The Conversion Bureau: Growing Pains
by Silvertie
Chapters
The Sixteenth
“Alright, this thing on?” a large purple iris was all but pressed up against the camera.
“You're not going to be able to tell like that, Miss Sparkle,” a voice said, tiredly. “Step back, look for the little red dot.”
“Right. Human technology.” The eye stepped back, revealing a purple unicorn mare with a streak of pink through her dark purple mane. “I am Twilight Sparkle, appointed by Princess Celestia to develop the Human Ponification Serum. This is... human test... number... sixteen.”
Twilight shuddered, and looked off-camera. “I... how can you humans keep doing this? Fifteen lives have been ended because of this testing – how can we justify this?”
“Fifteen lives versus eight billion? I think we can justify a few broken eggs,” dismissed the off-screen voice, which then softened. “I'm pretty sure the subjects know what they're getting into, Miss Twilight; let's press on, we can talk this over during the proceedure.”
“Right. So, test number... sixteen. Using Mk. Twenty-three Human Ponification Serum, or “Potion”, as some of the team have started calling it. We have fixed some of the persisting issues such as thuaumaturgical radiation in the serum itself, and expect to produce a successful change at this point, with no problems.”
Twilight looked off-screen once more. “Are we ready?”
“Waiting on you.”
“Right. Send in the test subject.”
======
The caucasian man walked through the doors unassisted, hospital gown billowing in his wake as he passed through the still, sterile air of the lab. He looked at the technicians dotted around the room, and the purple horse – no, Equestrian – standing next to a simple operating table.
“Hello!” the Equestrian said, brightly. “My name is Twilight Sparkle, and thank you for volunteering to participate in this test.”
“Holy shit,” the man muttered, eyes widening. “You can talk.”
“...yes, I've noticed a recurring theme in all subjects so far. Do Earth-born ponies not normally talk?”
One of the assistants stepped forward, and whispered in her ear – the pony's eyes widened.
“Not even sentient? I guess that explains a lot... Alright, Mr... Barnes? Are you ready?”
“Ready as I'll ever be,” the man nodded.
“Okay. If you could please lie down on the table...?”
The man regarded the table in question – it was covered in vynl-coated padding, and large enough to comfortably hold a large human... or a small horse. He swallowed, and clambered onto the table.
“So, uh... will this hurt?” He asked, a slight bounce of weak humor in his voice.
“Only the needle,” Twilight's human assistant said quickly, cutting his superior off mid-sentence. “You'll be out like a light in no time, and when you wake up, I guess you could say you might be a little horse.”
The lame pun zinged around the room, causing small chuckles from everyone, and Mr. Barnes nodded.
“Okay, thanks.” He settled on his back, and lay still. “What now?”
“I'll put the needle in on three, okay?” Twilight asked. Barnes nodded.
“One.”
Barnes blinked, took a deep breath.
“Two.”
Barnes wiggled his fingers and toes one last time, saying goodbye to an ancestry of opposable thumbs.
“Three.”
A sharp jab, and a tingling sensation as the serum flowed into him, as did his memories of how he came to be in this place.
======
He wasn't stupid. When scientists came around to homeless shelters, of course they were looking for test subjects. The fact that it was a homeless shelter meant death was a very real possibility.
He'd watched many a recruitment squad go in... and they always took someone away, someone with so little left that they would wager their life in a scientific game of chance, someone who believed the promises of a better life.
But these were different. These scientists... they had shown up with their fancy car, gotten out, carrying clip-boards and pens. The usual. They took the stage in the common room of the shelter, got everyone's attention. As usual.
Said they were looking for volunteers for this new serum of theirs. The payoff, if it succeeded, was a new life, a life of ease. No more dreary, grey city. No more struggling to live day-to-day in the shadow of the Corporations. Just a life in paradise, and all it took was one little injection.
That split the crowd pretty fast – the gullible, and the skeptics. The scientists paid the almost visible split no heed, and carried on. And that was where they seperated themselves from all the other scientists that had come looking for bargain lives.
The catch was that nobody had survived to claim the prize yet, and the formula was still in progress.
Virtually everyone got up and left at that statement, even the gullible ones. Why gamble when you were being told that the outcome was, for all intents and purposes, fixed?
Soon, the crowd dispersed to do whatever it was that the homeless did in their spare time, leaving just three people left.
Them. And Barnes.
Something about their honesty had struck a chord with him. He stood up, and approached them, the scientists surprised anyone had stuck around.
Who was it for? They couldn't say. Was the offer genuine? Definitely, they said. Was the spiel about death true? Sadly, yes.
Barnes looked them in the eye. Was the test he signed up for likely to kill him?
He watched their eyes. Their faces, their body language.
No. It probably would not kill him.
Barnes took the clip-board out of their hands, and a pen, and made his mark on the digi-paper.
One more mark on a dotted line, and his life was set. All or nothing.
======
“How are his vital signs?”
“Stable. He's going under rapidly.”
“Excellent. And the serum?”
“It's taking effect.”
A sigh. “I hope we get the concentration right this time...”
======
Barnes opened his eyes, seeing a white ceiling. He sat up awkwardly, and looked at his extremities.
Short, yes. Equine? No. Had it failed?
He got up, with difficulty – his head was, by contrast to his pudgy, short body, huge. He looked at himself again, and realized the truth.
I'm a child again.
“Hello?” he called out, his voice still that of an adult, strange coming out of one who appeared to be too young to even talk; his voice echoed and reverbed around the room eerily; whereever he was, it wasn't Kansas any more.
He took a few tentative steps forward, head rotating as he surveyed his surroundings. He was in a pen, the kind they still had when he'd been this age. High, mesh walls kept a baby in the safety of the enclosed area, and out of the less-safe outside world.
Toy cars, rubber balls, other children's toys; all littered the floor, and all seemed vaguely familiar. But Barnes felt no compulsion to play with any of it, and he kept walking forward, his short legs stumbling ever so slightly.
He stopped when he kicked a book – a child's book, one with pages of rigid cardboard and not paper. He picked it up – You're Special! He discarded it. He had no need of a book like this any more – he knew he was far from special, and it didn't do to live in a fantasy world.
He reached out with a pudgy hand, and leaned on the gate – walking was hard as a child. The latch sat there, taunting him with it's child-proof-ness.
But he had an adult's intellect in a child's body – the lock might have been awkward to reach, but that was all it had over him. A toy screwdriver served purpose in levering the latch up and off the hook. He dropped the tool, and pushed on the gate once more, pushing it open and taking a -
======
The mother stood at the kitchen sink, humming to herself as she stirred the mush that was her child's food. Adorable little tyke – clever, too. Already stumbling around in his little play-pen, even making noises that could be generously interpreted as “Mama” and “Dada”.
She dropped the spoon in the sink, and grabbed her offspring's favored spoon – he didn't seem to want to eat anything that wasn't delivered on the end of the damn thing.
She wandered into the lounge, and screamed, dropping the bowl of food.
Mashed carrots and honey went across the carpet as she took in the sight before her: Open playpen gate, discarded screwdriver toy, a trail of mess as he'd carved a path of discord along his path through the otherwise tidy lounge area.
Leading to the front door.
She ran, maternal instincts kicking in. Find Child. Locate Spawn. Verify Offspring. She found the front door, it's ajar state betraying her child's passage.
Mother ran outside, and saw Child, standing in the road, looking back at her, chubby hands waving excitedly.
Look what I've done, he seemed to say, Aren't I a clever boy?
Too clever. Mother looked to the left, and saw what she didn't want to see. The garbage truck. Automatons had begun taking over jobs normally done by humans – menial jobs, ones that nobody wanted to do, but wanted done nonetheless. This was one of those jobs.
Robots weren't omnipresent or omniscent – they made mistakes, just like humans. Mistakes like not spotting the small child in the middle of the road, and accellerating on hover-pads to speeds in excess of fifty miles per hour. And this robot was older than the child, almost as old as Mother, it wasn't the most observant.
Mother's heart went into overdrive, brain producing a chemical stew that only a mother could posess. She leapt into action, muscles working as tears fell from her eyes in desperation, raven hair billowing in the wind as she sprinted.
Olympic sprinters were put to shame by the turn of speed she put on – she blew through the gate like a matriachial hurricane, threaded the needle between two parked cars on the side of the road, child dead ahead, truck to the left.
She dived, soaring through the air, and with skill normally attributed to action movie heroes, landed next to her child, and pulled him to safety the only way she could – down.
The truck screamed overhead, a scarce inch seperating the two from decapitation, and Father shouted, having heard the commotion and arriving just in time to see Mother and Child apparently run over by a Hover-Truck.
Mother sat up, defying Death, he who had contrived to stalk her child so, and hugged her prize tight – Child realized how much danger he had been in, and began to cry.
“Don't you EVER do that again, okay? Never again,” Mother begged, clutching child tight to her bosom, and rocking.
======
“Whoa, look at his brain activity, it's off the charts,” Twilight's assistant remarked, looking at the EEG.
“Is that bad? Is he in danger?” Twilight ran her hooves over her lab coat anxiously. “He's dying, isn't he?”
“No, he's not dying, Miss Sparkle,” an elderly voice admonished, “Calm yourself.”
Twilight jumped, forms of digi-paper shooting out of her magical grasp, only to be snatched out of the air in the next instant. She spun around to see an old man with grey, wispy hair, wearing a lab-coat. “Oh, Director Berntessen. I didn't hear you come in, I'm sorry.”
“It's nothing,” the elderly scientist dismissed, waving the gnarled hand that wasn't leaning on a blackwood cane. “Aside from the brain activity, how is he doing?”
“Aside from brain activity lighting up like a christmas tree? Fine.”
Berntessen rubbed his left arm gently. “Let's hope it remains so.”
======
- Step outside the pen.
Barnes looked at his hand and his gait – it had grown thinner, and he was taller. He had grown up just a little.
And growing up with him, the room. Once a vague haze, it was now realized clearly, an untidy lounge area; magazines sat upturned on a glass coffee table, couch cushions in disarray. TV remote lying under the couch, open DVD cases betraying what mind ruled the viewing schedule for the TV these days.
His childhood. How strange. What did it all mean? He searched around for a clue, and found none – the clock was stopped, at a seemingly insignificant time. The calendar, equally so. No special events today. The magazines? Hazy blurs he couldn't truly focus on.
Then he saw it, the light. Straight ahead, behind the door that led to the hallway of his childhood home, he could see an intense light flickering and pulsing under the door, the light seeping through.
He strode forward, curious. Perhaps it would tell him why he was here, what this was all in aid of.
Barnes looked to the left, espying a vertical mirror to his right; as he drew nearer it's center-line, it slowly began to crack and splinter, glass shards falling out with a gentle impact as they landed on the carpet. He looked into it, and saw himself.
Six years old, brown haired, snot-nosed, freckled, scrawny. Trouble on legs. But something was wrong. He looked at his reflection, and turned around. The coffee table. It was smashed, shattered, jagged spikes of glass poking cruelly every which way. Barnes took a step back in shock, and his foot brushed something.
He looked down, and saw a small, yellow dump-truck toy. Nothing special.
To most children. Barnes raised a foot and -
======
“Hey, son of mine! Come here!”
“What is it, Mom?” Her son came into the lounge, feigning total ignorance of why she might be calling at such volume.
“What's all this?” Mom gestured widely at the mess she stood in the middle of. “What do you call this?”
“...The lounge?” the Son replied, twisting a foot. His Mom had 'That' tone in her voice. The one that meant he was in serious trouble, probably the “No ice-cream for a week” variety.
“Really? I can't tell, under all these toys that I told you to pick up yesterday,” Mom said sarcastically. “Clean up your toys, please.”
“Shan't,” replied the Son, crossing his arms, closing his eyes, and turning up his nose. He'd seen it in a cartoon, see, and surely it would work for him like it had worked for Dennis.
“What was that, buster?” Mom's hands moved to her hips, and Son cracked open an eye to see that the one-week-ice-cream-drought had probably just jumped to one month. Time to go all or nothing.
“Shan't!” he repeated, more confidently, but stepping back towards the door slightly. Mom spotted this.
“And where are you going? Because if it's anywhere but cleaning up this mess, you're in a world of trouble, mister.”
Son edged closer to the door, the facade abandoned, and ran for it, throwing open the door and sprinting through. Mom's eyes boggled at the defiance, and stepped forward to give chase. He'd never outrun his mother, ever. Not once.
Maybe just once. Mom's world suddenly went askew, and she went flying, a small yellow truck that had so innocently lain in the middle of the lounge going the other way; with a crack, it hit a mirror, shattering the reflective surface and creating a spider's web of damage across it.
That was nothing compared to the smash that followed.
Son stopped running, and turned around. This wasn't part of the game – he'd run, Mom would catch him, he'd do what she wanted of him, and all would be forgiven with a mere three-day prohibition on ice-cream. That was the game he and her played. Breaking glass was never a part of it.
Dad romped down the stairs rapidly, looking at Son.
“What was that?”
Son shrugged, and Dad pushed past to investigate. And shouted in alarm.
“MARY!”
The sound of running feet, and crunch of glass as it was trod underfoot into the carpet, regardless of footwear. Son ran to the door and poked his head back in.
This was not part of the game.
Dad was kneeling in the scattered debris of the coffee table, his arms coated in blood as he held the cause for alarm in his arms, weeping openly. Mom was face-up, gurgling and running a hand over her husband's face, trying to say something around the jagged spear of glass in her throat. Her good eye rotated to look at Son, who had shock and horror on his expression.
Her mouth opened and shut as she tried to take back what she'd said, to undo the harmful words that she'd said last, to make new last words for her son to remember her by.
She failed, and her arm slipped down, falling straight, lifeless. Dad bowed his head, and cried tears of unmitigated sorrow, as did Son, tears running down his face.
This was not part of the game.
======
- kicked the toy truck aside, moving for the door.
He put a hand on the doorhandle, and pushed it open, stepping through into a void of light.
======
“Any change, Twilight Sparkle?”
“Nothing yet, Director. Carpenter?”
“I'm still seeing ten little piggies,” reported Twilight's assistant, looking at Barnes' unchanged extremities. “Potion's not changing him.”
“Did we get the concentration too low, perhaps?” Twilight asked, concerned.
“No, if it was too low, we'd still see something, remember?” The aging scientist nodded. “No, this is something else.”
======
Barnes strode down the hallway, shoes clacking against the tiled linoleum on the floor.
He'd grown up again, another chapter in his life. What was the meaning of all this? He turned aroumd, and saw only endless corridor. Turning back, he looked at his new environment. A school hallway, lined with lockers. The C-3 Hallway, the one he'd loitered in for so much of his school life.
He adjusted the tightness of his collar, and untucked his school shirt. Uniforms – such a pain. Always with the proscribed clothing.
At the far end of the corridor, the one he had been walking towards, a set of double doors stood – if memory served, they led outside. Taunting him once more, a bright light from under and around it; what did it want? What did it mean?
He took more steps towards it, covering distance. A skateboard rolled up from behind him, and he jumped on instinctively, kicking and pushing, propelling -
======
“Dad! I'm home!”
Kid walked in the front door, throwing his bag onto it's peg next to the door; he knew his father was home, his electrician's vest hung on it's own peg. It was a fact of life; vest on the peg, Dad's home.
No vest? Dad's out at work. There was never an in-between for his Dad – only work, or beer at home in the kitchen.
It had been that way for a few years now, ever since...
“Dad?” Strange. Usually, father said something. Even if it was only to demand to know who was asking. Kid kicked his shoes off into the shoe pile, and wandered into the lounge.
Nobody home – what was going on? Dad usually sat there, in his seat on the couch. But today... there was bottles, caps, but no Dad. Kid shook his head. Perhaps Dad had gone out, without his vest? He shook his head harder. Yeah, right. He'd die before he left home without it.
Kid grabbed the empties, and took them into the kitchen, meaning to toss them into the recycling bin, which he did. As he did, he felt a draught. What was it? The garage-kitchen door. If that was ajar, a draught happened. Fact.
Dad hated draughts – he'd probably die before he left the door open, too. Kid walked over to the door, socks making no noise on the tiled floor, and started to close the door, his eye spotting something strange hanging from the ceiling.
Spoke too soon.
The man that had once been his father spun slowly in the omnipresent breeze of the garage, head lolling to the left, workman's overalls stained with the grease of a hard day's work – his last.
Kid ran forward, clutching at his deceased father's pants for the last time. He collapsed, sobbing. Why?
A plack of fluid on paper revealed a small piece of paper. Kid picked it up, started to read it in the half-light-half-dark of the garage.
Gone to find Mary.
Bruno
Five words. That was all he could spare before kicking the bucket. Five. Words. And none of it love for the son he was leaving behind. Did he really love him that little? Did he truly blame his son for the death of his wife?
Grief gave way to anger, and the Kid screamed his rage up into the heavens themselves. Anger about whom, only he could say.
======
- himself forward. And stopped.
This was how it was going to work, was it? Barnes asked himself. Let's try and shake Barnes time, is it?
Barnes coasted forward – he had no idea who or what was doing this, but he was damned if he was going to let it get to him.
The skateboard ran out of momentum, and he hopped off, growing a full six years as he did. Gone was the uniform, replaced with a leather jacket and jeans. He was cool. Or had been.
Highschool – the strong point of his social life, in all fairness. The ringing of keys filled the air, and he reached up a hand instinctively, catching the keys.
And swore. He'd fallen for it, taking another -
======
“Yo, Barnes. What the fuck up, man?” A young man swaggered up to Barnes, dressed in similar attire of leather and jeans. With a flick of the wrist, keys sailed out of his hand and into Barnes', a practiced move that they'd done a lot of.
“Not much, you?” Barnes held out a hand for the handshake, and the man obliged.
“Ay, we just chillin. Listen, going to Cindy's party tonight?”
“You know it.”
“Sweet. You're the wheels, dude.”
“What?” Barnes took a step back in suprise. “What the hell, man, you gonna cock-block me like that?”
“Dude, I was the wheels last time. You had your chance. Step back and watch the master do his work.”
“...alright, fine, but only because you're my bro.”
“Ay, that's what I wanna hear. Come on, let's get down to FuelStop, I'll shout you a burger. Two if you can beat my time.”
“You're on, Mike.”
======
The party was rocking. The party rolled. The party bounced. It vibrated.
It was happening. And in all the confusion, one man in a leather jacket slyly snuck drinks. One here, one there. Mike was already pissed, what would he know of Barnes' transgressions?
They'd get home tomorrow, and all would be fine, and he'd get a second shot at Cindy.
======
White lights. Uncomfortable, but clean bed. This wasn't his bed. Barnes sat up, distressed, and looked around – a nurse noticed, and moved to keep him steady.
“Easy, sir. You've had an accident, a concussion.”
“I... what?” Barnes tried to remember the events of the last day. His mental tape ran out around the time when Cindy had slapped him in the face for a (retrospectively early) feel of her boob.
“A concussion, sir,” the nurse repeated, holding up a hand. “How many fingers?”
“Three, but what-” Memories came back in a rush. “Oh shit, I- where's Mike?”
“Your friend?”
“Yeah. Is he okay? Tell me he's okay.”
“...I'm sorry.” The nurse got up. “He... didn't make it. The crash took out the entire passenger side, he was dead long before the paramedics got there. You're lucky to be alive, the way that eighteen-wheeler took your car out.”
The nurse nodded, bowed slightly, and after drawing the curtains, walked away, shoes clicking against the floor. Barnes looked at his hands.
“Mike... dead? How... I was the...” Barnes let his hands drop, realization of the truth hitting him hard.
“I was the wheels. I fucked it up.”
He grabbed the vase of flowers next to his bed, scattering 'Get well soon' cards from schoolfriends alike, and threw it at the far wall, where it smashed in a shower of porcelain, water and plants.
“I FUCKED IT UP!”
======
“His EEG's getting erratic. Are you sure he's fine?”
“Miss Sparkle, listen for a moment,” Berntessen held up a hand, and the Unicorn obliged.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
“That beep is his heartbeat. And as long as that's going, we're on track, okay?”
“Yes, Director. I understand.”
======
- memory laden trinket. He threw the keys aside with disgust, closing the distance to the doors with large strides.
Who was behind this? What was making this whole sordid trip down memory lane? Why? The potion?
He pushed open the doors, and felt the sit of the clothes on him change to something far more familiar – a suit.
He stepped through the double-doors, and into a boardroom; long oval, wooden table. He smelled the crisp, clean air and sighed. Your standard of living when you were a WorldCorp exec was simply primo.
He ran a finger along the desk, and espied one piece of paper on the desk. He got closer, and read the title.
AUTHORIZATION ORDER
Operation Cleansing Flame
He blanched. That form? He spat on it, and turned away, looking out the boardroom's bulletproof, panoramic window. He... wasn't proud of that sheet.
His eyes drifted downwards, and through a gap in the smog-layer, he saw the street below, and a figure, flames flowing over him -
======
“That's the deal. We make you an exec, and you sign this form as your first executive order. Sound like fun?”
A line of Execs sat on one side of the conference table, ten in number. One man sat opposite them, looking at the forms laid out in front of him.
“Whoa, don't talk to me like I'm a kid,” grunted Barnes, holding up his hands. “Gimme some time to think about it.”
“No, Barnes. No time,” a second Exec said. “You sign that now, or we find someone else in lower-middle management to sign it. It needed signing yesterday, that's how urgent this is.”
“And you wanna make me an Exec just so I can sign it? What's the catch?”
“No catch,” assured a third, “Just sign. You won't even have to work, really; think of it like the paid holiday you deserve.”
Barnes looked at the sheet, and gave it a cursory read. In short? By signing this, he was taking responsibility for this 'Operation Cleansing Flame'. It was a bad idea, he didn't even know what it entailed.
Then again, his life had been all about bad decisions. He took the pen, and inscribed the lines on the paper that would change his life forever.
All or nothing.
======
- and Barnes looked away, swearing.
He'd fucked up huge in life. So very huge. How many lives had he been responsible for? How many did he have to answer to when he moved on?
He walked for the door out of the room, spotting the light behind that door, too.
Enough games. He reached for the door.
======
“Mr. Barnes... do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“I... I didn't know!” protested Barnes, weakly. “I didn't know...”
The bleagured one-time Exec stood in the dock, his once fine suit dirty and unkempt. He stood before a corporate jury, the judge staring at him angrily. His hands were free – what was he going to do? He was an Exec, the embodiment of soft living.
“Thanks to you, our logo's all over these atrocities, it's going to kill any chance of profit this quarter, at least.” The judge grabbed a remote, and pointed it at the TV, clicking. Images of civilians burning, the excess underclass of the city being purged. “Do you deny it?”
“But... it wasn't my idea!”
“Your signature's all over the authorization form, Barnes.”
“B-but I-”
“No buts. Your executive privledges have been revoked, and your corporate accounts frozen.”
“But, my savings are with the Corporation!”
“Exactly. You are under house arrest, until WorldGov sends someone to apprehend you.”
Two burly security guards grabbed Barnes by his arms firmly.
“Come on, Mr. Exec.”
“I didn't... I...” Barnes suddenly shook off his captors, and staggered towards the doors. “I didn't know! They made me sign it!”
Barnes ran, nobody blocking him as he threw the doors open, and ran for the exit. The guards watched him go, eager to give chase, but the judge remained silent.
“Aren't we gonna go catch him, Your Honor?”
“No, let him go,” the judge dismissed. “His rights are all gone, his money's locked up. He's got nothing but the clothes on his back. Even that safe deposit box is ours.
“He'll come crawling back, I gaurantee it.”
======
“Whoa, he's heating up.”
“What?” Twilight asked her assistant.
“He's got a fever of … christ!” Carpenter stepped back, looking at the numbers, then cross-referencing with the EEG and the vitals monitor. “How is he not dying?”
A steady, electronic pulse collaborated the statement.
“Magic, Mr. Carpenter,” Berntessen said, calmly. “Now, keep an eye on him. I think the change will finally happen.”
======
Barnes walked through the door, and into the light; it almost burned, now that he was seeing it directly. A flaming ball of intense light. A Sun.
Around them, an endless grey plane stretched onwards, with skies of lighter grey. The world was monochrone, black and white. Barnes looked at his own naked form, and looked up at the Sun, shielding his eyes.
You have come far, Barnes, the Sun emitted, And you have endured much to get here. Now is the time for reward – you may choose your new life.
“Why do I get a new life?” Barnes asked, his voice normal again.
You have taken the Potion, the Serum of Change. You are becoming a pony, and only one step remains – what kind of pony will you be?
The Sun pulsed with light, and three ivory statues stood before him in a horizontal line, giving him an equally good view of all of them.
The wise life of a Unicorn, the Sun declared, as the one on Barnes' left turned to translucent sapphire, carved horn sitting proudly on the visage of the pony.
The honest life of a Pegasus, the Sun went on, illuminating the right-most statue, as it turned to a beautiful, pure emerald, wings unfurled to their fullest on the regally posed statue.
The true life of an Earth Pony, continued the Sun, turning the central statue to a fine ruby, the statue's pose radiating steadfastness and inner strength.
Barnes looked at them, then at the Sun.
You may choose as you will. What life do you wish for? One of flight? Of magic? Or of strength? You have a second chance at life, choose wisely.
Barnes closed his eyes, and looked back behind him, opening them.
The doorway was gone. The only thing that marked his passage, a series of sanguine footsteps on the flat plane, leading back; the road he'd walked had been marred by disaster, flame, death, destruction, loss.
He looked around, and saw countless other souls in the distance, all walking forward, many with paths less tattered than his.
“Do I really deserve it?”
What? The Sun seemed taken aback, surprised. Of course you do. Everyone deserves second chances.
“Perhaps.” Barnes looked back at the Sun, and took steps forward, angling to the right.
That's it. Take your time.
Barnes approached the Pegasus statue... and kept walking past it. Now the Sun was starting to burn him, and he watched as strands of smoke erupted from his skin, flowing behind him in an unfelt wind.
What are you doing? You've walked too far, turn back, before-
“Before I die?” Barnes looked at himself. “I've had my run. I messed it up. Time to step aside and let someone else have a better go at it.”
You would rather die than have a second chance at life? A fresh start?
“I think I'll stop here, while I've only ruined one life. I have a lot to answer for.”
Accidents. Misfortunes with you at the critical point.
“No. If I had been smarter, faster, less stupid... I had it all, and I kept ruining it.”
The wisps of smoke were a constant stream now, and Barnes took a step forward, his leg bursting into pure flame; there was no pain, merely a warm sensation, as if he was standing in a pleasantly warm bathtub.
If that is what you believe. I wish you well in the next world.
The Sun seemed resigned, and Barnes nodded with satisfaction, even as his entire body caught flame.
Through the flames, he could see the world for what it really was, an eternal cosmos; in the Sun before him, a single equine figure sat, horn glowing and wings outstretched, celestial mane billowing in an ethereal breeze.
The flames consumed Barnes completely, and the world was gone.
=====
Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep
“Oh shit,” Carpenter swore, “That's done it. He's gone.”
“No!” Berntessen banged his cane on the ground in fustration. “He was so close! Save him! This must work!”
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep
The drawn-out tone filled the air, and Barnes' body seemed to sag on the table. Twilight closed her eyes.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Barnes.”
As if in response to her apology, Barnes' body began to buck and heave, as if posessed.
“What the – is it working?” Berntessen leaned forward, eagerly.
Barnes' body bulged, heaved, and then-
splat
Twilight twitched and shuddered under the liberal coating of purple material that covered her, Carpenter remaining dry as he jumped away sharply. Barnes hadn't exploded huge, just a little. But enough to coat the operating table and the floor around it with this... substance.
“Alright,” Berntessen said, coughing as he clutched his chest. He finished his coughing fit and straightened. “That's that. Twilight, Carpenter, I want to see a report by tomorrow afternoon. Try and find out what went wrong, please.”
The Director walked out of the room stiffly, and Carpenter looked at the shell-shocked Twilight.
“Are... you okay?”
“Do... I... LOOK okay?” Twilight looked at Carpenter. “Do humans usually explode into purple goo like that?”
“Admittedly, no. It's usually red.” Carpenter walked over to the intercom. “Can we get a sanitation team for Lab 3? Thank you. Inform Mr. Barnes' next of kin.”
The loudspeaker crackled, and a muffled voice replied.
“Hudda hu hudda huh?”
“No, no body bags. A mop and bucket would probably be more help at this point.”
“Hu hudda hu.”
Carpenter turned away, to see Twilight gingerly using magic to scrape what was left of Mr. Barnes out of her mane and coat, the lab coat having served it's purpose and leaving a line of darker, wetter purple coat against her usual purple complexion.
“Welp. Back to the drawing board, then, Twilight?”
Sancrosack'd
“Mind telling me what this is all in aid of, Carpenter?”
Isiah Carpenter turned around, and saw his boss, Director Berntessen, standing right behind him. He was sitting in front of a desk, surrounded by sacks, next to a large open area, well-lit and floored with what seemed to be foam padding.
“Oh, hello, Director. You're up and about today.”
“Yes. And now I come to the lab, and find you not working on ponifcation serum, but playing with... sacks?”
“Burlap sacks!” Carpenter corrected cheerfully.
“You've got about thirty seconds, Isiah.”
“Sheesh, chill the beans, Director.” Carpenter spun his rotating lab stool around, and faced his employer. “So; we've got some downtime while the grunts find another volunteer, so we decided to do a little experimental science.”
“On what?” Berntessen poked a sack with his walking stick. “They're sacks, hardly relevant.”
“You'll see,” Carpenter promised. “Twilight? Richardson?”
“For the record,” Twilight Sparkle protested, as she walked out from behind a screen, “I do not like these tests.”
“Oh, come on,” Carpenter wheedled, “It's perfectly safe, and we can't talk any of those pegasus guards into doing it.”
Twilight muttered something uncharitable, but the purple unicorn sat down in the middle of the padded testing area nonetheless.
“For the record,” a second voice stated, “I don't really care for this test, either. Sacks are so...”
“Shush, Bruce.” Carpenter rolled his eyes as a slim man in a lab-coat walked out from behind the other screen. “You're not even getting distressed. Or you shouldn't anyway. You're not claustrophobic, right?”
“It's the look of the thing, Carpenter,” Bruce countered, “Sacks are not, will not be, nor have they ever been in vogue, as they say.”
“Sit down and shut up.”
The assistant's assistant sighed, and sat down next to Twilight.
“So, what's the deal?” Bernetessen said, irritably.
“Watch. Jameson, please step forward, and place a sack on Robertson's head.”
With a stiff gait, a metallic humanoid marched out from behind Carpenter and Berntessen, taking a sack from the table as it went – with a practiced motion, the robot placed the sack over Bruce's head, and the human sat there, not moving.
“Robertson! Rating of one to ten, how upset are you?”
“Two.”
“So...” Berntessen looked at Carpenter, questioningly.
“He's not afraid of the sack.”
“How does this-”
Carpenter raised a hand, cutting Berntessen off. “Jameson, please attempt to place a sack on Twilight Sparkle's head.”
The robot turned around, and returned to the desk to retrieve a sack. Twilight looked antsy.
“So, um. Isiah. Can... can we not do this? I don't feel safe.”
“It's totally safe, Twilight,” Carpenter said, “Fresh from the auto-fab. Now, just... sit still. And try not to rip Jameson in half with your magic, again.”
The robot rumbled. “I did not like being torn into two pieces horizontally.”
“So. Sack.” Carpenter nudged Berntessen. “Observe.”
The sack went over Twilight's head, and she began to shake.
“Twilight. On a discomfort scale of one to ten, please rate your discomfort right now.”
“ELEVEN! SIXTEEN! TWO THOUSAND AND SIXTY THREE! LET ME OUT!”
“Remove the sack, Jameson.”
The sack was removed, and Twilight sat there in the middle of the mat, shaking like she'd been shell-shocked.
“Twilight freaks out around sacks?” Berntessen concluded.
“Not just her. EVERY pony. Even the guards tried to shy away when I tried to sack 'em.”
“Right, so ponies have an innate fear of sacks. How is this relevant, again?”
“I figure we can use it as a litmus test of sorts for ponification – when the converted ponies refuse to put their head in a sack, we're on the right track.”
“That's it?”
“Oh, and I wanted an excuse to get Twilight in the sack.”
“Isiah!” Twilight exclaimed, rapidly turning red.
“That was awful, Doctor,” Berntessen shook his head slowly. “You're lucky I don't pay you for your pun-making ability.”
“You don't pay me at all, Director, remember?”
Berntessen turned and began to hobble away. He paused at the doorway.
“Report. On my desk. By tomorrow.”
Carpenter and Twilight watched the old man go, and Twilight sighed.
“Did you really have to say that?”
“Yes, Twilight,” Carpenter stated levelly, a smile creasing his face. “Yes I did.”
Burnout
“Well, well, well. If it isn't the high and mighty Isiah Carpenter, on his super-top-secret government project. What do you want with a little old civilian like me?”
“Knock it off, Willard. I called you here, because we need help,” Carpenter protested, leaning on his desk. The office had two desks, one of which was completely unoccupied, and the rest of the soundproofed room empty, save for the two male scientists.
“That much is obvious,” Willard stated, “But you seem pretty certain I'll help – you've broken that little bubble of secrecy you've spent so many weeks cultivating.”
“Right. First of all, you're gonna meet Twilight Sparkle.”
“What, am I meeting one of those mushy teen-romance vampires?”
“No, you're meeting a talking pony.” Carpenter looked at his watch, disregarding Willard's reaction, and counted under his breath. “She should be here in five, four three...”
Willard looked to a nearby doorway, from which the faint sound of clip-clopping of hooves on tiles could be heard. Right on schedule.
“No way,” Willard breathed, and the door was pushed open with a purple glow of energy. In strode a purple unicorn, a mug of coffee and a small plastic tub of salad levitating in her wake, surrounded by their own nimbuses of purple energy. Her nose was buried in a thick textbook, also levitating in front of her.
“Hi, Carpenter,” Twilight said, distractedly.
“Welcome back, Twilight,” Carpenter replied, “How was lunch?”
“Fine.” the purple scholar put the mug and salad down at the other desk, and Willard realized that the seat was modified to allow an equine to sit on it. Twilight kept on reading. “Human salads taste a little funny.”
Carpenter nudged Willard, and he took the hint. “Um, Hi, Twilight Sparkle, it's nice to meet you.”
“Eep!” Twilight squealed, and the book shot up into the air, hitting the ceiling and falling back down, landing heavily on her tub of salad. “A human!”
Twilight regained her composure, and looked at Carpenter. “Isiah. What is going on? Isn't this project supposed to be top-secret? He doesn't look like one of the staff.”
“That's because he isn't. Twilight Sparkle, meet Carl Willard. He's a robotics and energy engineer that I know from high school. One of the best in the field.”
“Oh. Pleasure to meet you,” Twilight nodded in greeting, and then picked up her book once again, frowning at the green pancake that was now her salad. “But please don't startle me like that again.”
“It wasn't my idea. Now, Isiah,” Willard turned to the smiling human, “Seeing as you appear to be the mastermind, care to tell us what you have planned?”
“Alright, I'll tell you,” conceded Isiah, “But Carl – it doesn't leave this building, alright? Not even after it hits the public.”
“What doesn't leave?”
“Twilight here is a representative of Equestria – that massive island in the middle of the ocean.”
“You mean things actually live there? And it has a name?”
“Yes. And they've extended the offer of a life of plenty in their land, with just one catch.”
“And that catch is...?”
“You have to be a pastel-colored talking pony first. Not for ideological or racial reasons, but simply because Equestria is filled with bona-fide magic. The kind that's deadly to humans.”
“I see... and you want me to build a magic-proof infiltration droid?”
“What?” Twilight piped up, concerned. “No, that's ridiculous. What I think Carpenter's trying to get at is, he wants you to help us.”
“With what?”
“The potion we use is basically magical,” Carpenter stated, waggling a hand, “We managed to get it sort of working.”
“Define 'Sort of',” Willard pressed.
“Well, we've done ten human trials so far, where the potion wasn't like shooting bleach into your bloodstream,” Carpenter counted, “Three were instant failures – the subjects just subsumed into purple goo and exploded after about a minute. Three more where relative failures – we got distorted, ever-changing creatures, barely capable of anything. Monsters. Then they dissolved into purple goo, as well. No exploding, though.”
“The other four succeeded,” Twilight added, “for the most part. It seemed to be working, and they successfully changed into a pony each.”
“Then...?” Willard had an idea of what went wrong.
“Two of them exploded, unfortunately – we were in the middle of celebrating when they did.” Carpenter shook his head. “That was not pleasant. And it not only ruined the punch, but set off the other two, as well, like a chain reaction.”
“The surviving 'newfoals', we're calling them, well... they tend to be assholes. Egocentric,” Carpenter added. “Arrogant as all-get-out. My guess? We need to soften the blow for those of us with more conscience than the others.”
“And so, why do you need a robotics and energy expert?”
“There's only so much we can fine-tune with chemicals alone,” Carpenter said, “We need some machinery to get the levels of magic just right. We have the research to indicate we can dampen magic with technology, we just need a machine to do it.”
“Do you have something like that, Mr. Willard?” Twilight asked, eagerly.
“No, I do not,” denied Willard, with a soft shake of his head, and Twilight deflated. “But I can make one. I might need some things, though.”
“Willard, you can have whatever you need,” Carpenter reassured, “Just keep in mind that if it's a person, they're going to have to stay here with the project until it's done.”
“I have a personal requirement as well,” Willard stated, “My fee, as it were.”
“You want money?” Twilight asked, “Because we have a lot of it. I don't think there's a limit.”
“No, no money. What I want is a promise. A favor.”
“Name it,” Carpenter replied, picking up a pen and notepad.
“I want to be the first one to test the potion once the machine is made.”
======
“Willard, this is the guy?” Carpenter asked, looking through a set of binoculars from the driver's seat, squinting in the hot Californian sun.
“That's him, alright.” Willard nodded from the passenger's seat, “Archibald Bartsche.”
A soft click on the other end of the radio sitting on the van's dashboard indicated that Twilight wanted to say something. “...Archie Bartsche?”
“Don't call him that to his face,” Willard said, trying to stifle a snigger of his own.
“What kind of parents did he have?” Carpenter managed to choke out around a laugh. “Well meaning, I'm sure, but... who calls their kid Archibald?”
“Right,” Twilight intervened, eager to put an end to the joke she'd just apparently resurrected, “So how do we get him to work for us? You said he works for DARPA, and from what I can tell, human agencies don't like to co-operate.”
“We do this in the time-honored U-S-of-A black-ops recruitment way,” Carpenter declared, pulling a black balaclava on over his face; with the white lab-coat on, and a navy blue turtleneck and brown slacks underneath, he looked kind of ridiculous.
“Which is?”
“We drive up in this here black van, sling this pillowcase over his head, bundle him in, and haul ass. Beating him with a bar of soap in a sock totally optional.”
“This is not a good idea,” Willard cautioned, “He's very paranoid, someone might get hurt.”
“Oh, come on, it'll be a hoot,” Carpenter shrugged. “What could go wrong?”
======
“Fuck. Ow.” Carpenter grunted, lying curled up on top of his desk in the foetal position, cradling his gut. “Who carries a supercharged cattle-prod around under their jacket?”
Around the desk, in chairs or on the ground, sat Twilight, Willard, Archibald, and Director Bernestrand.
“I warned you,” Willard stated, “Archie's paranoid, and good reason. He's one of the foremost physicists in the northern hemisphere. I think there's a few dozen human agencies who'd leap to just have him doodle on their napkins.”
“I doubt he's that good,” Twilight stated, bluntly.
“Miss... Sparkle?” Archie ventured.
“Call me Twilight.”
“Twilight.” Archie nodded awkwardly. “See that book you're reading on energy-manipulation theory? The one that's the only book on the subject?”
“I see it, and it is very interesting. Why?”
“Look inside the dust jacket.”
Twilight obliged, and looked at the portrait of the author. Then looked at Archie. Then frowned. “Your name isn't Charles Brunton.”
“It's a pseudonym. You never know who's looking,” countered Archibald, turning to Willard. “Now, why did you see fit to make me get in a black van and drag me out to god-knows where, to talk to a talking horse?”
“We want you to help us,” Willard stated. “We need to dampen magical influence somehow, but I don't know enough about thaumic energy to do it.”
“Oh ho, so you need me to do your dirty work, then?” Archie nodded. “I take it that this facility is secure?”
“Guarded by the finest PMC in the western world,” grunted Bernestrand, “Bankrolled by a government black fund, and fortified enough to withstand a nuke. Nothing goes in or goes out without us knowing it. Not radio signals, not assassins.”
“And no fresh salad either,” grumbled Twilight. “Seriously.”
“Good. My fee is that I remain here in safety,” Archie closed his eyes. “I will be fed, clothed, and protected – in return, I shall help you with your magical dampening work. Do we have a deal?”
“Why are you still here?” Bernestrand replied, as he lurched to his feet, and tapped his cane on the ground. “I don't pay you to just sit here and piss away my time.”
======
Time passed. Days and nights spent in a forever-lit lab, far beneath the earth of Silicon Valley, Willard and Archibald hunched over a series of long, metallic arms. Twilight and Carpenter, relatively ignorant of their trade, playing assistant.
Coffee was consumed, nights spent asleep on tools. And in the end, it was complete. Willard and Archie stepped back, and looked upon the device that would change everything.
A large, metallic ring-like machine, with eight solid arms, all curling inwards. At the end of each arm was an emitter array, and measurement of the angles indicated that were they to emit light or any other energy, they could saturate, say, an entire body lying on it's back.
The Thaumic Regulator was complete.
======
“Now, I hope you remember our deal, Carpenter,” Willard's voice drifted over a screen, behind which the silhouette of a man stood.
“Of course, Willard – you get first dibs on the machine,” Carpenter nodded.
“I'd be worried if he didn't want to use it,” Berntessen grunted from a nearby bank of computer terminals, his observation eclipsed by a coughing fit that had him leaning on his cane. He caught his breath, and straightened. “Get on with it.”
Willard emerged from behind the screen, wearing a hospital gown, and pirouetted. “So, how do I look?”
“Like an ass,” Berntessen interrupted, “Time's wasting.”
“Fine, jeez,” Willard groused, stamping into the lab proper, the airtight door sealing shut with a soft hiss behind him.
Carpenter and Berntessen moved over to the observation window, looking out at Archie and Twilight, standing next to a prepared operating table, the Thaumic Regulator hanging over it like a technological spider, and Willard getting onto the bed, mouth moving as he conversed with the unicorn and the energy expert.
Carpenter turned to Berntessen, a shocked expression finally creasing his face now that they were alone. “No offense, Director, but what the fuck crawled up your ass today?”
Berntessen didn't even look at Carpenter. “Mortality, Isiah.”
“Mortality?” Carpenter raised an eyebrow. “You're old, but you sure as hell ain't that old.”
“Dying to heart disease does that.”
“Shit.” Carpenter's mouth dropped. “You never told me that, Dad. How long has this been going on?”
“The hell do you care?” snarled Berntessen, banging his cane on the ground. “You don't call, you don't visit, and the first time we have a goddamn talk is when Foster drags both our sorry asses to the same goddamn meeting with the leaders of the world and a talking horse; and we get told to make some goddamn magic potion work for humans without killing us!”
Carpenter opened his mouth and shut it, no response to the accusation. There was, after all, no denying the truth. He'd neglected his duties as a son. Berntessen snorted, and pushed a red button; with a soft click, the intercom activated.
“...and then she said 'Oatmeal? Are you crazy?'”
“This Pinkie Pie sounds like a real card, Twilight,” Willard remarked, lying on the table as the robotic arms danced around him like orbiting planets, aligning themselves and taking aim.
“...How is Oatmeal relevant?” Archie asked quietly, “The story was about the founding of Equestria, for pete's sakes.”
“One thing I've learnt: It's Pinkie Pie, don't ask.”
“Hello,” Berntessen interrupted, and the trio's eyes looked to the speakers. “Can we get a move on, please? Before we get much older.”
“Yes, Director.” Twilight's voice came back, sighing.
The intercom clicked off, and Carpenter watched the trio move around, his own mouth working as he traced out what was being said.
“Is the Director usually this pushy?” Archie muttered. Twilight said something back, but he couldn't see her lips.
“They think you're being pushy, Dad.”
“Isiah, stop telling the priest how to give a sermon. Who taught you to lip-read, again?”
======
“Is the director usually this pushy?” Archie muttered.
“At the start? Not really,” Twilight muttered. “But lately... I think something's bugging him.”
“He doesn't look too healthy,” Willard remarked, “Even for an old codger, and - what the hell is that on the armature, there?”
Willard pointed at the arm of the Thaumic Regulator, the one covering his upper torso and head; attached to the outside was a smaller, more spindly arm that looked like it came from an anglepoise lamp; a small device attached to that had a cable that ran off to a laptop on a trolley.
“That's a brain scanner,” Archie admitted. “I invented it.”
“Hey, you don't need to see inside my head,” Willard made to push the the device away, only for a purple glow of magic to hold it still.
“We kind of do,” Twilight stated. “We don't know the first thing about what goes on in your head during the ponification process, this will give us a much greater idea of what and why things are happening.”
“Twilight says that subjects go into a dreamlike state,” Archie filled in, “So I brought my dream recorder along. Speech only, though, this time.”
“Dream recorder?”
“It's like a dream diary,” Archibald explained. “I use it on myself when I sleep, in case I have any new insights into science. This will watch your speech centers, and translate any dreamed dialog into plain text for me and Twilight to read in real-time.”
“Oh. Well, when you put it like that,” Willard nodded. “Sure. When do we begin?”
“Ah, about that,” Twilight said, “I kind of got you while you were distracted. Sorry. I take the opening where I can get it. Past patients have had cold ho- feet.”
The world began to swim as Willard looked at his hand; he struggled to focus on the small, drained syringe floating in the air in front of the purple unicorn and concerned physicist watching him.
“Clever girl,” he whispered, and the world faded to black.
======
Archibald and Twilight watched the arrays of monitors around the table. One of them gleeped softly as brainwaves shifted into a more smoother set of curves on a graph.
“He's in the dream-state now,” Twilight reported.
“Alright,” Archibald said, “Now, let's see what makes Willard tick...”
======
Willard floated, adrift. He felt weightless, the proverbial dream of flight. Probably because he seemed to be in space, and there was nothing but the sound of his breathing echoing around his spacesuit's archaic, stereotypical fishbowl helmet.
Funny how the human mind resolves things. Bit empty for a dream, though. He wondered; had he set the dampening just a fraction too high? Was he blocking too much magic, maybe? Time to test Archie's device, then.
“Guys, nothing's happening. We might have set it just a little too high, turn down the regulator by, say, point-zero-zero-six-four.”
Even as he said those words, the world seemed to brighten almost instantly. Out of nowhere, a sun appeared, filling his vision with nothing but flames and hydrogen; and yet, he felt no heat.
But other than the new source of light, still nothing.
“Perhaps another thousandth.”
The world increased in intensity; Willard began to hear a voice, drifting towards him through the ether.
“Ah, Carl Willard. You've solved it.”
“Solved what?” Willard asked the air, looking around. He noticed a change in the sun, and looked; a form with a head and two spread wings could be seen in the dancing flame and solar flares. “Celestia.”
“That's right, my little pony. Or soon-to-be, anyway. I'm impressed.”
Willard looked around. “Is this all just a dream?”
“Yes and no. I've sadly seen the other volunteers come through, and until now, none of them were in their right minds.”
“What do you mean?”
“The potion forced them to reflect on their pasts. Could you look at all the things you've done, and still firmly take the reward of a new life?”
“...I must admit, that's probably a 'no', Princess,” Willard hung his head in shame, which in space, looked just a little odd.
“Most can't. Between you and me, I believe the ones who did make it were, as you humans say, 'Assholes'.”
The human insult sounded funny coming from the ethereal mouth of a horse goddess in a sun, and Willard had to chuckle.
“So... what happens now? Do I get to stay in space?”
“Oh, heavens, no. Move forward, take the box.”
With a flare, a column of flame leapt up, and swept through the space not half a mile from Willard; when it vanished, a small jewelled box floated, adrift in the void.
“What's in the box?”
“Your destiny, Willard.”
======
“So, he's found a box?” Twilight asked, interpreting the plain text on the screen before her. “How strange. Are human dreams normally this abstract?”
“Uh,” Archie twisted a foot anxiously, “I'm probably the last person you want to ask that.”
“Why?”
“I dream of string theory and particle physics. Doesn't get much more abstract than that, I think.”
Twilight frowned, and opened her mouth in the greatest case ever of pots calling kettle black: “Don't you ever stop?”
“Ah,” Archie stated, “No. Now, shall we-”
Archie swayed slightly, matching the cables and other pieces of loose equipment, as a gentle rocking shook the room. Archie flinched, as did Twilight.
“What the hay was that? An earthquake?” Twilight asked, brow creasing in worry as she looked at her hooves. “Darn it, I wish AJ were here. She could tell us...”
A soft click of the intercom, and Carpenter's voice filled the room.
“Hey, I'm guessing you guys felt that. Seismology says that was just a warm-up, so brace for another shake. Don't worry about things falling off and what-have you, this place is built to take an earthquake or six.”
Right on cue, a massive jolt rocked the room, throwing Archie and Twilight to the ground; with a fizzle, the lights went out, save for emergency lighting and the screen of the laptop displaying Willard's dream-dialogue, dancing about in the dark as the trolley it sat on rocked and rolled. Twilight sat up.
“What happened to the power?”
“The building might be built to handle an earthquake,” grumbled Archie, getting up awkwardly, “But the power lines to this room apparently aren't.”
A flicker of light, and Twilight's horn lit up with a magical glow, casting a weak light around the darkened lab. “Wait, doesn't your Regulator need power to operate?”
“Yeah it -” Archibald's face dropped into an expression of shock. “No. Nononono. Carl!”
The human physicist ran to his friend's side, and began beating on his chest with a closed fist, trying to rouse his friend from the magic-enforced slumber.
“Wake up, Willard! Hurry! Before the dampening wears off!”
======
Willard drifted forward, getting near the box, when a gentle shake rocked his body – he looked around, and saw nothing that could have caused it.
“What is it, Willard?”
“I felt a shake.”
“...move with haste, Willard. I sense that all is not well.”
Willard nodded, and pushed forward; the rocket-pack on his back was impossible, a callback to his childhood when spacemen used tanks of petrochemical fuel strapped to their backs to fly about in space like birds. But it pushed him through the dream-void as surely as his own two legs would on solid ground.
Willard shifted uneasily. It was getting quite hot, wasn't it? Oh no. It was getting hot.
“Guys, what's going on? What happened to the Regulator?”
Willard willed his jet-pack to fly faster – the shake, now this? He had an idea of what happened. And he was kicking himself.
“Doesn't need a UPS, I said, we'll be fine without the UPS, I said,” he muttered to himself. “This’ll teach me to cut corners.”
Willard watched as the sun began to increase in fury – shafts of flame darted out all around, squeezing past an invisible grille.
“Hurry!”
Willard stretched out with his hands, flying faster – the box was so close! Just a little more...
======
“Twilight! Look!” Archie stepped back from Willard's body, eyes boggling. “He – he's changing! Is this supposed to happen?”
“That's how the other newfoals changed,” Twilight said, bouncing excitedly, “So it looks like he's just in time!”
“Will he be alright?”
Twilight ceased her bouncing. “That... we won't know. Not until...”
The two looked on as Willard's body shifted and morphed like crazy under the hospital gown, and gradually made a shift from humanoid to equine. The being that had once been Carl Willard began to change, and a new, pale-green pony began to take his place.
======
Willard pitched forward through the ether, spinning gently as he clutched the open box to his chest; inside, a horn sat, stuck to a pillow. He removed it, and examined it.
“A unicorn?”
“It is yours. I think you can guess what you need to do.”
Willard nodded, and raised the horn in a gloved hand, moving it towards the forehead of his dome-like helmet. As if in response, like the tentacle of an irate kraken, a spear of flame shot out of the sun, and like lightning, it flashed a brutal arc across Willard's torso, slapping him with the fury of the sun itself.
It was all just a dream. Right? Willard felt a sharp pain in all his limbs, and then nothing but numbness.
“Willard! It's too dangerous! You must go!”
The engineer flew backwards, away from the sun, spinning gently. He watched his legs go flying away on a tangent, and saw two limbs he recognized as his arms following suit on different vectors.
Just a dream, just a dream. One hell of a dream. Just a dream. The mantra did little to soothe his panic.
He spotted the horn from the box, sailing alongside him; he must have let it go instinctively when that solar plume slapped him in half. He reached out a hand to – oh, wait.
“FUCK!” he screamed, trying to kick and thrash in fustration; lacking a lower torso, he just waggled his stumps about and made distressed noises.
“Touch the horn to your head! Somehow! Hurry!” Celestia implored, as the sun began to throb and pulse.
Willard nodded grimly, taking a deep breath to bring his panic under control once more, and thought about it rationally. No need to panic – this was all a dream, and he couldn't die, right?
“If you don't move swiftly, you'll go the same way as the others did!” Translation: He’d become purple goop, one way or another.
So... perhaps he could die after all. He willed his rocket-pack to puff jets of flame as it halted his rotation, and lined up on the horn, spinning end over end in the dark void. He counted down the revolutions, and got the timing right – with a jolt, Willard hammered the thrusters, darting forward like a missile; and just like the missiles he helped design, his flight was true.
Helmet touched the base of the horn, and it began to glow; very nearly outclassed by the sun, which began to expand, Celestia's silhouette vanishing. Now it was just Willard and the raw, unfiltered power of a god bearing down on him.
It was no longer a surprise why people turned to purple goop.
“Come on! Work!” he begged, feeling the heat begin to char his stumps as the horn's glow grew brighter. The heat transferred to his back, and his jet-pack exploded, sending him flying towards the sun uncontrollably.
With a roar of solar wind, the tide of flaming hydrogen rose like a tidal wave; the sun filled Willard's eyes even as his world imploded, and he vanished with a flash of purple light.
======
Beep. Beep.
“Think we can call this a success?” Archie asked, tentatively.
Beep. Beep.
“He's a pony, isn't he?” Berntessen. He'd recognize that crabby old man's voice anywhere.
Beep. Beep.
“Well, yes, Director,” The mare, Twilight Sparkle's voice echoed around him. “But-”
Beep. Beep.
“Is he exploding?”
Beep. Beep.
“...no. But it doesn't mean it's safe!”
“Guys,” Willard mumbled, “I can hear you.”
“Hey, he's awake!” a voice Willard recognized as Carpenter's said, gladly. “Hey, bud, how do you feel?”
“I feel numb, can't move my legs,” complained Willard. “But it worked, right? I'm a pony? I should be a unicorn.”
“Yeah, it worked,” Carpenter admitted. “Lookin' pretty fine for a horse, there.”
Willard turned his head to face Carpenter. “Why can't I see? Who turned out the lights?”
“Lights?” Twilight asked, bemused, from somewhere behind Carpenter. “They're on, power was restored ten minutes ago.”
“Uh-oh,” Archie said, “I think... we were too slow.”
======
“Doctor Carpenter, you can't just barge in here like that.”
“Beep beep, nurse. I'm visiting Doctor Willard.”
“You can't come in! Bernestrand's orders!”
“Oh, since when do we have to listen to my dear old dad?”
“Hey- you- oof!”
With a clatter of shoes on linoleum, the sound of a man with the attitude of a child running down a hallway filled the air, and with a crash, the door flew open. Carpenter flew in with a flutter of lab-coat, and slammed the door shut behind him, swiftly locking the door, and doubled over, catching his breath.
“Not as fit as you used to be, huh?” a voice asked. Carpenter turned around, and his demeanor softened. The pony that was Willard lay in the bed, sightless eyes staring up at the ceiling; his horn glowed with magic, as pens and paper danced around his bed and stowed themselves away into a folder.
“Hey, there, Carl. Yeah, I could be fitter.” Carpenter wheezed slightly. “Man, I remember the days when we could run a couple of miles and not even sweat it. What happened, huh?”
“At least you can itch your nose. Know how much motivation to learn magic you get when you can't itch your own nose?”
“Ha.” Carpenter grabbed a chair, and sat next down to the crippled newfoal. “So, hate to sound like an insensitive dick, but how's being blind and quadriplegic working out for you?”
“It's not too bad, really,” Willard nodded. “A minor setback in the grand scheme of things. And remember, I'm an engineer. That means I solve problems.”
“Bit of a problem to fix, being paralyzed.” Carpenter idly looked at his friend's chart – lots of words to say a simple and horrible truth – nerve burnout. Magic had scorched Willard's nervous system stupid, leaving him in his present state. “Twilight's almost inconsolable, you know. She blames herself for this.”
“Ah, the fault is mine, I cut corners and sacrificed quality for speed,” Willard stated, a rolled-up blue piece of paper floating up to Carpenter, cocooned in a glow of pale blue magic, who took it carefully.
“What's this?”
“Progress, Isiah. I've directed my attentions to the world of disability technologies.”
Carpenter unfurled the blueprints, and whistled. A precisely-drawn image sat before him, an exploded diagram of something dome-like.
“Color me impressed, Will. You drew this without being able to see?”
“Yeah.”
Carpenter turned the diagram sideways. “Hm. Small question, bucket-load of empty space in the bell jar. What’s with that?”
“That's what the wet-wires are for.”
“Wet-wiring?” Carpenter looked at the diagram again. When you knew what it was built around... “You're going to give yourself a lobotomy and put your brain in a jar?”
“Exactly. Can't exactly lose much more than I have, and if it works... I'll have more hands than I know what to do with.”
“Seems like quite a jump, sure you wanna break medical frontiers this quick? It’s been barely three days since you got ponified.”
“Quick?” Willard laughed, sightless eyes looking at where he guessed Carpenter to be. “No, that's a while away. I'll do my research first, thank you – not all of us can just jump into an experiment with both feet, Carpenter. In the meantime, an exo-skeleton should suffice to get me mobile and self-reliant again.”
Carpenter scrutinized his ponified friend. “You've already drawn up final blueprints, haven't you?”
“Yeah.” A second rolled up paper floated to Isiah, and he swapped it for the brain-jar design, unfurling it. “Think it can be done?”
“Oh yeah,” the mobile human nodded - it was a framework all linked to a spinal interface; by comparison, it was a whiffle-bat compared to the metal baseball bat that was the brain-jar idea. “This is way safer, and shouldn't be a problem. I'll get the fabricators on it.”
“Thanks,” Willard nodded. “You're a pal, Isiah.”
“Any time, Carl.” Carpenter got up, and walked over to the door, which he unlocked. “Are you sure you're okay?”
“Of course,” Willard said, dismissively. “Just a little setback, I'll be fine.”
Carpenter nodded, unseen by the pony in the bed, and took his leave. The door clicked shut again, and the pony was alone once more.
Willard lifted the sheets off his torso, sighing. Perpetual nudity was something he'd have to get used to... although, if all went as planned, nudity would be a thing of the past for him. He pulled out the blueprints once more, and ran an ethereal finger over the paper, feeling the lines and finding his place once more. The unicorn uncapped a pen, and got to work once more, tracing out his latest design. The unicorn worked on, paying no heed to the lights as they turned off for the evening, still drawing away. With a flourish, he penned in the last line, and smiled.
He'd never see it with his own two eyes, and yet, he knew he had it down to the very last detail; on the paper before him, in the weak light cast by the medical monitors by his bedside, sat an image of half an equine skull, split with half a metal cog; an identical match to the mark on his flank, and signed with his new name.
It was time for a fresh start. Carl Willard was dead. Lexicon lived.
Rock out
The lab was once again a hive of activity, the technicians stepping back and signing off on the new power backup system installed. This went on, completely ignored by the human scientist and pony standing near a bench on the far wall, next to a complex set of apparatuses.
"Right, so... I think we've got this right, now," Carpenter swirled the fluid around in the flask, watching the purple substance splash and cascade against the sides.
"I hope so. Poor Willard," Twilight murmured, shaking her head. "He didn't deserve to wind up like that."
"He'll be fine," Carpenter said, drawing some of the serum out in a syringe, "That man's always found a way forward. And while I do have issue with how he's going to fix this setback, he will keep going - it's going to take a bit more than being a blind quadriplegic to stop him."
"Oh, good," Twilight nodded, and looked at her clip-board. "Uh, we're doing another test so soon?"
"Oh yes. Got a volunteer, even. And he's a volunteer we can't really say 'no' to, either, given our project’s current status, and his attitude to being denied."
The sound of stomping and wailing echoed through the lab doors, which weren't completely sealed, and Twilight's ear twitched.
"What in the wide world of equestria...?"
The doors crashed open, and Twilight jumped as a man wearing more glitter on one jumpsuit than she thought was physically possible, and platform shoes, didn’t so much as step as he did glide into the room.
If Rarity was here... Twilight had trouble deciding whether she’d fall in love with the man’s sequined costume, or try to murder him for crimes against fashion - the line seemed so thin sometimes.
It was probably offset by a build and facial structure that Twilight recognized as ‘Textbook Handsome’ - actually, now that she thought about it, a footnote did say the definition of ‘handsome’ had been redefined fairly recently, picture and all. She squinted her eyes, trying to recall the “guide to human anatomy” she’d been reading a few weeks ago.
“Helooooo, eggheads!” the man wailed, achieving a volume Twilight usually associated with Princess Luna on a bad day, “Ziggy Stardust has entered the lab! Ow!”
“Ziggy... Stardust?” Twilight looked at Carpenter, who shrugged, and went back to scrutinizing the syringe in his hand.
“Eeh. I’m not a fan of rock music, but this guy apparently revitalized the genre and made it king once more, even after this Skrillex guy managed to top the charts.”
“Revitalized?” Stardust slid forward, and pushed up against Carpenter. “My dear egghead, I broke it down and forged it anew!”
“Uh huh.” Carpenter nodded. “I’ll take your word for it - always was a techno fan, myself.”
“Humph.” Ziggy looked about the lab, nodding understandingly. “So, this is where the real, live magic happens, no?”
“That’s right,” Twilight said, “Mr... Stardust, was it?”
“Oh!” Ziggy spun around, and looked at Twilight - how he managed it on those ridiculous platform shoes of his was beyond her. “What an amazing voice! And you’re a talking horse! And so cute! Call me Ziggy, I insist!”
“Mr. Stardust,” Carpenter interjected, not looking away from the syringe, and giving it a flick with his finger, “Did you read any of the stuff I sent you? The pamphlet, even - tell me you read that.”
“You sent me things?”
“Right,” the human scientist sighed, and turned around. “Twilight’s a unicorn from the magical land of Eq-”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Ziggy made a talking motion with his hand. “Look at me, I don’t care! Besides, the unicorn can speak for herself, can’t she?”
The human rockstar leant in close, and fluttered his eyelashes at Twilight. The purple unicorn recoiled slightly.
“Uh, is it normal for humans to get that close to other people?”
“No, Twilight,” Carpenter replied, a little cheesed off, picking up the syringe. “Usually people aren’t as flamboyant as Mr. Stardust, here.”
“Well, Miss... Twilight.” Ziggy smoothed out his hair. “Once I’m... a talking horse, what say you and I get... a lot closer? Hmm?”
“Ah. Ha ha,” Twilight took a step back, and blushed as she realized what was going on. “You... uh...”
“No, no, you don’t need to make a decision now. I wouldn’t force it on such a lovely-” Twilight flinched as Ziggy ran a finger along the underside of her jaw, “-lady such as yourself. Sooner or later, I will win you over, and your heart shall be mine.”
“One of your more popular lyrics, how droll.” Carpenter pushed the two apart, producing a clipboard, which he gave to the rockstar. “Ziggy, sign this - it’s a waiver and contract. You’re giving up your United States citizenship to become a pony, among other contract-needy things.”
“Bah.” Ziggy snatched the clipboard out of Carpenter’s hands, and procured a pen from his sleeve that was so glittery, it was like he was holding a handful of bloom and lens flare. It whipped across the bottom of the legal document with impressive speed, and Carpenter took it out of his hands, eyebrow going up as he deciphered it.
“That’s very swell, Ziggy.” Carpenter proffered the clipboard once more. “But we need you to sign your real name, not your stage name. And while you’re at it, you might want to actually read it.”
“That is my real name, sunshine,” Ziggy dismissed, “Honestly. Kids these days, don’t follow the news.”
“Hey,” Carpenter bristled, “I take offense to that. I’m sure I’m older than you, dammit.”
“And you don’t watch the news?”
“Shut up and get on the table.”
The rockstar pranced over to the table, followed by Twilight and Carpenter, and looked at it; utilitarian, steel, boring. The device suspended above it was like an equally boring, dull robot spider. He turned around, and his face was contorted in a way that transmitted what he thought of the arrangements on its own.
“You expect me to lie on that?”
“Honestly?” Carpenter replied, starting to lose his temper. “Yes. Clothes off, get on.”
Ziggy turned his nose up, and Carpenter sighed. “Twilight, could you...?”
“Oh.” Twilight cleared her throat, and batted her eyes at Ziggy, pulling the a face she’d seen Rarity do so often, it was almost like second nature for the fashionista. “Oh, Ziggy - would you please get on the table and remove your clothes so we can... get started?”
Half a second passed, and the two scientists waited as Ziggy seemed to consider the proposition. Common sense said that such a blatant use of sexuality wouldn’t work on anyone, except maybe a sex-starved sixteen-year-old.
“Very well, Twilight!” Ziggy threw his hands back - with a sound of tearing, the sequined jumpsuit flew backwards, flying right off his frame in one swift movement, and Carpenter covered his eyes at the sudden exposure in front of him.
“Uggh,” he grunted, “Saints alive, Stardust. Warn us before you go exposing yourself like that next time.”
“Warn people?” Ziggy laughed. “Please. That ruins the surprise. Besides, I did it to the Queen of England once, and she didn’t seem to mind.”
“Ookay,” Twilight egged, “Now, could you get onto the table?”
“Hmm...” Ziggy turned to face the table, “It needs something.”
“Like...?” Carpenter didn’t like where this was going.
“Like... this!” Ziggy threw a hand in the air, and Carpenter swore as glitter filled it, falling and raining down on the table and apparatus suspended above it.
“You... why would you do that?” Carpenter pointed at the glitter, seeing Ziggy’s smug expression. “You... you...”
The touch of a lavender hoof on his arm stopped him, and he saw Twilight, who shook her head.
“It’s not a big deal. Glitter can’t affect the ponifciation serum, right?”
“...right. Okay.” Carpenter coughed. “So, you going to get on the table now?”
“Yes, I shall get onto the table,” Ziggy declared, spinning about, and falling onto it amidst the falling glitter. Closing his eyes, Carpenter picked up the man’s legs, and moved him around, so he was lying on the table properly.
“Thank you, Ziggy,” Twilight fluttered her eyelashes once more, and Carpenter groaned as a certain something became erect.
“Twilight, you can stop that, now. He’s on the table.”
“Okay, sorry.”
The two moved around the table, adusting monitors and checking the machine. Ziggy looked blissfully unaware, twiddling invisible strings on a guitar, and humming to himself.
“Right, Ziggy, sit still,” Carpenter said, “Potion’s going in.”
The rockstar flinched as needle met neck, and stopped his air-guitar, relaxing his arms.
“Whoooah. That’s... one hell of a trip. Mind if I... get some... of that... after...”
The man was out cold before he finished his sentence, and Carpenter looked at Twilight.
“Before, when you pulled that face... was that... a duckface?”
“...maybe?” Twilight shrugged. “I don’t know what a duckface is.”
“...either way, that was still pretty gross.”
======
The spirit that was Ziggy Stardust strode across the stage, taking up his place at the microphone; a guitar waited for him, and he picked it up, not wanting to disappoint his audience...
Of two. Just two unicorns with wings, sitting in chairs in the front row. He laughed - he was so high right now, it was almost not funny. He had to be tripping - where else would he have an audience of just two?
“Ziggy Stardust...” the white one said, looking at a small pamphlet, “What a strange name.”
“I do like your name,” the dark blue one said, “It is quite a nice name, I hope you retain it when you make it out of here.”
“Wow, talking horses.” Ziggy looked at his hand. “This is all a dream, right?”
“It’s a dream that will define who and what you are for the rest of your life,” the white alicorn pointed out. “You should choose the next things you say very ca-”
“I am rock!”
“Pardon me,” the blue alicorn stated, taken aback by the sudden declaration, “But... how can one be... ‘Rock’? You are flesh and blood.”
“But I am rock! I live rock! I breathe it! I embody it!” Ziggy placed his hands on his chest. “I. Am. Rock. Even the magazines and tabloids say so!”
Ziggy reached out, and pulled a newspaper from thin air, throwing it to the alicorns, where it landed in front of their seats so they could read it. The big headline seemed to back up Ziggy’s statements, proclaiming “Ziggy Stardust Is Rock”.
“Well,” Celestia said, “Be that as it may... you can’t be a rock.”
“But I want to be rock!” Ziggy stamped a foot. “I won’t be anything else! I refuse!”
“We are not making you a rock,” Luna repeated, “Pick something else, but not a rock. Why would you want to be a rock?”
“Oh, I’ll make him rock,” an ethereal voice echoed through the theatre, and the alicorns bristled.
“Discord!” Celestia stood up, looking around. “Begone! This is not your business!”
“Oh, Celly. You always say people are free to choose... and this boy wants to be stone.”
“Rock,” Ziggy corrected, not bothered that he was taking the side of something called ‘Discord’.
“Right. Who are you to deny him that? You tuned me to stone readily enough...”
“Discord,” Celestia looked at a strangely dark patch of the ceiling, glaring. “Don’t you dare...”
“But I do. Watch me.”
A bolt of energy shot out of the dark patch, and hit Ziggy - the rockstar staggered backwards with footsteps that were heavy, like he was super-tired after a gig. The alicorns watched him stagger backwards in alarm, and Ziggy still didn’t care.
His shambling steps kicked the drumkit aside, and he kept walking backwards, into the back of the stage itself, where the backdrop fluttered in its own wind.
“Enjoy your new life, Mr. Stardust. I’m sure you’ll rock everyone’s world.”
======
Twilight and Carpenter had their goggles on - ever since Ziggy had started kicking and flaring with light of his own, in fact. Past experience had suggested that he’d explode any second now.
The light increased in intensity, and the two cowered behind their own little monitor banks.
“This can’t be good!” shouted Carpenter, “This didn’t happen last time!”
“The glitter!” Twilight shouted. “Could it...?”
Carpenter swore. Of course it would - if Ziggy had all that glitter on his skin, some of that magic-nullifying radiation was probably being reflected away!
A soft whump filled the air - an ethereal one that made Carpenter feel queasy - but no purple goop followed, as was the norm. He looked over his barricade, and gasped.
Sitting on the middle of the operating table, was a large, somewhat trapezoidal rock, made out of what looked like quartzite.
“...Tom?” Twilight asked, looking around her own shield.
“Tom?”
“It was a thing, one of my friends went through,” Twilight confessed, “Don’t mention it. Ever.”
The two got up, and stood next to the table; Carpenter sighed, rubbing his head.
“I guess we’re making progress. He’s not dead or paralyzed, that’s a plus.”
“He’s a rock.”
“Yeah.” Carpenter walked away, and activated an intercom on the wall. “Cleanup crew to Lab Six. Bring vacuum cleaners, don’t worry about mops and buckets this time.”
“Hudda hu,” the intercom crackled, “Huddah ha?”
“No, nobody burned. Get the heavy lifting team, too, while you’re at it. Move the subject to holding cell 29-a for observation.”
“Hudda hu.”
======
The rock sat in the cell, unmoving. But he didn’t care.
He weighed just under half a tonne - but he remained lighthearted.
Nobody spared it a second glance, giving their attention to louder and more insistent neighbors. But he didn’t mind one bit.
Ziggy was in his own little world, playing for an audience bigger than he could ever have imagined in his wildest dreams, riding an eternal performance high. If only the tabloids could see him now, if only his fans could hear the music he was making; They’d both say the same thing.
He. Was. Rock.
[07:45]< MyLittleBurger> how come in HiE fics, the human never becomes something incredibly weird like a sentient boulder or something?
Idea given by MyLittleBurger
“Ziggy Stardust” created by Gancolt
A story comprised of horrible puns and created from a ridiculous idea. I’m either going to heaven or hell for this one.