According to Canterlot regulations, Grata was legally obligated to refer to ponies were sent her way as guests.

Other suggestions included:

Clients.

Comrades.

Chums.

None of that old and stale term, DUWC (Dirty Untrustworthy Cowards)-inflicted, that was in vogue until some noble decided they didn't want to be called that.

As they say, social progress can only be achieved when you had the bits to go with your big mouth.

Still, she was reminded by mail to keep her voice and tone in check. Still, she sent her recommendations on improving the whole system and got no reply. Oh well. Once Grata had the bits, she could make the upper heads understand her aggressive reform policy that she had waiting in the wings.

Like for one, none of this dancing around titles. Why did she have to refer to those sickly ponies as friends in her off-time?

Grata didn't have friends. She had bills.

And debt.

Soul-crushing debt.

For the sake of her records, she noted her clients as patient 1, patient 2 and so on. No one was spared. If she had to exchange words over her desk, they were a possible patient. Most ponies that came to her door, she only saw once or twice. But patients? She saw them daily, eating her hours and constantly cutting into her profit margin.

She got paid per pony, not per hour.

The bulk of them: Doctors needing professional review. Paper-pushers looking for a quote and a headline. And occasional freak that was out of luck.

Just like the girl that wandered in for her 2:30 afternoon.

Grata studied the unicorn mare that was her newest patient, the girl stiffly standing outside her door. Completely unaware that the glass that lined the wall outside her office was a two-way and that Grata was free to observe to heart's content. The glass wasn't cheap. Seven hundred bits and the movers' lucky hourly fee ate into Grata's 'I deserve to sleep in my own bed' fund but it really helped with the whole clingy patients thing.

Grata had concocted her own method of dealing with this issue: Diagnose. Divert. Defy.

Patient 6203 was, according to what was in her file, suffering from an ordinary case of a mere identity crisis.

As a late bloomer, she hardly expected to grow six inches in her late teens and gain the hips that had her stumbling from stallions. Her petite voice grew deep and sultry. Her awkward body filled out and once she had her twenty-first birthday, she suffered ridicule from her college peers. Reaching her wits' end, the patient had taken a leave of school and got entangled in their 'branch' of medical assistance.

The unicorn must have spent her life living under a rock for her condition not to have become a problem until now. Life did have its mercies.

Grata pressed the button under her desk. The door swung open, hitting the mare from behind.

Patient 6203 squeaked, crossing her legs as she shouted incoherently. “Who did that? You want to spank me is that, right?” The mare looked around, screeching at shadows and howling at no one. “Wanna bend me over? No! Never! I'm not that type of mare! Keep your filthy hooves away!”

Grata shook her head to herself. This girl was going to be a piece of work.

“In here, patient. I will see you.” Grata said, leaning forward. “Quickly, if you could?”

“You're a mare?!” The patient said, stepping inside and standing near the offered chair. Grata sighed. “The way the docs talked about you, I thought you would have been some famous-”

Grata held up a hoof. “My reputation exceeds itself.” She said dully. “Now take a seat.” The lounge chair that was worth more than Grata's entire life insurance plan seemed to preen as she addressed it. “And remove that rag you call a disguise.”

“What? Why?” The patient was wearing a burlap sack that might have been considered acceptable in rural parts of Equestria. A cheap and tacky black wig that was on incorrectly, showing the girl's natural blue roots. And oddly enough, mis-matched socks.

“My previous doctor, Dr. Touchy said that it was okay if I came in what makes me feel safe.”

“But you wearing that makes me not feel safe in being seen with you.” Grata retorted, ignoring the flat huh that came out of the patient's mouth. “Oh, is that not what you wanted to hear? Wasn't one of the reasons you asked for another opinion, that's me by the way, was because you were sick of being handled with kiddie gloves?”

Grata sighed, shuffling the papers on her desk as she watched her patient think.

She hated cases like this.

Wasting her time because they could never, ever, be bothered to think for themselves.

“Whenever a doctor says you should get another opinion, they almost always mean me for DUWC cases such as yourself. You rank less than 1 if we used the old scale.” For cases that were stalling at .5, they were seen as unsolvable lumps of infinite bits. But that all changed when the kingdom's sympathies and budget was shifted elsewhere. Again, nobles. But today was better than yesterday in Grata's childhood, DUWC cases would be sent to the asylum until they stopped showing symptoms.

“I'm going to be honest with you, Patient 6203. You would be considered a lost cause to anyone else other than me. If you want to hobble around as that for the rest of your life, that's fine. But don't waste my time with that feel-good crap the others like to push.”

“Hey.” Patient 6203 said, her voice taking a tone. “You can't just dismiss everything I've been taught and told over the last two months. Dr. Touchy was great. He was there for me. He listened-”

“Another reason for your choice in getting another opinion: his hooves got a little too friendly.”

“Shut up. All stallions and some mares are like that now. Because of this.” The patient gestured to her body, her tail flicking in annoyance. Grata's eyes grew hazy as she lazily looked up and down. Patient 6203 was curvy and tight in places that no pattern or sack could hide. The way her tail swung, Grata could imagine stepping away from her desk and- “He was alright but it wasn't safe to be around him anymore if he was going to give in like the others.”

The consultant blinked the image away and sighed. Those sort of thoughts weren't going to bring in the bits.

“Interesting, how you describe the phenomena as others giving in?” Grata said, resting her head on her hooves as she considered her 2:45. Her next meal ticket, Patient 6304, sat quietly in the hallway. His problem had been technically resolved but he paid out of his pocket for more visits. She hoped he realized that she wasn't a licensed therapist.

“Does that mean that you think that you have a measure of control over it?”

“Of course, I do. I can tell when things are going wrong.”

“Then say your name for us.”

The patient stepped back, her eyes shrinking to the size of thimbles. “I don't want to.”

“Are you really going to let a few words dictate your life?”

“Shut up!” Patient 6203 exploded. Grata took a moment to mentally pat herself for the sound-proofing she installed last year. A worthy investment. “Just SHUT UP! I HATE THAT NAME! I HATE IT! It DESTROYED my life. Things used to be simple when I was younger. When I first got my cutie mark.” The mare tapped her flank, patting on the image of a circular fence with a hole and a bucket of paint. “I was going to college for engineering and I had plans of becoming an architect. Not a whore!”

“Say your name.”

“NO!”

“Say it.”

“NO. I am not that.” The patient blubbering, crying, as she screamed. “My cutie mark does not make me that! I refused to be made into that.”  

“If you can't, then I can't I help you. Magic is a fickle thing.” Grata said. “This is your only chance. Say your name.”

“My name.” The girl sobbed. “My name is.” She dropped to her knees. “Glory Hole.”

“And what does it mean?”

“It means.” Glory squirmed, her eyes bouncing until she came to a conclusion that she had all along. “It means me. It means that I'm talented in... in.... creating... things. Places. Holes in the ground. My mother said only I could make a house out of a hole. I want to work with my hooves and build things. I'm not... that. I'm a star. I'm a glory and today, today I win. I've won.”

Grata discreetly yawned, wondering how much bits Dr. Clean Slate was going to take for his finder's fee. Tuning out the spectacle, she let her special talent do its work. The words came to her clearly and she hastily scribbled what came to mind. Then once she was done, she levitated a ordinary scrap of paper over to the mare. “Can you say this?”

“My name is...” The girl gasped. “Victory Hill.”

“Congratulations, you have a new name.”