“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.