in the airplane, he had counted in his mind somewhere over forty magical creatures ranging from cute equines to menacing bipedal dragons to somewhat normal enough Abyssinians sipping coffee.

He’d stayed quiet before. It wasn’t helping him now.

The lounge had all these creatures, unrestricted by airplane seats or narrow aisles. Being so close to each other had led to the death of awkward silence, making for some interesting interactions: a colorful changeling was hawking his flashlights for sale, his human prospects wielding newspapers as their shields; a hippogriff tapped a pencil on her beak as she re-read the list of appointments today, slumped on her comfy chair as a teenage rebel peeked at the list while eating a juicy, meaty burrito; a woman earnestly grilling a yak on the process of conversion, receiving an eloquent response from his lips and, supposedly, calming her down.

“Uh, hello?”

Sam snapped out of it, shaking his head in confusion. “Wh-What?”

The cute pink unicorn by his side was levitating a clipboard, standing at half his height. “I said ‘hello’!” as she managed to keep up that perky smile. She squinted at something on her paper. “Are you Mr. Sam Henry?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, scratching the back of his itchy head, observing the lime glow surrounding the floating clipboard. He noticed the cutie mark she had: a bunch of stars. “You’re Canter Crowhop, right?”

“Sure am!” she said with a smile, bobbing her striped mane of yellow and cyan. “I’m pleased to help you start your three-day internship here!” She cocked her head to the side, taking in the sight of the tall man. “I’m quite surprised you were willing to travel this far!”

Sam made a gentle chuckle, stalling for time to recollect his words. “Well, it’s nice to visit the Big Orange for the first time.”

Crowhop giggled, coming off as cuter in sound, too. “They have lots of oranges here, yeah!” and levitated an orange into view. “Follow me and this orange, Mr. Henry!”

And so he did, walking past the reception counters with their smiling ponies and hippogriffs. The din of lounge talk faded away as he entered the hallway.

They entered a small room fit for two, one for both sides of the table. It was cozy albeit cramped, brimming with photos and lists while it smelled like a hospital. On the table itself were dozens of documents beside a quill and inkwell.

The unicorn sat down on her chair at the far end of the table. The human took the seat closer to the door.

Crowhop made another sweet giggle as she floated out two cups of hot cocoa. “So, how are you? I trust that everything went splendid, hm?”

Sam glanced at his watch. “Uh, fine. Very fine.”

“I assume you had no hiccups on the way here, right?”

Less than ten seconds in and Sam was already getting nervous about talking to a pink magical horse. He mindlessly took the cup on offer and put it down on the table. “Yes, it went well. Not much else to say, really, ma’am.”

“Oh, you don’t have to call me ‘ma’am’!” She threw a playful hoof about. “Just call me ‘Canter’ or ‘Crowhop’...but, call me ‘Crowhop’ because some of us call Canterlot ‘Canter’. Got it?”

Sam pursed his lips. “...yeah,” and glanced at his watch again, scrutinizing his ticking second hand.

Crowhop tilted her head again, slouching on her chair. “How’s Los Angeles so far? Pretty cool, right?”

He made a silent note about how this pony was treating the city like she’d lived there her whole life. “Better than I expected. Wasn’t able to do much with my midnight check-in at the Holiday Inn, but I got a feel for it.”

“You didn’t take the time to go to the beach?” she asked, incredulous and inching her head towards the man. “Or any of the theaters in Hollywood? Or Griffith Park?” She drew in lots of breath, taken aback. “You should’ve been there at sunrise! There’s a troupe of pegasi that go there twice a week; they change up the clouds and—ooh! It’s breath-taking, and….”

Tuning her out while smiling at her innocent wonder, Sam looked at his watch.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry!” Crowhop blushed, straightened up on her chair. “It’s almost time for you to do your thing! First order of business, as they say!” and swung a hoof across the air, almost punching the documents away and almost dooming herself to picking them up.

“Which is accompanying people to the conversion room,” Sam said out of rote. “Then I get more involved from there, correct?”

The pony nodded with her eyes closed. “That’s correct!”

Sam wanted to shake his head at this perennially joyful pony, but politeness took over. “Anything else you need to brief me on like where should I go?”

“The interview you’ve had with Off Record is more than enough,” she said, patting the table and then standing up. “Now, you want me to accompany you there or you’ll handle it on your own?”

“I can do it myself, thank you very much.” Sam stood up from his chair, brushing the dust off of his clothes.

Crowhop clapped her forehooves. “Alrighty, then!”

Sam chuckled, still astounded by how chipper this pony was.

He headed for the door. He placed his hand on the knob.

“One last thing, Sam.”

The man turned around, seeing Crowhop without her smile.

Sam flinched. Did he do something wrong? Stepped over some line of pony courtesy? Yes, it was certainly his lack of saying goodbye, wasn’t it?

“Do a good job out there,” Crowhop encouraged, her voice now a strange low whisper. She gulped, searching for the right words to say. “It’s hard to get used to a new body, a new culture, a new lifestyle...a new everything." Paused, avoiding his eyes for a moment. "I was born a pony, so, despite bonding with so many people here before and after conversion…” sighed, staring at the floor, “I don’t really really know what it’s like to lose everything you’ve loved because you’ll die if you don’t.”

Sam took a step back, having second thoughts. Was he actually qualified for the job? Maybe Off Record had been a bit under the weather and he hadn't known it.

“You’re here, Sam,” the pony went on, the smile returning to her face as she levitated a clip-on ID to him. “I know you can do it.”

He wanted to check his watch, wanted to leave and not offend anyone with his being late. It took him a bit of additional strength to calmly say, “Sure, ma’am.”

Crowhop didn’t correct him that time.

The two exchanged goodbyes. The unicorn said something about leaving her office anyway in ten minutes, and that effectively ended the conversation. Sam left and re-entered the hallway, having put on his ID.

Five minutes later, Sam found himself inside an anteroom decorated with ribbons and more cartoon hearts, smelling like flowers just like the lounge and lobby. There was a line of chairs before the next door, though there was an unusually big space behind it. Perhaps it’s for the city’s last few months before becoming engulfed by the Veil; surely, there had to be space for more chairs as a slew of troubled people would rush to the bureau for last-minute rescue.

He also found himself with a particularly young black-haired woman casually dressed. She was sitting at the chair closest to the door, expecting someone to come out of it.

The man noticed that he himself wasn’t noticed by her yet.

He coughed.

She looked her way.

Silence as they looked at each other.

“You must be new here,” she said, eyes on the ID.

“Yes, I am, ma’am,” Sam replied, content with his rather nice rhyme there. “The name’s Sam Henry. Here to help you with any last words you may have before you step through that door.”

The woman stood up, walking over to him and offering a handshake. “Laura Crowley.”

“Nice name,” Sam said. Then, glancing at the door, “Will you be going by ‘Laura Crowley’ or some new name once you step out?”

She laughed nervously, putting a hand to her cheek. “Technically, I’ll be ‘Colea’, but I still prefer ‘Crowley’ over that.”

“‘Colea’?” Sam placed a finger on his chin. “That doesn’t sound like a pony name. Or a dragon name for that matter….”

Silence reigned again as the both of them stood there, waiting for the door to open, for the knob to jangle.

Uncomfortable with the returning awkwardness, he coughed again, leading to more small talk: “What did you choose anyway?”

Laura looked to the side, crossed her arms. “Changeling.”

That made Sam do a double take, eyes blinking rapidly as she thought of her as a little insane. “Did you say ‘changeling’?”

She narrowed her eyebrows at him. “You got a problem with that, sir?”

“N-No, Mrs. Crowley,” as he held up both hands, trying to defuse the situation and trying to not ruin his first day at the job. “You’re free to be whoever you want to be, and if you’d like to be a changeling, that’s fine with us...yeah, fine with us....”

She cracked a sly cackle. “Got you curious, no?”

Dropping the facade, Sam shrugged. “Yeah, you got me.” He scratched his head, making clear his bewilderment. “Why do you want to be a changeling anyway?”

Laura clasped her hands. “Take a seat and I’ll tell you.”

So the both of them took a seat, Sam making sure to keep his distance by being one seat apart from her. “Is this a long one?”

She shook her head. “Not really.”

Sam glanced at his ID, willing to pass the time. “Alright. Shoot away.”

With a hand through her long hair, she began: “I don’t know if you know Rogie, but he’s a wacky guy. Local comedian, heart of his family...newly weds.” She rocked her head to the side.

It’s only then that Sam spotted the wedding ring on her finger.

“When he was given the choice to pick what he wanted to be,” she continued, “he chose to be a changeling.”

“Because it’s funny?” Sam cut in, confused by this train of thought.

“Close,” she said, rotating her hand around. “He said, ‘Why not?’ and that's all. Staff here weren’t sure if he’s a hundred-percent OK, but he passed all the evaluation and psych tests.”

“Did you think about taking it together?” Sam prodded, trying to force the butterflies out of his stomach by asking anyway.

“I had cold feet,” Laura admitted, smiling to hide the shame—and the irritation at this interrupting volunteer. “But, it hasn’t been too long.”

Sam placed an elbow on his knee. This way, he looked more interested in her story, even as he asked, “So you want to become a changeling because your spouse did the same?”

“Hmm,” scratching her chin. “It was always my second or third choice, but seeing him take the plunge sealed the deal. Besides, he can become a little too crazy—acts like a child sometimes, so it’d be fun to see him get in line or let him starve.”

Intrigued by the fear of starvation, he gave her a strange look. “What do you mean by that?”

A smile broke out on her lips. “By threatening divorce.”

Sam rolled a tongue in his cheek. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Now he was somewhat weirded out by this pragmatic Laura. Starving a love-dependent changeling via divorce sounded like an effective, if cruel, idea. “But you love him?”

“Pretty much,” she said, looking at the floor as she thought about her relationship. “The honeymoon’s young, though, so I don’t know.”

Sam nodded, letting that sink in along with the Plan B of separation’s hunger. Then, sparked by an interesting thought, he said, “Are you going to eat after this?”

“You mean eat regular food?” Laura looked at the door, growing restless. “Love’s gonna keep us alive, but I still like my salad and sushi.”

“I said it because you’re married, and if you’re both changelings and want to stay faithful...you know, you won’t go hungry.”

Laura rolled her eyes. “That depends. I’m not sure if I can live a hundred years with a mediocre jokester.”

Creak!

They turned their heads to the opening door, seeing a blue changeling’s head pop out. “Laura Crowley? We’ve got everything ready for you!”

The both of them stood up, both shaking hands as the time came for them to part.

However, Sam felt her hand tremble. “It’s been nice meeting you, Laura. You’re sure you got everything in order?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” her voice a bit quieter this time.

Sam saw her enter that mysterious room, the changeling opening the door a bit more for her to fit through. Sam leaned his head to the side; he could make out a huge soft carpet, a few other changelings, an emergency exit, and a table.

With a vial of sparkly, purple potion on the table, labeled with a changeling symbol.

The door was shut and locked.

That was the last Sam saw her as a human.

A volunteer usually had fun when they’re actually volunteering. When there’s no pertinent work to be done despite incessant questions about anything to clean up or something, being told to relax was both a relief and a burden.

It was a rather slow morning for Sam. His second conversation with Crowhop ended with her saying in an uplifting voice, “Don’t stress out! It’s a slow day, but that makes it easy to get the swing of things!”

What he did after was to walk back to the lobby and lounge, get a newspaper from the rack, and start some old-fashioned catching-up with the world around him. While there were broadsheets and magazines such as the Los Angeles Times and, well, Time, he’d gotten an Equestrian news outlet: The Ponyville Express.

The first thing that hit him was the colors. The vibrant, vivid colors of the photos. Lots of saturation.

The banner headline proclaimed, Manehattanites: Housing Atrocious. Underneath was a clogged street of the metropolis, taxi carriages going bumper-to-bumper—or, rather, horse-to-carriage. Some of the lesser headlines were, Princess Twilight: Again, No Minotaur Option!, Chrysalis Trail Getting Cold, Celestia Slams PER Pre-Rally on Earth, and Another Great Cake by the Cakes.

That last one caught his attention, but it wasn’t enough to make him flip the pages and see what kind of cake it was. He wasn’t looking for a cookbook.

After an hour’s perusal of the rather whimsical news and opinions made and formed by magic ponies, stubbornly refusing to see what cake it was against rising boredom, he returned the Express and got for himself today's issue of The Canterlot Chronicle.

Desiring to get a fresh look outside before seeing another view of another world’s happenings and what not, he raised his head and stared past the glass walls.

Across the street, under the clear blue sky, was Airplane Landing View Point, a park less than a hundred meters away from the Los Angeles International Airport. There, a few people took pictures of arriving and departing planes, sitting under the shade of trees. Joining them were a smorgasbord of Equestrians. He couldn't tell if this or that one was a convert—a so-called New Foal, as several might say—or a natural-born citizen of Equus.

Turned out there were fewer people than he’d expected. Wasn’t this La-la-land, supposed to be teeming with tourists like him?

Turning his mind away from that, he looked at the rest of the lounge. He now saw a deer, an Earth pony, and a normal-sized dragon laughing, hooves and claw on their shoulders as they noisily planned where to drink tonight. The dragon suggested the relatively low-end Power House—he wasn’t willing to foot the whole bill at a ridiculously high-scale club.

Sam let out a little “Hm”. Thoughts swirled in his head. If he had to choose out of the three creatures presented before him, what would it be? As he thought of horrendous images of escape and panic from his town with the Veil coming in, as a voice berated him for being lazy, complacent, too late—

“Uh, hi?”

Sam panicked, half-folding and half-crumpling his newspaper. He whirled around to see if it was Crowhop checking on him.

It wasn’t a pink unicorn but a green changeling wearing a sheepish smile, waving awkwardly at him.

Some moments passed before he recognized who it was. He had to be as light-hearted as possible for this new changeling, so he greeted her with, “Laura Crowley, I presume?”

The changeling grinned. “Certainly am!”

Sam breathed easy, knowing that his guess was correct.

Laura then hopped up to the seat beside him.

There was no time for newspaper reading. Sam put the newspaper aside, shifted his eyes here and there to make sure no one was looking, and then turned to her. “You’re OK?”

“Could be worse,” Laura replied.

Sam blinked, unsure of what to say next. “Sure. Finally got the hang of walking?”

So human and changeling turned away and simply watched the lounge unfold before them with spontaneous conversations between species about anything. Meanwhile, a short line was forming by the counter for appointments; a unicorn complained that he was missing his papers. Finally, Canter Crowhop trotted down from the hallway and into the lobby, gracing the bureau with her cute smile and her not-as-cute authority.

Before Drift Off

Back in his hotel room, Sam changed to a thin shirt and a pair of shorts. Took off his shoes, too. With R&R in sight, he finally relaxed in this hotfoot of a city. At least it wasn’t New York, the city that could never sleep because it drank a hundred cups of coffee an hour with a bit of Red Bull on the side.

His furnishings included a one-man bed and a family-sized television hanging on the wall. Not content with peering at text on his little smartphone since he’d deemed it too much work, Sam decided to get his daily dose of news through the TV, and the news were pretty standard fare. As he requested, there was a pine tree air freshener inside, permeating the room with that minty smell.

Standard for a world being consumed by a growing magic wall.

Los Angeles’s mayor had spoken on a contingency plan for when the Veil would come over to the West Coast. He called all residents to consider their bureau visits wisely—too early, they would be struggling to use human-exclusive technology and might end up hurting the city in the long run; too late, and they would be forced to either evacuate out East or stuff the bureau with excessive workload. He also assured everyone that emergency potion batches would be made, although they might be given out at random in the city’s last week before the Veil. Deliberating on whether to be a dragon or a buffalo would be moot when an hour was left to one’s human life.

The mayor considered himself lucky that San Francisco would face the Veil first, although he didn’t say that in public television. He did show it by that sly smile that made his teeth shine under the lights.

Aside from that, the trial for Oregon’s senator was about to go underway in what could be a gripping tale of corruption, embezzlement, and power struggle. The details of the case were sparse so far, but Sam caught whiff of personal debts, collusion with neighbors, and partnering with a guy who had an offshore company.

An anxious crowd of people stood outside the court’s steps at night, waiting with bated breath for the trial to commence.

In a probable bid to boost ratings or because the human mind was fascinated by the non-human, a lot of Equestrians were interviewed, with the excitement doubled if the Equestrian confirmed they were from Equus. Those who’d been converted gave classic answers to the usual questions, replying that they were shocked by the level of corruption in their state’s government and that they want justice to be done against this criminal. Most were certain that he was all but done; a few held up signs declaring that he was innocent, merely the target of a smear campaign.

Yet, it was those who were never human to begin with—that’s what made the news a bit more interesting.

“So,” the reporter said, bending to bring the microphone down to a pony’s level, “what do you think of this landmark case against such a high authority?”

The pony blinked, pursing her lips confused at the camera aimed at her. “Uh...he’s not turning to stone, right?”

“He isn’t,” clarified the reporter. “If the court rules against him, he’d be sentenced to life in jail.”

The pony tilted her head, an ear falling flat. “Doesn’t sound that bad, to be honest.”

“What do you mean by that?” this reporter asked seriously, trying to be unfazed as her interviewee.

“I mean...h-he could be turned into stone,” replied the pony. “He’d be imprisoned for a thousand years. That’s really bad. Oh, and being banished to the chaos dimension—I’ve heard it’s not the nicest of places to be.”

This amused Sam, making him chuckle at the reporter’s failure. Specifically, the failure to elicit something news-worthy out of the pony’s mouth. The reporter almost stammered, suffering under the neutral but unsure face of the pony. That’s when she got the cue from her cameraman to move on to someone else.

After about half an hour of news and commercials—one of which was an anti-smoking commercial featuring a dragon burning a pack of cigarettes with his fire breath—Sam turned the television off.

He got up from his easy chair only to plop down on to his fluffy bed. That familiar feeling, that familiar texture of a warm, comforting, inviting bed that beckoned him to enter the realm of dreams. He flinched at the possibility of seeing Princess Luna there, but he banked on his not being a pony to ward her off.

Lying down with pillow and blanket, it was time to sl—

Ding-dong!

Sam got out of bed moaning, his slurred mind telling him to punch whoever would disturb his entrance into the dream realm—but first, he had to check who it was.

Through the peephole, he saw it was a hovering pegasus with a mailbag slung around her torso.

“Mail?” he whispered.

But, he didn’t ask himself any more questions. He opened the door.

The mare waved at him, an enveloper in her hoof’s grasp. “I got a letter for Sam Henry!”

Sam shook his head in unbelief, hands to his temples. “What? How’d you find me here?”

“Somepony at the bureau helped me out,” she said. “She told me you were staying here.”

“OK, I get it,” he said, raising a hand to temper the mare’s expectations, “but can you tell me who exactly wrote a letter to me?”

“Um….” She inspected the envelope. “Must be your Mom and Dad.”

Sam froze, eyes focused on that valuable letter inside.

“Actually,” she said, hoofing the envelope to him, “it’s kinda’ normal. At least it’s your parents who got up and about. I’ve heard stories where it’s the child who gets out. There’s this one where the parents went all over the state to look for their son, but it’s too late. He’d become a unicorn.” She stretched her forehooves out, took a glance at her wings to see if they’re moving well. “Still had a stern talking to, but they gotta admit—what’s done is done.”

While the mailpony was talking, Sam had held the mouthwriting up to his eyes. It really was directed to him, although a little scribble was traced out on the surface: Aww! Your parents wrote a letter to you, hooves and all! Plus points if none of them are unicorns! Have a good night! - From your friend at the bureau, Canter Crowhop

Beside it was a smiley face and a heart. Crowhop remained cute even when she wasn’t in the same building as him.

“Well,” Sam began, looking up at the floating mare, “thank you for delivering this letter. It’s much appreciated.”

“You’re welcome, good sir!” she said, saluting him before leaving the hall.

With that business done, Sam turned around and closed the door, sinking back into his pleasant, serene room where he’d been promised sleep.

He hastily moved to the desk and turned on the night lamp, having forgotten to turn on the other lights seconds earlier. The envelope was placed there, the seal was ripped off, and the packaging was opened

Sam took out the piece of paper.

There it was, the letter in all its medium length, shining brilliantly under the lamp. He scanned it up and down, getting a feel of the whole message. Not sure if it was mouthwriting or that new wingwriting technique he’d heard they were learning, but it all looked the same to him anyway.

Sam adjusted and re-adjusted the letter, flattening it with his hand so that there’d be no creases, that there’d be no room for creases and crinkles and wrinkles. Once that was done, he read:

How are you Sam? I hope you’re doing great in L.A.! Your Dad’s lucky he’s been there before. I still haven’t! I trust you got to walk down the Walk of Fame, yes? Have you tried out going to a theatre, and I mean a real theatre? I forgot to tell you it’s in my bucket list. Anyone could watch a Hollywood movie, but you’ve got to be there to watch the professionals!

You’re wondering how we know you’re already there. You told us the date, silly! Jokes aside, turns out one of our neighbors here in Amble is friends with Canter Crowhop. She’s got one of those prototype hoofphones, and she got word from Canter. We’re so happy that you’ve been helping out so much in the bureau, assisting people during this scary time...and in L.A., no less! Did I write that too many times now?

What about us, then? What have your old folk been doing? I’ll tell you: The both of us have set out on the food scene. It still sounds weird, but the stiff cuisine here’s growing on us. Have you heard of grilled hay drizzled with onion syrup and vinegar? Mm-mmm! So, we’ve moved on from Lacrimal’s onion farm and switched to the grill bar. I and Chase take turns between cooking food and waiting tables. It’s a thing employees do here.

And, could you believe it?! We’ve met ten Earth ponies—and I mean Earth Earth ponies. They were stopping by to travel to Canterlot, so they weren’t residents here, but it was perfect to have some familiar company!

Now, I know you don’t want us to pressure you. You’re twenty-nine; we aren’t bossing you around! Having said that, we’re concerned for you. You haven’t made your choice about what you’ll become when it’s time. We know you’re OK with whatever’s available, even a breezie, but we want to be sure that you’re sure. We don’t want you to regret it for the rest of your life.

But enough of that. I heard another one of Equestria’s villains is on the loose. Apparently, she’s that old evil changeling queen before Thorax took over. They’re saying here that she may be hiding on Earth, but they haven’t pinned down the country just yet. Anyway, it’s all just hearsay until it’s on the news. Don’t forget to keep your guard up. If you’re lucky, you might catch her red-hoofed! Wouldn’t that be fun? “Sam Henry, human hero of Equestria”! I wonder what Twilight Sparkle’s parents must be feeling now.

Anyway, enjoy your night! We’ll be see you when we see you!

From, Mom and Dad (but mostly Mom. Wait, it’s all yours truly, but your Dad has read it over and he agrees with everything!)

That was that. He didn’t cry, he didn’t smile. Sam just acknowledged it. His parents living and loving and laughing in a small country village populated with ponies—it didn’t sound so bad. They wanted him back, though, to see him one more time after he turned into whatever. Perhaps being a pegasus would make the family theme complete, but mastering magic as a unicorn did have its pull on Sam’s mind….

He put the letter back into the envelope, keeping it safe for another read in the future.

Felt something else in the envelope.

Sam paused for a moment, then took out the letter and whatever other stuff was inside.

Turned out that it was a photo of Mom and Dad, both of them pegasi sitting on a hill, facing the camera with the happy town of Amble behind them. Their coats were yellow, and their cutie marks had fire on them, with the mare’s being a candle and the stallion’s being a campfire.

We miss you!, scrawled on the photo.

Their joyous smiles spoke volumes about their attitude right now. Despite living in a dangerous world where a royal assassination meant the end of the sun’s movement, where the spirit of chaos roamed around to ruin anyone’s plans for fun, where arguments came close to collapsing society as they knew it right before the first Hearth’s Warming….

Those parents were pretty resilient under that light.

Sam put the letter and the photo in the envelope, leaving it on his desk. He wanted to bring it back home with him as an heirloom of sorts, one of the last things he’d have before the big move.

Delighted that all he had for the day was truly over, Sam turned off the lamp, dropped onto the bed, and rested, pursuing dreams on that comfy pillow. The minty smell of pine trees topped it off, sending this man to deep sleep.

Pitch in, First Base

“Boo!”

“Agh!”

And Sam stumbled out of bed, fell to the floor, and hurt his arm and face.

Head throbbing, he rubbed his aching body, massaging it to no effect. Then, he shot his eyes at the source of the sound.

Past the window, a pegasus covered her snickering mouth, wings flapping under the bright blue sky. “I got ya’ good!”

Sam stared at her dumbfounded. Apparently, this was somewhat legal, if not mean-spirited, given how indirectly causing harm wasn’t exactly nice.

He was also reeling from the morning grumps. That wouldn’t bode well.

“Hey!” a gruff voice shouted from outside still. “You’re not supposed to do that!”

The prankster pegasus waved a hoof at her victim. “Gotta go! Enjoy your morning!” and she flew away.

Followed by an armored pegasus pursuing the criminal in flight. “Get back here!”

Sam blinked, processing what just happened. Apparently, that wasn’t legal.

Then, he remembered it was morning. The prankster had been his alarm clock.

In a panic, he showered, dressed up, and got out the door.

Sam waited outside. There wasn’t much to see outside. Across was a McDonald’s and a gas station plus another choice of suites to stay in, but there really wasn’t much. Nothing grand and fancy like Grauman’s Chinese Theater. Just some buildings he did know and some buildings he didn’t.

It was only seven-thirty, but that didn’t stop him from booking a ride to the bureau.

As he waited, he saw the half-full parking lot by the McDonald’s chain where he’d gotten his bag of breakfast from. A slow-moving line at the drive-through, but, otherwise, things weren’t too bad.

It was strange to see a pony taking orders there, considering that she was vegetarian and all, but she seemed fine. She could have fries and the veggie burger which had seen sharp growth over the past year or two. There’d also been talk about putting up a McDonald’s in Equestria, though some of the native ponies were quite against it, having known it more for their regular beef burgers than anything else.

What Sam did notice about her was the smiling. The incessant, nonstop smiling. He couldn’t hear the words from this distance, sitting at a table overlooking Glasgow Street, but he could tell she was saying “please” and “Thank you!” and “You’re welcome!” quite often. She waved and she grinned, greeting each driver with a smile and a happy morning ahead.

Then, the black car stopped by the Inn’s entrance.

Sam got up and brought his food over into the taxi.

At the driver seat, Arthur chuckled and pointed at the food. “I see that you’re suffering.”

“They call it fast food for a reason,” Sam answered, closing the door with bag in one hand.

The car started and drove off, headed for the bureau.

While Sam looked outside and took in the sights (but not the sounds) of Los Angeles, his eye couldn’t get off of what made the city odd. There’d been Equestrians back home, sure, but it was nothing compared to how many they were here. Not enough to overshadow the human population, but there’s a clear mix. Abyssinians and ponies trotting down the road, some on the way to work while others on the way to wander. It was funny to see a businessman and a businessgriffon walk and fly respectively, each holding a briefcase.

“I don’t blame you for buying cardboard to eat,” Arthur said, taking Sam out of his mind’s trip. “Cost of living is through the roof. Then again, what do you expect when you’re a drive away from celebrities, right?” He chuckled again, bobbing his head to the side. “Eating cardboard with the richest, right?”

“Hey, it’s not cardboard!” Sam cracked.

“Maybe something’s wrong with my taste buds,” Arthur conceded. “Everyone and my dog loves their food...except me. Don’t understand why.” He then glanced quickly at his customer, his eyes wide with curiosity. “By the way, what’s up with the bureau? You’re one of the early birds?”

“Not really.” Sam let his hand drop to the seat, the other alone at keeping the food from falling. “I’m volunteering there.”

Arthur nodded. “Good for you. Getting a feel for the place. Scouting things out. You seem pretty well-prepared.”

“I believe so,” Sam replied mindlessly, turning back to the blur of landscapes whizzing past him.

Arthur then jerked a finger at the food again while his eyes were on the road. “Is that vegetarian?”

Sam’s heart skipped a beat.

Saw Arthur glance at him through the rear view mirror. He flashed a mean smirk.

“You might want to eat it right now,” Arthur advised. “Ponies, buffalo, zebras, yaks—they’re gonna pinch their noses with that thing on.”

Sam smiled, confident in his decision. “I plan to eat it there. Have to eat it close to work time so I won’t get too hungry for lunch.” He saw Arthur open his mouth, then stopped him: “It’s not like they’re gonna throw up around me; I’ve seen several ponies at a table and they’re fine with leaving the meat alone. How bad is it gonna be, anyway?”

“Are you crazy?!” Crowhop yelled desperately, before covering her nose at the brown bag Sam was carrying in the lobby. She coughed, mouth covered and nose pinches as the pony garnered attention with her histrionics.

She and Sam were the only ones there besides the receptionists and the coffee bar’s workers, but that only made it more embarrassing. The bureau’s facade was mostly glass, bringing this serious oversight into public view.

“Uh, should I eat outside?” Sam asked, more than willing to salvage the situation as he already walked to the door.

Crowhop shook her head, pony courtesy and manners taking over. “N-No! It’d be lovely to eat with you, it’s just—” she coughed, “sorry, but I’m super allergic to meat. Other ponies c-can handle being around meat, but—ah-choo!—” sniffed her wet and runny nose “—th-that’s why I handle the pony cases!”

“Alright, then,” Sam said, not asking why being a pony wasn’t a factor in her job. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. I’ll just eat outside.”

Therefore, he went outside to eat his burger in front of moving cars and beside a couple pony guards.

He did make a mental note to keep some fries intact.

Knock! Knock!

Shuffling from inside. “Who’s there?” came the voice of Crowhop through the door.

“It’s me,” Sam said, resting his weight on the door like he’d been at the job for years. He was feeling particularly cool today, ready to take on an actual day of work at the bureau.

“Come on in,” she beckoned. “The door’s unlocked.”

With her permission, Sam opened the door to Crowhop’s tiny cramped office. He saw the mare herself munching on her breakfast which consisted of daisy sandwiches with helpings of sliced garlic and beans beside a glass of orange juice. She was levitating her food, first a sandwich and then a fork to pick a few beans. Even then, she sometimes lowered her head and just ate, doing away with the middlemen.

Crowhop burped, cleaned her dirty mouth with a hankerchief, and blushed at the sight of the man who’d just witnessed all of that. “Oh, uh, I should’ve told you I was busy eating, but, you know—breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and I gotta get all that energy!”

Sam was astonished at the mare’s grubbiness. To think that she’s his superior. Perhaps the two weren’t so different, and this prompted him to take out his fries. “Uh, you want some?”

“Fried potato slices?!” Crowhop shouted, eyes shrinking at the sight of them.

“Y-Yes, they’re—”

And the bag of fries was magically yanked away, glowing that lime glow before resting on her table.

Crowhop raised a hoof, ready to dig in. Then, she reminded herself that it was Sam’s fries, not hers...and another blush came forward. “Eh-heh!” Looked at Sam with the eyes of a somepony guilty. “I-I’ll share. I promise!”

The rightful owner of the fries said nothing. He was still reeling from this pony who was so excited over that meager food.

Hoping to placate Sam, she pointed at the other chair. “Take a seat! I really promise that we’ll share!”

Sam shook his head and held up his hand. “It’s fine. I just need to know about anything unusual for today, and I’ll get to work.”

Crowhop smiled, pushing the fries away so she wouldn’t think about them. “Nothing much! Ooh, did you watch the Key Note yet?” and placed both of her forehooves on the table, leaning towards Sam. “We posted it on our YouTube channel and our website! It was two hours long, including the Q&A which took up more than half of the talk, but it’s very great!”

Sam wondered about the longevity of a Conversion Bureau’s YouTube channel. He also wondered how long Crowhop would yap. “Well, what’ll you do with it when the whole world’s magic and there’s no need for potions?”

“The usual stuff,” Crowhop answered, still smiling at him with that cute face and that cute voice. “You know.”

“I know about ‘bureau repurposing’, but what will you do?” Sam asked, then mentally berated himself for lengthening the conversation.

Crowhop relaxed her shoulders. “Go back to my old job: making creative light bulbs.”

Sam cocked his head, almost studying her with suspicion. “That’s a job I’ve never heard of.”

“Now you’ve heard of it,” Crowhop said matter-of-factly. “I used to make all kinds of light bulbs! Blue light bulbs, red light bulbs, long light bulbs, short light bulbs, surprise light bulbs, square light bulbs, spell-powered light bulbs….”

And sighed, looking fondly at one of the photos on the wall. There, she was holding up her invention to the world: A maze-shaped light bulb.

Sam looked there, too, marveled by her ingenuity and by how anyone could possibly want to buy a light bulb that looked like a maze.

“Yeah,” crowed the pony softly, putting a hoof to her chin as she mulled over that cherished memory. “Those were the days.”

Sam took a half-hearted step forward, truly wanting to get to work and not be burdened by whatever this pony had to say.

But she continued.

“I was the talk of the town back then. I stirred up our village of Fourbeat with everyone’s hopes on my back, my family and friends desperately pining for me to win the award for them.”

Her face darkened, her brows hardened, and she let out another lonesome sigh.

“When we heard the news about our worlds colliding, that Earth was in irreversible danger, I was one of the first to jump in.” She hesitated, harking back to that dreadful day, that day when she stood still in terror at what she’d heard. “It was scary. Not this new dimension, not the humans who were there, but how this world,” and pointed at Sam—”your world...how i-it was turning into something else and I couldn’t do anything about it...nor the mayor, nor the princesses, not even the Elements of Harmony—”

Stopped herself. She choked.

“You need a drink,” Sam said solemnly, nudging the orange juice towards the wistful mare.

“—a-and Hawaii?” she blurted out, almost spilling her juice with her twitching hoof. “Seeing Hawaii slowly get transformed by the Veil, seeing someone a-almost get caught by it?” Shuddered, placed her forehooves on her temples. “I didn’t want anyone to die! We had to distribute the potions, we had to tell them it was for their good, and it was good, but….”

Trailed off.

Sam looked at the door behind him. Now was the perfect time to get to work.

Crowhop snatched the glass and downed the juice in one go. She put it down, mouth stained by the wet color of orange. Gazed upon Sam with remorseful eyes. “I-I’m sorry to rant like this...and I know it’s not my best first impression today—” sniffed “—but—”

“It’s OK,” Sam interrupted, holding out one hand towards her and another on the door knob. “I’ll…I’ll just leave you be. Hope you get better.”

Crowhop rubbed a teary eye. “Yeah, I-I will. I’m very sorry for just dropping on you like th-that.”

Sam turned the knob, still focused on the recovering mare. “You’re alright?”

“I’ll be a-alright,” she said, smiling with her voice slowly returning to that perky normal.

He opened the door a few inches. “Have a good breakfast, Crowhop.”

Crowhop stuck out her tongue, trying to revive that liveliness. “Don’t you worry, Sam. It’s my favorite.”

Satisfied that she was better already, Sam quietly left the room.

Thoughts and speculations swamped his mind. He’d just seen more of the mare beyond the smile, beyond the perky quirks and that boundless bounty of energy only a purely sugar diet could produce.

Was she OK? Sure, he remembered some of the photos there, that even on a foreign planet, she had friends. A group picture came to the forefront, where all the staff members rounded up for a group hug, with Crowhop embracing them all with her forehooves. Some members were scratching at their squeezed necks, secretly hoping that she’d stop before they suffocated.

He hit upon a theory: Her active and tireless personality could be explained as a coping mechanism. Seeing a world with so many wonders, with so many new people, with so many new things—only to hear that it’ll be turned into something similar and familiar before the decade was out...and, helping these humans who now had a deadline on their humanity, too.

Did she wish that they could’ve met under better circumstances, when neither world was at stake? When Earth and Equestria could co-exist and stay relatively the same, learning from each other at their own pace?

However, his mind now had to go somewhere else as he exited his imaginations and returned to reality.

Sam and someone else sat down on two adjacent chairs in a little office of his own. There was nothing that quite distinguished it from other such offices: A few generic paintings of landscapes hung on the yellow walls along with a motivational poster saying It’ll work out like magic! Some potted plants were strewn about as they gave off a woody scent, and that was all.

The other man relaxed with both hands on the back of his head, looking up at the lights and remaining unfazed by the assault on his eyes. He had a self-styled twirly mustache, shiny like it’d been waxed. Then, he looked at Sam, and glanced at the table. “Why aren’t you sitting there?”

Sam rotated his hands a bit. “I want to make sure you feel as cozy as possible. I don’t want this to be clinical.”

“Right, right,” and that rested an elbow on his knee, pondering on what to say next.

Sam took a few seconds to breathe easy. He clicked his ballpen, steadied the clipboard on his lap. “So...Lacque? Am I pronouncing that right?”

“Whatever way you want, sir,” he said, spreading his hands out wide. “They’ll call me something else when I’m done with it and move to another job, so take the liberty.”

Sam nodded, pleased he wasn’t getting a pushover for a client. “Sure, let’s cut to the chase,” and scanned the paper which included Lacque’s vitals, other medical information, and preferred species-to-be with reasons why he chose them.

Which he left as blank.

“Lacque,” Sam said kindly, still wary about the pronunciation, “any reason why you didn’t fill this out ahead of time?” as he tapped a ballpen at the many straight lines with their empty spaces.

Lacque leaned back on his chair while getting a good view of the words he didn’t write. “I always change my answer when people ask me on the street. Personally, though? I don’t want to stress myself until the time’s right.”

Sam gave him an odd look. One’s life was at stake, and this man’s attitude was defying his expectations of human planning.

“I have, what, eight months until the city’s under an emergency?” Lacque explained, laidback in tone. “They haven’t changed much of the tech here. I can still function as a human pretty well, actually. When they start shrinking the doors and selling the shampoo in bulk—that’s when I’ll start jittering.”

Sam nodded, taking Lacque’s point of view in stride. “It’s not really necessary to answer those questions, anyway; just recommended. Nothing wrong with your kind of thinking, really. I myself want to enjoy my humanity as long as I still have it.”

“Then we’re on the same boat, then!” Lacque said, patting his supervisor on the back.

Sam was weirded out by this action, but he let it slide—maybe he used to be a motivational speaker. He glanced back at his clipboard and then asked, “So, Lacque, you want me to start or do you want to start?”

Lacque nodded back at him, gesturing with an open palm. “You go. I’d like to have an expert opinion on all available choices.”

While Sam didn’t consider himself an expert given that he was only volunteering, he chose not to disclose that and instead proceeded: “The most popular choice we have here is the pony potion,” and took out a photo of ponies socializing on a field, letting Lacque consider it.

“They’re a lot like our normal horses, but...they’re not. They’re divided into three tribes, namely Earth ponies, pegasi, and unicorns. Each of them possess their own brand of magic: Earth ponies have a magic connection to the earth and its plants, pegasi have a magic connection to the sky and the weather, and unicorns have a deeper understanding about magic itself.” Sam exhaled long and loud, letting out some steam. “Do you have a preference towards one of them?”

“Well...” Lacque tapped his chin, holding the photo up to his eyes. “Why would I be a simple Earth pony when you can fly as a pegasus or do magic spells as a unicorn?”

Sam straightened his head, knowing this question would pop up. “Earth ponies have stronger bodies than pegasi's and unicorns'; they can lift tons, punch and kick real bad, run a couple marathons and not get tired...and they're also great at balancing things, too. Aside from that, their connection to plants make them know many minute details about a crop or a flower simply by touching them and letting the magic do its works—very sympathetic to plants, really."

This volunteer breathed in, hoping Lacque wouldn't interrupt him in the defense of this tribe.

"Becoming an Earth pony requires the least amount of acclimation. It comes with the standard physical therapy for new ponies: learning how to walk on four legs, how to live without hands and fingers, how to not eat meat because you’ll be a lacto-ovo vegetarian, and how to not accidentally slam your tail when you close the door...with a session on what your cutie mark would mean and how to deal with it.” Sam paused, catching his breath. He also wanted to ensure that the client could digest the information. “An Earth pony would have to learn that and not much else. We have agriculture lessons along with some business crash courses, but you don’t need a degree or anything to get far in the Earth pony way.”

Lacque scrunched up his lips, his mustache furrowing about as he returned the photo to his interviewer. “Fair points, but let’s be blunt here: That’s nothing compared to flying around in the sky or learning advanced wizardry like what you’d see from the Harry Potter books.” He slouched on the chair, self-satisfied with his statement.

“Yes, that’s true” Sam confessed, “but, as I’ve said before, it takes time to get used to an extra pair of limbs or fully tapping into your magical energy. There’s a reason why lots of over-eager people end up struggling for weeks, if not months, adjusting to their own bodies.” With an open hand, “At least with an Earth pony, the both of us could relate to crawling on all fours.”

Having encountered such a counterargument, it was his turn to own up. “Uh-huh. I see.”

“Just had to make sure we’re on the same page here,” Sam remarked before moving on. He took a look at the potted plant, trying to get used to the long hour inside the office. “So, aside from that, you have a couple other choices that bypass some of the difficulties of being a pony.” He then handed out a picture which showed a couple griffons flying in the sky. “Griffons are half-avian and half-feline creatures though they’re generally half-eagle, half-lion. They usually go on four limbs, but they have claws, so you can still operate pretty well there save for two missing fingers.” He raised a finger: “You can also eat meat as a griffon, in case you’re wondering.”

“I do like my steak!” Lacque quipped. “Would be nice to keep that fine taste intact, even if it’s just a personal gripe.” He fixed his sleeves, maintaining his cool appearance for the occasion. “Anything else?”

“Not really.” Sam looked to the side, quickly thinking about what else to convey. “If we talk about their home kingdom of Griffonstone, they’re desperate for more griffons. It’s had a bad brain drain, what with their people scrounging up enough bits to leave that run-down dump.” He gave a caring smile, trying to get Lacque to sympathize. “They’re looking for enterprising griffons to kickstart another golden age for them.”

“With human innovation, huh?” Lacque asked, returning the griffon photo. “I like to see where these joint research efforts would go. It’d be nice to help out.”

“That’s true,” Sam said, hoping that man would say steer from the topic and try another choice.

Lacque put up his leg, hanging loose. “What about the hippogriffs? I heard they’re pretty similar since they’re also a half-bird species. They’re half-horse, but they have claws, too, and have that nifty place in Mount Aris.”

“It does sound nice and nifty,” Sam said, re-scanning the information on his clipboard and then glancing back to him, “but they’re very restrictive about new hippogriffs. Being a hippogriff entails being a seapony some of the time, and doing that requires possessing a shard of the Pearl of Transformation.” He felt weird that he could seriously say the name of some magical artifact with a straight face. “It’s in limited supply, so they’re not giving it out to just anyone.”

“I mean, I don’t care,” Lacque said, fixing his sleeves again. “I almost drowned in the sea some years back, so I’ll take being a permanent hippogriff.”

Sam took a second to remember how to respond. When he remembered that, he also remembered to show a photo of hippogriffs and seaponies on the beach. “While they technically can allow a permanent hippogriff, it’s seen as an oddity. Much of their culture involves a synergy of the two species as one.” He coughed, using that to fill up the verbal silence. “As of now, Queen Novo is allowing hippogriff potions to a select few. This bureau has only one such potion, and even then, you have to pass a few trials and a personal interview with the queen herself.”

“Really?” Lacque said, interest piqued at that exclusivity. “Must explain why Alina was frustrated about her hippogriff application yesterday.”

That name would’ve made Sam’s ears perk. “Does she live here, per chance?”

“My friend lives in Malaysia,” he replied. “Skudai, the last city before Singapore. Kind of like living in Brooklyn, but not really, if you know what I mean.”

Sam knew what he meant.

“But,” Lacque added, “if I did get the clearance for a hippogriff potion, I could try living under the sea. As long as it’s not busy-work, it’ll be good.”

“Yeah, it will be,” Sam said. Then, believing that they’d spent enough time on hippogriffs, he changed the subject. “Well, after that, we have Abyssinians. Cat people, if you’d like to retain as much of your humanity as possible.” He gave a picture of a couple Abyssinians relaxing at a hotel. One was even sipping a glass of mojito. “You have paws which aren’t exactly hands, but they’re more than enough. You usually stand on your two feet, so that’s a lot of work off therapy, too.” With another raised finger to grab his attention, “The only thing you have to get used to is using more shampoo and getting used to your tail, especially since it’s bigger than a pony’s.”

Lacque nodded once more, taking in the picture without holding it this time. “Sure, sure. Anything I have to watch out for if I become a Dr. Seuss look-a-like?”

“Not really,” though he wanted to add that Lacque would have to buy a silly hat. “You’d have more craving for fish, and there may be some feline instincts from the get go, but that’s a job for physical therapy once you’re decided.”

Lacque then opened his mouth with a silent Oh! like how one would react in a eureka moment. He stretching his hand towards one of the brochures beside his chair, attempting to grab it.

This made Sam somewhat uneasy, wondering what his next move would be.

Once Lacque got back up, he opened the brochure and said, “I know this might be weird, but what about we discuss one of your less popular choices?”

“Minotaur?” Sam suggested half-jokingly, immediately regretting that question and hoping he wouldn’t hear more of it.

“Like you’ll offer me contraband!” Lacque shouted in jest. “I’m talking about this.”

And he tapped his finger at a certain creature under the Species section.

Sam gulped at the selection.

“You really let him get away with it?” said the pony barista at the bureau’s coffee bar. “As in, you really let him get away with it?”

Sam was sitting down on a swivel chair, hand on the counter in the middle of his snack break as he inhaled the pervading smell of coffee. The lobby and lounge was a bit bare bones this time of the day, the late morning blues setting in with one receptionist yawning. The lounge was rather quiet, with much of the chatter done in hushes just louder than whispers.

Sam sipped a little of his black coffee. “I mean, it’s what he wants, so why complain?”

“That’s like signing his death warrant, or however you say it,” the mare said, putting in a few more bagels into the warm display case. “Downburst is more than willing to help—why’d you think we have a breezie therapist in the first place?” She sighed, disappointed at Sam’s deeds. “Yet, still...a breezie?”

“Think about it, Dark Roast,” Sam said, primed to defend himself. “You can’t just down a potion without signing some papers and going through social security. They still need to know your human name, your appearance, and so forth—that much we know.” He lifted his cup to make a point. “If you’re a breezie, you’re tiny on this big Earth. You could hide pretty much anywhere—under the couch, inside a guitar, behind a billboard.” With both hands on the counter: “This is your best chance to legally drop off the radar and start a new life. They’re lenient about where the new breezies would settle, so once a breezie gets the legal work done, he’s free.” He finally drank some more coffee, happy with his victory.

Dark Roast shook her head, seeing the victory as a Pyrrhic one.

“OK, maybe not to that extent,” Sam added, backtracking and relinquishing his short-lived victory. “He does want to get a restart in life somewhere far away and live out the rest of his life as a gardener. Lacque says he’s tired of doing manual work all the time back in his old job, so a change in pace is more than welcome.”

The barista cracked a smile, unknowingly letting her co-workers check the espresso machines for her. “Makes sense. Why not Earth pony, though?”

“He wanted no chances,” Sam answered. “If he’s an Earth pony, someone might take him back into a factory.”

Dark Roast cocked her head. “He could always say ‘No’.”

“Like I said: No chances. If he’s a breezie, there’s no way they’d ask him to carry stacks of paper.”

The mare thought about such a stack of paper squishing a poor breezie under its immense weight. “I’ll grant you that, Sam...I’ll grant you that.”

She left Sam to drink the rest of his coffee down, looking out and seeing the boulevard which was now free from heavy traffic. A few cars zoomed by, but it mostly stayed clean and pristine.

Already, he saw two changelings at Airplane Landing View Point. Past the tourists both human and Equestrian, he saw a green changeling being helped up by a blue one, her wings a little dirty from the dirt.

Sam was seeing Crowley doing her best to fly. He beamed at this learning changeling, this former human. “You can do it, Laura!” he whispered, knowing full well he wouldn’t be heard this far.

10-23

The bureau wasn’t just a place to disaster-proof one’s self from the Veil by turning into some magical creature from a magical world. It was also where both humans and Equestrians could chat with one another, where they could understand each other and their respective cultures.

After an hour or so of recording business transactions, carrying boxes of precious potions in bulk, and doing the necessary paperwork to set up Lacque’s appointment to become a breezie by tomorrow following some evaluation tests—

After all of that, Sam started his lunch break by buying a couple double-decker sandwiches from the coffee bar. All his choices were vegetarian, officially to be respectful to others should he eat with a pony or another creature who couldn’t digest meat. However, in the back of his mind, he wanted to prepare himself for the conversion process, and what if he’d chosen a pony? Or a yak, a buffalo, a zebra, even a breezie? He’d heard of few die-hard meat lovers who hadn’t been well informed of that, and he didn’t like the ending after they all became ponies on a whim. One of them had broken down because he couldn’t run his steak house anymore, at least without extensive restructuring.

With that done, Sam sat down at the lounge, on a chair where both the adjacent seats were vacant. Now was an inconvenient time to say a lot of words. Now was the time to observe, to see the one thing that struck him the most when he arrived in Los Angeles: the human-Equestrian interaction.

But then, the door opened. Sam turned around to see who this newcomer was.

“Douglas?” he asked, seeing the blue stallion march in.

“Ah, you recognize me!” boomed that deep voice.

The pony trotted up to him, then raised his hoof to pat the man on the back.

And stopped, chuckling. He retracted his hoof and let it brush his mane. “Well, I should be careful around you. People don’t like having a ton being thrust into their bodies, you know.”

Sam recoiled at that, wondering if this pony almost crushed him on accident. “I wouldn’t want to know how much force you were about to put on me.”

“I said it’s a ton,” Douglas repeated.

“Oh.”

Douglas lifted a cheek, making his smile a little uneven. “Sometimes I’m not aware of my own strength,” he said. “It’s pretty bad if you’re forgetful, but that’s one of the perks of being an Earth pony.” He pumped his chest, showing off his pony pride. “Improvised riot police if things go sour. People will think twice before they try to rob me.”

Sam pursed his lips at that, imagining this pony in an alley, fighting criminals like some superhero in a movie. “Just curious: Have you ever been a police officer, Douglas?”

“Not in my life,” he replied as he jumped up to the chair beside the volunteer’s. “And, hope you don’t mind, but I’d rather be called ‘Key Note’. I’m a pony, so I go with my pony name now.”

“OK, then.”

With that, Sam turned his head to see what else was going on in the lobby. A little line was there in front of a receptionist’s desk. The woman who had interrogated a yak the day before was now interrogating the receptionist rather quietly. Her exaggerated hand gestures, though, still made it look heated. The deer receptionist (who was also quite dear) was taking it all with as much grace as possible, as could be seen by the smile on her beak. Even then, the rest of the line gawked at her, checked their watches, or used their phones, all hoping this was a temporary setback and not one of those schedule-annihilating monsters.

On the front of peace, a few pegasi were setting up framed movie posters on the walls, supposedly to spice up the bureau and add in more of the human element. It was coarse to see cartoon hearts on a wall right next to a high-stakes action movie filled with explosions and car-robots. The sleeper hit My Pretty Princess: The Film did fit the theme with its cutesy colors and its fantasy protagonists that bore uncanny resemblances to the real life “fantasy” creatures in this very building.

On the other side of the lobby, another group of pegasi were setting up rich, lifelike oil paintings of Los Angeles. Like the ones in the seminar room, they were made by both humans and Equestrians. This one here showed a beautiful sunset hanging over the city with its skyscrapers and its hills far out, all the while trying to predict the future by depicting a borough of clouds above it where pegasi roamed around and lived hundreds of meters above the ground, complete with their own flying buildings.

A few minutes had passed, and that made Sam comfortable enough to ask Dougl—no, Key Note another question. “So, what’re you doing here?”

The pony crossed his hindlegs, put down his forehooves on the armrests, and looked back at Sam. He jerked a hoof behind him. “Plant duty.”

Obeying Key Note’s prompt, Sam turned his to the outside.

There, on the sidewalk, rested a flower box with a couple of thick bushes along with the flowers. The pony guards gazed upon these plants rather fondly, adoring them for their cute placement against the noise of rising traffic. A couple more ponies, not just Earth ponies, were hauling in more flower boxes, and the guards more than welcomed it. Even pegasi came swooping down just to look at the plants, among them one very familiar pegasus who flashed a glance at Sam.

Her eyes glimmered for a second before she flew away.

“I wanted to do my part in grooming the bureau for everyone,” Key Note said, examining his hoof and yanking Sam back into the discussion. “Consider it my way of saying thanks to the ponies who’ve helped us through.”

Sam bent his back forward, weighing what’d just been said. “There are other creatures chipping in, you know.”

“Ah, you’re nit-picking,” told the pony, wagging a hoof at him with a smile. “It’s not all ponies, of course, and the world will be boring if it was just ponies, ponies, ponies.” Looking off to the side, viewing the paintings of the city, “I only said that because it’s the pony princesses who started this whole Conversion Bureau thing. Everyone else followed suit. Really, you can’t deny it; they’re the biggest contributors and investors in this effort.” Key Note kicked back and placed a hoof on his head. “No wonder ponies are the number one choice in the majority of bureaus today.”

All Sam could say to that was a kind “Good point.”

That thread of conversation over, Key Note blathered, “Hold on,” and turned his head back to see the progress of the flower boxes.

Not wanting to offend this pony, Sam looked at the flower boxes, too. “So, you’re supervising over the plants outside?”

“Sort of,” he said, not turning to face his listener. “Everypony else knows a lot about gardening. Not me.”

Sam then lifted a knee so that he could take a closer look of the plants without actually getting up, without noticing the sandwiches he’d been holding all this time.

Without noticing that they’d almost fallen.

“Whoops!” and Key Note bent over, and grabbed all the sandwiches with both forehooves.

“Woah!” and Sam steadied himself from the wobble, having almost fallen himself.

Close to everyone laid their eyes on him, this probably clumsy volunteer who came so close to wasting his five dollars.

One of the pegasi setting up the paintings flew over to Sam, a hoof now around his neck. “Are you OK?” she asked in a compassionate tone.

Sam nodded fast, amazed that spoiled sandwiches was more than enough to bring this pegasus near to first aid mode. “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m OK. No need to call an ambulance.”

The pegasus wiped the sweat off her head. “That’s great! Glad you didn’t get hurt.”

Hurt by sandwiches?, he wanted to add, although he didn’t think this mare would easily take a drop of sarcasm.

She gave a wave off both her hoof and her wing. She then flew back, carrying another painting from a box.

Sam rested on the chair, now a lot more focused on the sandwiches than before. Perhaps a bit too much since he was squeezing them with his tight grip. He awkwardly looked at Key Note and said, “Uh, thanks.”

“No problem,” he replied cheerfully, raising a hoof beside the sandwiches.

Sam flinched a bit at that mysterious hoof. “Do you...want some?”

Key Note laughed, hoof still there beside the sandwiches as he let out his amusement much to Sam’s confusion. “There weren’t that many ponies where you’re from, were they?”

The question only compounded poor Sam’s confusion. “Why’d you ask?”

The pony used another hoof to point at his raised hoof. “Hoofshake! Or, hoofbump! Whichever’s fine by me.”

If Sam had both hands free, he would’ve slapped himself. Not wanting to have both hands full and desiring to keep his face clean from grain and vegetables, he settled for a groan and, soon after, a dignified shake across both chairs.

To sustain this camaraderie, Sam offered one of his sandwiches to the pony He felt a little guilty that he was treating Key Note like he’d treat one of those ducks by the park, but he pushed through. “You want some?”

The stallion sniffed it. “It’s edible for me.”

“Making sure your body could take it?” Sam asked, adopting that vegetarian angle.

“You got a problem with that?” Key Note asked.

Sam balked at this pointed question. This pony was smiling, sure, but the question felt out of place for such a happy creature. “No. I have no problem with that.”

“Ah, don’t be intimidated!” told Key Note, waving his hoof about as he took the sandwich. “Don’t be too serious around me! You gotta know when I’m joking.”

That view brought the question under better light, yet Sam was still bothered over its suddenness. Was being a vegetarian a sensitive topic to Key Note? Has he been an avid meat lover before? That might explain the bout of aggression right then.

When Sam snapped out of it, he saw Key Note munching on his sandwich, enjoying the taste by closing his eyes and savoring each bite. Sam, too, took the time to eat though not as well as his pony counterpart did.

It was a good grilled cheese sandwich. Soft, chewy, crispy.

As he ate, he decided to eavesdrop on the conversation to his right, involving a griffon and...apparently, that same blue changeling from before, this time wearing a lab coat and a pair of glasses to nail that psychologist look.

“...so, her Alaska brother’s just went missing?” the griffon asked with an open claw.

“Yes, Greg—” and the changeling winced. He coughed, covering his mouth. His eyes rested upon the hallways at the back. “Colea, or Mrs. Crowley, is quite vocal about it—too vocal, in some cases. She managed to get ‘missing’ posters for the poor man all over the neighborhood.”

Greg scratched his wing, a nervous interest coming over. “How did it happen, Reolata?”

In order to answer that, he took off his glasses, removed his coat, and placed them over the chair. He dusted his forelegs off, too. All this done, Reolata replied, “Her brother, Whitaker, worked at the bureau there. One day, he was rewarded for his help by becoming any species he wanted there and then since he went through all the tests. They had a shortage that time, so it really was something special—even the rare potions like the hippogriff ones were available. It...it was supposed to be an exciting event, ‘cause there were other volunteers, and there’s supposed to be a party and all….”

Reolata made a pitiful pout, eyes focused on the floor as he tried to frame those words carefully.

“He downed the potion and—well, that’s where my search ended. No one wanted to answer my queries about him. All they told me was that he’s suddenly disappeared under strange circumstances.”

Greg stroked his feathery chin. “You think there’s a conspiracy going on? Maybe there’s some money laundering there or what have you, like when those conponies had a bureau as a front.”

“I don’t think they’re trying to steal money,” Reolata said, picking up a vase and using it as a point. “They got the Royal Seal of Approval, they got inspected by the Anchorage authorities...everything was legal and—you know what?”

That made Greg stand up on his chair.

“I have a better idea,” Reolata declared with hoisted hoof, high to the sky so that he’d attract the griffon’s attention. “Though it’s all unofficial and speculation, here’s my idea: Something went wrong with the potion.”

Greg cocked his head to the side. “You mean it’s been tampered?”

“The potions are supposed to be completely pure,” Reolata said, holding an imaginary one with his hooves. “It doesn’t have to be explained by evil or malevolent agendas. Maybe someone dirtied it on accident.”

“Accident?” Greg repeated with a spinning claw. “Despite how everything’s handled with gloves, safety goggles, proper procedures—”

Clunk!

The whirring vanished.

Awfully silent here.

Everyone stared at the air conditioning units.

The deactivated air conditioning units.

That’s when panic spread. People whispering, words rumbling with comments, rumors, and blame games. The staff did all they could to stay cool in spite of warming conditions. It was still cold inside, but in a while, it wouldn’t be; with the approach of noon, unregulated temperatures would surely inconvenience all inside, irritating everyone and perhaps fomenting a couple bad online reviews of the bureau.

“Wha-what’s going on?!” yelled Crowhop as she galloped into the tumultuous lobby, head spinning here and there like a scared bird. “Is this a robbery? Is this a hold-up?!”

“It’s the air-conditioning!” Sam replied, standing up from his chair before stuffing his mouth with the rest of the sandwich, getting lost in the chaos.

“Oh, no!” Crowhop planted both forehooves on her head, hooves and head asweat in a dose of panic. “Could it be sabotage already? We can’t have the Front do this now!” She tugged Sam’s shirt again, this time hard enough to make him grunt in surprise. Magically grabbing him by the collar, “Tell me, do they have machine guns?!”

“Machine guns?!” that interrogative woman yelled, having been sat down by the yak from before. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Machine guns are really bad for us!” Crowhop screamed, loud enough to get the whole room’s attention. “If they’re going to storm this place and kill us…” and looked at her hoof. “No, Canter, you better stay calm, you better stay calm for these people and—”

Clunk!

Everyone glanced up again, having heard that sound. They saw the ceiling once more with its lights, and that was all.

Muffled shouts from above.

Strong wingflaps, rushing breezes beyond the top.

Clunk!

More wingflaps. A muffled “Hey! Don’t you get away from us!”

Nee-nawing sirens blared in the distance.

Then, the doors whooshed open, letting in a policeman and his fellow policepegasus, both donned in dark blue uniform. Their shiny badges were on display as well as their weapons: a pistol for the human, some retractable wingblades for the pegasus.

All eyes were on these officers of the law, hoping that they’d save them from either a very troublesome disaster or the threat of machine gun-toting HLF radicals and extremists.

“Everything is under control,” the policepegasus said in a commanding voice, making everyone silent and more than a few shiver, wondering if they’d committed some crime they were unconscious of. “We’ve just encountered a regular felon by the name of Spaghetti Tree; nothing too serious. We’re currently chasing her down, so don’t you worry.” Pointed up and outside, “We’ve got our fellow winged ponies in the sky watching out for her. They’ll get her in no time.”

Crowhop galloped to the guard and shook his hoof rapid, up-and-down a lot. “Thank you, officer! You don’t know how much this means to us!”

The policeman was about to shoo the intrusive unicorn away, but the pegasus raised a hoof and said, “It’s alright, Hill.”

Hill crossed his arms, giving off a condescending smile. “You and your manners, Packed Heat.”

Sam, who’d just been watching everything unfold, raised his hand, defying whatever sense of shy courtesy he had. He didn’t hear the whispers and quiet gasps against him; all he did was ask, “Does she prank people a lot?”

“It’s her hobby,” the policeman replied casually, hands on his hip. Hill had a smiling face on, so that was one sign Sam wasn’t about to get arrested himself. “She usually doesn’t break the rules, but this isn’t like her.” Glanced at the ceiling, also. “She’s never gone so far as property damage before.”

Crowhop gasped and held Packed Heat by the foreleg, clinging onto him with eyes widened out of alarm. “Are you saying she broke our air con?!”

“That’s what the reports say,” replied the pegasus officer, relishing in the hug even though it could hinder him from responding to another emergency. Then again, one pair of open wings and he could be out of there….

“D-Does she wake people unannounced?” asked Sam, his second foray into the unknown limits of these officers.

“Sometimes,” Heat said, trying to politely nudge a petrified Crowhop away but absolutely failing to do so. Then, he smiled. “Why? Had a rude awakening this morning?”

Sam wanted to say “Yes”, but doubts were forming. What if that prankster was somepony else? He’d never been here before, and travel brochures surely didn’t come with a sample of regular harmless rascals to be wary of. So, to be certain, he stammered, “S-S-She’s…” tapped his chin, trying to remember the appearance of this floating clown. “She’s purple or violet, and her hair was, uh, forest green and brown, and...her cutie mark?” and realized neither of the officers were writing notes on it. Of course, they wouldn’t, but they were paying attention anyway—then, realizing he didn’t actually see her cutie mark in that tired wakefulness before, he admitted,“I-I didn’t get to see it.”

“She has spaghetti for her cutie mark,” the pegasus revealed, eliciting a snicker from some of the attentive crowd, “but the rest of your description matches up.”

Good to know a pegasus jolting random people awake was a normal around these parts.

Then, as if on cue, the crowd erupted into tons of questions, overwhelming the cops with questions. Where was Spaghetti Tree now? Was she apprehended or still in pursuit or now lost? Did they some vague idea why she’d escalated to damaging air-conditioning units? Would she face punishment behind bars or was a financial slap on the wrist an option for her?

In the midst of this controlled anarchy of questions, unknowns, and these authorities, Sam felt uneasy. Even with the police’s assurances that it’s merely the work of a local prankster who’d gone too far...even with that, Crowhop’s daunting suggestions didn’t seem far-fetched. Hadn’t there been a protest the night before? What if that was only the start of it?

With a full plate on his mind, Sam forgot his sandwich as he stood up and helped calm everyone else, with a chipper Crowhop waving her hooves about and telling all to “stay calm! Everything’s fine! We’ve got the cops on our side, and they’re very helpful in maintaining order!”

While Sam was miffed with the pony’s rather basic words and her sing-song voice, he let it be and just made sure everyone was back on their seats or at their lines.

It took the officers ten minutes to answer all questions and allay all concerns from the civilians. Once everything was fine according to Crowhop’s idea of it, the cops bade everyone farewell and a good day—oh, and to be on the lookout for Spaghetti Tree if she does escape.

Few minutes after that, everything had returned to former peace and tranquility...for the most part. The air-conditioning units were still broken, and in response to that, a couple human and Equestrian staff members lugged a box of portable air coolers and positioned them around in the room. It slowed the creeping rise in temperature, made it less noticeable.

While Sam and a few others went farther inside the bureau to check the roof and the units there, Crowhop became distracted by the sandwich leftover on the table. She looked left and right, made sure no one was looking, and proceeded to take a nibble out of the bread.

And then the cabbage. And then the lettuce. And then the potato.

When she opened her eyes, she saw the sandwich half-finished.

“Oh!” and blushed, putting a hoof to her flushed cheeks. “Heh-heh,” while levitating her phone in front of her face. She pressed some of the buttons with her hoof, letting her magic keep it afloat and steady. The number submitted, she placed it beside her ear and hear the familiar beeping.

Click!

“Hello!” a cheery voice aired from the other side. “This is Frost Flash of Hitch and Hop Repairs! How may I help you?”

“Oh, hi there!” Crowhop replied with equal cheerfulness, even hopping for a bit. “Well, you see, we’ve got a teensy-weensy problem with our air-conditioning….”

What—or, rather who—she didn’t notice was a mare sitting on a bench on the sidewalk. Unaffected by the scrutiny of the bureau’s outdoor guards, this pony turned her head to see Crowhop talking, moving her mouth with gasps and shouts and screams of joy. She could even hear some of those words through the closed doors.

“Heh.”

She then took out a wrench, turned it around with her hoof.

Then, she looked back at her newspaper.

In her paper-holding hoof were a few fliers for Equestrian repair services. Having heard “Hitch and Hop Repairs”, she discarded the rest and preserved the appropriate one in her grip.

“Time to tell the others in a minute,” she murmured to herself before turning the page, hiding the flier beneath an opinion article.

As the mare sat under the glare of the noonday sun, cars moving about and humans mingling with their other-worldly counterparts in their strolls through the city—as that mare sat there on the bench, her eyes glimmered, too.

Up With a Crowley

Lunch break had just ended, and Sam was walking through the halls and corridors, carrying a folder and some ballpoint pens as he passed by dozens of doors.

None of these doors were of one drab shade of some dull color. They’re all unique in a way: This door had stripes, that one had polka dots, and yet this other one continued the pony tradition of putting cartoon hearts on random items. It could be deduced from that observation that ponies were big on heart.

Sam had found this aesthetic quirk only slightly helpful. While Equestrians were quite artistic and creative, he found it quite cumbersome and unrestrained as some doors blended in with each other. The letters and numbers codifying each door were enough; he wasn’t used to memorizing what amounted to paintings for important room.

Granted, he didn’t access the deeper parts of the bureau which was where much of the creativity had been unleashed upon the poor walls and doors, where paint buckets stood in stacks and pyramids. Still, it was straining to his eyes.

However, the rare map on the wall finally helped him get to his destination.

New Equestrian Residences

This broad space was decorated with a couple drawings of homes and houses on the main walls. Past the armored pony guards with their spears, there were several doors, each with a hoofwritten or claw-written or appendage-written script of the resident’s names. Some had their old human names on it, others had their new species-oriented ones, and a few desired clarity and had both names on their cheap plaques.

Mrs. Crowley was of the latter.

Standing before the door, Sam read her names.
Laura Crowley/Colea; Changeling.

He raised his hand.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

A few seconds. Nothing.

“Coming!”

Sam breathed a sigh of relief, but he remained on the alert. He sensed no sniffles, no invisible tears exposed in her voice. Not a single tremble or tremor, even. He first chalked it up to her being a changeling—and, therefore, being a very good actress and very good at hiding emotions—but he banished the thought soon after.

Buzzes. He heard buzzes.

Click! Clang!

The door slowly opened, revealing the changeling’s green face, Crowley hovering to his level with wings flapping rapid. Her ears drooped out of shyness as she put on a small grin for the volunteer.

Sam waved at her, returning that small grin. “Uh, hi! How are you?”

“Fine,” she replied coolly, her wings slowing down so to lessen the buzzing. Then, looking straight at him with those compound eyes, “What’re you doing here?”

“Well, it’s my afternoon shift,” Sam said jovially, lifting both his hands like he was pulling a jumper. “That’s when I go around the residences and check up on everyone, see if they’re doing OK.”

“And why am I your first stop?” Crowley asked, narrowing her eyes rather suspiciously but with a knowing smile.

“N-No!” and Sam had both hands up in self-defense. “I don’t mean to become a changeling and flir—”

Crowley giggled, cutting his little hysteria short. “You’d be crazy to try anyway.” Pointing at herself with confidence, “I became a changeling for a good reason.”

“Right, right…” with Sam nodding his head, almost bowing down to make up for his mistake. Glancing back and hoping to escape this awkward situation, “I guess this is my time to leave…? Or, should I, uh, at least really make sure you’re OK?”

Crowley lifted a cheek in another smile, her buzzing wings continuing to fill his ears with that insectoid droning. “You’re nice from what I’ve seen so far.”

Sam was a little taken aback. …nice from what I’ve seen so far. Was this an unconscious jab at him? Then again, no one was expected to know everything about another person in two days, and Sam took solace in that.

“You can come in,” Crowley said, opening the door a bit more and also making way for him to strut in.

Sam effected a sincere, big smile for the changeling to copy. “OK, then!”

So, he walked inside.

Before, Sam had seen pictures of the new ponies’ rooms and they were par for the course, ranging from wooden cottage bedrooms to apartment-style studios. However, this one had never been advertised to him: all dimensions fashioned out of mossed stone, bed and other furniture built out of timber and rocks, appliances powered by a synergy of electricity and magic, vines hanging over the jagged walls—all illuminated by an eerie larva-like lamp hanging from the ceiling, casting its glow upon the quarters dark and bleak.

Everything was bestowed a slight sheen of green. A spring bud outline formed out of everything under the repugnant stench of the dining table’s servings of fried bugs.

Crowley saw Sam flex his absent muscles to pinch his nose. She chuckled again, though with a blush this time. “Sorry! You caught me eating.” Hovering over to her chair, shooting fast like a fly to sugar, “It’s changeling cuisine.”

Sam coughed, wheezed at the intolerable stink. “Apologies, missus, but I rather don’t like having—cagh!—flies for breakfast!”

“Why shouldn’t you?” Crowley asked, much to the dismay of a helpless Sam as he wallowed in bad odor. “Don’t you like blue cheese?”

Sam finally took a good look at the insect-ridden food, seeing maggots squirm all over the rotten cheese.

“Who knew changelings like Italy for their casu marzu?” she said, absorbed by an appetizing meal fit for a changeling king. “I also got fried pupae on a stick, deep fried crickets in a bowl, roast beetle—”

“Are you trying to make me puke?!” Sam retched with his tightly-pinched nose. Even with that, he could still pick up the strong scent of rancid ingredients and noxious pests, sensing his head becoming light.

Crowley snapped out of her tasty harangue, blushing once more. “Heh-heh! Hold on.”

She dashed to one end of the room, grabbed a small blanket, and covered the dining table and its food with the cloth, making the stench disappear like magic.

Sam let go of his nose and heaved in a big gulp of air. Consoled by the smell that was no more, he had his torment ended. With renewed energy, his eyes refocused, properly adapting to the dim environment he was in.

He spotted a chair, a wooden one whose appearance matched that of the table. No cushions or pillows, but he sat on it anyway, knowing that a hard chair that strained his buttocks was better than no chair at all.

Well, there was standing, but his legs were quite tired from all the lugging and carrying around of boxes thanks to the new potion shipment.

“Sorry I didn’t catch up on you sooner,” said Sam. He pulled out a pencil, ready to record some observations with the folder and paper on his lap. “We had a seminar, and you seemed to be busy.” Raised an eyebrow. “Guess you’re learning the changeling lifestyle, no?” and leaned back on the rather stony backrest.

Crowley pulled out a chair from the table, and placed it beside Sam’s. She sat on it and answered, “Yeah. Reolata’s been helping me get through.”

“Like walking on four legs all the time?” Sam asked right away, mindlessly tapping his knee with his writing instrument.

Crowley lifted her cheek again, this time annoyed at this preemptive questioner. “Honestly? It wasn’t that bad. It’s like crawling but you have to do it a lot more. I can still walk on two legs, but that’ll be awkward. So, I just stay on all fours.”

“Which you have to do all the time?” Sam further prodded, then hid a wince at stepping too far over conversational boundaries.

Crowley spread her wings, pink and transparent just like a fly’s—a pink fly’s, yes. They shone delicately under the soft green light, little spots twinkling. “Not all the time.”

Baffled at first by the suggestion, Sam then became more baffled at how he missed those wings. “Huh. Must’ve forgotten about that.”

“Come on!” she blurted out with tilted head, closing her wings. “I’m probably the first new changeling you’ve met in this city. You should’ve noticed by now, really.”

Sam made a sheepish smile, doing his best to cover up his foolishness. “Clumsy me, right?”

Crowley snickered at that. “That’s not the right word.”

But, instead of thinking up something witty to get back at her, Sam just basked in the moment and slouched on his chair. Crowley took the cue and basked in it, too, slumping on her chair...or, as best as she could with all four hooves on the cold seat.

They reclined in the room’s darkness. Free from the disgusting smell of dinner, Sam and Laura took it in, too in that feeling of midnight in the middle of the day. Relaxing in the peaceful calm, eyes falling upon simple designs: the rocky architecture, the hobbled-up furniture, the room’s smallness, the changeling inhabitant....

“How’s your day?” Sam asked to break the silence, turning to face Crowley who was engrossed by the ceiling lamp.

Looking away from her distraction, Crowley turned to Sam, her head still creeping him out as he tried to accustom himself to it. She bean, “I wanna say it’s been great...but, you know,” raised her wings again, “it takes some time getting used to another species entirely.”

Sam nodded, taking the time to recollect his thoughts. “How’s your...eating habits?”

“Well, the insects taste very good and—” that’s when she caught wind of his meaning. Her ears drooped again, the changeling becoming a bit soft-spoken. “Oh. You mean the love-sharing thing?”

Sam shrugged his shoulders, staying positive and upbeat with her. “Yeah. What about it?” He paused, seeing if Crowley had a quick answer to it. “Because, having to eat an emotion, a conscious act, a condition...like, how can you digest love? It’s hard to wrap my head around that concept.”

“It’s hard for my head, too,” she confessed. “I get that it works and I technically get the hang of it, but how it works?” Crowley pursed her lips, looking off to the mossy wall. “No clue.”

Sam turned his eyes back to his lap’s papers. “I’ve read some info about that. Had to do it to be competent in answering questions.” He sighed, calling to memory model illustrations and bullet point lists of facts. “I know it has magic involved—something about thaumic energy and how it reacts to one’s emotional levels, but...well, I just memorize. Haven’t really understood it.”

Crowley rested a hoof on her hard and shiny chitin forehead. “Reolata said explaining it to non-changelings has always been difficult.”

“I mean, I get it,” Sam said with open arms ready not for a hug but a shrug. “How can you explain eating love to someone who’s never done it before? And I don’t mean getting a kick out of seeing people happy or what, I mean really eating love? Like a hamburger of love?”

That fetched a chortle from the changeling, able to wrap her mind around a literal hamburger of love: two buns, some lettuce, some bacon, some tomatoes, and, drizzled with ketchup and mustard, that ethereal pink stream of substance known as love. That sweet, sweet love—only for a dollar and ninety-nine, maybe.

What Sam was left with was a changeling mulling over such a wonderful creation.

After a minute of such thinking, she whirled her head at Sam. A sheepish smile returned to her face, conveying a hint of embarrassment at being spaced out.

Sam recognized it and leaned back on his stony chair again, wanting to change the subject to something more productive. “OK, let’s try—” fumbled with his folder and papers, almost dropped his pencil, furrowed his brows at a certain word on the paper “—what your friends and loved ones think about you now that you’re a changeling,” and put up a smile that covered his own embarrassment.

Crowley lifted a hoof to her chin, her mind retracing her steps and the people she’d spent some time with over the past week or two. “Uh, first thing that comes to mind is Rogie, but he hasn’t said anything yet.”

Sam tilted his head, looking very thoughtful with a pencil on his ear. “How come? That should’ve been a significant moment between the two of you, especially since you’re a couple as the same species.” Then, putting one arm over his chest, he asked, “Did you at least see his facial reaction?”

“That’s the thing, really,” she said, voice drifting off. “He wasn’t there yesterday, nor today.”

Sam put much of his weight forward. This elsewhere husband was an interesting development. “You haven’t met at all since then? Actually...where is he, anyway?”

“Had some errands to do,” she replied quickly, becoming a bit despondent as she scratched her foreleg. “Go meet with some friends in Humboldt county. He’s supposed to return today, actually, and his first order of business is to come and see me.”

Sam looked at the closed door and, as he expected, heard no knocks or footsteps. Or hoofsteps, clawsteps, pawsteps, any other kind of steps. “Why didn’t you settle for a day when he’s free?”

Crowley went a little quiet at that inquiry. “It was sudden, sort of. His friends are also changelings both Earth and Equestrian. They’re coming from a trip in Alaska.”

There it was. Alaska.

Sam leaned in a little close, trying to disguise what else he knew about Alaska. “What were they doing up there? That’s a bit far for a casual hang out...although maybe it’s the snow,” and mellowed down, hoping she wouldn’t tense up. “And the aurora borealis, too. I’ve never seen them up close myself.”

Crowley cringed, bothered by this growing investigation. “There’s that, and...a-and—”

While she was starting to choke on her words, Sam looked away to hide a painful grimace. Perhaps he’d been too straightforward. The questions were very pointed; perhaps they were getting on the nose too early. Then again, she’d been vocal about it with Reolata if what he’d heard was of any indication. She should be able to spill the beans right here and right now. But, even with that, she had spent more time with Reolata than some average volunteer who had almost no experience with new changelings adapting to a new everything.

But he could try. There was that option.

Then, she sniffed. Wiped her runny nose with a hoof that walked around in contact with dirt and germs, but neither she nor Sam thought of that.

As for Sam: he flinched, grabbed on to his chair. He readied his legs, preparing to stand up and leave the room. Giving her the time to reflect upon whatever had happened was probably the polite thing to d—

“Don’t, sir.”

He stopped right there, seated on a hard, cold, rough, and inconvenient seat.

Saw a hesitant Laura reaching out to him with a hoof. She opened her wings, maybe to catch him if he did intend to leave.

Sam gulped. He was desperate to say, I’ll let you be; I don’t know what you’re going through. However, he reminded himself of why he was here: to figure out the truth, or at least some of it, straight from the source.

So, he fully rested on his seat once more, prepared to listen to an emotional changeling, prepared to withstand an outpouring of emotion—of melancholy, sorrow, guilt, whatever it’d be.

Laura sighed. Eyes closed, head turned down to the mossy and uneven floor dimmed by the darkness. Closed her eyes more, eyelids scrunched up under the pressure.

It’s about your brother, isn’t it? but Sam held it in.

Laura choked, coughed. “I...I g-got some bad news from...f-from Rogie wh-while he was in Alaska....”

Sam slowly leaned closer, secretly hoping she’d talk about what was in his mind: About your missing brother, isn’t it?

“Th-There was a—” sniffled, rubbed her nose and staining it with snot.

Whitaker? and Sam closed his mouth, cutting off all temptation to ruin the delicate mood.

Then, a tear glimmered on the changeling’s cheek, glimmering a sickly green as it dropped to the floor.

Sam took note of that lonesome tear, dreadful that it would be the first of many. “Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, then—”

“I’ll talk about it!”

And her voice rang, bounced off the walls.

It haunted Sam, that hollow reverberation, that ringing echo. The feeling of a sympathizing sorrow overcame him, anticipation rising up in his heart as the guesses came over just as Crowley herself was bending over to that mental beat, head in her forehooves to block any incoming tears to betray an emotion or a plethora of them, to reveal the person behind the smile, a—

Sniffed. “It’s...d-do you know….”

Whitaker. Just say it and we’ll all be better off.

She looked up, eyes moist but not enough to spill over into a bitter flood. Seeing that feeling face of a considerate Sam, wondering what he might say, wondering what his reaction might be. Then, throwing all caution to the wind, she blathered, “I-It’s about h-him—m-my Wh-Whittie.”

Nice nickname aside, Sam shooed that complement off his mind. Now was no time to be calling things nice and cute, especially with a sensitive subject in play. Anything could happen, and a weeping changeling under his watch wouldn’t be the best of things.

Crowley raised her head, stared hard at those eyes waiting or dying for an answer. She tried to find the words, and she ended up with: “I-It’s said he’s just gone missing...’cause he wanted to become a dragon, and we were all going to have a party for him...and then, a-and then—”

“You couldn’t contact him?” Sam finally asked, breaking his silence in this cramped and dingy room. “Did you go ask around?”

“We did th-the best we could,” she managed, voice clogged by a tightening throat. “Called everyone. They even started a search before it got called off.” Turned away, unable to face her helper. “They say he just went up and away—that’s what the bureau officials say, but….”

“But what?” Sam asked, hoping he’d use his I-have-other-creatures-to-visit card as his excuse to speed things up if things went too slow for him.

Crowley fidgeted with her forehooves, pawing the rugged, rocky moss-covered surface before her. “We never saw a-any pictures of him as a dragon. All we have is a photo of his old self minutes before he w-went inside.” She instinctively reached out for her phone, then realized she didn’t have it in reach, or in the room at all.

Sam cocked his head. “Well, what do you think happened to him? Kidnap and ransom? Didn’t like his form and stowed away in Equestria? Maybe something happened during the transformation and he had to recuperate?” He opened a hand at that idea. “That can happen.”

“But they would’ve told us!” Crowley countered, holding up her hooves to get a hold of herself. “They wouldn’t be so secretive, not now when it’s my brother at stake!” Then, she shook her head, horrified by her own suggestions. “What i-if they’re experimenting on him?”

Sam almost stood up at that. “That’d be dumb. They wouldn’t do that, not without causing international controversy and getting into both worlds’ most wanted lists.”

“But they’d do it anyway,” she replied deadpan, glum at the whole ordeal. “No...what if the potion went haywire? What if he’s not a dragon, but...something else? A mutant? A horrible mutant?!” and smothered her face in her forehooves again.

Sam sighed, seeing this pitiable creature in pity. “Laura, I know that he’s very close to you and you love him very much. However, what I want to ask of you is to stay calm and breathe.”

Laura did breathe but only to seize it in huge gulps. Quickly: “I-I’m not sure if I c-could do that! Wh-What if he’s dead? I can’t just leave him dead! He’s the only one I have and—”

“Laura. Breathe.”

Nothing.

In that dark room, the lamp illuminated everything in a subtle green outline.

She froze. Stopped in place.

Nothing, as Sam watched every single move from her.

Then, she sniffed.

She looked down.

More tears dropped.

And she cried.

Lunged at him, crying on his shoulders as his shirt dampened.

Sam sat there, not knowing what to say.

However, he knew what to do: Pat her on the back, and let the tears flow in that dark, cramped room.

An Afternoon in the Life

Sam went about the rest of his afternoon shift in one piece, to say the least. He visited a diversity of creatures, all of them former humans who’re staying there for at least a few days, adjusting to their new bodies, their new drawbacks, and their new abilities.

He met Turbo Jet, a black pegasus whose room was quite standard: A flat wooden floor for ease and that lodge-like quality, a multi-purpose desk where he’d transferred his collection of toy airplanes, and a bed with some built-in drawers for baseball hats and random stuff.

“...and you stay here just to sleep?” Sam asked, seeing the pony brush his mane with a wing-wielded comb.

“Pretty much,” was his reply as he stretched his wings out, bending his pinions and exercising them in a little warm-up. “I’ve always dreamed of flying since I was a kid: freedom to go wherever you want, whenever you want; the adrenaline of being high up in the sky, soaring above the ground...and I could see everyone and wave at them.”

He paused, letting Sam study his pegasus form. “Of course, not like this. I’d wanted to be a pilot, but why be a pilot when you have these bad boys?” and spread his wings, showing off his span.

Sam tipped backwards a little, impressed by how Jet’s adapted to his third pair of limbs. “Airplanes are obsolete with you guys hanging around, right?”

“Not really,” he replied, then sat on the bed on his four hooves. “They’ll just get used to having less passengers now, because anyone can get their free set of wings,” and spread his set out again. “Even then, some pegasi prefer planes—gets their wings rested for the shorter trips.”

Jet pointed a hoof at Sam. “Eh, what about you? What’re you gonna take when it’s time?”

He looked to the side, failing to dodge the question. “I haven’t made my decision yet,” then, noting the wings on Jet, “I’m afraid of heights, so that might be a problem.”

Jet rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that is a problem. Still, don’t be afraid. Conquer your fears, am I right?”

Sam shrugged his shoulders, unwilling to commit but willing to pretend. “Yeah, you’re right.”

A deer lived inside his quarters brimming with plants. These many plants stood on the shelves, hung from the ceiling, suspended on the walls—all kinds of colorfully vibrant flowers, bringing out a smorgasbord of soft, oriental scents for the nose to take in. Sam could even hear the chirp of birds inside, making him think for a second that he was indeed in the great outdoors.

Birds did land on the bed stand.

Then, Sam’s attention was directed to the deer in the room: Adirondack, tending to his plentiful plants with a watering can, antlers magically glowing as the leaves of a minty herb surged to good posture.

Adirondack pointed a hoof at the one and only chair in the room. In a magnificent, slightly royal voice, he said, “Come. Have a seat.”

Sam felt uneasy with this majestic, marvelous deer talking to him. Then, he re-noted the thing that distinguished him from the average, run-of-the-mill deer: bigger eyes.

“So,” the deer began, pacing around on the floor and picking up a potted shrub with a gentle hoof, “what questions do you bring to me?”

Sam gulped, tugging his collar with a shaky hand. Such a big deer before him; ramming him to the door would’ve been easy. This little fear made him eke out a simple “Um….”

After a few seconds of maintaining a regal smile, Adirondack smiled and snickered, putting a hoof to his laughing mouth. He slapped himself on the face, and said, “Hey, take a joke!”

That floored Sam to his seat, now even more fearful at this somewhat funny deer.

“Shoulda’ seen the look on your face!” shouted the deer, leaning his head and his heavy antlers to the side.

Sam didn’t have a mirror to do just that. Not that he wanted one right now.

“Forgot to introduce myself to you,” he said, waving it off with a hoofwave, “but you know who I am. You got my details there,” gesturing at the clipboard and folder on Sam’s lap, “so you should know me.” Then, leaning on a rack of lush green plants, “But, you can tell what my pastime is, can’t you?”

Still recovering from the shock, Sam silently nodded.

“See, I was born Adirondack,” the deer continued, putting a hoof to his chest which was adorned with a sash and a tiny barrel of sorts. Pacing around again, “I’ve always had a liking for forests and camping, so it only made sense for me to be a deer, and—”

Bumped his antlers into a shelf and a pot fell.

“Aiee!” and saved the pot from doom.

He looked at Sam who’d stayed on the chair, dumbstruck by what’d just happened.

“Oh, come on!” Adirondack pointed at the precious plant that’d lived a bit of life on the edge. “You could’ve at least tried!”

Sam raised his hands in protest, mellowing his voice a lot to say, “Sorry! It was all just so sudden, and meeting you was really mesmerizing, and….” waned away.

Adirondack sighed, then put on a smile to fix the situation. “Well, sorry for bursting out at you. Can’t blame you really.” Pointed at his antlers. “These...they make getting around difficult. Can’t fit in the library aisles, the grocery aisles, all the aisles...” and stared at the plant once more.

He gently put it back to its place in the rack.

“But, you’ll be OK?” quipped Sam, indicating the antlers.

“I’ll be OK,” the deer replied. “I heard antler trimming is on the rise these days.”

That only brought a look of unfamiliarity upon Sam. “I haven’t heard of that one before, but sure.”

Sam opened another door and found himself in a dragon’s quarters. It had a hoard of sparkly gems by the corner, a cavern-like interior of rocks and stones, and a big pot simmering with some kind of stew, fiery logs underneath it. However, some modern amenities managed to make it here: a television, a video game console, a couple books printed with plastic pages so as to prevent accidental burning.

Sitting on an old metal chair and overseeing the stew was a blue dragon. She stirred the soup with a big wooden spoon, smelled the wafting scent of food.

Sam slowly turned the knob to close the door, trying to be as quiet as possible.

The dragon kept stirring, kept turning the spoon around.

Sam, like many other people, was scared of being burned by a dragon. So, he went about greeting her in a most humble way: “Uh, hello, Paraffin?”

“Oh!” and she rested the spoon in the pot. She walked up to him in a few heavy steps and extended a claw to shake. “How do you do, Sam?”

Sam looked at his small hand, and then at her big claw. “Wow.”

“Heh. I get that a lot,” and just shook his hand.

Sam bit his tongue, smiling to hide the pain of his almost-crunched hand.

She looked behind herself, made sure her tail wouldn’t knock anything off. “You’re here to see if I’m doing fine, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam said, massaging his affected hand while reading over his clipboard. “You’re...you’re ninety-five years old, correct?”

She nodded. Her lips gave way to a fanged grin. “Now, why would I lie about my age?”

Sam gave his paper another thorough look. There it was, Age: 95. He looked back at her. “I know you’re ninety-five, but I don’t feel like you’re ninety-five. You get what I mean, don’t you?”

“Strange how it all works, huh?” Paraffin glanced at the bubbling pot, then flew her way to it.

Sam followed her and stood by the pot.

Much heat carried away from the stew, giving him a blast of hot air straight to his face. The stew itself was a thick yellow goop, sprinkled with shaved beryls, amethysts, and diamonds.

“When you want to live a couple hundred years more,” she remarked, stirring the pot again, “you’d better take it. If you can take it, don’t miss out.”

The little nugget of wisdom made Sam thoughtful for a while. “Yeah, that’s true.”

As Paraffin stirred the stew, she gave her food a pensive frown. She clenched her claws on the spoon with rested scaly chin. Then, her stirring slowed, the stew now slushing around like a smoothie.

“Couldn’t move around as much, ma’am?” Sam asked, adding that last word to be respectful in yet another stream of thought.

Paraffin breathed a long sigh; he could see the steam come out of her nostrils. “The doctors said I’d still live another ten years on veggies and supplements. I’ve always liked them, but,” becoming wistful towards the stew… “can’t enjoy life much when you’re an old fogey strapped to a wheelchair.”

He imagined what this Paraffin had looked like. Another glimpse at the clipboard and he’d found her last identification photo as a human: wrinkled and creased with fluffy white hair; pair of glasses perched on her pointed nose. Compared to the chipper dragon before him, Mrs. Morganti looked her age.

Sam looked back at Paraffin’s current self. Though she was now a young adult again, he could still see traces of the old lady in her careful, meticulous movements—how her fingers were equally spaced apart and moved up and down like those on a cello. “You didn’t like being confined in one place?”

“And the isolation, too,” she added, turning her sight away from him to full focus on her cooking.

Sam nodded in agreement with her, nodding in an I-know-how-you-feel kind of way. “No one called you up? Texted you or what?”

Paraffin snorted, fuming out black puffs of smoke from her nose. “My son used to bring his family along to my place, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to tell it was just a routine. He’d be ratted out if he missed a trip—gossip’ll start spreading, and not even I wanted that for my wayward son.”

A pause as she stirred on. She looked down at the logs which were beginning to cool. This was rectified by blasting a ball of fire at it.

Fshew! and Sam jumped away, shielding his face with his arm as a hot spell came over him. He lowered his arm, saw that his clothes remained unburned.

At least the pot was back on high heat.

Instead of blabbing out a hasty Sorry!, Paraffin shook her head at herself. She smirked at her would-be victim, and that was enough to rebuild Sam’s trust in her and draw him back to the pot.

Not that he had trust issues with her. It had to do more with the fire she was handling.

“Now, where was I?” she said, keeping herself busy with the spoon and the stew. “Ah! He was a heartless man, a very unthankful man. Successful, but unthankful.”

Took a while to let her thoughts settle on someone else. “His wife, my daughter-in-law, ended up my real child—always giving me gifts, letters, photos...we had a little shopping spree together. Made me relive my youth for a day,” and beamed at remembering that.

Sam beamed, too, though it’s more out of seeing a dragon smiling so openly. The lullabies and bedtime tales of knights slaying dragons hadn’t produced a friendly impression on him. Even after Equestria and Earth opened formal travel between the dimensions, the average dragon he saw was always seen frowning or pouting or scowling. Combined with their draconic physique and their fire powers, Sam didn’t want to raise their ire.

That in mind, he loosened the question brewing in his mind: “Well, what happened to her? Did she become a dragon like you?” Then, pausing. “I’m sure you must’ve had some weird looks from your son when you became a dragon.”

“Even before that,” she added with a wagging finger… “even before that, he didn’t like it. He was silent when I told him, but I could tell he was bothered.” Faster stirring—”Started calling me names when I wasn’t around, about how I stabbed him in the back for choosing to live.”

She spat at the pot, the spit bouncing off the walls and into a trash can.

Sam was grateful he did not get hit by such a dangerous projectile.

The dragon looked off at the pot. “We lost contact for a month. That’s when Georgina went to my place...alone.” Slowed the spoon down to a boiling halt. “And some baggages.”

A pause.

Breathed in, breathed out.

“Separated. Divorced.”

A thick silence reigned.

Sam rubbed his forehead, taking the old news in. It’d be bad to put forth a rash question at this tense moment, so he kept quiet and let the not-so-old dragon speak.

“There, I took care of her, for as long as I thought it feasible to stay a human. I still had the knack to cook food for her, to take care of her money, and to let her recover from that horrible disaster.”

Paraffin let go of the spoon. She flew over to a cabinet where she kept some rock bowls. Returned with one, used the spoon as a ladle, and poured some of the stew into it.

He felt the stew’s heat without touching the bowl, without putting any part of himself above it.

While she held her food with her claw, smoke and steam meandering upwards: “When the time came for me to say goodbye to my old self and go here, she gave me a tearful hug. Even now, I get a daily letter from her.” She lifted the bowl to her mouth, drank a gulp down fast, surprising him with how hungry she must’ve been. “I’m expecting tonight’s just as I always have.”

She drank more of her stew, leaving Sam without any. He’d decline anyway, given that the precious stones made it inedible and intolerable for his stomach.

The dragon shook her head as she wiped her mouth clean with her claw, not once resorting to tissue paper. “I never heard from my son again. I tried contacting my nephews and nieces—even the company he was working for, and they were so kind—but he’s nowhere to be found. Perhaps he wanted to cut ties with me for my decision.”

Then, she threw the half-finished bowl into the sizzling pot, smoke and bubbles surging up as it melted.

Sam held his hand up, protecting himself from whatever might come...and also from a probably low-temper dragon.

“So what?” Paraffin declared, staring at that boiling pot. “I’ve taken care of him, even pampered him from time to time when he was young. If he remains adamant in his ways, I won’t poke myself with such thoughts. A millennium is too long for me to worry about him.”

Having heard that, Sam nodded yet another time, hoping that it’d be enough to make the dragon not angry at him.

And Sam left his last “new creature” with a baseball cap saying Merponies at Venice! His shirt and pants were a bit wet from the splashing pond which was merely access to an underwater suite built just for the new merpony, but Sam trudged on with less-than-stellar fashion taste.

After returning the folders and the clipboard, Sam walked to the lobby and found Canter Crowhop conversing with Dark Roast at the coffee bar.

The energetic pony—made more so with her third cup of coffee at night—waved Sam on with her hoof. “See ‘ya tomorrow, buddy!”

Sam replied with his own wave and a smile. “See you, too, Crowhop!”

Before he knew it, he was back outside in the hot air of loud and noisy Los Angeles traffic. Remembering to put his ID inside his pocket, he turned on his phone and booked yet another Uber ride.

With good ol’ Arthur who was the closest one to the bureau.

As he walked his way to the black car, passing by the myriad of headlights and storefront lights and streetlights and star lights, too—as he walked up to it, he thought about how Crowhop was already calling him “buddy”. The sheer light-heartedness to it was fun, if a bit cheesy since she’d only known him personally for two days.

Not much time to think about it, though, since the passenger door opened on its own.

The car window lowered down, revealing Arthur wearing a pair of sunglasses. “Come on in, already!”

Food Truck

Back in the cold car, Sam brought his splashed pants right in front of a built-in fan, letting the stain dry up.

“Saw you had some kind of accident back there,” Arthur said, eyes still on the road in the middle of this standstill. He readied his hand over the steering wheel, more than willing to honk. “What happened?”

Sam looked up and only saw half of the rear view mirror and none of Arthur’s reflection. “Oh, nothing. Took care of a few seaponies and merponies, that’s all.”

“Cleaning up the shores, eh?” Arthur quipped, leaning his head to the right so he could see Sam. “Getting the trash out in no time. Good thing we have them. I’m sure they’ve saved tons of whales by now.”

Sam furrowed his brows, bringing his memory to a news article about yet another whale saved by merponies. “Never saw estimates or anything, but they must have saved some. Good for them, good for us.”

Arthur broke out a smile, his shades reflecting back on Sam’s eyes with the glare of headlights.

Sam moaned as he closed his eyes shut.

“Sorry!” and Arthur took off his shades, revealing a pair of reddened eyes through the mirror. Holding his sunglasses with one hand, “Had to have these on. Graveyard shift last night. Don’t want people to think I’m under the influence.”

That didn’t help Sam look away from the hand so close to the wheel. “Why the graveyard shift?”

“You know the drill,” and he whipped his head back to the front, watching out for the green light. “Really gruesome, but you gotta pay to stay.”

It took a while for Sam to catch his drift. When he did, he made a wry smile. “You’re having a hard time living here, too?”

Arthur let his hand fly and gesture out in the air, shaking his head in self-disdain. He refocused his eyes on the gas truck in front of him, blocking much the view. “I live in an apartment at South Central. West Florence Avenue.”

Sam got up on his seat. “You want to have an upstate villa?” Then, having gotten no response from the driver, he asked, “What about acting? Ever tried that? This is the land of Hollywood, after all. Don’t they get lots of money here?”

Arthur chuckled, laughing it off. “I tried. Only cameoed in a cheesy C-movie nobody wanted to watch.”

“That’s not acting!” he shouted, about to burst into his own laughter.

Arthur rolled his red eyes, still weary and aching from the night before. “Hey, I had to look the part, right? If that isn’t acting, then I don’t know what is.”

With that, traffic began to free up. The truck’s rear lights turned off, and Arthur inched his way through the boulevard, hoping to get past the intersection before the green light switched.

“So, you’re not going straight home, huh?” Arthur asked, trying to strike up another conversation.

“Not really,” Sam said, looking outside and seeing a Ralphs supermarket farther down on his left. Cars filled up the parking lot as staff helped push the shopping cart of an Abyssinian whose paws were full with grocery bags.

“I want to try out some of the local soul food,” Sam said.

“At Peas on the Cob?” asked Arthur, almost scoffing at the notion of going there. “The food’s good, but why not go a little off the edge? This is your first time in LA!” Moving his head about like a giddy child, “Take my advice: Go to a food truck. Any food truck. They’re everywhere. There’s Leo’s Tacos for the tacos, Nom Nom for the Vietnamese sandwiches—”

“I’ll do it when I’m done with my time at the bureau,” Sam replied, raising a polite hand. “Nothing wrong with it, I suppose. It won’t be long.”

Arthur nodded, taking the decline with pride. “Sure. I’ll just get you to the Cob in no time.”

He then regretted his promise, for the red light turned on right before he reached the junction.

Central-Alameda was officially in South Los Angeles yet was farther north than both the bureau and the airport. Sam, being the curious tourist he was, became a little interested about the naming of the regions and boroughs and districts. He thought they were little packs of condensed history just waiting to be perused.

He reached 5403 South Central Avenue, was dropped off at a tiny informal parking lot, and waved goodbye to Arthur who then drove off to find another passenger.

Sam saw him put his shades back on despite the nighttime hour.

Far away from the glitz and glamor of a Hollywood portrayal, Los Angeles proved to be quite modest. Not much activity whirred about, with few pedestrians of all kinds walking or trotting or flying around. Over there, a griffon and a pony were arguing about the only burrito they had left in hoof or claw while a human tried to mediate and mend the situation.

Beyond that, the eventide atmosphere soothed Sam, making him feel somewhat at home. Sparse streetlights shone over the stream of passers-by minding their own business.

It wasn’t a completely pretty sight. Two posters lay side-by-side on the wall of an abandoned dollar store across the street. One spouted out an HLF motto: Humanity will never die. The other proposed a PER slogan: Ponies. Better than our evil selves. With such tension, however, they were mostly ignored by pedestrians who weren’t up for another fight.

Sam looked behind him and saw Peas on the Cob sandwiched between a fried chicken store and a laundromat. He could see its bright interior and the several customers dining there, chowing down on neck bones, pork chop, turkey wings, mashed potato, collard green, rice and gravy….

Sam entered and was treated with a strong and savory whiff and the ring of a bell. He didn’t expect much from the yellow exterior, given that its storefront was cramped, but he took in that smell that only soul food could generate. The homeliness, the friendliness of being huddled together with other people at the small tables as they ate guilty pleasures that’d make healthy dietitians fume with fury.

A great variety of creatures had banded together to form this scene: Griffons, deer, changelings, yaks, and dragons hanging out with humans as they easily devoured their hearty dinners under white lights amidst the clanks of utensils and the chomps of mouths and beaks. Cooks, also serving as waiters and cashiers, prepared batches of meats and sides to be exhibited under the cafeteria display with a yellowish tint. Sheets of metal lay at the counter and at the open air kitchen behind it, giving off a retro diner feel which was topped with salt shakers, ketchup bottles, and rolls of tissue on each table.

Some turned their heads to Sam, mentally inquiring who he was. He withstood that and browsed the massive menu hanging under the display.

“Good evening!” a cheerful voice greeted.

Sam raised his eyes to see an aproned woman, her short hair bunned. Saw her name tag. Edna.

“Welcome to the Cob!” she said, spreading an arm open as if to welcome Sam also into the kitchen and volunteer as a cook. “How may I help you?”

Sam tapped his chin with an indecisive finger. “Um, what would you recommend?”

Edna laid an open palm towards the hot food before her. “You can always try our classic fried chicken with mash potatoes! Comes with gravy and a side of greens!”

Sam paused a bit, taking in the bestseller selection and the semblance of normalcy before him. He didn’t want to turn around, to see the fantasy creatures gabbing and gesturing and sitting and eating right there in the same room he was standing in. He wanted to block the madness out of his mind, no matter how real it’d become.

Now, he wished for a few minutes’ grace from hectic news of Equestria, conversion, and magic. Now, he wanted to relish this normal moment between himself and Edna.

“...could also try our fried fish and mac and cheese!” as her voice phased in to his ears.

Sam salivated his lips, thinking of creamy fish with creamy cheese. However, he suppressed himself and said, “I’ll just have the fried chicken one.”

And then, he was a spectator of a something typical, something beautifully typical and ordinary: He saw Edna grab a plate and put it on top of the display. She scooped up the fried chicken, the mashed potatoes, and the greens—all these went to the plate. After a generous serving of gravy, she handed the plate over to Sam.

He didn’t care about the griffons and kirins going around and cooking up stuff. Sam just focused on his food and the woman serving said food.

Once that was done, he got his plate and soda, traveled to an empty table, and began eating his dinner. He didn’t want to chat with anyone for the moment, having just talked to many different creatures less than an hour ago. Still, it was fun to peoplewatch—or, now, creaturewatch.

Every so often, he’d catch an interesting sight or soundbite from the other diners there. While sipping some of his soda, he heard the table’s topic shift to that of ponies. In the center of the eatery, the deer proposed that he and his partners should start up a business on vegetarian meat. Half of the table agreed with the idea; the other, disagreed. Ideas were bandied back and forth, ranging from pony sensibilities being too sensitive to handle even a nibble of fish to imagining a pony devouring good steak in a protein rush.

A good fifteen minutes passed, Sam being the silent observer to this freeform chat on everything from politics to favorite colors...and before he knew it, he was down to the last few bites of his food.

As he finished up his meal, he heard the bell ring.

Sam turned to the newcomer and recognized this fresh face. The middle table hushed down at this visitor, their eyes on her—this pegasus mare, trotting in and biting her lip under her short green-brown mane.

She looked at her left and saw Sam.

Spaghetti Tree gulped, bit her lip even more. “Uh, h-hi?”

He just sat there, knife and fork firmly in his grasp. He wanted to be nice to this pony despite her reputation as a prankster and now a criminal. Sam decided to return the greeting: “Well, hi. You must be…?”

“Spaghetti Tree,” she said with hesitation.

That confirmed his suspicion, not that he needed much confirming. Still, beating around the bush sounded viable now. “You go here often?”

She shook her head. “No. Didn’t know this was a thing. I actually had to catch up on my Uber friend about it.”

“Your Uber friend?” Sam asked, raising his eyebrows and his own interest. “Arthur?”

“That’s him,” she said, putting up a shaky smile.

Sam smiled back, trying to be as genial as possible to his rude awakener. “Huh. Small world. He drove me here and he’s also my commute to the bureau this morning.”

“I know,” looking outside and seeing a couple cars by that little parking lot, and more cars moving on the road under the dazzling streetlights.

Sam thought she was in a contemplative mood: her sullen lips and her half-open eyes of pondering. He took a while before he asked, “Why did you come here, though?”

Spaghetti sighed and took a seat across the table. She didn’t rest her eyes on the delicious almost-done dinner before her. Instead, she laid her saggy eyes on Sam. “I came here to apologize.”

Sam had stuck a fork on some greens, but let it lie there on his plate as put his brain to thought. Despite the mare’s laughter from earlier this morning, the prank wasn’t funny—he even got hurt from it, what with falling out of the bed at her roar to wake up. Though, he did wake up then and there….

Sam didn’t want to prolong whatever internal agony she could be experiencing right now. So, he nodded and offered a handshake for her hoof. “Apology accepted, miss.”

Spaghetti examined the outstretched hand, open and ready to grip her hoof in forgiveness and, perhaps, friendship.

Then, Sam looked at his hand again, stretching his fingers out at a realization. “Oh, right. I...I got to start.”

Spaghetti breathed a chortle.. “Heh-heh! Hooves and all, am I right?”

She was right.

Sam shook her fingerless hoof, still feeling that invisible grip on the pony appendage. He saw her grinning wide, dimples showing on that violet face...and, were those freckles on her cheeks?

The polite gesture over, Sam rested his back on the chair, his shirt beginning to get creases. “So, you want me to order for you?”

“Actually,” and, here, Spaghetti gulped—”uh, Sam? I...I was thinking we could go outside and order from the chicken waffle truck.”

“The chicken waffle truck?” Sam repeated. Then, he pursed his lips. “Oh. Arthur. Right.”

Spaghetti snorted, almost sounding out a nicker. “He told me you were stubborn for not eating at a food truck. Really, this place is full of different food trucks for you to try out!”

Sam took one last gulp of his soda before putting it down. “I’m here for work first, vacation second. I’ll enjoy it when I have the time—don’t you worry about that.”

This affirmation of his food truck stubbornness made Spaghetti take out a bulky wallet teeming with money and credit cards.

Sam was silenced by this display of wealth on the go.

“I insist!” she said as kindly as she could.

At first, Sam looked like he was considering his options. Then, he let the silence drag on with a few more bites to finish his dinner. After wiping his mouth with the table’s tissue, he smiled.

“So, you’re going with me?” Spaghetti asked, eyes widening like adorable puppy ones.

Sam couldn’t help but smile. “OK, why not?”As he stood up, pulling his chair away while Spaghetti got out as well, he added, “You’re serious about this whole pony friendship thing, aren’t you?”

Her response was a shy cackle, her cheeks blushing. “Y-You could say that.”

After Sam paid the bill and poured a tip, he and Spaghetti left the restaurant and re-entered the night outside.

Sam could tell that Spaghetti badly wanted to fly. He could tell that she was restraining holding herself back since she kept looking up at the limitless sky.

As they walked along this long stretch of South Central Avenue, smelling the hint of smog once in a while, they passed by a slew of establishments that caught Sam’s sightseeing eye. There was a laundryhouse which bore similarities to a brick farm. Over here lay a car wash service where pegasi flew around dirty cars to wash them clean. There, a bakery advertised as The only place with authentic LA orange pies! Right beside that was a clothes shop and several Equestrians sporting Dodgers baseball caps, bracing themselves for tonight’s game at the Dodger Stadium. Finally, there resided a barber shop where the barbers dealt with cutting and trimming manes, feathers and fur alongside the usual hair.

They’d also passed by many amusing personalities.

In front of a mechanic’s, a unicorn busker sang songs while playing his guitar—Sam wanted to ask this pony how he was able to play a guitar without fingers, but Sam kept it to himself.

An abandoned and unused lot was being renovated by a few Earth ponies and some helpful breezies. Here, trees and flowers were planted, bringing life back to this lackluster spot.

Farther down the road, several griffon guards flew around in the sky on their patrols. Some perched themselves on certain roofs, getting a literal bird’s eye view of everyone down on the ground and making their presence known to any would-be lawbreakers.

Sam took in this mundane picture of Los Angeles. So far, he’d seen no celebrities, no famous people walk around save for the odd glimpse of a retired or washed-up actor no one paid attention to—and he wasn’t sure how many of them he’d encountered.

Had it been any ample time before, it would’ve just been a normal and contemplative walk in the night; a time to think about his station in life, a walk where vague plans about the future build their foundations. Now, with all kinds of creatures roaming around and the end of humanity looming overhead….

Then, Sam noticed that he hadn’t talked to Spaghetti during the whole trip.

What surprised him was that she hadn’t talked to him, either. Here was this supposedly friendship-loving pony, and she was silent, maybe even reclusive? Not even small talk about the weather that she could control if she wanted to?

He glanced at her and saw the mare looking up at the sky, trotting at a slow pace in nighttime South Central.

Five or ten minutes later, the human and pony duo entered the gas station where the food truck held its business on the asphalt.

Its name was The Chicken and Waffles Truck. Despite its rather dull name, a little line of willing patrons led up to it as gas-deprived cars rolled into the pumps. Most of the customers were humans, though a zebra and a dragon were up for the delicious combo of chicken and waffles.

Speaking of chicken: Sam looked down at the mare beside him and said, “Sorry to ask, but aren’t you not allowed to eat stuff like this?” while jerking a thumb at the truck.

She hid a wince, doing her best to keep her face in Sam’s sight. “I get by with the hay waffles. They compensate with lots of syrup, and I mean lots.”

Sam clasped his hands, ready to eat with another amiable pony.

It took a bit for the both of them to get to the end of the line and then state their orders. The owner-chef of the food truck went straight to work, ensuring that the chicken was fried to a golden crisp and the batter was squished into waffle squares.

After about two to three minutes of waiting amid wafting savories, Sam and Spaghetti left the truck with waffles in their hands and hooves. Because Spaghetti didn’t have any fingers to grasp her food with, she opened her wings and hovered, letting her two forehooves control it right.

Sam followed her ambling flight, leading himself right to the fence signaling the end of the gas station’s property.

There, Sam leaned on the fence and enjoyed his waffle and chicken, relishing the chewy and crunchy delight as he looked upon the avenue, seeing the storelights and the headlights illuminating the different faces of diverse pedestrians.

Spaghetti enjoyed her food, too, though it was enjoyment of the more lowly kind.

Then, wanting to cheer her up with small talk, he asked with the standard, “So, what’s up?”

Spaghetti looked down at her half-eaten waffle chicken combo. “Well....”

And Sam jumped ship on that line of conversation. “Let’s talk about something else like your cutie mark,” seeing her own, that of a spaghetti. “Any story behind it? You’re a pasta chef or…?”

Spaghetti blushed again, having a hard time getting the words out. “Well, I wasn’t supposed to have a cutie mark.”

Sam gave her a strange look. “You didn’t plan on being a pony?”

Spaghetti turned her face away, holding her food close to her mouth. “That’s the thing. I didn’t.”

He pursed his lips. Now he certainly knew that she was a former human. Still, she didn’t want to be a pony, yet she was one now.

That made him ask, “What happened?” and then nibbled on his waffle so that she couldn’t count on his mouth not being full.

Spaghetti sniffed, wiping her wet eyes with a wing. A lump swelled inside her throat, and she swallowed it. “I-I...I was planning to be...something else,” and shifted her eyes, hoping no one caught her quiet words. “A merpony a-and live in the ocean…so much to see, so much to do—”

“Then what happened?” Sam insisted, growing impatient at her stammeri—

Spaghetti beckoned him closer with a hoof.

First taken aback, Sam then slowly brought an ear right up to her face. His interest was piqued now: what secret could she be hiding that warranted such a discreet arrangement?

So, she whispered:

“Someone...th-they...those ponifiers...they splashed potion on me!"

From the Horse's Mouth

Sam blanked out, holding his waffle and chicken combo in his hand as unfeeling cars sped by, as passers-by who didn’t know any better trudged by under the cold night. His thoughts swirled about, wondering what this mare had possibly gone through...and, come to think of it, he didn’t even know her old human name yet. She was all Spaghetti Tree, Spaghetti Tree….

Spaghetti gobbled up the last of her food, crumpled the paper bag and chucked it into a nearby garbage pin. She landed on the hard asphalt.

Back on her four hooves. A sigh escaped her lips.

She looked up at Sam, mouth trembling to tell her story:

“Back at my place, in New Washoe City, a couple Equestrian ponies built up their own conversion bureau. It was barebones and run-down, and it was all done inside a revamped house, but they somehow got Celestia’s stamp of approval.

“I signed up to become a merpony. I was an average real estate broker who loved swimming in the water so much, and I lived by a big lake. It was a no-brainer for me: I could live in the lake, relax in the lake, do business with buyers of new houses in the lake so they could live in the lake as well….It would’ve been a dream come true.” She opened her wings. “I mean, flying around is a lot like swimming in the deep...but I’m getting ahead of myself, a-and….”

While engrossed by her story so far, Sam thought to ask her about—

“And if the lake became too crowded,” she added with a twirling hoof, “I could always move to the Bay and live right in front of San Francisco,” and looked up to the sky, looked at her fond unfulfilled hopes in the Western Paris.

“We had the appointment set, I had my papers done.” She bobbed her short mane, brushing her hair with her hoof and then her wing out of anxiety. “All I needed to do was show up four days later since they just ran out of merpony potion. I was OK with it. I could wait for four days.”

Spaghetti’s ears drooped down. She studied the gray pavement before her, unable to see her reflection there. “I could wait. It was interesting to slowly see my hometown become magicland.”

Raised her head to see Sam who’d stopped eating his food a minutes ago. Now, he was just chewing on his previous bite.

“My old classmates who stayed loyal to our town...they were local activists who clamored for a more self-sufficient Washoe, so they became Earth ponies and made their own farms. My survivalist Dad became a changeling so he could increase his chances at surviving if it ever came to it.” Then, she smiled, thinking of her next person to mention. “My fiancé had already signed up to become a merpony with me. We had a little argument about it before that, because he was dead set on being an Earth pony, too. Later on, he changed his mind about it...told me that he’ll have the ‘landlubbers’ take care of surface farms.”

Spaghetti rubbed her throat. “Then came the day. I and Renard went to the ‘bureau’. Already, we were thinking up the little everyday things we’d do after we married: Swimming to the open water market where we’d buy fish together, or wowing the visitors with our dolphin acrobatics, or helping out with harvesting Equestrian seaweed...and holding each other’s fin, too, because why not?”

She afforded herself a giggle, such a little diversion from the weight in her mind.

“Then, we were there. They had everything ready—Mall Light even told us that we’d celebrate with a ‘Happy Merpony Party’ later that evening at the lake.”

Happy what-if’s about her and Renard enjoying themselves with udnerwater balloons and confetti—these flew away from her….

“I heard a car,” voice tenser now. "I turned around, saw it fast approaching the bureau on the road. Stopped right before the group of people just waiting outside, and….”

Shuddered, closed her eyes. Cowered, almost raised her hooves to her head.

Sam wanted to get down on her level and pat her on the head, to tell her that everything will be alright. He wasn’t sure if she’d be receptive to that in her terror-stricken state.

“The...the guards said they’re the PER. Ponies and staff got out of the way. But...the...ponifiers…” looked at her hooves, looked fast at Sam, twitching at the road—“they got their Molotov pony cocktails, t-told us w-we were too slow to decide, a-and they aimed at m-me—”

Covered her eyes with her hooves.

That lonely mare. Choking, sniffling by the avenue, in front of a gas station and a food truck—yet still close to crying.

Sam bended his knees, truly got down to her level. He raised a hand. Did pat her on the head, and all he needed to was whispe—

A black car came up to the side of the road and stopped right there.

Sam turned his head to it. Spaghetti didn’t.

The passenger-side window lowered down.

It was sunglasses-wearing Arthur at the wheel once again, though he had his mouth wide open in surprise at Sam’s presence.

“Let her sleep, Sam.”

And Sam got his hand away from the sleeping mare’s head, Spaghetti dozing off beside him on the back seats. She had a pillow and a blanket, though that did not take his eyes away from her tear-stained cheeks being slowly dried up by pine-scented air coming her way.

Arthur slapped his thighs as his left turn brought him up close with a freeway in partial reconstruction, one lane closed due to a broken divider.

That hidden fury prompted Sam to stay silent in this already quiet trip on the interstate. He was thinking that, maybe, this driver didn’t want to talk about anything at al—

“You know I know people on both sides, correct?” Arthur quipped, gesturing with his right hand while steering with the left. Giving Sam no time to respond, he continued: “Guess what? If you check Spaghetti Tree’s Facebook profile—” and handed him his phone which was already on the pony’s profile page “—you’ll see something quite interesting.”

Sam received the phone and looked at what was displayed.

There, she had a smiling profile picture of herself in front of a beachside tea shop. She, too, was wearing a pair of sunglasses. Underneath was her blurb: Los Angelan. Pegasus.

“OK,” Sam remarked, “I don’t see anything much. What am I missing h—”

“Check her posts,” Arthur said without looking back.

He took a second to digest that command. Sam then swiped up to see her posts.

The first one he saw was a photo from yesterday showing a group of around ten people. They were holding up picket signs in front of the Equestrian Consulate General in Los Angeles. Above it was her text: To those brave enough to stand up for their fellow humans: Thank you. Let the princesses know that, if we truly work together, we can find a way of preserving us as humans. We do not need to strip away our humanity, what makes us unique. My human friends: Preserve whatever piece of humanity we can retain if they decide to not pursue this path.

Swiped up again. This time, he saw an advertisement for HLF merchandise: hats and shirts embellished with the the Front’s logo which was a stylized yellow fist. Her text above that: Will be buying some of these over the weekend! Can you believe they got pony sizes now? If you are a ponified victim of the PER, show your support for humanity by buying these online! Good thing I live near a branch.

Sam swiped up for the last time. Here. he saw that this post was made within the Human Liberation Front (Los Angeles County) online group. Spaghetti’s words there went as follows: While I’m not human anymore and while I remain not to be a member, I still sympathize with your cause. With last Saturday’s news about the American government making its push with the bureaus, we’ve suffered a setback. Our voices have been made known, but they’re quite ignored. With this, shall I propose a peaceful protest in front of the bureau come this Monday?....

The comments below were mostly HLF members offering their support and saying that they were OK with having a pony on board, reminding her that a couple high-ranking members of the group were also victims of PER ponification.

Sam yoinked his head back up to face the faceless driver—the shades did make him look generic. “Is she…?”

“Not officially,” he said fast, “but she might as well be. She’s basically a sponsor for the Liberation.” He glanced at the mirror to check up on Spaghetti. Still sleeping. “She told you about her boyfriend, right?”

Sam checked up on her, too. “Yes, she did,” all while trying to imagine what Spaghetti must be feeling right now—no, what she was dreaming right now. Or was it a nightmare?

Arthur tapped his steering wheel. “It’s much more personal because they got him. Turned him into any old pony and dragged him.” Pointed both thumbs at the snoozing and blanketed Spaghetti, “She’s the one who lived to tell the tale. I tried to pull the strings on my stretched Ponification connections, but I only found dead ends. For all we know, he’s been brainwashed to serve their cause—or in a grave.”

Sam almost lashed out at him for such rudeness, but then calmed himself down. Spaghetti was sleeping, after all. She didn’t hear it, nor did she need to...or, that’s what he kept telling himself.

So they drove on, riding the unobstructed freeway as cars sped ahead or slowed down. Looking beyond the windows, he saw ordinary-looking houses and the occasional palm trees rising above them. The dark sky sat above him as a few pegasi shooed some clouds away, fulfilling this morning’s prediction that, yes, there’d be clear skies tonight.

The trip lasted a good thirty minutes, at the end of which Sam got off the car, and waved a shades-wearing Arthur and a sleeping Spaghetti goodbye. He began heading his way to the Holiday Inn’s entrance.

But, curiosity nagging his brain yet another time, he turned around to see if there was anything notable...well, outside of the already notable Equestrians everywhere.

He saw the same old McDonald’s, now ignited with copious amounts of light to attract hungry commuters, homesick tourists, and cheap tightwads alike. Then, Sam remembered that Equestrians, both old and new, did often fit into one if not all of those categories; he saw the evidence for it in how many Equestrians filled up the tables and chairs inside—and outside on the parking lot, too, as ponies, zebras, and kirin leaned on strangers’ cars and laughed once in a while at some joke. The human customers, meanwhile, appeared few and far between.

Sam noticed that the Uber car hadn’t left yet. Trying to be as cautious as possible, he squinted at Arthur’s car windows. He got through the strong tint and saw Arthur speak to Spaghetti who’s slowly waking up. The driver was becoming quite animated with his gestures, moving his hands about and pointing at multiple directions, all the while getting nods and headshakes from Spaghetti while she removed the pillow from her head.

Arthur smacked the steering wheel and drove away.

Sam wasn’t sure if it was to get her home or if it’s to bring in another passenger. Gotta pay to stay, perhaps.

After the walk through the lobby and the elevator ride up, Sam strode into his room. He changed his clothes to a pair of shorts and an airy t-shirt. Settled on a chair, turned on the TV, and started easing away from work and travel with that minty pine tree smell prepared for him by the hotel.

The news didn’t interest him that much—something to do with that Oregon senator from last night plus a car crash in Downtown where everyone survived thanks to quick Earth ponies who’d gotten them out of the rubble in record time. Bystanders were interviewed by reporters; among them were impassioned ponies and humans who argued about those rescuers doing their job only to curry humanity’s favor, how they’d set up the car crash in the first place to look good—”No, the survivors didn’t thank us!”

“Didn’t thank you?! You weren’t even there! You’re too scared to—”

“What makes you think I’m scared? You’re the one who’s scared to change and survive something much bigger—”

“No, you, you’re scared of us! You’re OK with being stuck in the past, while we still got things like spaceships, lasers...and the Veil is gonna wipe them—”

“You’re deliberately ignoring the the work of magic-proofers, scum!”

“You’re the scaredy-pony, scum!”

“Hey!” and the reporter barged in, cameraman being a little shaky with his equipment. “We don’t want this to escalate into—”

He switched channels, trying to get his mind off Spaghetti and her posts, off that scheduled protest.

Then, Sam stumbled upon a talk show with a pony and a dragon as co-hosts. They were busy interviewing a new Abyssinian or “new kitten” as she called herself.

“—just find it interesting, you know?” she said, opening her paw to prove a point.

“What do you find interesting?” the dragon asked, holding out a microphone to her. He probably wasn’t confident enough to use strap-in microphones.

“Some ponies, especially the new foals, call me a loser for missing out on ‘the good stuff’,” with paw air quotes to boot. “The spells, the flight, the Earth magic….So they call me a silly cat.” Adjusting herself on the interviewee’s chair, “I didn’t go to the bureau with romantic ideas about fulfilling childhood dreams from my lullabies. I came here with the will to get through what’s coming next, and—”

Turned it off.

Sam groaned, rubbing his hurting forehead as he stood up. He paced around in his room, walking around the chair, to his table, then to his bed, back to the chair. So the cycle repeated.

Then, he looked at the window. The blinds were closed. To refresh himself with something new, he opened them up.

There it was: a nighttime view of the city, sparkling with an abundance of yellow and white glows glimmering over there. A few airplanes in the sky, identified by their blinking lights.

This backdrop set, his mind turned to other things. Or they tried to. His feeble attempts to distract himself proved futile: as he rested his weight by the window, his finally turned back to his big decision.

Sam could buy more time. He could always move East, always walk East, always drive or fly East. Yet, eventually, he’d run out of options. New York would still be alive and running twenty-four seven, but after that, there wasn’t much left. Providence, Boston...maybe Nova Scotia if he was really that indecisive and he’d somehow decided that he’d skip across the pond and permanently move to Europe.

But he knew the Veil would come for him. That callous, unkind, inaminate barrier of magical energy. It didn’t care about his feelings. Just inched forward. Soon, there’d be no escape and it’s either a high-strung and random potion or death.

That sense of urgency harkened to him the time when he turned down the offer to a free trip to the New York bureau. He’d expected the excited salespony-of-sorts to brush that off and have a good day ahead, but she’d frowned and sounded almost like another pony—sorrowed, pained, and wholly hurt by his courteous “No, thanks”. That’d been before he’d gotten a taste of the average pony’s personality: frank and sincere to a fault.

Still, the words from her conversation echoed in his mind. Don’t wait until it’s too late. I don’t want to see you screaming for help with the Veil about to get you. I could even do some of the talking here. That sigh, too….Sam, I care for you too much to let it happen. Please reconsider!

In a choking voice, too.

Sam reached his hand out to open the window, to get a breath of somewhat fresh air and clear up his mind with it. However, he flinched. It wasn’t unlikely that a more sinister prankster could pop up and take him away to the sky. Probably to ask for money or to face the consequences of falling five hundred meters above the ground.

Yet, unlike what a real estate broker might say, it wasn’t really about location, location, location, was it? He tapped the window, wondering what to do if—no when his time would come and take the potion.

At least he had more time than Los Angeles—a few more days, and he’d go back home to one of the Mountain States. Come to think of it, Los Angeles also had more time than San Francisco which had already started “conversion drives”: incentivizing transformation, in a nutshell.

From what he could remember from the radio news Arthur had put up during the trip, the City by the Bay started rewarding people who’d taken bureau appointments right there, right then. Money was a big winner, although discounted housing in Equestria’s equivalent, San Franiscolt, was a good runner-up...also, wasn’t there a concert tour where the tickets were free if one could prove they just took the potion that day?

Sam tried to reason himself out of the hole he’d dug into. He couldn’t just rush into things; he’d be stuck with his choice for life, so a dice roll or a coin flip wouldn’t do the trick for him. Nor would a weak mind after being constantly pressured to decide now, not later. Not even a second later, but now.

He forced himself to think about the choice anyway.

A glance at the room, his comfy cold room and his inviting bed, and then back outside, his window protecting him from flying home invaders.

He’d already considered the pegasus, the unicorn, and the Earth pony. Flight and magic were obvious lures to him, but there was something humbly simple and trite about being an Earth pony. Super strong, super resilient, and super good with plants, not to mention an uncanny acumen on managing their relationships well, both personal and business-related.

Of course, Sam liked being able to walk around on two feet and use his hands. He’d been taught that that was the reason humans were the salient species of Earth—being able to move about while also being able to do complex operations with their hands and their fingers, especially with their opposable thumbs. Then again, that was an excuse for his dislike towards such a massive change. He didn’t like too much change, and having to go on all fours and losing one’s hands was becoming a hard sell.

Abyssinian and Ornithian parrot sounded like nice, if not better, alternatives. Being a wingless bipedal bird might defeat the purpose of being a bird in the first place, but Sam didn’t ca—

Bvvvt! Bvvvt!

Spun around. Saw his phone on the table, lighting up and vibrating.

He got to it and picked it up without looking who the caller was. “Yeah, hello?”

“Oh!” came Crowhop’s cheery and familiar voice. “Were you about to sleep? I’m very, very so—”

“You don’t have to apologize!” he said, trying to match her upbeatness. “It’s fine. Now, what is it you want to tell me?”

“Well,” and Crowhop hummed a tune while thinking up the right words, “I’ll be up and about earlier than usual. I mean, it’s not like I’ll be missing when you arrive because I’m always there...but, just a heads-up ‘cause I have to accommodate Hitch and Hop Repairs! Gotta make sure the air con units are all fixed before opening hours, or at least before lunch.” Then, a chuckle. “You got all that?”

Sam chuckled, too, without knowing it. “Yeah, got you.”

“Greaty-great great! Sorry to disturb you—oh, I’m really sorry about it! That was so bad of me—”

“It’s OK, Crowhop,” Sam reassured holding up a hand as if she were there. “I sleep long. One less hour wouldn’t do me harm.”

“Alrighty!” she replied fast, making Sam stagger a bit. “Until the morning, friend!”

Before Sam could recover all of his balance, the call ended.

He took a good ten seconds to get his bearings. The pony’s speed of speech was a bit much for him...wait, what was that last word? “Friend”?

“First ‘buddy’, now ‘friend’. Heh.” Put his phone down on the table. “Next thing I know, she’ll start hugging me and call me ‘best friend’.”

After that short musing, he closed the blinds, laid on his bed, prepared his blanket and pillow, and slept. That minty smell returned him to dreamland.

To Little Reunions

Sam woke up and, this time, he was not awakened by a flying pegasus outside his window. Instead, he woke up as normal, relying on the alarm clock beside him to do its job and brrring! him out of his bed.

After a quick shower and a new change of clothes with some cologne tacked on, Sam left his room, then left his floor, then left the lobby, then left the building. He rechecked his pockets to see if his ID was there, and there it was in his pants.

As he waited for Arthur to come over and get him outside, there he sat once again by the table, looking over Glasgow Place and West Century Boulevard a bit ahead.. However, instead of paying attention to the glut of activity outside of McDonald’s with its recurrent line of cars and its happy-perky drive-thru pony—instead of that, his mind pulled him back into contemplation.

The sound of cars and chatter in the background and the cute voice the occasional mare would make...actually, that reminded him of hearing the voice of one of Equestria’s heroines, Pinkie Pie, when she was interviewed on TV a year or so ago.

Back then, he’d been watching it at a hometown café as the Earth-and-Equus information overload of news came rushing over. The panic over the Veil taking over Hawaii and Equus’s collective relief efforts to help them out had been the short-term headlines of the day. However, the long-term stories had always gained traction: the first contact of extraterrestrial (or extradimensional) beings, the subsequent discovery of magic, and the imminent end of Earth as humans had known it in less than ten years’ time.

In a supreme effort to relay as much information about this new universe to the human public, outlets like CNN and Fox got to interviewing as many of these Equestrians as possible: to know their way of life, to know their ideologies and their beliefs, to know the current status of things in their world….

One thing Earth and Equus found out was that, apparently, celebrities were a thing in both worlds, not least of which was the Elements of Harmony, multi-time saviors of Equestria—Pinkie Pie being one of them.

Of course, with Pinkie’s reputation as a world hero, she’d been expected to speak in an interview done by human news outlets. They’d also expected her to be upbeat. She was the Element of Laughter, after all.

What those outlets didn’t expect was how upbeat she really was.

As if to affirm that, yes, Pinkie fulfilled her Element in both dimensions, Sam chuckled at remembering that moment. Everyone in the eatery had already been staring at the screen for further inter-dimensional developments. Then, this pink pony with balloons as her cutie mark...she’d unleashed her high-pitched motor mouth, rambling about her life story, how Ponyville was a great place to live in (but other places in Equestria were fun, too), and that pink was undeniably her favorite color bar none.

The reporters hadn’t prepared for that one. A journalist had fainted during the verbal flood.

Despite that, what made her memorable to Sam was how, after all of that, she’d said that she’d been willing to go everywhere on Earth if she had to, to help humanity happily.

Happily during this time of change.

Change.

A change that, ironically, would never be changed once he made his choice at whatever bureau he’d end up in. And so, the words from his parents rang….

...we want to be sure that you’re sure. We don’t want you to regret it for the rest of your—

Honk!

Sam whirled his head away from the table and to the parked black car on the road, a concerned Arthur looking at him through the window.

This not-so-focused volunteer quickly got up and went inside the car with a door slam!

Back to that fresh car smell and back in the seat as the car revved up and shot off, the outside noise all but muted.

As the urban scenery around them slowly changed as usual, Arthur quipped, “OK, what’s in your head right now?” He pointed two fingers outside. “Must be important, but I hope you won’t crash into a policeman like that.”

Mentioning policemen threw Sam off his slowly regaining focus, but he tried to keep the conversation normal. He used a couple seconds to organize and reorganize his wandering thoughts, rounding up those trains of thought. “A lot of things. I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately.”

“Interesting,” Arthur said, eyes still on the road, looking left to see an incoming truck on the other side. “What things?”

Sam wanted to let his mind rest and recover from meditation on the future. The constant appearance of Equestrian creatures on (or above) the sidewalks made that task quite hard, and let’s add the ponies peoplewatching behind the windows, the griffon and pegasus guards on the roofs, the Crystal ponies being redundant by wearing crystal necklaces and bracelets—also, there was a kirin selling self-roasted peanuts and garnering a ridiculously long line of customers….

“Thinking about my fate,” Sam said, settling on that response.

Arthur let out a snicker, shaking his hand in the air and making Sam a bit unnerved by his one-handed driving. “It all comes back to that, huh? I don’t blame you.” Picked up his shades, inspected them as if he were deciding to wear them or not. “I already told you about my choice, no? Abyssinian, right?”

Sam nodded, remembering the first ride he had with Arthur. And the protest he didn’t encounter, too.

“So, any good choices?” the driver asked, having put on his shades. “I heard the pegasus borough here is progressing well.”

Sam did a double take. “They have a pegasus neighborhood here? I didn’t see that in the travel brochure.”

“It’s getting there,” Arthur said. “It’ll be official, but not yet. Haven’t even decided the name, though everyone’s calling it the North Bay.”

“...but you don’t have a North Bay, right?” Sam asked dumbly, only recognizing how dumb he sounded seconds too late.

“‘Course we don’t,” Arthur said, helping himself to more laughter after. “It’s floating above Long Beach which is in South Bay. That’s the joke.”

Sam let his eyes drift off to the outside speeding by him. Once he got his fill of trees and grass across the street—those plants tended by both human and Earth pony gardeners—“Oh.”

Arthur flashed a smile for the rear view mirror. “My job to facilitate tourist humor, sir! Still, it is called the North Bay and it’s just over there,” pointing a thumb backwards.

“But, how come I don’t see it?” Sam asked, turning his head back and seeing only the road behind him with some more cars and a few vans. He saw no buildings made of fluffy white clouds.

“Trained unicorns covering up the neighborhood for now,” he replied, putting his right hand back on the steering wheel. “They’re scared about ruining the skyline. It’s unfinished, that’s why.” Nodded at Sam through the rear view mirror. “
“Wouldn’t want floating scaffolds in the sky to fall on your head, right?”

That piqued Sam’s curiosity about cloud architecture: How did pegasi live in cloud houses other than simply saying “It’s magic”?

Arthur then turned left to West Arbor Vitae Street. Sam saw square housing complexes on his right with their own parking spaces, and he saw a gravel lot and some grass-sided walkways on his left. He saw even more Equestrians walking around, and he didn’t know which ones had a human history before.

He decided to think about it later. Sam turned on his phone and checked what’d be good places to dig in the Los Angelan nightlife. It was his last day as a conversion bureau volunteer.

It was also Friday. Friday nights were always fun.

Sam was dropped off at the bureau, and Arthur gave him almost no time to say his thanks and goodbyes. This driver preferred to drive away really quickly but not quickly enough to break the speed limit.

With that, Sam turned around to face the bureau, renewed by a new day, an—

Heard noises from the rooftop.

Sam took a couple steps back, making sure he didn’t get to the road. He couldn’t see much, but he saw a couple heads peeking out and moving around: Pony heads, to be specific—holding hammers, saws, screwdrivers, and the like with their hooves and their mouths. Hard hats decorated their heads, covering up parts of their manes.

All of these ponies were also shiny. Very shiny. So shiny, in fact, sunlight was reflected on them and hit Sam in the eye, though he closed that eye fast enough.

After that temporary delay, this poor volunteer staggered his way inside, holding a hand over both of his eyes. “Must be Hitch and Hop. Ow.”

When he entered the establishment, he didn’t experience any conditioned air; inefficient fans at the corners kept it as cool as possible. But, he saw the same stuff: the same coffee bar and the same baristas, the same receptionists at the same hour, the same furniture and the same walls and the same paintings and movie posters...at least they were now occupied by different people an—

There’s Key Note lounging with a cup of coffee, sitting close to the bar as his coffee’s scent wafted around, catching noses with its strong and dark roast.

“Ah!” he blurted out as he caught sight of Sam. He raised a hoof, ready to shake a hand.“What’s up with you?”

Sam let his hand rest on his head as he walked over. He first waved at the other staff there who all said something akin to “Welcome back, Sam!”, cheers and all. Then, he sat down right beside the Earth pony.

Key Note puckered his lips and half-closed his eyes, looking like a charismatic detective. “I know the look on your face, Sam.”

He placed his hoof on the human’s nose, squishing it a bit. Sam had no idea where this was going, although everyone else probably had...and probably didn’t care as they went on with their business, Dark Roast herself brewing coffee that fit her namesake.

Note pulled his head away from Sam. Kept the hoof on the nose.“...you’re thinking about what you’ll become.”

Sam blinked. Then, he gently and slowly pulled Note’s foreleg away, silently irked by the possible germs he must’ve inhaled from it. “How’d you know?”

Key Note breathed a smug chuckle, shaking his hoof about. “Facial cues. You have a question mark in your eyes, that’s why.”

“...I guess that’s one way of putting it,” Sam said right away, turning his focus to other things like the hallway at the back. Actually, he hadn’t seen Crowhop and it’s been several minutes already.

Key Note laid back on his comfy, cushiony chair. Giving Sam an analyzing look, he continued: “Those question marks should be expected. You’re saying goodbye to your human existence, and you’re opening yourself up to a new body entirely. Not exactly easy to swallow, but that’s the choice we all have to make before 2026.”

Sam hid his shivering fear with a smile. 2026 seemed so far away yet so close. They’d called it Time Zero or T-Zero: that day when Earth would be fully transformed, fully consumed by the Veil. Conservative estimates landed a more precise prediction of December that year, and it’s likely that it’d all end in the Otozondjupa Region in Namibia. He’d seen news of people already planning out “Farewell to Earth” parties in that Southern African country….

“So, what do you think I should get?” Sam asked, gesturing towards his pony listener busy sipping his coffee.

Note turned his hoof around, hiding a slightly condescending laugh behind his smile. “I chose pony, so I’d say you should choose pony. But, heh-heh,” glanced aside, “don’t trust me on that one! I’m too biased because I love being a pony!” and spread his forehooves.

Sam smiled, noting his unbridled enthusiasm over his new life. “Glad to know you’re taking this well.”

But before Note could answer with more pony life harangues, the front doors opened, ushering in an orange changeling floating above the floor with his buzzing wings. With his panicky head turning here and there, “Uh, has anyone seen my wife? Her name’s Laura Crowley!”

“Hold on!” Sam shouted, raising his hand as he stood up...then lowered his head, whispering to Note, “We’ll talk later, I promise. OK?”

Key Note winked at him. “Alright! No pressure!”

Relieved that he was done with that super-eager pony, Sam went over to Rogie the Changeling Husband, ID on full display. He scrutinized the visitor and noticed that he looked goofy: Aside from the wristwatch on his foreleg, he had two big front teeth which Sam wasn’t sure if they were real or fake. The propeller beancap and the spinning bowtie only made the changeling even goofier, enough to make everyone look at him for a good ten seconds or so out of disbelief.

“Wow,” Sam quipped, putting a hip to his shoulders at this unusual person. “You’re all out today, aren’t you?”

“What, this?” Rogie said, pointing at his silly-looking hat. “It’s my stand-up routine. It’s also my normal routine.” He stretched his ear out of boredom. “If I’m gonna be a rainbow horsebug, I might as well roll with it and pull out all the stops!” Then, his face returned to seriousness. “Where’s my Crowie?”

Sam did his best to not laugh at that sappy nickname. It oozed of innocent romance and endless dreams, but he would’ve made his brain hurt if he mulled over it more. So, he merely said, “Oh, I can lead you there. I know where she lives here.”

“Finally!” and Rogie nodded, tipping his colorful hat to a helpful Sam. “It’s her last day here, and it’s really my fault for letting her down. It’s like not being there for your kid on graduation day—” slapped himself on the head, almost hurting his hoof with his horn. “I’m getting way ahead of myself! Thinking about grads when we don’t even have kids! Or larvae!”

“...OK,” Sam said, shrugging and trying to keep up a smile for him while not thinking about how a changeling couple would treat their babies. He’d seen pictures of chanegling larvae: crawling vibrant caterpillars wrapped in some natural white chitin cloth of sorts. A cute but disgusting gallery.

“Let’s go?” Sam asked, directing a hand towards the back hallway.

“Yeah, yeah,” replied Rogie, wings flipping and flapping in anxious excitement. “She must be so mad at me!...”

Thus, Sam accompanied this nervous changeling on the way to Laura’s room. He hoped that there’d be no fighting, no arguments, and no threats of divorce. Imagining such a kooky changeling out in the cold, desperate to share love with someone after being kicked out...it wasn’t fun.

It was a tearful reunion in front of Laura room-wide abode. Hugs and kisses were in full force today for the honeymoon couple, enjoying the perks of married life and putting aside the woes to come.

That was all familiar to Sam. What he wasn’t familiar with was how a honeymoon changeling couple enjoyed such a married life. Did they go out on dates and enjoy movies together? Was labeling items his and hers a tradition? Were there bachelor parties after the wedding, to go out on a limb? Or, maybe it wasn’t all that different: these changelings and all the other Equestrian species were strangely very human-like. Despite being universes apart, pony weddings were eerily similar to human weddings—the white gowns and the black suits, the flower throwing and the marriage vows, the bachelor parties….

Laura thanked Sam for making her time in the bureau quite good and comfy, and Rogie thanked him for being “such a wonderful staffster! What about I get you some whiskey at the new comedy club up at Santa Monica? I’m part of the opening act! Come on, Sammy! Whiskey’s on me!”

Sam politely declined the offer, though he kept it in mind. Tomorrow would be the start of his time here as a true tourist, one who’d go around and enjoy the sights at his own pace. He would be unencumbered by an internship; all of that’d be in the past by then, to be cherished as a memory.

Next thing on the schedule was to oversee Lacque’s final minutes as a human being. This volunteer waited at the lobby, letting his eyes drink in the paintings of city landscapes on the wall. Before, they were outstanding hand- and hoof-crafted masterpieces. Now, they seemed quite common, for there was no life in those paintings—only the buildings.

That’s when Lacque stepped in, announcing his presence by overpushing the door and almost tripping over. A yak trotted over to help, but Lacque refused...and the trip didn’t bother him. On the contrary, the great big smile on his face screamed, “Ready or not, world! Here I come!”

It might’ve not sounded awesome as a future breezie, but it worked. At least he was looking forward to it. Maybe too much.

As Sam and Lacque walked the halls and then entered the anteroom, they talked a long yarn about breezie prospects, like what his potential jobs would be. Aside from the usual gardening angle, Sam suggested being a painter. “You’ll do well with the small brushes and the tiny details!”

“And be a mini-da Vinci?” Lacque asked. He snapped a pointed finger at Sam. “I like where this is going! But…” dropped himself to a waiting chair, resting before the last door he’d cross as a human. Stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles, and rested his head on his hands. “I’m sticking to what I know.”

Sam’s eyebrow quirked a bit, irked by Lacque’s unassuming zeal over being a fragile and weak breezie. “Aren’t you new to gardening?”

Lacque wagged a playful finger at him. “That won’t stop me.”

A couple more minutes of idle talk later, a pony popped up from the creaking door, wearing a pair of glasses. “Mr. Ramon Lacque? It’s your time to shine.”

Without saying a word, Lacque stood up and brushed his sleeves although they’d prove useless when he couldn’t fit them post-procedure. Then, he shook Sam’s hand with a firm grip. “Nice meeting you, sir, since yesterday!”

“Yeah, nice meeting you, too.” Sam wished Lacque didn’t see past the kind facade. He didn’t want his mental exhaustion to upset this man’s big day.

Greetings were made between Lacque and the pony supervisor, and the door was closed. Sam knew this moment well enough now, the moment when one’s humanity is left at the welcome rug, never to be seen again—at least on the outside.

He had the room to himself. His responsibility now was to take care of whoever came in until break time. A look at his watch nabbed him the time of around nine-thirty. One more hour to go, then.

That’s when the entrance door opened.

He turned around to see a long line of people piling into the anteroom in droves. A few other human facilitators like him immediately came in, trying to keep the line in check with orders and hand gestures as the line slowly trickled into the seats, but soon, the orderly quiet gave way to rising chatter.

For Sam, this meant adjusting his ID, flattening his shirt, and saying, “Alrighty, then.”

Ten-thirty in the morning, and it was break time. It only lasted a simple fifteen minutes, but that was enough to get Sam’s mind up and running again after a tiring and surprising hour of handling last-minute questions and flared-up arguments. His face retained a bit of that pink hue from intervening in a heated discussion between a would-be unicorn and a would-be Ornithian. Now, it’s a relief to be away from that, to be back with himself and his own stuff.

Sam was sitting by the coffee bar, arm rested on the counter as he allowed that overreaching coffee smell to permeate him. He chewed on another grilled cheese sandwich, watching non-humans operate coffee machines and grounding coffee beans. In particular, here was Dark Roast making a café latte, pouring the milk so carefully with her hooves. When she served it to the caffeine-deprived griffon beside him, Sam saw that she’d made a little leaf design with the milk, now floating on the surface of the coffee.

...and he realized he hadn’t see Canter Crowhop yet.

A bite and a gulp later, he asked Dark Roast, “Do you know where Crowhop is?”

The barista replied with a shake of the head. “She’s probably helping out with the repairponies. They do that sometimes, needing the help of their client. “

That drove Sam to stand up, unfinished sandwich in hand. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” came Roast’s curt reply.

So began Sam’s short adventure through the bureau in search of this mysteriously missing Crowhop. Instead of fighting monsters with a sword, however, he calmed down and had to be nice to an Abyssinian who meticulously picked up the sandwich crumbs from the floor and scolded Sam for being so inconsiderate. The bipedal cat stomped off in a pent up fury, licking his paw.

That little debacle over, Sam continued his search. He checked her office: no luck. He checked the still full anteroom with its packed line and its packed room: no luck. He checked the New Equestrian Residences and knocked on every door—even got a nice greeting from Laura, but still no luck. Then, he went a dozen more turns to the potion storage ro—

“Crowhop?”

And found the unicorn levitating a couple unicorn-labeled vials of potion in her green glow. Her eyes dilated only to grow back to normal at recognizing this intruder. “Oh! H-Hi, Sam! You scared me for a moment there!”

“Well, you got me worried,” Sam said, then scratched his head’s back. “What are you doing up here?”

Crowhop gulped, defusing the tension with a cute smile. “ Just randomly inspecting the potions. We’ve heard reports of thefts in the smaller European bureaus, so I do this for good measure.”

Sam then turned his gaze upwards t—

“And the camera’s busted,” she said, pointing at the security camera resting at the ceiling’s corner. “I really have to do this,” as her eye collided with another potion, iris darting here and there to examine the slushy magic liquid.

Sam wasn’t wholly convinced at first, but then, he rationalized, this was Canter Crowhop. The fun, lovable, excitable, and never-to-run-out-of-energy-for-the-rest-of-time Canter Crowhop. Pretty much a sugar-addicted pink unicorn tasked to do a serious and significant job in handling a conversion bureau. Sam kept thinking that this was her coping mechanism.

“I’ll just see the air con’s progress on the roof,” Sam said, pointing a thumb up. “That OK?”

“Yeah, sure!” she exclaimed, sitting down on the floor and floating another vial to her eyes. “I don’t think they’ll mind. Gotta wear some sunglasses, though! Once it’s noon with those Crystal ponies, things can get...complicated,” and chuckled that cute chuckle.

Sam scrunched up his chin and his cheeks in an I’m OK, you’re OK expresion. “If that’s so...enjoy!”

They waved at each other, and Sam went back to the halls, headed his way to a stairwell access he thought he knew but wasn’t really sure. If all else failed, he’d just ask the staff for directions.

Yet that green glow….

Freeway Series

It took Sam a few minutes of wandering around, along with really asking the staff for directions, but he finally found the stairwell. After a short ascent that exercised his legs, he reached the rooftop and was welcomed by the warm outside air and the warmer outside sun.

The surface had scarce equipment up here. Ventilation ducts and air conditioning units were its only permanent tenants here. Sitting on the ducts and working on the air con, the shiny Crystal pony repair crew were on the job, tinkering with fans, filters, and condenser coils. The hard hats protected them from any falling objects, which was impractical since there was no construction being done overhead—no pegasi dropping stones or anything like that to cause any serious injuries.

A Crystal pony caught sight of Sam and dropped her wrench. She trotted over to greet the human. “Hello! I’m Hot Side of Hitch and Hop Repairs, currently fixing your air conditioning so that it’ll be super cold super quick!” and she extended a crystally hoof. “What’s your name?”

Sam returned the favor and shook her hoof, feeling her very solid and tepid coat. That odd feeling heightened in him as he stared not at her but through her—he could see what’s behind her through her translucent, crystal body. Seeing them via pictures and videos online weirded him out enough; straight up talking to one in real life was very weird.

Hot Side tilted her head, belying a tired smile. “Humans just don’t get tired of us, do they?”

When the question sunk in his mind, Sam retracted his hand and felt embarrassed, as if his cheeks were about to flush. “Whoops! Uh, well, sorry, ma’am!”

“Ah, no worries!” she said, her voice becoming cheerful again with one unmindful hoof wave. “You’re welcome to talk to us anytime if you’re free! We’d like to get you know more,” and then nudged his knee with her elbow. “Getting chummy with the locals, that’s what I say!”

The word local stuck with him, putting him in a contemplative mood once more. He looked away from the pony, put both hands on hips, and took a sweeping view of the landscape before him: a big chunk of the international airport alongside a couple parks and several villages farther down, with the Pacific Ocean a glimmer in the horizon. Then: “Well, I won’t be a local in a few years, ma’am.”

Hot Side frowned at that realization. “Oh. I know what you mean there, Sam,” glancing a bit long at his ID, supposedly to check his name because she’d missed it the first time.

“We have archives going on, sure,” Sam remarked, bringing to mind news of historical organizations backing up libraries and hard drives of data both scientific and cultural. Even the world-famous seed vault over at Svalbard had gotten in on it, still in deep negotiations with Equus nations to ensure that none of their specimens would be negatively affected by the Veil.

“But it won’t be the same, will it?” Hot Side asked, making a quick glance behind to see if her co-workers were getting envious of her small talk.

All Sam could do was shake his head, hands still on his hips while maintaining that smart yet presumptuous air. “Much as we try, I don’t think we will. Even if we have everything else intact, the fact that we’d all be ex-humans...well, it just wouldn’t be the same.”

Hot Side slumped down to the hot concrete floor. Her eyes looked down on it, and Sam thought she was feeling sorry over something she hadn’t caused.

“Are you making her cry?!” shouted a gruff co-worker, punching his two forehooves.

That made Sam step back, holding a hand out in self-defense. “Uh, n-no! We were just talking about, um, magic!”

“Yeah, right!” and the stallion snorted, growling with his teeth on display though his companions were telling him to calm down.

Sam gulped twice, then said in as serene a voice as possible, “Sorry, Hot Side!” before dashing back inside and down the stairs, away from the sun and an angry Crystal pony.

His encounter with the Crystal ponies was interesting, to say the least. It would’ve been more interesting if he’d been beaten up, but then it’d be strange to talk about the non-actions of a deceased person whose cause of death was being pummeled by a quartz equine.

What mattered was that Sam was not dead and that talking to crystal lifeforms was another thing to add to the Fantasy things I’ve done list.

On his way back to the lobby, he found the long line of people still long, and, now, there were lines and not just one line, branching out here and there. Apparently, Friday was a really good day for the bureau: Here, lots of humans were experiencing their last hours as humans in a sweaty, crowded environment—not the dramatic and thrilling conclusion to their humanity some had expected, but they got what they could get.

Amid orders making space so that staff could move around, flying creatures fulfilled their clients’ needs by sending them water bottles and snack, making the wait bearable. Still, the tension remained: that tension of changing species before the day was over. A few were giddy about the future, with this hatted one eager to celebrate his unicorn party by traveling to Griffith Park and turning up some music to eleven. Some grumbled that it was a painstaking necessity, a cumbersome fact of life and goal to overcome like getting a first job or getting one’s own home or getting married. While several were silent, several more took the time to discuss and debate, talking about why being a pegasus was awesome and why being a pegasus was lame—that kind of thing.

“Psst!”

And Sam yelped, freaking out at the pegasus floating close to his ear, surprised that he hadn’t registered the windy wingflaps.

“Fin Lift, what do you want?!” Sam whispered abrasively. He didn’t want a redo of a pegasus prank.

Lift blushed before cupping her mouth over his ear. “Just to let you know: We’ll have to move many of them to temporary housing.”

This mellowed Sam down, happy to also know that Fin Lift wasn’t secretly into pranking her workmates. But, many to be moved to temporary housing? “You mean the ones in Antelope Valley?”

“That’s the one!” she said. “We’re already prettying it up to increase the valley’s livability for everyone, although we’re trying to keep the arid feel there.” She raised both of her forehooves in mild shock. “Turns out some people don’t like having their browns turn into greens overnight!”

Sam thought about that. From what he remembered from the travel brochures and articles he’d read to study up on the Los Angeles county, Antelope Valley was mostly arid with dry ground and light vegetation. There was a poppy reserve, and the pictures he’d seen of it from online were wonderfully colorful and lush, but he’d deemed it the exception rather than the rule.

“We still have construction workers still working, and we still pay ‘em lots of bits. If it gets too crowded, we can always add another floor and then some...plus, there’s underground homes, too, for the ponies who love to mine for gems!” Then, sticking out her tongue, “As long as Rarity doesn’t get her grubby hooves into our fashion business! She’s not gonna buy out all the gems from us!”

And Sam recoiled at her sudden outburst. Trying to curb any violent reaction from this irritated pegasus, “I don’t think there’s much of a demand of gems and diamonds in Antelope. I’ve heard it’s not mineral-rich.”

“Eh, maybe it isn’t,” Lift said with hunched shoulders and slower wings, “but there’ll be lots of supply when it’s all said and done. Like when they found out there’re more gems under Hawaiian land now after the Veil passed through. I’m even wearing some of it,” and she, true to her name, lifted the necklace she had into Sam’s view, letting the string of opals and emeralds glitter under the white lights.

So, he recalled that piece of news. “Oh. Right. Forgot about that one.”

Lift rolled her eyes. “Sometimes, even I forget about the Veil’s effects. There’s ponies out there guessing what Los Angeles would look like post-Veil. Most of the structures will stay alive, but it’s the plants and beaches that count here.” Looking off to the wall, seeing a painting of the sky where a couple pegasi like her flew around, playing in the sky…”Oh, and the clouds, too. Importing clouds is one thing, but having them all fluffy and stable is another!”

The talk about clouds reminded Sam about that North Bay neighborhood in the sky.

Then, they turned their thoughts to the waiting lines swarming almost everywhere. The noise of the crowd returned to their ears, as chatter pushed through above canned orders from bureau personnel to stay organized and civil.

“By the way,” Sam began, crossing his arms, “what’s the rush? Is it always like this on Fridays?”

“It’s supposed to be a slow period, actually,” Lift explained with crossed forelegs of her own, still floating above the floor with her active wings. “Princess Twilight and her group of researchers estimated that we’re in the final decline of patrons—she said something like…,” and assuming an overly-nerdy accent to imitate the royal, “‘People who made it this far bank on the last-minute scramble, believing that if everyone else can get it, they can get it, too.’”

Sam held his laugh in since he did not want to be charged with libel or defamation against a princess of Equestria.

Then, Lift simmered down, lowering her flight to match Sam’s head. Resting her chin on her hoof, “I’m grateful for what Key Note’s been doing: Out there, talking to people and telling them about signing up for conversion now so that they won’t be in danger anymore” She curled her lips up into a smile only to let it falter an instant later. “If only he wasn’t so hardcore. At times, he doesn’t come across as a nice guy.”

Sam let that perk his ears up...metaphorically speaking, anyway, since his ears were still human and only moved an inch or so. “Really, now?”

She sighed, wings flapping even slower but now drawing in more air to keep her flying. “He’s been pretty helpful, and everyone should think about the big decision more seriously...but at this rate,” eyes closing to about half, “he’s gonna get himself hurt.”

Sam chose to return the nudging favor by bumping her elbow with his, trying to lighten her up with his own smile. “He’s an Earth pony. He can kick his way out of a tight spot.”

“Not when it’s human guns,” she retorted solemnly before indulging in another sigh. “You know some lunatic’s gonna show up with an assault rifle if Key pushes the wrong buttons.”

Which made Sam think about Key Note galloping in zigzag form, dodging bullets everywhere and coming out unscathed. Or maybe one would brush past his mane. “I think he’ll make it out alive.”

Lift turned her head back to the lines of people to take care of. “I hope so, Sam.”

So, the two returned to helping out their bureau partners maintain the peace in the hallways as the lines were close to breaking out.

When twelve noon struck, Sam retreated to the lobby, putting on an additional spray of cologne to combat the sweat he’d accumulated. The lunch break was well-needed: arguments had arisen within the line, and a few scuffles and pushes would’ve turned into bloody fights and brawls had it not been for staff intervention—and, of course, the danger of being beaten by a pony. Or a Crystal pony, but he wanted to shrug that incident off of his mind. So, a cup of coffee would surely soothe him back to normal, he thought.

Except he was wrong.

Before he could even order a cup of coffee, he was faced with tons of people filling up the lobby, lines up to the receptionists’ desks as the latter went on fast mode and answered queries as quickly as possible. Appointments were set, questions were settled, and people either left or stayed to lounge and chat though with that tinge of tension.

Especially with Key Note outside.

Standing on the sidewalk and under the sweltering heat of the noonday sun, this orator was shouting to passers-by, even to those passing by in their cars on the road. His forehooves gestured and gesticulated, pointed left and right and up and whichever way he wanted, even at this or that person in the growing sidewalk crowd.

This crowd wasn’t afraid to voice their opinions right at him. They’d brought placards and picket signs espousing pro-conversion and anti-conversion rhetoric. Here’s one that said, Magic creatures are taking over our Earth! Why should we trust you? Here’s another that said, Chin up! You’re doing what’s right, brave pony!

Sam scanned the lobby, took a closer look. Most of those present, human or Equestrian, were allured by this speaker, much as they tried to continue on with their business since they couldn’t resist sneaking in a glance or two. Though what he heard were only muffles and the indecipherable noise of the masses, he could tell that Key Note’s timbre was deep, mesmerizing—enough to draw those inside into whatever he was saying.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked no one in particular, pretending to not know what’s really going on.

“Douglas is at it,” said the potted-plant salesdeer from his chair, gesturing a hoof at the public pony speaker. “He’s really bringing it home today. Haven’t you heard?”

Sam immediately raised his hand, signaling that he hadn’t heard in spite of the contrary. A glimpse at the guards in shining armor—“What about our security?”

“They’re keeping a close watch on everyone,” Dark Roast chirped, unwilling to wrest her eyes from the outside, partly due to Key Note’s dynamic hoof movement. “We got police presence, too,” and then she pointed at the few police cars parked on the curb, with police officers on standby, with radios and cuffs and all.

That’s when the gravity of the situation hit Sam all at once. Shouts, signs, security with the police jumbled in? It wasn’t enough to make him stumble or stagger, but it made his veins jolt. This could explode if the wrong word was said, if the wrong person came over and challenged Note to a debate. Or a fight. It wasn’t a wild guess that the PER and the HLF might be present here, too. Coupled with Arthur’s word about Note himself: Rumor is he’s a shill for the PER. Get into the bureau’s graces, infiltrate the place, and then—

Sam didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want it to be true, and yet Arthur sounded so sincere. Perhaps a bit lackadaisical about being so close to such hardline organizations, but sincere nonetheless, and if he was telling the truth….

“What are you doing?!” the salesdeer yelped, seeing Sam walk his way to the front door.

“Just in case,” he replied without looking. “It’s my responsibility to protect the people inside the bureau.”

Did his best to ignore everyone looking at him, at this man who sounded cliché but sincere, too.

Each step neared him to the door, to a strained and fragile gathering of personalities. He projected gunshots, bodies turning to corpses all because someone lost his cool. Why be scared of a Monday protest when some outspoken Earth pony and his audience could do the trick on Friday?

Each step scared him, as if his blood froze or raced through his heart. Dying right there, right now? That gripped him.

He stepped ahead anyway.

Opened the door to the blast of hot air and the rush of noise as he stood up to the horde of people and Equestrians around this loud speaker who stood on a pedestal, standing above the thick flower boxes.

“...don’t have much time!” Key Note yelled. “We’ve got until the end of the year before the Veil reaches us, so please come over and—”

“But, I’ve seen ya’ before!” yelled a shades-wearing woman holding a picket sign saying NO TO THE PER! She tilted her head, presenting confusion to both him and the crowd watching her. “I saw you at the Vancouver Rebirth rally months ago!” Then, she brandished her picket like a very heavy sword. “You’re using this as a Ponification front!”

“Ilana, I was merely an observer, OK?” Note said, holding up his hoof toward the lady and staying calm, keeping his cool despite the L.A. heat. “Now, everyone: We’ve established that most of you like to be alive and not dead—”

A man stepped forward, wearing a fake mustache and a pair of shades, and his appearance silenced Key Note. To see this bold pony subdued by a funny-looking man amazed the crowd and took their spotlight. He pointed a finger at Note, now with all eyes on this guest.

“What’s this interruption about now?” Key Note said with a groan and a roll of the eyes.

“About you, Key Note!” yelled the guest. “Or, should I say...Douglas!”

And Note’s smug smile disappeared. One eye twitched, and then the both of them.

A grumble, pawed the concrete ground.

Gasps arose from the crowd as the heckler smiled, relishing in this pony’s anger. “Come on, buddy! I know you! You don’t have to do this, you know!”

Note shrugged his shoulders, slowly covering his mouth with his hoof. “Well, I don’t know about that, Dustin,” Douglas said loud and clear.

“You should!” Dustin replied, pointing at him. Then, turning his back on him and raising both his hands towards the crowd, careless about his ludicrous mustache, “You see, folks, Douglas here is—or, was—an old-time friend of mine! We grew up together over in Canada, and—”

Sam heard a faint whisp—

Dustin whirled his head to the right and saw the woman from before. “Why’d you say that to me?!”

As the crowd muttered and mumbled into a fever pitch, ready to see a rumble between the two, Ilana kept holding her picket sign. “Say what to you? You’re the one who called me a good-for-nothing!”

The crowd gasped as Dustin gulped, swallowing the accusation. “Covering up for yourself, now? Look, we both don’t like the PER—”

Whisp—

“Agh, you!” he shouted, walking over to her with a pointed finger. “How come you know my secrets?! I don’t tell that to anyone!”

“What, me?!” she yelled, leaning back and one hand on her chin.

“Yes, y—”

Was pushed off by her, staggering and almost falling to the ground.

“You don’t call me a liar!” Ilana finished off, planting her picket sign into a flower box’s soil.

This made Note cringe, made him bite his hoof.

Back to Dustin who responded with, “I didn’t call you a lia—”

The mysterious whispers returned, and Sam saw the whole crowd erupt into a verbal brawl—people and Equestrians pointing at each other, pushing each other, threatening to hurt each other with raised signs, horns glowing and wings opening while fists were closing—

Sam jumped into the fray, trying to separate two people shouting at each other, holding their sweaty arms and hoping his ID would terrify them a little. He quickly told them off in a stern accent while keeping a few things in his peripheral vision.

As his tongue went the rote of “Calm down!”, the guards and more staff jumped into the fray, too, trying to keep everything civil with kind words and forceful clothes and gestures. The police had everyone in an enclosed area with their weighty presence, creating an informal roadblock to contain the situation as officers moved in to help the staff. Even Key Note was helping out, attempting to talk some sense to his old-time friend and Ilana who were busy punching each other.

In the midst of the chaos, Sam saw that familiar Uber car once again, idle by the sidewalk, by Airplane Landing View Point right before the police roadblock. Arthur looked bored, watching the whole thing unfold with an impatient fist on his chin. Upon noticing Sam, he gave a distant wave, still looking bored.

As the noise filled Sam’s ears, the two men he was holding back shouting at each other again, pointing fingers at each other and then their faces. He sighed, then went back to work: the work of calming everyone down.

On the Rocks

Sam’s next hour or so, a flurry. Repelling riled up demagogues, defending against magic creatures with no magic of his own, letting the police step in and neutralize the situation with megaphones and water hoses, being interviewed by said police and giving out the incident’s details in a barely composed fashion, assuring everyone inside the bureau that everything’s OK, holding off shouts of horrified clients, arguing with those who had qualms about everything and also about being in harm’s way—

In the rush ripping through the halls, he saw everyone in a hurry, running or flying this way and that. The bureau’s crew sent orders everywhere, while screams and distressed words rang out to his ears. The lines had almost broken up, but the staff stayed faithful and told them all to stay calm not panic. People closer to the back of the pack kept shooting glances behind, hoping to make a mad dash to the exit to escape the fast-paced lunacy.

At the end of the corridor, he saw Laura protecting her cowering husband at the corner, Rogie spouting something about “them coming! Th-They’re coming! I t-told y—”

“Having none of it!” Laura yelled, slapping him on the back with her hoof, with Rogie whimpering back. Then, pulling him by both ears into the new residences, “We’re staying here until I say we’re leaving!”

Before Sam could process that, there came galloping Adirondack and flying Turbo Jet, going down the corridor and doing the opposite of not panicking. Staff in the form of sturdy Earth ponies and tall humans sprinted there to stave them off, only to be met with Jet’s “I stayed here long enough! I really have to get back home with my pals!”

“They’re not taking me alive!” Adirondack yelled, lowering his head and using his thick antlers as his shield. “Take care of the plants for me!”

“I’m not your babysitter!” yelled back an Earth pony, ID dangling from around his neck.

And all Sam could do was tell people to stay calm, too. To direct them to designated locations, to hope everything would turn out alright after the mania of near-stampedes and loud words mingling and clashing against his eardrums.

And then, it was time to clock out.

It took a bit more time for Sam to be notified of this fact. In fact, it took some more time and some snapping sounds. Then, a tap on his hand.

“Uh, mister…?”

Sam whirled his head back up, bringing himself back to reality: Himself at the lobby, behind the counter and sorting out papers and reports to be sent to the police department.

He saw a brown griffon: Greg. Past him, Sam could see the sky turning a dark and funereal mix of pink and indigo. Its dimness extended into the bureau, casting a colorful yet dismal tint upon everything and everyone he saw. The chit-chat in the lounge sounded slowed down; nowhere was the casual of casual conversation. An orange glimmered twinkled upon a coffee cup, though even the apparently happy barista seemed grave under a dying day.

The griffon spread his wings and left, having finished his role of mentally waking Sam up. He relaxed on a couch, reading a magazine with one claw and answering a form with the other.

Sam looked back to his front and saw Crowhop, levitating another stack of papers to the counter in her lime glow.

Staring at him with wistful eyes.

“Sorry for not showing up that much today! I...I-I had no idea what was going on outside. Wh-When I did, I...I couldn’t believe it with my own eyes and ears!” and then her ears did fall flat on her head. She bit her tongue, then her quivering lip.

Tired, Sam sighed, now left alone with just Crowhop across the counter. He didn’t speak right away: he walked to the other side, lifting a part of the counter to gain access to the lobby proper. Then, Crowhop was really in front of him, really before him.

“I’m very sorry for letting this be your last day here!” Crowhop said, a hoof squished on her cheek, her irises all big and watery. “I know it’s not my fault that Key Note was so enthusiastic, that there’s some bad persons over there...but—” sniffed, now blubbering, then “—no one should be having this...no one! Nobody!”

Crowhop bent a bit lower, tears now streaming down her cheek as her legs shivered. Might fall any moment now, might collapse any moment now.

That’s when Sam bent down to her level, crouching. Stress pent-up in his mind was slowly seeping in: all he wanted to do now was get out, get to the Inn, and rest away. A rash idea came over, one of asking for a raise because he put his life in the line for the bureau, and he wants some compensation for that or what not.

But, what he ended up saying was, “I know. But, I did what I could.” He spread his arms, smiling a little to lighten up the mood, striving to hide that selfish tendency. “I don’t think I did such a bad job for a rookie, eh?”

This gave Crowhop a mischievous cackle. “Well, those nice officers did a better job than you, so….” and let her forehooves drop to the ground in friendly mockery.

Sam let out a soft cackle of his own, a little disappointed that she’s not in the mood for any rewards of heroism. He consoled himself that at least he was alive.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Crowhop continued, wiping away her tears so she could be playful once more. “You didn’t ask for this. You’re very strained, very stressed, very afflicted and pulled by what happened this afternoon.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” he mumbled, loud enough that she could hear.

Her ears raised, Crowhop stifled a giggle. “Just to let you know: I’m surprised and honored that you still stuck with us. I get that it’s your last day here as a volunteer, but, you know...you can always, hm, come back?” and winked at him with the widest grin she’d ever done so far.

“Not so subtle about your pitches, huh?” he said before he stood up, feeling some light numbness in his thighs. Then, stretching his arms and cracking his neck, he looked onward outside.

An airplane was descending, streaking through the sky as it neared touchdown. He set his eyes there, ignoring everything around him and letting his mind rest on this simple, ordinary, not-magic-at-all thing.

Ding! and a whir turned on.

Sam looked up, saw the air conditioning units up and running. Then, that blast of cool air once more breezed upon his shoulders, accompanied by that draft of relief.

He felt a tug at his shirt.

Sam looked down. Saw Crowhop pulling on his clothes with her hoof. It was endearing that she’d ended up being his boss: a short unicorn full of energy, and pink to boot. Of course, there’s that deeper side of hers, of the burden of responsibility over the fate of the humans and the new Equestrians around her.

At that moment of his reflection, Canter said, “Take care out there, OK?”

Sam couldn’t help but smile, not just at her cute face but at how she’d delivered the question: more than just sincere, it was innocent.

“How long will you stay here?” she pressed, tilting her head.

He looked away from that sickeningly sweet pony face, covering his mouth out of embarrassment. “Until Monday—” coughed “—at least.”

Then, Crowhop’s eyes sparkled, sounding out a long “Ooh!” as she squished her cheeks with her hooves. “‘At least’?! You’re making room for your own bureau appointment, aren’t you?”

Sam flashed a smirk at her. “Yeah.”

“Aww!” and she blinked fast and pretty.

He was still astonished at how expressive and enthusiastic this pony was. Sam looked around to see everyone else’s reactions, and most of them, both human and Equestrian, smiled at this perky pony.

As the sky’s light further dimmed.

After a heartfelt farewell to all the bureau crew—not to mention a leaping hug straight from Crowhop, which almost made him crash into the glass wall—Sam left the building.

The sky was darker, adopting a bluer and sadder color, although the many cars with their many headlights made up for that. The sidewalks, too, were decked out with a flood of pedestrians, and Sam heard the chatter of millions along with the brief glimpses of smartphone screen lights. Whenever there was a break in the crowds, there’s also a good chance of a bicyclist weaving in and out, and he was shoved to the side by a hurrying cycling couple, in the middle of their own honeymoon.

Then, something caught his attention.

Past the myriad of cars stuck in traffic, sitting by the curb just before the pedestrian crossing: that all-too-familiar black car.

Sam didn’t even check if it was him, but once he got in, it was him. Good ol’ Arthur, his pair of shades covering his probably reddened eyes. He then closed the door and settled on the back seats beside Spaghetti Tree who was busy tapping a three-button keyboard connected to her smartphone.

Talking to her wasn’t an option, since her pony ears were plugged with earphones. Asking her how she could listen to music well with those big ears wasn’t an option, either.

Then, the car drove off, bringing all four of its wheels on the road.

“So, you’re done with the bureau thing?” Arthur quickly asked, turning his head and giving him an impatient look. The shades didn’t help him become any more approachable.

Sam twisted his hand here and there, giving a so-so response. “Pretty much.”

Arthur turned his head back to the road as he should be. He adjusted his rear view mirror, getting a larger view of the back seats and their occupants.

“I saw you did your research on what’s good,” the driver began with a raised finger on the steering wheel. “The Salty Cat’s a great place to knock your socks off to a drink...if you don’t mind the company of so many Equestrians.”

He breathed a chuckle or two, tapping his fingers to the beat of some old rock song on the radio.

“Could you imagine, really? When these things first appeared, I thought they’re just like the ones you see in fairy tales: everything running on unicorn farts and what not.” His next chuckle was a tender one, if not tenderly ironic. “And then we figured out those ‘nice and chubby ponies’ had bars. They got tipsy and drunk like the best of us.” He made an exaggerated shrug and let his eyes bulge out at that, just to emphasize his point. “Guess we’re not so different when it comes to vices? Next thing you know, they’ll end up smoking cigarettes, and we’ll be snorting crushed poison joke.”

Sam then snorted a laugh out of that, thinking of cute ponies like Crowhop chugging a mug of beer and then smoking a pack of cigarettes a day. “And to think unicorns are just childhood dreams!”

“Yeah, you better watch out,” Arthur said, now louder and his accent somewhat more crass. “Imagine an angry drunk unicorn. ‘I’m gonna stab you with my horn!’ Pow! Pow! Pow!” and then a little laugh.

Sam replied with his own laughter, though it was quiet enough for Spaghetti not to be disturbed. For her part, she was rolling her tongue in her cheek, her face puckering like she’s about to make a bubble out of gum.

The rather short trip went well with no accidents to be recorded. With only a moderate amount of traffic to wade through now, Sam was soon in a residential part of the Big Orange. Arthur acted as a very informal tour guide, flaunting his finger here and there to direct Sam’s attention to whatever landmark came by. “Over there at the corner, there’s yet another IHOP,” or “Here’s a Lutheran church and school to your left,” or “And that’s Altitude Apartments, if you’re into that sort of thing. It has a pool.”

Once they got to the I-405, Arthur pointed to the right, confident he wouldn’t smash into a car or a barrier on this open road. “That’s Hillside Memorial. It’s a cemetery where they buried famous people like Hank Greenberg, Monty Hall, Al Johnson....” and on he went, listing a dozen more names.

And there it was. Sam couldn’t see any tombstones or such because of how fast they were going and the poor angles he’s getting. Despite that, he saw its stepped and steep gardens along with its iconic monument which looked like a huge classical cross of a dome and a gazebo.

As the journey continued even through a switch to the I-10, Sam paid less attention to the beautiful and wonderful outside. In lieu of that was Spaghetti Tree, this peculiar pony busy with whatever she was doing on her phone. To him, she was isolated, having said not a word to him during the fifteen minutes of travel time so far. Was she getting any motion sickness per chance?

He took a glimpse at her phone, hoping she would be too immersed to notice. It wasn’t enough to discern the words there, but he saw her browsing through Facebook once again. Spaghetti liked a couple of random photos of baked potatoes, protest announcements, robotic noses, and Pinkie Pie’s world(s)-famous cakepies.

Sam tried not to think about the protest to come. Instead, this Pinkie Pie was a good distraction—she was coping so well with social media, it might as well be too well, for a single post from hers would end up being shared to no end. Her weirdness certainly contributed to her rising popularity, although he’d chalked more of it up to how sincerely happy she was, and that she didn’t post every day. Not even every week, if he remembered right.

And the baking lessons. Yes, the live baking lessons, too….

After a short while: an exit to the right, a right turn to 4th Street, a left onto Broadway, one more turn to the right to Ocean Avenue, and then a full stop at the intersection with Santa Monica Boulevard.

Once he thanked Arthur and bade him farewell, Sam got out of the car, loosening one button on his shirt as a little reward for his short internship. A hectic, emotional, and thoughtful internship that was also short. Cut short, perhaps; that’s how Sam felt as he gave it a second’s thought.

When Spaghetti Tree also got off with him, Sam was taken a little by surprise. Was she following him or something? But, instead, she did something unsuspicious: removed her earphones with her wing, then put them inside a saddle bag she then strapped around herself.

Standing by Ocean Avenue, he stood in the beautifully dark night. The traffic wasn’t a hindrance to his enjoyment now; they were part and parcel with the place along with the pedestrians, human and Equestrian, walking or running or hovering by. He got a taste of that when he got brushed off by a scurrying griffon, slapped by his feather’s ruffled wings.

At the far limits of his vision lay the Pacific Ocean in all its magnanimous vastness of rolling waves. Being taught the Pacific was Earth’s biggest ocean was one thing; being within a hundred meters of this gigantic field of endless water and inhaling that briny deep scent only an ocean could give—that was another.

He couldn’t see the beach thanks to the tops of the bluffs blocking the way, but he did see several dancing dots of light in the distance. His best guess was seaponies and merponies waltzing in the sea, wearing glow-in-the-dark suits. The big sightseeing boat by the side gave him the relief that they weren’t performing without any appreciation.

Standing between the ocean and Sam was Palisades Park, that long strip of grass, tropical trees, and walkways, but it wasn’t just that tonight. Already, an impromptu band of pony and zebra musicians took to the makeshift stage, serenading rosy love songs to all within earshot. A growing crowd of admirers and curious attendees only attracted more and more admirers and attendees—it was a joyous Friday night, after all, and a free concert on the spot was hard to pass up.

Sam turned around and walked his way to The Salty Cat’s entrance at the corner. Then, he observed that Spaghetti was walking her way there, too, trotting beside him. “You’re going here, too?” he asked, shooting a finger at the double door entrance.

“Mm-hmm,” and then she nodded, a little smile blooming on her face. A far cry from the passionately serious HLF sympathizer he thought he knew. Then again, his introduction to her was a prank, so maybe she was getting back to a more familiar self.

Then, being kind-mannered, he opened the door wide and stood aside for Spaghetti to enter. Being a gentleman, as they said—or would it be “being a gentlestallion” once the gentleman disappeared?

Sam took a look inside and was astounded by what was inside. Sleek wooden decor, with the floor and the tables and the chairs and the counter and the balconies and the ceiling—all of them with a mix of timber, marble, and plastic.

On the swivel chairs and throughout the tables everywhere were the patrons taking their loads off and enjoying the weekend’s rowdy beginning. But, this strange sight made Sam marvel and look again:

A yak and a buffalo toasted to good days with their glasses of whiskey, the both of them talking up their pottery to be sold tomorrow. Several Ornithian parrots sipped on fine wine, discussing whether to purchase some turquoise cuff links for a dashing fiancé. Eight ponies chugging beer and one being restrained by his peers because he was about to light a cigar in a non-smoking establishment—and, was that Rogie and Laura kissing each other’s cheeks on the second floor balcony, helping themselves to a margarita and an old-fashioned? The sounds, too, of glasses clinking and clients ordering, and let’s not forget the slurred speech thanks to those probably drunk eight ponies who were finally apprehended by security Abyssinians.

As Sam walked over to the counter, he noticed Spaghetti still trotting with him. There’s not a table nor even a simple group of familiar persons she was turning here. For all he knew, this was a solo run for her.

He sat down, now a viewer of some bartending theatrics by a suited dragon who breathed fire with a fwoom! onto a glass of B-52. The cocktail was then served with a claw to a rather bored human customer, tapping the fiery glass to a rhythm.

“And shall I get you the usual?” asked another bartender.

Sam lifted his head to make out an Abyssinian curling his whiskers, donning a bow tie and a blazer as he rushed over to pour a drink for Spaghetti. He kept it up with small talk, stringing an interesting yarn about how his visit to the Changeling Hive went: that he paid a dozen bits to have a changeling follow him around as his “twin” just for kicks, that he was able to bribe the king and his brother to give him a regular supply of tuna, and that he hung out with Princess Twilight on accident on the train back home to Abyssinia—all in about thirty seconds, and then her order was done: a mojito and a shot of silver bullet.

“You’re absolutely sure about that?” he asked, bearing that tone of having said it before. “You got tipsy after just—”

“Never know ‘till I try,” she blathered, pulling both glasses closer to her face and feeling the cold of her icy mojito on her cheeks.

Sam chuckled before the cat whisked his way to him. This feline mixologist licked his paw and then adjusted his bow tie. Then, bending over a bit: “Sorry to keep you waiting, good sir! We’re quite understaffed today; one of our best human bartenders is out of commission because he’ll be a cat just like me.” Snickered at that and laid his paw on the counter. “So, welcome to The Salty Cat! The name’s Oddeye, but you can call me Oddie. Or Eddie.” Then, resting his shoulder on the counter, “What’cha want around here? We have the usual classic favorites and favorite classics, but I suggest you don’t do that.” He smirked, curling his whiskers more. “Spice your life up a bit—that’s my advice!”

Sam smirked back, although with his eyes lowered a bit. “My life’s already been spiced up a lot thanks to you talking cats and your friends.”

Oddeye laughed a bit, revealing his fangs. “I see your plight. Didn’t ask to get your world rocked to the very core, huh?”

The human replied with a shake of his head and holding his liquor before realizing he didn’t have any at all.

Seeing those drink-empty hands, Oddeye cleared his throat. “Want me to offer my recommendations?”

Sam sighed, the tiring nature of the night coming upon him along with remembering that he hadn’t eaten dinner yet. “Yeah, anything’ll do except for...” and looked at the dragon juggling a couple shakers for show, charming his small cadre of fans, “drinking fire.”

Oddeye craned his head that way, resting a shoulder on an imaginary shelf. “Oh, him? Bruler’s a show-off; that’s his call card around here. If you don’t wanna rant about your problems to someone you don’t know, he’s your guy,” while finishing with a pointed digit at his scaly co-worker.

“Alrighty,” and let his hands fall onto the counter with a slam! “What do you recommend on the...well, gin side?”

“Ah, there’s derby,” Oddeye said, leaning in to grab a shaker and a bottle of gin. “It’s gin with some peach bitters and mint leaves. Tastes like someone jacked up your bottle of Sprite and sent it to the Frozen North—” and rubbed his mouth. “Or Greenland….That’s more appropriate to your ears, isn’t it?”

Sam didn’t say anything other than a simple, “Yeah” with another simple nod of his head. The cocktail sounded simple enough, too. Hopefully nothing too heavy or hard.

As the bartender went to work with preparing his ingredients and equipment, Sam turned to the right and saw Spaghetti, her face having slipped back into a pondering frown. This pegasus sipped on her mojito—beholding, through the big window and past talking light-headed creatures, the bright dancing dots in the sea. She had no earphones on, but her phone was still on the counter.

To Sam, this pensive state returned to mind Spaghetti’s rather tragic condition. He waffled on whether to ask or not—maybe he could put off the decision until at least his drink arrived. But, after a few seconds of internal debate, he leaned forward and asked the pony, “So, anything?”

Her ears flattened upon hearing those sudden words. Without looking at him: “Not really.”

Now that rebuffed him for a very short while, but his confidence was increasing nonetheless. Sam didn’t want it to trail off in an awkward note. He cleared his throat, doing his best not to mimic how the cat did it, and asked, “Is it OK if you want to clear up something for me?”

Spaghetti groaned and rolled not just her eyes but her head, too. Yet, she resisted the urge to make eye contact with him. “What is it?”

Sam scratched his head. “How’d you get away from the police?”, whispering that last word to be extra safe.

“I didn’t,” she said nonchalantly, still looking off into the water-filled distance. “My choice was jail or fine. I thought it better to just pay them off than to make a fuss of a crime I didn’t commit.”

That raised Sam’s eyebrow and piqued his uncertainty. Half-raising a hand, “Wait, that wasn’t you?”

“Wasn’t me,” she repeated. Then, she took a gulp of her mojito, sucking in half of the mint sprigs and overwhelming her taste buds with that freezing seasoning. She struck it down onto the counter, a few alcoholic drops spilling over. “But, I’m gonna let it slide. They’ll just think I...I was too crazy with my pranks today.”

“Don’t they know you’re, well...good with the Front?” Sam blurted out.

She looked flustered, her cheeks now blushing. “How’d you know that?”

“Arthur told me,” he said, eyes on the phone and silently gesturing to her about how he was told. “Hold on...aren’t you friends?”

“Like I believe him all the time,” she said with a sarcastic smile. “He gets me around out of pity, but that’s it. We just enjoy each other’s company because we both got connections to the you-know-what...and since he knows some ponies from the other you-know-what—” she flailed her forehooves to the air before grabbing her mojito and waving it about “—chances are he’s gonna bail on me if they put him under the gun.”

With Spaghetti staring fondly at her drink of escape, Sam took the downtime to process. It was weird to mesh her Human Liberation Front sympathies with her non-human form. Then again, he kept telling himself it wasn’t her fault: It’s the fault of deranged crazies too impatient to let her finish her bureau appointment. If they’d come half an hour later, they would’ve ignored her.

Or, would they? His next thought was seeing the “ponifiers” kidnapping her and her would’ve-been spouse. They’d both be together at least, though being together in death wasn’t a brilliant prospect. It wasn’t that out there, was it? With such an experience etched and scarred into her brain—and if that was public knowledge thanks to her Facebook profile—then an active imagination could misconnect the dots, relate the bureau’s air con incident with her past….

And so, he continued. “You...you don’t have any qualms with me. I’ve noticed that. You do know where I work, right? Or did I tell you already?...”

“You’re the exception,” she said, almost cutting him off. “They go on recruit drives for humans mostly for the empathy factor. Hire a familiar face to get their guard down,” and let her glass tip and bob with her hoof.

Sam raised a brow once more. “So...you don’t really like this whole humanity-turning-into-other-creatures thing, do you?”

That was met with Spaghetti’s dagger eyes. “Don’t play dumb with me!” Pumping her chest, “I protest with the best of ‘em. I believe the princesses are either hiding something or just straight up not accepting our requests. They always have something sinister….”

Sam rested his shoulder on the counter. He had the feeling this might be a long one.

Then, Spaghetti reached for her shot of silver bullet. She downed it and slammed the finished glass back to the counter.

With a tiny crack.

Sam adjusted his position on the chair, stretched his legs closer to the floor. This might take longer.

“And here you go!” said Oddeye as he brought a cocktail glass to the counter, containing that whitish gin with mint leaves floating about. The feline then slunk away, acting all friendly towards another patron at the end of the counter with a “Good evening! Oh, and how are you, too?...”

She coughed, then flapped her wings in place. Her cheeks were reddening, becoming more flushed as the ramble continued: “It’s politics. They’re certainly nicer than what we got, but they’re scarier. They already got the sun, the moon, their world’s cosmos is in their hands!” and raised her forelegs to prove that point. “You’d think they’d be satisfied, but no….’Cause you see, I studied up on them,” with an eye twitch. “They’re not satisfied with only Equestria,” and pointed outside, pointing at Equestria which was still quite far away. “See how they tampered the Dragon Lands’ run for a new leader. Ponies got sent there and they ruined their meritocracy! Ember may be strong, but she made it with outside help! Pony sabotage, that’s what’s going on!”

Sam entrenched himself on his seat in case she’d jump at him. “Uh, Spaghetti? Aren’t you—”

And a whisp—

“I’m not pasta!” she roared, planting a hoof on his nose. “You call me Julia!”

That’s when everyone else looked her way. Gone was the talk about insignificant things, gone was that good fun. With another fight coming up for him, Sam managed, “Uh, Sp—Julia, you have to—”

“Calm down?!” and she raised her half-empty glass, now her shield and weapon. “You bureaucrat!”

Sam would’ve laughed at being called a bureaucrat if bodily harm wasn’t on the menu. Instead, he slowly stood up, ignoring his drink he hadn’t even touched. “OK, what about I call in a taxi and—”

“Oh, so you can just send me back to Arthur like a girl sends her pony toy to the toy box?!” she yelled, face red in fury. Then, she jumped to the floor and stomped on a tile, breaking it with a crack! “I hate being a pony! I hate what they’re doing to society, to our precious humanity! It’s all a front, it’s all a ruse, and you better listen to—”

Increasing pawsteps as security cats in shades and suits closed in on her.

Sam gulped, stepping forward to protect her an—

Stepped away as the staff cut into his way, giving him a sense of It’s our job, not yours.

“Where’re you taking me?!” she yelled, now being held up by a bulky cat.

“Outside, miss,” he said kindly before carrying her out of the bar.

And this was how she exited the premises: A disgraced spectacle, the subject of no words but all silent humiliation. Away to the dark and exposed night outside she went, with not a whimper in her defense.

Then, the doors closed.

Silence.

Quiet.

It was quiet for a while. Dead quiet.

Then, slowly but surely, the talks resumed. Some dismissed her as being too experimental—”Never should’ve ordered that extra shot,” surmised a unicorn at the counter to Oddeye who nodded in sober agreement.

Sam was left alone with his gin derby and that feeling of regret. Why didn’t he just stand up to her?

Maybe a scaredy-cat.

Méconnaître

Sam wasn’t drinking his sorrows away. That’d be inaccurate.

Instead, he was drinking his regret away, which then turned into sorrow on its own volition.

The Salty Cat having returned to its more cheerful mood from minutes ago, Sam felt vacant. The buzz of bureau days faded into a harsh reality: he was alone and surrounded by strangers in a strange place in a strange city in a world becoming ever more strange.

He looked to the right and saw a Crystal pony in about the same boat as him: sulking with a heavy highball drink in hoof, reflecting the ceiling lights with his coat as another Abyssinian bartender lent her ear to his spoken sorrows.

“I’m afraid we do get a lot of...unscrupulous characters from time to time,” crowed a familiar voice.

Sam whirled back to the counter to see Oddeye curling his whiskers and putting down a shaker he’d just finished wiping. The feline then rubbed the wet counter with a rag while adjusting his bow tie, both paws in multi-task mode tonight.

“Yeah,” was Sam’s reply, taking another sip of his derby, then noticed that he’d just finished it. This surprised him since he was turning it around with his hand, astonished at where it’d all went.

“Want another?” Oddeye said with a tempting grin, though glancing to the left at where Julia had been. His grin then vanished at that.

Sam grunted in subdued laughter. “Why not? I mean,” then looked at his hands, stretching and wiggling his fingers about, “I’ve a lot more on my plate than just choosing my next species.”

Oddeye rested his furry elbow on the counter, becoming more down-to-earth with his added hunch. “That’s what we’re here for, sir,” and chuckled at his attempt at humor, including little of that feline meow.

And so, Sam handed the cat his glass and watched Oddeye make a show of his job: The bartender returned the used glass, brought up a shaker, filled it with ice, dropped a dash of peach bitters and then a gulp of gin, then began shaking the shaker.

It turned out Oddeye was also no slouch at bartending theatrics, since he juggled that lone shaker high into the sky—or merely the air above them, to be pedantic, but that still wouldn’t convince Sam to cringe at the possibility of being knocked out by a cup. It didn’t help that Oddeye was also dancing to the ambient jazz that just started played through the speakers, especially when he returned to only shaking the shaker with his paws without endangering poor Sam.

Oddeye grabbed a new chilled martini, poured the drink through the shaker’s strainer, pulled out a sprig of mint to slap it before garnishing the cocktail with it.

Then, he served it to his human customer, brushing his shoulders in a splash of ego.

Sam clapped lightly at the mini-show before taking the drink into his hand. “That’s pretty cool.”

“My pleasure!” and Oddeye snickered before resting his elbow again on the counter. “Now, where were we?”
“About what we both think of this mess?” Sam guessed before taking a sip, now his mind becoming slightly muddled with a drink of alcohol already in his belly.

Oddeye furrowed his thin brows. “There’s the rub, huh?” Pulled his head back, “Not really a rub since it brings us a lot of customers, but I get why so many humans go here.” Then, seeing everyone else in the bar with a sweeping look: “The world is changing, and what way to cope with it than to drink, ay?...um,” only to wring out an embarrassed smile that his fangs couldn’t help remove. “It seems I haven’t gotten your name, yet.”

“It’s Sam,” the ex-volunteer replied with a careless handwave before swallowing another minty-zingy sip.

Merely happy to make someone else happy, Oddeye opened a paw towards a door at the back. “You know, you could try out some karaoke if you’re feeling lucky. You seem to be the music type.”

“Seriously?” Sam exclaimed, not noticing that his own cheeks were turning a nice shade of pink from the alcohol. “I don’t fancy myself as a decent singer at all!”

“Hey,” and Oddeye leaned even more forward on the counter, his cat-like face only inches away from Sam’s. “Here’s a little tip for ‘ya,” and paused before: “loosen up. No one cares about how good you sing when they’re all falling down glazed.”

And, as if someone was massaging his tense back, Sam felt a weight lifted from his shoulders at that piece of advice. Since he was slowly getting himself under the influence, he found it hard to tell whether the weight was lifted from the advice or from his alcoholic lightheartedness. Probably the latter, but it probably didn’t matter, for he snapped his fingers and said, “Yeah, why not?”

Oddeye patted the counter. “Glad to have you de-stress.”

“Ah!” and Sam raised a finger.

The bartender looked surprised. “What is it?”

Sam made a smile, a foolish and dumb smile. “After just one more drink,” and held his half-empty martini up.

This action brought Oddeye to a difficult crossroads. He wouldn’t want a repeat of what just happened with Spaghetti Tree—or Julia. Still, he smirked on the side of error and said a cool, “OK!”

Sam celebrated this resolution by taking one small, restrained, and disciplined sip of his derby.

It’d be his last one for the night.

Sam did take the Abyssinian’s suggestion and sung a few songs at the karaoke room. He thought he sounded good, but who’d trust him concerning his music skills after two drinks or four? And two shots to boot?

Too bad his drunkenness hindered his ability to appreciate the others who sang, especially the Equestrians who could belt out an astounding range of notes—but only on the few native songs they knew plus the new improvisation mode the karaoke machine had in offer.
To the unaffected observer or the very affected drunk like Sam, it was funny to hear non-humans try to imitate famous human artists: A squeaky changeling had a coughing fit trying to hit that low growl of Elvis Presley. Nailing Morten Harket’s high note from his time in a-ha proved to be a trial for the bassy yak. The only dragon in the room couldn’t even get the chance to finish a Josh Groban song because he sputtered out fire during the chorus, forcing the only guard there to grab a fire extinguisher and stamp the small inferno out.

While such an event would’ve made rational creatures think, “How did we let this happen?”, these weren’t rational creatures. Only one or two left, leaving the inebriated rest to sing their hearts out without annoying anyone but themselves.

After a hazy two hours or so of conversing with a shot of forgetfulness in the karaoke room, Sam walked his way back to the counter. Or he tried to walk back to the counter, for his legs melted like butter under that spellbound stupor. He’d joined the ranks of tonight’s intoxicated—not enough to fall unconscious but enough to not know what’s going on.

All was a blur. Something about calling a taxi or whatever, being helped into a car with its bleary and blinding lights, insulting the driver to go faster, a wink or forty in a doze, random lights breaking the speed limit and getting into custody.

A gust of hot air as he stumbled onto the ground: the cold, hard ground with its wet puddles and his hands dirtied with grime.

A click! and a snap!

Reared his head to see what’s before him.

The echoing voice came back into clear hearing, and his vision steadied.

Felt his arms tied. He tried to move his hands, but failed. A look behind: they were cuffed, and a burly man with shades and a balaclava keeping them cuffed.

And a shotgun on his back.

“I should’ve known, Sam.”

That voice.

Sam turned back to his front.

In the alleyway, in this dead end alleyway, in this dead end nighttime alleyway of abandoned apartments and dumpsters—

Here stood Arthur. Good ol’ Arthur. He was smiling, and it was the first time Sam saw him standing up, curiously enough. More curiously enough, he was holding a vaccine with one gloved hand.

Most curiously, Arthur was using the other gloved hand to point a gun at Sam’s head.

And Sam tried to wrest his way out of it, yanking first his arms and then his legs, but these, too, were tied and cuffed.

The few dim lights there then showed shadows, looming shadows, looming equine shadows trotting closer.

“I guess you know too much,” Arthur said, the smile now absent, his eyes a shade of bloodshot red. “It’s my mistake to let you in there. Didn’t know you’re that of a big drinker.”

Sam shuddered, almost convulsing. Heart throbbing, this reality of death coming fast to his heels. That sharp electricity coursing in his chest, that of adrenaline-fueled fear. And to think it’d end with such a friendly face—
“There are some things we can do,” Arthur continued, gun still aimed. “Some things I can do before I become a good pony.” Glanced to the side, maybe to hear for police sirens. “We still have hands, can still do things ponies and, really, all Equestrians can’t do.” He spread his other hand out, clutching the vaccine with it as the serum inside sparkled under the moonlight. “I’m merely serving my part.”

And then, on cue, a couple of ponies came to his side. They trotted out a parade of smiles, uncomfortable smiles directed at Sam.

“Sorry to give you a very bad time,” Arthur said in ridicule, “but I wish we could do something like, I don’t know—” looked past Sam’s shoulder “—unleash the greatest gas bomb ever devised.” He walked to one of the apartment’s backdoors, tapping on it while still pointing the gun at Sam’s head. “We don’t have the resources, but we can always try—let it bring out a super strong version of the potion, and let it fly through the skyline, eh?”

Sam’s eyes widened and his mouth, too. Overwhelming fear and realization raced through his whole body: this “innocent” driver, an accomplice in a devious plan of ponification? All he could do was try to get out to no avail, his body rocking and roiling in its cuffs, and shout, “You can’t do that! You can’t—”

Muffled by the glowing cloth tightly tied on his mouth and around his head. He shivered as he looked down to his right, seeing the unicorn who did the deed to him. The pony entertained an evil laugh, raising his head and throwing his forehooves to the air like a mad scientist.

“You gotta admit I kept up a good facade, huh?” Arthur remarked, walking his way back to Sam’s front, gun now ever closer to his head. Then, Arthur raised his vaccine up like a knife ready to stab. “But...you can’t just let the cat out of the bag, you know? You’re supposed to stay mum about what we know about Julia, OK?”

“B-But she h-has her Faceb—”

“Oh, I pressured her,” Arthur cut off, stepping ever closer to him, that shiny weapon imposing its terrible needle. “She told me all about what happened at the Salty Cat. All of it.”

Sam’s eyes bulged at the approaching gun and needle, all served with Arthur’s slasher smile with eyes that stared a thousand miles.

As the ponies trotted closer.

As Arthur stepped closer.

Sam stood in place, desperate to wiggle, to kick, to even fall as a distraction—but nothing happened. He stayed there, standing cuffed and bound.

“Sam?” Arthur said, his grin growing to preposterous proportions.

Raised the vaccine high.

“It’s your time to be one of us.”

Ftb!

“Agh!”

Sam almost came to a crumple, pain searing through his arm and then through his entire body as Arthur removed the needle from the victim. Sam fell to the ground, writhing as a white glow enveloped him, drowning in bright white light—

And then, the glow was gone.

The white light fading back, revealing Arthur and his entourage of ponies. Wait...wasn’t Arthur a bit short before? He looked tall, much taller now, to Sam.

Was lifted into the air, carried by the same unicorn on his side. Sam wanted to scream, knowing full well what’d just happened to him, but he found his jaw paralyzed and locked, eyes fluttering

Looking up, only seeing the sky and its stars, devoid of the moon as he was carried away with the sinister giggles of ponies who were surely psychotic with their rabid smiles, their rabid teeth—this evil joy of having one more in their herd.

Sam knew what’d happened to him, but he didn’t want to see it. He couldn’t make his fingers squirm nor his toes, for he felt none of them. He just knew it, knew it, knew it, knew it—

Lifted his hands to see them before the sky.

Only to see hooves.

“Aaaahhh!”

“...aaaahhh!”

Catapulted up on the bed.

As the screaming stopped, the pain rushing within his head, sloshing anywhere and everywhere.

Light. A light. Saw things illuminated. Familiar things: that TV, that easy chair, that desk, that window, that lamp….

Back at the Inn.

He checked the alarm clock.

It was eight in the morning.

Facing the wall with windows brought on torment to his eyes, pervading his skull with the throes of a hangover. Winced away from it, closed his eyes, massaged his wretched forehead.

Then, opened his eyes.

“Wait…,” Sam croaked, “am I-I…?”

Didn’t want to believe it yet. That last memory, that flashback playing in his mind: his hooves. What scenario had he gotten himself into? Had the police caught up to his fugitives? Had he been dragged to the bureau to be pitied? Perhaps this room merely looked like his room, but wasn’t really—Crowhop’s way of settling Sam into this new lease of life he hadn’t been ready for yet?

Or, was it a dream?

Gasped, checked his “hooves” to see if they were hands.

Yes. They were hands.

Flipped them around, turned them around, twisted them around to verify without a shadow of a doubt. Then looked down at the rest of himself sitting up on his comfy bed. Human feet, human legs, human tummy under his human shirt—slapped his human cheeks, then picked up his alarm clock with his human hands to see the faint reflection of his human face with his human nose and human eyes and human everything else.

“Phew…” and sat in bed some more for a few minutes. A rollercoaster of a dream required at least a few minutes to comprehend in full, although he might need a dozen more since the hangover was in full swing. Now, he just wanted to lie in bed again, his whole body feeling like dead weight.

But, the morning was young, and the sunlight peeking through the blinds told him to come out and enjoy the day. At first, he staunchly rejected the offer. But, after inhaling that refreshing smell of pine tree-scented walls, he got up to put on a set of decent, presentable clothes.

“Let me get this straight,” and Sam opened both of his hands on the counter, maintaining formal eye contact with this receptionist at the lobby: “I was brought here...while drunk?”

“Yes,” said the well-dressed woman, smiling behind that counter and her monitor. “You were transported here from the Salty Cat. When you were inside already, we took care of the rest.”

Sam slowly nodded, also slowly digesting the information. “So, do you know who took me in?”

“Well,” she began, “you were brought her via Uber by,” checking a notepad on the side… “Arthur Compagnon.”

A little shock spread through his chest, the name all but confirming his suspicion. Still, doubt remained. “OK...what did he look like?”

“A bit short,” she replied. “Brown haired. Trying to grow a beard, I think.”

Sam nodded once more, unwilling to betray further knowledge of the man in question. “Alright, I’ll...I’ll just go out and….” looked out at the doors, looking past the big lobby’s big columns and seeing the outside.

There Glasgow Place and that boulevard he’d already forgotten the name of. Cars and trucks were moving about, and humans walked on the streets.

Oh, and there’s the Equestrians walking there, too. He’d almost forgotten about that.

It was time to really enjoy Los Angeles, wasn’t it?

He’d wanted to try out the brand-new bicycle station planted right in front of the hotel. However, upon seeing the fine print on the label, he found out that it’s sponsored by the Ponification for Earth’s Rebirth organization “to stop humanity from destroying itself with their weapons and their evil fossil fuels.”

He then thought taking the tour bus was a better idea. He’d gotten a cold shiver just from reading the label as if it was ripped straight from his dream.

Or nightmare.

It took him a minute to get from the Holiday Inn to the gas station by the intersection’s corner, inhaling some of the noxious fuel smells as cars entered with empty tanks and exited with full ones. As for the intersection itself: It was the last one before the San Diego Freeway, so there was more traffic here than usual. Then again, it was also Saturday in a city where tourists and globetrotters—ah, and here’s a tourist pony in the middle of globetrotting, snapping pictures everywhere and then trotting to the next spot.

By the gas station’s side, an idle tour bus waiting for eager Los Angeles newcomers to ride on. It was a double-decker, too, though the poster on the side declared that it’s sponsored by the Earth-Equus Tourism Agency—and let’s not forget the poster itself, for it looked nice, too, with its group of humans and Equestrians surveying LAX’s futuristic-looking Theme Building with its arcs, its saucer shape, and its overall Googie style.

Sam had read up on the city tours before leaving for the Big Orange, and, now that a tour bus lay before him, this happy tourist was more than a little excited to enjoy the sights, hear the sounds, and taste the food.

So, he ambled up to the bus and paid for the walk-in fee of a hundred and fifty dollars to pay off most of the expenses for wherever he stopped with the help of a tour card. He then treated himself to a second-floor seat beside another human, beside someone familiar. Sure, that someone was a complete stranger to him and was enamored by the book he was reading, but a human stranger was easier to talk to than an Equestrian one—same species, for one.

Without the worry of going to work and dealing with the overly complex and entangled problems of becoming another species, he felt immensely relieved and thrilled. That relief and thrill gave him the confidence (but maybe not the ability) to withstand the late morning sun without a hat or a mini-fan.

He heard the doors close shut, and jerked forward as the bus reversed a bit. He felt his pockets to check his wallet for attractions and his phone for pictures: a tourist’s great arsenal, he had.

Then, the bus moved forward, and his first day as a casual sightseer truly began.

Sam wanted to say that it’d been an enjoyable experience. In many ways, it really was. He watched two movies in legendary Hollywood, feasted his eyes on rare paintings and sculptures in the Getty Center, hiked through Griffith Park in peace and quiet, and bought some tacky souvenirs and a shirt that said I went to Los Angeles and all I got was this lousy t-shirt because why not?

He even nabbed a free ticket to a Dodgers game from a pony who said she got it from another pony who said she got it from Rarity the Element of Generosity herself. That sounded sketchy to his ears, Rarity being the restless fashion designer and manager she was. But, that ticket-holding pony told him that the heroine had plans to open up a branch in La-la-land—and she pointed a hoof across the street at a boutique in construction—so maybe it was true.

Sam accepted the ticket and made a stop at Dodger Stadium to see the Los Angeles Dodgers bat up against the bettors’ favorite, the Boston Red Sox. Too bad he left at the tenth inning, deeming it wise to leave in case the game might go, say, eighteen innings with no points scored.

He might’ve not experienced everything or even half of the things L.A. had to offer, but there was always Sunday tomorrow. Needless to say, he had a wonderful time outside.

Regardless of all that, however, all the fun and the enjoyment had been sprinkled with nagging reminders of the future, of his future. He’d eaten popcorn between an Abyssinian and an Ornithian for both movies, a unicorn had been his museum docent in Getty, he’d seen the pegasi Crowhop talked about as they made cloud shapes in the sky, the lousy t-shirt had been on sale by that same flashlight saleschangeling, and Sam had heard the rabid cries and shouts of fervent Equestrian fans holding up banners and flags and hats and baseballs.

Even as he smiled remembering Pinkie Pie, of all ponies, throwing the ceremonial first pitch at that game, a gloomy prospect re-emerged in his brain: the end of his humanity or an untimely death before thirty.

By the time the bus returned to the gas station by the Inn, it was eight in the evening and the bus was almost empty, most of its passengers having been dropped off earlier before this last stop.

However, Sam heard police sirens switch on.

He looked that way.

There, by the sidewalk beside McDonald’s, were parked two police cars with their flashing blue-red lights against the night, seven police officers of diverse species, and one Spaghetti Tree face down on a car’s hood, getting all four hooves cuffed and her two wings chained.

As Sam got down, head still toward the spectacle no matter where he walked, others went down with him and slowed down to see how this incident might play out.

He tried to look away, but he couldn’t: that’s how pulling, how chilling it was. Seeing a broken and battered woman-turned-pegasus-and-not-seapony arrested and in custody so quickly, so soon...now, perhaps, a double-done victim of whoever that impostor wa—

Saw her bonked on the head by a changeling officer.

Then, a green glow shrouded her, and when it was done, it wasn’t her anymore.

It was a snarling, hole-ridden, unreformed changeling in her black chitin, in her dark carapace, in her fanged appearance.

Yelps and screams from his fellow tourists, and a car or two stopping in surprise.

This changeling was held down by a few more officers, all while snarling and hissing at her captors, trying to bite them with her sharp teeth.

It was too much for Sam. He just wanted to rest and have some dinner.

So the best thing he did was walk fast, then really fast, to avoid being noticed by that thrashing changeling. In a minute’s time, he was back in the Inn, safe from that changeling.

And if he wasn’t, he counted on security to bring her down.

8:37 PM, and Sam was busy taking a break from the tumult of city hours. He’d brought out his laptop from inside the desk, and was glad he didn’t find much of a reason to lug it around in a bag for his bureau hijinks.

Now, he was performing the exercise of multi-tasking in one sitting at the computer screen: browsing pictures and maps of Equestria on the left half and monitoring the Veil’s progress on Earth on the right half.

The latter showed a map of the globe with the Veil’s state updated in real-time as it spread inch by inch. The magic barrier wasn’t devouring colossal swaths of land just yet. However, it was less than five hundred kilometers from Alaska’s Aleutian islands. Overlayed on those islands were news of evacuation notices, increasing crime as panic loomed, and the Equestrian Transition Authority trying to not panic with US and Alaskan governments—who were also trying not to panic with lives at stake.

Ding-dong!

“Pineapple pizza!” yelled the delivery man from outside. “It’s a pineapple pizza delivery for Sam Henry!”

This hungry got up, walked past the bed and the TV, and opened the door.

There’s no delivery man in the hallway. There was a delivery griffon, holding the pizza box and then opening it with his talons.

It was pineapple pizza. Not much to say here, really. It...smelled good? Yes, it smelled good, and it made Sam’s stomach rumble and churn.

“Thank you,” he said in a polite tone, receiving the pizza and its box with his hands.

“You’re welcome, good sir!” replied the griffon with a salute which he turned into an open claw. “Now, the—”

Sam took out the money required and poured it into the griffon’s claw.

“Thank you, too!” the griffon said before he kissed a coin. “Next stop: Currency exchange!”

Then, the delivery griffon left, leaving the hallway a blank and hollow place once again.

Sam walked back to the laptop, placed the pizza box on the side, and sat down again to resume monitoring and browsing.

The left half showed his desire to see more of what Equestria, and Equus as a whole, looked like. There it was, that overwhelming rush of saturated colors from Equestria’s photos. Perhaps it was a dimensional thing, that it looked weird to him from the other side, but if he was there, his eyes would be normalized...or was it the air or something about the speed of light being somewhat different there?

This picture, in particular, came off as surreal: it was a picture of ponies posing in front of the Applewood sign in Applewood, Coltifornia. It didn’t show much else other than the ground they were standing on (or hovering above for the lone pegasus there), but the place alone didn’t feel right. When it’s over, Applewood and Los Angeles would be sister cities in the most literal of meanings—Santa Maneica for Santa Monica, Griffon Park for Griffith Park….

B-r-ring! B-r-ring!

Picked up his phone from beside the laptop, and answered the call. Before saying anything, he checked the name again: Mike. Then: “Hello, sir?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Mike replied in his deep yet frail baritone. “I...I guess you’re done with that whole internship thing in the bureau, aren’t you.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said, getting himself comfy by putting up a leg on the desk.

Silence for a while. “So, what’s your decision?”

Sam gulped. As if griffon-delivered pizza wasn’t enough, Mike just had to drop that bombshell of a reminder, hadn’t he? “Well, I—”

“Don’t worry, Sam,” Mike said, then sighed. Maybe for interrupting Sam, maybe for sounding rude. “OK...don’t forget you’re not the only one doing things like this. Remember Catherine, the new gal in the bakery I told you ‘bout? She just started her long-distance consultation from our St. George to their Hooveston...they’re willing to set up the first bureau in Utah,” and a brief chuckle from his end—”and they’re seeking prospects for the will-be Salt Lake City bureau.”

It was Sam’s turn to let out a sigh, his eyes drifting to the laptop screen and seeing that Applewood photo again. It’s as if those happy picture-perfect ponies were mocking him with their smiles for not deciding now. A short debate stirred in his head: One voice told him it’d be useless to change now since there wasn’t that many ponies or really any other Equestrians, former human or native, at home. The other said that he’d have to be ready in case some kind of magical contingency forced his hand.

“So,” Mike began after another bout of silence, “you’ve...worked there. How was it? Pretty good?”

“Pretty good,” Sam repeated, wiggling his toes on his desk to stave off that last bit of boredom. “A lot to write home about, really.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the news over what happened yesterday.”

Sam shrank at that. Thoughts of the scuffle just outside the bureau returned at maximum speed. He could’ve been shot at by a trigger-happy firebrand or been trampled by a tiny stampede of ponies.

“Bad stuff,” Mike continued. “It’s actually good to hear your voice and that you’re not dead.”

Sam delivered a good smile which was useless since Mike couldn’t see it. “Good to be alive, no?”

Mike chuckled, his deep voice giving the laugh that quality of aged wine.

Silence once more, Sam looking out the window only to see blinds blocking the view.

Then: “Sam, your return flight is on Wednesday....Am I right?”

“Yeah, you are,” and tilted his head.

“So,” but Mike let out a cough, and then two, and then a hack of coughs. Sam put the phone away from his ear, hearing the grainy coughs and wheezes from six hundred kilometers away.

Then, he recovered. Cleared his throat to ask, “Will you...w-will you be back as a human?”

Sam’s foot stopped tapping. He didn’t even know he was tapping his foot.

“I almost forgot to tell you that. That’s why I’m calling you now.” Cleared his throat again. “We’re closing the bakery tomorrow ‘till Monday to do some renovations, make it more accessible to our Equestrian hires...so we’re prepared for you if you’ll come back...whatever you’ll be.”

A hand over the phone’s microphone to cover an annoyed groan. Sam didn’t feel up to the task of deciding, if his fist lightly bumping the desk indicated anything. He freed up the microphone and said, “Not yet. I haven’t made my decision yet.”

“I see. Well, no pressure. Can’t rush big things like this. I’ll do my best to hold out and keep the bakery running, but I know I have to step down and let some older new foal run the show or something.”

“Yeah.”

More silence. Tense, brooding, dense silence hung in the room.

“Nothing else, Sam? You doing good there in L.A.?”

“Doing good.”

“OK.” Did a big, long yawn. “Great to know. Hope you stay safe there. Have a good night, Sam.”

“You, too, Mike.”

And the call ended.

Let those few seconds hang

Then, Sam stared at his phone, stared at Mike’s call icon of a middle-aged man proudly wearing his cheap beret that said, We’re Bready.

However, Sam wasn’t ready.

What made it worse was his sudden realization that the HLF protest was only two days. Couldn’t ask for a change in airlines on the way home, so that entailed the cost of another flight home. And, besides, he’d gotten the round trip ticket from before at a very low discount mainly to also better enjoy his stay. The saved money would be a waste if they weren’t spent in this fine city.

He tapped his fingers on the desk, embroiled in trying to solve the problem but failing to.

And what if the PER called for a counter-protest to “defend” the bureau? He’d already heard of stories of lunatic ponies disrupting another bureau’s operations to ponify any and everyone in sight—over in Tokyo, no less.

Five minutes of this strain of thought led to a phone turned to the contacts list. There, in the middle, was the name Canter Crowhop with her cute pony face beside it.

He held a finger above her name.

Hesitated.

Then—

In One Sunday

It was Sunday morning, and, just outside the Inn by Glasgow Place road, Sam waited with tapping foot.

On his fifth full-fledged day in Los Angeles, his surroundings were becoming ordinary, even mundane to him. Was this how an average Los Angelan lived? With the explosive freshness of fame and fortune now gone, now a mundane thing, now a simple fact of life?—that it was a throw-away fact that they’re living in one of the biggest cities in the world?

He saw the “tiny” skyscrapers with their glass and metal walls, the adjacent and rival hotel across Glasgow, and McDonald’s behind him, and it was all getting more familiar than ever. What he still wasn’t used to was the Equestrians roaming around—there, in the sky, argued several pegasi about where to place the cloud one of them was holding. A policegriffon came over to break up the verbal fight, just in time to prevent a physical one.

Then, he saw it in the distance, oncoming from the other side of West Century Boulevard: that dreadful, that recognizable black car slowly nearing him, its grille threatening him with its metal look.

Sam shrugged that uneasy feeling off his shoulders and waved his hand at the car just to be sure.

The car blinked its headlights at him.

Having confirmed that it’s the car, Sam approached it, got inside, and closed the door, back in it once again with the familiar warm seats, the familiar cold air, that familiar smell of lemon…wait, wasn’t it pine trees before?

Flinched at seeing Arthur’s face, but the driver wasn’t looking. He breathed a mental sigh of relief, satisfied that he wasn’t coming off suspicious. For now, at least.

“Extra session?” Arthur asked, now in a husky voice. His sunglasses also seemed a shade darker, failing to mask a few seeping eye bags. “I thought that was it for you. Said so yesterday.”

“Well, I won’t be going as an intern,” Sam replied, preserving a calm and collected aura around him.

Arthur raised a hand in confusion, going on one-hand-steering mode again. “Then, what?” he asked wearily.

Sam felt the tension in that question, as if it was pointed against him. Tried to justify it by thinking about the driver’s haggard features today. Maybe he’d went on a drinking spree after dropping Sam off. Perhaps it’d been a rough night for him, a night that had everything to do with taxi-ing and not with ponifying people at gunpoint.

Sam then answered, “I’m going to sign up for conversion as soon as possible.”

“Right, ye—”

And Arthur let his hand stay in the air. Looked at Sam incredulously with a turn of his head. His body jerked as the car suddenly slowed down. “Did I hear that right?”

Sam nodded, furrowing his brows at the unexpected brake. “Yes...I think.”

Arthur furrowed his brows back at him, hand still on the wheel. “Are you sure? Don’t you know there’s gonna be some...event tomorrow?”

“Which is why I’m doing it now.”

Arthur shook his head and wagged a finger, smiling slyly. “You’re crazy, Sam. You have to wait at least twenty-four hours after your appointment before you can drink the potion.” Then, pointing a fierce hand in the bureau’s direction, “You’ll be smack in the middle of chaos tomorrow!”

“At least I have the choice today,” Sam countered, still kindly enough. “Whatever happens tomorrow, I’ll be who I want to be.”

“That won’t stop the PER from trying,” Arthur shot back brusquely, now head and eyes focused on the road ahead, steering around a long truck. “And what if you get hit anyway? Instant death for you.”

That was enough to silence Sam for a while. He thought of answering with, The police will make sure nothing goes wrong, right? However, there’s always someone who’ll go off the deep end anyway, police or none.

More silence as Arthur continued along the boulevard, the airport now to their left in all its grand glory as airplanes swooped in and out. Pegasi in the air served as aircraft marshals, waving their orange batons right in front of the pilots in their cockpits.

“Just...be careful out there,” Arthur said. “You’re a pretty good fellow, and I don’t want to see you get hurt, OK? I’m just...what was the word?” Snapped his fingers once. Twice. “Worried about it, that’s all. I don’t wanna see your pony corpse on the Tuesday papers.”

Sam tried to keep calm with some subdued laughter, but Arthur glared at him right after. Then, still crossing much of the airport’s length on this boulevard, he asked, “Is it because of your contacts? With both sides?”

“Y-Yeah,” Arthur quickly quipped, fingers twitching on the steering wheel. It’s a very breakable balance.” Gesturing with his free hand, “You get some experience in both parties, and I get bits of insider knowledge—nothing too major—but it’s dangerous.” A pause as he grunted, wrecking his head with deadly possibilities. “If both of them find out, I’ll be toast.”

Sam nodded, maintaining that polite facade. In reality, he remembered Julia’s drunken words: Chances are he’s gonna bail on me if they put him under the gun. “But, I assume you have everything under control? You seem like a smart person.”

Arthur looked back, glancing at where Sam’s ID used to be. “Smart? Yes. Wise?” He smirked, teeth glimmering under the sunlight. “I’ll get back to you.”

Thus, the ride continued.

After coming in the bureau for three days straight, it felt...different to see it once again, especially knowing that he’s not coming to clock in for work. In fact, he felt butterflies in his belly: seeing familiar faces shuffling inside, happily interacting with one another and even sharing a laugh but without him there.

That’s not to mention the bureau’s own characteristics: its glass facade, its silky fifties-retro style. Also: the flower boxes, courtesy of Key Note, just sitting on the sidewalk doing nothing.

He gave Arthur a farewell, but noted that he stayed a good ten seconds or so before leaving. He could barely see past the tint, but in his brief glimpse, he saw Arthur looking at the bureau, painstakingly scrutinizing the interior for some time.

Then, he drove off, blending in with the march of cars wheeling down the road.

Now left to his own devices, Sam entered through the glass doors, and was greeted with colder air and the return of friendly waves and smiles. Hello!’s and Good to see you again!’s took the reins, with everyone lighting up to re-welcome this intern they’d thought they’d never see again. Dark Roast waved her hoof at him while brewing some espresso. The salesdeer and saleschangeling beckoned him in with a look at their wares, with the deer saying, “I could even deliver whatever plant you want right by myself!”

“You’re stressing yourself out!” cued the changeling, nudging the deer on the back.

Away from those two: There was Paraffin by the receptionist’s desk, carrying a briefcase and wearing a hat. She was finishing her last day at the bureau residences, about to go back home and take care of Georgina for the foreseeable future.

How did he deduce all of that? Why, Paraffin was being very chatty with the griffon receptionist.

Then, before Sam took a few more steps towards her, Paraffin flew over to him with a tip of the hat and a big if scary fanged smile. “Ah, it’s you, Sam!” and shook his hand with her claw, not anticipating Sam to recoil at having his hand squeezed so tight. “Didn’t expect to see you again!”

“Didn’t expect to see you, too,” Sam said replied weakly, holding his long-awaited Ow! inside as best as he could. Then, with a raised brow, and out of a bit of smugness, “I see you’re heading out, miss.”

“Of course, I am!” she said, spreading her scaly arms open to further display her briefcase and let her hat shine. “Anyone with half a brain could see that!”

He felt backed into a corner with that, but he had another card up his sleeve: “Ah, getting haughty like the teenagers you used to rant on, huh?”

“I heard that!” yelled a teenage griffon without looking, busy with messaging some friends on her phone as she sat in the lounge.

Paraffin rolled her eyes and softened her smile. “Now you’re just desperate, Sam.”

He instinctively raised his hands in surrender. “Alright! You win!”

She held a claw to her mouth and, in her best imitation of her old voice, “This isn’t a contest, sonny!”

It was at this point in time that Sam slumped his shoulders and gave up on one-upping this elderly—no, this young adult of a dragon. The score of chuckles and snickers against him only solidified his surrender. He raised his arms, only to drop them again and say, “OK, you got me. You got me. You can gloat all over me if you have to.” He then sealed his losing fate by resting on the glass wall despite conventional advice that you should never let rest your weight on a glass wall.

Instead of gloating her victory over him, however, Paraffin shook her head. She folded her wings, making herself look less threatening, and then said, “How’re you doing?”

That caught him by surprise. “Um...good? How...about you?”

Everyone else laughed at this awkward moment before the two moved on to more traditional small talk. How’s the weather? Did the gemburger taste good? What did he think about wearing fuzzy slippers on dragon feet?

Then, as they began exchanging farewells, Paraffin leaned close to his ears. He couldn’t see it, but her lips bent into a little frown. She whispered, “Georgina hasn’t sent a letter since last we talked. She may have gotten sick, but she would’ve texted me or notified the bureau about her condition.”

Sam pursed his lips, somewhat thrown off by Georgina’s supposed state. “I don’t think it’s hard to write a letter when you’re sick”

“Tsk! Tsk!” and she loomed her head over him, stretching her long neck out. “Looks like you’ve only had diarrhea and cold your whole life. You don’t know how hard it is to focus when you have tuberculosis!”

Sam wanted to retort, but he tried to remember the last time he had any major disease. Less than a second later, it was clear to him: she was right. No bad memories with any bad diseases except the usual whinings against vaccine-holding doctors back when he was seven. He felt a touch of guilt for being relatively healthy most of the time—and also a lot more guilty for being talked down to by a “young adult”.

“Well, Sam,” smiling some more, “it’s been nice seeing you, but I want to see for myself is she’s alright.”

“OK, miss! See—”

Couldn’t say ‘ya since she flew past him and took off to the sky, keeping a tight hold on her briefcase so that she wouldn’t drop it.

And that was all for him and the dragon.

Then, Sam adapted himself to everyone’s warm demeanors. Indeed, it was great to have him back, even for just a few minutes’ time.

His next move was to go to the reception desk and meet the pony behind the counter. She was busy fixing the service bell with her tools, but she had the kindness to stop and say, “Hey! Good to see you again!”

“Aww!” and Sam rested his shoulder on the counter. “Well, good to see you again as well! As for me, I’d like to request an appointment with Canter Crowhop. A conversion appointment, to be more specific—and I think she told you about this already….”

It’d been a happy moment to see Crowhop again, especially when she burst out of the hallway, galloped to Sam, and lunged at him for a hug, only for a couple unicorn guards to levitate her mid-air. Hugs were nice, but sending Sam to the hospital wasn’t worth the risk.

After Crowhop had calmed down, she and Sam walked down the hallways together. He could not, for even one second, look away from Crowhop who was rambling on the state of the bureau, how everyone’s been doing, how Dark Roast and her coffee bar was going to expand with new Fall options, how she got to meet Applejack on her Saturday day-off, why oranges are definitely better than apples—

Crowhop bumped into the office door with an “Ouch!” and fell to the floor, rubbing her sore horn. Breathed in a gulp of air, and then, sheepishly looking up at Sam with a flustered smile: “Heh-heh!”
He smiled back and looked down, leaning forward to get a better look. “You need aspirin?”

They both laughed at that as they entered her office.

As usual, it was crammed with photos and lists with that sharp clinical smell as usual, but it was slightly more organized. He could see more of the walls, for one. In fact, he could finally tell their color: pink. They’d been pink all along and the photos had all obscured it before.

Instead of sitting behind the table, Crowhop levitated her chair and placed it right in front of that furniture, setting it right across the other chair.

“Have a seat!” she chirped, patting her own chair with her hoof.

So, Sam sat down, feeling a little relaxed from enduring Crowhop’ nonstop onslaught of words in the hallways.

Then, Crowhop hopped up to sit down, too.

She grabbed some papers from the table, flipped through them with her glowing lime magic, all while humming and bobbing her head. She put them aside on the surface, mumbling, “Not gonna need those….”

Wondering why they wouldn’t need those papers, he craned his head and saw the top page. He recognized the big stylized words on it: A Friendly Guide on What Species to Be. The same papers from which he got the photos from for his appointees like Lacque, the same papers he’d read and reviewed on the flight to Los Angeles, the same papers he’d seen an online copy of on the website for the Inter-Dimensional Conversion Bureau Organization before all of that.

“So, have you thought long and hard about it beforehoof—I mean, beforehand?” and she smiled, ears flattening at her tongue slipping.

Sam took this question to ponder on his decision. He leaned an elbow on his knee, imitating a certain thinker. “Probably, but not enough.”

Crowhop chuckled. There it was again: that cute, sickeningly cute chuckle that only a magic colorful pony could pull off. “Surely, you didn’t start thinking about it when you landed here, did you? That’d be really bad!” before she blushed, hoping that she didn’t offend her former volunteer. Cleared her throat, then: “What about back in St. George, back in that tall state?”

“Tall state?” He cocked his head. “You mean Utah?”

“‘Cause I’m taller, you know!” and snickered at her joke.

While Sam let her simmer down from her own humor, he proceeded to continue thinking about it, becoming silent in his contemplation.

His mind raced back to the news of that explosive first contact with Equus: about a portal ripping apart the fabric of time and space or something like it. Both sides had been wonderfully surprised at the other’s existence, but there’d been no time to celebrate their extra-dimensional neighbors.

He’d watched the news in his house, the whole thing breaking as he’d been throwing a small birthday party for a friend. Reports of a what humans and Equestrians alike had been calling “the Veil” were spreading fast, about this thing moving in on Hawaii at about six or seven kilometers per day.

Panic had ensued: Anarchy and burning cars had showed up en masse in Honolulu. Presidents and prime ministers and monarchs had tried to reassure everyone that it’ll be solved. New info on this new magical dimension had been punctuated with updates on the Veil’s reach along with estimates as to when it’ll make landfall on Hawaii.

In those ominous hours, at least there was hope. At least there was a shot, a chance, that it could be reversed. Dozens of ponies and other Equestrians had told the press that the Elements of Harmony and the Princesses had saved their world before; this would just take a little longer, they said. In those ominous hours, at least everyone could dream of what’d happen after the Veil had been vanquished: proper good times with each other, living in harmony and what not.

A short joint-effort research trip to the Veil later, the death knell had rung: It was an unstoppable force. It was an inter-dimensional breach. It couldn’t be fixed by Equestrian mix nor by human technology.

It would never stop. Never until it’d crossed all of Earth, transforming the whole planet into a magical world just like Equestria.

He’d remembered how everyone stared at the screen, faces frozen like they’d seen an assassination live on the news. Even the birthday man, who’d supposed to be the happiest of them all, had been coming from the kitchen, saying, “Got you all some of that bacon popcorn!” before dropping his bowl when he saw that the Veil couldn’t be stopped.

“Looks like you haven’t thought about it that much, have you?” Crowhop asked.

“I did,” Sam said, half-lying through his teeth as he picked himself back up to the present. “It’s just that I didn’t expect to have an appointment right here. It’s a lot closer to the Veil than the Rocky Mountains.”

“Because Utah’s more inland, you thought you could stay safe longer,” she surmised, scratching her pink chin and then her snout. “I understand that, because it’s true. But, you can’t wait forever. You know that.”

Sam showed a fake smile, or, rather, a coping smile. It felt patronizing to have this pony hammer home to him that, yes, he couldn’t run away from the Veil until Time Zero. “I thought...well, since we’re not on the West Coast, we could hold on a little longer. Can’t have everyone be a pony or whatever right now...there wouldn’t be enough magitek to run around for us at St. George or even Salt Lake.”

“That’s not for you to worry about,” Crowhop reminded. “Maybe worry a little, but that’s a job for others. We could even give you some money to buy an Equestria-fit computer and phone, if you want.”

Sam sighed. He looked at his watch once more, each second ticking by another second to wait for before he took the potion the next day. Dangerous thoughts of riots, burning riots, came to mind—of being gunned down by HLF machine gun-wielding psychos or being forcibly ponified by potion-throwing PER lunatics. Already, he was mentally mapping out the bureau as he knew it, finding an escape route if he was in the conversion room, the anteroom, the hallway, the lobby, the rooftop—

“Uh, hello?”

And Sam yoinked himself out of his planning craze, looking at Crowhop waving a concerned hoof in front of his face.

“Yoo-hoo? Canter to Henry, do you read?”, still waving the hoof in front of him, bending her forelegs like wavy pretzels.

“Oh,” and he thoughtlessly fixed his sleeves and his collar. “Sorry about that, ma’am—I mean, Crowhop!”, happy that she didn’t shoot a glare at him for acting all formal again. “ I was… I was just thinking about—”

“Tomorrow?” guessed the pony, angling her head at him.

Sam sat still as a stone. Refused to move at all, to betray any sudden moves.

“We’ve already talked about this last night,” she continued soberly, slowly stretching a hoof forward. “We’ll do it as fast and as safe as possible. If things get bad, we’ll transport you and the rest somewhere else. If things get really bad—” shivered at the thought of what that “really bad” situation could be “—I’ll just text or send a letter.”

Sam nodded, showing mundane acknowledgment. “Sorry, I—”

“It’s OK,” she cut in, pulling her chair forward to be closer, to give off that tender impression of understanding. “I know you’re afraid.”

Placed a hoof on her chest. Shuddered as she looked at the door.

Half-expecting someone to burst through the door to shoot them both.

“I’m afraid, too.”

Silence returned, with only the whir the AC unit hanging above them. The cold air in this cramped office, in this list- and picture-dominated office, felt heavier now to Sam. Her shuddering look had given him pause, almost made him half-expect that imaginary killer. What did he have? Some pepper spray in his pocket, and that was all.

“OK,” and he raised his head. Breathed in, breathed out. Rubbed his nose, then scratched it. Scratched his neck, too, because it’s itchy. “Let’s get this over with, Crowhop. I don’t to delay this any longer.”

Sam expected her to giggle or even just smile at “doing the right thing” or however he thought it. To his surprise, Crowhop retained her no-nonsense behavior, taking a peek at the friendly guide on the table. She levitated to a random page, skimmed a line, then returned it to the stack, eyes resting on the hardbound version right at the other end.

She then asked, “So...first choice that comes to mi—”

“Pegasus.”

Her ears perked up. “That was...quick.” Those ears withered back to their normal stance. She then examined his face from her seated position, slightly tilting her head. “What made you say that?”

Sam leaned back on his chair, grimacing at his mistake. He slapped the backrest. “Actually...don’t turn me into a pegasus. I said it because...” tried to look out the window only to realize there was no window in this room, “it’d be a nice surprise for my Mom and Dad over at Equestria.”

“Aww!” and Crowhop raised her forehooves to her lips, looking over him with big eyes and their expanded, shiny irises. “That’s so touching!

He put up a devious smile, knowing she’d have to erase that cute face. “Heartwarming, yes, but I’m afraid of heights, so….”

But what he got was a pony covering her snout, trying to hold in her laughter in an effort to respect his acrophobia. Closed her eyes, barely holding it in now.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up!” Sam insisted ironically, then shaking his head, now that he’d made himself a laughingstock. He could see the headlines: New Foal Pegasus Afraid of Heights! What was this Man Thinking?

“Sorry!” she yelled, mirthful crowing dying down, taking in deep breaths to regain oxygen and composure, “but...well,” wiped her face clean of joyfl tears with a hankerchief—”well, we’re...we’re not gonna pressure you.” She levitated a water bottle to drink from it, refreshing her throat that’d been dry from the well-meaning jest. “If you’re comfortable being a pony, you still have the choices of Earth pony and unicorn.”

Sam was caught tapping the table with his fingers. That sign of impatience, that sign of Yeah, I know this stuff ‘cause I read it. Can we get to the actual consultation part or what? but the other part of his mind told him to not rush. Don’t rush. Never rush, especially with one’s future at stake.

He looked at his hands. The nightmare flashed back to his mind, and he almost breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m...not so sure about that....about being a pony.”

Crowhop sighed, also looking at his hand for a while. “Yes. I understand that losing your hands and your fingers wouldn’t be easy. I’m not going to hide it. But—” raised her hoof so that she could show it to Sam more clearly, “hear me out: we ponies are where we are now without hands and fingers.”

Sam raised his head at that. That caught his attention.

“I know you know,” she went on more slowly, “but….”

Trailed off, chuckling at herself and glancing to the side.

“I apologize for sounding like a bad telemarketer or whatever you call them, but,” relaxing her shoulders and then rubbing her cheek, “in the end, what’s the difference between your society and ours?” Counting on her hoof—although Sam didn’t know how that worked—“We got homes, families, schools, offices, fashion, culture, technology...in many ways, we’re just like you and you’re just like us, despite how different we are. We even speak the same language,” and then looked to the side “—or, one of them, at least.”

The differences were profound, weren’t it? Hooves and hands, eagles and griffons, a world only half-discovered and a world all-uncovered thanks to satellites. The list could go on. However, it’s the similarities that’d always catch his attention in those early, foreboding days of first contact, of getting to know each—

But, he wrested his attention to the watch, to the time. A morning’s eight-fifteen. He looked at Crowhop, her figure the object against the wall of countless photos of Equestrian old times and Earth new times. He asked, “Do you know when tomorrow's protests start?”

Crowhop glanced at his watch, too “Same as our opening hours, so seven AM...officially speaking.” She looked at the door once more. “I won’t be surprised if they’ll set up camp tonight. Probably won’t be a lot, but they sure are dedicated to the cause.”

Still, he himself had enough talk about riots and protests and escape plans. He didn’t want to ask about what the security measures would be, if the police would be called in at what time—that’d lengthen the conversation, kick back his transformation five minutes or fifty. “So, remind me the choices again...?”

Crowhop’s ears perked again. “You’re not going to think about the other two Pony Tribes?”

“Unicorn’s magic magic, Earth pony’s plant and pony magic,” he replied lazily, holding out two fingers to represent the whole gamut of those two tribes.

Skid! as Crowhop pulled her chair forward again, this time with the aid of her “magic magic”. With a lowered brow and a jaw hanging open, “Sam, are you alright?”

“Ye—no,” and the transition had been quick. Beneath the snazzy casual clothes he’d donned for the occasion, Sam was sweating. It was cold, air-conditioned cold, even icy cold for his hands. He wasn’t supposed to sweat, but there he was: cold sweat forming in tiny droplets on his palm. That parade of smiles came back to his mind’s ey—

“Sam?” Crowhop asked, now getting concerned. “There is something wrong, isn’ there?”

Said nothing. He said nothing. He stared at her for a while, then gave a slow nod.

Crowhop was taken aback by this. She clutched her chest, as if her heart would break. “What is it?!”

Sam sat straight. Rubbed his eyes with his cold hands, let his eyes wake up with those cold hands. That nightmare still chilled his bones, but he fought through it to say, “I...I had something the other night.”

Crowhop gasped. “You went sick?!”

Sam blinked, confused by the suggestion. “Uh, if I was sick, I don’t think I’d be here.”

She shrugged. “A guess as good as any!” Then, going back to serious mode with her serious face: “Back to business: Tell me what happened. It’s got to do with that binging session, right?”

“Not really,” he replied, letting his arm rest on the table. “The drinks started it, but...I had this dream.”

“Did you get to meet Princess Luna?!” she shouted suddenly.

Sam was floored silent. Princess Luna? As far as he knew, the Princess of the Night had never intruded a human’s dreamscape. “No, she didn’t.”

“Then, what was it?” prodded the pony, leaning forward in place with that perturbed face.

“I...I...OK, in this dream,” hands outstretched, moving around to illustrate, “I got kidnapped, talked down by the Uber guy I’ve been with through most of my stay here, got injected and became a pony out of nowhere.”

“That’s terrible!” yelped Crowhop, hooves to both her cheeks. “Good thing it’s just a dream, right?”

“It was a dream,” he repeated, “but I’m afraid it might become true one way or another.” He looked at the door just like Crowhop, treating the door like the window to the outside.

It was silent yet again. The silence between the two was deafening, revealing snippets of Sam’s worrisome reverie.

“Don’t worry,” she said reassuringly, pulling her chair forward one more time to pat his knee. “We’ll make sure that’ll never happen. We’ll protect everyone here, we’ll keep them safe. If you’re still not sure, I’ve already asked for more police presence,” and levitated her phone into view to prove she wasn’t lying.

Sam nodded, breathing becoming easier. He was now a good distance away from hyperventilation. “Good, good...just wanted to get it off my chest.”

Then, Crowhop touched the stack of papers before levitating the book version of the friendly guide to her eyes. “So...let’s get to the rest, shall we? Ooh! I almost forgot!” With shimmering eyes, “Would you like to be a bat pony? We’ll receive our next batch of it tonight!”
“Nah, I’m not much of a night person,” he reasoned out. “Don’t think I can stand being nocturnal. Not after what I’d pulled off last Friday.”

Crowhop merely spread out her cheeks, attesting to that. With her magic, she flipped through the pages, speed reading so many sections of material and pictures. Then, she closed the book, only to open it once more. “Let’s try to narrow it to down, shall we?”

This session went on for close to an hour more.

Knock! Knock!

It was already nighttime. Past early evening, approaching midnight back in Sam’s hotel room where he’s found writing something on the table.

After the appointment, he’d decided to hang around a dozen more minutes in the bureau, preferring to keep quiet about his decision with everyone else but Crowhop and his designated pony therapist. He’d had a fun time playing a sort of scheming mastermind, having a quarter of the lobby try to guess his choice and never telling whether they were getting hotter or colder.

What happened after he’d bidden farewell, he wasn’t exactly sure. He knew he traveled to a couple more places in the city and enjoyed a couple more attractions. But, after fulfilling that honeymoon buzz on Saturday, it was all just a mishmash of cool memories beginning to jumble in his mind’s collection.

It was all tomorrow’s fault.

That day came ever closer. The twenty-four hours would soon be drained, to be done at nine the next day.

He’d expected a grand finale to his final human hours. A great party with his friends was a cool idea. However, it was quite unfortunate for him not having enough money to send his friends over from Utah. Even with the cheap airline tickets these days, there was still the question of paying for a place to stay, footing the restaurant bills, making sure no one would get injected with pony serums by taxi drivers….

Knock! Knock!

“Who is it?” he asked gruffly, sounding rough in his near-midnight state.

“I’m the mailmare!” a cute voice declared.

Sam scribbled the final line, left the ballpen on the table, put the phone in his pocket, inserted the letter neatly in the envelope, closed it to seal it, stood up from his chair, and walked to the door.

He opened it.

Saw a gray pegasus standing outside, wearing her uniform of brown cap and shirt. That saddle bag of letters and packages was slung around her torso, the strap not hindering her wings.

Sam refrained from using the traditional greetings he knew; one “How are you?” to a pony could lead to a never-ending conversation. He had a letter to send, and he wasn’t awake enough to keep up with such a chat. “Send this to 31 Bulb Onion Street, Amble, please.”

The mare saluted him. “Will do!”

She grabbed the letter with her wing and zipped off.

Once she was out of sight, he closed the door.

Now, alone in his room. No noise at all. Just him and his bed, him and his scent of pine trees, him and his phone.

Sam took out his phone. Turned it on.

Saw the final draft he’d written down on the paper.

Dear Mom and Dad,

How are you faring over there in Equestria? I hope you’re doing fine and not going on dangerous magical adventures.

I’m going to the bureau one more time tomorrow. I’m not sure when you’ll receive it, but I’ll probably not be my old self anymore when you read this.

I’ve done my best to think it through. Maybe I still need more time, but I truly don’t know. What matters is that I trust I’ve made the right decision, and I’m sure you’ll trust me on that.

My plan is to return home on the Wednesday flight, work at the bakery again, and visit you come Christmas time. Or Hearth’s Warming. I’m still used to calling it Christmas.

See you soon. I love you both so much.

From your to-be unicorn son,

Sam

That was that. He didn’t cry, he didn’t smile. In the face of possible impending doom, he’d locked his fate.

All's Fair in Love

It was Monday.

It started typical enough. To the ringing of his alarm clock, Sam got out of bed and fixed his sheets. He took a shower, got dressed, and put on a dab of cologne. He checked and double-checked everything he was bringing: wallet, phone, and pepper spray.

And then, on the way to the door, he stopped.

Suspended there in still.

Hand about to grab the door knob.

It’d dawned on him: He’d just gotten ready for the day.

It was the last time he’d do it as a human.

The weight of it fell on his shoulders, burdened his back, threatened to crack his bones. Every single thing he’d do this morning could be the last he’d do as Sam Henry the Man. When the dust settles, he would live on but as something else. Sam Henry the Man no more, but Sam Henry the Unicorn.

The Unicorn...Sam Henry?

He had left it blank. The line under Equestrian Name on one of the forms yesterday. Beside it, he’d written, N/a.

His thoughts went back to his Mom and Dad, but not just them. They went to his friends, all the people he knew who’d taken the potion early. A good number of those dear people had chosen to let both old and new names co-exist, to be called Brian and Concerti Coda in the same minute. He even wondered at how his Mom and Dad didn’t like being called Mrs. or Mr. Henry anymore, preferring to go by their pony names.

Against all this, he’d resolve to keep Sam Henry. He wouldn’t be called something like Funfair Floss, especially after hearing such names as Short Fuse. To be described as a pony having, well, a short fuse only invited bad jokes.

Time was ticking, though, as he checked his watch.

He’d wasted enough time thinking profound thoughts. It was time to go.

Arthur was unavailable.

Sam tried to search his name up on the Uber app, standing outside the Inn in that chilly morning, but found no success. Arthur Compagnon wasn’t showing up, and it wasn’t just on his phone. Maybe he’d had a bad day. Maybe he’d gone down with the flu.

Maybe it was the boulevard choked in a gridlock.

Dozens upon dozens upon dozens of cars, vans, trucks, buses—all these helpless vehicles were stuck with each other, trapped with each other. Honks and beeps ruled the streets, and signs of road rage were surfacing: windows lowering to make way for shaking fists and shouting heads. Even a unicorn, driving a Ferrari, yelled at fellow commuters and blamed them for the supreme delay of his schedule, ignorant of passers-by who found his choice of automobile rather fitting for his form.

Sam groaned and slapped his arm, now forced to walk his way there—

There was a regular taxi by the McDonald’s. The passenger seats were all empty.

He flaunted conventional wisdom in his head, fighting against the cries of, You’re better off walking than emptying your wallet! and so he ran, brushing up against a griffon and avoiding his wrath by getting inside the taxi.

“Why, hello!” a mare said, sitting on the driver’s seat. “May I take your order?”

“...order?” Sam mumbled as he landed on the back seat. He’d questioned whether he’d gotten into a taxi or a food truck. Was there such a thing as a food taxi in the middle of traffic?

“Oh, silly me!” and she operated with the meter with her hoof. “Where’re you going?”

“The bureau,” he replied. “Just the bureau.”

“No problem!” she said. “I know all the shortcuts!”

“Wait, wha—”

The taxi turned a sharp right, back to the Inn, and picked up another passenger, and sped off through a little side road onto La Cienga Boulevard, away from the horrible traffic and onto open asphalt.

Sam’s mouth was agape. So surprised was he, Sam didn’t even notice that his taxi buddy was an energy-drinking deer, loudly gulping on his third bottle of Red Bull.

He didn’t question it. In a world where everything was becoming all the stranger, having to deal with a pony driver and a caffeine-addicted deer wasn’t strange.

No, not at all.

“Bye-bye!” cried out the taxi mare as Sam left in the middle of standstill traffic. He left behind her and the deer who’d just chugged his sixth can. He could only pity that magnificent deer as he brisked on the sidewalk. The bureau was only a hundred meters away; paying for an incomplete trip now was better than taking ten more minutes to move around the roadblocks, more so after spending an hour inside.

Already, traffic enforcers were on the scene, redirecting traffic away from South Sepulveda Boulevard and ensuring they’d stay on CA-1 or veer towards tiny Sepulveda Eastway on their right.

He passed by a flurry of too many cars, fast approaching the bureau on his nimble legs.

Straight ahead, he saw the protest.

“No, no, no, no—”

People holding up picket signs, people shouting through megaphones: muffled speeches and arguments and counterpoints in that mass of humanity and Equestrians—

Just kept walking. Kept walking. Kept on walking past them, sidestepping to not crash into people he didn’t know, into people whose tempers he didn’t know. The thunder of the many only grew with each step, and he didn’t want to get hit by the lightning bolt.

He saw the police there, both the humans and the Equestrians. Pistols and spears were holstered, scare dogs and riot shields in place. The row!’s and growls scared so well, they were intimidating Sam, too.

There, the door right in front of him. Placed his hand on the handle, and pushed inside.

“Hey! That man is—”

Didn’t hear the rest of it since he closed the door, shutting out the stranger’s intense accusation.

Brisking on, he nodded at the griffon receptionist who nodded back and pointed at the hallway.

“You know where to go?” she asked.

“Certainly, ma’am.”

And then, he disappeared into the hallway. No time to greet anyone else, no time to smell the coffee, no time to examine the changeling’s wares.

Sam just went.

Sam closed the door.

He locked it. Unlocked it. Opened it.

Peeked outside.

A hallway. Some staff members ran and flew around in a rush, pegasi and hippogriffs spilling papers and picking them up only to drop them again in panic. A few more security guards had been posted, maintaining their stoic faces of no fear, but Sam guessed they feared a little bit.

Still, it was the same old hallway he’d grown accustomed to. It’s only experiencing some disturbances, that’s all.

He closed the door and turned around to see the anteroom.

The chairs teemed with people waiting in some concept of a line—he’d forgotten if it zigzagged around or what. They looked at him, and he didn’t recognize a single one of them, but he saw the anxiety in their eyes darting here and there—back to the man himself, wondering if he could rescue them if the walls closed in.

Silence. A floral kind of silence, fragrances of sweet roses in this bitter time. He didn’t want to talk to them, they didn’t want to talk to him. Both sides feared one word would spark a fight.

The other door in the room opened, with a pony head poking out. “It’s officially nine! Paging Sam Hen—”

“Here!” and he raised his hand.

Some people batted their eyes at him, but the majority looked at the news, their phones, their books, their clothes, the wall behind them. He’d gotten the feeling of Just get it done and let us be free.

“Come in, Sam,” said the pony, beckoning with a hoof.

Not minding the few looks he’d garnered, Sam stepped in.

That was the last those people saw him as a human.

The pony closed the door behind him and locked it. Looking at the will-be-ex-human, he said, “What are you thinking now?”

He didn’t bother responding; he was examining the room in detail from where he stood. There was the carpet, yes, and the emergency exit by the side. On the table, he saw the vial of pony serum, labeled with a depiction of a unicorn’s horn, accompanied by back-ups in case it’d spill.

His heart pounded upon him realizing how close he was to becoming a unicorn. Here he was.

Only a few minutes away.

Sweets. It’d smelled of sweets and baked goods for some reason. Bakery-flavored air freshener, maybe?

All the ponies in attendance were unicorns, some sitting on the provided chairs, others standing on the floor. In spite of protocol, most of them whispered among themselves with the occasional glances at the door, in the direction of the protests outside.

In terms of safety: There were cameras watching everything, and a guard stood in front of each wall, wearing armor and wielding an ornate spear.

“How’re you feeling?” the pony beside him asked more.

That’s when the voice clicked. Sam pointed at him. “Ocean Canoe?”

He smiled but with a worrying brow. “You caught on a bit late.” He combed his mane with his hoof. “It’s about what’s happening out there, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sam replied, looking at the door, too. No matter what he was looking at, it’d now seemed a flimsy barrier, a futile obstacle. “It’s that.”

“No worries,” Ocean reassured with a cluck of his tongue. “We’ll bring you to a safe place in case of an emergency—that’s standard procedure, as you should know by now.” Then, he clapped his forehooves and said, “Let’s do this quickly and smoothly, Mr. Henry.”

Thus, Sam followed his pony therapist to the one and only chair by the vial’s table. He was told to sit down and to be as comfortable as possible, told to do stretching exercises if he has to—anything to get the excess energy out of his system.

As he relaxed so, Sam saw Canoe talking with his colleagues, discussing this and that on the clipboard. The schedule had to be fast-tracked, they said. They weren’t sure how long the bureau would stay safe, but Canoe told them that everything would be fine, that everything would go “according to plan, fellas’.”

Sam inched his head back. That sounded out of place from a professional-looking therapist. Then again, these were ponies. Even the most serious of jobs would have that whimsical taste if done by a pastel-colored magic pony.

Then, Canoe nodded a final time to his co-workers and turned to Sam, trotting his way.

“I’ll go to the washroom,” one colleague said with a raised hoof before galloping out the room through the other door.

Another colleague rolled his eyes, though he was unable to hide a devious smirk. “Always at the most inconvenient times.” Then, even though his friend was out of sight, he hollered, “Hurry up, will ‘ya?”

Ocean winced, grumbling something incoherent under his breath. He rubbed his neck, clanged his teeth, and then looked at Sam with a calmer, more normal expression. “Shall we get started?”

And the pony’s eyes flashed a brief blue light.

Sam raised a brow, then looked behind him for anything out of the ordinary. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Ocean asked, tilting his head as he floated the vial already, an interesting green-into-blue for this one. “Must be the lighting.”

Sam bent his head up and, sure enough, the lights flickered for a moment, darkness eclipsing for a second.

Ocean breathed a sigh of relief, now rubbing his chest, eyes dilating in more relief. He rubbed his hooves and then said, with levitated vial, “So, let’s get this really started?”

And there it floated, dangling before Sam’s eyes: The vial of unicorn serum, the vial to survival, the vial of his destiny. Inside sloshed the goopy purple liquid, happily marked as Tasty Grape Flavor! The species label laid there, that unicorn horn which was a symbol of what’s to come, of the life he’d live.

He saw his reflection on the vial so clearly, he didn’t need a mirror. He took stock of his facial features: curved nose, ruddy cheeks, and almost non-existent forehead. Clean-shaven, too: never too late to have a no-beard when the need arose.

But he thought he’d saw another reflection flash before his eyes: That of a unicorn staring back at him. It melted as fast as it materialized, but it sent shivers down his spine.

“Now,” he’d heard Ocean say in a quiet voice, “I want you to breathe slowly. Don’t get tense. Just relax. Don’t be afraid. You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?”

Yet those words didn’t register. What did was what lay ahead.

That life ahead, that new direction he’d take—it all came crashing down from the imaginations of his mind, coming apart at the seams of the unreal to the real:

The first hour of his unicorn life, of learning how to work with four hooves and a magic horn for levitating stuff and doing magic spells. Many trips and stumblings to the floor, a face strengthened by being hit by the surface one time too many.

The happy smiles and hugs from Crowhop, no longer needing to look down at her to hold a proper conversation. The snuggles he’d get from her—she’d be over the moon seeing him eye-to-eye, and there was that bonus of being a unicorn just like her.

The messages and texts he’d get from his family and friends when he’d tell the news. He imagined all sorts of reactions, from the cheers of his parents to the long and open mouth of Mike—who he’d forgotten to text, apparently, but it’s too late.

The Happy Unicorn Day party he’d receive expense-free from the bureau and some willing third-party celebrators, all done in a small room and some drinks he’d probably sleep to if last Friday was of any indication. Crowhop, too, would reek of alcohol somehow.

The remainder of his Los Angeles stay as he’d get used to his form, finally a lot closer to the Equestrian culture booming there (though he’d still not be a Denver Broncos fan, that’s for sure).

The journey back home, to Utah and St. George, to yet another party only to have it short-lived because the bakery was still running, and people still wanted tarts and pies and what not. It wouldn’t be an easy adjustment period; some of his neighbors would have to adjust to him, too, but he’d leave it better off as one satisfied pony.

The eventual end of home as he knew it, the one he’d grown up in. The Veil would pass through and sprinkle in heaps of magical surprises to it: gem deposits, solid clouds, magic plants, mysterious artifacts, enigmatic forces. An occasion, an excuse, would be brought up to have everyone in his circle, no longer human now, to see this magic sea fill and sweep St. George whole. All of them would be helpless to stop it.

The trip to Equestria, of seeing his parents and his more ambitious friends where they were, and spending a good time with them. He’d maybe make some more friends over there, even some native ponies. Twilight Sparkle’s mantra of “friendship is magic” would ring in his head on an irregular basis, and he’d be OK shelling out some dollars—no, bits...he’d be OK shelling out some bits for a Friendship Journal copy out of courtesy.

The end of Earth, as everyone would be tuned to their TV sets—or phones now; he couldn’t care less—to see the Veil converge in Namibia, to watch a rather somber event that wouldn’t a celebration but a bittersweet memorial service for a world doomed to the history books and nothing more.

The continuation of life, as Earth and Equus would move on, as he would move on. He’d help expand the bakery into two branches and then three, perhaps go out of state with a fourth. He’d join a singing club and maybe form a local band; he’d have his singing skills improve after the transformation, so it wouldn’t hurt to give it a go.

The search for that special somepony, too, for falling in love with the best mare in the world, whoever that’d be. There’d be awkward hello!’s, several dates of note, an engagement with him kneeling on his hindlegs as a ring rested on a hoof, a wedding with tons of applause and that viral first kiss, and then a family complete with foals in some new house in Equestria, him most likely a baker mage.

And then, the—

“Please pay attention,” Ocean broke in, moving the floating vial an inch.

Sam snapped out of his lengthy daydream. All those steps would be accomplished, but it’d all start with this first step: actually drinking the potion.

He took the cue to hold the vial.

“Let me open it gently,” said the pony.

The cap glowed blue, though a flicker of green managed its way. It spun, and it popped, releasing a whiff of artificial grape throughout the entire room.

“Now...drink.”

Sam nodded, willing to obey. His hands trembled a bit, Ocean Canoe watching with bated breath along with everypony else behind him.

He lifted the vial, gripping it tightly with his fingers. Tipped it ever so slowly—

“I’m back!”

“Agh!” and he dropped the vial, letting it spill on the carpet.

Everyone looked at the source of trouble: that same colleague who’d went to the bathroom.

“You’re supposed to be quiet!” shouted a friend of his, rearing his hoof to slap him greatly.

“N-No! It’s me!”, holding up his forehooves to show he was innocent.

Sam’s eyes widened at this anomaly. That pony was the same one who’d went out. Panic must’ve blinded this coward of sorts.

“I-I mean...you wouldn’t hit a friend, would you?” continued said pony, putting on a chafing smile. “Besides—heh-heh—it’d make you look very unprofessional.”

His opponent and friend grumbled, then noticed that Sam was audience to this ordeal. He snorted, and pointed at the disturbance. “OK, it’s you, but you better be more discreet next time, eh?”

Meanwhile, Ocean shook his head and levitated another vial. He multi-tasked with his magic by floating a mop to clean up the carpet. “Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Henry. Let’s get this over with.”

So, after putting aside the mop, he popped this new vial open. Another tiny batch of pony potion coming up.

Sam took it in his hands once more, trying to control the trembling in his hands.

“Take two: drink,” said Ocean, betraying a low growl towards the bathroom’s interloper.

Now wasn’t the time to think about any animosity between these ponies. Sam took in a deep breath, and then another deep breath. Heart pacing, heart pounding. Felt his pulse on his own.

Took one more look at his reflection. His face.

Took one more look at his hands, his fingers.

Inched the potion ever closer to his open mouth.

Didn’t notice Ocean tapping his hoof impatiently, sneaking a glance behind his friends.

Tipped it to his mouth.

Saw the liquid seeping closer, closer to his lips, closer to his throat, closer to his veins.

Stopped.

Sam sighed. Closed his eyes real tight.

“Let’s go.”

Downed the whole thing and put it down with a clank! like a shot glass.

Tasted like fake grapes.

Ocean smiled, clasping his forehooves. “Goodie! Now, we get to the fun part!”

“The fun part?” Sam asked, looking down at his stomach to see if he’d start glowing anytime now.

That’s when the sirens blared.

Lights snapped red.

Sam whirled his head around, spun it around, seeing everything and everyone in red. “What’s going on?! Did they get in the—”

Gripped in the neck.

Being choked in the neck.

Pain. Excruciating pain, light-headed quickly as that grip tightened, as breathing weakened and his lungs struggled.

Saw Ocean’s face up close, that foreleg strangling his neck. “You had no idea, did ya’?!”

He tried to kick the pony in the shins.

Such a shame Ocean had quick reflexes, since he dodged that and threw him to the floor.

Head throbbing, ribs throbbing, arms throbbing, neck throbbing.

Scrambled back up.

Only for green glows to cuff his legs and his arms, bounding him and making him fall with another thud!, another hit to his head in agony.

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with, do you?” came that voice, morphing into something sinister, something more than a growling gutter.

His eyes flashed blue again.

Before he was covered in a green glow.

Before he turned into a changeling.

Not just any changeling. The old one, the deceitful one, the one coated in black chitin, in holey hooves, in dark carapace, in complex bug eyes and sharp fangs.

He hissed at him, as the sounds of glows surrounded Sam. A turn of his head later, and all he saw were changelings closing in.

All hissing at him, forked tongues lapping in the air, aiming for whatever love he had.

“You’re not the first here!” yelled what used to be Ocean Canoe, baring his teeth in an evil cackle. “And you won’t be the last!”

“How?!” Sam blurted out, unable to move but able to wriggle around, at least wear out the magic—if he could. “How did you—”

The changeling chuckled, balling up his broken hoof into a broken fist. His face glinted red, glittered red. “I’ll make this quick: We broke your air conning as that prankster pony. Then, we came in as repair service. Got a feel for the place—Perky here encountered you as that sugar-rush unicorn!”

“Cr-Crow—”

“Whatever!” and kicked Sam’s head, making him moan and wince. “We tampered with your potion supply, and now…” smiling, grinning evilly, “you’ll be one of us now.”

Shuddering. Sam was shuddering, mouth shivering and yawning to say something sapien—

Light blinded his eyes. Closed his eyes.

“Wh-Whitaker?!” cried Laura. “Whitaker, no!”

“Whitaker, yes!” yelled “Ocean”. “Get out of the way! You’re not supposed to be here!”

“Not if I can help it!”

“Oh, I’ll help—i-is that a gun?! You put that down! Put it down right—”

Bang!

Nothing. He could hear nothing. Sam could hear nothing but ringing, insensible ringing.

Felt something warm, coming over his whole body.

Opened his eyes.

Saw nothing but white.

“Wugh…?”

As he blinked, blurry-eyed. Seeing nothing but fuzzy lights, or at least they looked like it. Felt something soft on his back. Must be a bed; his brain told him he was lying down. Bright walls; too bright, belonging to a clinic. That sharp punch of medical alcohol filling his nose, and then that face. That pink face.

“You...alright....?”, her voice weaving in and out.

“Ugh.”

Tried to get up.

Couldn’t feel his fingers. Nor his toes, either.

Everything felt weird, out of place.

He groaned. “This is it, huh? I-I’m a unicorn, now.” Breathed a sigh, barely focusing on Crowhop’s face hovering over his. “Good thing sh-she saved me. G-Good thing….”

Crowhop wasn’t pleased to celebrate with him. Biting her lip proved that.

Then, he felt a great rumbling in his stomach. It was hunger, feeling like a hole in his stomach. “Why...wh-why am I so hungry? H-How long have I been out?”

She sniffed, now biting her hoof while levitating a mirror. Glanced away as her horn glowed that familiar lime. “C-C-Can you see? C-Can you see your...self?”

He blinked his eyes, vision now crisp. The room looked exactly like a hospital room, and he was doubly sure that he’d been talking to Canter Crowhop, though she had wet cheeks and eyes somewhat red. He could see the mirror, but not himself yet; it was a bit far. “Uh, n-now—”

“Just…” and closed her eyes. Added a foreleg to them for good measure. “Just d-don’t kill me for this. Y-You don’t deserve th-this….”

That left him aghast. Mouth wide open. In a sense, the nightmare had come true, but it was his choice to become a pony. What went wrong this time? “What is it?”

Crowhop turned her face away, horn still glowing as the mirror floated to his eyes.

So, Sam saw his reflection.

Blinked.

Blinked at the unreformed changeling lying on the bed.

“Agh!” and grabbed his chitin face with his holey hooves, rubbing his rough cheeks. “A changeling?!”

“And it’s the ugly one!” she screamed, face tense as sweat and tears mingled already. “Y-You—”

“How do I change back?!” he roared, grabbing Crowhop by the neck, pushing and pulling her back and forth. Each move, each swing—

Irises bouncing in her eyes, she screamed and shoved him away, leaving him on the bed as she backed to the wall at this new horror. “I-I—”

“This has to be a dream,” he mumbled, looking down at his unfamiliar self, at his horsefly body: his hole-infested legs of four, his cracked and fragile wings, his fin-like tail on his back, his fangs that he could never hide—“This has to be a dream! Throw cold water, pinch me...anything!”

“This isn’t a dream!” she yelled back, galloping back to him and holding him by the shoulder, feeling his rough chitin. “This is reality!”

Sam kept breathing, breathing. Faster, faster, faster breathing. Crowhop’s terrified face to comfort him, that smallest of comforts. Then: “Prove it!”

“Eep!” and she hobbled up a glass of water chilling in the fridge and threw it at him.

One problem: She threw the water and the glass at him.

Thunk!

“Ow!”

“Ah! Sorry! I’m so sorry!” She levitated the empty glass out of the way, seeing Sam the Changeling soaking wet. Crowhop automatically grabbed a towel with her magic, hovering it over to him. “Here…?”

Sam grabbed the towel.

Or, he tried to. He merely poked it. Then, he tried it again, but just poked it again. He tried again a few more times, but only added three or four pokes to the poke counter.

He gave up and grabbed the towel with both his hooves, feeling like he was keeping it together with two huge sticks. Slowly dried himself with it, unused to the strange sandpaper quality of his “skin”. Then, holding them together with his two holey hooves, he gave it back to Crowhop who levitated it out of the way.

He’d felt it. The freezing cold of water all over his body. He was now a tad rejuvenated just as any old dump of icy water would do. However, he wasn’t human. Nor a unicorn.

He saw his holey hooves.

“OK, I believe you,” Sam said, pointing at her and unwilling to get out of bed. He sounded particularly hopeful, though. “I-Is there any way out? Maybe it’s just a spell—”

“No,” she replied, voice wavering. “Canoe scanned you earlier. This isn’t a temporary morph spell. You’re not a human stuck in a changeling’s body. You are a changeling.”

Sam sighed, glancing to the side and biting his tongue, controlling the urge to scream. “OK, give me the unicorn—”

“That’s out the window. Remember one of those sentences or sayings in the guide? In big, bold letters? ‘Never ever double-drink potions. It will either kill you or, if it somehow doesn’t, turn you into a zombie hybrid.’”

Adrenaline, wasn’t it? Or was it liquid terror, coursing through his arteries and his veins? Another notch of hope struck down. This wasn’t a trick, this wasn’t a prank, those changelings weren’t amateurs. Sam was, no doubt about it, a changeling.

The hunger, too, rising up from within his stomach.

“Alright...hoo, I’m a changeling. I-I’m a changeling. I-I-I a-am a...ch-changeling.” Staring at his hooves, poles apart from hands.

Then, Crowhop hopped, her frowning turning upside-down. “I got it!” Shuffled her hooves to face Sam, “You can turn into the other changeling! The happy guys!” and her tail lifted up, its owner delighted to strike upon that idea. “This is our shot, Sammie!” Then, sucking in breath to break the news to him, gripping his shoulders: “You have to share love!”

“Then, let’s do that!” Sam yelled.

This proclamation of hope was followed by silence.

“OK, how do I share love?”

“I...I don’t know,” she said, her triumphant smile phasing out. “Never tried it myself...” then ears perking again. “Can you feel something...uh, fuzzy inside yourself?”

His stomach rumbled, hunger asserting itself. “I’m uh...I’m...yes? I a-am?” since he, indeed, felt something fuzzy inside himself. He waved a hoof about, feeling something he couldn’t see but knew was there, like a trace of holdable smoke. He waved it around some more, letting it get closer to where it got stronger, stronger—

Touched Crowhop’s snout.

Felt something warm wash over his hoof. Didn’t see anything that’d done the deed.

Crowhop gasped. “Now you’re feeling love? As in, literally feeling it, not metaphorically?”

Sam slowly nodded, eyes dilating at the information he was receiving about that dose of love. “I...I don’t know how I know, but there’s love for your old friends back at home, your new friends in this place...even a strong one for your...boyfriend?”

Her cheeks flushed into a blush. “Not the time to talk about that.” Snapping back to her serious face, as her task to turn Sam into the more standard changeling became clear: ”OK...h-how am I supposed to do this?” Pressed her head, getting her creative juices flowing while she paced around in the room. “OK, OK, OK, OK! We need...uh, you to, uh, share the love to anyone.”

Glanced at the whole room and saw no one but Sam on the bed.

She placed a shaky hoof to her worn out mane.“I..I’m OK with being loved at!”

Sam got his head up from the snugly pillow. “You w-won’t get hurt?”

“Just go!” Crowhop shouted, looking at the door with a flailing foreleg. “I don’t know how much we can—”

“Alright!” was his shout back at her. “I’ll just...find a way or….”

Just closed his eyes so he could concentrate on sharing love. However that worked.

Grunted. Winced. Rolled in bed. Tried to force out the love inside of him for sharing. Tried to get that fuzzy emotion out of his system, then thought how ridiculous of a situation he’d gotten himself in: He had to share love in simplest sense of the term, as if love was a tangible thing. Because, of course, when it came to magic creatures, love just had to be a tangible thing—

He started glowing.

A big gasp. “It’s working, Sam! It’s working! You’re doing it!”

But he didn’t hear it. The glow was consuming all of him, as he unknowingly flapped his wings and stretched out his legs, hovering over the bed.

A glowing light hovering over the bed.

Zap!

And he fell down to its soft and safe mattress, the glow having disappeared.

His eyes were closed. His eyes stayed closed. His eyes remained closed.

He wanted them closed.

Could still feel the air going through his hooves. He wanted to deny it. It’s his mind playing tricks on him, it’s phantom pain after experiencing two transformations in a row, it’s his senses not getting updated to the other changeling species, it must be something else, and Crowhop just had to say—

“It didn’t work!”

Wanted his eyes to stay and remain closed, but he could feel it. The broken hooves, the broken wings, the broken hunger.

That hunger.

It wasn’t an ordinary hunger. He knew that much. He’d read up on them: how, under the reign of Chrysalis, the changelings used to feed on love.

That was it, wasn’t it? He wasn’t starving for apples or anything like that.

He was starving for love.

Sam rattled in place, on his bed. He grabbed the pillow with his hooves and hugged it, clung on to it. Everything was collapsing, and he didn’t need to open his eyes. No more thoughts of attending that unicorn party, then; what took their place was a bleak future, one of thieving and stealing and lying to survive. Not because he couldn’t work his way up the corporate ladder or because he was poor and lacking in funds.

He was a scarred, love-hungry changeling.

Chunk of Change

“I c-can’t change...I-I’m s-s-stuck....”

“Sam?”

“I-I...I d-don’t want to kill a-anyone….” Squeezed the pillow, as if consolation could be found there. “I-I d-d-don’t want to kill y-you...I don’t want to be a-alone...I don’t w-wanna die….”

“Sam?”

“They’re going to th-throw me out, g-gonna burn me for the hideous bug I am….” Chewed on the pillow, puncturing it in his woes. “Th-They’re gonna—”

“Sam!”

And Sam shot his changeling head up from his pillow, to see Crowhop there. He spat out some feathers he’d sucked in; they tasted bad and unfulfilling.

Unlike the love he so desperately needed.

“I know this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you,” she said, voice trembling as she looked at the door once more. Then, with a firmer voice, steeling her shoulders straight, swallowing a gulp: “B-But, it’s not just you—”

“What do you mean it’s not just me?!” he yelled, lashing out at her with a pointed hoof made all the scarier with its disgusting holeness. “How am I supposed to live?! W-Without hurting anyone?! N-No one’s going to—”

“Get it together, Sam!” she shouted, now the one rocking him back and forth with her hooves, putting him in his place.

Everything in him quaked, all hooves retracted as he embarrassingly bared his protruding fangs. Nothing was right, nothing was right, nothing was ri—

“We’re in the middle of an emergency,” Crowhop explained as calmly as she could, gesturing towards the door and the lights. “It’s not just the changelings who got in. A couple freaks almost got in.” Eyes scampering, scanning the scene, checking for the tenth time that nothing was wrong in this backup bedroom. “Security and LAPD’s doing their best, but once a bullet goes out or they break the doors...” looked to the floor in waxing terror, “we’re done for.”

Sam could only rub his forehead at that, taking in the glut of news—hit his horn, but all he then said was, “And what can I do?!” while stretching out both of his new dead forehooves at her. “I don’t know a lick of horse movement! I-I don’t even know how to crawl out of bed!”

He got his answer by being thrown out of bed and onto the floor with a thud! Pain surged through his new veins, feeling faint as that hunger gnawed on him, as his mind blanked out on what to do on the floor.

Crowhop picked him up, using her magic and her hoof to get him back on his four legs.

“W-Woah!” and Sam hobbled and wobbled a bit, unused to his four leg stance. He felt the urge to hold out a hand or even just a spare hoof, but he felt his legs lock. Lifting just one hoof felt like an invitation to fall again.

“You know how to crawl?” she asked, patting him on the head. “Now, multiply the speed by three and that’s how you walk.” Glanced at his insectoid wings. “Don’t ask me how to fly, though.”

He felt the pressure of no time, so he winged it—the walking part, not the flying part. Remembering the shows he’d watched before of military training, he just moved: right forehoof, left hindhoof, left forehoof, right hindhoof, rinse and repea—

“We need you to change into something,” she said, not bothering to congratulate him on equine trotting. “You have to...to feel your shapeshifting senses or whatever you call—”

“I don’t know how to do that!” he howled, flailing one hoof in the air and almost slapping her face with it. “I read the manual, but I wasn’t expecting to actually be a cha—”

“Sam!” yelled Ocean as he opened the door, his head bursting through the gap. “Are you alright?!”

“Yah!” and Sam glowed and turned into a carbon copy of Ocean Canoe.

Ocean’s response to this was, “Yah! Changeling!” before jumping back to the wall.

Crowhop, unable to check herself, also joined in the community screaming: “Yah! Sam, did you just—”

“What did I just…?” and Sam stopped, noticing his voice sounded just like Ocean’s. He looked at his hooves, now whole and a shade of blue. “Agh! I just did it?!”

“Did what?!” Ocean yelled, then examined him from head to hoof. “Oh! You did it! You’ve accomplished shapeshifting!”

“That’s not an accomplishment!” Sam screamed, running his Ocean voice dry. “What’s good a-about being able...being able to disguise as this or that or you?!”

“Will you stop?!” Crowhop yelled.

And both Ocean Canoes looked at her in surprise.

The real Ocean then put a hoof on Sam’s shoulder, feeling queasy on having to really talk to himself. “Sam, I want you to listen to me.”

Noticed the intense trembling going through Sam’s whole body, legs beginning to buckle.

“Calm down. Breathe.”

A few seconds elapsed.

Then, Sam stopped.

Breathed in.

Closed his eyes.

Breathed out.

“There,” Ocean said, content that he’d done step one of not turning Sam into a raging monster. “Feel better?”

“No!” and yelled at him again, glowing back to his changeling self. Voice back to his own: “How could that possibly make me feel better?! I’m still a love-eater! I’m still a parasite!”

And Ocean’s ears flayed. “Well, uh—”

Door swung open with a bang!, cracking the wall and causing Crowhop to shriek.

A flustered Key Note stood by the door, panting as his coat drenched with sweat. A scar had been dealt to him right beneath his eye. “Sorry to barge in, but I’ve heard that—what?!” and jumped in fear at Sam’s brand-new him. “It’s all real?!”

Crowhop shook her head up and down, slowly backing away from her old intern. “Y-Yes, K-Key. I-It’s true!”

Ocean’s solemn eyes-closed nod merely confirmed it for the dismayed Note.

He blinked, rubbed his eyes, then blinked again, at first unbelieving the gruesome figure with such an ordinary name to grace it. “S-S-Sam?! Th-That can’t possibly be you!”

“Of course, it can’t!” Sam shouted, close to pleading as he balled up his forehooves into holey fists. “But, it is me, and I-I hate it!”

Note hid a fleeting smile behind a pitying hoof, looking behind him for any danger or obstacle blocking his exit path. Then, he beckoned with his hoof. “Come with me! You can help clear the air outside!”

“Why m—”

And Note snatched the changeling onto his back right before galloping out the room and into the corridor. The cries of Crowhop and Ocean to stop failed to do their job.

Sam, too, failed at his job to stop him via screaming at the top of his lungs. His screaming was warranted, though; suffering the inability to do anything sensible with his new senses and his new body now. He could only feel more love from nearby creatures, and there was a lot of them waiting for this love-hungry changeling on the street.

As he heard more screaming and doors busting open, yelps of “Changeling!” hurtled his way, as the buzzes of others like him came to his ears.

He felt the love of so many outside, felt it more, felt it at higher—no, worse levels.

It scared him.

After what seemed like full minutes of looking up at lights and blank ceilings, Sam heard it clearer, heard it unhindered: the crowd’s rowdy racket.

A woosh, and he was outside, the hot and dangerous outside with the noise all the noisier. He didn’t have to open his eyes to feel how close those hands and hooves were to touching him, to harming him, not to mention he felt as if blades and crosshairs were targeted on him.

As if a gun was pointed at his head.

He didn’t want to open his eyes yet.

“Behold!” he heard Note cry out in his deep, commanding voice. He managed to silence a few voices, but that didn’t matter when everyone else’s numbered to the hundreds.

Still, he charged on: “They blame us for all their mishaps! When things go wrong for them, they don’t own up to their mistakes! Yet, as you should know, it’s all a smoke screen to throw you off!” A pause. “I won’t bore you with far-out examples of humanity burning itself with no regard to its own planet or its own kind! No! I have for you not an example, but the real thing!”

And dropped the changeling on the ground.

Sam grumbled, desiring to give this careless pony a piece of his mind. However, he refused. If he missed, a pony punch to the face wouldn’t cure his compounded troubles.

He didn’t want to open his eyes yet. Shame and scandal fell upon him like a waterfall, turning into a rising sea of disgrace. Overly merciful statements, curious questions of his fate, jeering insults about his so-called punishment: he heard all of these from the riot, from the crowd of cacophony directed to him.

“This is—no, was an innocent Sam Henry,” Note continued, introducing the man—no, the changeling himself above the disjointed noise. “Sam willingly volunteered not to harm you, but to help you survive!” Shaking his head, condescendingly looking down on his suspected Front members in the audience, “But, what did his kind give him in return for his help? This!” and gasps could be heard from the crowd even though they should’ve done so upon seeing Sam’s form. “They’ve turned him into a changeling, and it’s not just like he could snap and become one of the better changelings!” Cackling, “They wanted to prove their point through any means necessary, and if it means imposing evil changeling potions on all of you....don’t fall for the lies they spit out!”

“You’re the one spitting lies!” screeched a woman.

A familiar voice.

Sam opened his eyes, found himself looking at the sky.

A mass of many, talking and shouting and demonstrating, evoking mad drivers to toot their horn at them for causing the traffic.

The boulevard had become even more crowded in the time he’d been inside. Humans, ponies, and other Equestrians—but mostly humans and ponies—were protesting with each other and against each other. Arguments and spats had already risen; here’s a pegasus and a man fencing with their pickets, the one unwilling to give ground (or sky) to the other. The sight of gun and impromptu melee weapons like baseball bats only made him dread more; such was the state of this fragile, tenuous “peaceful protest”.

What grabbed his attention was the woman who’d called Key Note a liar.

Or, rather the pony who’d called him a liar.

Spaghetti Tree continued her violent tirade as she raised a picket sign saying, NO TO PER TYRANNY! NO TO BUREAU TYRANNY! HUMANITY HAS ALWAYS FOUND A WAY!

She was hovering beside a nervous Arthur, sheepishly holding up his own HLF picket sign, armed with a holstered pistol. The man was staring at Sam, jaw dropped since he didn’t know what to say, what to think of this changeling.

Amongst the commotion, Arthur mouthed a silent “Sorry” at him. Then, in shame, he turned his eyes elsewhere.

”Burn him!” Sam heard next. He found the source of the order: a cap-wearing man with a bulletproof vest. He was cowering under an extra vest like it. “He’s going to turn us all into cocoons!”

Wasn’t sure if he was pointing at him or the pony beside him, but it’d petrified the changeling. Hallucinations or not, there rose a million other shouts like his, and his mind turned to grim fates: the crowd’s noise became pandemonium to burn him, to stamp out this evil bug from this world, to save everyone and life as they knew it.

Wait, was that the same whisper from—

And, before he could grasp what’s happening, Sam saw most everyone tumbled as various humans started punching each other, taking down others’ picket signs, squaring up for melee combat with whatever was at hand. Little comic relief was discovered when a bulky bodybuilder resorted to using his wallet as his weapon of choice against someone who’d brought a rake.

Sam took a step back from this unraveling chaos. He didn’t know how he stepped back with his bizarre hooves; maybe it was changeling instincts kicking in. That didn’t matter, though, since everyone was screaming at everyone else, everyone moving around without any vicious collision. Not yet.

Spaghetti was still ranting at Key Note despite his ignorance of her. Arthur tugged at her wing to tell her to stop, but she instead slapped him on the head with her feathers.

The police were drawing near, riot shields acting like closing walls.

“Did you hear that?” Note asked, turning his head aside to the frightened changeling. That eerie calm in his voice, that placid smirk that spoke of unexplained confidence. “That’s the sound of their death.”

“D-Death?” Sam stuttered.

Then, the connections sparked: the mysterious whispers, how they seemed to come from nowhere, how someone always flared up right after he heard them.

The microphone cutie mark on Note’s flank.

Sam turned back to that uncanny smirk. With a shivering hoof, “A-A-Are you the whisperer?”

And he noticed something odd. The only ones fighting were humans. Not a single Equestrian to be found strangling one another; on the contrary, they either backed away to relative safety or were doing their best to split up the combatants before a hit could be registered and the police come barreling as the last resort.

Sam whirled his head back at Note who was smirking.

“Such a shame you had to be this way,” he said, neither confirming nor denying Sam’s allegation. Note lifted a tempting hoof instead. “If you come with us, however...we’ll always have your back, helping you serve your part.”

Serving his part?

I’m merely serving my part.

That thought. That saying. He’d heard it before.

Looked at Arthur, close to the crowd’s amorphous boundary on the sidewalk, his pony companion now desperately begging her fellow Front members to stop hurting themselves.

Arthur returned the look, then swiftly changed sights to Note overseeing the chaos before him. Arthur’s face of surprise slowly darkened as he put his hand on his gun, about to drop his picket sign.

Sam gulped, turning back to Note. The changeling knew anger would cloud a shooter’s judgment when it came to aiming, but he wasn’t absolutely sure Note knew that.

Still, he had one more question to ask the pony: “Y-You’re part of the Rebirth, a-aren’t you?”

Note snickered, his chuckle a deep growl as he trotted to the flower box. “OK, Sam. Ya’ got me.”

Sam glanced at Arthur. His grip on the pistol tightened.

“So what if everyone knows at this point?” Note asked, eyes still on Sam as his hoof rummaged beyond the bushes, making leaves and branches rustle. “This will be on national...international TV. No use in hiding now.”

Sam was in no mood for premature gloating and monologue. He glanced at Arthur again.

He was mumbling something, fingers trembling on the pistol’s grip as he surveyed Key Note from afar.

“I’m sorry I had to use you for illustration,” Note said, swinging a hoof in quick apology. “In fact, I’d been thinking of championing you before several would-be peers before today, but I thought it imprudent at the time. Now, though....”

The rummaging hoof stopped.

“Put. The. Hoof. Down.”

Key Note raised his head to see the one who spoke those words: Arthur, walking his way to the pony with a gun aimed at him. Whispers and whimpering shouts arose, as everyone withdrew from the gunman. Some cheered him on, others booed him off, but the many trembled and did some rubbernecking; they were already devising escape plans.

Officers were slowly moving in. There was more talking through their transceivers, scanning the area. Police dogs boomed with their barks, although that did nothing to dissuade Arthur to put his hand down.

Hugging the flower box was Sam, hoping it’d provide him any pretense of protection, frightened that discord would reach its tipping point.

Undeterred by all these factors, Note faced Arthur’s pistol head on. He calmly, quietly said one word:

“Psych.”

Ftb!

“Agh!”

And Arthur buckled to the ground, clutched his arm. Pulled the syringe out of his elbow.

A pony symbol on it.

Screaming everywhere, flooding everyone’s ears as a stampede followed, hundreds attempting to get out of here. Even running away from each other, even when those who’d prepared themselves with weapons were just as scared as their unarmed fellows.

Sam was terrified, backing away from Note as he took out a prototype of sorts from the flower box: a syringe gun, hidden deep in the soil before. It had plenty more syringes to go in its transparent magazine.

Bang!

Both Sam and Note ducked, hiding behind the flower box. A whiff! and a spear scraped it, sending bits of ceramic flying.

“I shouldn’t have brought you here again!”

Sam turned to Arthur, lying on the ground with his pistol now out of reach, with his mouth wide open from what he’d just said. Eyes wet, cheeks red, his worse fears only seconds from being realized.

“I should’ve talked you away from it!” he yelled, going coarse as he used up all his breath. “I was too kind on you! I shouldn’t have let my guard down!”

An arrogant smile flickered on Note’s face, turning his head up to look snooty. “Thank you for your services, then, dear human.”

As Arthur gritted his teeth, kicking the air as he lay on the ground, grunting as hard as he could to stop—

A glow overcame him.

Note laughed, not needing to look at that new pony as he instead turned to Sam, more screaming and loud noises on the street notwithstanding. “Well then, that’s taken care of. Now, what about we go inside the bureau and find cover while my friends get their own guns—uh, Sam?”

Saw Sam’s blank bug eyes snap open. The changeling licked his chapped lips with his forked tongue, displaying his deadly fangs.

“S-S-Sam?”

Sam shook his head violently. His stomach rumbled, starvation beginning to gnaw once more on him: the love of so many drifted through the air, emanating from so much food trying to get out of the riot they’d created. For now, however, the love of this one particular, peculiar, pernicious pony was his main dish, his only dish sitting before him.

Note felt something slipping away.

He looked down at his chest.

Saw a pink, ethereal stream floating out of his body.

His eyes widened, the love being sucked out of him. “No! You can’t be!”, trying to scoop his own floating tangible love back, but it strayed from his hooves.

Into Sam’s open mouth.

“Sam!” he yelled, accent becoming quite hoarse as he reached out to the feeding changeling, perceiving his strength being drained as well—legs beginning to crumble. “What’re you doing?!”

Then, Sam put in an evil chuckle, drinking his victim’s emotions now empowering his changeling self. The taste of love, that delicious and delectable love which made him lap at the air for more—he wanted more.

Key Note squawked one more cry before he lunged at him.

Was stopped mid-air by a holey hoof.

Fell to the ground, all parts of his body now burning in agony and pangs as he clung on to whatever energy he still had.

“No! No, no!” he yelled, then said, then muttered in a deflated, defeated snarl. Writhed on the ground as huge swaths of love streams poured into Sam’s throat.

And then, he stopped.

Note’s eyes had shrunken, his hooves had become shaky.

Alive and conscious. Unresponsive, lying on the sidewalk. Could he sense what was going on around him?

Sam didn’t know.

But he felt something else.

It was a strange feeling, to be powered by the love he’d stolen from someone else. He could ascertain all who it’d really belonged to: his PER comrades, his other friends in the city, a sickening goal of ponifying everyone. These turned into flavors, flavors his tongue translated into something more than palatable.

It tasted good. Dangerously good. Sinfully good.

Then, he sniffed the air. The hint for more love was up there. He followed the scent, eyes resting upon the fleeing crowd to steal all of their love and—

He shook his head, shook himself out of that trance. Rubbed his head as his vision came to once again. “What just…?”

Looked at a swooning Key Note lying before him.

“Aah!” and jumped to the bureau doors, holding on to the handle with one hoof wrapped around it. “D-Did I...did I do that? D-Did I just...?”

And he looked up.

Almost everyone was trying to get out of the riot zone, with the police helping the escapees get out in orderly single files, their weapons and shields ensuring no one would even dare pull out their own guns or baseball bats. Those who’d remained were already cleaning up the mess, securing the perimeter with verbal directions all over.

While they picked up the trash and the dropped picket signs, while they stood on guard against any more uncertainties, a lot of them gazed upon their new threat: this love-sucking changeling who’d just claimed his first victim in plain daylight.

This love-sucking changeling who was scared out of his wits. Locked in place, his own legs shivering once more at renewed shame pricking his heart.

The only ones from the riot who stayed were Spaghetti Tree and a stallion he didn’t recognize.

Spaghetti—or Julia—was crying at the botched attempt at peaceful protesting, and at what Sam had become. In her sobbing, she was pouring her tears onto the hugged shoulders of that stallion who fixed a long, hard stare on the changeling.

The hairstyle and the work-in-progress beard, coupled with resting half of his weight on Julia, made his identity clear: this was Arthur, and he was at a loss for words at what both he and Sam had turned into.

Sam peered into that staring face.

Indictments lashed his heart, his conscience. Witnesses had just seen what he’d done: stealing someone else’s love. The nourishment became a wicked load on his back. His ears folded back, he closed his eyes—

“...aah!”

On instinct, Sam hopped away before a body was thrown out of the bureau, smashing the glass doors into a million shards, and on to Note’s body with a thud!

Sam didn’t care about that changeling bound in ropes and a straitjacket. Not even when this one declared, “Where’s that Paraffin?! Tell her I’m onto her!”

Sam felt the cool of the inside, and he galloped back in for safety.

There, every staff member was locking the doors and defending their posts, several griffons and pegasi armed with blade-tipped wings of their own. Standing in this constant movement was Crowhop, dithering in place as Sam approached, and Ocean, hastily reading a scroll he was levitating.

“You have to jump to safety now!” Crowhop yelled, pushing Ocean forward so he could help her articulate.

But Sam was lost, mind preoccupied with his transgression. “Did you—d-did you just see what—”

Crowhop nodded, and that silenced him.

He noticed the teary streak on her cheek. On it, he could see a tiny reflection of what he was.

Could’t bear to see even that.

“We’ve just received notice that a couple rogue elements are coming in to storm the bureau,” Ocean said both fast and serious. “We got the HLF and the PER on speeding vehicles to ransack the place, but we’ll do our best to fend them off.”

“Fend them off?!” Sam yelped, head doddering around for some kind of safety, more than just walls minus the entrance doors. “What about the other changeling victims like me?!”

“You missed the delivery truck we were busy with thanks to that dumb Key Note!” hissed Crowhop before pushing Sam to his nonplussed unicorn therapist. “Now, you go! Leave the fighting to us mares!”

Then, more noises. Not the sound of men but of machines: the rising police sirens, the faraway screeching of tires, the distinct bursts of gunshots.

“This is an emergency teleport spell!” Ocean yelled, rescanning the spell scroll before him one more time before smacking it on Sam’s face. “Haven’t tried this at all, and it might knock you out, but we’ll be fine on the other side!”

Sam wrenched the offending scroll away, spitting out the disgusting taste of parchment, unwary to the unicorn’s horn glowing brighter and brighter. Rather, the changeling settled for repeating words in hysteria: “Never tried this out? Might knock me out?! We’ll be fine?!”

Poof!

Both were now gone.

Time in the Mountain

“Ugh....”

Lights. Harsh lights coming into view. Deja vu rocked his brain as he felt the downy surface of a bed on his back once again. It felt softer, though, almost as if he could sink into it if he tried really hard.

But pain and a buzzing hangover hindered him from such sweet thoughts. A groan or two was in order, him reeling from the pounding malady in his head.

Then, the scent of love revived in him a fresh, minty sensation in his snout.

“Ah, you’re awake. Finally….”

Didn’t sit up at those words. Sam only raised his head a bit, turned it slowly around so he wouldn’t worsen his incredible headache.

That blue unicorn sitting on the chair. Ocean Canoe had a tiny smile of relief, made a touch darker with his pair of tiny eyeglasses.

Something didn’t feel right.

Sam looked around, checked his surroundings.

He didn’t recognize anything here. Not the walls of brick of mortar, not the bookshelves and the orange-smelling chimney by the side, not the carpets emblazoned with abstract patterns, and certainly not the windows which spoke of countrysides and rolling green hills shining orange under the piercing sunset.

...countrysides?

The question swirled in his mind. He let a hand scratch his hairy head—

Didn’t feel his fingers. Didn’t feel his hand. Didn’t feel his hair.

Sam felt coarse chitin and reefy membrane.

That rush of fear again, only now it wasn’t coursing through his body. It was submerging him, making him feel weightless and helpless as this truth came plunging into his depths:

None of it was a nightmare.

The back of his mind was his last hope. Perhaps he was still imagining things. Perhaps he was too worked up about his worries about what to become. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps—perhaps it was too much stress. Yes, that could be it, should be it. And if that failed? He wished, so hopelessly wished, that Luna would pop up out of nowhere to confirm that it was all a dream, that he was still a human back in the Holiday Inn or a new unicorn just going through a bad first night at the bureau.

“Sam?”

He flinched. Ocean’s voice had pulled him partway out of that last hope.

Sam stared at him hard, unwilling to look at any part of his own body. In a breaking tone: “Wh-What a-am I?”

Ocean sighed. He floated his glasses out of the way, put them gently on the table. “I want to say you’re the human we all know and love.”

Slumped his shoulders, levitating a mirror right to Sam’s face.

“But...I’d be doing you a great disservice if I lied.”

Sam wanted to close his eyes. The mirror’s surface slowly straightening in Ocean’s magic, and he wanted out. No more changeling drama. No more changeling torment. No more—

But, one look at the mirror: that was enough to make him scream.

Blood-curdling scream, echoing through the room.

His changeling face staring back at him, staring cruelly back at him, taunting him with its mere existence as his scream let loose his forked tongue and his giant fangs. This is you. You cannot escape it.

“Sam,” Ocean said, raising his voice, “you have to calm dow—”

He grabbed the pony’s mirror, threw it to the ground in one grand slam, shattering the glass in a smash!

“Sam!” the pony shouted, leaping out of his chair and levitating the furniture as his improvised shield. “You calm down right this instant!”

“Why would I?!” Sam yelled, now throwing his blanket at him as if that would do any damage.

Yet, that only exposed him to more sorrow. He could see the rest of his changeling self. All of his own body lent a hand in mocking him, ridiculing his fate.

“We cannot help each other if we’re fighting!” Ocean yelled, sounding more like he was entreating him to stop out of mercy. He was backing off farther from the changeling while floating his chair in front of him.

“I want to change back!” Sam cried, voice awash as his throat tightened in that deadly mix of fury and anguish. “There’s transformation spells! There’s other potions! Are you close friends with that Discord guy?! I heard he—”

“No!”

And Sam stopped. Suspended, sitting up. That one word, that one No….

“You aren’t changing back,” Ocean whispered, closing one eye to anticipate any violent reaction from his listener. “You can’t change back.”

“Of course I can!” Sam shot back, brandishing a hole-ridden hoof at him. “There’s always a way! You and your magic abilities could whip up anything!”

Ocean stomped his hoof, clenching his teeth as his horn glowed from the soaring anger. Seething but not enough to call him out: “That’s not how magic works. You know that.”

That put down gagged Sam for now. He could tell since he saw his ears fold back in fear.

“Let me do my best to explain your condition,” Ocean said, trotting a few steps closer to the bed as he put down the chair. “I’ve had changeling doctors and experts come over during the past few days, and they thought of anything and everything possible that’d do it without risking your life.” A sigh, lowered his head to see Sam’s new face more clearly. “When that failed, we rescanned your identity, your ‘morphic field’, so to speak—we scanned that a dozen times to see if there was a fluke since I’m not an expert when it comes to deep cover disguises.”

Sam plugged one ear with his hoof. He dreaded what came next.

“You’re…” and he stopped. Coughed. “You’re a changeling. Through and through. There is no denying it, no matter how much all of us want to.”

Yet Sam, verifying his stubbornness, cocked his head and made a fist out of his hoof.“Crowhop said the same thing, and she could be—”

“And that’s what the doctors told me,” Ocean said, close to the breaking point of his patience. “I’m very sorry to say this right now, but I want you to hear it: You have to face reality. You may disguise yourself, but it takes a conscious effort to keep it up—and it’s harder to change into a bipedal human than it is to a familiar, structurally alike pony...and even if you come through with that, it won’t ever be the same as actually being human. So, what I’m saying is—"

He took a step back. Braced himself for how this changeling, this tragic former human wallowing in the final rays of this warm day’s sun before the chill of night—how this changeling would react.

Ocean swallowed a very huge gulp, clearing any obstruction in his throat.

“You can’t change back, Sam. You can never change back.”

And so, the pony slouched on the chair. He had his horn glowing for a moment, then decided to cool it off. There’s no need to be menacing.

Especially when he said to Sam, “I’m sorry.”

Sorry.

He was sorry.

Sam believed it wasn’t Ocean’s fault. Nor was it Crowhop’s fault.

But it didn’t matter whose fault it was. Not now.

Sam dropped onto the bed, lying down with all his legs outstretched on the soft mattress. His body stayed afloat on this huge cushion.

But Sam himself wasn’t afloat. He was falling. There was the truth, and the truth broke his mind.

Something welled up, something welled up in his heart.

No way back. He couldn’t change back.

His world was ending.

He took the pillow, letting his head fall to the mattress.

Threw it away. The pillow fell to the floor.

Didn’t mind Ocean’s raised eyebrow.

He didn’t mind that the pony was watching at all, not when Ocean got out of the chair to take a closer look. Not even as the changeling’s own eyes watered. First a tear, and then two, and then both of his eyes had become broken faucets.

Memories of the many he’d helped along the way—these came forth:

Of Paraffin, back in her secure home with Georgina and away from his son...that changeling son he’d probably encountered back in the bureau.

Of Adirondack who’d already moved out, helping out at some forest reserve. That’s what he’d said, and, now, he was imagining the deer as an ecotour guide in one of those Redwood National Parks in Humboldt.

Of Turbo Jet, certainly enjoying his new flying powers, performing loop-de-loops in the sky to impress his audience down below. It wasn’t hard to see him a Wonderbolt someday.

Of Lacque, tending to a client’s garden in the Midwest. Trimming the branches, beautifying the front yards and the sidewalks, too; he’d be making everyone’s day a tad brighter with those pretty flowers.

Of Laura, who had to be safe, who had to be alive, who was a changeling like him.

No.

A changeling unlike him.

He sobbed, tears staining his black chitin.

Wiped his eyes, but the sight of his unwanted hooves turned the floodgates a little wider. There was no place for anger now; only unbridled mourning as the tears smudged his cheeks, blemished his chest, splotched the bed.

His sobs gnarled into a pathetic weeping, a dissonant bawling like that of a fractured high note. To hear these woes from one who’d stayed calm, who’d stayed rational through his tenure, to see him hacking away at the pillow, unleashing his anger in fits and bursts, only to break down into harsh weeping—

Ocean closed his ears, turned his eyes away from this pitiful sight as the changeling trashed around on his bed, shaking his hooves about as he reached out to grasp for something, for anything to turn him back.

But there was only air.

There was nothing. Nothing to turn him back.

And then the sun disappeared in the horizon, the sky dimming into a somber blue. The stars twinkled into view, and the moon rose to shine its soft light upon the land. Its moonlight penetrated the window to replace the glaring sunlight, to touch, so faintly, this wretched changeling in its comforting touch.

It was nighttime.

“Hey."

A nudge.

“Hey.”

Another nudge.

“You OK?”

Sam grunted groggily, slowly opening his eyes and turning his body around to see Ocean, who was now levitating a glass of water shimmering in the moonlight.

Moonlight. Sam looked at the window.

Same place, same house.

Didn’t feel his fingers. Same new changeling self, then.

He closed his eyes again, feeling the sting of tears again to retreat into a human’s stable past, into a unicorn’s what-if’s.

“Sam,” said Ocean, breaking the masquerade in the changeling’s headspace.

He floated the glass down beside him, then poured into it a couple ice cubes.

Sam was looking, tracking Ocean’s eyes.

“I….” The therapist glanced to the side, seeing nothing but the wall for ideas. “I don’t have any words to fully describe, to fully relate to what you’re going through. I’ll be honest on that.”

Ocean turned his eyes onto the bedstuck changeling. The changeling had a gloomy appearance, helped by the dark night and the muted glimmer of its moon. His icy blue eyes, which were really thousands of tiny eyes working as two, reflected the white of moonlight, and so did his beetle-like wings and his pointy fangs. His black chitin made him blend in with the room’s darkness, broken only by the yellow outline cast on him by the fireplace.

It smelled like oranges. Ocean took a huge whiff of that orange smell before continuing:

“However, what I need you to do is stop moping about it. It’s a done deed. You can’t do anything about it.”

To this, Sam said nothing. Not at first.

Breathed slowly, feeling and listening to each breath, feeling the rise and fall of his changeling chest—those new, awkward lungs would take some getting used to. Everything would take some getting used to.

That included his sense of love, his haunting hunger for what should be something inedible in the first place. He clutched his teeth tight together, resisting that hankering after the love he detected inside Ocean.

Sam hoped the pony didn’t notice that.

Then, his lips lowering to a quizzing frown: “Wh-What happened?” Looked around again, rubbing the bed with one hoof and feeling the gaps in his appendage.“H-How did I get here? Where is here?”

Ocean placed a hoof to his cheek, resting some of his head on it. He took a seat on the chair once again, sitting against the window so the moon cast a long shadow on him. With that, his face was lit up by the fire across the room.

“You were in a coma for a few days,” he began. “I’d warned you about getting knocked out, but I didn’t expect you’d be out for so long. It must be because it’s your first day of truly experiencing magic.” Bent to put his hoof on his knee...his hindleg’s knee, at least. “I apologize for not taking that into account.”

He levitated another glass of water for his own drinking. Observed that Sam was staying still and not bawling his eyes. A good sign.

“As for where you are: You were teleported into my house in Fluffdale, about twenty miles away from Salt Lick City.”

That made the changeling lower his brow. “D-Don’t you mean Salt Lake City? And Bluffdale?”

“No. Salt Lick City and Bluffdale.”

Sam was confused. “Sorry to interrupt, but...is this an accent thing? Are you mishearing me?”

Ocean took this opportunity to giggle, to laugh a little in this uneasy time. “No. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my accent, and I don’t think I’m mishearing you.” Wore a wider smile to cheer Sam up a tiny bit. “You’re in Fluffdale as in fluff, and you’re near Salt Lick City...as in, salt licks. You know what a salt lick is, right?”

“Yes, I do,” Sam replied. “What does that have to do with my home state and—”

He blinked.

“Oh. This isn’t my h-home state, is it?”

Pulled a glance at the window once more. The moon looked big. Not supermoon big. Awfully big.

Sam drew in an enormous gulping gasp of breath as it got through to him.

Stared at Ocean, a terrified face on the changeling. “A-Am I i-in Equestria?”

Ocean gave a thoughtful nod.

Sam shrunk back, still lying down as his head slipped more into his pillow. Here he was, a world away from home, from all he knew dear.

The pony stretched his forehooves, cracking his fetlocks. “Originally, I was to bring you back to Earth, back to your town of St. George. Be that as it may, you didn’t wake up immediately, and Los Angeles was still a mess after what happened at the bureau...you really could’ve been shot, burned, drowned…” and raised a hoof for dramatic emphasis, “just about anything could’ve happened to you.”

Ocean cracked his fetlocks again, leaving Sam wondering how that was possible.

“The Front saw you as one ‘true’ reason why the bureaus were made: to turn humans into monsters, to get rid of humanity all together. The Rebirth saw you as a Front plant: get in, become an uncleared species, and sully the name of the bureaus….And let’s not get into what that Chrysalis-affiliated third-party wanted to do with you.”

“So, Chrysalis was there?” Sam asked in great shivers. The possibility of him having brushed up against Chrysalis herself was an alarming one. How could he become that “human hero of Equestria” if catching her red-hoofed was near impossible? If she even was there….

“Not that we know of for certain,” Ocean replied. “All we know is that she has faithful drones remaining at her service. She can still lay eggs if she wants more drones, and if that’s not enough, she could always deceive unwitting humans, poisoning their drinks with her contraband changeling brews.”

Sam’s body trembled, his eyes fluttering at this idea of people suddenly disappearing, suddenly vanishing to become changelings. He thought back to posters for help, nailed and tacked and taped to electric posts and walls, petitioning passers-by to share any shred of information about a missing loved one. Harrowing to think that any number of them had fallen prey to Chrysalis’s devices.

“So…” he managed at first, beads of sweat down his face, “she’s r-really there...n-not hiding b-but scheming...and I could’ve been one of her c-cronies....”

Ocean drew out a long breath, looking to the side, reluctant to make eye contact with such a high-strung creature tonight. Yet, he explained: “Her plan is to make you dependent on her. The gimmick is to turn you into a changeling that could never be reformed, never be changed to the kind we’re familiar with.” Holding up a hoof to hold an imaginary bottle, “Her mix is designed so that you can physically never share love...and she has some experience: living for a thousand years means lots of room to expand your knowledge.”

This explanation did nothing to encourage Sam. It only made it worse, to know that he’d been fooled out of a good life or even a decent life.

He raised his hooves to the air, the hooves of a changeling. Fading visions of a future, of pretending to be the loving husband of a unicorn mare, only to have the real pony locked up in a cocoon of his making as he slowly sucked the life out of that unsuspecting mare. She’d be cocooned, too, and Sam would clap his hooves and smack his lips at having a married couple in his grasp. He’d pictured himself not with shame in his face but with pride, joy at making their lives miserable.

His future self startled Sam.

And his stomach rumbled once more, those emotional cravings chipping away in himself.

Sam turned to Ocean sitting there, his eyes as wide open as they could be. His mouth hung open like a fish fast rising to the air, to his death. “Tell me...a-am I a p-parasite?”

The answered seemed obvious, but Ocean knew he wasn’t just asking for confirmation. He proceeded, a hoof on the water: “Sadly, yes. And—I’m terribly sorry to say this—you’ll—”

Coughed. Drank more of the water. Put the glass down.

Faced Sam again, that poor changeling quivering in bed, gazing at his therapist like who’d lost everything.

As one who’d lost everything.

Ocean placed a hoof on his snout, slowly slid it down to his mouth. Words trying to form so he wouldn’t enrage Sam once more. Then, in a croak, a very regretful croak:

“You’ll be a love parasite for the rest of your days, Sam.” Arched himself forward, to tell him in a quieter, softer whisper: “For the rest of your...days….”

It felt like forever.

Those days.

The fireplace continued to cackle and crackle, the logs taking their sweet time to burn. The bookshelves stayed by their walls, unorganized titles peeking out of their spots. Oranges that were never there filled their noses as the moon’s light and the stars’ light glistened on the window panes, on the glass’s water, on Sam.

Sam heaved in, heaved out. He yearned to cry, but his tear ducts came up empty. He pined to trash around, but the sleep had exhausted him. To shout and scream, it wasn’t in his best interest to spook Ocean out.

What to do?

He grabbed Ocean’s outstretched hoof and hugged it, wrapped both forehooves around that foreleg.

The foreleg of the unicorn he could’ve been.

Ocean Canoe opened his mouth in surprise, not expecting that to happen. One half wanted to recoil and yell in terror for help, but he heroically resisted that gut feeling, reminding himself of the deadness in Sam’s eyes, of their lifelessness.

As the changeling sputtered in plaintive hushes, “I-I’m...I’m just going to f-feed on l-love...a-and be s-s-starve f-forever?” Caught his breath. Choked on it, prompting Canoe to lean closer. Into his ear, Sam asked, “W-Will I ever b-be full? W-Will I e-ever satisfy this...thing?”

“For half an hour, at best,” he said, easing himself to the speed of things. Still, he was wary that leading this precious talk too fast might not be good for this ruined person. “Only half an hour. The hunger will return as fast as it’s gone.”

Then, processing that and much more, Sam sagged his whole changeling form to his bed. Reduced to a shadow of his former self, far away from the people he knew, stranded in some caring stranger’s house, trapped as a love-sucking leech—having nothing but a husk of a destiny to count on: Why bother asking about Equestria, about this new world he was in? Why bother engaging in small talk with this helpful pony who should be afraid of him? Why bother about anything but getting the next love meal ticket?

Ocean’s love now felt and smelled a lot more palatable, overpowering the citrus scent and Sam’s stomach so that it rumbled again.

The changeling was running out of things to do, things to talk about—or was it his famished brain, ravenous for love-sourced nutrients to function properly?

He knew he couldn’t stay in this humble abode forever, so he asked its owner, “What sh-shall I do next?”

Ocean looked out the window, gathering some inspiration from the beautiful and quiet night outside with the crisp chirps of crickets crying out. With a firmer tone: “I’ve made sure your options are open. I don’t want you running around causing havoc on accident, but I don’t want to stifle you. Though you are a changeling, you’re still you, and, ultimately, I shouldn’t tell you what to do.”

Sam brought himself to a sarcastic chuckle. Hope, too, was slipping away.

Ocean scooted the chair closer, floating it a few inches to the bed. “I’m in contact with everyone you need moving forward. Movers, lawyers, mayors...you name ‘em. All you have to do is tell me what you’ll do and I’ll tell you how to do it.”

Sam rubbed the mattress once more, rougher now and making light marks on the sheets. “I don’t know...for sure, I don’t want to go back home. Not like this,” pointing at himself and touching a heavy fang. “E-Even if I disguise myself, I...it’s not right, stealing love from behind their backs.”

“If your friends are true friends,” Ocean replied, “they’ll understand. It’s not your fault that you’re like this now. I’m sure they love each other, and that they’d save some of their love for you.”

Sam defiantly shook his head. “I-It’s not worth it. I...I d-don’t want to feed a-at their expense—th-they’re going to be drained, and I w-wouldn’t want them to….”

The pony stroked his mane, wondering. “I see. It’s a matter of conscience, hm?”

Sam’s eyes fluttered, pressure pushing down his rueful heart.

“Alright. I won’t press the issue.” Tilting his head to tell Sam he was listening, “What do you want to do, then?”

A groan escaped the changeling’s lips, breezed around his fangs. Scarce were his options.

Stay with Ocean Canoe? Probably, but did this pony have a wife? How many friends did he have? How much time did he spend with them—both the wife and his friends? How did love work in Equus exactly? And there’s still the leftover stigma of being a changeling that even the new and colorful ones couldn’t shake off that easily, much less someone who fit the bill of “evil changeling”.

What about being a wanderer, a lone wanderer asking for love from whoever crossed his way in his meandering paths? On paper, his life would become a bit more exciting: the ideal (if illegal) tourist, unfettered by IDs and visas...until Equestrians start piling up in border patrol. Even if that wasn’t a problem, he’d still have to ask for love, and being randomly asked to literally give some love would upset some folk if not scare them outright. Or cause them to call the police and arrest him right away for looking just like a Chrysalis lackey.

Or—

A rumble from his stomach, and his train of thought derailed.

He sighed, pointing at the pony’s dark figure, the moon having risen a bit to shine on his figure a bit brighter. “Wh-What do you want me t-to do, Ocean?”

A pause to contemplate that question tinged with forlorn. Hindlegs swinging about and hanging from his chair, Ocean replied “...well, I thought of transfering you to the Changeling Kingdom as my ace hole, if nothing else could go as planned, but considering your sticky situation...” sighed, knotted his brows at him, “living there would offer you the least problems. As a matter of fact—and this is a secret between us—that’s where most of Chrysalis’s human victims landed if they got away from her clutches. Thorax doesn’t make a fuss out of it for their safety...and he’ll keep it quiet for you, too.

“However,” and here, he prepared a tissue box just in case, quick to bring up a con, “you’d live away from every single one of your friends...meeting up would be hard for at least a few more years as we get the portal networks up and running. The only exceptions would be those who asked to become a changeling and relocated to the Hive, which narrows it down to...a not-so-big number.”

Ocean paused, giving Sam time to think as he rested his head on the pillow. From the look on those fully blue eyes, he was ruminating this existence, an existence whittled down to lonelier and lonelier proportions.

“I’m sure you’ll make new changeling companions there,” he continued. Glanced to the fireplace, making a spare log glow as he threw it to the hearth. Sparks flew and popped with odorous refreshing citrus, peppering his next words: “They help changelings like you by sharing lots of love with them, ensuring their survival for generations to come.”

But, Sam was still terrified. From a man who could roam the world (or at least the continental United States) on his own to a love-reliant changeling stuck inside a home for unreformable changelings: such an incapacitating circumstance, and yet this was an expert’s recommendation on what to do at this horrendous junction in life?

“It’s easy to get in,” Ocean went on, slowing down when he noted that Sam was visibly shivering still another time. “Their only test is to see if you can truly not share love; it’s mostly to deter the fakes from the reals.” Rubbing his cheeks to imitate, “They’ll put some salve on your skin for that. It’ll be painful for a few seconds...that’s my heads-up for you”

Stopped to take a swig of his water.

Put the glass down.

“There’s always someone trying to make a breakthrough on it, so there’s no need to completely lose hope. However, Chrysalis covered all her bases: it’s toilsome to reverse engineer batches of her brew, and that’s if we get our hooves on them, which we haven’t.”

That didn’t help matters as Sam slunked down on his bed, giving Canoe the same reason to worry. The changeling mulled over his disposition:

On one hoof, he wouldn’t be judged and have his throat jumped on for being such a creature. He’d heard reports before about the new changelings’ kindness and understanding—plus how naive they were, so maybe too kind and understanding. On the other hand, there hung those old names and faces he used to know. Simply disappearing without anyone watching was a tactful act, but it’d be hard to rationalize why he wasn’t coming back. Or why he wasn’t answering his calls. Or why he wasn’t showing up anywhere at all. How long would it take for them to know?

Did they know?

Sam gulped, making eye contact with Ocean again. “Do they know?”

The unicorn was taken aback by the vague inquiry. “Who knows what?”

“My friends.”

Rolled a tongue in his cheek, his throat in flux.

“Every friend of mine. My buddies and pals. My family, too.”

Locked that eye contact with Ocean, surrounding it with one unhappy glare so sharp, so aimed, that it rooted the pony to his seat.

“D-Do they…” sniffed, struck by panic at one more tear threatening to destroy whatever ounce of calm he had left—”d-d-do they know I-I’m a changeling?”

Ocean gritted his teeth, breathed out a loud and nasty sigh through his teeth. “That’s the rub. You got caught by a random camera back then, and you were identified as Sam.” Brushed the dust off of his shoulder. “That’s what you get with a speaker like Douglas,” and spat at that, then cracked his neck. “Can’t believe we let the likes of him through our welcoming doors.”

Spread his forehooves on the bed, gripping the sheets and some of the spongy mattress itself underneath.

Key Note. This charming, deceptive personality Sam had been mesmerized before in both good and bad ways. To believe the lie that he was only a keynote speaker and a pony larger than life. The microphone cutie mark now took on sinister cues, and so did his insistence on Key Note over Douglas.

All vestiges of humanity had to be stripped away for this pony.

“What we know is he’s in jail,” the therapist continued relating. “His only victim...someone named Arthur….”

There was Arthur, too. He’d remembered the final look on that man’s face before he turned into a pony: not one of anger, but one of contorted, distorted revulsion. One of deathly fear—those bulging eyes, that gaping mouth, a look screaming one final scream before being snuffed out.

“He’s recuperating in our bureau. Last time I heard, he’s far from being a good sport with us, and I don’t see why being able to fly is a loss, but…” sighed, guilt dancing up his spine for having said that, “that’s just me. He never wanted to become anything else, or if he did, he’d likely choose Abyssinian or whatever would save as much humanity as it could.”

Now was the time for another topic, though. Ocean floated a tissue to his snout, blew his nose, and threw it into the trash can at the other side of the room. Turning back to Sam on the bed: “In case you’re wondering, Crowhop and the crew are doing fine without me so far. They got themselves prepared with backup unicorns—and, surprisingly, several more of us are applying for a few weeks’ tenure there.” Smiled a natural smile. “I guess, after hearing what’d happened there, they wanted to help out everyone.

“And as for you…”, gazed upon the changeling’s face for a few long seconds, “I’ll be here for as long as this recovery period lasts.”

Sam heard the words but didn’t much listen to that last part. He was drowning in what’s to be said afterwards, dreading what would be next as he looked at the window. It was night still.

He couldn’t stall the future. He couldn’t stall his future.

“Now,” Ocean said with an outstretched hoof and an added tone of finality. “Have you decided on your course of action?”

Sam quickly nodded, running against whatever his common sense was breathing down on him. “I’ll just go with r-relocating to the Hive. I-I’ve—”

Ocean was levitating his spectacles before he stopped. The glasses floated right before his shocked face. “So sudden, Sam. Are you thinking this through? And I mean—really thinking this through?”

“I’ve thought it long and hard the whole time,” Sam said, brushing the hoof and his own conscience off before grunting and trying to push his way out of bed.

Struggling, then slipped back to his back on the mattress, hitting the soft pillow with his backfins-of-sorts and making him groan as a headache came over.

Ocean gasped, using that stretched hoof to help him up. “Here! Steady, and I’ll get you....”

So he did. It felt weird, using what felt like the wrong muscle to sit up on bed. Then, a shuffle with all four of his legs got him standing on all four of his hooves.

Ocean looked at him, examined his figure, unbelieving that this creature used to be work at the bureau. Sam, on the other hoof, had a bout of bewilderment at being eye-to-eye with a pony. At least he got that dream fulfilled from his unicorn wishlist.

A few papers levitated to the desk by the window. Another glow appeared on a candle’s wick and then on a lamp’s button to result in more lights on the wooden surface. The moon had already been radiating its silver light upon it.

“I’ll teach you how to write with your hooves and horn,” Ocean said, his hoof on Sam’s withers as he assisted the latter on how to trot. “But, for the meantime, I’ll be your writer,” and he exhibited evidence of this by floating a ballpen to Sam’s view.

An empty chair was at the desk, so Sam took the liberty to sit down. Took the creature about twenty seconds to really sit down, attempting to solve this puzzle of arranging his back and barrel and knees and cannons and gaskins and tail—only after this puzzle was solved did he sit down.

There it was, resting on the surface under the lights: forms and papers for moving and relocation. Utah’s papers were a dozen paying strict attention to formality; the Hive’s was only two pages and decorated with smiley faces.

Ocean pulled in a seat beside him. He clicked his ballpen with his magic, enjoying the sound of it as the metal instrument reflected the light back to his eyes. Then, he floated it closer to the paper, about to write on the first blank on the Utah stack. “Let’s start with your name.”

So, the pony—

“No.”

Ocean clicked the ballpen back to not-writing mode, giving the changeling an odd look of curiosity. “No? What do you mean, ‘No’? Both parties need your name.”

“I get that,” said Mr. Henry, scratching his hard head—and, really, it was a hard head since his skin was chitin now. “But...OK, what were you about to write?”

“‘Sam Henry’.” The unicorn let the silence linger for a while. “‘Sam Henry.’ Your name.”

“Not anymore.”

Ocean’s ears went up. Pursed his lips, bit his lips in consternation.

Put the ballpen down with his magic. “...alright, then. Why...wh-why isn’t it your name anymore?”

The changeling rested a hoof down on the table. He instinctively moved to hold a glass of alcohol, only to realize he was holding nothing and that his hoof was holey, so he wasn’t sure if he could hold a glass anyway.
He looked at the paper.

Saw the blank where his name was supposed to go.

“They’re...I...Sam...Sam Henry was a good man. Or I tried to be.” Closed his eyes tight. Closed his eyes shut. “I-I wasn’t a monster or anything like that—and,” holding out a hoof right before the pony’s snout, “don’t whitewash this for me. I am a monster. Simple as that”

Slumped his head on a hoof, feeling its grooves and its gaps. There was no comfort in it. Only the feeling of rubbing a chipped and dirtied baseball on his strange face.

“You know that human saying, Ocean? That you either die a hero or live long enough to become a villain?”

Ocean’s eyes pointed at the dark outside.

A dirt path cut through the grass fields. Some houses shone dimly on the distant hills and mountains, but, right here, there was nothing but grass and the occasional tree dotting the landscape. Under the night and its moon and stars, everything gleamed a melancholic white in this solitude.

“Never heard of it. But, you don’t plan to become a villain, do you?”

“Not me,” said the changeling, his voice becoming a wistful drone, hoof on his aching head. “It’s not me, but you have Sam...good ol’ Sammie’s probably being dragged through the mud. Everyone’s just about scared of this new changeling in town. They’d think Sam’s now an abomination, secretly getting all our love.”

Knocked on the table with a nurk! Seething mad through the air and his teeth, his dangerous fanged teeth.

“That’s why I want to go on as someone else, under another name. Far away from Mr. Henry as possible. I’d rather have...have a changeling name. Don’t let them know of my past.”

“They’re going to read between the lines sooner or later,” Ocean quickly quipped.

“Let them try,” this changeling replied with a low growl. “I’ll always say ‘No’ in another accent. They wouldn’t notice.”

The pony lifted the ballpen with his magic. From seeing an amiable and amicable Sam to talking to a changeling who’d grown jaded and afraid, whose rage and tears mixed into an indiscernible blend—he didn’t know if it was one or the other now.

But, there were papers and form to fill out. With a look at him, Ocean said, “So...unnamed changeling, what do you want to call yourself?”

The changeling closed his eyes, rubbed his eyes.

His old name he had to abandon tonight. Nothing remotely human it should be. Something as far-fetched as possible, something to fit in changeling society without a batting wink or a moment’s hesitation. Should it roll off the tongue? Doesn’t matter. What mattered was distance, disassociation from his old beloved self.

“Lucanidae,” he said firmly.

Ocean bent his neck, almost cracking it himself. “You’re absolutely—”

“I’m sure!” and banged the table with a hiss, staring the pony down.

“Eek!”

And then, the changeling calmed down, his brief rage ceasing to give way to a scared Lucanidae as his stomach rumbled once again.

Raised his head and blinked to see a frightened Ocean, holding up both of his forehooves and levitating a ballpen as his only weapon.

“I-I’m sorry!” whispered Lucanidae, refusing to open his mouth and eat his love. “P-Please don’t h-hurt me...I know I’m hungry, but I’ll a-always be h-hungr—”

Noticed something.

A pink stream coming forward to him. To his love-starving lips.

From Ocean’s chest.

“Wh-What?” in grim awe, trying to wave the love away but failing. “Ocean, I’m sorry! I—”

“It’s OK,” Ocean said, putting a hoof to where his heart was, love seeping out of it. “I’m the one who’s doing it.”

Then, it stopped, all the love having entered Lucanidae’s mouth.

The changeling blinked once. Twice. Thrice. Didn’t know what to think or say about what’d just occurred. Felt energized, renewed and more alive at his snack. The pang of guilt, however, marred the meal, and he fast imagined this friendly pony lying impoverished, seeing himself flying away in the dark for more prey.

Ocean didn’t know that mind’s dark endings as he said, in a mellow and considerate smile, “What else could I do? You’ve gone off the deep end with this, so this is the least I could do.”

Least I could do.

Echoed in his ears, or so he thought. Lucanidae looked down, shame pressing its full weight on him. Had he hit rock bottom that a pony would willingly share his love to an abyss of unending appetite, of craving that’d never die?

For that to stay with him forever.

Whimpered.

He whimpered

He hugged Ocean.

Then, silence.

The fireplace cracked and crackled, the crickets chirps and chimed, the crisp chill chased through the charming night outside.

A stickler to time, Ocean got out of the hug straight away, levitated the ballpen, and said, “Alright. Remember that we all got your back. Let’s get the paperwork done first before we get into any more hugs, shall we?”

The changeling knew he was doomed to watch.

To watch that fateful scribble.

As the ballpen wrote on the name’s blank, Lucanidae.

That name. Lucanidae. Set in stone.

The changeling felt a prick in his eye.

Hiding half of his face from Ocean as he continued filling the blanks, Lucanidae shed a tear for his former self, the tear glimmering in the moonlight. In that tear was distilled the emotions of a lifetime’s worth of nightmares come true, and there was nothing to do but live with it.

He could think of nothing but the death of Sam Henry then and the birth of Lucanidae now.

It was night.

The night carried on in Equestria.

Utah

Months passed.

Much ruckus was made over Alaska being the next American state to fall to the Veil. Pictures of the transformed Aleutian Islands spread all over the internet, showing off the maybe-too-colorful photos of magic grounds and waters. Weird and exotic plants had sprouted up, among other things like a lake of anti-gravity.

In spite of those attractions, however, all eyes weren’t on Hawaii or Alaska. Everyone was thinking about the contiguous States. The real trouble would start in California.

San Francisco was the first major U.S. city there to face the Veil head on. By that time, almost everyone within city limits had taken their potions. A few held out to the very end, with the majority of them making their last-minute decisions with a slightly panicky staff at hoof. The rest who’d truly resisted, though, either moved farther East or had enough bats in the belfry to stand up to the imminent Veil.

They died.

The party that’d been planned for the occasion did go on, but it wore a dark coat. It’s hard to celebrate persevering through the Veil when some didn’t.

The big news story right after that was the mayor of Los Angeles, now a griffon, visiting San Francisco. He wasn’t looking as smug as he was back in that interview; it’d be impolite and rude to one-up his counterpart when a gloomy mattered hung over everyone’s heads.

But, his original purpose for the visit remained: To see what Los Angeles would do when it’s their time to see the Veil.

While there were news over Portland’s and Seattle’s preparations for total Equusification, pop culture osmosis over the decades had cemented Los Angeles as a premier city in the minds of billions, along with San Francisco and New York to tower over the biggest cities of its neighboring states.

The one reason for everyone turning to Los Angeles next, however, was that Los Angeles was next.

In the immediate aftermath of its bureau’s disaster, Los Angeles had suffered a calamity of extremes. Many rushed to the bureau, mostly to avoid being targeted by the PER and to be able to fight or flee from the HLF; there was enough demand to force both Equestria and Los Angeles to build three more bureaus there. In contrast, the other extreme consisted of the plenty who continued or joined the protests although with much more supervision, much more restraint, and much more tact, resigning to just picket signs. No weapons allowed.

As time counted down to the Veil’s day, everyone was busy wrapping up everything. The last human movies in Hollywood were made and shown, the last Dodgers game batted up by humans was played in their stadium (along with the Lakers’ last game, the Rams’ last game, Galaxy’s last game….), and the last concert was performed—funnily enough, by a rising band named Magic Magic. It was their first and their last time performing in front of a live audience.

The band members proceeded to the bureau right after.

It was all a whimsical and magical whirl, and then it was their Day Zero. The Veil slugged its way through the Big Orange, beginning with the beaches and then sprawling to the rest of the city—the ordinary houses in South Bay and South Central, the yawning skyscrapers in Downtown, the upscale homes of San Fernando Valley, and finally the forested mountains of San Gabriel Valley.

Several more hours, and the whole county was behind the Veil. It’d gone over without anything staining the event; everyone had their parties afterwards, especially the bureaus where all congratulated themselves in one huge fiesta for a job well done. Already there was talk of rewarding those who had appointments right from the get-go, converting the establishments into quasi-embassies, and such.

Canter Crowhop did enjoy it all, but, as the clock struck midnight by a brightened South Sepulveda Boulevard, she sat on the bureau’s rooftop, away from the revelry going down at street level. The unicorn had her gaze eastward, seeing the Veil inching away from her and towards Nevada.

Towards Utah.

Two and a half months would pass before the Veil loomed over St. George, Utah.

It was a hectic night at Better’d Bread. All kinds of creatures filled the room in the bakery as waiters dashed about, serving plates of food with their hooves or wings or magic. The same mixture of the three Tribes mingled together in everything else: at the cash registers taking orders from the lines, in the kitchen whipping up a variety of pastries, at the delivery stalls carrying bags of bread before launching off for a gallop’s (or flight’s) trip to give someone a tasty night.

That sweet and sugary starch smell of freshly baked bread saturated the eatery as customers hankered for their edible wares, socializing and getting their different-sized stomachs full under a banner saying Veil Day! Over there, an Abyssinian held a cinnamon roll with a paw and a bottle of chocolate syrup with his tail, giving himself a free hand—no, a free paw to gesture with as he discussed his future plans in being a magician to a unicorn who was not impressed by such a bold future. On the other side, a hippogriff was annoying his kirin friend with the same boring joke, but was then escorted off the premises for needlessly angering an emotionally flammable being.

In the outside this unfortunate hippogriff was banished to—here lay a huge, almost carless parking lot. What took the places of so many automobiles was a sizable crowd of more Equestrians socializing, toasting themselves to a new era, being silent for the death of an old one, or just spending time with each other in small talk. Among them, some claws and hooves pointed at something in the horizon.

It was the Veil. Only several dozens of kilometers off. The sky looked bluer there than it was on this side of the line.

Back inside Butter’d Bread, Mike was helping around, serving customers as he’d always done, albeit different times called for different measures: Mike now trotted around as an Earth pony, having adopted Hot Potato as his pony name. Potato-and-bread dishes were his specialty, after all: potato sandwiches, potato pizza, potato casserole, and potato muffins, to name a scant few.

This owner chatted amicably with his patrons, knowing full well about the incoming Veil but, overall, staying relatively optimistic about the years to come. Hot Potato was already hyping up another branch as a drive-in bakery by Interstate 15, just a bit South of Atkinville, straddling the Utah-Arizona border. “We’d be giving our neighbors a warm and delicious welcome!” he boasted to a griffon who didn’t want to hear over-enthusiastic advertisements for relaxation.

Overall, it was good times all around in Butter’d Bread. Jars of butter were passed around in high spirits, and Potato told all to lick a spoonful of butter once in a while to perpetuate that age-young tradition. Aside from that, compliments abounded as the drinks flowed—and, speaking of drinks, still more drinks were being served up. It wasn’t just soda and energy drinks, either. The bakery had wine, beer, and whiskey at hoof/claw/paw/wing at this junction.

To add to his list of credentials, Potato was also a good janitor. He showed that tonight by wiping clean a table of a dragon who’d just left with a substantial tip of both banknotes and gems.
“Potato!”
All inside turned their heads to the kitchen.

It was a pegasus coming out from the kitchen, holding a phone with her wing’s feathers. “This is for you!”

“Give it to me,” the Earth pony said, smiling although he reached in for the phone anyway without waiting for the pegasus to do it for him.

The pegasus hurried back inside as Mike took the call amid the noise of customers, of plates and utensils and glasses clanging and banging. Everyone had returned to their own little worlds, their own little conversations and foods, leaving Hot Potato to be—must be some business call.
Potato turned his head to the wall and whispered, “Hello?”

Nothing.

He glanced at who the caller was on the screen.

Unknown. A random number.

“Who’s this?” asked Potato, becoming more serious as he pressed the phone to his ear.

A while of more nothing. Then, before the pony could ask again, there was:

“M-Mike?”

Stopped himself from blurting out in awe, hiding his gasp from the phone. “S-Sam? I-Is that you?”

“Yeah, but it’s Lucanidae, not m-me—n-not Sam.”

Nothing. Could hear no background noise, except for maybe the wind.

“I-I’m just paying my old place a visit.”

Mike’s cheeks bulged, holding in his breath as he rested his head on the wall. “Wh-What?” he whispered loudly. “You’re here? That’s great!”

“It’s not that great.” A pause. “I...I have to—”

“Stop right there,” and Mike pointed a hoof at him—or the wall since Lucanidae wasn’t in front of him. “I know what you’re about to say. You have to be...not yourself out here. Shame and all that, right?”

Silence. Just his breathing and the wind from wherever Lucanidae was.

“I got you there. What’s your location?”

A sigh from the other end. “Your house, your place. I...I don’t know if—”

“I’ll be there. Just wait for me, OK?”

“OK—"

“Wait.” Glanced at the bakery itself, everyone going around and not paying him any attention, not paying him any suspicion. He turned back to the wall. “Are you in disguise?”

“Of course, I am.”

“What are you?”

More silence. “Blue unicorn with the vending machine cutie mark. That’s all.”

“Alright, I’ll go—”

Call ended.

Potato’s ears perked up. “Huh?” Looked at his phone.

It was Lucanidae who ended it. Wasn’t a mispress.

Then, turning to a passing pony waiter: “Gratip, there’s some important matters I have to attend to immediately. Is it OK if you take over while I’m gone? I promise I’ll be back in an hour?”

The stallion saluted him, using that time to check the watch on his foreleg. Still, he shouted, “Will do!” both at his superior and his watch.

Hot Potato groaned as he hid his phone in his mane. He didn’t know the details of how putting stuff in his hair worked aside from saying the word magic, but it made some sense. When it came to being a creature who only wears clothes as a choice or on special occasions, there were no pockets to store objects.

But, there was the more pressing matter of Lucanidae. Or Sam. Or whoever that fake unicorn was.

Potato trotted out of the bakery, first getting out of the crowd in “Excuse me!”’s and “Make way! Make way!”’s before really entering the arid night outside.

Living in Southern Utah acclimatized the average resident to its great highs and great lows of temperature. At day, the sun would be scorching hot, and all shadows were pleasant to the body unused to the desert heat. At night, like now, the moon did nothing but shine. Still, the absence of the sun stomped the city with freezing cold; the only good thing about it was that it wouldn’t be bogged down by snow.

As Hot Potato trotted under sparse streetlights and passed by sparse bands of merry Equestrians who he couldn’t tell if they were from Earth or from Equus—as he trotted, he saw the houses in his neighborhood. Those simple houses of flat walls and beige or cream colors, of thin lawns and trees that’ll never be tall in the sizzling heat: they didn’t strike him as interesting on their own.

But then, there was Sam. Sam hadn’t been his best friend, and he’d never had any wrenching heart-to-heart talks, but he’d come close to being an intimate friend. Their employer-employee relationship had been warm, to say the least. As he passed by a zebra and a pegasus hugging each other as they walked down the sidewalk, he remembered the old days of talking as a human to his human staff and partners, serving human-made bread to human customers.

Turned out the old days weren’t so old. He caught himself imagining those times with the filter of nostalgic yellow.

Potato rounded the corner and there was his house gleaming under the moonlight.

It was a modest house. Two floors, small garage, and a front yard of grass that was conspicuous against St. George's surrounding red, yellow, and orange rock, sand, and lightly vegetated soil.

There, leaning on a street light and just outside its glaring beams, was a unicorn, face partially covered by the newspaper he was reading.

Potato halted, looking at him up and down. He leaned to the left to see the cutie mark, and it was indeed a vending machine. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

The unicorn lowered the papers, surprised at the arrival. “Yeah. It’s me, Mike.”

Potato made a wry smile, trotting closer but going around the light to avoid attention. “You have the courtesy to call me by my old name but not yourself? That doesn’t sound right.”

“Shh!” and the unicorn snuck a glimpse behind himself, seeing only a road and a lonely desert in the horizon. “They m-might know!”

“It’s an open secret here,” Mike casually explained. “We all know you’re a changeling.”

“I know that,” he replied, now slightly caustic. “But...but, let’s talk about it inside? I-In case anyone strolls by?”

“Everyone saw you in the news.” Mike lifted one cheek in confusion, though. “Besides, you’re a...you know. I’m sure you got this whole shapeshifting disguisy thing in the wraps now.”

The unicorn rolled his eyes, one touch of irritation away from an audible groan. “Let’s go inside already. It’s very awkward out here. You, talking to some stranger no one’s seen before...they’ll know it’s me.”

Before Mike could respond, Lucanidae brisked to his friend’s house and knocked on the door in a fit of panic.

Mike smacked his own head at this blunder.

It was cozy shelter. Potted plants had their lot cast here on the shelves and cabinets, and the rooms were compact but not cramped. The lights gave off a hint of orange, supplying that old-time feel more fit for the nineties than the extremely hectic new tens projected to end with more magic, more talking creatures, and what not.

At the dining table, Hot Potato poured a shot of whiskey for himself and then another for the changeling sitting beside him.

Lucanidae gulped, studying the glass with its drink. Memories of that inebriated nightmare resurfaced, and he didn’t want to—

“Normally, I wouldn’t do this,” Potato began, putting the almost empty whiskey bottle down on the table, letting its mild stench waft through the room. “It’s only eleven, and we still have campers not just outside the place—no, they have half of the parking lots in Red Cliffs Mall.” He pointed a hoof out a window, although the curtains were drawn thanks to Lucanidae’s earlier request for them to be closed. “We got everybody from all over the country and out of country. Got a Swiss in it, even!”

“All watching the Veil?” Lucanidae asked, turning the glass around with his hoof, watching the alcohol stir around.

Potato nodded, unknowingly copying his friend’s stirring motion. “Yes, they’re all watching the Veil. Estimates say it’ll be in the state by three in the morning, in city limits by five or six.”

“Must be awfully pretty,” said the changeling flatly, dumbly staring at his drink.

That made Potato not drink his whiskey which he had just above his mouth. He put it down and gave his old friend a hard glare. “Sam?”

Sam perked his changeling ears up. “I...what is it?”

Potato looked at him for a while, no words said. He put his shot away, leaned back on the chair, and took one long breath.

“We’ve all missed you, buddy,” Mike said, his tone fully relaxed as his enthusiastic demeanor gave way. Cocked his head to the left, letting some of it rest on his shoulder. “How’re you doing, Sam?”

That was out of Sam’s left field. His mind blanked out for a moment, not expecting such a casual, such a calm, question. Gathering the strength and the will to answer, he squeaked out, “Well...not that OK, but OK enough.”

Mike nodded, digesting the good enough reply. Or, it wasn’t good enough for him. “Like, uh...where’ve you been? What gigs have you been up to lately?”

Sam rested his head on a broken hoof, like he was holding his chin with a giant wishbone. “Job hopping in Equestria. I’ve been a clerk at a couple hotels, waited at a couple restaurants, even acted as an assistant to the Hive’s tour guide for a day...but they didn’t know it was really me.” Paused to inhale the indoor smell of whiskey. It didn’t help clear his thoughts. “You get that, right?”

Mike placed a weary hoof over one eye. “Still scared, aren’t you?”

More left field questions for the changeling to confront. “I….”

But Sam knew the answer. He hung his head in surrender.

“Yes. I’m scared. I’ve...I haven’t visited Earth that o-often, and it was only for a day at a time.” Picked up his glass but still didn’t drink it. Not yet, maybe. “I did get closer...first got the courage to go to the continent, and then to States, and then to West Coast, and then—”

“Sam. Look.”

Now, Mike was putting a hoof on his shoulder and then pointing at his eyes. An expression of asking for attention came over him as the pony bent over, ears straining to listen as he spoke.

“Did you at least visit any of your buddies in Equestria? Close friends?” Rubbed his eyes with a drawn out sigh when he received a silent stare. “What about your parents? You know where they live; you would’ve visited them first according to plan...they must’ve at least given you a hug or something!”

Sam raised his hoof and opened his mouth.

Had nothing to say, so he retracted his hoof and closed his mouth back.

Mike scratched his mane, head getting itchy out of growing discomfort.“Really, now? I mean...really?”

“I—”

“OK,” Mike cut in, pointing at him with an accusing him and not enough time for Sam to make his case. “You’re not dead, so that means you’ve been able to get love.”

Sam nodded, not liking where this was going. He guessed a few strands, a few threads where this talk would go, and he loathed having to approaching a single one of them. He feigned a confounding “Yes?”

“At least we’re on the same page,” Mike said, clearing his throat to sweep out whatever vigor of whiskey scent remained there. “We...uh, how? Exactly—how did you get that love if you’re not contacting us in either world?”

Sam looked down at the table, fiddling with his hooves. Anxiety was ramping up. “I...I asked nicely. It was hard to keep up my ‘new changeling’ form, but it was w-worth it. I got ponies and others sharing some love with me...and I made some good changeling friends who know my condition.”

Mike said rested all of his weight on the back of his chair, wheezing in relief and staring at the ceiling. “That’s good...but, really...why—”

“Why what?” Sam asked, now the one cutting, trying to be on the offensive.

The pony raised a hoof over his snout, deliberating. There’s the tension, that tension unspoken of. “I was wondering...if you’re like this….”

Sighed, groaned, and put one hoof on the table. He strung the chair some inches forward, and gently wrapped a hoof around Sam’s neck.

Didn’t fight back, didn’t complain.

Sam was silent.

Mike took a while to figure out something to say. Then, he began, in a benign voice: “You know that, no matter what happens, we love you from across dimensions...wherever you are. You got that from the letters we sent you in the aftermath, right?”

The changeling’s ears arched up. “Wait...they were good letters?”

“Don’t tell me you burned them because you thought they were blackmail or something.”

Sam smiled sheepishly.

Without warning, Mike held his shot of whiskey. “Alright, alright...give me some time to tell you.”

Gulped down the whiskey.

Plank! and it was down on the table.

Mike took in a deep breath. One long deep breath. One very long deep breath.

“Why?!” yelled the pony, waving his hooves about in frustration. “Why are you so paranoid about everyone?!”

Sam cowered, hiding some of his body under the table and hoping the furniture would shield him. “What do you think I was supposed to do? Set myself up for adoption? Like the average pony would just accept a leech like me!”

”That’s because you didn’t ask!” Mike shouted, rising over the chair and beginning to stand on the table, two hooves on the surface and two more to go. “Are you telling me you went through this whole thing...this long time without telling us? Because you think we hate you?!”

“I know you love me,” Sam argued, pumping his chitin chest, “but what happens if you take me in? I’ll just be a burden on you! I need your love to survive and—”

“Listen to yourself!” screeched Mike, looking away in disgust at what he was hearing. Now, all four hooves were on the table, standing on the surface and a twitch away from breaking the bottle. “That’s not the Sam I know! Of course, you need love to survive...but so does everyone else! Changelings are too literal, but...agh, it’s so simple, Sam!” flailing an exasperated hoof in the air, causing glass and bottle to wobble. “I don’t eat love on a plate, but my wife loves me, the staff loves me, I have friends who love me…” and spat on the table. “I sound narcissistic, I know, but without that love, I wouldn’t be so nice, would I?”

Then, Sam felt it. The pull, the tug—could see a bit of pink glowing from Mike’s chest.

Hissed and shut his eyes, defying his instincts to lash out“At least you can survive without love!”

Mike stomped on the table. His empty shot glass tipped over and clunk!’d. “So what?! Without love, I’d be much worse than dead! At least you’ll die without love; I’ll still be alive being the miserable wretch I’d be—”

Sam growled and flew forward, now right in front of him. His nasty fanged face right in front of him. “Are you saying I should be dead?!”

“Will you just—agh!” and stepped away, still on the table. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be too tipsy and drunk to think, but you’re the one who sounds like you got buzzed out and brain-dead!”

“Don’t tell me about—”

“Well, I am gonna tell you about it!” and Mike smacked the shot glass to the table.

Crack!

Stared down each other before opening their mouths in surprise.

Mike looked down.

Saw the glass. The cracked glass. A drop spilled to the table.

The pony shot a hoof to the air. “Wait.”

Then, slow breaths. Took slow breaths. Inhaled, exhaled. Inhaled, exhaled, hoof on his chest as it went up and down.

As Sam and Mike stared at each other, that same tension high under the glare of orange lights, glimmers reflecting off the glass and off the bottle to their eyes dead set on their opposite, on the only other one in the room.

Mike looked at his hooves, those destructive hooves. Could’ve gone worse; the table could’ve been cut into two, for example. But, he had enough self-control. “Wh-What...what was I gonna do?” he blathered.

Then, slowly, got himself back down to his chair, struggling like an old man to rest his rump on the seat.

Sam’s senses returned to him. He heard a strange buzzing sound from around him. So, he looked down.

He was flying, hovering with his buzzing insect wings.

Floated back down to his chair to sit.

Yes, sit. Not shout, not argue, not get into a somewhat drunken fight with his former boss. That wouldn’t end well, would it?

As everything wound down. Loud breaths, gawking at each other with tired looks as the orange room let its warm light flow everywhere inside, emitting an atmosphere of turmoil.

Mike broke the silence, first with a cough. He wiped his mouth clean from alcohol. “You...you get what I mean, don’t you? Sorry about that, but…y-you don’t run away from us.” Moaned, rubbed his eyes again, fearing they’re on the way to becoming bloodshot red. “If we didn’t help each other, we might as well be rolling in our graves because we’d be so useless...right? You get me, Sam?”

The changeling peered down at the table. His forelegs, his incomplete and broken and holey and disgusting forelegs didn’t light up his mood. Whatever had come to his mind...he didn’t know if it’d stick.

He sighed. Nodded.

“And I sound like one of those friendship lessoners,” Mike blabbed, on the way to slurred speech.

Sam couldn’t afford a chuckle. On the contrary, he announced, “I’m gonna go check the cupboards. See if there’s any more snacks.”

The changeling was already rising from his seat, so Mike said, with a nonchalant hoofwave, “Alright, go check. I’ll wait for ‘ya, but don’t keep me waiting.”

Nothing else to say, and Sam left the dining room to enter the adjacent kitchen.

So, Mike waited.

This waiting gave him more time to think.

He thought about poor Sam. Seeing him do something as simple, as innocent as foraging for snacks brought a little smile to his face. This was the Sam he knew, the kind and hopeful Sam of old, the Sam that wasn’t the best person in the world but was a decent person by most accounts. He wasn’t used to this dark and pessimistic version of Sam.

He wanted to blame it on changeling physiology, that it was a changeling thing to brood over dark matters than the average human being...or, rather, the average sapient creature since there’d be no human beings left before 2030. But, he could detect hopelessness from a mile away, and Sam was ringing all the alarm bells in spades.

Mike imagined Sam Henry the Changeling in the bakery, ultimately accepted for who he was. Everyone would be caring enough to give him a hug or something that’d fill his love hunger for just a bit longer. The pony then thought of plans, plans to hang out once in a while with friends both old and new, uniting both worlds as it were. He was having a good enough time with this magic Earth thing; why not Sam, the very one who’d gone away to become a volunteer at the bureau?

Then, silence.

The noise of cupboards opening and closing had disappeared.

The silence was loud enough for Mike to go, “Huh?”

He got up from his seat and trotted his way to the kitchen.

Despite being a tiny bit tipsy, he reached his destination in good condition.

What wasn’t in good condition was his fridge. The door had been left open, wasting precious electricity and racking up the numbers on his bills needlessly.

There’s also no sign of the changeling.

“Uh, Sam?” He turned his head around, scrutinizing every nook and cranny in the kitchen before he had his hooves moving. “Hello? Where are you?!”

Mike was so busy searching the house, he didn’t see him out the window and in the horizon as the changeling fled from St. George with his wings, approaching the outskirts with one more push of his wings.

Sam was out of home, entering the night once more to places unknown. Maybe back to the Hive. Maybe to find another job. Certainly not back here, at least for a while. He could start reconsidering after the Veil passed through.

But, for now, Lucanidae had no place in St. George.

The Keynote Speakers

After an affable talk between the two of them, Sam bade Laura farewell as she was taken away by a changeling wearing one tie—her designated physical therapist for learning the changeling lifestyle: how to fly with new wings, how to digest love, how to shapeshift....

Once she was out of his sight, Sam slumped back to his chair, slugging through the minutes until the next to-be-something-magical would come over and say it’s their final day as a human. Although he’d met only Laura, he was already expecting customer number two to be a bit teary-eyed.

OK, very teary-eyed.

However, the wait was cut short by Crowhop trotting up to him, humming a melody. She raised a cardboard arrow with her magic and said, “I have the perfect job for you right now! What about you help set up the free public seminar we’re holding this evening? Better than having you waste precious volunteer hours!”

Sam thought back to her words less than two hours ago: ...that makes it easy to get the swing of things! Perhaps a newspaper and a nice chat with a changeling was enough to get that swing.

“Well?” Crowhop nudged, eyes wide open and blinking fast.

Cooling off, Sam quipped, “Sorry to be blunt, but do you really talk like that to everyone?”

Crowhop shoved it off with a giggle, spinning the arrow around with her hoof like a professional sign spinner. “Duh! Ahem, not all the time, but most of the time! That’s how I roll...or spin,” laughing at her own pun.

Sam looked to the left and then to the right, seeing if anyone else heard it. "OK...?"

Crowhop stomped the floor blithely. "Come on! Say it's a good joke!"

Loosening up, Sam stood up and answered, "Nah!"

The pony sat down on the floor and crossed her forelegs, mimicking a grumpy boss. "You're no fun!"

Sam placed both hands on his hips. "It was a bad pun."

Crowhop quickly went back on her four hooves. "I was trying to lighten up the mood, you know! Make you smile some more?"

As they went back to the hallways, Sam rubbed his eyes and took one more look at the lobby and lounge behind him. A deer had come in and was now selling a few potted plants.

The flashlight saleschangeling flew over to the deer and bumped each other's hooves, indulged in greetings and how-do-you-do's.

Before the voices were muffled behind the walls, Sam heard one of them say, "How's that personal forest of yours?" Needless to say, he mulled it over, imagining the deer cultivating first a tree, and then two, and then a copse, and then a whole forest in his backyard. He would then scoop up whatever caught his fancy, put them nicely in a pot, perhaps spoke kind words to them, and ventured out to the world on an adventure to ornament the la—

Hit his head on a door and fell down.

"Agh!" and Crowhop retreated to the wall. "A-Are you alright, Mr. Henry?"

Sam got up with little difficulty, groaning as he rubbed his head and his spine. He gave her a thumbs up, saying nothing while the pain throbbed in a few places.

"You need some medicine?" spoke Crowhop nervously, eyes darting back and forth. "What about bandages? Gauze? We'll take you to the clinic—"

"I'm fine," Sam insisted. "No need to call the ambulance; not even aspirin."

"You're sure?" Crowhop's eyes went big as a frown dominated her face. "I don't want you to have a bad time here, especially on your first day!"

"It's OK, it's OK," while shaking his head. "Thank you for your concern."

And Crowhop let out a phew!, happy that disaster had been averted.

Sam, however, was not aware of any disaster being averted. Bumping into a door was no disaster to him.

Crowhop led him to the seminar room which was a medium-sized chamber. Spacious and open, it was filled with chairs and had a stage at the back, big enough to catch everyone’s attention and keep it in its grasp. The carpeted floor, coupled with the colder air thanks to more air-conditioning units, made Sam feel like he'd been transported to Alaska. All that was missing was the snow, the ice sheets, the reindeer—

Well, he had seen that plant-selling deer.

On the stage and under the bright lights was the room’s lone occupant: a lanky gray blue Earth pony topped with a short blonde mane. Sam could see that his cutie mark was a microphone, which made sense—even his deep mumbling could be heard from across the room, though it was still incoherent. He was likely practicing his script, subscribing to the principle of repetition.

“I’d like you to meet Key Note!” Crowhop said, pointing at the pacing stallion across the room while tugging Sam’s shirt with her hoof. “He’s going to tell the history of the bureau, talk about each potion with its pros and cons, and hold a Q&A session.” She gave her arrow another spin on her hoof, giggling at her own skill. “Basically our PR guy for today. Sounds fun?”

“Original pony or no?” Sam immediately asked.

Crowhop blinked, surprised by the sudden question. “Why, no! He used to be a human just like you. Said he lived in British Columbia before moving down here ‘cause it’s too cold.”

Sam crossed his arms, watching Key Note mumble and mutter without noticing the newcomers. As much as he wanted to focus on whatever that pony was saying, his mind kept returning to Crowhop. Did she agitate her? Was there a harbored grudge underneath that sweet, sweet, sickeningly cute and sweet smile? Or was she really that cheerful?

He remembered the documentary shows about Equestria he'd seen on TV or on the internet, and one thing that'd stood out to him about ponies was their personality. Not everyone one of them were smiles and rainbows all the time, but he'd considered them a content lot. Their neutral expression was a smile, not a blank face he'd gotten used to when he'd peoplewatch once in a while.

On one hand, it made pony interaction easier for him; their perpetual smiles and grins gave off an air of perpetual ease, facing the next thing in life with overflowing joy. On the other hand, he had a hard time keeping up with them; their expressiveness kept surprising him, whether it's being all giddy in a shopping mall or crying a fountain by the highwa—

“Hey?"

Sam got out of his internal monologue, whirling his head to see Crowhop at his side.

Her lips turned down into a frown. Those big pony eyes only made her face more pitiful. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Oh, just thinking about what to be when I take the potion plunge,” Sam blathered. He was technically telling the truth, forcing his mind to think of something else.

Crowhop gasped, her concerned frown turning into one of those typical pony grins. “Really? Follow me!”

“Wait, wha—”

And he was tugged along by a wrapping forehoof, staggering after her and almost tripping. Before he knew it, he’d gotten up the stairs and was now right in front of Key Note himself, feeling the lights’ glare.

“Ah!” he blurted out in his signature baritone, throwing his head back. “What—or should I say, who do we have here?” He looked up to get a clearer picture of the man’s face, lifting a hoof to shield his own eyes from the lights' glare. “You must be that Sam I’ve been hearing about since yesterday.”

Sam had to remind himself that ponies can have deep voices. “Yes, sir,” as he stretched his hand out for a handshake...or a hoofshake. Or both. “The name’s Sam Henry.”

“Could read it out loud for myself,” he replied, gesturing towards the ID on Sam’s shirt, “but whatever works for ya’!” and shook his hand.

Sam did feel weird at having to grip his hoof and feeling something without seeing anything grasping his hand. Still, it was a courteous shake.

Crowhop grinned at him, but kept moving her anxious eyes towards Sam, conveying something to him with her darting irises.

Key Note got the memo, cleared his throat, and took a step back. He got a better view of Sam as a whole. “I apologize for putting it that way.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Sam said politely, lightly moving his hand about. Nonetheless, being briefly talked down to by a short pony didn't elicit the greatest of feelings....

“Then that’s good, too!” Key Note answered, sitting down on the wooden surface and putting his flank there. He held up a hoof, trying to act cool. “Before you ask anything, I heard you want to know my real name.”

Sam’s eyes shot open wide. “Really? You looked so focused on your talk!”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t multi-task, does it?” Note said, tapping his ear. The pony then tapped a hoof on the stage, verifying its strength. “So you won’t keep asking in your head: I’m Douglas Uaine—and it’s Way-nyeh, not Wayne.” He took a seated bow, lowering his head before Sam who was amused by the gratuitous respect. “I work at the In-N-Out across the street during the day...but at night?”

He held up a hoof for dramatic effect. He furrowed his brows and stared straight at the man’s eyes. Wiped his forehead, then his yellow mane.

In a deep, guttural voice:

“We guerrilla garden.”

Sam raised a brow, fixing and re-fixing his collar. “You guerrilla what?”

“Gardening in places you’re not allowed to garden in,” Crowhop explained, her cutesy accent making the explanation soothing to the ears. “Sidewalks, abandoned buildings, someone else’s backyard—” and flipped her mane. “It’s an Earth thing, so I should know.”

What came next was Crowhop slapping her head, realizing too late the blunder she’d made.

Uaine got a laugh out of that, pestering the poor unicorn like she was born on this planet.

Crowhop blushed, placed a hoof over her mouth under her fluttering eyes. “Come on! It’s just my tongue slipping!”

“You know I’m just ribbing on you!” Uaine said between guffaws, poking her on the shoulder.

As for Sam, he didn’t laugh. He brought a hand to his hip, watching the two ponies argue in jest. It fast descended to good-natured name-calling: Uaine called Crowhop “flip-flop!”, Crowhop called Uaine “rude dude!”

Finding out that the argument might take a while to simmer, Sam turned around to survey the room some more. A few paintings graced the walls, made by both humans and Equestrians. Coupled with the city’s ever-evolving art scene, it should’ve been no surprise—this one, for example, was a painting of a cloud tagged up in graffiti; it was titled, Aerosol Rainbow.

Come to think of it, maybe that's why the clouds had felt off on the way here. That blue cloud in the midst of white and gray...Sam remembered seeing that through the airplane's window.

Felt a warm tug at his shirt.

Sam turned around and saw Crowhop, this time tugging him with her magic, that part of his shirt now enveloped in a lime glow. This freaked him out a bit, but he restrained himself from showing it.

“Sorry to disturb you,” she said, still blushing, still reeling from the comedic damage done to her.

Sam beamed for her, unable to resist her own infectious smile. “It’s alright.”

Uaine jumped up then landed on the stage with a thud! It was enough to make Crowhop and Sam look. “I’d like to talk, but I still have to get over my stage fright, you know?”

“Huh?” and Sam was caught out of left field on that one. “You're the only speaking tonight, right?”

“I have to build it up,” explained the stallion, putting his two forehooves together. “I have to build that confidence up. It disappears every time I leave the spotlight. It's an obstacle, but—” standing up on his four hooves “—but I'll do anything to help out the rest of my friends. I must get them informed,” his hooves now gesturing and posturing around, “I have to remove whatever fears they may be holding inside, to tell them that it’ll be alright. It's for their good, after all.”

Sam nodded, putting a finger to his chin so that he could look interested. He hoped Uaine didn't see past the facade. “I see, I see.”

Crowhop trotted into his view, levitating the arrow and spinning it with her hoof. “So, let’s haul in some tables for the food and drinks? I’ll call catering, and then I’ll help you.”

With that, the both of them gave Key Note a goodbye and they left the room, on the way to get some foldable tables.

It didn’t take long for Sam and Crowhop to set up the room. About an hour, to be more exact, with more than half of it blamed on the chatty mare stopping to talk about oranges, how they’re raised in Equestria, and how the renowned Apple family never really had a rivalry with them. ”Could you believe that the Oranges are related to the Apples? I'm sure you know Applejack, the Element of Honesty and, therefore, one of our heroes. Once, she ran away to Manehattan so she could live with Uncle and Aunt Orange! Heh, I’m certain they’ll like it here if they got free tickets. I'm not a tour guide or anything, but I can show them the oranges in the market, and I can treat them to orange ice cream while putting on orange perfume....”

More than a few times, though, was he distracted by the unicorn levitating her tables. She wasn’t having the best time with furniture; he could see some of her thin muscles bulging, and her voice was a bit airy whenever she spoke. When all was said and done, however, he brushed it off as normal, as if Crowhop was OK with it and had done this sort of thing before.

Maybe it was magic exercise, training the...magic instead of the muscle. Magic muscles? At any rate, the adage “Practice makes perfect” was true in both worlds.

Once the hauling was done and the tables unfolded and spread out to make up more than half the room's length—once that was done, Crowhop took out her flip-phone and called those who’d reserved seats for the seminar, checking up on them and seeing if they’re OK to go. Wanting to assist her further and be more than a shadow in the bureau, Sam raised his much more up-to-date smartphone, kindly asked her for a list of who’s coming, and checked up on some of them himself. That way, they’d finish the list of attendees in half the time—that was his hope, to be fair.

Sam was a bit jealous over Crowhop, probably because she sounded like the perfect pony to listen and talk to. Even without knowing she was a ridiculously cute pink unicorn, one would find her voice to be like the embrace of loving arms. How could anyone say “No” to her reminder of attending?

Meanwhile, Sam was stuck with the usual canned responses, following a vague script in his head and counting on the other person to not deviate from it.

When all the calls were done, Sam looked at the big clock standing over the door.

It was three-thirty. There was time left until six.

Sam had been given an hour-and-a-half long break “to enjoy Los Angeles, silly! Can’t stay here forever! Let us handle stuff while you’re gone.”

While one couldn’t get the full tour of the Big Orange in an hour-and-a-half, he did go over to South Central, the closest district that's part of Los Angeles proper.

Sam paid a visit to the Memorial Coliseum that’d hosted two Olympics within the previous century. It turned out that there'd be a game there between the Rams and the Broncos as could be seen by the stream of people trickling into the bleachers—either blue and yellow or orange and white; that's the colors he saw in a lot of them.

There were some Equestrians going there, too. Most notably, a hyper-excited group of pony Bronco fans screamed in every direction, holding up banners and balloons for their beloved club from Denver.

Sam wanted to ask those ponies if they really were from the Mile High City or if they just liked horse-themed football franchises, but this sensible volunteer knew better than to ask rabid zealots, especially since a couple of Earth ponies were among them. A beatdown administered by these devoted horses had a sizable mortality rate, to put it mildly.

Once he got away from that, Sam journeyed through the rest of South Central. He strolled on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, seeing the trees swaying by the sidewalks and the front yards of Leimart Park’s lush houses; he snapped photos of the famous Watts Towers, mosaic metal sculptures reaching high to the sky as he was crammed by other picture-taking tourists like him; and he relaxed at the Kenneth Hahn State Recreation Area, a vast open park with open green fields, plentiful benches, and a breath-taking view of upper L.A. with luxurious Beverly Hills in the distance.

Sam noted the mix of humans and Equestrian species hanging around at the venerated park. He got the feel that there were more of the latter than the former but only slightly. To his relief, no tension was brewing in the horizon. Instead, it was fun and games—someone had organized a park-wide game of hide-and-seek, and the it was not allowed to use his wings to cheat.

From there on, Sam also saw a dozen picnics and two or three outdoor parties. A barbecue, too, except that ponies, yaks, buffalo, and other vegetarian Equestrians weren't allowed to participate for obvious reasons. A little hungry himself, he took part in it, chatting with whoever was there. Rubbing shoulders with a fire-breathing dragon and a fiercesome griffon made him shiver inside, but they were friendly, prattling about sci-fi stuff like space elevators.

"What about with magic?" Sam once quipped with a raised finger.

What he got from the both of them was, "It doesn't work that way."

It was a fruitful discussion all the same.

While tramping on a scenic trail, he was intrigued to see a pony nibble on a patch of clean grass. A few kids teased and laughed, but that resilient stallion didn’t mind.

Sam hoped the pony was from Equestria.

After an hour and a quick trip to the local donut shop to swipe the cop-favorite combo of donuts and coffee, he traveled back to the bureau, returning with only a minute to spare.

“How was it?” Crowhop asked as she and Sam walked down the hallway, the human spraying citrus-scented cologne on himself. “Where’d you go? You watched a movie, didn’t you, ha?”

“I’d have no time to watch anyway,” Sam replied, straightening his collar and making sure his buttons were closed. He mentally regretted not watching a movie when he was just miles away from Hollywood, but tomorrow was another day.

Crowhop nodded, levitating her clipboard, with Sam getting a glimpse of it and seeing a timetable on one side. She took out a foldable spinning arrow and spun it around with her magic, passing the time as they walked.

When he opened the door for the mare, he gave her an unseen smile, appreciating the eternal optimism emanating from this energetic mare.

For now, Sam was becoming tired. His legs were a bit sore, telling him he should try a marathon or two before running a few kilometers for fun.

"Get inside!" said that lively Crowhop.

He noticed that he was already leaning much of his weight on the wall, panting for air. A spray of cologne and a fix of a collar later, he got inside.

It was an hour of patient waiting for Sam, an hour that dragged on for what seemed like an eternity. He stood there, ensuring that nothing would go wrong and seeing if no one would do anything shady.

Slowly but surely, the chairs were filled up by thoughtful prospects, inquisitive visitors, and the occasional candid skeptic. The overwhelming majority were humans, although a few Equestrians got in, mostly family members or friends of the one man or woman willing to endure information overload.

No one was hogging the buffet table. Nevertheless, the catering staff, with their aprons and their chef hats, studied the only dragon in the audience, maybe wondering if they should impose limits on this ravenous creature. One of them remarked that he should've brought his girlfriend's jewelry—without asking, of course.

The clock struck six.

“Ahem, ahem a-a-a-ahem!”

That was enough to turn everyone’s heads to the keynote speaker on stage.

The only keynote speaker, apparently. The schedule tacked on to the clipboard said as much.

“I trust that everyone’s having a good time,” Key Note said, stretching a hoof towards all of them. He got dozens of mumbled affirmatives from the engrossed crowd, ready to get the tenth or nth primer on Conversion Bureaus. “Sure, sure...and you don’t need to ask permission to get some refreshments if you’re hungry!”

Sam crossed his arms, trying to get into a comfortable position while observing the people who must’ve had their stomachs rumbling. All the seats were full, and he didn’t feel right just sitting on the floor. He twiddled with his thumb. Wait, wasn't it six in the ev—

“Mr. Henry?”

He looked down and saw Crowhop by his side.

“Thank you for your assistance today,” she said, tugging at her mane. “I like it when people like you put in that extra effort and initiative.”

Sam leaned his head to the side, raising his shoulders. “Hey, I came here to volunteer, not to lie around and do nothing.”

“That's the spirit!” She said, tugging at his shirt again out of excitement. Then, she eyed the clock ticking above the door. “Oh, no! It's past your time!”

"Oh?" Only until a few minutes ago did he think about the end of his working hours today, but just to make sure, he checked that clock.

It was a few minutes past six.

"Wow, time flies when you're—"

The door opened slowly, making the both of them look at a hippogriff’s beak peeking out. “Whoops! Sorry to be late for the night shift! Opposite day for me!”

Crowhop stepped aside and let the hippogriff guard come in, complete with armor and helmet and spear.

Sam almost yelped at seeing this soldier of a guard. The presence of a weapon didn't help matters either.

Crowhop made an adorable tee-hee! at that. “We get a lot of death threats, so we have to prepare ourselves for anything, especially at night.”

The hippogriff nodded, planting the spear on the ground...but not too hard that the floor cracked. “If they’re gonna burn this thing down, they’ll have to get through me first!” and brandished her spear, spinning it around.

Making Sam hug the wall with his back, along with having a couple people and ponies in the audience look back. They saw this brave volunteer cling to the walls for safety.

In order to sound brave and save face, he let go of the wall and dusted his shirt. “How’s that gonna stop a bullet?” like he had never been afraid before in his entire life.

“A normal spear won't stop a bullet,” she replied, "but an enchanted one does." She held it up so that it gleamed under the ceiling lights. “Slows down everything but the user within a meter. It only lasts twelve hours, so we have to send it to the local mage regularly. Pays hefty bits, though.”

“Now you’re scaring me,” Sam said quietly, raising his hands in self-defense and hoping he wouldn’t get pummeled on accident. Then, after a glance at his watch, he went to the door, eye still on that sharp, magic spear. “I guess this is goodbye, then?”

“Yup!” Crowhop said with that smile, cute for this long. "But, please watch the whole thing when we upload it online! Share it to your friends, too!"

Sam served a mindless "Yeah," and waved them off.

After farewells were exchanged between the three, he left, relieved that he could sit back in his hotel room and unwind.

Sam brisked his way through the halls, feet moving without thinking. He had booked an Uber ride already, just in case there was heavy traffic. A little bit of lavish convenience in one of the world’s greatest was could be tolerated.

A couple more turns, and the lobby was in sight. He heard a door from the back creaking open but paid it no mind.

The lobby and lounge was almost empty, the sofas and chairs devoid of any clients or just anyone who tarried about. Perhaps the seminar had something to do with that. At least the receptionists and the coffee bar's waiters could talk freely about the news of the day.

Then, he saw the hippogriff guards standing just outside the bureau. Spears were at the ready.

Slam!

Looked behind him. A pony and a griffon were accompanying a crying changeling across one of the halls.

A green changeling, tears staining her hard chitin cheeks. Her eyes were closed, covered by forehooves as she clumsily flew past the doors. The escorts glanced at each other with worried frowns as they led her to some place.

He heard a door open and then close as quietly as possible. The strain of it was undeniable.

To be discreet, he jogged out of the bureau and slipped into the night, into the bustling traffic with its sea of white, yellow, and red against the dark sky.

A guard had to remind this fellow to take off his ID. He was outside the premises and no longer needed it, after all.

The black taxi had happened to be some ten or twenty meters away from the bureau. Once Sam got in, he felt slightly dizzy, finding the gridlock wearisome after hours of moving around here and there, talking on the phone, and seeing a lot of Equestrians in rapid succession. It took him a few minutes to settle in to the welcoming scent of pine trees and the twang of country music.

It also took him a few minutes to move past the intersection.

“What’s going on, Arthur?” Sam finally asked, hand on his seat belt.

“Just finished a protest,” the driver said, gesturing with his fingers to make up for no eye contact. “You haven't heard? They say the Front was in on it.”

“You mean the HLF?”

“What else would I be talking about?” He turned his head around, sweat shining on his forehead. “You heard of Key Note? That talking pony guy in that bureau we passed by? I saw the poster and everything.”

Sam was now uneasy. Theories of past grudges and revenge sprung up...and, come to think of it, how come he didn't see the poster plastered on the glass wall? But he had to talk: “What about him?”

Arthur went back to the wheel, bringing all his attention to the road ahead. “Rumor is he’s a shill for the PER. Get into the bureau’s graces, infiltrate the place, and then hold everyone ransom. 'Pay me or I'll turn all of you into ponies!'” he finished in a mocking accent.

The thought of giving a PER pony free reign over a crowd distressed Sam. Now a bead of sweat went down his forehead. “Any evidence on that one?” he asked, betraying a bit of anxiety.

“I know people on both sides,” Arthur said, voice now a tad more somber. “Good thing they're not the guys who'll point a gun at you, but it's all disturbing." He flicked a hand towards the empty passenger seat. "Also comes with the territory. If you’re going to be transporting everyone, you’ll be transporting a few nutcases. Me?" Pointed at himself. "I say I don’t care unless they got Molotov cocktails...or Molotov pony potions.”

He punched the steering wheel. It was leather so there was no harm done, but the force of it troubled Sam. There's the temptation to ask for any road rage records from the man himself, but he shot that idea down.

“Hate whoever thought of such a wonderful idea," Arthur said gruffly. "If I weren't quick on my feet during my Hawaiian vacation back then, I'd be toast, but...condolences to those who weren't so lucky.”

Sam laid back on his seat, not in the mood to remember that incident. He waited another full minute, recognizing the driver's bout of silent contemplation. Then: “Why didn’t they protest in front of the bureau?”

A moan. Arthur raised a hand to strike the horn, but refrained. “They’re wimps. Not a single one of them’s fought a wizard. They want to fight, but they’re not gonna fight unicorns and the cosmic princesses.” He then increased the radio's volume, the song having changed into a mix of banjo and blues.

Rest laid on Sam’s mind. Looking out the window, he could see the airport with its intermittent line of airplanes coming in and out. Seeing seven or eight Equestrians wandering around at night made him think of how many were in LAX, that hub of travel.

“And you’ll ask what’ll I be when it’s over?” Arthur chuckled, hiding the anger he had for the stalling car before him. “Got you, huh? It’s like when people ask you if it’s Coke or Sprite.”

“Don’t you mean—”

“I’m just messing with you!” he said in that lighter, comical voice. “By the way: Abyssinian. Walking and talking cat. I don’t care much about the crazy powers others have." Took a gulf of his water bottle, slammed it down. "If I made it to thirty without magic or flight, I think I’ll be fine moving forward.”

That was the end of their conversation as the taxi raced ahead to Sam’s Holiday Inn. There would be leisure, there would be relief, and there would be an escape from hard work at the bureau for a while.

Los Angeles's attractions could wait for another day.