I studied this strange case, rereading Lyra’s notes, looking over these pieces of evidence, scrutinizing this whole situation from multiple angles, getting up, sitting down, getting up again, pacing about the library restlessly, jotting my theories and ideas down on my blackboard as they came to me.

Luna’s moon had risen when I heard a knock at the door. It was Lyra. Apparently, she had only just discovered Bon-Bon's mean-spirited prank, and took it upon herself to apologize on her friend's behalf. After telling her it wasn't a big deal, I asked if she had any time to spare, as I may have needed her input.

After she settled into a chair, I noticed she was sitting in a strange way: her back against the chair, neck to bottom with legs outstretched. I asked her why she was, and she told me “This is the way humans sit on chairs.” This was interesting, as it was exactly the same posture of the stranger as he sat in that chair in front of Sugarcube Corner. I jotted this down. Lyra cocked her head at me curiously.

“Interesting,” I said, putting down the pen. “So,” I began, “you said in your report that you’d met our stranger when you and Bon-Bon were out shopping…”

“Yes.”

They had been shopping when the stranger had approached them. He seemed shy and timid in their presence, something Bon-Bon took advantage of, insulting him. The insult had flown over his head, and he asked Bon-Bon out on a date. (I had wondered how he got that black eye near when he first showed up in town…)

“It was sometime after this that you began these secret meetings with him, leaving Bon-Bon out for obvious reasons. These interviews are…” I struggled with my words. Which did I want to use? Revealing? Disturbing? It was a mix of both, really.

“They’re interesting,” Lyra concluded, “But I don’t think they lead anywhere.”

She’d asked him about multiple things, from human cultures to what colors a human could see, to what the average human diet was. I was disturbed by his answer to the diet question in particular (Although at least ponies weren’t on their list). I asked how much of this she felt was true.

After thinking a bit, Lyra answered, “Not much of it. I kinda find it hard to believe humans are that barbaric.”

“So were ponies at an early point in our history,” I reminded her.

Lyra shrugged. “That was back then; these humans are evidently barbaric even in modern times.” The look in her eyes suggested she was offended by this possibility, this idea that humans were generally untrustworthy and sadistic. She held them in high regard I had been told, and these uncomfortable findings were either actually untrue or facts being outright refused .

“Listen,” I said as comfortingly as possible, “Lyra, you need to be a scientist about this. A scientist mindset is supposed to be objective. You collect what information you can and try to add it all up to see what the truth is.” I looked down at the notebook. “Some of his answers were pretty contradictory though, especially the ones in regard to himself.” The offending answers were highlighted in pink, as if caught red-hoofed at the scene of a crime.

“I noticed.”

I looked at the theories I had scribbled on the board, and noticed Lyra was trying to read them. Her hoof-writing was much better than mine, my hasty chicken scratch scrawl probably looking like a foreign language to her. I apologized, then tried to explain what my theories were.

One theory was that our stranger is a human being who had somehow been polymorphed into a strange and ponyesque shape. Since Lyra didn’t think to ask if he’d been on the business end of a polymorphic spell, I didn’t know if he was simply omitting this himself. I further theorized that the other humans from where he came from cast him out for looking like a freak amongst them, if his comment on their xenophobia was accurate.

"Of course," I added, "on the other hoof, he could also be the end result of a Blue Magic Pocket." I nearly laughed.

"Blue Magic Pocket?"

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, it's just some theory by that crazy Doctor. You know the one."

Lyra seemed to rub her chin. “Well, your theory seems solid,” she agreed, “do you think we should ask him if it's true?”

I looked over the two belongings he had left behind at Sugarcube Corner. “I really don’t trust him on a personal level,” I said. “And besides that, I don’t think he quite trusts us anymore. After the pranks, and after what happened earlier today, I think he’s learned not to openly trust us.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “Learned? Twilight, I don’t think this guy learns anything.”

I pursed my lips. “Our subject is in fact, learning, but all his conclusions are wrong. His self-centered worldview paints everypony else as out to get him.”

Lyra giggled. “Did you read what he thinks of other males?”

“Yes,” I groaned. The stranger believed that other males were an obstacle: claiming they’d “taken all the pretty girls, leaving him with none,” despite that there were plenty of eligible bachelorettes. He seemed to not understand that if a mare refuses romantic advances, it's for various reasons that likely aren't anything against him personally. Of course, now that it became common knowledge that he's a creepy pervert thief...

Lyra threw her head back and laughed. “I swear, not a whole lot of what he says makes any sense, but at least now I know why he hates Big Macintosh so much.” She kind of blushed as she mentioned the stallion’s name. I smirked. It was relieving to know I wasn’t the only one crushing on him.

“Not his fault he’s such a chick magnet,” she muttered.

I left the Big Mac anecdote where it lied. “Still, what he’s told us is quite revealing,” I continued. “It’s evident he’s really a human, concerning his un-Ponylike appearance and mannerisms. He found his way here, and either doesn’t know how to leave or doesn’t want to.”

Lyra mulled this over. “If I were him, I’d have left town the moment things started getting hostile.”

“So you think he might not know the way back to the human world?”

Her head seemed to slide on her shoulders to look at me, a wry grin and a dry expression in her eyes. “If he knows anything at all, Twilight," she said, "this would not be among them.” Filly didn’t miss a beat. I chuckled at her comment.

“OK, then. How about, tomorrow, we go to his apartment. We bring all our notes, and conduct a final interview. Maybe we can get him home.”

Lyra seemed to like this idea, and agreed to get up early so we could get this done. It was time to put all this behind us. As Lyra left and I settled into my bed, I found my excitement for tomorrow’s planned events clouding my sleep. I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep that night until my thoughts drifted to Big Macintosh: his size, his face, that scent...

Yes, I know he’s dating Cheerilee, but a girl can dream can’t she?

The next morning, Lyra and I met in front of the Carousel Boutique. We had our things together, ready to finally finish this. After psyching each other up for what we were going to find, we went on our way.

At the apartment complex, we knocked on his door. Waiting for several minutes until we came to the conclusion that he was either still asleep or he was currently out, we decided to speak to the landlord. He told us the stranger had not been paying his rent, and was kicked out yesterday.

First getting punched out by Fluttershy, then losing his apartment… yesterday must have been awful for him. We wondered where he had disappeared to. Lyra merely shrugged; our trail had suddenly gone cold. She suggested perhaps that he really DID know his way home and merely left after his crushing day.

I told her if he was still here, all we really had to do was wait. He’d show up again, eventually. He always did. And if he didn’t, well, all the better for Ponyville.

Of course, he hadn’t left. Where else could he go?

Next Chapter: 6. Mr. Cake is Cold-Hearted and Mean Estimated time remaining: 4 Hours, 50 Minutes