The Blank Pony

“But moooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmm...”

Phyllis Cloverleaf took a breath. She had long ago learned that the most effective way to make Sprout stop “but mom”ing was to wait until he ran out of air. He had take a breath eventually. Except the few times he had for one reason another not. Which might have been, Phyllis realized, part of the reason for her current predicament.

Fortunately, this time, her son took a breath and she was able to interrupt him as he gasped for air.

“Don’t ‘but mom’ me.” She pushed the broom toward him. “You need to do something. Namely, cleaning.”

“But we’re rich, aren’t we?”

“Well, yes. Obviously. But more specifically, I’m rich. And you are going to take over the company one day.”

“So can’t I just hire somepony to do it?”

“Oh my little baby,” she laughed, hugging him. “I can’t trust you with hiring decisions. I’m already dealing with the payouts from two lawsuits. One robot-based, and one fruit-based. So please. Just sweep. Carefully.”

“But the basement is spooky!”

“Yes, I know. I built it.” She leaned closer. “But who’s my big brave stallion?”

Sprout's muzzle scrunched for a moment, and he crossed his front legs. The then turned his head and harrumphed to the side. After a pause, though, he could not bear to remain silent. “I am,” he muttered.

“Good. And you’re good and strong enough to sweep. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check the centrifuges. The pluponium isn't going to fluoridate itself! Hopefully...” She pulled down the protective mask over her head and zipped up her protective suit as she trotted off.

Sprout watched her go. Then he chuckled to himself.

Being the scion of a wealthy family came with immense responsibility. Namely for patrolling the streets for dirt and grime, apparently—a task that Sprout was technically banned from.

The factory his family had owned for an indeterminate number of generations had long-since closed. It had been converted into a creative space—whatever that meant. Canterlogic had largely ceased preparations—but Sprout’s mother had not.

Rather, she had gone back to her roots, researching various scientific topics for the betterment of eathpony-kind. Now, though, she worked in laboratories and garages of her own creation, many hidden discreetly on the moderate but still sizable Cloverleaf homestead.

Sprout had been tasked with cleaning the facility, although he had been banned from several of his mother’s internal rooms where she worked on her more frightening and dangerous inventions. Sprout had no idea what they were—but, to some level, he was just happy that his mother was happy.

He was also aware that he, Sprout, was a genius, and perhaps the smartest pony in all of Maretime Bay if not Equestria in general. Certainly smarter than Hitch, and also far more handsome.

He knew this because he actually wanted to clean the basement. He just needed his mother to think he did not. Because smart.

As such, he climbed down the stairs into the sub-basement—dug extra low—and into one of the spare rooms. His favorite room. The one where his mother kept the mannequins.

They did, technically, serve a purpose. Sprout’s mom used them to model and test the fit of various safety-related clothing and technology. A few of them were wearing colored vests, or colored vests that could explode violently into airbags if a pony where to be toppled, or caution-taped frameworks of metal and unicorn-proof armor plating that were driven by powerful miniaturized hydraulics. For some reason Sprout did not understand. He liked the stripes though.

Most of the mannequins, though, were utterly nude. They where white and faceless, spread throughout the room, staring at nothing in particular as not one of them had eyes.

Looking around, Sprout smiled—and then moved a box of cleaning supplies out of the way to reveal a hidden box of his own. Rooting through it, he produced several items. Namely, a variety of custom-created wigs, horn headbands, and false wings.

Giggling to himself, he placed these on the naked mannequins.

“Well hello there, Sunny,” he said, placing a colorful wig on one. “Looking good. Hey, Izzy!” He put a horn and a long, violet wig on another. “Maybe you want to come over later and do some late-night crafting? Huh, huh?” He winked at the mannequin and brought the fake wings to another two. They were all the same size, obviously, but he could at least pretend that one was tall and muscular and the other short and plump.

“Pipp, you look so soft...” He smelled the fake wings. “Mmm influencer...” He turned to Zipp. “You scare me though. “ He paused and smiled. “And I like that...”

In only a few minutes, he had fully assembled himself a model version of Hitch’s weird harem—before he frowned, looking to one side of the room.

“Huh,” he said, approaching an empty mannequin. He did not recognize that one. “You’re new.”

It did not look dissimilar from the others, save for some slight patterning on the sides. Like most mannequins, it had no face. A blank, staring canvas.

Sprout frowned, then suddenly had an idea so exciting he did a little dance. “OH! I know exactly who you can be!”

He ran to the box and began rooting through the variety of clothes he had stolen from his mother, the various garments that he used to dress his mannequin friends in when he wanted them to look pretty. If they were having a party, for example, or attending a business meeting where he was the CEO. Or if he wanted to take them on dates where they told him how much more handsome and taller he was than Hitch. Thus, while so engaged in choosing an outfit, he did not see the newcomer’s head slowly—and almost imperceptibly—turn to watch him.

Sprout produced a new wig, and a horn he had just finished carving from paper mache and plastic. “I never knew my daddy,” he said, speaking to his only friends. “Mommy doesn’t talk about him. Ever. But I like to think he made pretty wigs. I like to think we would do it together if, you know...he was still here...”

He approached the mannequin and placed the horn and curly wig, fitting it perfectly around the mannequin's oddly realistic ears. He paused to consider it, fluffing it slightly—until it was perfect.

“Misty! I’m so glad you could make it!” He then shifted to a high falsetto to provide Misty’s voice. “Oh! Oh hi, Sprout I’m...I’m glad I could make it to! You’re so handsome. Sorry, that’s too forward, oh, I’m being stupid—”

“No, Misty, it’s fine,” Sprout put his hoof around the mannequin’s neck. It felt different from the others, for some reason, but he did not give it much consideration.

“Oh, Sprout,” he voiced, “I just couldn’t stay at home anymore. I grew up with nopony loving me at all and I’m super sad about it. My mommy is very evil and kind of hot.”

Sprout paused. Realizing that Misty’s mommy did not love her. It made him incredibly sad, because he remembered how much his own mommy loved him and how important she was to him—but he forced that away, because thinking about his mother ruined the fantasy. Generally, at least.

“Well, Misty, I could be your friend.”

“Really? Because I’ve been looking for a big, strong earth-pony to use my scary unicorn magic on...and Hitch is so skinny and weak and talks to birds like a weirdo.”

“Misty, I didn’t know you feel that way but...” He leaned in. “I feel that way too...”

“But the others...”

“Don’t worry. They like to watch.”

He then kissed the mannequin. Poorly. He had never actually kissed a real mare. The only pony he had kissed had been Hitch—and only due to a dare. Obviously. When they were children. And he had certainly not enjoyed it, nor did he think about it on a nightly basis.

So needless to say, the kiss was somewhat inept and sloppy—until Sprout suddenly cried out from an unexpected pinch in his mouth.

He pulled away. Feeling the long tongue pull itself back out of its mouth.

“Misty, since when do you French...kiss...”

He watched the long, black tongue slide back into the wide mouth of the mannequin—or rather, what he far too late realized was not a mannequin at all. The bottom of its face had split into a wide mouth filled with hundreds of long, needle-like black teeth. Crossing far wider than a normal pony’s smile would be—and mounted far too low on its head.

The tongue pulled itself back in and Sprout took a step back, shaking and too afraid to run. He wanted to call for his mommy—to have her come and save him—but he was too afraid. This had never happened before. He had wished for it time and time again—but this was not how he expected his demands to be answered. Oh, the folly he had wrought upon himself.

The mouth opened and closed several times, a jerky, confused motion. The teeth began to whiten and resolved into a far less ragged mess. Then it turned, jerking itself forward with a precise but unnatural gait, its joints dislocating and pulling themselves back together in a new, more natural configuration. Sprout whimpered as his knees gave out.

The mouth shifted forward with a snap as it dislocated, twisted, and reset itself. Several of the teeth migrated backward as a new set of white, even teeth fell into place. A slit developed down the center of the faceless surface and a set of ragged bones shot outward, an incomplete sphenoid and ethmoid assembly that formed the internal muzzle of a pony—only for the skin around it to separate and push forward like mycellium across the newfound bone.

It took another step. A pair of holes formed on the sides of its head. They deepened, black pits, like the inexplicable holes of a bowling ball—and then, with a wet sound, they widened and shifted—before opening into a pair of green eyes.

With a crunching sound, they dragged their way across the face, moving from the sides to the center—and meeting the muzzle as the skin began to develop a coat. A red coat—save for the lower legs, which developed white fluff. A mane and tail joined it slightly after.

It tilted its head suddenly at an angle that would not have been possible for a pony’s spine to withstand. It stared at him with his own eyes. Dead, empty eyes. Green around the edges—but unnaturally blue in the center. Glowing, slightly, in the dim light.

“Okay!” admitted Sprout, ducking and covering his head. “I kiss the mannequins! I’m extremely lonely and I’m too much of a stupid failure for anyone but my mommy to love! I’m sorry I was a racist! I’M SORRY!”

It opened its mouth. The black tongue lolled out, and one of its eyes tilted down, deviating from the other, seeming surprised by the tongue. It shifted and twitched, assuming the form of a normal pony’s tongue. Sprout’s tongue.

It spoke—or tried to. The noise that came out sounded like static or a broken machine—at first. Then it began to resolve. Echoing among itself, tracing the sound of the voice it was trying to replicate with the others it had learned. The echoes of little girl’s voices within it—and the calling of a terrified Izzy, or a panicked Pipp.

“M...mommy,” it said, merging their voices into a violent croak. “M...mommy.” Its head twisted violently again. “I...am...Sprout.” It cleared its throat. “I am Sprout.” It looked toward the mannequins. “These are...my friends. They are...not dead.” The face slowly turned toward Sprout, who was shivering and on the verge of passing out. “I am Sprout. You are...not dead. Hello.”

“H...ello?”

Sprout did not get a chance to say anything else. He felt a sudden shock—and then there were no more thoughts. Only blackness.