Rainbow Dash doesn't appear in this episode.
You awake soaked in sweat in a dimly lit and grimy apartment. Large industrial fans bring a hot evening breeze over your stained mattress as the neon lighting flickers on and off outside.
You had a horrific nightmare, where you came to the land of your dreams and had them crushed like so many grapes being smooshed by so many unwashed fat men and their feet. The mare of your affections, Fluttershy, had her innocent flank taken away by a stallion in much better physical condition than you; the land was ruled by a man named Gary Stu—your old high school rival and all around jerkface; but worst of all, you were seduced by the epitome of masculinity.
Iron “Watch me punch a hole in this steel wall” Will. Ok. Seduced might not be the right word. Victimized, perhaps?
Either way, it was terrible. It was bad and you feel bad about it being so bad.
You fall back onto the uncovered mattress, breathing heavily. Thank goodness it was just a dream and you're back in your world.
Wait. Hold on just a damn minute.
For starters, this place seems like a set from Blade Runner. While that's rad in and of itself, you've never had a room close to the aesthetic of a low-key apartment in the rough part of the futuristic Bronx. And the bed seems pretty small. And you notice a doorway, with a shaft of light peaking out from underneath.
“Oh no,” you say to yourself, despair flowing through your very being. “Oh no!”
Iron Will literally bursts from the bathroom, erupting through the door with a well placed kick, showering the bedroom in a torrent of splinters. He was clad in a small pony-sized towel wrapped precariously around his lower torso.
“Wakey wakey, eggs and...” He paused, scratching at the back of his head. “Well, just eggs. Can't usually get bacon in Manehatten. Or a nice pork tenderloin, for that matter.” He gave a pat to his overly-toned stomach. “Man, that would hit the spot!” Iron Will proclaimed.
You stammer, overwhelmed by your confusion. Only one word makes it out of your blubbering lips-- “How?!”
“Simple!” Iron Will replies. “You passed out after Pinkie Pie left, and I knew you were bummed out before that, what with the Gary Stu business, so I decided we needed to haul ass to Manehatten. The big city'll cheer anyone up!” He then added under his breath, “And I may have signed you up for a tournament with the intent to bet against you.”
“What was that last part?”
“Nothing you need to know about until tomorrow,” he cheerfully dismissed. He moves over to the bed, carefully making his way across the ruined floor. With a raised brow, he reaches for his towel, dramatically tossing it to the side and revealing his body to your eyes. He coyly slips into the miniature bed with you.
You exhale, glad that you can't see their genitalia during normal circumstances.
“Better get some rest. Tomorrow's the first day of the rest of your life,” the minotaur says, clutching at your flabby body as if you were an oversized stuffed doll. Within seconds, he's fast asleep.
“Don't remind me,” you answer.
000
Iron Will gestures dramatically at the run-down building in front of you. It stood a good three stories tall and in the morning sun the telltale sign of broken glass highlighted almost every window. It was a rough part of town as evidenced by the ground. It was very uneven and gravely—man, skinning your knees around this section would be terrible.
The place was also a bad neighborhood filled with pony gangbangers, pony crackheads, and pony hookers. You know because there was a pamphlet in the hotel lobby advising tourists to avoid the very scenario you're in right now.
“Kinda homey, isn't it?” Iron Will asks, not a trace of sarcasm in his tone. You wonder what his childhood must have been like.
“It's... something,” you cautiously answer.
“Well, Iron Will says it's time to get this party boopin'!” he exclaimes, stepping boldly towards the rusty front doors. You lag behind, debating on just leaving instead. You happen to cast your gaze across the street, where a group of sinister looking children seem to be vacantly staring at you.
Faced with the obvious choice between entering the dilapidated murder-warehouse and having to potentially deal with the creepy-ass stare children by yourself, you select the lesser of two evils.
000
The open warehouse is filled to the brim with ponies—you have a difficult time waddling your girth through the hardened crowd. You bump into a scarred earth pony; the impact knocks a cigarette from his cracked lips. The stallion glares daggers at you; you nervously smile, afraid that he's going to stab you with some sort of improvised shank.
You quickly step away, going deeper into the warehouse.
Smack dab in the center is a raised stage with rubber ropes around it. A wrestling ring. You wonder why it's called a ring and not a square.
And while you're pondering things everyone else has thought at one point or another—what's the deal with airplane food?!
A sharp whistle catches your attention. Iron Will is standing past the ring at a small bar, talking to a mare that would fit in perfectly in a rendition of The Phantom of the Opera, thanks to the cape and metal half-mask she wore. You walk—waddle, to be precise—over to the two.
“Iron Will was just telling the ringmaster about you,” the minotaur proclaims, then turns his attention back to the mare. “So you see, Miss, he's got the swagger and pep of a real fighter! He could even take on the champ!”
The mare disinterestedly looked you over. “Uh-huh.” She raises a hoof and pokes you hard in the gut. “And what sort of fighting experience do you have?”
“Lady,” you boast, “you're looking at the King of the fifth Iron-Fist tournament right here!” You pause. “Granted, I had to use Devil Jin, but the sentiment still stands!”
The stern mare exchanges a glance with Iron Will. “Do you have any idea what he just said?” she asks in her rough voice.
“Nope! But if it's Iron-Something, it has to be quality!” Iron Will states proudly. He flexes his imposing physique, gesturing towards the ring. “Come on, kid! Time to show the world what you can do!”
You climb up to the ring. Sweat pours down your body as you hoist your girth. You ungracefully get through the ropes and glance nervously over to Iron Will. He gives you a thumbs up and flexes, then points once more at you. You catch his drift and pose for the ponies surrounding the ring as the announcer says your totally average but fitting name.
They seem less impressed at your stunning physique than you expected.
Rock music begins to loudly play over the speakers after the ref says a few more things about you. It's a familiar tune you're pretty sure you've heard a variation on numerous times in your childhood.
When it comes crashing down, and it hurts inside.
Ya' gotta take a stand, it don't help to hide.
Well, you hurt my friends, and you hurt my pride,
I gotta make a stand; I can't let it slide.
I am a real Equestrian, fight for the rights across the lands.
I am a real Equestrian, fight for what's right—fight for your lifffffffe!
As you put the pieces together, the puzzle escapes your hands and solves itself. From the crowd comes a stallion's stallion. He wears a yellow shirt, stretching taunt over his brown and oily body. His cutie mark is an Equestrian flag, and on his face is a dirty blond mustache that instantly reminds you of an aged walrus.
He easily walks to the ring and adjusts the red and yellow bandanna he's wearing on top of his head, tossing the shades he wore at his brow aside. As his theme music continues, he reaches to the shirt and easily tears it off, then leans across the elastic ropes, cupping a hoof to his ear to listen to the whooping and cheering crowd. Satisfied with their cheering, he turns to face you.
“What you gonna do, brother, when the Coltster comes for you!?”
“Uh...” you trail off, unsure how to answer.
The ref comes to the center, and explains the golden rule: no junk hits. Both of you, being esteemed gentlemen, readily agree to his terms. Then the bell goes and you're off.
You assume a clumsy boxing stance, hoping you look cool. Without even flinching, he approaches you and hoists your body over the top of his head.
How can one little pony have that much upper body strength?! you ponder as he bodyslams you to the ground amid a cheering crowd. He cups a hoof to his ear once more and leans on the ropes, galvanizing the fans. The mustached stallion then jumps up, extending a back hoof out over your body. He lands on his butt, and his back leg connects soundly with your chest. You're surprised how much it hurts having a hoof dropped on you—they always seemed to be pretty dainty in the show. Heck, for a while, you thought Rarity might be half marshmallow.
Before you can even rise, he has you in a pin. One. Two. Three. It's over. A ref rings a bell he held in his mouth.
“The winner... and still raining champion... Colt! Krogan!”
The crowd briefly erupts into deafening cheering at seeing their brave and incorruptible hero emerge victorious against the savage monster. From your position on the mat, you can just make out Iron Will heatedly talking with the mare from earlier.
“You said he could get me at least three rounds with the champ,” you hear the masked mare hiss.
“Iron Will thought he could! Throw me a metaphorical bone here!” the hairy beast shoots back.
“Well, you're not getting your money!”
“Iron Will says don't test your luck! Frankly, you owe me big, you fat dumb f--”
She suddenly tears off her metal mask and stabs him in the face with it, knocking Iron Will to the ground. Everypony's jaw drops at the sudden act of violence.
You're more impressed that her mask was a weapon. That's... actually pretty sweet.
The crowd's jaws become nearly unhinged when Iron Will casually stands back up and stares back at the scarred mare, the sharp mask ripped his skin in several places and now his mechanical underbody gleamed through the wound.
“Surprise Plot Twist! Iron Will is actually a minotaur-cyborg!” he bellows as his LED eye scans the area. Without breaking stride, his hand turns into a totally rad cannon. He points it at her, as if to say, “Et tu Brute?”
You scowl from your spot on the floor—that was the wrong quote. You were thinking of Eastwood. For a few dollars more? No. Wrong one. The good, the bad, and the ugly? Damn. That's not ri—Oh yeah! Dirty Harry. You were thinking about that.
It was a shame the moment had passed. It would have been a very apt example showcasing what his face looked like at that point in time.
The formally masked mare reaches into her cape and pulls out a small sack of bits, then tosses it disgustedly at Cyborg Iron Will. “Never come here again,” she snarls.
“Don't plan on it!” he replies, opening up a small storage unit in his left forearm. He places the bag inside and pats the space as it shuts. “My friend has gotten his requisite training montage out of the way—now he's off to challenge the current King of Equestria! Gary Stu!”
“I'm doing what?!” you exclaim, trying to stand up from your Coltamania beatdown.
Iron Will's LED light shimmers across his half-melted face. His brows furrowed in concentration as he calculated what seemed to be an infinite number of mathematical formulas.
“Yeah. Now, thanks to the training you just did, we've got a fair chance at taking out the King. Which is very important to you,” he reminds you. As if you could forget.
“That lousy no-good Gary,” you complain loudly, finally standing. You scratch at your itchy neck-beard. “Let's have Equestria thrive under its rightful ruler, and not some jerkface!”
Though, granted, you're not doing this out of some sense of duty. If you can defeat the King, oh man could you get some sweet plot action from the mares or what?
Cyborg Iron Will nods, his back opening and forming a slot. From that dark abyss came a really cool pair of metallic wings. “Then let's go! To the exciting conclusion of this chapter! Of your life,” he added. “B-because life is like a book, you see.” He moved and picked up your body, carrying you into the air bridal style. “Itsametaphore,” he mumbled, bursting with speed from the small propulsion units installed in his cyborg feet. You two burst through the glass surrounding the rooftop and take off into the day.
AN: Oh God I can't get off this saddle. Horse. Horse, stahp.
