The second time Rarity woke up, it would be to the wailing of her own hysterical screams. The first merely had her waken unto the sounds of desperate apologies and ultimately, it could be said that the screaming was an improvement.
"-- sorry! Ah'm sorry, Rarity! Ah didn't mean -- Ah jus' didn't think that one was gonna come down! They usually don't fall before they're ready, not on that kind of kick!"
The designer took a slow breath. Grass wafted in front of her nostrils. This seemed to indicate either a surprising prone position or a rather unexpected growth spurt in the local greenery. The growth spurt would have been preferable, but when one considered the odds...
"I am," she guessed with what felt like remarkable steadiness, "on the ground." Soft Acres soil, which still hosted a few stray remnants from the most recent Running.
"Yeah," the farmer sighed. "Y'just dropped. What's the last thing y'remember?"
Rarity twisted her neck until she was looking more or less up, blinked repeatedly until Applejack's hat came into focus: this was naturally followed by wondering how many extra blinks it would take to blur that out again. "We were talking about our respective upcoming events, correct? Cider for you and the secondary school's Fall Formal dance for me." Students rented dresses from the Boutique for the occasion, and there were even years when Rarity didn't sacrifice more than half of that income on the inevitable repair costs. "While taking a rather pleasant trot through the Acres. And you said something about having to check on one tree, you gave it the usual kick, and..."
The expected country was finally heard from, with the painful echoes quickly deciding to settle down in their new home.
"...ow," Rarity concluded.
Applejack sighed, and downcast eyes carefully surveyed Rarity's face.
"Ain't so bad," the farmer decided. "The rebound off that Cortland might have put y'down for a few seconds, but there ain't much real damage. If you're awake an' talkin', then the most you've gotta worry about is the bruise an' --" a soft groan "-- that chipped tooth. Rarity, Ah'm sorry..."
The unicorn began to struggle back to her hooves: the earth pony quickly moved to prop the smaller mare up.
"Accidents will happen," Rarity declared, doing her best not to probe for the chipped spot with her tongue. "When tired, I have left sewing needles strewn about in such a way as to... well, let us say that certain vulnerabilities were rather loudly exposed and leave it at that. And since there was no cruelty in your intention, all is forgiven. Simply allow me a short rest for the headache to fade. I shall drop by Zecora's residence before I return home, while bearing an appropriate gift. After that, a poultice for the bruise, a quick sip of dental potion to repair the chipping, and all is solved."
She forced a smile. (It didn't feel as complete as it should have been, not with her lips reflexively moving forward to cover her teeth. Strictly a a short-term issue.)
"So I was hit by a Cortland?" the designer asked. "Did you happen to see where it went? I would like to extract a certain measure of revenge --"
-- and the farmer was staring at her in wide-eyed, green-filled confusion.
"You're goin' to Zecora's for a what?"
"A poultice to moderate the swelling and discoloration from the bruise," Rarity carefully tried, "and a dental potion for the chipping. Why? Did you need me to pick up something for you while I was visiting? In that case, I may need to go home first and swap out for the larger saddlebags --"
And with that confusion now writ large in every strand of orange fur, "-- 'dental potion?' Maybe y'ain't okay. Maybe Ah'd better walk with you into town, jus' t' make sure. If y'feel like y'can't trot, Ah can fetch the cart in --"
"-- Applejack," Rarity carefully interrupted, "what are you talking about?"
With deep concern in the soft voice, "Rarity, ain't no such thing as a dental potion. You're gonna need a dentist."
The trot (or perhaps ride) back into Ponyville... that must have happened, because she was in Ponyville and therefore a trip had clearly taken place. She just couldn't seem to remember much of it. There had been an argument with Applejack about the whole dentist thing, because Rarity had never been to a dentist in her life. Why would she have visited something which didn't exist? She kept her teeth clean, because one's appearance was important and a smile could certainly add something to a sales pitch. In the event of staining (blueberry season, that one horrid experience with coffee, some of Pinkie's more interesting party games), she used a potion. For minor damage (a few of the more physical adventures, that one sewing device which had found a singular way of announcing the expiration of its warranty, and Pinkie again), there was another potion. Severe damage (really, if Pinkie was going to experiment with a team game based around rapid-fire spheres of paint designed to burst on impact, couldn't she have found something smaller than the average cannonball?) could require multiple repair potions and because it was possible to build up a resistance if one took them too often, it was best not to use them more than a few times per year. But it made dental care simple. You kept your teeth clean and you hoped for a potion which didn't smell like a restroom trench during asparagus season. That was it.
But Applejack had insisted such potions didn't exist. Had never existed. That Rarity's only hope of having her smile restored was to seek out the services of a profession which didn't utilize potions at all. And she'd been so very sorry, had desperately offered to do her best to help cover Rarity's costs...
Rarity did have a vague recollection of having laughed. A good dental potion -- one where the internal retching at the taste was over in less than a minute -- cost no more than eighty bits. It wasn't a strictly casual expense, but it was certainly something Rarity could afford. The damage had been caused by accident. Why was she supposed to be placing any degree of financial burden on her friend for something which hadn't been intentional? So she generously declared that she, and she alone, would assume responsibility for all costs, which had been followed by...
Was she sobbing?
Well, to be fair, Rarity had recently been hit in the head. It was possible that her own memory was somewhat confused. So perhaps she had mistaken dentist for dental potion, at least for a few seconds. But she couldn't remember ever having been to a dentist at all. She certainly had no recollection of Ponyville hosting one.
And yet here she was, in that pony's office.
She looked around. There were several empty benches. None of them were padded, and all had sweat stains sunken deep into the wood.
Magazines were available. None of them had any real interest for her, although she supposed the collection as a whole would have been endlessly fascinating to Twilight: one seldom had a chance to examine documents which had been created immediately after the invention of paper. Rarity did spend a few seconds examining a headline which questioned Are The Long-Term Effects Of Sun-Raising Safe For Pony Health? before wondering what an author now rendered into dust would have considered 'long-term.'
There were photographs. Most of them looked like closeups of white mountain ranges. Mountains with dark, festering pits sunken into the sides.
And there was a sound which occasionally entered the waiting room. (Vertical wood paneling, a dingy brown which suggested that the cleaning staff had taken the millennium off.) It was rather high-pitched, with something of a blur around the edges. There was more than a hint of whine to it, but it was a whining which had been accelerated to a hundred times its normal rate, or roughly twice what the denial of a toy could bring from Diamond Tiara. It was painful to hear. It set her ears upright and her fur on edge. It threatened to vibrate her eyelashes free.
There it goes again.
It's faster now.
It sounds a little like somepony is screaming.
She thought about that, and then recognized the horrible thing.
The scream is an improvement.
Rarity looked at the clock. A quarter past three. She seemed to recall having made an appointment for something -- earlier. Much, much earlier. Also that she had been on time...
There was a new sound: a sliding glass panel doing just that. It got her attention, and she turned in time to see it merge into the wall. The new gap was just wide enough to let her see a pony's mouth and behind that, shelves full of files. Thousands upon thousands of files.
"Next," the mouth said.
Rarity carefully got up from the bench. Approached, trying to smile.
"Hello," she politely began. "I have an appointment --"
"-- insurance," the mouth cut her off.
Rarity turned the foreign word over in her mind a few times, examined the edges while trying to find a place where it fit. However, much like Pinkie's chosen paintball color, it clashed with everything.
"Your pardon?"
"I need proof of insurance," the mouth stated. "Before the dentist will see you. Or you will have to pay with bits. On the spot."
"Ah," Rarity considered. "And -- what is insurance?"
Strictly speaking, mouths couldn't blink, but this one gave it a go.
"Insurance," the mouth eventually said, "can be thought of as a wager."
"Really?"
"Yes," the mouth told her. "You pay somepony a certain amount every moon. The party you're paying is betting that you won't get sick or need any kind of medical treatment. If you don't fall ill, you keep paying every moon until you can't afford to. Or die."
"Ah," Rarity tried again. "So if I get sick, that party loses?"
The mouth managed something resembling a nod.
"And what do I win?" But then it occurred to her. "Oh! Since the bet is that I won't fall ill, my needing treatment would mean that the other party pays for it! Correct? Proportionate to the amount of the wager, of course, and further modified by the total number of bets --"
"The other party," the mouth confirmed, "would then look at your medical bills."
"Interesting," Rarity decided. "So what kind of payoff odds would I be able to --"
"-- and then," the mouth went on, "they would begin to apply -- deductibles."
"Deductibles." She tried to fit the word with 'insurance' and found them repelling each other.
"Correct," the mouth stated. "Think of them as terms of the wager. Things only the party you placed the bet with is allowed to initially know, which are only revealed to you after it's been determined that a payout may be possible. For example, let's say that your procedure will cost three hundred bits. Why should the other party be required to pay that much?"
"Because," Rarity carefully tried, "we had a wager?"
"Yes, but the wager was for fifty bits. You paid one hundred bits per moon, every moon, in order to have the other party cover fifty bits of your treatment. You're responsible for the other two hundred and fifty."
Rarity slowly, carefully did the math. It didn't take long.
"Then why would I place a wager at all? Wouldn't it be better to save the money in case I needed it?"
"Ah," the mouth declared, "but the deductible requires that you pay that amount on any bill. What if the total charge was twenty thousand bits and you only had to pay two hundred and fifty of it?"
"Well, that would make a little more sense --"
"-- of course," the mouth stated, "we might then get into pre-existing conditions."
Rarity briefly wondered if putting all of the new terms into a dictionary would produce a book which was incapable of being closed, along with whether the pages would repel themselves from the spine.
"And what are those?"
"Well --" the mouth took a breath, one deep enough for the pull to shift three files "-- let's say that at the time you made the wager, you had a limp. And then you went up to the other party and told them to pay for treatment of your limp. Why should the bet include something you already knew would have to be paid for?"
"In terms of a wager," Rarity admitted, "that would be unfair."
"I'm glad you understand," the mouth smiled. "So can I see your proof of insurance?"
Rarity was about to say something along the lines of I didn't know what insurance was until you explained it to me (and incidentally, I still have a number of questions), so how could I be expected to show proof of having it? But then she found a small card balanced on her upturned right forehoof. The proud gold letters clearly said Proof Of Insurance.
Perhaps I should have prioritized for the bruise.
The high-pitched sound was back. It seemed to be getting faster.
"Here you go," she said, and pushed the card towards the gap.
"Excellent," the mouth declared, and took up the card with nimble teeth. Set it down again. "We don't accept this."
Rarity blinked.
"But it's insurance."
"Yes," the mouth agreed. "But it doesn't cover your clearly pre-existing condition."
"...my tooth was just chipped," Rarity eventually stated, at least once her rib cage had stopped heaving. "It happened --" when did it happen? "-- recently. I was not born with this chip. By the terms of the wager --"
"-- are you a pony?"
She had to think about that for a while. She had the answer: she simply suspected that no matter how she said it, it was going to be the wrong one.
"Yes."
"But not an alicorn."
Rarity instinctively unfurled her complete lack of wings. "Correct."
"Then as a pony," the mouth informed her, "you are flawed. You can be injured or fall sick. Your ultimate mortality was with you from birth, and so clearly qualifies as a pre-existing condition which no insurance is obligated to cover. Pay the full amount in bits before treatment begins."
The unicorn took a slow breath.
"I ask the following solely from curiosity," she said. "What happens if I stop paying insurance?"
"The other party keeps all the money," the mouth explained, "and is not obligated to help you in any way."
"No matter how much I wagered."
"Correct."
"Or how many moons the wager went on."
"You have quite the understanding of this," the mouth acknowledged. "Clearly you've been insured before."
"So how much would I be required to pay in bits for the dentist to treat me?"
The mouth named a total. This took a while. It was the sort of name which required a full page to properly record, with none of that space required for accolades or titles. On the other hand, the commas did require their standard twenty-five percent.
"I don't have that kind of money," Rarity declared, her lips now tight against her teeth from something other than vanity. "Very few ponies have that kind of money. In fact, when compared to the national budget --"
"Then," the mouth smugly cut her off, "you should have gotten better insurance. Or been born an alicorn, in which case you would be immortal and perfect and your teeth would be divine. Possibly by definition. We cannot treat you here. Good day."
The glass panel began to close, and found itself stopped by a jamming white hoof.
"Where can I seek treatment?" a heavily-spiking blue corona inquired. "Treatment from somewhere a pony can afford."
The mouth hesitated. Glints of soft light reflected off its teeth, and all of them came from intensely-vibrating blue-coated files.
"Well," the mouth considered, perhaps wondering how long it had before it was buried in paperwork, "I normally wouldn't tell just anypony this..."
Rarity waited. The corona intensified by a few lumens.
"...but you could always seek out," the mouth cautiously proposed, "the dental school."
"Really," Rarity subtly inquired.
"Yes, yes!" the mouth hastily continued. "They work on ponies at a discount rate! Much lower than what we charge!"
"And do they take insurance?"
The mouth's lips suggested another blink.
"Don't be silly," it said. "The whole point of having insurance is to create a situation where absolutely nopony will ever be required to take it. That way, the party collecting the wagers gets to keep all of them. Really, why would anypony ever take a bet where they might have to pay out? It defeats the entire purpose!"
The vibration of the files increased.
"But the bits are at a considerable price cut!" the mouth desperately added. "Just be at the school by eight tomorrow morning! That's when they evaluate the emergency patients!"
"Very well," Rarity softly said. "Thank you for your time." She turned, dimming her horn as she did so, and began to make her way out of the office. The high-pitched sound seemed to be following her.
"It wouldn't have mattered anyway," the mouth told her. "You only have general medical insurance. You would have needed dental."
"Teeth," Rarity told the air, "have a pre-existing condition of being vulnerable to damage."
"I know! Isn't it marvelous!"
She couldn't recall having been on the train, or the slow search through Canterlot's streets which must have been required to find a building she'd never heard of. She was just... in the atrium. A wide, airy space which hosted a pony who felt she'd arrived promptly at eight, plus one pile of paperwork which had either existed since the dawn of time or would take until the end of all things to complete.
Rarity was filling out the forms. Her complete medical history had been requested. This included every injury she had ever received, however minor, plus every doctor she'd ever visited, for any reason, and every occasion when she might have been at risk of being hurt. As such, she had done rather well right up until the point where Twilight had entered her life and beyond that, her entire existence had effectively entered triplicate.
The space was large enough for two hundred ponies, at least once you removed part of the first form-recorded Bearer year. It had skylights admitting the light of an oddly grey Sun, and dingy low-level interior clouds for waiting pegasi. There were plants with thin red vines wrapped around the stems and oddly-white flowers. There was a help desk, and the thick coating of dust upon it was helping itself. And for thinking occupants, there was Rarity.
There was also a high-pitched whining noise. It was really becoming quite annoying.
Has anypony in your family ever been prone to injury? inquired the paperwork. Rarity checked off the Yes.
If Yes, provide details.
Details took a while. Not only did her father's hoofball career require full coverage, but the questions were comprehensive enough to have a tree sap section. Rarity wasn't entirely sure how any of it related to the state of her chipped tooth, but filling out the paperwork did occupy a certain amount of time.
(She didn't know how much time was being occupied. The atrium didn't have any clocks, for the same reason that a pronounced judicial sentence of life in prison didn't fill in a number under 'years'. In both cases, the extra agony came from the lack of definition.)
Rarity glanced at the nearest plant. It didn't seem to have grown any taller, although several of the smaller vines were now throbbing.
"Welcome, welcome!" a merry stallion's voice called out from behind her. "It's always a pleasure to see a new patient!" She turned her head just enough to spot the fresh arrival: a stallion wearing a garment which mostly matched his fur. In both cases, the dominant was white -- but it was a white which suggested that a number of other colors had been carefully scraped away. She could just barely make out his mark past the edges: multiple stacks of golden bits. "And I see you've filled out your paperwork! Well, a sufficiency for now." His horn ignited, and a single piece of paper floated over to Rarity. "Now if you'll just sign this...?"
The blaze of red passed over the quill, and Rarity tried to focus on the paper's words. It wasn't easy: in fact, it wasn't even possible. Sentences seemed to swim away from her. Paragraphs took flight, and concepts more or less evaporated. In the end, she signed just to make the world stop moving.
"Excellent!" the stallion beamed, and quickly took the paper back. "You may now be evaluated to see if you are suitable as a patient." And before Rarity could say anything (because words about why a patient needed to be suitable were already pressing at the back of her chipped tooth), he quickly added "Smile!"
The reaction was on instinct, with absolutely none of the typical backing emotion involved.
"And you're suitable!" the stallion declared. "I can see it already! Anypony could!" His own smile became all the wider. "That will be eighty-five bits for the evaluation."
"Very well," Rarity replied, mostly because it wasn't. Soft blue passed the coins over. "May I be treated now?"
"Of course, of course!" he beamed. "Now, somepony has explained to you how this works."
She took a long look at the empty help desk.
"No."
"Then that happy task falls to me!" He began to trot away, and his tail swished a signal for her to follow. "Now, many ponies wonder how we can provide our services at such comparably low prices!"
"I have been meaning to ask," Rarity carefully injected. "Exactly how much --"
"-- because our students need training!" he declared. "And how does one train to perform a profession, especially when one does not happen to have a mark for it?"
Rarity blinked.
"Did you just say --"
"One practices!" He turned, and the grey light bounced off the gleaming teeth. "Smile for me again, and I'll show you a trick!"
She did, and wasn't sure why. Then he told her exactly how old she was, and she stopped caring.
"How did you --"
"It's your Galvayne's Groove! A mare may lie about her age, but her groove..." He grinned. "Well, it's possible to make that lie as well, and at very reasonable rates. Comparably. Also, I couldn't help but notice that you still have your wolf teeth."
"My... what?"
"Your wolf teeth," he repeated, clearly seeming to feel it counted for an explanation. "You know, most ponies have those removed before reaching adulthood."
"Why would anypony voluntarily have their teeth removed?"
"Did you want somepony mistaking you for a wolf? Also, just between the two of us --" his voice dropped into conspiracy "-- your entire arcade would benefit from a little -- straightening."
Rarity carefully considered every part of the sentence.
"I have no idea what you just said."
"Well, your cusps aren't bad. The dental stars could frankly use a polish. But you have a lower incisor which is rotated two-tenths of a degree away from its upper counterpart! And if that's allowed to stand, the lower incisor will eventually begin to scrape against the enamel. Because as a pony, your teeth will never stop emerging from the gumline. So it's essential that we straighten that incisor in order to precisely match its counterpart. And all that's required is to put a little wire in your mouth."
She thought it over. "Well, in the name of a pretty smile, I suppose a little temporary wire -- it is temporary, correct?"
"In the sense," the stallion agreed, "that it's not permanent."
"So the time required would be...?"
"Oh, two, three, four decades," he airily declared. "Or so our patients claim. But that's just subjective time, especially once it begins to slow down any time you have to smile in public. Or chew. Or think about dating. But really, it's twenty years at the most. Plus you have to wear retainers at night. And during the day. For the rest of your life. But your smile will be perfect, except for where it may have been slightly damaged by the wires. And the steel rings. And the screws. You'll love the screws!"
And before she could say anything, he pushed his body against the meeting point of double-doors (she was almost sure there hadn't been any doors) and went through. She followed.
The new hallway was a long one. There were doors every few body lengths, and flickering lights overhead: illumination where she couldn't quite make out the source. There was also a high-pitched sound, one which was becoming increasingly familiar as it gained decibels. She couldn't see where the hallway ended, any more than she could pick out where the screams began.
There were ponies screaming. Quite a few of them. When considered on an individual basis, it was an intermittent sound: each pony in the agonized choir could only manage their own desperate call for a few seconds. Screams were cut off quickly, often ending in an odd gurgle. Others terminated as if the very sound had somehow been sucked away -- and then a new cry filled the gap.
One of the doors opened, and a young mare desperately rushed out, chased by the howls.
"Mr. Canal!" she gasped as sweat fell away from her fur. "I just exposed his entire infundibulum! And with what's already happened to his clinical crowns... he's going to have wave mouth!"
"Fantastic!" the stallion beamed. "That's the best news I've heard all day!"
"...it is?"
"Of course it is!" and now every strand of fur was radiating pure joy. "How else are we going to practice on wave mouth? Just wait for a case to walk in? You've just saved the entire senior class! Now get back in there and wait for reinforcements!" Thoughtfully, "Oh, and not that you should ever try to harm a patient --" a quick glance at Rarity, as if verifying that she was still there "-- but where there's wave mouth, there's an excellent chance for cutting teeth back to the new arcade level. So get the saws. Just in case."
"Yes, sir!" the rapidly-brightening mare happily said. "I've always wanted to saw somepony!"
"Well, who hasn't?" her delighted superior told her. "Back to work!"
The young mare raced away, kicking the door closed behind her. The movement was just enough to shift the garment and expose her mark: a shadowy pony celebrating in front of a judge's bench.
"We're very lucky to have her," the stallion declared. "Do you know how rare a talent for winning unfavorable lawsuits is? She'll go far." And before Rarity could say anything, before her tail even finished taking refuge between her legs, he continued with "Not that she has to worry about that just yet, of course. Or given her mark, ever. But as a student here, she's protected." He began to trot down the hallway again. "Because how does one have a student practice dentistry, when it's not strictly their mark?"
It took three attempts to make the fearful words emerge. "One would -- create a model?" Rarity desperately proposed. "Make it look exactly like a pony's mouth? Enchant it to replicate the appearance of various problems while responding to the student's actions with positive and negative reinforcement? Comprehensive, accurate, harmless simulations?"
He paused. Glanced back over his tail at her, frowned.
"Well, I suppose one could do that," he reluctantly acknowledged. "But that would cost money. It's so much more practical to get ponies trotting in and have them pay us. The students treat them -- at a discount rate! -- and in doing so, learn what to do. And should they happen to make a mistake, then that just creates another learning opportunity! In fact, it's said that in medicine, you learn more from your mistakes than your successes. And so I am truly proud to say that in all of Canterlot --" he paused, waited until the newest gurgling scream died away "-- the most learning takes place here."
She stopped then, under the flickering lights.
"I'm leaving."
"You can't," he beamed.
"Because?"
"Because you signed a contract saying that you wouldn't. Oh, and also that no matter what happens to you here, you won't sue. In fact, you can't. But don't worry. If a student happens to make a mistake, we'll fix it." The grin became wider. "And if there's another mistake, we'll fix that too. They're learning, you know. Learning means mistakes, and mistakes means fixing things, and we'll fix and fix until you're perfect. Imagine the dedication that takes, especially without a mark..."
She was backing up now. Heading towards the doors they'd entered by, except that those doors seemed to be gone. Her tail was beating against solid stone, the curls disintegrating at the same rate as hope.
"But -- but it's a skill!" she frantically protested. "If a skill exists, then there's a pony who has a mark for it!"
"Of course it's a skill," he smiled. "Getting bits out of ponies is always a skill. It's the part with the teeth that needs some practice."
"I --" she swallowed "-- want a marked student! If I am going to be treated here, I insist on seeing a pony with talent!"
His eyes widened. The edges of the smile almost met at the back of his neck.
"Really?"
"YES!"
"I am so happy to hear you say that!" He practically capered on the spot. "Do you have any idea how long it's been since anypony actually asked -- well, it is my delight to accommodate you! Room 601 for you!"
There was a shallow sink. Water constantly flowed into it from a tiny fountain-like faucet. Some of that vanished into the drain. More was pulled into a hissing nozzle which connected to a thin, flexible metal pipe. The nozzle seemed to be sucking in the world.
There was a long, low table. It looked as if it had been designed to elevate itself, along with rotating on an axis. It was just about the length and width of a pony body. It came with reinforced cuffs.
She saw some pedals on the floor, connected to levers and springs. The natural assumption was that they were present to allow non-unicorn operation for some of the equipment.
A tray held a precisely-sized ring of steel, one designed to fit over a forehoof. The steel had slots, and the instruments meant to be held steady by those slots were... pointed. Twisted. When examined closely, they resembled only two things: each other and instruments of torture, which Rarity considered to be redundant.
Clear glass tubes held fluid. Terminating needles unsuitable for sewing had it dripping from their tips.
There was also a high-pitched whining sound. It was coming from a thin cylinder. One end was cone-shaped, sharp-pointed, and rotating.
Rarity tried the door again. Still locked.
I am fine. I will be seeing a pony whose mark is for this work. All will be well...
The cuffs were rather frayed at their bases. As if something had been pulling against them. Repeatedly. Frantically --
-- the door opened.
The earth pony stallion who entered was fairly young, but she'd expected that: a student, after all. His garment was dark and of an oddly thick material, while the mane was black and slicked low against the skull.
"Hello," he calmly said. "I understand you asked for me. Thank you for that. When it comes to my talent, I always try to do my best. Now, as part of that talent, let me explain exactly what we're doing today. The chip in your tooth will be filled in with an artificial enamel, one which precisely matches the natural color. That filling will then be permanently bonded. It should take less than three minutes."
She looked at his mark. An icon which precisely matched the cylinder with the fast-rotating tip. And for the first time in what felt like years, her frayed tail ceased to lash.
"Thank you."
He patiently, professionally nodded.
"Additionally," he placidly went on, "as long as you are here, I will of course inspect you to see if other work might be necessary. This will involve probing your teeth and gums with these instruments." A nod towards the tray. "Should I locate a spot which produces a reaction, that will show a need to be treated."
She looked at the instruments. The metal points gleamed.
"Those..." Her tail was starting to move again. "...look like they hurt."
"Yes," he calmly replied. "Which gives me things to fix. Also, there is a device which can show me what the inside of your teeth looks like. It gives off a magical aura which lights up your entire head. From the inside. Ponies have interesting reactions when that happens. Some of them try to run, which is very impractical to do while in cuffs. Everypony at the school is very impressed by the potential of that device. But we're not allowed to spend too much time in the same room with it. Just in case."
Rarity swallowed. "In case... of...?"
"In case the skull doesn't stop glowing. Now if I find any cavities, we will need to remove them. This is done by cutting them out. Did you know your teeth have nerves running along the interiors? They respond interestingly to cutting. We're still studying the reactions. But of course, in order for patients to remain calm, we have an injection which helps the pain."
He'd said that just before she'd lined up her charge on the door. "That's good to know."
"Yes," the slick-maned stallion steadily said. "The injection comes from that needle. The one which is about the length of your hoof's width. Sometimes we have to do it several times, because it's hard to hit the nerve. Also, it wears off. At interesting times, which are even more interesting because they're different for every pony. But when that happens, you can just tell me. That may seem as if it would be hard to do with instruments in your mouth and the nozzle pulling the words in, but some ponies manage. And of course, I'll see your reaction."
Which was when he did the worst thing. He smiled.
"There will be a reaction," he decided. "There always is. I make sure of it. The reaction is one of the best parts. But it's never quite as good as the screaming. Why do you think that is?"
"You..." Head down, horn first, make sure he's hurting too much to stop me, just find a way out. "...you're supposed to be practicing your mark."
"I am."
His left forehoof pressed against a pedal.
The cuffs glowed, lanced from the table, surrounded her ankles and hocks, began to drag her relentlessly backwards as she pushed, desperately tried to get her mouth around something which would anchor her, but the pull kept increasing and that high-pitched whine was getting louder and louder, almost to the point where it alone could block out the screaming. Her screaming.
But it never quite got there. It didn't block out the sound of his slipping a hoof into the steel ring. The soft delight in his voice as he spoke for the last time, at the moment her back hit the table and the expanding rods shot down from the ceiling, joisting her jaw open. In the second before every instrument moved towards her exposed teeth, he explained everything, and the whine simply provided the chorus for his gentle joy.
"I have a talent," the slick-maned stallion stated, "for causing things pain."
It took a few seconds before she could register any sounds beyond those produced by her own screaming, let alone the sensation of powerful forehooves pressing against her shoulders.
"-- snap out of it, Rarity! It was jus' a nightmare! Come on, jus' snap out of it, you're awake, you're okay...!"
The next thing to reach her was the scent of the hut: many of the plants Zecora used for her potions had distinctive odors, especially when cooked, boiled, or -- everything else the resident did to them. It gave the entire edifice a slowly-changing signature smell. And the aspect which truly welcomed her back to reality was spotting the zebra herself, a shame-filled face quickly coming into view on Applejack's right.
"My fault entire, your current state," she sadly declared. "And so I now accept your hate. For when I made your recent brew, unseen errors did accrue. An extra leaf, a stray twig, and too strong a touch of heat -- the error of an apprentice, one I never shall repeat. The nightmares held you, we tried to wake you, both with no success. So..." The striped head dipped. "I await your anger, as your form of redress."
Rarity blinked. Focused on the farmer's hat, and kept her attention there.
"I was hit by an accidental rebound from an unripe apple," she eventually brought back. "It hit me in such a way as to chip my tooth. And more than that. The impact made me confused for a short time. Applejack was worried about a concussion. But she remembered you had potions for that. So she trotted with me, made sure I got here in safety..."
Her tongue momentarily probed at the restored tooth. Doing so hardly looked ladylike, and she didn't care.
"Yeah," Applejack exhaled. "But after y'took the concussion potion... Zecora said you'd sleep for twenty minutes or so. Your brain resting, y'know? But not nightmares. Not like that. And we couldn't wake you up until it wore off."
The zebra was standing stock-still, head dipped with blue eyes half-closed. Waiting.
"Applejack," Rarity carefully asked from her position on the resting bench, "may I stand?"
The farmer gave her room. Not too much: just enough to get up in. Staying close, just in case anything else happened.
"Zecora..." The designer took a slow breath. "...mistakes happen. Even for those acting in the heart of their talent, it remains possible to make a mistake. Some of the Canterlot tourists who recently viewed my autumn collection claimed I made nothing but mistakes. We simply... try to move on. We correct ourselves, and..." She stepped forward, making sure she was steady on her hooves. "...we forgive."
She gently pressed her snout against Zecora's face. Offered the nuzzle meant for friends.
Three seconds of motionless silence passed.
Softly, "Please explain, because I feel you must. What have I done to earn this trust?"
"Helped. Over and over. It was only a nightmare, Zecora. Please -- I forgive you. Can you forgive yourself?"
And finally, the alchemist nuzzled back.
They were just about clear of the Everfree. It didn't mean anything for their caution: Sun was getting low, and only fools completely trusted the path when night approached.
"So what was the nightmare 'bout? Y'were kind of twitching for a while, y'looked disgusted a few times, an' then when the screaming started..." Applejack tried to put a smile on it, and barely succeeded. "Ah figured y'were at a Stormy Day fashion show. For an exclusive Barneigh's line."
Rarity instinctively shuddered. "No -- although I'm not certain that would have been an improvement. I suppose my thoughts prior to taking the concussion treatment influenced the dream, Applejack. I'd just consumed the dental potion, and... do you know there are species which can't use them? The standard formulas don't work on everyone. Zecora once told me that there are those in her nation who are trying to correct for that, but -- until they succeed, those sapients must use --" a shiver this time "-- other methods. I have seen books filled with the images of those practices. I used one on Nightmare Night to scare the children away from consuming too much sugar..."
A few more hoofsteps. Getting close to the border now.
"I was thinking about how lucky we are," Rarity concluded. "And how others don't share our fortune. So I dreamed about what it would be like, to go through what they must."
"An' that made y'scream."
Rarity silently nodded.
"More than you've screamed for monsters. And Discord. And that last Barneigh's catalog."
Again.
Applejack looked up, found the shimmer of glow through the leafy canopy.
Sincerely, "Thank Sun for zebras."
"And Moon," Rarity added. "Oh, yes, that reminds me... regarding the maple trees you brought in this year? What was Mac doing to them when we passed him?"
"Drilling a hole t' tap the sap. Doesn't hurt the tree if we do it right and use some magic right after."
With just a little too much neutrality, "A high-speed, mouth-held rotary drill. Which produces a rather distinctive high-pitched whine."
"Yeah. There's other ways t' do it, but we borrowed one from --"
Mournfully, "Borrowed."
"...yeah. What's wrong with that? Since we don't need one full-time --"
"-- I'll still give you a hundred bits to let me stomp it into pieces."
"Rarity."
"Two hundred?"
"It ain't mine --"
"Fine." The designer softly snorted.
"Glad y'understand."
"Three."
