“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?”