Wild woke up. There was something else, but it slipped right out of his mind before he could notice it. He could hear birds chirping outside, and the sunlight shone on him, making his eyelids visibly pink even when closed. He blinked, his eyes meeting a ceiling that had not been familiar to him for a long time. Then he remembered - in his childhood bedroom, the space right above his bed on the ceiling was taken by a large piece of black fabric, and many stars that glowed in the dark were glued to it. He rose on his elbows, and he was so startled by it that he fell back down.

His body... it was human again. He brought his hands in front of his face. There they were, his fingers. He flexed them, curled them, felt the muscles move and the skin stretch accordingly. His hands... they were clear, too. His skin was of healthy color, and there were no scars.

Slowly, with movements he had almost forgotten he rose from his bed. And it was his bed, the feeling was unmistakable. The softness of his comforter and his pillow, the springiness of the mattress, the sensation of his bare skin against the blanket, all of it was intensely and starkly familiar.

His room was small and had just one window. Aside from his bed, there was the wardrobe - with all the stickers he had put on it when he was younger - and a table with a chair. On top of the table, stood his computer, which was outdated by almost a decade. An old, yellowed CRT monitor was there as well. He remembered when his parents brought him this computer on his twelfth birthday. He didn't know it then, but he later learned that the entire setup was picked from the trash, thoroughly cleaned, and partially repaired. However, he never cared about it - he was simply happy to have a computer, even though the monitor was an old and heavy CRT type, and the system itself was extremely out of date, featuring Pentium 4 and AGP graphics. Over the years, the bezels of the screen were covered by many stickers and notes, and the computer case received the same treatment. The yellowed plastic was the same shade he remembered, too.

He needed to wake up.

The thought slithered out of his grasp before he could fully understand it. He stood up from his bed, which creaked just so, and the feel of hardwood floor under his bare feet was unmistakable. It was just like he remembered it. Was he even ever gone? His life as a pony now seemed like a dream, but he knew it was real.

Slowly, he made his way to the door. On it, a mirror hung. He now saw himself, dressed only in underwear, and his eyes widened. All his scars were gone, his skin nice and smooth, its color healthy. His hair was all back too, thick and dense and healthy. The eternal bags under his eyes were gone, and their color shone like never before. His body was not unhealthily thin - in fact, it was in the best shape he could ever remember it being.

He opened the door into a familiar living room. His nose caught the scent of food. The freshness of vegetables was apparent, and he thought there were some fried potatoes in there too. Without much thought, he made his way over to the kitchen.

"Good morning, son."

He stopped in his tracks, turning to the dining table. He didn't know how he didn't notice his own father sitting there. The man was in his early forties but already almost entirely bald, although he had a thick brown beard which shone red when sunlight passed through it. His face was slightly lined with age, and his warm gray eyes looked at his son in a welcoming way.

"Did the sonya finally wake up?" another voice, his mother, spoke, in an accent so very familiar that was not yet shed despite years of living in the USA. And there she was, his mother, coming from the kitchen, a bowl of vegetable salad in her hands.

He needed to wake up.

"Maybe bright, but not very early," his father quipped, smiling.

"P-papa? Mama?" he stuttered, and a realization hit him - his voice, it was back. He didn't feel... there was no anxiety. The words came out freely if hoarsely.

"Sit down, drink some water," his father told him, his face growing serious, "You've gone through a lot."

"I..." he was lost, unsure of what to do. This all couldn't be real, could it? They were dead. They were both dead. It wasn't possible.

He needed to wake up.

"Drink some water, son."

He sat down and, without looking at his family, filled a cup - his own cup, he knew this cup - with water. He drank it greedily, then filled it again, and drank it once more.

"Son," his father placed his hand on his shoulder, and he didn't flinch from this touch, "We're very sorry you went through what you did. We're sorry we weren't there."

"You'll always be our son, remember it," his mother joined in, sitting from the other side, putting a gentle hand on him, "No matter what."

"I... I did bad things," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with shame and regret, "I'm not worthy of your love anymore. I'm sorry."

"You made them pay for what they did to you," his father squeezed his shoulder, "There is no shame in that. They violated you, and you struck back until they couldn't do it to anyone else."

"You are not to blame," his mother told him, "They tried to break you, and they got what they deserved."

"But they broke me..."

"No. What you did was your choice, the best choice you could've made with what you had," his father assured him, "But it's all in the past now."

"You... you're supposed to be dead. Mama too."

"But we're here," his mother told him, "We're not going away again."

"Never again," his father nodded, "You've gone through a lot, and we're proud of you. No matter what, we're with you. You're our son, and we love you."

Warmth spread throughout his body at this declaration. His smile was wobbly, tears were welled up in his eyes, but he felt good, better than he had in ages.

"We will always love you, dorogoy," his mother said softly, now hugging him, "You're our son, you're precious. We'd never forsake you, don't even think that for a minute. We love you, always."

"And... and I... I love you," he sniffed, hugging back both his mother and his father, "Mama, papa... I love you."

"We know, son, and this love will never be broken," his father said, "We love you."

He closed his eyes, quietly crying yet still feeling the gentle embraces of his parents. They were back - it didn't even matter how or why - and he was back with them. He rarely professed his love for them, but now he could, and he would do that again and again.

We love you, son.

I love you, mama, papa.

His mind drifted, lazily swimming through the warmth. Everything was going to be alright. They were-

He needed to wake up.

We love you, son.

I love you, mama, papa.

He felt like he could fly. He was back, he was alive, he was good. They don't hate him. They didn't throw him away despite what he did. They knew what he did and they didn't reject him. They still loved him, and he loved them back, just like a family should. They raised him, and it was right to repay them for every kindness. No matter what, they wouldn't be gone from his life now.

He needed to wake up.

We love you, son.

I love you, mama, papa.

He drifted along the gentle winds of sleep. Tomorrow, he would wake up, and his parents would be there. The gray eyes of his father, the brown eyes of his mother. Their faces, smiling at him, never judging. Tomorrow would be a new day, a new beginning. As a human again, but perhaps it was worth it. Perhaps-

WAKE. UP.

This voice was coming from somewhere, it was familiar. But why would he wake up? He was comfortable, it was nice and warm, and tomorrow would be good.

He felt... relaxed. But not - it was tense. But no, it was relaxing. Softness surrounded him. He needed to accept a good thing happening to him. He needed to-

WAKE. UP.

There was no need. Everything would be fi-

WAKE. UP.

We love you, son.

I love you, mama, papa.

WAKE. UP.

There was no need.

WAKE. UP.

He was fine. Tomorrow-

WAKE. UP. NOW.

The room was tiny and dark. The only light was provided by a green cocoon, which moved ever so slowly as if in a breeze that wasn't there. The deep shadows of the shelves and cleaning supplies were impossibly dark. The smell was sweet - a bit too much so.

The cocoon was stuck to the ceiling, a familiar shape inside it, Wild knew it.

How did he know it? How did he see? He was inside it. He knew he was inside the cocoon. But he was on the outside too, looking without eyes, smelling without a nose, feeling without his body.

Without. His. Body.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong. He blinked but didn't, his mind working sluggishly - and he was not inside his body. He was-

Without. His. Body.

His heart beat faster but didn't, a phantom sensation of breath catching in his throat was an illusion of his mind. Blood rushing to his head was an audible noise made by nothing and heard by no one.

Aimlessly, mindlessly, without looking but still seeing, he darted around the room in panic, passing through objects as if they weren't even there. Where was he? What was going on? Why was he outside his own body?

He felt nauseous but didn't. How could he move without legs or wings or hands or anything? How could he be without - outside - his body? Why? How?

It was not real but it was. He knew it was real. He knew he was real. What he was experiencing was real.

He remembered - the news of attack on Canterlot, the green flash to his right. Something happened to him, and now his body - his body without his soul - was in a cocoon.

As he moved - without legs feet hands wings muscles - he left black smoke in his wake, red sickly - how sick? - glow along the edges and swirling inside like a miasma. It was him.

He needed to focus, but where was his mind? It was in his head, which was attached to his body, which was in a cocoon, and he wasn't in his own body.

He didn't know how much time he spent panicking, but he slowly calmed down enough to think. To think without a brain, without a head, without his own body.

He needed to get himself out of this cocoon, whatever it was. With a clarity he didn't know he ever possessed, he knew just rushing in back to his body would put him right back into the dream - into the false hopes and lies he told himself - and he would be nowhere. He needed to free himself from the cocoon, but how? He didn't have hands, he didn't have claws...

The room, it had shelves. On the shelves, there were things. His mind was still slow, but now he was looking through the shelves. Cleaning supplies dominated the storage, and they were useless to him - they were a bunch of bottles of various chemical solutions, boxes full of paper towels or microfiber towels or other sorts of rags. Various broom brushes, broom handles big and small, straight and weirdly-shaped.

Finally, he found something that could work - a trowel of some kind, maybe a scraper, one or the other, it didn't matter to him. But how could he grab it? He didn't have a body. No hands, no claws-

He had magic. But magic was part of his body... wasn't it? But then his mind was supposed to be a part of his body but it wasn't.

As if waiting for it, a pair of hands appeared out of him. They were smoky, black, edges glowing sickly red. Their shape was clear despite the swirls he could see inside. He didn't feel them like his hands - real hands of his human body - felt, but they felt almost exactly like his magical hands did. He flexed his fingers, sensing a vague feeling of movement inside them, then grasped the trowel.

The cocoon felt like a grape skin to his touch, yet a lot stronger. His own hands could do nothing to it but budge it slightly, making the entire thing sway, and his body inside it swaying with it. Carefully, he picked a spot, then struck with the trowel. The skin of the cocoon stretched but didn't break, and the cocoon released a small cloud of green... something. He couldn't really feel it, but the consistency was between smoke and spores.

He struck and struck again, but each time the trowel bounced back, seemingly not doing even a single scratch. Frustration was building up, and he could barely stave off panic. In a lapse of concentration, he dropped the trowel. Before it could hit the floor, however, he managed to catch it.

He struck, harder and harder, but the trowel only bounced back, taunting him. The cocoon refused to give in, and he was forced to abandon his efforts. He likely needed something sharper, perhaps something heavier. He wondered if a drill would work.

He searched the shelves for something more, something better. He looked over various sprays, and an idea came to him - what if one of them would dissolve the skin of the cocoon? It was worth a try.

He sprayed and wiped on the cocoon, the small space feeling with a chemical smell of lemon. None of it appeared to work, but he didn't give up until he had sprayed a little bit of everything. And then, just to test it, he grabbed the trowel again and struck.

It took a few tries before he could firmly grasp it and lift it. His hands still felt weird, too soft yet also strong as the same time. In a lapse of concentration, he almost dropped the trowel.

Success, the skin was pierced! He worked with the trowel further, widening the opening, letting green jello-like goop fall out of the hole as he did it. Then he cut along, the skin separating easily, and finally, after what felt like forever, the cocoon burst entirely with a wet-sounding pop. His body, no longer suspended within, flopped gracelessly on the floor. He finally allowed himself back into his body, relief flooding him when he felt it. The fur, the skin, the flesh, everything came back, and he finally felt like himself.

The wetness surrounding him was warm, slowly but surely fading into cold. He shivered, feeling sticky and gross, covered in who knew what everywhere on his body, even in places he didn't want to think about. He was weak now, his limbs trembling despite his muscles feeling rested. Something inside of him felt emptier, almost dried up in a way, but he couldn't quite understand what it was and what it meant. It wasn't a physical sort of sensation, but he would struggle to describe it in any other way.

The relief inside him was replaced by nausea. He felt violated, somehow defiled, and bile rose in his throat. He forced it down, focusing his mind on getting rid of the goop still clinging to him. But even then, he remembered a different time, a time where he was much more helpless, a time where he was locked in some sort of a basement just like he was locked in now.

The horror wasn't there - perhaps it would never be again - but he remembered how he felt, how his body felt. In that basement, there was no escape, not for a long time, far longer than now. He didn't have magic then, and he was left at the mercy of people whom he didn't want to remember. He was violated, he knew. He was bloodied, sticky, unwashed, gross and disgusting, and everything was just so wrong...

He needed to get out. He got out then, he would get out now. He had magic. He wasn't helpless. He would never again be helpless. He would not return - not to his past, not to this terrifying repeat of it, never again. He had been at his weakest, at his most vulnerable, at his most defenseless, but he wasn't now.

He fixed that thought in his mind. He wasn't powerless. He had magic. He would escape.

A part of him whispered - why didn't he just die? What was the point of enduring it, of experiencing the same thing again?

He shook his head - it wasn't the same now. He would escape before anything more was done to him. He glanced at the door - it was sturdy steel, a tiny narrow slot at the bottom, and no sign of a lock. He blinked, shook his head. The door was made of wood and had a handle. With great relief, he opened it easily. and the door was now wide open.

The corridor in front of him was narrow, and made even narrower by many cocoons, same as his, but now stuck to walls instead of hanging from the ceiling. There was, once again, no light except from the glow of the cocoons. If there was a switch somewhere, he couldn't spot it from where he was.

The ponies inside the cocoons barely moved as they slept. He wondered what kind of dreams they had right now, completely unaware of what happened to them in reality.

His mind was oddly clear, devoid of anything outside the need to, somehow, fix it all. He needed to consider his options.

There was an attack on Canterlot, he knew. He was knocked out when a green flash happened to the right of him when he was eating. And now ponies were imprisoned in some weird cocoons made of who even knows what.

Who attacked them? Some sort of oversized bugs? He didn't know much about insects, so that path of thought was bust. Knowing who or what attacked the orphanage would be beneficial, but it's not something he could easily figure out now.

He could free himself, then maybe he could free others. He just needed more cleaning supplies, and this basement seemed like a place where a lot of them were stored.

He inhaled deeply, then exhaled, focusing his mind. He couldn't figure out what happened alone, and he certainly couldn't fight against whatever it was that put him in a cocoon alone either.

Time to get to work.

Author's Note

In this story, the cocoons are made by changelings to essentially put ponies into sleep forever. They would dream pleasant dreams about love - all kinds of it, familial, romantic, etc - and would thus produce food for the changelings. The cocoon is filled with nutrients so that ponies wouldn't starve in it, although it needs to be refilled every so often. It is very resilient, although one would be able to pierce through it with something razor-sharp. The combination of cleaning chemicals Wild used broke down the skin of the cocoon enough for something far duller to work.

Next chapter will finally bring some action.