The Last Bronycon

The humans were one of a very select few that knew a big, big secret: ponies were real.

Of course horses existed long as man, longer according to the scientific minded, but these ponies were different. With plenty of variance, stallions typically stood about four feet tall, mares typically three feet and some change, with colorful coats and manes, adorable little hooves, unique cutie marks, big bright eyes, swishy tails, even horns and wings in some. Even better, they were here. A bold few even managed to sneak out, disguised as plushies in backpacks, but not for long. The dozen or so ponies desired to keep themselves secret.

The year prior to the fateful convention, during a week of leave, Tom was on a kayaking venture in rural Montana, where horses often roam wild, and set off from a tributary to the Missouri river. He and a friend made their way a hundred miles from nowhere to nowhere, stopping for dinner on the bank. They built a fire and cracked their beers, settling in for the night. As the sun began to lower in the smoky sky, Tom set off to look at a cave. He had graffiti in mind as he carried his charcoal tipped stick with him in one hand, beer number four in the other. As he neared it, the sandstone wall looking more and more like a canvas, he felt a strange, warm, tooth-dissolvingly sweet breeze. He kept creeping through thick, dry, pokey, clingy bush.

The woody, high vegetation cleared a dozen feet from the cave. Only lichens lived in the shade. Suddenly, there was a deep humming. He felt for his buck knife, but it was at the shore. He cursed inwardly, the strapping man with short hair set his drink and natural spray paint aside. He continued on.

He made it to the precipice of the cave and realized, not surprisingly, he wasn't the first one here. Drawings of horses littered the wall, as well as other symbols. A ball, or circle, or sun, or something, horse shoes in a weirdly cartoon style. “Fuckin natives?" he wondered to himself. The Crow indians were native to this land, and he was worried one was snoozing here. Unlikely, but hey, meth is a hell of a drug. He smirked, spying a nice cock drawn in the wall. It even had veins, the balls were huge. Three years on a submarine had conditioned him to appreciate a nice dick drawing. The letters were inscrutable, but he could sense they were merely another language. He supposed this was a hideout for some Crow teens. He was smiling as he continued deeper. Sandstone caves seldom went deep, the stone was too fragile to form structures.

Thus, Tom was quite surprised to find a bend that led deeper. He kept his eyes out for light trickling down, perhaps this was just a gouge in the rock above he could later climb. This explanation wasn't true, as the cave went down. The stone was still sandy, left his hands feeling filthy and wet with a touch. He felt along, into the dark, expecting to find sleeping bags, burnt wood, plastic bottles of liquor empty. In the dim, he did see a cupcake or muffin wrapper.

The man went on, slowly feeling his way as light failed to penetrate. A glance back showed he was really headed steep down. He looked back forward.

“FUCK!” he silently barked in surprise, stumbling backward. He fell on his ass hard, scrambling back to his feet, boots struggling for purchase. His eyes saw something his brain was struggling to process.

It was snoring. Not a cougar, grizzly, bobcat, wolf, coyote, or even any animal he might have expected to be snoring like an old man.

It was a horse.

It was a unicorn.

It was an armed unicorn in uniform. Gold, he thought in the dim. The man’s curse didn't shake the sentry. He dusted his denim off and stood in the damp recess, staring at the stallion snoozing against the wall, cuddling his lance. Tom leaned down and spoke. "Hello? Am I high?” he laughed. He reached out and, ready to flinch back, touched a tip to his horn. It was hard, like an antler or something, and also quite real.

The soldier didn't move. Smirking dumbly, he tried again, poking firmer twice. “Hey, shitbag," he said, half laughing.

“Wasnsleepsarnt!" The stallion shot upright and dropped his spear with a clink on the sandy stone. “Shit shit," he grumbled, snot rolling around in his throat. He picked up his weapon and made for the man stepping backwards calmly, hands up." WHO GOES THERE?!” The validity of the challenge was lessened by his off kilter helmet and cracking voice.

“Tom," he said, standing still. “Are… you a horse?" he asked, dropping his hands to his side.

“I am Corporal Grizzly of the Crystal Guard, and you will come with me or face the consequences! No one may know of this place.”

The man tucked his hands into his pockets, regretting not bringing his beer. Would have been nice to either use it as a diplomacy chip, or at least top off before this fever dream continued. He shrugged. “Sure.”

“From where do you hail from, foe?"

“Woah, woah, its friend. Billings, man. Man, you're a fuckin horse. God, Brook ain't gonna believe this," he laughed. “We gonna be long? I gotta help set up the tent."

The colt visibly lightened up when he said friend, even tucking his spear back into his arm. "So, lots of questions, if you don't mind, mister Tom. Protocol. And yeah, sorry, we gotta. Protocol. You're the first human we've seen in a dozen years or so. This…. This is big. Big big. I'm SO making sergeant! Ha, Bobcat is gonna be so pissed! Alright, let's go to the guard shack. That's where we play cards and shoot the shit. My CO is gonna freak!”

This is a good dream, or I hit my head in a river rock, Tom thought with a dumb smile. “Lead on, man. Go Griz, Cats suck, “ he added.

What happened next was a fascinating interrogation over Sweet Apple Reserve, the good stuff. Eventually, the sentry's relief, Bobcat, with a blue and yellow scheme to contrast the burgundy and silver of his rival, brought the worried and just as disbelieving Brook.

The ponies of Equestria were real.

This land was one of two known points at which realms collided. In one world, politics and bad ideas spread quite like literal electronic viruses, wars ravaged millions, and atomic fire waited to end it all with the turn of a key or just the wrong tweet. In the other, there were schools dedicated to friendship, and the most heated arguments were over which fruit was superior. The other bridge was long closed, located in the quaint locale of Ponyville. This opening was newer, but even the nerdiest eggheads had no clue how long it would remain open.

From one August to the next it did, and a half dozen adventurous ponies piled into two vans, driven by Tom and Brook, across the country to Baltimore. Much confusion and arguing was had over the names of towns, how humans didn't or did have magic, which fruit was the ideal road trip snack, Tom arguing for some strange chewy one called Beef Jerky. Luckily, Laura had joined Tom, for she was there to rip it from a stallion’s hooves.

They learned that the astonishingly numerous five unicorns of the group still had magic, and thankfully didn't use it in plain sight. The group had ordered two hotels along the way, suites, moving luggage and passengers only through back doors at night, and in boxes or bags if possible. The couple were frustrated, since been used to getting plenty of one on one time. Now, shared quarters meant none of that frisky business except sneaking out to the van once or twice.