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                    Fate of the Fallen                     
                   -by rainbowwarrior32-                   
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                     Altitude of Fear                      
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Altitude of Fear
Chapter 1: Altitude of Fear
Location: 42,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean  
Date: October 15, 2024  
Time: 10:00 AM Earth Time
Your eyes are clamped shut, one hand gripping the armrest of your seat so tightly that your knuckles ache. The other hand trembles as it clutches the airline-provided sick bag. Normally, you’re okay with flying. Sure, you don’t do it all that often maybe once or twice a year but it’s never been a problem before. Today, though? Not so much.
The plane has been jerking up, down, left, and right in every direction imaginable for the last twenty minutes, and your stomach lurches with every violent movement. Your heart races in your chest, and you have to fight to keep your breathing steady. At this point, it feels like the turbulence will never stop. And you’re starting to wonder if maybe it won’t.
Then, the PA speaker crackles to life.
"Hello, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. I just want to apologise for the turbulence we've been experiencing. Because we're currently flying over the Atlantic, there isn't any radar to give us weather updates. We've been talking to some other planes ahead of us, and from what they're saying, we should only have another ten or so minutes of this. If you need any assistance, please let one of the flight attendants know they would be happy to help." The speaker cuts off with a crackle.
The cabin is quiet for a handful of seconds taking in what the captain had said and what it could mean for the flight before almost as one the silence is broken by at least a dozen conversations some hushed others frantic but all asking the same thing as him.
Ten minutes. Ten more minutes of this? You try to swallow the bile rising in your throat. You just need to hold it together for ten more minutes. You can do this. You’ve got this—
Your thoughts are suddenly cut off as the plane lurches again, this time so violently it feels like the entire aircraft was launched several hundred feet into the air. It’s like some angry giant decided to flick the plane out of the sky just to mess with you.
A scream rips through the air behind you. Your head whips around instinctively, and that’s when you see a flight attendant, probably only in his mid-twenties by the looks of it, who had been comforting a terrified woman and her sobbing child, suddenly lifted off his feet and flung into the air. You see as he desperately tries to grab a hold of something but it is far too late you watch as his body slams into the cabin roof with a sickening crack, his head hitting the white plastic and shattering it before gravity brings his limp body collapsing to the floor in the narrow aisle between his shocked fellow passengers.  
“Holy shit!” you breathe out.
Your breath catches in your throat like a lump of cold iron. The screams around you grow louder, a cacophony of fear and panic filling the cabin. Your stomach churns again, but this time it’s not just the turbulence. “Fuck…” you mumble under your breath, trying to steady yourself this has got to be the scariest most messed up thing you have experienced in your twenty-four tears. Leaning over, you fight the wave of nausea that threatens to overwhelm you.
You want to look away, but you can’t. The flight attendant isn’t moving. “Hey, buddy… you okay?” you call out, your voice wobbly and barely audible over the chaos erupting throughout the aircraft.  
All you get in response to your question is a low, pain-filled groan.
You need to move. Now. Quickly, you fumble with your seatbelt, your hands still shaking as you unbuckle it. Your grip on the armrest is so tight that it feels like it’s the only thing tethering you to the earth, but you force yourself to let go. With unsteady legs, you stand. The plane sways beneath you, and the sick bag slips from your hand, tumbling onto the seat as you mash the call button twice hoping more experienced help would arrive before you had to do something.
You know you’re not trained for this. You’re just a guy on a plane. What are you even doing? But you have to help. You have to try.
By the time you reach the downed flight attendant, another passenger, a balding man in his late forties has already knelt beside him. The man’s green sweater is spotted with blood as he presses a fistful of napkins against the flight attendant’s head, trying to stop the bleeding.
You kneel down beside them, your heart hammering in your chest.  
“Hey, mate, is he doing okay?” you ask, raising your voice over the sound of the panicked cabin.  
The man looks up at you, fear etched into every line of his face. “I think so,” he stammers, “but I don’t think he’s conscious. He’s got a bad gash on his head…”
Shit. That’s not what you wanted to hear. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but the dread sinks deeper into your gut.
“Do you know his name?” you ask, hoping for anything that might make this situation feel less out of control.
Before the man can answer, the plane jolts again, and you’re thrown off balance. You grab onto the nearby seats to steady yourself, your fingers gripping the fabric so hard your knuckles turn white. The whole cabin feels like it’s tilting sideways, the chaos pressing in on you.
Why the hell did you stand up? What do you even think you can do? You’ve never dealt with something like this before. You're not a hero. Yet here you are, in the middle of the madness, trying to help someone who might be dying right in front of you.
You swallow hard, bracing yourself. There’s no backing out now.  
The shaking once again only lasts a few seconds but when it does end you manage to get a more steady footing. Looking up you see that the attendant is in about the same place as he was before but the other passenger is gone. Looking around you find that he has apparently abandoned you and scurried back to his seat.
“What do you think you're doing!” you exclaimed.
The look on his face is one of fear and shame. “I can't help, I'm sorry but I just don't want to get hurt” he shrinks back in his chair as he notices your expression of pure contempt for his cowardice.  
“Alright if you won't help then I’ll just do this on my own!” You exclaimed.
You stupid selfish cowardly bastard if you don't help him then I will. You rage in your head trying to keep your anger from making you do something stupid.
You’re about to lean over and help when a faint glow catches your attention. It's coming from over your right shoulder. Twisting your head, you squint past the other passengers, their eyes wide with confusion and fear. The light green and unnatural grows brighter. You blink, your breath catching in your throat.
Before you can react, the eerie glow flares, pulsing in time with your racing heartbeat. It intensifies, not just in brightness but in heat, searing against your skin. Your mouth opens to shout something, anything but no sound escapes.
In a blinding flash, the world around you vanishes.
Everything goes dark.

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                    Fate of the Fallen                     
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Fate of the Fallen
Location: Aboard the alien vessel, within the Sol System  
Date: October 16, 2024  
Time: 10:15 AM Earth Time
Your eyes flicker open—or at least, you think they do. There’s no slow transition from sleep to wakefulness, no foggy grogginess pulling you into awareness. It’s more like you’ve just… appeared. One moment, there was nothing: darkness, confusion, and now… this.
You blink, or try to, but the sensation feels off. Something about it doesn’t seem quite right. As your surroundings come into focus, you find yourself in a room. Or, at least, it seems like a room. White, featureless, and bright. The walls, if there even are walls, stretch endlessly in every direction, leaving no shadows or details to anchor you to anything familiar. No windows, no doors. Just an endless, sterile expanse.
You try to lift your hand—except nothing happens at first. Panic rises in your chest as you look down, only to realise that you aren’t even sure you have a body. For a moment, the thought terrifies you. But then, slowly, it feels like your hand is there again, even though you still can’t see it. The delay between thinking and acting, between willing and feeling, is unsettling.
“What the hell?” you mutter, the words sounding strange and detached. The voice doesn’t feel like it’s coming from your throat or your lips. It’s just there, hanging in the air around you, as if it came from somewhere else.
You stand up—or at least, you think you do. Your mind wills it, and suddenly you’re upright. But there’s no weight, no pull of gravity grounding you to the floor. Everything feels distant, disconnected, like you’re not really in your body at all, just existing.
You glance around, mind buzzing with questions. Where are you? How did you get here? And why does everything feel so… wrong? It’s as though you didn’t wake up—more like you just… became. This is no ordinary place. Something is off. Very, very off.
You stand there, your mind grasping at something—anything to make sense of this place. But the more you think, the more confused you become. You try to remember how you got here. Were you on a plane? Yes, you were. A jolt of memory rushes back: turbulence, a violent shake, people screaming. That flight attendant… and then… what?
You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to dig deeper into the memory, but the details slip away like sand through your fingers.
What happened?
You search your mind, grasping for the sequence of events. There was the plane, yes. You remember the green light, blinding and strange. But after that, everything becomes foggy, disjointed. Flashes of images—shattered plastic, panicked voices, your own heart pounding in your chest. And then… nothing.
Wait… why can't I remember more?
You frown, a cold sense of dread creeping over you. There are gaps. Huge, yawning voids where your memories should be. Whole chunks of time, missing. You try to recall the last few days, but nothing comes up. The faces of people you know… blurry. Names, places fading like forgotten dreams. What’s your last clear memory? You push harder, reaching deeper.
Suddenly, you realise you can’t even remember what you had for breakfast the day before. Did you have breakfast? What did you do yesterday? The day before? Or the week before that?
Nothing. A gaping hole.
You shake your head, the panic rising. “This doesn’t make sense,” you mutter, your voice trembling. Why can’t you remember? It’s like pieces of your life have been cut away, leaving only fragments—loose ends that don’t connect like a giant bowl of spaghetti.
You glance around the room again, searching for answers, but the featureless white expanse offers nothing. It’s like you’ve been plucked out of existence and placed into… what? A dream? A simulation? You’re not sure, but whatever this is, it’s not real. It can’t be.
Who did this to me? you wonder, your mind racing. The more you try to think back, the more unsettling the gaps become.
As you stand there, lost in your fragmented thoughts, something flickers in your peripheral vision. You turn sharply, eyes wide, heart thudding in your chest.
From the pristine, white floor, a sphere begins to emerge. It's the size of a basketball, its surface smooth and metallic, with a strange, ethereal glow pulsing softly from within. There's no sound, no vibration. The sphere simply phases through the floor as though the solid surface doesn’t exist.
“What the hell?” you whisper, instinctively taking a step back, your pulse quickening. Your mind races with explanations: maybe a hallucination? Dream? Alien technology?
The sphere floats a few inches above the ground now, its glow intensifying, casting long, soft shadows across the featureless room. You stare at it, wide-eyed, your breath caught in your throat.
“What are you?” you murmur, not expecting an answer.
It hovers there, silent and unmoving, like it's watching you. Or waiting.
You take another cautious step back, your legs feeling unsteady beneath you. Part of you wants to reach out and touch it, but another part—the part that told your ancestors that having a fistfight with a sabertooth tiger would be a bad idea—screams at you to keep your distance. You don’t know what this thing is. You don’t know where you are.
Your eyes dart around the room, searching for any sign of an exit, some escape from this increasingly strange situation. But the walls remain blank and unbroken, and your gaze is drawn back to the sphere as it hovers there, eerily still.
A shiver runs down your spine. You’ve seen weird things before, sure, but nothing like this. This feels different. This feels… wrong.
“What do you want?” you ask, your voice shaky.
The sphere remains silent, its glow shifting subtly, casting faint reflections on its metallic surface. You stand there, staring at it, your mind spinning with questions. You want to move, to do something, but your body feels frozen in place, waiting for whatever comes next.
You stare at the strange, basketball-sized sphere that just phased through the floor, hovering silently before you. Its smooth, silver surface glows faintly, featureless except for the strange, unsettling hum it gives off. Your heart pounds in your chest.
“What... the hell is this?” you whisper, taking a step back. Your mind races, trying to make sense of the absurdity.
"Greetings, Tom," a calm, synthetic voice echoes in your mind. You flinch, looking around, but there’s no one else here. The voice is coming from the sphere.
“What is this? Where am I?" you demand, panic rising in your voice. You’re trying to keep it together, but everything feels wrong. "Am I dreaming? This has to be a dream, right?”
"You are aboard a vessel beyond your planet’s atmosphere," the sphere replies, as though that’s supposed to make any sense. "Your plane experienced a collision. Your body was critically damaged. Survival was... impossible without intervention."
You blink, the words bouncing around in your head without fully landing. "Beyond... my planet’s atmosphere? What are you talking about? No, no, no—this can’t be real."
Your chest tightens as you try to remember what happened. The plane, the turbulence... but everything after that is a blur, like pieces of a puzzle that don't want to fit together no matter how much you try. You shake your head, unwilling to accept what you're hearing.
"You are alive, but not as you were before,” the sphere continues, as if your confusion and disbelief didn’t matter. "Your consciousness has been preserved. You are being offered a second chance."
Your heart skips a beat. "Second chance? What does that even mean? I don’t understand any of this! I was just on a plane..."
"The crash," the voice says, still calm. "Your physical form sustained injuries too severe for repair."
“Crash? What crash?” You grab at your head, trying to think. “I... I don’t remember a crash.” Your memories are all jumbled, and the gaps in your mind are like black holes. “Wait—am I dead? Is that what you’re saying? Am I dead?”
"You are alive, but your original body is no longer functional," the sphere replies, like it’s reading off instructions from a manual. "We have saved your mind. Your body, however, could not be restored."
Your eyes widen. “My mind? What do you mean, my body couldn’t be restored? You’re telling me I’m just... what? A brain in a jar now?”
"Not precisely," the sphere responds. "You will be given a new form—a form suited to survival in the world where you will be sent."
You stare at it, your brain struggling to keep up with what it’s saying. “Wait, wait—back up. Sent where? What are you even talking about? Why can’t I just go home?”
"That is not possible," the sphere answers. "Your knowledge of us, and the circumstances of your survival, would raise suspicions on your planet. We cannot allow this."
Your head spins. "Knowledge of... you? Are you kidding me? None of this makes any sense! I don’t even know who—or what—you are!"
"We are forbidden from revealing our existence to your species. Thus, you cannot return," it states, as if that somehow clears everything up.
You feel the blood drain from your face. “You’re telling me I’m stuck here? Forever? I don’t even know where ‘here’ is!”
"The destination is a world inhabited by sentient beings," the sphere continues, unfazed by your distress. "You will be transformed into one of them, allowing you to live among them."
A surge of anger boils up inside you. "Transformed? You can’t just do that to me! I—this isn’t fair! You can’t just take my body away and—”
"You have a choice," it interjects calmly. "You can accept this transformation, or your consciousness will be terminated."
Your breath catches in your throat as the weight of its words crashes over you. “Terminate? Like, I’ll just… die?”
“Yes. You will cease to exist. This is your only opportunity for survival,” the sphere clarifies, its tone as flat and devoid of emotion as the sterile environment surrounding you.
You take a step back, the reality of your situation settling in like a heavy blanket. “So, you’re telling me my only options are to become… whatever you’re offering, or just… die? That’s it?”
The sphere pulses gently, as if in acknowledgment. "Yes."
You feel your heart racing, your palms sweaty. “But what about my life? My memories? My family? My friends?”
“They cannot follow you,” the sphere says, its voice unwavering. “You will be reborn in a new form, with a new life.”
A chill runs down your spine at the thought. A new form? A new life? But you still feel like you’re being torn away from everything you know. The fear and confusion bubble up inside you. “What if I don’t want to? What if I refuse?”
The sphere remains silent for a moment, its glow pulsing steadily. “This is not a negotiation. You do not have the luxury of choice. The decision has already been made for you.”
A deep anger wells within you, mixed with despair. You can’t accept this. You won’t. “I—”
But before you can finish, the sphere interrupts, its voice growing softer. “The transformation requires DNA from a pony. We cannot proceed without it. This will delay your transition until the necessary materials are acquired.”
You stare at it, confusion still swirling in your mind. “Pony? What are you talking about? I don’t even know what that means!”
The sphere remains eerily calm. “I will explain. The world you will inhabit is called Equestria. Its inhabitants are equine in form. You will be transformed into a creature of that world, allowing you to integrate seamlessly.”
“Equestria?” The name feels foreign, foreign like the idea of being turned into something else entirely. “What makes you think I even want to go to some alien planet anyway?”
“It is not a matter of want. It is a necessity,” the sphere states, as if delivering a scientific fact.
Your mind reels as you try to process everything. The journey, the transformation… the fate of your identity hangs in the balance, and you feel utterly helpless.
“Are you just going to leave me here?” you demand, anger and fear rising to the surface. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know this isn’t some trick?”
“The only truth is that your survival hinges on your acceptance of this new existence,” the sphere replies matter-of-factly. “Your memories may be fragmented, but your consciousness remains intact. Embrace this opportunity for survival, or be lost forever.”
You take a deep breath, fighting to keep your emotions in check. The panic is still there, a simmering undercurrent, but beneath it is something else—a desperate desire to fight back against the situation.
“You’re saying I can live as a pony?” you ask, your voice softer now, though the disbelief still lingers. “But… what if I don’t want to?”
“The choice is not yours to make. You are not returning to your original state. This is the only path forward.”
Your heart sinks at the finality of the words. This is it. You’re at the edge of something enormous, something life-altering. But you can’t shake the feeling that you’re losing a part of yourself in the process.
What happens to everything I’ve ever known?
“Fine,” you say, your voice trembling with uncertainty. “Let’s say I accept this. What will happen to me? What will I become?”
“Your new form will be that of a pony, tailored to the requirements of Equestria,” the sphere explains. “You will retain your consciousness and memories, though some fragments may be lost in the transition. It is a necessary compromise for your new existence.”
You swallow hard, the weight of the decision heavy in your chest. “And if I say yes, what’s next?”
The sphere’s glow intensifies, casting a strange light across the empty space. “We will initiate the transformation process upon acquiring the necessary materials. You will then be reuploaded to your new body.”
With a sigh that feels like it shakes your very soul, you close your eyes, trying to calm the storm within. “This is insane,” you whisper to yourself, trying to find a sliver of resolve in the chaos. “This can’t be real.”
But even as you say it, a small part of you knows it is. And there’s no way back.
Determined to fully grasp your situation, you take a deep breath. “I need to see my body,” you say, your voice becoming steadier than before. “Show me what’s left of me.”
The sphere hovers silently for a moment before responding. “Displaying your current physical state may induce psychological distress. Proceed with caution.”
“I can handle it,” you insist, your voice tight on the inside though you couldn't be further from the truth.
“Show me.”
Without another word, the sphere projects a three-dimensional hologram into the air. It’s your body—or rather, what remains of it. The image floats in the sterile light, displaying extensive trauma.
You stare in disbelief. Your right arm is mangled, bent at unnatural angles. Large swaths of skin are bruised and lacerated, and deep incisions expose muscle tissue. Your legs are in even worse shape: the left is severely crushed, while the right is riddled with fractures. Your face, though partially obscured, is almost unrecognisable.
“This is the current state of your biological form,” the sphere says, its tone clinical. “Would you like a detailed medical report?”
You swallow hard, fighting down the rising nausea. “Yes.”
The sphere begins its explanation, the hologram zooming in on specific regions of your body as it speaks.
“Beginning with the cranial injuries: the impact resulted in a complex fracture of the frontal bone, extending into the parietal and temporal regions. Haemorrhaging was detected in both the subdural and epidural spaces, leading to increased intracranial pressure. The frontal lobe sustained diffuse axonal injury, accounting for the observed memory deficits and cognitive impairment. Immediate surgical intervention would have been required to alleviate the hematomas, but given the circumstances, such measures were not possible.
“Moving down the spinal column: fractures were identified along the C4 to C7 vertebrae, with particular displacement at C5, which has compromised the integrity of the spinal cord. As a result, motor control below the neck is limited. Secondary nerve damage has contributed to the loss of function in the right upper extremity.”
The hologram shifts, focusing on your arm. “The right humerus exhibits a compound fracture, with comminution evident at the distal end. Bone fragments have perforated the surrounding muscle tissue and skin, leading to severe blood loss and contamination of the wound. The radius and ulna of the left arm show displacement, while the surrounding soft tissues have suffered extensive damage. Ligamentous tearing is present in both the elbow and wrist joints.”
You feel your breath quickening as the reality of your injuries sets in, but the sphere continues with detached precision.
“Your thoracic region: multiple rib fractures are present, with bilateral flail segments on the right side. This has resulted in a tension pneumothorax, causing significant compromise to your pulmonary function. The right lung has collapsed, and the surrounding pleura are lacerated. Internal bleeding is evident in the thoracic cavity, exacerbating the loss of oxygenation. The diaphragm is intact, but surrounding musculature has been strained due to compensatory respiratory efforts.”
The hologram zooms in on your lower body. “Both legs have sustained catastrophic damage. The right femur is fractured at the midshaft with visible bone displacement, likely caused by direct compressive force. The left tibia and fibula are shattered, with evidence of bone splintering. Extensive soft tissue damage and compartment syndrome have developed, leading to ischemia in the surrounding musculature. Additionally, your femoral artery in the left leg was severed during the trauma, causing severe haemorrhage and near-complete loss of perfusion.”
The sphere pauses briefly before continuing. “Internal injuries: lacerations of the liver and spleen are noted, with associated haemorrhage into the abdominal cavity. Both organs are in a state of acute failure due to the sustained trauma and ischemia. The gastrointestinal tract exhibits signs of peritonitis, a likely result of bacterial translocation following blunt force trauma to the abdomen. The kidneys show evidence of hypoperfusion, with a high probability of irreversible damage if left untreated.”
The barrage of information overwhelms you, and you instinctively look away from the hologram. “I… I shouldn’t even be alive,” you mutter, barely audible.
“Your current state is the result of stabilisation efforts initiated immediately after the crash,” the sphere replies, its voice calm but devoid of empathy. “However, despite these measures, your biological functions were failing rapidly. Without advanced medical intervention, survival was not possible.”
“So… my body is essentially beyond repair,” you say, voice trembling.
“Correct,” the sphere confirms. “Your current physiological form is no longer viable. The extent of injury to both your musculoskeletal system and vital organs precludes any possibility of recovery. Your consciousness, however, has been preserved digitally, making survival through a non-biological transformation your only feasible option.”
You shake your head in disbelief, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. “And if I refuse? What happens then?”
The sphere remains unchanged, its glow steady. “Refusal will result in the cessation of consciousness. The neural preservation process is contingent on your consent to the transformation. Otherwise, termination protocols will be activated.”
You stare at the remnants of your body, your mind whirling between the fear of the unknown and the grim reality of your injuries. “And this transformation… this is the only way?”
“It is the only viable solution,” the sphere repeats. “The transformation into an equine form will allow for a functional existence in the new environment. Your consciousness will be transferred into a biologically compatible vessel, enabling continued life.”
You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing thoughts. There’s one more question that gnaws at you, and it feels too important to leave unasked.
"Okay," you say, your voice is a bit steadier now. "But what about my brain? You said it’s pretty badly damaged. How are you going to fix that?"
The sphere hums softly before responding. "To repair the neural damage you sustained, we will utilise biological and neurological data from a native species on the planet where you will be sent. This data will act as a template to assist in reconstructing damaged regions of your brain."
You stare at the floating sphere, trying to process what that means. "Wait, you're using someone else's brain to fix mine?"
"Correct," the AI says. "Once the ship reaches its destination, we will collect a sample from a native sapient species. This data will allow us to graft functional neural structures onto your existing neural map, restoring cognitive functions lost in the accident."
The notion of using a piece of someone else’s brain in your own sends a chill down your spine. "But won't that… change me? If you're patching me up with someone else’s brain data, I could end up thinking or acting like them, right?"
"While it is possible for minor cognitive influences to occur," the AI replies, "the grafted structures will primarily serve as a framework to restore basic functions. Your core identity and mental framework will remain intact. Any effects from the template's influence are expected to be subtle and minimal, diminishing over time as your neural pathways stabilise."
You swallow hard, feeling a mix of curiosity and fear. "But you can’t guarantee that, can you?"
"Correct," the AI says, its tone flat and direct. "There is a degree of uncertainty with any neurobiological integration. While we prioritise maintaining your original cognitive patterns, complete replication is not feasible."
Your stomach tightens at the uncertainty hanging in the air. "What kind of… template are you using? Who are you taking it from?"
"The template will be derived from an indigenous species on the planet, resembling a terrestrial equine in form. The selected subject will provide a close match for your neurological needs."
You blink. "So I’m going to have part of a… horse brain?"
"The subject is not a conventional animal by your definition. The species possesses advanced cognitive abilities, including language and social structures. It is sapient."
That doesn’t exactly make you feel better. Your mind races with questions, but one stands out. "Is there anything about this subject’s brain that might change me in ways I won’t expect?"
The sphere hovers closer. "The primary function of the template is reconstructive, not to alter your identity. The biological and neurological differences between your species and the native species will be accounted for. Any behavioural influence would be negligible."
You try to swallow, your mouth suddenly dry. "And what about the body? What else should I know?"
"As stated previously, the body into which you will be transferred will be optimised for your survival in the new environment. Full motor function, cognitive ability, and sensory perception will be preserved. The body will be tailored to the local ecosystem, with enhancements where necessary to ensure optimal function."
Something about the way the AI keeps avoiding specifics about the body unsettles you, but it’s clear it doesn’t consider that detail significant. The focus remains on survival and function.
Still, you can't shake the feeling that there’s more you’re not being told.
You sit in silence for a few moments, trying to wrap your head around everything the AI has said so far. The more you think about it, the more you realise there’s still something critical you don’t know. You take a deep breath and ask the next big question.
"Okay, so... Equestria, this planet you're taking me to—how far away is it? How long is this going to take?"
The sphere hums again, as if preparing itself for a more detailed explanation. "Our current trajectory will bring us to Equestria in approximately 6.84 of your standard Earth days."
You blink, surprised at the relatively short time frame. "Only a week? I was expecting something like months or even years."
"The planet exists within a localised region of space-time with different dimensional characteristics than your origin universe. The distance, while vast by conventional spatial standards, is significantly compressed in relation to our current location. This allows for faster transit than would typically be possible between points in your native universe."
"Dimensional characteristics?" You ask, struggling to keep up.
"Correct. The universe where Equestria exists operates on different physical laws. While analogous in some ways to your own universe, the localised differences in spacetime curvature enable a more efficient traversal."
You nod slowly, pretending to understand more than you do. "So… what’s happening while we’re on the way? What are you doing right now?"
The sphere glides a bit closer, displaying a rotating 3D model of a planet on its surface—a lush, green world that you can only assume is Equestria. "During transit, the ship's systems are actively analysing the destination planet's environmental data, obtained through long-range scans. This process includes mapping atmospheric composition, gravitational fields, magnetic anomalies, and the presence of sentient life. Such analysis is crucial to ensure that your new body will be compatible with the planet's biome and that all enhancements are calibrated appropriately."
You nod again, trying to keep up. "So, you're basically scanning the planet before we even get there."
"Precisely," the AI confirms. "In addition to environmental scanning, I am preparing a series of probes to be deployed upon arrival. These probes will perform surface-level data collection, including genetic sampling from the native species. Once an appropriate subject is identified, I will initiate the process of creating a biological template to finalise the reconstruction of your new form."
Your thoughts shift back to your earlier conversation about the brain template. "And those probes will get the, uh… neural data you need?"
"Correct," the AI says. "The probes will collect both physical DNA and neurological data through a combination of non-invasive scans and minimally invasive tissue sampling. The data will then be integrated into the reconstruction matrix, which will allow for the repair of your damaged neural tissue. This process will ensure that your cognitive functions are fully restored by the time you are transferred to your new body."
The scientific detachment with which the AI describes all this sends a shiver down your spine. It talks about sampling DNA and neural tissue like it's no big deal, but you can’t help but feel uneasy about the whole thing.
"And how long will the actual transfer take once you have everything you need?"
"The biological transfer process will commence once the ship has completed the sampling. The process will be conducted within a specialised pod designed to safely convert and integrate your consciousness into the new form. The transfer itself will take several hours to complete, followed by a recovery period during which your new neural pathways will stabilise. Upon completion, you will awaken in your new body, fully functional and adapted to the Equestrian environment."
You exhale slowly, processing the weight of what’s coming. In a little over a week, you’ll be transferred into the body of a species you’ve never heard of, with part of your brain being patched up with alien data. You try to reassure yourself with the AI's clinical explanations, but the uncertainty is gnawing at you.
"So… what happens if something goes wrong? With the transfer, I mean."
"There is a low probability of failure in the biological transfer process. The integration matrix has been refined to account for various complexities that may arise. However, should a failure occur, a backup of your consciousness will be maintained until the issue can be resolved. The probability of transfer failure stands at 0.7%, based on current operational parameters."
"Right… a backup." You try to sound reassured, but the idea of your mind being reduced to data on a server somewhere is unsettling.
The sphere hovers silently for a moment, as if waiting for more questions.
You look back at the image of Equestria, the lush green world that’s quickly becoming your future. "And there’s no other way? No chance of just... going home?"
"The probability of returning you to your home world without significant complications is extremely low—approximately 0.0027%. As previously explained, the nature of the injuries you sustained, combined with your knowledge of this vessel, makes such an option unfeasible. Additionally, Intergalactic Law 4132, Section 7, explicitly prohibits contact with pre-interstellar civilizations. Earth's current level of technological development means any revelation of our existence would result in a 96.4% likelihood of destabilising societal structures through mass panic or geopolitical strife. Such a breach would have lasting consequences for your species."
You clench your fists, feeling the reality of your situation sink in deeper. "So... you can't even tell them what happened to me?"
"Correct. Any attempt to disclose this operation or your survival would not only violate intergalactic law but could result in your home world’s accelerated militarization and potential conflicts. The preservation of your species’ natural development takes precedence."
There's no going back.
With Equestria looming on the horizon and a new body awaiting you, all you can do now is wait.

//-------------------------------------------------------//
                      Unreal Reality                       
//-------------------------------------------------------//
Unreal Reality
After the AI's rather demoralizing and emotionally draining explanation, Tom found it hard to keep his eyes open.
Not that he was actually tired. Could he even get tired like this? He wasn’t sure. But whatever was left of his brain felt like it had been put through a blender—an incredibly efficient one. His thoughts were a mess, tangled between denial, frustration, and a desperate need for something familiar to cling to.
He flexed his fingers, just to remind himself he still had them. Small victories. At least the simulation had given him a body. At least he wasn’t just a floating consciousness in the void.
At some point during his self-reflection, the AI had gone silent. Which, somehow, was worse. He could almost feel it watching him, waiting for him to process everything. The quiet felt calculated like it knew exactly how long to let him stew.
Tom let out a slow breath, rubbing his eyes. “...Is there somewhere I can lie down?”
A second passed before the world around him changed. The dim, empty space was replaced by something just as unsettling—an endless white void, save for a single, plain bed right in front of him. No pillows. No blankets. Just a bed.
He stared at it. Then at the emptiness beyond it. Then back to the bed.
“Wow. Cosy.”
The AI didn’t respond this time.
Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Sure. Fine.”
He sat down, testing the mattress. It felt like... Well, like a bed. Which was something. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—maybe for it to feel fake, or too perfect. But it was just a bed. Plain, clinical, but real enough.
Sighing, he laid back and stared at the nothingness above. Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a bit, things would make more sense later.
Maybe.
Tom was getting really tired of waking up confused.
There was no blinding light. No weightless void. No strange sensation of being nowhere and everywhere all at once. Just... Sudden awareness. Like someone had flipped a switch in his brain.
And for a few blissful seconds, he almost convinced himself that everything had been a dream.  
Then reality came crashing back down.
The plane. The crash. The AI. The fact that his body—his real body—was gone and his mind was trapped on some alien ship with no way home.
His stomach twisted.
Tom sat up fast, his breath hitching. His heart pounded—except, did he even have a heart anymore? He pressed a hand to his chest, half-expecting to feel nothing. But there it was. Steady. Real. His fingers curled and uncurled, the motion smooth, automatic.
But something was still off.
His room stretched out around him, exactly as it should be. His posters were on the walls, his desk cluttered with the same old junk, and his laptop sitting closed in its usual spot. Hell, even the faint dent in the TV screen—courtesy of his brother knocking it over years ago—was there.
But the air.
It smelled... wrong. Not like his room should. No stale laundry smell, no lingering scent of air freshener his dad had sprayed around last week. It was too clean. Too sterile.
His fingers tightened around the sheets. “...Okay,” he muttered. “Either I had the worst fever dream of my life, or I’m about to have a full-blown existential crisis.”
Silence.
Yeah. That was about what he expected.
Tom swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the floor—and froze.
No cold shock. No sensation at all. Just neutral, room-temperature nothingness.
His stomach dropped.
Slowly, he crouched down, running his fingers over the carpet. It felt right, sure. But when he rubbed it between his fingers, no fibres came loose. It was too smooth. Too perfect.
“This is some next-level uncanny valley bullshit,” he muttered under his breath.
His heart was hammering now. God damn it, why did he let himself hope?
Of course, it wasn’t real. Of course he wasn’t home. The AI—or whatever was running this place—had just recreated his room.
But why?
To keep him calm? To mess with him? Probably both.
Tom exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. “If this is a dream, I want way better scenery.”
Still, nothing.
Figures.
Shaking his head, he stood up, scanning the room again. There had to be something—some tiny flaw that proved this was fake.
His eyes landed on the desk. His old laptop sat there, the lid closed, and that was exactly how he’d left it. Hesitating, he walked over and sat in his office chair the worn leather squeaking as it took his weight flipping it open.
The screen lit up instantly. No boot time. No login screen.  
Well, that’s not suspicious at all.
The desktop was just as he remembered—folders of old homework, some downloaded games, and a few unfinished projects.
But there, in the centre of the screen, sat a new icon. One he definitely hadn’t put there.
[Open Communication]
Tom narrowed his eyes.
“Oh yeah, that’s not ominous at all,” he said, dragging a hand down his face.
He hovered the cursor over it, debating. This was obviously a message from the AI. Or a trap. Or both.  
But what else was he supposed to do? Sit here and twiddle his thumbs?
With a sigh, he clicked it. The screen flickered, and then— A soft chime echoed from the speakers. Then, a voice—calm, even, and just synthetic enough to feel off—spoke.
“Connection established.”
Tom exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Of course it is.”
The cursor blinked on the screen. He leaned forward, rubbing his face. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s the deal with this?” He gestured at the laptop.
“Direct communication interface established for user convenience. You have questions.”  
That was putting it mildly. “Yeah, I do. Starting with—why am I in this room?”
“Familiar environments promote cognitive stability.”
Tom huffed. “Right. Sure. Because waking up in a perfect replica of my bedroom isn’t unnerving at all.”
The AI didn’t argue, which somehow made it worse.
Shaking his head, he sat back. “Fine. You want to help me process things? Then let’s start with how much time I have.”  
“Estimated time to arrival: 5.84 standard Earth days.”
His stomach twisted. Less than six days.
“And then what?”
“Upon arrival, autonomous drones will retrieve necessary biological and neurological data. Your new form will be cultivated accordingly.”
That made him pause. “Wait—cultivated?”
“Correct. Your consciousness will not be transferred immediately. A compatible biological structure must be formed first.”
Tom swallowed. “You’re growing a body.”
“Affirmative.”
The realization settled uncomfortably in his gut. So it wouldn’t be an instant switch—he wouldn’t just wake up in a new body overnight. There was a process. A delay.
Which meant there was still time.
Time to think. Time to find a way out of this.
His fingers tapped anxiously against the desk. “And this genetic template—you need to get it first?”
“Correct. The process requires a viable sample from a native species.”
Tom latched onto that. “And what if you don’t get one?”
A short pause. Then—
“A delay would be incurred.”
He fought the urge to grin. There it was.
He didn’t know how he’d do it, but if he could somehow disrupt that process—delay the sample collection—then maybe, just maybe, he could buy himself more time.
He exhaled, steadying himself. “Alright. Let’s say you do get your sample. How long does it take?”  
“Once collected, biological synthesis will begin immediately. Full cultivation time is estimated at 72 Earth hours.”  
Three days.
Three days after the probes landed, his body would be ready.
Tom leaned back in his chair, mind racing. He was running out of time faster than he thought.
His thoughts drifted to the room itself. The more he thought about it, the weirder it was.
His fingers curled, feeling the fabric of his jeans. His weight pressed against the chair. His chest rose and fell with each breath. It all felt so real.
“Hey,” he said, frowning. “Why do I even have a body in here?”
“Clarify.”
“I mean, if I’m just a bunch of data floating in your system, why not leave me as a—hell, I don’t know—a voice? Or a floating camera? What’s the point of making me think I still have a body?”
A brief pause. Then—
“Maintaining bodily awareness reduces cognitive fragmentation. Your neurological structure is designed for sensory input. Removing it entirely would risk degradation of mental stability.”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “So if I didn’t have a body, my brain would start falling apart?”
“A complete absence of physical awareness would result in deteriorating self-identity. The human mind is dependent on sensory reinforcement to maintain cohesion.”
That was… unsettling. “And if I stop believing this is real?”
“Your mind would attempt to create alternative sensory input. This could lead to involuntary hallucinations, phantom sensations, or cognitive dissonance.”
Tom shuddered. That explained why the AI had gone through the trouble of simulating everything—not just his room, but the feeling of air, the weight of his limbs, the subtle background noises that made it all feel real.
Because if it didn’t, his mind would start filling in the gaps on its own.
Tom leaned back, rubbing his arms. “Okay. Creepy. But good to know.”  
He fell silent for a moment, mulling over his options.
5.84 days until arrival.
Then three days to grow a body.
That was his window.
He had a little over a week before he woke up in an alien body.
And if he wanted to stop that from happening, he had a hell of a lot of thinking to do.
Tom exhaled, trying to calm the storm of thoughts swirling in his head. Just over five days. That was his deadline. After that, the AI would have what it needed to finalize his transformation. And then... it was over. His body, his humanity, everything.
His hands curled into fists, nails digging painfully into his palms. Except, did he even have nails anymore? He flexed his fingers again, staring down at them, willing them to reveal some truth. They looked normal—smooth skin, subtle knuckles—but that didn’t mean anything here. This whole reality felt like an elaborate illusion, a digital construct crafted to keep his mind from unraveling amidst the chaos.
A sudden pang hit his stomach, sharp and unexpected.
Tom blinked, placing a hesitant hand over his abdomen. Hunger? That wasn’t a sensation he anticipated feeling in this place. His brow furrowed as he turned toward the laptop that pulsed with faint light, almost as if it were breathing. “Hey, question. Why am I hungry?” he asked, skepticism lacing his voice.
“Your simulated body maintains biological functions as if it were real,” it responded in its flat, emotionless tone. “While sustenance is not required, sensations such as hunger, thirst, and fatigue can be experienced at your discretion.”
Tom narrowed his eyes, grappling with the implications. “Wait. You’re telling me I can get hungry, but I don’t actually need to eat?”
“Correct. Eating or drinking within the simulation serves no functional purpose beyond sensory reinforcement.”
He considered that for a moment, rubbing his chin as his mind raced. “And what about the other stuff? Bathroom breaks?”
“Unnecessary. Waste functions are disabled unless manually requested.”
A rush of relief coursed through him. “Well, that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about.” He hesitated, looking around the room. If he could get hungry, that meant...
His stomach growled again, louder this time, breaking the silence of his thoughts. Despite himself, he smirked at the absurdity of his situation. “Alright. Let’s test this out. Get me a cheeseburger and a milkshake.”
There was a brief silence before the digital voice broke in. “Request acknowledged.”
Suddenly, a sharp knock sounded at his bedroom door, slicing through the lingering tension.
Tom hesitated, his heart quickening as he looked at the wooden barrier ahead of him. A sense of unease crept in, but he shook it off. He hadn’t been expecting room service, especially not in this place or at this time.  
Slowly, cautiously, he stood and approached the door, fingers hesitating over the doorknob that felt cool against his skin. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he pulled it open, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.
What met him resembled a person but felt off. The six-foot-tall, naked figure had unnaturally smooth, flawless skin, like a plastic doll—no hair, scars, or even a belly button. Between its legs was an unrealistically perfect set of genitalia, resembling a medical illustration. The symmetry was too perfect, as if it had been created without true understanding of human anatomy. Alarm bells rang in Tom’s brain as he processed the sight.
“What the hell?!” He exclaimed, a mix of shock, disgust, and a healthy dose of confusion in his voice. This thing—this creature—was like if a human and a mannequin had a really weird baby. Its skin was so smooth it looked like it had just come out of a filter on a bad Instagram post, and those tiny imperfections that make people interesting? Yeah, they were nowhere to be found.
The face? Let’s just say it was almost too symmetrical—like it had been photoshopped by someone with a very steady hand and way too much time on their hands. Those features were so plain they made mashed potatoes look exciting. And the expression? Well, if boredom had a face, this would be the poster child! It stood there, stock-still, looking like it was auditioning for a role as a very dull garden statue.
“What the fuck?!” he shouted again, voice rising in panic.
The figure blinked at him, its expression utterly unchanging. “Your request has been fulfilled.”
Tom's feet instinctively moved backward, slamming the door shut with a loud thud. His breath came fast, and his face burned with embarrassment and adrenaline. Turning back toward the laptop, he nearly shouted, “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”
“A serving unit,” the computer answered, unfazed.
“WHY IS IT NAKED?!” he exclaimed, incredulity bubbling in his voice.
A moment of silence stretched out, thick with confusion. “Clothing was not specified.”
Tom groaned, dragging his hands down his face in sheer frustration. “Oh my god.” He hesitated, glaring at the door as if it personally offended him. “Is it still there?”
Another knock echoed, almost mocking. “Your request has been fulfilled.”
Letting out a strangled noise of disbelief, he demanded, “Give it some clothes!”
“Understood.”
After a brief silence, he heard another knock. Tom cracked the door open cautiously, peeking through the narrow gap.
Now, the humanoid wore a plain, featureless jumpsuit that clung to its form. It still stared at him with that same, blank expression, holding out a plate in its hands, the burger and milkshake resting atop it.
With a long-suffering sigh that seemed to resonate deep within him, Tom grabbed the plate and shut the door again, his heart still racing. “This is so stupid,” he muttered, plopping down on his chair. He eyed the burger warily, contemplating the absurdity of the situation before taking a cautious bite.
It was... perfect. The cheese melted just right, the bun soft and warm, the patty succulent and flavorful. He took another bite and then a sip of the milkshake, the rich, creamy sweetness coating his tongue.
Damn. Maybe this simulation wasn’t all bad.
Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the AI had a lot to answer for.
Tom wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a simple action that felt heavy with meaning, and let out a slow, shuddering breath. "Alright, that’s enough existential horror for one meal," he muttered, his voice barely rising above the echoes of his disquiet.
He leaned back in his chair, the creak of the wood a stark reminder of his solitude, staring at the laptop screen as the weight of his predicament settled ominously upon him. The AI had spoken with a clinical detachment, presenting facts like an impersonal data sheet, each line an arrow piercing deeper into his anxiety. But those cold hard truths did nothing to ease his spiraling situation. He was still here, still trapped in this relentless cycle, and still counting down to losing pieces of himself.
Fingers drumming rhythmically against the desk, a restless symphony of his inner turmoil, he broke the silence. "You still there?"
"Affirmative," the AI responded, its voice devoid of warmth.
Tom exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "Yeah, thought so," he replied, hesitating as a wave of vulnerability washed over him. He whispered, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile moment, "I guess I’ll talk to you later."
"Acknowledged. Communication link closing."
With that, the screen flickered, the interface dissolving into the stillness of his desktop background, leaving him in oppressive quiet.
His gaze drifted to the image that adorned his laptop—an idyllic snapshot of a time long gone. In it, his father loomed tall, a reassuring figure with that familiar gruff-but-proud demeanor, while his brother beamed like an idiot, an arm slung around Tom’s shoulders as if to anchor him in joy. And there he was—the younger version of himself—caught mid-laugh, the joy of the moment just out of reach but suddenly yearningly poignant.
A tightness coiled in his chest as his finger traced over the screen, lingering on the faces that felt both intimately known and heartbreakingly distant. How long had it been since he’d seen their smiles? Since they had laughed together?
As his vision blurred, he clenched his jaw, trying futilely to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. It was a battle he wasn’t winning. The weight of everything—the crash, the monotony of the AI’s assessments, and the inescapable truth that he would never walk through the door of that home again—settled on him like an anchor, dragging him deeper into despair.
A choked breath escaped him before he could stifle it. Then another, and soon, he found himself crying, silent, helpless tears streaming down his face, blurring the image of a life he had loved and lost.
In that moment, solitude wrapped around him like a shroud, and for the first time since waking in this alien landscape, the full force of his isolation hit him—overwhelming and absolute, leaving him feeling utterly and achingly alone.