“Doctor, your two o’clock is here.”

The voice over the intercom brings me out of the half-daze I’m in, drawing my attention back to the here-and-now, and I tap the appropriate button on my phone. “Send him in, please, Katherine,” I reply, taking the moment to close my laptop and get out of my desk chair.

I meet my newest patient at the door of my office as he opens it; he pauses for a moment, his brown eyes widening as he takes in the sight of me. I’m used to it by now- it’s one thing to be told what I am, or to see a picture on the Internet, but something completely different to lay eyes on a changeling for the first time. “Mister Wallace,” I say, with a friendly smile that doesn’t expose my fangs any more than usual. “Please, come in.”

He does so, with only a little hesitation, and I close the door gently behind him. I can sense just a small amount of trepidation from him, not quite fear, and I see him looking around the room as if watching for anything threatening. It’s not likely he’ll find it; I took pains to organize my office just as any human would, with tall bookcases stuffed full of reference books- some too high for me to read their spines without taking flight- and pleasant-looking paintings along the walls. The Venetian blinds let in plenty of the afternoon sunlight, diffusing it just enough to keep from being glaring.

After a moment, Darrell Wallace seems to relax and turn back towards me. I’m used to humans towering over me, but this man is even taller than most- a few inches over six feet, probably- and he strikes a physically imposing presence, though that’s undercut by the expression of reluctance on his dark-skinned, lightly-bearded face. “Um... hi, Doctor Ocellus,” he says quietly, his voice deep and rather rough. He’s only twenty-seven years old and his preliminary forms had no indication of smoking, so I’m left to wonder just what might be the cause of it, and if it plays into his main reason for coming to me.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mister Wallace. Or may I call you Darrell?”

“Uh... Darrell’s good, yeah.” A brief nod.

“Thank you.” I gesture to the long couch with a forehoof. “Would you like to have a seat?”

He chuckles nervously as he heads towards it. “Can’t be a shrink without a couch, I guess.”

“They only give you the diploma when you show a receipt from the furniture store.” This gets another chuckle from the man, and I can feel the tension in the atmosphere loosening just a bit more. As Darrell moves to take a seat on the couch, I spare a glance up at my certifications in their wall frames, and still feel that faint thrum of pride. “Are you hungry or thirsty?” I ask. “I have some ice water, shelled peanuts, and a few fun-sized chocolate bars.”

“No thanks, I’m good.” He has a seat on the custom-crafted couch- my own design, made to allow both bipeds and quadrupeds a way to sit and lie down comfortably- and folds his hands in his lap.

“If you’re sure. I can’t promise that I won’t eat those chocolates- you know how we insects are about sweets.” A little self-depreciating humor can go a long way towards disarming instinctual wariness, and I see that this chuckle from him seems a little less forced, the smile a little more genuine. I begin the opening interview, which goes smoothly, as he gives me an overview of himself- married, one child, employed as an Internet technician at a local hotel. It seems that he’s making a good life for himself.

Once that’s done, I move on. “Darrell, I understand that, just like many species from my own world, most humans have an instinctive revulsion towards insects, especially larger ones that have recognizable fangs. I don’t want my appearance to make you uncomfortable. If you like, I can shift myself to look like something more acceptable- a pony, zebra, griffin, anything of similar size with four legs, male or female- but there is one issue connected with that: I will have to use my natural eyes and wings as a part of this process, and I know that they can look even more out-of-place on a different form. Just let me know what would make you the most comfortable here.”

He seems taken aback by the offer, and considers it for a few moments. “It, um... nah, really, Doctor, I can- I can manage this with you how you are. I ain’t afraid of insects.”

There’s a little forced bravado, but he seems intent on accepting things how they are, and I smile. “If you’re certain, Darrell.” I hop up onto the chair I keep next to the couch and adjust the tie that hangs over my crisp, light-blue dress shirt- my only concession to human clothing customs; pants are simply too uncomfortable for me. “Now, let’s begin.” I levitate my pen and notepad over to my side. “Darrell, what brings you to me today?”

“I, uh....” He seems to gather his thoughts and courage together. “Look, I, um... I got told by my wife that you can, y’know... take away bad feelings.”

“In a way, yes. There’s a process to it, though, and part of that process is understanding exactly what is causing those feelings and helping you to bring them out of the recesses of your mind. I can only do this with your complete cooperation, Darrell.” I meet his gaze. “You have to help me help you. Are you ready to do that?”

“I... yeah.” He nods, his expression firming up some. “Yeah, I... I need to do this.” He looks away for a moment, then back at me. “I’ve, uh... I’ve been having some nightmares lately. I guess I gotta explain why they’re bothering me. This is my son.” I watch as he reaches into his pocket and produces a smartphone, a device that I still find fascinating despite having had one of my own for years, and taps at it for a moment before raising it for me to see. On the screen is a picture of a young boy, smiling happily into the camera.

“That is a handsome boy,” I comment. It’s the truth- an Infiltrator must understand what is attractive to both genders and a variety of species, and the young human’s soft brown eyes and infectious smile are bound to break some hearts as he grows.

“Thanks.” He gives me a bashful smile as he tucks the phone away. “He’s Michael. Three years old, now.”

I nod. “Michael is involved in your nightmares?”

“Yeah, it....” He grimaces and shakes his head. “...God, it’s not even....”

I wait quietly as he works through whatever’s going on in his head. There are times where being an alien insect creature really works in my favor- I look different enough from a human where many of them don’t quite care so much about what I think of them as they would about another human, or a pony, or another more relatable creature. Darrell is projecting enough self-loathing for the both of us; he doesn’t need to add worrying about my opinion into the mix.

It’s a good couple of minutes before he talks again. “I’ve been having nightmares, where... where I’m beating Michael. Really badly. I don’t even know what causes it, I don’t know what could make me so angry, but....” His breath hitches, and I feel more self-loathing from him. “I’m going at him like he’s a grown man and we’re in a boxing ring. Just... just no holding back. I see what it’s doing to him... the blood, the broken bones....”

He buries his face in his hands. “Darrell,” I say quietly, trying to keep my voice professionally neutral even though I honestly feel for him. “Dreams are just the random firing of neurons in the sleeping brain. Nothing about them indicates what you’d do in the waking world.”

“Yeah, but... it seems so real! It’s... I wake up in a cold sweat at night and I’m expecting to see blood on my hands! It’s been a couple times I’ve just jumped out of bed and run to the bathroom to throw up!”

The stress and despair he’s sending out feel like a filthy ice-water bath to me, and I almost shiver despite myself. I'm beginning to believe that there's a very deep-seated issue at play here; repetitive, intense nightmares are a pretty good sign. I'm going to have to work my way deeper in order to uncover just what that issue is- something that my process is excellent at doing. “Darrell,” I say calmly, giving him a look devoid of judgment. “Could you lay back on the couch for me? I think I’d like to begin the more involved part of this process now.”

He stares at me for a moment, his emotions a jumble, before he nods and begins to lay back, his tall frame taking up a great deal of the couch. His head comes to rest on the well-padded pillow, and as he turns it to look at me, the placement of my chair leaves his eyes perfectly on-level with mine. “Darrell, I know that you’ve read the description of the particular process that I use, but I’d like to go over it in detail with you, step by step, so that I can be truly certain that you understand it. In a few moments, I’m going to use my eyes, my wings and a very simple spell to help bring you into a low-level state of hypnosis- a deep state of relaxation, where you can more easily separate yourself from your negative emotions. This will help you to better describe to me what might be causing these dreams, without anxiety or fear holding you back.

“I’d also like you to know that this isn’t classic movie ‘hypnosis’; the spell cannot allow me to control your will, or force you to divulge anything you don’t wish to. I am bound by my word to the Princesses of Equestria and my oath as a doctor to do nothing to harm you; my only wish is to help you heal. If at any point you feel uncomfortable with what I’m doing, you need only ask me to stop and I will do so immediately. Will you allow me to begin?”

Again he nods; he seems determined to see this through. I give him a small smile. “Good. Now, Darrell, I want you to look at my eyes and try to remain as still as you can. It’s okay to scratch any itches or adjust yourself to remain comfortable. I am going to start changing the glow of my eyes so that they pulse slightly; please keep your gaze on them.”

It took me a little while to perfect this trick, which came to mind when I noticed that the glow of my eyes tended to become a bit brighter when I tried to focus on distant things, and dimmed a little when I brought my focus back onto a close object. The effect is rather striking, though, at least to me- and also, apparently, to Darrell. “Whoa, that’s... kinda weird,” the human murmurs.

I let a quiet chuckle escape my muzzle. “I’m now going to buzz my wings very quietly. Let me know if this bothers you.” With that, I begin to rhythmically vibrate my wings, matching the pulsing of my eyes, with lots of practice making it not at all difficult to keep up. Darrell is still looking into my eyes, already looking just a little more relaxed. “And now I am going to cast the spell,” I tell him. “You’ll feel a gentle warmth, as though I’ve spilled warm water on your face and head. This spell is absolutely safe for humans, so you don’t need to worry about it doing any harm, and I’ll stop casting if it seems to be bothering you. Are you ready?”

“Yeah.” He already seems a little entranced, a growing feeling of calm overriding the previous negative feelings. I concentrate, feeding magic into my horn, assembling the symbols that will dictate the form of the spell in my mind. Once the spell is complete, the magic drifts forward, surrounding Darrell’s head like a glowing dome. I keep in mind that the spell needs slightly more power to work on a human than on any creature from Equus; with Earth likely never having had a thaumic field before the Discovery, none of its species evolved to move magical energy through their nervous systems, a trait which dampens less-powerful spells like this one and makes high-level healing nearly impossible without severe complications.

It only takes a few moments for the spell to take effect, and by the time the glowing dome fades, Darrell Wallace is gazing at me with a calm, serene look. “How do you feel?” I ask him.

“I feel... okay,” he answers quietly. “Like... I don’t need to be angry, or upset.”

“Good.” I keep the pulsing of my eyes and the buzzing of my wings going, to help maintain the trance. “This spell is only a temporary measure, Darrell, but it will hopefully help me to get to the root of the problem. Now I’d like to talk more about these dreams you’re having.”

There’s still some pain behind what Darrell tells me- my process only provides a level of separation from negative emotions, not complete immunity- but he’s able to better explain his dreams to me. He tells me that seemingly at random, often in the middle of a completely unrelated dream, he’ll find himself in a vaguely-familiar room, with his son standing in the middle, completely oblivious to his presence. And for completely unknown reasons, Darrell’s dream-self will begin to viciously attack his son, punching and kicking him to the floor and pummeling him mercilessly. He’s never been able to break out of the dream and awaken before he’s done quite a bit of damage, and the image of his son lying bleeding on the floor, that same blood decorating his own fists, has sent him bolting awake in a cold sweat more than a few times, to the point where stress and lack of sleep are interfering with his job and home life.

I’m rather surprised that he didn’t go to a traditional psychiatrist about this at first. I actually count several local head-doctors in the Syracuse area as friends or acquaintances, and I’ve gained a few client referrals from them when they worried that the tried-and-true methods wouldn’t work quickly enough to prevent harm of some sort and were reluctant to prescribe powerful drugs; I like to reciprocate by sending them clients of mine who either react badly to my process or could use some more traditional longer-term care beyond what I offer. It's likely a sign of just how badly this problem is bothering this man that he's come directly to me.

As Darrell has been talking, something has been nagging at the back of my mind, and in a flash of insight I twig onto just what it is. “Darrell,” I say once he’s told me all he can, “can you tell me more about the room this dream takes place in? You’ve said you believe that it’s the same every time.”

“It’s... kind of dingy. Ratty furniture, old TV. I think it’s a second-floor apartment, really ugly curtains, like....” His voice trails off and his eyes go unfocused; I feel an abrupt rush of shock, realization, horror- much stronger than I expected.

“Darrell?” I’m becoming extremely concerned at this point. “Darrell, what’s wrong? Tell me if I need to cancel the spell-”

“Hang on, hang on, I can... I....” He trails off for a moment, and shortly after the rush of emotions ebbs. Tears begin to stream down his face, but I can’t tell which of the mishmash of feelings he’s sorting through is causing them. I’m on the very edge of canceling the spell and bringing him out of the trance, but intuition tells me he’s on the verge of a breakthrough, and I choose to trust his judgment.

It’s only a minute or two later that he speaks, but to my worried mind it seems a lot longer. “I recognize the place now. It’s my mom’s old apartment, when I was growing up. I... I remember that Mom moved us out after my father....”

He goes quiet again, and I give him a moment. “After your father what, Darrell?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle.

“He was... violent. He’d get drunk sometimes, hit Mom. But there was one night around when I was eight....” He’s quiet again for a moment. “One night where he came home really mad. I don’t know what set him off, but... Mom and I were watching TV, and he just stormed in and kicked me out of the way, and just started unloading on Mom. Pulled her off the couch by her hair, threw her into the wall, started whaling on her. I remember trying to pull him off of her, and he kicked me in the neck. Right in the throat. That... that’s what made my voice sound how it does; bastard partially crushed my voice box.” Residual anger roils off of Darrell. “Next thing I know, paramedics are putting me on a stretcher and I see Mom getting wheeled out.”

My throat is feeling increasingly dry. “What happened with your mother, Darrell?”

“She survived, but she still needs a cane to walk and she gets tremors sometimes. Leftover damage from brain swelling. Me, I... I got off kinda light besides the throat.”

“I see....” My own voice is beginning to feel rough, so I risk a quick glance over at the nearby table to grab a cup of water with my magic, and empty it quickly into my parched mouth. “Darrell, I believe I understand what’s at the root of these nightmares. Have you spoken to anyone about that night since it happened?”

“Um... no. We were too poor to hire a shrink back then, and... I guess I just buried the memory in my mind while I was growing up.”

“That’s a common defense mechanism against trauma, especially while young. I don’t believe you should look down on yourself for it.” I lean back a little in my chair. “And I think that this could be part of the problem. The pain of that night has been festering in the back of your mind, Darrell, untreated for years, forgotten but not gone. Now being a father yourself may have brought it back to the forefront.” I pause for a moment to collect my thoughts. “Darrell, I need you to be as honest with me as possible. Do you blame yourself for what happened that night?”

“No! No, I... I was just a kid then. What’s an eight-year-old boy supposed to be able to do against some grown drunk man? I mean, I tried... I did, honest....” Pulses of shame and self-recrimination belie his faltering defense, and his voice trails off.

I wish I could say I was surprised. American culture places a heavy onus on a man to be a protector of his family, and Darrell Wallace strikes me as someone who is fiercely dedicated to his family- excepting his father, for entirely understandable reasons. It seems he’s retroactively blaming himself for not having been able to stop his mother from being hurt. “No one could reasonably blame you for what happened,” I tell him, my voice supportive. “You were only a boy, but you did all that you could to protect your mother.”

There are times where words seem inadequate; if Darrell were a fellow changeling, he would be able to feel my sympathy, my own anger at what was done to him. And yet I must keep a certain level of clinical detachment- getting too involved could hamper my ability to help him as best as I can. But as much as staying detached comes naturally to an Infiltrator, it’s not a part of myself I much enjoy taking advantage of.

I can’t say it doesn’t prove useful, though. I’ve been measuring Darrell’s responses, his emotional reactions, even his movements, to each question I ask- and I feel that I’m beginning to discover an even deeper issue at play... one that perhaps I relate to better than I’d like to admit. “Let’s move away from that for the moment,” I tell him. “Darrell, do you drink alcoholic beverages?”

“No. I won’t touch the stuff. Not after what I saw it can do.”

“Okay. How would you describe your personality, normally? Do you find yourself getting easily upset at things? Have you had times where your temper got out of control?”

“I try to be easygoing about things, but sometimes, if something just completely stupid happens, I... maybe get a little mad about it.”

“Can you tell me about one of those times?”

“Yeah, um... well, a couple months ago, I was putting together a little play desk for Mike, and I was putting one of the screws in... and just as I was tightening it, the screwdriver snapped off at the base, and I ended up getting cut on my forearm by the metal piece. And, um... I threw the handle at the wall so hard that it left a hole.”

“Ouch. Not a serious wound, I hope?”

“No, I took care of it and it was pretty much healed up in a couple weeks.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” I lean back just a little. “But you try to keep your temper in check, for the most part?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“But how do you feel when your temper does get the best of you?”

“I feel....” He goes quiet for a few seconds. “It feels wrong when that happens. I’m... I’m a big guy, pretty strong, and I could hurt somebody if I wasn’t careful....”

If ever there were a “gentle giant”, that’s who I’m talking to here. So gentle, in fact, that I think I’ve decisively hit on the core fear in this man’s mind. “Darrell,” I say quietly, locking my gaze onto his own, “what you’re afraid of... is it losing control and hurting Michael, like your father did to you?”

He immediately breaks eye contact with me to stare up at the ceiling, and I can feel him wrestling with his emotions. Again, I need him to be able to make this breakthrough alone- he has to give up his “armor” for me to be able to effectively help him, and I’ll give him whatever time he needs to in order to make that happen.

The only timepiece in the room is the small clock on my desk; I don’t keep a wall clock in my office because I don’t want my clients to feel that they’re on a timer with me. So I’m not entirely sure how long it is before he actually speaks, a single half-whispered sentence.

“...what if I’m like him...?”

And there it is. “Darrell, I want you to listen to me very carefully,” I said. “You are a different man than he was; a much different man. I feel that you have tried and condemned yourself for crimes you’ve never committed, and you’ve shackled yourself unjustly out of fear that, left free, you’ll become a monster.” I lean forward, and the action gets his attention, bringing him to look at me again. “As a changeling, I understand that feeling better than you might know, and it is absolutely unfair to yourself. We are not monsters, Darrell. We do not need to be defined by what we are, by what our forebears did. Above all else, we make ourselves as we choose.” I lower my head a little, wondering just for a moment who I'm really saying that to- him, or me. “And I see before me a man who has made himself a solid, productive life, despite what was done to him as a child. You had a father... but Michael has a dad.”

There it is- that magic moment, where I can feel the breakthrough happen. Darrell’s ready now, ready to let go of his pain, and I give him a moment to enjoy the feeling. “We’re going to move on to the second part of my process now, and this requires some visualization on your part.” It’s not as though Darrell lacks some sort of knowledge that would make this part easier; I’d have to use the same technique even with a unicorn, despite that tribe’s inherent understanding of magic- it’s something that only another changeling could readily grasp. As soon as I feel he’s ready, I continue.

“I want you to imagine that you are sitting in front of me, and that you hold a large sphere made of glass, the size of a bowling ball, in your hand. The sphere is light in weight, but it is nearly full of a liquid that glows bright red, bubbling and boiling inside the glass. It is uncomfortably warm, almost hot, in your hand. This sphere holds your pain, Darrell- all of the pain you’ve kept inside yourself since that day when you were eight years old.

“Now I want you to imagine that I am holding a forehoof out towards you. I can take that sphere full of your pain away; I can relieve you of it, so that you can begin to work on dealing with what happened once and for all, with a clear and neutral mindset. But you must give that pain to me of your own free will. Just imagine that you are placing that sphere in my hoof.”

He hesitates for just a few seconds- I can sympathize; old hurts are still familiar things, and it’s often difficult to give up something familiar- but then I sense him opening up to me, granting me his permission to draw away his emotions.

Here is where my nature as an emotivore can actually be of help to others. I reach towards him with my innate magic, and I grasp at that pulsating core of pain, of anger and self-loathing and regret, and- for lack of a better term any non-changeling would understand- “pull” it to me. Instinct implores me to stop, to reject the toxic emotions, but I ignore it, resolutely drawing that mass of pain into myself.

I can describe the feeling no better than what it would be like to chug a thermos full of boiling arsenic spiced with capsaicin. It burns in a way that has nothing to do with heat, hurts in a way that has nothing to do with pain; I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve done this by now, but nothing about it gets easier with repetition. The sensation makes me want to vomit, to pry off my carapace piece by piece until my innards can escape the torment... but I power through, resolute in my intentions, until finally the process is done and I’ve finished processing and negating those emotions.

It takes me a couple of moments to recover my senses, and when I come back to myself, I see Darrell staring at me again- but this time his expression is a mix of amazement and joy. “You... you did it,” he murmurs. “I... actually feel different now. It doesn’t hurt to think about it so much.”

The trance and spell both broke the moment I started consuming those negative emotions, and the unmitigated appreciation and gratitude that are now radiating from him feel like the cleansing light of a clear sunlit day, scrubbing away the lingering effects from before and leaving me feeling energized almost to the point of giddiness. I take in a deep breath to help center and steady myself. “I’m glad I could be of help, Darrell,” I reply, giving him a broad smile. “Though this is not a cure. What I’ve done is give you a much better foundation to seek healing for the trauma of your past, and how you do so is entirely up to you.” I return my pen and notepad to my desk as he starts to sit up. “For the next week, I’m going to recommend that you take it easy on yourself, not do anything strenuous and maybe take time off from work if you can. Spending that time with your family is perfectly acceptable.” I grin. “The process of sorting through your emotions may lead to some strange dreams- hopefully not nightmares- and some trouble sleeping; if that happens, I recommend that you try an over-the-counter sleep aid to help. If that proves ineffective, I can prescribe you something a little stronger. Beyond that, I’d suggest making an appointment with a traditional psychiatrist to help you resolve any lingering emotions and come to terms with the past; if you like, there’s several in the area I can refer you to.”

He nods slowly as he stands, towering over me once again- but now he seems different, more relaxed and less overwhelmed. I see him fidget as he looks at me, and there’s a thin flow of embarrassment wafting past. “I... um....” he stammers.

I can’t hold back a chuckle; this isn’t the first time this has happened. “Go ahead,” I tell him, leaning back to hold both forelegs out. “It’s okay to hug the bug.”

He laughs as he leans down, putting his arms around me- being careful of my wings, for which I’m thankful- and giving a couple soft pats to my withers as my hoof does the same against his shoulder. It’s a nice segue into the last part of our session, standing at Kathy’s desk handling all of the boring administrative stuff; I have to give him a medical diagnosis so that his insurance will cover my fee- chronic post-traumatic stress disorder is a solid call in my mind. Once all of the required forms are signed and dated, we both stand, and I see him to the office door. “I’d appreciate it if you gave me a call or Email sometime in the future to let me know how things are going for you,” I tell him. “And of course don’t hesitate to contact me if you feel you need help.”

“I will.” A relieved smile crosses his face. “I can’t thank you enough, Doctor.”

If I didn’t need money to keep my office running, and food and positive emotional energy to keep my body functioning, words like that would be more than enough to keep me going. I see him out the door and head back towards the front desk, where Kathy already has a fresh pitcher of ice water waiting for me; she knows that there are physical demands on my body from what I do, and water is vital for flushing my system of the chemical toxins the process leaves behind.

I have time to down half of the pitcher as Katherine and I chat, then relieve myself and take a half-hour power nap to ready up for my next client- a pony named “Bulwark”. He’ll hardly be the first Equusian native on Earth I’ve treated; no living creature is immune to stress and emotional trauma, and as much as some other species like to mock ponies as being “pollyannas”, to borrow an American term, they are no less complex and vulnerable than any other sapient creature.

Right on cue, the telecom buzzes. “Doctor, your... four o’clock is here,” Kathy says. There’s an odd hesitation to the announcement; is something wrong? I only feel confusion from my human assistant, coupled with an oddly powerful feeling of contentment and affection from someone I don’t recognize. I furrow my brow as I trot to the door of my office, using my magic to turn and pull the knob-

-only to actually forget to stop walking out of pure shock from whom I see on the other side, and I end up banging my muzzle into the doorjamb.

“Oh my goodness. Are you okay?” Princess Cadance’s voice is melodious, even when tinged with concern, and the gentle waves of love and affection that radiate from her feel like a warm, soothing bath. I shake my head to clear it, and all at once the situation crashes in on me, and I immediately drop into a bow.

“Your Highness,” I say reverently.

“Oh, please, no, don’t bow,” she replies, and I feel embarrassment radiating off of her. “I’m not here in any official capacity, Doctor Ocellus.”

It takes me a moment to pull myself together, and I straighten up, blinking at her in surprise. “You’re... not?” I ask, tilting my head quizzically. “Wait... Your Highness, are you the one who booked the appointment with me?”

“Sort of. But before I explain... may I come in? And please, call me Cadance.”

“Of course!” I pull the door open and step aside for her, letting her enter my office. It’s a wonder that my brain can process anything beyond the fact that the very Princess of Love herself has deigned to visit my humble workplace, let alone that she’s giving my office some very appreciative glances.

“This is quite lovely,” she says, stopping at one of the paintings on my walls- the one of the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. Human religions do intrigue me, and also the building itself is delightfully anachronistic in style, brick and stone surrounded by modern glass and steel. This is one of the paintings that I find relaxing to look at when stressed.

I smile at the compliment. “Thank you. Are you hungry or thirsty, Your- err, Cadance? I have ice water, shelled peanuts, and a few fun-sized chocolate bars.”

“I’ll have some water and one of the chocolate bars, thank you. I’ve never quite been able to conquer this sweet tooth of mine.” So I pour her a glass of water and levitate it and one of the bars to her, before sitting on my chair as she settles herself on my couch.

“So if I may ask, Cadance, what brings you by?” I inquire.

“A few things. Firstly, I’ve been aware of your practice since you opened it, and as the peaceful integration of changelings into our worlds is important to me, I was pleased to see your success, and I’d like to congratulate you on it. Your website has no shortage of glowing reviews and testimonials from those you’ve helped.”

I blush. I know it’s a strange thing for an insectoid to be able to do; I don’t understand it myself. “I’m flattered by your kind words,” I say quietly. “I’m glad to have been able to help that many individuals.”

She smiles widely at that, and I can’t help but be warmed by it. “If you don’t mind me indulging my curiosity... what brought you to decide to pursue this line of work? Many other changelings who’ve gone public that I’ve spoken to have sought roles in acting, stage productions and the like- while there’s a few others who went into medicine, you’re the only one I’m aware of who chose psychiatry.”

“Well, for one thing I already had most of the requirements for the job.” I chuckle. “My ‘Silver Coil’ guise was meant to be a doctor who could diagnose and treat other disguised Infiltrator changelings who ended up in my hospital, without running the risk of their covers being blown. For that guise to appear as legitimate as possible, I had to spend eight years at Whinnipeg Technical University in order to build the kind of social ‘web’ that a reputable doctor has. I’ll freely admit that much of my knowledge was delivered through methods we changelings use to share memories, rather than traditional book-learning... but my doctorate was earned honestly, with eight years in the university and another four of internship. Even if it technically wasn’t my name on my diploma.” I chuckle.

“And since Whinnipeg Tech’s programs are recognized here in the United States, when I decided to come to Earth to practice my method, I applied for ECFMG certification-” I both see and feel her confusion- “that means certifying that I meet American standards of education, and I went before the commission to request that my credentials be considered valid for the purpose of being licensed here. I think having Princess Celestia speak on my behalf probably went a long way towards getting accepted.”

Cadance giggles. “I can’t imagine it hurt. But you really only answered half of my question.”

It takes me a few seconds to understand what she means. “Oh... the other ‘why’.” She nods. “I just... I don’t like the idea of being a parasite. I want to use what I can do to benefit others, not just leech from them. Too much of my life has been a lie- out of necessity for my survival and that of my hive, yes, but still. I like getting to be Doctor Ocellus, not Doctor Silver Coil.”

She gives me a warm smile, and I practically bask in it. “And how long did it take you to get your license?” she asks.

“Two years. One to finish up the supplemental courses for psychiatry, the other spent under peer review and observation by specialists from Equestria to ensure that my process was legitimate and wouldn’t cause any harm to anyone. I didn’t resent them for wanting to be careful; they actually helped me learn a few critical things that made my process much better. Once I was ready to strike out on my own, Syracuse seemed a good fit to open my practice in, with Upstate Medical University being a pretty major hub for professionals visiting from Equus. I’d like to say I’ve done pretty well since then.”

“I agree.” The Princess of Love smiles again. “You’ve done so well, in fact, that I’ve come to ask a favor of you.”

I’m lucky to be sitting in a stable chair, elsewise I’d likely fall over from shock. “Me?” I repeat. “I, um... of course I’d be thrilled to be of help, but what is it I could even do for you?”

“Well... it’s not for me. Not directly, anyway.” She looks towards my office door, and only now do I notice that it’s cracked open; beyond it, I can see a white-furred foreleg and a sapphire-blue hoof. “Honey, come on in,” Cadance calls.

The door opens, and I reflexively hop out of my chair so that I can properly bow. “Your Highness,” I say respectfully.

Prince Shining Armor blinks at me in surprise, then directs a look at his wife. “Honey, didn’t you tell him about the bowing thing?”

“I, um... neglected to mention to him that you were here.” She chuckles.

The stallion gives me a somewhat reserved smile. “Please stand, Doctor,” he says.

I do so, looking over the former Captain of the Equestrian Guard and current Emperor Consort of the Crystal Empire. He’s standing with military bearing, his broad chest thrust out, but he’s not wearing the uniform I’m used to seeing him in in pictures, only a simple dress shirt with one top button undone. His emotions are tightly controlled- but I can sense them, so he’s not using some kind of mental shielding spell. “Cadance made the appointment under the name of ‘Bastion’ for me,” he explains. “I’m... finding myself in a difficult situation currently, one that’s causing me a lot of stress, and you were recommended to me by somepony I trust.”

“I see. Would you have a seat, Your Highness?” I motion to the couch, which his wife pats lightly with a hoof.

“Alright. But please... just call me Shining. I still don’t feel comfortable with that title... and also I tend to get confused when others are talking to Cadie.”

I smile. “As you wish, Shining.” I wait until he’s comfortably seated. “Are you comfortable discussing this with me with your wife present?” I ask. “I would imagine you already have talked with her about this, but I do need to ask.”

“I trust Cadie with my life.” He wraps his fetlock around hers, and I smile again, feeling that strong flow of affection between them.

“Okay.” I lean back in my chair. “Shining, what brings you here to my office? How is it that I can help you?”

“Well....” He looks down for a moment, until a pink hoof gently pats his. “It’s... got to do with my daughter, Flurry Heart.”

I’d heard that the imperial couple had had a foal, but had only seen a few long-distance photos; the two were very protective of her privacy, and I approved completely. Still, I wouldn’t mind a better look myself. “Do you have a picture of her?” I ask.

“Of course!” Shining retrieves a phone from his shirt pocket, prods at its screen with his magical field a few times, and then flips the phone over.

“Oh, she’s beautiful,” I coo as I see the picture. She is an adorable little bundle of pink, with a bright smile and her father’s crystal-blue eyes.

For the second time today, I’m witness to a flood of paternal pride. “I’ll do anything for this filly,” Shining tells me as he tucks the phone away. “I want her to have the best father in the worlds. But....” His voice trails off for a moment as his wife gently rubs the side of his barrel. “I’ve found that lately, when she’s around others I don’t know well, or outside in areas where there’s not an obvious security force, I’ve been having... panic attacks.”

I raise an eye ridge in surprise; this stallion strikes me as being about as centered and rational as anyone could be. “Do you have an idea of what might be causing these panic attacks? I imagine they’re more than just normal parental concern.”

“I wasn’t sure at first, but then... then there were nightmares.”

I consider this for a moment. “I would expect that Princess Luna would’ve been happy to help you with them, so may I assume that there’s concern about their underlying cause?”

He blinks at me, and his surprise is almost palpable. “Wow, you’re pretty perceptive,” he admits. “She did help me, and she did tell me that I should seek out some help to resolve the underlying issues behind all this. In fact, she also recommended you to me.”

It wouldn’t surprise me if these two ponies could feel my own abject shock. “I... I’m honored,” I stammer, my reaction getting a light giggle from the Princess and a chuckle from Shining. “If- if it’s at all possible, please give Her Highness my thanks.” They both nod, and I take a moment to collect myself and recover my professional demeanor. “Shining, can you tell me what these nightmares have been about?”

“They....” He looks away, then back at me. “They’re of Queen Chrysalis’s invasion of Canterlot.”

My earlier good feelings vanish like fog under the sun. “I... I see,” I murmur, no longer able to meet Shining’s gaze, instead staring blankly at my notepad. “Can... you describe these dreams for me?”

“They’ve changed over time. At first it was just reliving what had happened, but soon I was having nightmares about Cadie and Twily-” he has to mean Princess Twilight Sparkle, his sister- “never making it out of those caves, or the Queen not letting Cadie and I near each other, and then all of us ending up in cocoons for the rest of our lives....” He trails off for a moment. “The one that got me asking for help was where I was trotting up to Flurry’s crib ready to take her out... but she had Chrysalis’s eyes.”

He could have double-hoof bucked me in the abdomen straight out of a molt and it would’ve left me feeling better than this. I struggle to keep up a professional demeanor, though the only “notes” I’m writing on my notepad are “rot in Tartarus, Chrysalis” half a dozen times. “I see. I... I suppose my first guess would be that you’re still holding yourself responsible somehow for not preventing the invasion.”

“That’s the conclusion Princess Luna came to when I spoke to her about this.” Shining sighs. “And as much as my ego hates admitting it, I think maybe that’s the case. I weighed the option of speaking to a regular psychiatrist, but that’s a process that can take months, if not years... and while I’m not the sort to rush things, that’s a lot of time for me to not be at my best when a threat to my family, or even my nation, could actually manifest.”

I hadn’t considered that; it’s wise of him, and shows that he's able to put aside a stallion’s typical need to always appear strong and in-control so that he can truly be a better protector for his wife and daughter. But before I can think of what to say next, one of Cadance’s hooves touches Shining’s withers. “Honey, just a moment,” she says, before turning to me with a concerned expression. “Doctor Ocellus, what’s wrong?”

I blink, caught by surprise. “I, er... Your Highness- uh, I mean, Cadance- I’m not sure what you....”

She shakes her head slowly. “I may not have a changeling’s ability to sense emotions directly, but I can read how others are feeling through their movements and expressions, and I can tell that something is bothering you.”

I let out a quiet sigh; I should’ve expected that the Princess of Love would be so skilled. “I think you’d make a fine psychiatrist yourself,” I tell her. “I’m sorry. I know it’s unprofessional of me, but... to use a changeling saying, you’ve trod on my carapace and I just molted. That event is... a very sore point for me.”

“But we know that your hive had no knowledge or participation in Queen Chrysalis’s actions....”

“It isn’t that I feel guilty. Not directly. It’s... well, I’ve told you how I dislike feeling like a parasite. What Chrysalis did....” I shake my head. “She’s the ultimate parasite. Everything she did, her entire elaborate plan, was made for the moment of victory, with no thought for the future beyond. No thought of what might happen to the rest of her species if she failed, if word reached other nations of her coup- let alone what Equestria's allies on Earth might have felt it necessary to do. And did she think that the Princesses would be able to move the sun and moon while trapped in cocoons? Did she think she was going to be able to move them herself?!” I realize that I’m ranting, and I take in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “My apologies,” I murmur.

The two ponies before me share a look I can’t quite read, and with my own emotions in turmoil I can’t accurately read theirs. “You know,” Shining says, “you’re the first changeling I’ve spoken to who doesn’t refer to Chrysalis by her title.”

“As far as I’m concerned, she lost the right to that title when she corrupted your mind and left your sister and wife-to-be to die in the tunnels under the castle. Changelings may be deceivers by nature, but twisting minds? Killing?” I grind my fangs together. “For years I’d wondered if there would ever be a way for changelings to coexist freely with other species, if we could ever finally drop our illusions and come to you openly to ask for what we needed. Instead, Chrysalis threw us all to the timberwolves. So much time and effort I had to waste fighting against prejudices and fears born from that foalish idiocy of hers....” After a moment, I sigh and cover my face with my notepad. “Ranting again. Maker smite me.”

I see pale blue light coming from behind the notepad, and it is gently pulled out of my magical aura by Cadance’s own magic. “I think I understand how you feel,” she tells me. “And if I may play amateur psychiatrist, it seems you’ve been holding on to this resentment since that day. I wouldn’t-” She’s interrupted by an amused snort from Shining, and turns to look at him; he spins my notepad around so she can see what I wrote, and she doesn’t quite hold back a giggle, needing a moment to compose herself as I once more perform the miracle of blushing. “Ahem. I wouldn’t say you don’t have a right to be angry, Doctor Ocellus. I just want you to keep in mind how much you’ve done to refute what Chrysalis would have others believe about changelings.”

Shining nods slowly. “I read up about you before I agreed to come see you, Doctor. I’ll admit that I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of asking a changeling to use mental magic on me, after what happened in Canterlot. But like Cadie said... you’ve helped a lot of individuals with problems like mine. I’ve seen that you’ve saved marriages, helped victims of violent crime feel safe again. You’ve proven that Cadie was right to support changelings being given the chance to live their lives among us.”

I lower my head with a meek smile on my face. “I appreciate your words, both of you,” I say. “And I promise to keep that all in mind. But for now, I need to be here for Shining. You’ve come to me for help, after all.” I gently take my notepad back, holding it before me. “Cadance, why don’t you have a seat on that chair at the other end of the couch? And Shining, go ahead and lay down on this end of the couch here. You should find it comfortable.” He does so, and I settle myself in on my chair. “Now, Shining, I want you to be comfortable, and I understand if seeing me in my natural form might make relaxing difficult. I can shift into the appearance of any native quadrupedal Equusian, of either gender, but I need to use my natural eyes and wings as a part of my process, and this might make a disguise more unnerving. Just tell me what makes you the most comfortable.”

He seems to consider for a moment. “I’m okay with you how you are,” he says. “Besides, you deserve to be able to be Doctor Ocellus.” He gives me a small but genuine smile.

I respond with a smile of my own. It’s true that I had nothing to do with the Canterlot invasion, but I've never been able to shake the feeling that it’s a black mark against me despite that. Getting the chance to help two of the most-harmed victims of that terrible day... well, maybe I can find a little healing today as well.

“Okay.” I put aside my notepad and lean forward. “Now, let’s begin.”

Author's Notes:

A parting gift.