There’s this creature staring back at me from the mirror, and I don’t like it. Its two legs are obscured by the mirror’s limited view, but I can still tell that this creature is unnaturally tall. Two shrunken front appendages brace against the marble countertop. Instead of hooves, each limb ends in strange tentacle-like protrusions that curl and twist grotesquely. In lieu of a coat or fur, the creature is overdressed in an assortment of oddly selected fabrics that almost entirely conceal its near-hairless body. Blue jeans held up by a large black belt, a cheap watch, a long-sleeved orange shirt. The most distinctive article is the creature’s black, faux leather jacket, with each sleeve styled with orange chevrons. Most of the outfit is superficial and impractical, covering more than it needs to and fit for much colder weather. The hardest part to look at is the thing’s head. It’s hornless and flat, with no muzzle to speak of. Sharp, uncanny teeth peek out as it grimaces at me. The being’s mane almost looks right, grazing but not breaching the surface of normality, as without a tail, the creature’s body looks entirely off-balance.
I look down and the bulk of the creature leaves my vision, but those odd flesh claws are still there, clinging onto the marble like it's the only thing keeping its body upright.
Its body. I have to remind myself again that this body is mine. I inhabit it and live among others just like it. I am, regardless of my choice in the matter, simply human. Though I struggle to conceive how living in something this malformed and alien could ever be this simple.
One of my not-hoof grasps onto the metal lever of the sink, if only just to feel a different texture, and pulls it down. Cold water streams out, which I cup and splash onto my odd, flat face. I do this several times, and when I’m done, I look back at the mirror and see the creature again. The only difference being that it looks sadder and angrier, with water droplets clinging to its face and spots of wetness blotting its shirt.
My hands grasp around for a paper towel and pull down a few plies. I scrub my face dry and zip up my jacket to hide the spots on my shirt, even though I’m already sweating profusely. My eyes catch the time on my watch. It’s fifteen minutes into our lunch period. Ten since I excused myself from the table. My mind seizes at the momentary distraction, and I game out my next moves. At the moment, I’d much rather stay here for the next half hour of lunch period. But of course, a fact I’ve come to be quite familiar with is that one’s desires almost never align with reality. The girls would most likely ask why I disappeared for so long. Plus, my food’s still sitting there on the table.
I decide I’d rather bear through a vapid lunch conversation now than deal with an interrogation later, so I veer away from the sink, avoiding looking back at the evil, silvered glass pane hanging above it. The hallway is a brief respite for me due to its lack of reflective surfaces and other faces, and I spend much of the trip down it restoring my composure.
The moment I step into the lunchroom, I almost fall apart all over again. A wave of noise, thick with a thousand different conversations, washes over me. At the same time, a miasma of smells wafts around. Cheap, unhealthy food, the sickly sweet aroma of animals that were killed to be cooked and eaten. My building disgust reminds me that I’m an alien here.
My legs are halfway through a 180-degree turn back through the door when my eye catches a waving hand at the far end of the room. I instinctively reverse my turn and make eye contact with Rainbow Dash. Recognition flashes on her face, and I internally kick myself as I realize I can’t turn back now. I’m going to have to eat lunch with my friends now. Fun.
Heading over to their table, I maneuver past moving bands of teenagers, doing my best to look as disinterested as possible. As I close in, bits and pieces of their conversation filters through. ‘...after this…’ ‘I don’t know…’ ‘...well at least it’s us two…’ ‘...It’s not that far...’. I understand the words, but I fail to grasp the greater meaning behind them. Nevertheless, in a few short seconds, I’m at their table, sliding into my seat at the side of the table, next to Twilight and opposite Rainbow Dash and Applejack.
“You know, Rainbow here was half-ready to go on and check on ya, since you were takin’ so long,” Applejack says.
I raise an eyebrow at Rainbow.
She sputters and her face crosses in offense. “What? I mean, yeah, only ‘cause Twilight here wouldn’t stop yapping about it, all, ‘Oh, but what if Sunset’s in trouble.’”
I glance at Twilight, who’s wilting in her seat and turning away as she nervously laughs.
Sparing her my gaze, I know I want to be annoyed at Twilight for worrying about me, but for some reason I can’t muster the emotion within me. Twilight’s just one of those people that are very hard to get annoyed with for too long.
Rainbow continues, “The only thing in trouble is your salad, uh, sandwich… thing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so soggy and wet…and sad—.”
“Yeah,” I say in a monotone voice while giving her a death glare. “I get it.”
I look down at the brown paper bag containing my lunch: a fresh vegetable sandwich. Taking a peek in, though, I realize formerly fresh would be a better descriptor. Browning lettuce sits between two masses of beige mush. My appetite has pretty much gone and died, so I roll up the top of the bag and push it slightly away.
Rainbow Dash opens her mouth and I assume she’s about to go on another diatribe, when two pink arms come down hard on the table beside Twilight.
“And then I said, ‘Hey guys if Sunset needs help she would’ve messaged us already.’” Pinkie begins, and I already know we’re in for a long one, “And Dashie was all, ‘Oh you know how she can be, never asking for help even if she needs it.’ and I was like, ‘Well if she’s not asking, she can probably handle it.’ and Fluttershy made a face, like she was trying to say, ‘BUT WHAT IF SUNSET DIED?’ and I said, ‘If she’s dead, then we can’t help her so we should probably just finish our lunch first so it doesn’t go to waste.’ and everyone looked at me like I was—”
“Pinkie, must you recount the entire discussion?” Rarity said, rolling her eyes.
“Actually, I was about to ask what I missed.” I clear my throat and lower my volume. “Though, you can skip all the parts where you were talking about me.”
For a moment, I feel a tinge of hope that the conversation will veer away from me having to talk about myself and into something less heavy.
“Alrighty then,” Applejack says, “Pretty sure we were talkin’ about college.”
Something inside me sputters and dies, and I can’t tell if it’s my brain or heart, though neither of which are particularly up for this challenge. College. Of course, they were talking about college. What else would six seniors a few months away from graduation discuss? What else would the universe curse me with having to think about? I gulp, and my hands cling to my seat, bracing myself for what I know is about to come.
We’ve had this discussion before. Many times before, actually, and not one of them pleasant. Each time, it goes about the same: circling around the group, each one talking about their plans for the future. Although these past few times I’ve sensed a change. These college aspirations, once dreams shared over sleepover snacks after midnight, now seem to form into actual goals and plans. As each of their future realities crystallizes before me, my vague non-answers and weak dodges become more and more suspect. I realize now that I should’ve saved the bathroom trip to skip this conversation.
One after another, each begins their routine divulging, passing the “college ball”, as I’ve come to call it, around the table. Rarity and AJ are planning to go to Manehattan to take Fashion Design and Agricultural Science respectively. Rainbow’s also heading out east with her sights set on working her way into the Wonderbolt Football Team, Fluttershy’s spending a year to work at the shelter before studying to become a veterinarian. And Twilight is heading West to the Vanhoover Institute of Technology. Just hearing the name of that school always puts me in a bad mood. Another reminder that she, and all the others, are going away.
“And what about you, Sunset?” Twilight asks me. It’s always been the inevitable question and she’s the one who asks me each time, but that doesn’t stop it from being the worst possible thing I could be answering right now.
I don’t know, I hear the familiar deflection echoing in my brain. But this time I stop myself before I say it. I’m not in the mood for deflection. “I don’t— I don’t think I really want to go to college.”
A collective gasp.
“Well… why not?” AJ asks in a voice I know should sound kind, but I can only register it as patronizing.
“Well, I was thinking I could do something else.” I don’t know why I’m trying to justify myself but I do it anyway, like a habit. “I could go full-time with my music, or try and get a stable job first. I’m just not the colleging type, I guess.”
“But…” Twilight starts. Try as I might, I can’t tune it out. “But you’re smart and driven and talented, and you’re… you! There has to be a program out there for you. It would be such a waste if—”
“A waste?” I don’t spare her my glare this time. I want her to know I’m listening. “Go ahead and call me a failure while you’re at it.”
“I mean… That’s not what I meant at all. It’s just that… Maybe—”
“Maybe I just don’t want to go. You ever consider that?” I’ve heard enough, and I know if I stick around here any longer, things will only get worse. Before anyone can get in another word, I stand up, bunch the brown paper bag in my hand, and leave them there. At the door, I toss my salad-sandwich-thing into the trash, and head into the hallway, not giving that table a second glance.
I take a small hit of sick satisfaction in imagining the reaction they’d all have to that. At least it’ll get them to stop asking, and maybe now I can live out the rest of senior year without being hounded about my “future”.
Still, I can’t help but feel awful about it (not like that’s a particularly novel feeling, though). I lied to Twilight and the others. If it were up to me, I’d pick a random cardinal direction, travel a hundred miles until I hit some school named after some five hundred years dead politician or general, and enroll as soon as possible. Celestia (the god-princess, not the principal) knows what I’d do to be like them. To be sure. To have a future to talk about. But ponies living in human flesh suits, like me, don’t get that opportunity. Getting into CHS was a hassle all to itself and I suspect my success in that matter was more due to that initial interview with Celestia (the principal), in which her sympathy for my pitiful state overrode any suspicions she had with my documents. I’d rather not bet on the kindheartedness of some random stranger again. Creatures like me don’t get lucky twice.
Besides, I like to think I’m over my days of deception and forgery. If I have anything going for me, it’s that I’m not who I used to be. Although even that thought struggles to provide any sense of comfort. After all, what’s the point of getting people to stop hating you, if you can’t even get yourself to do it?
By now, I’ve wandered quite far from the lunchroom and ended up in some hallway I’m unable to locate in my mental map of the school. I don’t care enough to find it either way. With a few minutes still left in the period, I slump against the wall and unzip my jacket. My breath, which I only realize now has become shallow and unsteady, evens out and my heart rate slows to just above a normal level. I raise my hand up and watch it tremble in the air. I know I’ll be late for my next class, so for the rest of lunch, I sit there, sweaty, exhausted, and utterly disgusted with myself.
—
Hours later, I’m at home in my bed. My unfocused gaze is directed upwards at the blurry beige ceiling above me. I don’t know what time it is exactly; my phone’s out of reach and I don’t care to find it. But I know two things for certain: it’s dark out, and I’m still in my human body. I roll over, and clutch my stomach with my arms, feeling sick and tired and angry all at once.
I know if someone were to hear my thoughts, they would be quick to mention the obvious solution.
Go through the portal, dumbass.
At first glance, it does seem like the obvious solution, doesn’t it? Go back. Transform into a pony again. Free yourself from this prison of flesh. It sounds simple, of course.
But doing so would just be admitting the one thing I’ve been denying all these years. I’d be telling the world that I can’t do it. Essentially, I’d be giving up.
Through the window, the clouds part ever so slightly, and a half-obscured crescent moon peeks into view. The thin white band illuminates the surrounding cloud cover, forming an unstable, shifting halo. Slowly I sit up, transfixed by this minor distraction. Unable to stop myself, I swing out of bed and amble forward, my limbs dragging along like weights.
I reach the window late and the clouds move to cover the moon again, only a faint glow remaining to remind me it’s still there, though out of sight. Leaning against my window sill, I keep looking out into the sky as I recall a night almost like this one. It was another cloudy night with its own hidden moon. A night from over a year ago. A night I think about often.
I’m unable to stop the image that comes next. Of a demon clad in scarlet and gold, with gnarled wings and a raging flame for hair. I see magic, alicorn magic, corrupted and twisted into unholy fire. Then a group of friends shielded in purple, a series of prismatic transformations, and then a blinding light and a multicolor beam directed right at me.
I remember how I’d felt as well. At first, utterly convinced of the necessity of what I was doing. Convinced not so much that I was doing right, but rather doing justice. I remember how good it felt to be powerful, as powerful as I was always meant to be. And I remember hatred, so much hatred for that princess. It all seems so absurd now that I can’t help but laugh. But after that was pain, confusion, disappointment, failure. Abject failure and humiliation.
Still, there was one emotion that, for so long, I’ve failed to understand. Now I can’t help but think about it.
Hope. I felt hopeful then, somehow. I guess I knew, deep down, that I was finally going home. For a moment I had won, and, demon or not, the portal was right there, waiting for me. I was so close to finally being out of this wretched dimension. I was so sure then, that this was how things were supposed to be, and this is what I was supposed to be doing. A part of me misses that certainty. That conviction. Even if, in the end, it was all for nothing.
After successfully remembering the second-worst night of my life, I close the curtains and wrench myself from the window. I move, almost aimlessly, to the bathroom. My hands fumble the door knob open, and I push it too hard. The door swings carelessly and bangs against the wall. I neglect to close it. I turn on the light, though my eyes protest and a wave of nausea crashed over me.
Only after I’m done rubbing away the pain and composing myself, I realize I’m standing before the sink. Then I look up and feel nauseous all over again. What is it I’m looking at?
My mind answers: A creature lost in an unfamiliar world. A trespasser overstaying her welcome. An impostor pretending to fit in.
Beyond that? A list of long-gone past selves. Demon intent on conquering and enslaving two worlds. Figurative demon queen of high school. Power-hungry ex-pupil bent on revenge. Student of Princess Celestia.
Each time, I had a goal, something definite in my future that I sought to achieve: conquest, popularity, power, recognition. Now? All the future held for me was a high school graduation, and then the life I’d had managed to cobble together collapsing over its bare-bones foundation. Again, I’ll be alone. Again, I’ll have nothing but the body I live in.
I stare at the mirror and see a creature with a still-beating heart, flowing blood, and, at its core, a wrinkled mass of muscle and fat still buzzing with electricity. It churns on and functions, a rusty engine that should’ve shut off years ago.
On instinct, my hand rises to just below my eye and wipes, but the skin is dry and the motion useless. My hand lowers and I just stare at it.
It is then, staring at this malformed, broken hoof — utterly vestigial to a being that has known the wonder of telekinesis, of life beyond this concrete hellscape, of a world that understands her and that she understood — that I make the decision. I won’t rot here any longer. I won’t die curled up and cold and alone in this body I can hardly call my own.
On the way to the door, I swipe up my motorcycle keys and my phone and stuff both in my pocket without a second thought. Throwing on my jacket, I exit my apartment. I breathe in the evening air and follow that old, worn thread leading me interminably towards home.
—
The artificial heart roars to life below me before settling into a rumble I feel across my entire body. It resonates through me like a spell charging up. With a helmetless head, I peel away from the curb. The singular light attached to my mechanical steed leads the way, piercing through the evening’s dying throes. The wind rushes, and I move with unnatural speed, passing by shades of red, white, black. Shining, sparkling, reflecting. All unnatural, all constructed.
But my journey is interrupted several times, as I stop and start in compliance with the whims of the black, asphalt river I’m traveling down. It annoys me to no end. The fifth time I am forced to stop, I decide, instead, to defy the river. The occupant of the metal beast before me looks dumbfounded as I speed past, but the image of their face soon blurs and disappears behind me. Then the next and next and next vehicle slip by as I thread through this soupy morass of noxious fumes, blinding lights, and bleating calls. When the rivers cross, I keep going, even though all others have stopped. I dodge through the ones coming at me from the side and feel the wind rush as they fail to break and pass just behind me. Though their jeers and calls echo through the night, I keep going, ever onward.
I fear the wind has cast a spell on me. Though my body remains bunched up and stuck unnaturally, there is a certain element of familiarity in what I’m doing. It doesn’t register at first. I assume it’s some latent feeling of freedom or rebelliousness peaking through. But when it sticks, and then only grows into something greater, I can place an image to it — if not a word.
Fields. Rolling fields. It’s odd not to actually see and feel the blades of grass brush past or to hear my hooves clop rhythmically and the sounds of life buzzing around or to have stars to look at instead of this atmosphere of artifice. But I can feel the wind whirling past, my momentum carrying me forward. I am blazing through the night, though a loud and starless one it is. Here I am, galloping under the moon as ever. I am as far away as one can be from home, but I can feel it, and it is getting stronger.
Equestria. I’m almost there.
The outline of the school comes into sight, then the statue. I slow to a crawl, then stop just before it. The engine and wind promptly die, and I find myself sitting in the still air. Even with my jacket on, I can feel a chill creeping in around me. I clutch my shoulders, try to rub it away, without much effect. Eventually, time, not effort, ebbs away at chill, and once it’s gone, I start heading towards the statue.
I know I want to run into the portal as soon as possible. I know I have to do it before I start to doubt. But, despite all this, I cannot get my body to move beyond stumbles and halted steps. Each footfall is laced with hesitance. Doubt starts to creep in.
Three steps away from the portal, I can’t go on. My legs lock up below me. I feel like I’m freezing in the still, starless air. The portal itself is still as well, like a tranquil lake, lustrous and reflective in the clear night. To pass through — to even touch it — would be to upset its surface, to send cascading waves to each corner. I can’t bring myself to do it.
I know what lies beyond that portal. It’s not some fantastic, impossible world of joy and wonder, but a real, breathing, living, changing world that sits just beyond the threshold. A world that didn’t blink when I crossed the portal, and didn’t stop to wait for me to come back.
Celestia raised another student, who graduated in the time I was gone. A student who surpassed me, bested me, then went home a hero of two worlds, while I’m barely needed in either. What use would they have for a failure like me?
I laugh, almost as a substitute for the tears I know should be streaming my cheeks. I won’t be leaping through the portal and emerge in some picturesque, verdant field, free to gallop as I please. I’ll stumble out, deep within Twilight’s castle, alone and in the dark. With only my illuminated horn to guide the way, I’d walk around, aimless. My only company would be the repetitive clip-clop of my hooves echoing throughout the castle, the singular greatest monument to my failure. An inescapable shadow would hang over me.
Princess Twilight fucking Sparkle won, and you lost. That’s how it’s going to be the rest of your life.
I laugh bitterly and close the distance between me and the portal. Instead of going through, I turn around and slump against one of the columns at its corner. For some odd reason, I jolt when my back touches the solid column. I look up at it and realize the origin of my shock. I’ve seen such designs before, but only as shaped clouds. Princess Celestia once took me to visit Cloudsdale once with a cloud-walking spell. We passed by columns near-identical to these, and she made some incidental remark about ‘cyclonic’ columns. Here, I remember hearing that these solid, marble versions are called ‘Ionic’ columns. I smile briefly at the strange thought that these two parallel worlds, each with their own parallel version of seemingly every sentient being, also developed somewhat similar architecture.
An odd sense of déjà vu comes over me. Certainly, at some point, someone had explained the distinction to me before. Although, I can’t recall just who it was. I seize on this odd train of thought, grateful for the momentary distraction. I think through each of the people I’ve interacted with, mentally crossing off name after name. When I feel like I’m just about to recall who it was, though, my pocket buzzes.
My hand slips in and retrieves my phone, which I absentmindedly decided to take with me earlier. It’s a text from Twilight. At first, I can’t help but see Princess Twilight in her profile picture, just behind those glasses. But when I open the message, I realize I was foolish to ever compare the two.
Sunset, she types, you seemed rather down earlier, and I suppose how I acted and what I said did not help. Thus, I would like to apologize.
I burst out laughing there. Not a solemn, bitter laugh, but one full of mirth.
“‘Thus,’” I repeat out loud. “Who the hell says ‘Thus’ in an apology text?”
A moment passes.
I wonder aloud, “How the hell am I supposed to stay angry at you, Twilight Sparkle?”
I keep reading. The message is long, and I can tell it was rehearsed, drafted, and edited. It’s so formal that she didn’t even use contractions. I conclude in my head that she planned it out. After all, I recognize all the motions of a standard apology, even with Twilight-y flair. I even recognize the article she borrowed them from. (The images from that wikiHow article have been permanently seared into my brain.)
However, towards the end, the message takes an odd turn. She starts to offer theories as to why I was angry. Of course, they’re completely off the mark. But I can’t get annoyed with her for that. How the hell is she supposed to know something I haven’t told her? That thought sticks with me for a while. If anyone should know, it would be her. And yet, even though there’s no one else in this world I’d rather accept an apology from, and even though she knows what it feels like to let ambition turn you into a monster, I haven’t told her.
Eventually, though, the message curves back to convention. The final line reads, I am willing to listen to whatever you have to say, Sunset. I hope you understand that I am here for you.
I re-read those two sentences far more than I reasonably should. It’s just so cliché and well-worn that I can’t possibly believe it. So I sit there, just staring at it, hearing the words in her voice echo through my hollow skull. Another series of kind, friendly lies, meant more for the sake of cordiality than actual understanding.
Another voice then joins in, telling me that Twilight couldn’t possibly comprehend how I’m feeling and what I’m going through, because Twilight isn’t like me. Because no one, human or pony, is as broken and unfixable in all the ways that I am.
I’m nothing but a creature holding a brick of plastic and glass and light with malformed hooves, staring at words on the box. I’m in a world I do not know, full of smog and dead nights and marble sinks and impossible futures.
And the portal is right there.
But I don’t close the chat or turn off my phone. Against everything I know to be true, I want to believe Twilight. I want to believe that someone in this world will listen to me.
I look down, re-read the message, and imagine Twilight sitting in the lunchroom, just after I left. Confused, embarrassed, regretful. She probably thought — and still does think — that I’m mad at her. Then I imagine her planning out the message, looking over 'How to apologize' tutorials online. Then, while she types the message, she frets over the smallest detail, trying as hard as she can not to offend. And while the product wasn't perfect, I can't deny that she tried.
In the end, it's really Twilight that makes the decision for me.
I stand up and take a few steps away from the statue. Taking in the evening air, I think of a reply and settle on: A bit busy rn. But sure, we can talk later.
Heading to my bike, I look back at the statue one last time. My phone buzzes again.
Okay. Just text me when you want to talk.
I type back, Sure thing, Twi
Getting back on my bike, I remind myself to try and obey traffic laws this time. Although I’m sure if I’d brought my helmet, I still wouldn’t put it on. I pull away from CHS and head back into the night and towards my apartment. It’s not home, probably won’t feel like it for a long time, if ever. But, I resign myself to being stuck in this odd, confounding world. It’s the only one I have.
—
Later the same evening, when I’m back in my apartment, I crawl into bed and pull my phone back out of my pocket. Instead of texting Twilight, I hit call instead and wait. In seconds, she picks up. She doesn’t say anything at first, but I can faintly hear her breathing.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hello,” she says, her voice so monotone that I can tell she’s trying to mask her nervousness.
It almost makes me laugh, but I stifle it. Twilight deserves better than that. But still, the tension hanging over this conversation is killing me. She’s already apologized, and I came here to talk to Twilight, not sit with her in a silent phone call. After a few seconds, I realize what I should say.
“Could you remind me again why they’re called Ionic Columns in this world?" I quickly add, "Just a random thought.”
“Oh!” she says in surprise. "You called me to ask about... columns?"
"...Yes."
"Well, if you insist." She clears her throat. "It's actually a quite interesting story…”
I don't know how long I lie there just listening to her speak. What I do know is that even as I lay in this cold room as the night marches on, I can't help but feel like this is right. Like this is something I've been missing. So I keep listening, offering short remarks and humming in agreement every so often. I do this until I drift away.
The last thing I hear before the night has stolen me away from her completely is Twilight whispering, "Good Night, Sunset."
Author's Note
This ended up a bit more rambly and vent-y then I intended, but I felt like posting it anyway, so here it is! Also, I should note that while this is another product of the classic Sciset brain worms, this isn't intended as a sequel, next chapter to, or a story set in the same universe as Group Projects, and this is staying a one-shot as well.
This took a while to get out since, in between this and the last one, there's a 22k sci-fi AU, pony-centric fic that got stuck in editing hell and is probably never seeing the light of day. But I am considering working on a longer form Sciset AU fic. Although Real Life Stuff™ has successfully kept me from really starting. No promises for when (or if) that gets out.
Anyways, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed this!
