CHAPTER SIX: TERMINAL

Somewhere Else…

Being dead is not the worst part of dying, contrary to what most people believe. The worst part is the pain or non-pain of whatever unites you with death, be it blade or bullet or flame or crushing water, and the inescapable crushing fear of being powerless to save your own life and knowing that it is over. We live our lives afraid of this moment. We teach our children to handle knives and guns carefully, to stay away from precipitous cliffs or churning water or unstable ground, because we never want to face this inexorable truth of our own mortality. Behind all of our personal phobias lurks this grand one from which all the rest draw their power. It isn't heights that acrophobics fear but the result of falling from them. We fear the poisonous fangs of a spider for their death-dealing potential.

What comes after dying is actually the easy part.

The actual point of death, when your soul or consciousness or whatever you wish to call it passes on to another plane of existence, is easier than falling asleep for an afternoon nap. That pain is soon negated by the non-pain of being dead.

Bryn had never given much thought to death. At fifteen, can anyone honestly say that they've considered death at all, beyond attending funerals or listening to the doom-laden lyrics of heavy metal music? A teen's brain is hardwired for life, sweet life, for its joyrides and backyard parties and doomed loves and awkward first times and broken hearts. There are too many eye-opening wondrous experiences in life to waste time drawing pictures of razorblades and nooses and thinking up bizarre ways to die.

He would definitely put meeting Caitlin Thomas in the category of 'wondrous experiences'. If only he had been able to spend more time with her. If only we hadn't both died, bleeding out on a cold slab of linoleum, not even able to hold hands as we expired. We won't even be buried together.

Bryn thought about this for a while. Why would we be buried together, if we barely knew each other? We could have known each other better. I wanted to know her better, to tell her stories about myself and watch those beautiful eyes light up. Maybe I could have been the friend she always wanted and eventually earn her heart's love as well. He recreated her face in his memory, each curve and dimple true to life, and in this vision her mouth curved into a gentle smile. But such a silent image was all he could bring back; it took an enormous amount of willpower to keep her there and soon the face drifted away on currents of formless smoke. Indeed, it was very hard for him to think of anything preceding his final moments.

Sometime later, he realized something. He was still thinking.

In death, you are conscious of nothing. Your body becomes fodder for the grave's worms in the airless gloom of a coffin or is turned to cinders in a cremator, but is ultimately just a shell for that part of yourself that vacated it. It isn't you anymore. That special something that death's landlord evicted from your flesh is no longer a part of the living world.

If so, why was he still able to think about the aftermath of being dead?

Time felt liquid and amorphous, as did the foggy nothingness around him. He tried to say "This sucks," because it certainly did suck if there was nothing else to do for eternity other than yearn for what could have been. He no longer owned a mouth, or a head, or arms. He was a part of the void now.

The inky blackness began to brighten and resolve as if someone had violently injected food coloring into a swirling glass of water. What was at first smoke was now solidifying into ordered lines- solid beams and sweeping arched ceilings- until all was obscured by hazy bluish shapes. It looked like, of all the outlandish things in the world he could imagine, an airport terminal. Or what an airport terminal might look like if there were no planes, no commuters, no bustling traffic, and no solid surfaces at all. Its 'floor' was opaque blue and the walls were of a much lighter shade. The floor felt like cloud made solid, nebulous and unsteady. The resemblance to an airport was only in the vaulted ceilings and the rows of low benches. They seemed to invite a weary traveler to sit down and await the next flight.

So he did. The seat was as warm and comforting as a familiar armchair. I could get used to this, if this is what the afterlife's like. I wonder where all the people are though. For an airport, this one's gotta be the most deserted of all abandoned derelict airports.

And then he heard the voice, as loudly and clearly as if his entire body was made of ears.

"WELCOME HOME, HERO."

He leapt to his feet, raising his 'arms' in self-defense but forgetting that he had no body at all. Twenty feet away and gaining ground on him was the only thing in sight that wasn't blue. It was blinding white and casting rays of multicolored light in every direction, as if someone was shining a gigantic spotlight through an even larger prism. He couldn't look away from it if he tried. The ultraviolet pulses burned his vision.

"Where am I?" he gasped, not knowing if he was really speaking or not. "What is this place? Am I dead?"

The light crept closer to him and its voice vibrated the columns of smoke. "This place is nowhere. It is merely a transition between worlds. You have died, Bryn Hansen, but your tale is not over yet."

"There has to be some mistake-" he began, only to be interrupted.

"I am the Progenitor. There are no mistakes possible."

He thought there was a bit of indignation in the voice. It could have been male or female, or a combination of both, or neither one.

It continued in that same strident sexless tone. "Bryn Hansen, you have been chosen for this task because your heart is pure and your abilities may be the last hope of an entire world."

Now he could see it clearly. It was still a being of pure light, but in the form of a massive unicorn that stood nine feet tall with a wingspan larger than a helicopter's blades. Its gaze pierced him and laid his thoughts and feelings bare- all his love for his sister, every fear for her safekeeping and for the safekeeping of his abilities, as well as his grief for Caitlin. They were no longer his to protect. Bryn fell to his knees and felt its muzzle touch his forehead. When it spoke again, its voice was much softer.

"Go now, hero… remain pure of heart and trust in friendship. It is your only hope. A storm is brewing in that world, a storm of darkness and terror and grasping death. If Equestria falls, you and everything will fall with it."

Equestria? What the hell is Equestria? Bryn forced himself to look up. His eyes met the shimmering majesty of the unicorn and all the words on his tongue broke into fragments. "But- can't you bring me back? My own world- my sister-"

"There is no going back, young one. Such things can only happen once. You were meant for greater things, Bryn Hansen. Your abilities are unique and more powerful than you know, and can turn the tide of darkness. Do not let your fire go out."

In mid-sentence, the presence before him exploded into white fire and he found himself sinking through the floor. Its words came from an extreme distance and where there had been hazy blue smoke, light began to trickle in. The fog was blowing away quickly. Somewhere in the distance came its final word. "FRIENDSHIP!"

I get killed, plucked into some weird in-between world with a talking horse made out of light, and all it can say is 'friendship' and 'Equestria'? Is the entire universe on drugs?

He had exceeded his weirdness quotient for one day. Indeed, he had exceeded his quotient for everything. Life, death, love, anger. He only wanted to find a safe place to rest and process all the events of the past several hours.

However, rest would have to wait. The smoke blew away in thick tufts. Revealed beyond it was a fuzzy scene that sharpened like a pair of binoculars slowly being brought into focus. Any remaining light from the extragalactic unicorn was long gone. Then, all at once, there came a sound like a thunderclap and he felt solid ground beneath his body. Real, unyielding, mossy, thick earth that trickled the smell of humus and decaying grass into his nostrils.

I'm alive again.

---

October 9, 1402

Equestria

Bryn inhaled the sweet smell of existence. At the same time, he rose on unsteady legs and patted his chest to make sure it was real. It was his own body, all right. I'm wearing what I died in. His treasured sweatshirt was marred by three bullet holes and stained by his own blood. It had long since dried and hardened into the fabric, and parted stickily from his chest. But his body was whole and undamaged, the gunshot wounds healed, and so was his mind. He could remember everything.

Only then did Bryn raise his head to look around. He wished he hadn't. Was it too much to ask for that unicorn to drop me somewhere near civilization?

He stood at the center of a five-foot sphere of burned and blackened grasses, smoking feebly from the energy of his arrival. Beyond this circle was a grassy knoll of clover and cornflowers and rhododendrons. The terrain was as serene as a watercolor painting of paradise. A small brook bisected the hill he stood upon, babbling just past his feet, and lining the banks of the creek were hundreds of small blue flowers that he did not recognize.

With relief, he fell to his knees beside the brook and washed his face and hands. The water was as cool and crisp as any alpine spring back on Earth. Bryn scooped up sand and scrubbed the dried blood from his fingers before taking a long drink, and as he took heavy gulps of the creek's water, the spiraled puffy clouds drifted overhead. I could swear this was Earth. Interesting weather around here, though. The day felt trapped between summer and fall, or late fall and winter; the mid-afternoon sun hung heavily in the east, yet the breeze tugged at his clothes and buried its chilled teeth into any exposed skin. The shade underneath the clouds was eerily cold. Bryn shrugged out of his upper clothes and rinsed the bloody garments in the creek, and while his clothes dried on the sunny riverbank, he went exploring.

The low, rolling hills stretched away from the creek for about eighty yards in each direction. He hiked to the top of the tallest knoll to get his bearings, and soon noticed that his clearing stood amidst a circular embrace of trees. They were tall trees, too: ones that resembled Earth-standard trees like oak and yew and chestnut. It was like an island in the open ocean. Beyond the grass lay only unbroken woodlands, and the longer he looked at them, the more they seemed to sway and heave like an actual sea. It made him a bit dizzy.

Back in Eureka, what passed for 'forests' were scattered stands of juniper trees with sage, weeds and thin grass filling in the gaps. This was foliage such as he had never seen before. The trees were like silent soldiers, packed so densely together that sunlight could not penetrate the treetops.

A sudden chill crawled up his spine. He was, of course, dressed in his pants and skateboard shoes and nothing else, but the wind on his bare chest was not the source of the ominous feeling in his stomach. Bryn looked down at the dividing line between the grass and the forest which was remarkably straight, as if a giant had trimmed the borders of the clearing with a gigantic razor, and shivered.

The sunlight danced across the meadow and met the tree line. And beyond-

-was just blackness. As if there was an invisible wall to keep the light out of the forest. The silent trees stood amidst the gloom, watching, waiting.

Silence. How come it's so quiet here? Between the wind and the brook's melodic splashing, he had at first not noticed the general stillness of the meadow. Now he heard it. This place, which should have been filled with buzzing insects and birdsong and the millions of other nature sounds, was as quiet as a midnight cemetery.

Bryn repressed another shudder. Whatever happens, I don't want to get caught here or in that forest at night. I don't like the feel of this place.

In the far distance, past the sea of undulating trees to the north, was another open valley with a hazy snowcapped mountain range beyond. It was difficult to see from his distance, but it looked like there was a town nestled amidst the trees and a large river. It was two or three hours' walk at the very least. A town meant safety and information and a place to plan out his next move. "I need to get there," he told himself, "before dark." So he collected his half-dried clothing on the riverbank and pulled it on. His shirt was hopelessly bloodstained but it no longer clung stiff and sticky against his skin, and the hoodie was undamaged save for the bullet holes.

North was easy to find. Besides using the sun for navigation, he could use the creek, which drained downhill to join the larger tributaries within the forest. He stooped for a final drink of water.

And he instantly jumped back in sudden alarm. For it had seemed like a slender black tentacle was snaking through the water to meet his hand as it dipped below the creek's surface. Bryn blinked and the image was gone. The brook was just a brook, splashing and sparkling. Fuck this place… it's messing with my head. Just a trick of the light and these weird clouds. Yet he quickly took a drink and hurried on his way. He couldn't shake the sensation of something watching him. The wind whispered in the branches.

Don't look back, Bryn. Stick to the creek and keep moving. He walked forward and the trees loomed up to meet him. They bent over the stream like groping arms, their knuckled hands razor-sharp. One moment he was under warm sunlight and in the next, he was in a dark wood of wrath, in a yawning mouth of brambles and murmuring leaves and unseen eyes. The eyes resented his presence.

---

Two years ago…

A pair of giggling thirteen-year-old girls clung to each other in the tender way only reserved for sisters or the very closest of friends. They held hands for emotional support and shared warmth. Five feet away, a boy of the same age aimed a video recorder at the pair and began a pompous introduction.

"Here in the Year of our Lord two thousand and ten, in the witness of God and all other attendant spirits, stand Ashlie Butler and Erica Shaw. My name is Aaron Shaw, merely a humble reporter of these events, and standing- well, somewhere over there, is another witness, Bryn Hansen. We record this in the interest of future generations who will see what has taken place on this fateful night as a lesson and valuable reminder for such individuals for whom fear has no meaning." He pointed the camera at his face as the two girls giggled in the background, and ended with a snide "So don't try this at home."

"You're so stupid, Aaron!" shrieked Erica. "If there are any ghosts in this place, they heard you."

"Ghosts don't come out until three in the morning. Everyone knows that. It's the magic witching hour or something. Trust me, I saw it in a movie once."

"Oh my god it's cold," Ashlie interjected. "If we freeze to death out here before we see anything, it's your fault. You just had to pick the freaking coldest night and you rushed me out the door so I couldn't get my jacket."

Aaron shifted the camera back onto the girls. "You're missing the point. I found this super creepy old book in the library that talked about the history of the school, and it said that on January 26th, 1925, a girl was killed outside the old high school by her ex. It snowed two feet that night and her body was found in the bushes two days later, the blood frozen on her face from where she was beaten to death with a club. This cemetery is exactly three hundred feet away from the spot where she was murdered."

"Seriously, Aaron, where do you find this stuff?" his sister exclaimed. "You listen to every dumb story that the freshmen say to scare the junior high kids." Ashlie hugged close to her, shivering. Erica continued in an undertone, "And why invite Bryn? He's- well- kinda weird. No one in the class trusts him."

"I invited him because we needed a camera for this and he borrowed his dad's."

Suddenly, Bryn was there at the girl's side. "And maybe because my parents are fighting again and I couldn't stand to be in the house. Ever think of that?" Erica had enough sense to look abashed. He ran a hand through his windswept hair. "And besides, it sounded like fun."

Erica, predictably, missed the sarcasm.

Ashlie's phone and the light on the camera were the only light sources at hand, yet with the full moon hanging ominously overhead, they were unnecessary. It provided plenty of light for an illicit night of ghost hunting. Or, in Bryn's case, wishing he were elsewhere. Erica and Ashlie… two more reasons for me to hate this place.

Although the vapid teens set his teeth on edge, the majority of his anger went to his feuding parents and to the town in which he lived. He wondered if it was something specific to small towns that produced such a ridiculous fascination with ghost stories and forgotten lore. Was it a side-effect of this old mining town itself, with its 150-year-old buildings and the air of mystery that always accompanied history? Even the high school and the elementary school were old. The funny thing about a brick building that has stood for eighty years is that one cannot help imagining those who walked its halls before. Each creak of the floors might be an echo of someone's footsteps from fifty years ago. Now combine those creaky floors with a terrified seventh-grader and a cold windy evening, and there lies a ready-made ghost story. The stories become even more deliciously spooky with a graveyard and several murders and a kidnapping thrown into the mix. Now that I think about it, why does such a small town have so many cemeteries?

Bryn had heard it all before. This story was stereotypical schmaltz: the girl slain behind the school was angry at her long-dead killer and even after eighty-five years, her ghost stalked the cemetery and certain parts of the school grounds with a bloody knife in hand. And only on certain nights would she appear. For example, the anniversary of the killing, which happened to be January 26th.

True, he had agreed to be a part of the ghost-hunting ensemble, even though he would much prefer to be safe in his bed on a night like this. He couldn't stand his parents' yelling anymore. It erupted in a firestorm of curses and thrown objects, with himself and his poor sister caught in the middle. I wish they'd just divorce and get it all over with. But where would that leave me and Serena? He had no close friends at school yet. Aaron was only an acquaintance, and his sister's clique shunned him. He could see it in Ashlie's stares.

He pulled his coat tighter and let out a string of grating oaths at the wind and at his parents and at Ashlie and at his life in general. The urge to phase was strong. I don't feel cold when I'm in a phase. I don't feel anything at all, and right now I wouldn't mind.

But unleashing orange light in front of the girls was off-limits, so he shivered and swore. Aaron blathered on and on into the microphone and the two females laughed. "There's no ghost here," said Bryn to himself. "Just the ones they imagine, because this idiot wants them to. The only thing to be afraid of is freezing to death. No doubt he's just trying to get Ashlie to like him."

Just then, Ashlie interrupted. "It's almost three. If we don't see anything in the next five minutes, can we please go back? I can't feel my fingers!"

"A minute until three!" yelled Aaron. He huddled with the others, while Bryn hugged himself and walked amidst faded wooden gravestones with forgotten names. If he hadn't been such a practiced cynic, the atmosphere might have unsettled him as well. The wind hissed through the cemetery. The pine trees murmured and creaked. An ancient iron gate, long loosened by rust and wind and the tree roots around it, swung on its hinges with mournful squeaks.

And then, somewhere deep in the brush and tangled junipers, a shrill howl split the air. Ashlie and Erica screamed in unison. The wind blasted; the loose gate crashed against its frame with a frightening clang. Without waiting to see if the 'ghost' had a bloody knife, the girls ran screaming down the hill toward the school, Aaron not far behind.

Only Bryn remained in place long enough to see a lone coyote slink out from behind a tree and let out another howl. It was soft brown and thin from winter. Probably hunting at night, he thought. The coyote caught sight of Bryn, sniffed the air and loped out of sight behind the headstones farther up the hill. He watched it go as the wind screeched and snow began to fall. We're both misunderstood and feared by everyone. I have more in common with this coyote than I do with those girls. We're the true ghosts here.

---

It was to this memory that Bryn now reached, even though it felt like two lifetimes ago and someone else had lived it. I wonder if any of them were hurt in the shooting. Erica and Ashlie and Aaron. Did they get out in time?

He brought back the feeling he had experienced while standing alone in that cemetery. While his other companions bolted at the slightest noise, he held his ground and later teased them for being afraid of a squeaky iron hinge. There was a rational explanation for everything. Real things could be seen and heard and felt, and if not, then it was not real and that was the end of it. This was his philosophy- a philosophy which, an hour or so ago, had been turned upon its head. If magic unicorns could suck his dead body through time and space and then reanimate it, what was truly real anymore?

These noises can't be explained away with a coyote and a rusty gate. This forest isn't natural and it's scaring the hell out of me.

Sticking to his plan, Bryn had entered the forest and clung to the riverbank as much as the terrain allowed. The shallows were alternately rocky and muddy and soon his pants were coated in heavy fragrant mud. The stream curved slightly to the northwest, through a particularly vicious patch of vines and brambles. With every step, an uneasy feeling began to grow in the pit of his stomach.

For one thing, this was no ordinary forest, or the kind of forest that Bryn had seen before. He only knew the scattered pines and junipers of his hometown, which were only forests in the loosest sense of the word, and had seen the California coastal forests as a child. Those were forests. Trees over one hundred feet tall, with trunks larger in diameter than the average car and gorgeous branches that caught part of the sunlight as it fell to the forest floor. These woodlands were nothing like that. They were a dark, angry labyrinth of crooked roots and low-hanging limbs, and no light reached the depths. Each root was a hidden trap to catch his feet and each muddy bog was a snare to flounder in.

And it was silent. No birds graced the treetops with their song. No insects hummed in his ears. No squirrels or tree frogs or deer. The stream itself seemed to stagnate and cower in its banks, and its water was a black reflection of the black branches above. The air was stale and heavy.

A chill crept up his spine. That old familiar feeling…

The slithering cold sensation went all the way down to his toes and once again, it felt like someone (or something) was watching him. His footsteps on the stones sounded like drumbeats. He whipped around, searching for the unseen eyes, and caught a flash of black slinking behind a boulder. "Come out!" he called, but his voice died in the still air, as if he had shouted into a funnel.

There are moments when silence itself becomes a sound; you can feel it crushing down on your eardrums like lead weights and crawling deep into your skull. You create useless noises just to deaden its roar, but it returns in force. In the midst of that unnatural place, he bent beneath its power. The branches murmured.

Something flashed between the tree trunks to his left, as silent as a puff of breath, and he only made out a dark shape wreathed in shadow. It moved faster than lightning and winked out of existence as soon as he trained his gaze toward it. Like a switch being thrown, the noise of the wind and the creek faded and blended into a sort of blank buzzing. It was the sound of a broken speaker or a badly tuned radio. It came from every direction and from the very ground upon which he stood, and built into a heavy drone.

Then it stopped. From somewhere nearby came a horrid cold malevolent stare. Bryn heard the crunching and slithering of something heavy moving along the forest floor behind him, and in an instant he was in motion.

"You're not eating me," he panted. He didn't want to look back. Not when it was making such sounds, like a giant trash compactor digesting six trees at once. When he wasn't concentrating on keeping his feet on firm ground, he chanced a backward glance or two, but only caught glimpses of black tentacles.

Up ahead was a ray of sunshine that had wriggled through the overhead canopy. Bryn focused his attention on it- and phased. Like riding a bike. Soon he stretched out and covered a dozen yards with each leap, flitting among the branches and phasing back to normal when the terrain became unsteady. The effort soon exhausted him. Thorns lashed at his face and arms, and all the while, it followed close behind, biding its time for the fatal blow when he lost his footing.

I can't fall now.

---

On his last legs, Bryn staggered out of the forest to an even stranger sight: the most quaint, multicolored, picturesque town one could ever imagine. Each narrow street was of well-worn cobblestone, clean and brightly lit by streetlamps looking like some long-lost relic of history. These contained actual candles behind their square glass panes and not the cold harsh fluorescent bulbs of his world. Everywhere he looked he saw dancing candle flames and white fences.

And the buildings… had he somehow traveled through a portal into a world made of Christmas gingerbread and spun sugar? The sharply gabled roofs, the vivid cotton candy colors of the siding and window dressings, and the wooden doors suggested to Bryn that these were farmhouses or country cottages. If he had not been starving and winded and bleeding from several lacerations on his arms and legs, he might have wondered why these houses appeared straight out of a girl's fairytale. He might have marveled at the sloped roofs which, although sturdy and well made, were built of straw. Or he might have wandered down one of the spotless streets and noticed the plethora of heart-based designs on the buildings. They were everywhere: on the weathervanes, stenciled into the doors, painted on the windowsills. Love obviously mattered to whoever lived here.

Either that, or this was the finest example of early Valentine's Day decorating in all of recorded human history.

Bryn suddenly realized he was quite exposed to wandering eyes. He was at the edge of the forest, some distance away from the houses and the twinkle of the lamps, but his white bloodstained shirt stood out in the gloom. He moved behind an oak tree; there was no one in sight around any of the nearby buildings and although dusk was getting stale, he expected at least someone to be around a town of this size.

To his left, not thirty yards distant, was a unique house. Perhaps it was a circus tent, because it looked nothing like the yellow gabled structures around it. It was round and two stories, with baby blue walls, and its windows were inviting ovals. This could have described any plain circus tent, but not this one. Never had he seen a tent with slender violet pillars or decorations carved in the shape of horses. A red pennant at its apex fluttered in the gentle breeze.

His stomach growled. "I wonder if anyone here can help me," he said to himself. "There has to be someone." Since the circus-tent house was softly illuminated, he decided to start there. That was his plan, in any case, but he knew better than some that plans can change with no warning. And change they did.

As he got closer, he could see that the tent had a backyard of sorts. A low hedge ran around its south side and a clothesline was strung between a wooden pole and the back door so that whoever lived there could hang clothes to dry without leaving the porch.

Visions of safety, a warm hearth, and a hot meal danced before his eyes. All he had to do was knock on the door and explain his predicament. The whole 'getting shot and being transported through space and time by a psychedelic unicorn god' thing could wait until he knew more about this place, wherever it was.

And then he saw it.

Out of the back door walked- a horse. This was unlike any horse Bryn had ever seen, and growing up in a town in close proximity to ranches meant that he had seen plenty of horses.

His mouth fell open as this horse, which sported a short white horn on its head, levitated a basket of laundry through the door. As if this spectacle was not unbelievable enough, a scintillating blue glow enveloped the basket and each article of clothing began to float from the basket and hang itself on the line! It was like watching a master illusionist at work. Then he noticed the source of the blue glow: none other than the unicorn's horn. It issued dainty sparks which propelled the clothes to their places on the line. When each garment had been perfectly arranged and pinned, the creature set the basket down and walked to the end of the hedge.

Bryn stood frozen there, halfway between his oak tree and the house, abruptly unsure what to do. He didn't want to startle it. Dropping to all fours and ducking behind a nearby shrub, he took a closer look.

The unicorn, or whatever the hell it was, remained near the hedge and stared at the rapidly fading sunset. It must be a girl unicorn, Bryn thought. What else would have hair like that? And what the hell kind of place is this where unicorns live in circus houses and have curled purple hair? Purple. Hair. And large eyelashes. He couldn't see much of her face, due to the hedge and the angle, but her body language suggested grace and refinement. Her hair was done up in elaborate curls, as was her tail, and she even bore light eye makeup around a pair of blue eyes that looked too large, too blue to be real. No normal horse had eyes like that. No normal horse wore mascara or had fluttering girlish eyelashes. Her coat, now that she was out from under the eaves of the house, shimmered in the moonlight and was pure milky white. Without realizing it, he had slunk from behind his bush in order to examine her more closely.

Perhaps the light was stronger than Bryn thought, for at that moment the horned horse turned her head and spied him crouching in plain sight. She let out a piercing scream, like some film noir heroine at the mercy of a killer, and the echoes bounced off nearby walls to create an inharmonious wall of noise. "Help me!"

In what goddamned messed up world can horses talk? Wherever this place is, I think being dead was a better deal.

Doors slammed and windows opened and the street quickly filled with startled horses. "What's going on?" said one, obviously male and russet-colored with a wild brown mane. "I heard a scream!"

"There's a horrid ugly monster in my backyard!" screeched the white unicorn.

"Wait! I wasn't attacking you! I'm just looking for someplace to stay tonight, I have money and I'll pay!" he shouted desperately. "I didn't mean to scare you!" His voice was lost amidst the clattering of hooves on the cobblestones and the shouts of the rapidly growing crowd. "What in the name of Celestia is that thing?" a horse cried. "Somepony help her!"

By now, the purple-maned white unicorn had fainted. She crashed dramatically to the ground, hooves splayed out and mane covering her eyes.

Bryn was presented with so much outlandishness at once that he did the only sane thing, which was to run like hell. And run he did. What energy left in his aching muscles that the nightmare in the forest hadn't robbed was used to bolt back toward the trees. The tree line was only forty feet away! I can make it. Before he reached the safety of the woods, a rainbow-colored streak rocketed down from the sky to land on all fours in front of him, cutting off his exit.

"HEY! Where do you think you're going? And what in the name of Celestia are you?!"

He had reached his limit with forests and talking horses. "Get out of the way," he gasped hoarsely, "and I won't hurt you."

"Trying to creep up on Rarity, at night? Trying to hurt one of my friends?" shouted the newly arrived horse. This one was cyan-colored and female, with a wild windswept mane reflecting all the colors of the rainbow, and her magenta eyes were narrowed in anger. She lacked a horn but instead owned a pair of richly feathered wings. "You're coming with me. The Mayor can decide what to do with you."

Bryn doubted if he had the strength to phase again, and even if he could, he thought it a bad idea to display his powers in front of these weird horses. I guess they would be ponies, he thought as he stared down the one in front of him. They're much smaller than the farm horses I've seen before. This one stood about fifty-five inches tall at the ears. Her multicolored hair was level with his ribcage and, taking her wings out of the equation, she didn't appear to pose much of a physical challenge. He had fought much larger (and uglier) opponents before.

So when this arrogant pony made a gesture with her wing for him to turn around and follow her toward town, Bryn stood his ground. "You're not taking me anywhere, freak."

Then her wings rippled and with astonishing speed she leaped forward. Bryn received the very solid and muscled weight of the pony in his gut, and doubled over with her atop him. She roughly pinioned his arms to the ground with her hooves. Whatever they feed these horses here, they're pure muscle, or at least this one is. "What part of come with me did you not understand?" Casually, she flicked her mane out of her eyes, and gave him a cocky fighter's stare.

Bryn had faced bullies before. The ones he absolutely loathed were the bullies with roguish charisma, the assholes that sucked up to the teachers and made being an asshole look attractive. In this pony's amethyst eyes he saw only that same brashness of David Stern, who would trip him in the hallways and then glance, grinning, to his peers for approval. Never mind that she was probably sticking up for her friend Miss White Unicorn, as any friend would do, but at the moment he was beyond caring and out of time. He hadn't taken a bullet and been teleported into this nightmarish place just to be hog-tied and taunted by another bully. Caitlin didn't die for this.

"Go to hell," he growled, and smashed his forehead into hers.

It was like head-butting a concrete wall. He saw stars and the pony redoubled her grip, not stunned whatsoever. Desperate, he twisted sideways in order to clear his legs. The change of direction took her by surprise; she expected the predictable punch but instead he brought his knees up and kicked with all his might at her soft underbelly. The pony was quite equal to this. She took to the air with that same eye-popping speed, dodging his strike with ease, and instead of attacking straight on, she did a barrel roll and swung back to aim at Bryn's rear.

I wonder where the rainbow streak comes from, he wondered. Probably fairy dust flying out of her ass.

Just as he speculated how this blue horse could fly with such obvious skill, her piledriver back legs came towards him at terminal velocity. All he could do was bring his arm up to defend his head. Her flying kick felt like the impact of a two-ton truck. He aimed a punch at her sneering face but she rolled right, escaping to the sky once more.

"This is bad," he muttered. She had an advantage of both range and speed and without his special abilities, Bryn was fearing defeat. He played one last card. He faked a dodge to the right and she fell right into it. At the last moment, he leaped left and wrapped his arms around her midsection as she sped by. With Bryn's added 160 pounds and frantic punches, he managed to bring her down to earth. The only difference was that Bryn fell heavily, out of wind and energy, while the pony was fresh and angry and landed on all four hooves like a cat. Now it was her turn to aim another kick which connected to Bryn's sternum and sent him sprawling.

Under such circumstances Bryn thought it was prudent to break his code and phase the hell out of there. "Now let's try this again," yelled the horse. "You're coming with-"

A bullet of golden light flew into the forest. "-me…?" Rainbow Dash, not even slightly winded from the brawl with that hideous thing, found herself talking to thin air.

---

Twilight Sparkle, Rarity, and a crowd of assorted bystanders soon gathered around the scene. If Rarity's screams hadn't alerted nearby ponies to something amiss, the quick but furious battle certainly did, and Rainbow Dash hovered at the spot where Bryn had vanished looking slightly pleased with herself. Twilight, forgetting for the moment that she was very near the edge of the forest that figured prominently in her nightmares, was all business despite the dressing gown around her shoulders and messy mane.

"I heard the screams, Rarity, is everything okay?"

"It- it- it was horrible," stammered Rarity. "Here I was, hanging the last of my laundry, and then this uncouth beast was watching me." She shuddered.

"Rainbow Dash, did you see what it was?"

"Saw it?" declared Rainbow. "I brought that thing down to size! It was a piece of cake. Except, ya know, the part where it escaped into the forest. Sorry about that."

Twilight huffed, a puff of smoke angrily escaping her muzzle. "But did you see what it was? Something comes into Ponyville and terrorizes Rarity, and it gets away without anypony actually getting a good look at it?"

"I know exactly what it looks like, Twilight! It wasn't a pony, and it stood on two legs instead of four, and its skin was all scaly. There was blood all over it and if I ever get my hooves on that parasprite again, he'll be sorry."

As Twilight shook her head in rapt disbelief, Pinkie Pie trotted up to the lane and passed Carousel Boutique. "Twilight! Twilight!" called Pinkie. "Did you hear? Some weirdo weirdy-pants was in town somewhere near here! Cheerilee told me that Rarity screamed and then I decided to come and see!" She sprang in circles around Twilight. "Is it still here? Where is it? Where is it?"

"PINKIE!" bellowed Twilight. "Would everypony please just calm down! Now Rainbow Dash, what exactly happened?" Pinkie continued bouncing.

"I told you, Twilight, this weird-looking scaly thing on two legs was stalking Rarity!"

And, predictably, Pinkie Pie jumped into the conversation. "Scaly? That's silly, Dashie! Since when do dragons come to town and spy on ponies? Wouldn't a dragon be really big and scaly, and walk on all four legs? Maybe it was an alligator-"

"It wasn't a dragon or an alligator, Pinkie," exclaimed Rainbow Dash. "It had really pale skin and no hair. Well- there was hair on its head, but-"

A light grey Pegasus mare with bubbles for a cutie mark swooped down to land next to Pinkie Pie. She ignored Pinkie's hyperactive monologue altogether, addressing Twilight instead. "I was flying home and I heard shouting," said the mare. "I don't like loud noises." Her eyes were endearingly out of focus.

Twilight took a deep measured breath and, as Princess Cadance had taught her, exhaled with a sweeping motion of her hoof. She then proceeded to cram said hoof into Pinkie's mouth, abruptly silencing her story about alligator spies disguised as dragons. "Everypony, there's nothing to see here. Whatever was here is gone and if it comes back we'll be ready. Rainbow, do you think you could stay with Rarity tonight just in case?"

Rainbow Dash flew to Rarity's side. "Sure thing, Twilight. Nothing's getting past me."

"And Derpy, you should probably head home to your daughter. Everything's all right." The wall-eyed Pegasus flew off in lazy circles, muttering, "I just don't know…" The crowd of ponies soon dispersed. Twilight and her three friends were alone.

At this point, Rarity spoke up. "Twilight, do you think that- thing- was just scared? Rainbow Dash said it was covered in blood. What if it was hurt and just looking for help?"

"Then it might be back, and we'll worry about that if it happens."

The trees swayed ominously. With each gust of wind, chills trailed up Twilight's legs and withers. "Rarity… don't worry. Rainbow's here and we should probably get inside soon." What she really meant to say was I don't want to be out here after dark, but she would rather fail one of Celestia's tests than stand at the borders of the forest at night and explain her peculiar fear of forests. In those whispering branches she saw only dank creeping things that would slither over her coat and trap her in crushing darkness.

With a violent shiver, she bid Rarity goodnight and made for her library with all speed. Rarity and Rainbow Dash headed for the Boutique's back door while Pinkie bounced along the path to town, singing "Giggle at the Ghosty" in a loud voice.

"Are you sure you're all right?" asked Rainbow Dash once the pair were inside Rarity's kitchen. The Pegasus closed and locked the windows.

"Yes, darling," said Rarity, but her heart was not in it. In truth, she was thinking about the two-legged being. She could still see his blood-stained clothing and fearful stare, and imagined him somewhere in a dark forest clearing, hungry and lonely and freezing.

In the same way that Rainbow Dash represented loyalty in a living breathing pony form, Rarity represented generosity. It ran deeper than a simple set of personal beliefs; essentially, Rarity was generosity. Her Element and her very nature compelled her to show charity to both friends and strangers. Without knowing a single thing about the human who had been killed and whisked through time and space to Equestria, she soon found herself worrying about him and perhaps even considering seeking him out in the morning to apologize. True, she had screamed, but only from justified shock at his appearance. Perhaps he just wanted a friend, she thought. Oh, Rarity, why did you have to scream and make such a scene?

"Did you see his skin?" Rainbow continued. "It was all weird and hairless and slimy looking."

"Please, Rainbow Dash, I'd rather not talk about it… it's been a trying day. First the spa is closed until further notice because Lotus Blossom went to visit her cousin in Manehatten and apparently hasn't been seen since. Her sister is frantic. And then Sweetie Belle's ridiculous antics- laundry room full of tree sap, feathers and glitter everywhere- ugh…" The unicorn gestured for her friend to follow her upstairs. "I need a vacation. Or a vacation from this vacation."

"Okay, not talking about it. But did you see how I kicked him and he fell on his face?"

"Rainbow Dash-"

The wild-maned pony was already rolling on the carpet with laughter. She's as bad as Sweetie Belle, thought Rarity dully. "So ya have anything to eat before I hit the hay? I need to refresh my physique, after all. These muscles don't take care of themselves."

"Oh- right. I forgot all about the legendary appetites of Pegasi." She waved a hoof at the kitchen. "There's plenty of oats and clover, even a few eggs from this morning, whatever you want is yours, and the spare bedroom too." Rarity hesitated. "And Rainbow, sorry I've been so short with everypony lately. Thank you for being here to protect me."

"Just doing my job," declared Rainbow Dash proudly. She flexed her four-foot wingspan. Rarity climbed the stairs to her bedroom, intending to end her day before it deteriorated any further.

She crossed to her bathroom and started a steaming hot shower. This was her safe place and sanctuary from a world far bigger and more terrifying than one unicorn could handle. Many of her best design inspirations were not born at her workbench or her sewing machine, but from long showers with plenty of essential oils and body washes.

The tension of the day was quickly washed down the drain, and yet even after several minutes of standing there with the water dripping from her mane and plastering her delicate fur against her body, she was still uneasy and began talking to herself as soon as she had climbed from the tub. "Now take deep breaths, Rarity. Remember: poise and passion." Her vanity dresser was a neatly arranged mess of brushes, curlers and the dizzying array of makeup supplies needed to make herself look like a million bits. After all, much like her generosity, her fabulosity was also a part of her. She toweled her mane dry and left it hanging in a lavender-scented curtain over her shoulders; its maintenance could wait until the morning.

Rarity's bed was soft and inviting. "Ughhhh…" she sighed as she sank into the silk sheets. "Why did I make such a scene? All I remember was that he said he didn't want to hurt me, and then I fainted and Rainbow attacked him…" She tossed and turned and muttered to herself in the dark. "Tomorrow, as Celestia is my witness, I will find him and offer him friendship."