“Would you like a cup of tea?” the purple Unicorn mare asks you, pouring herself one. She is familiar – you feel like you should know her name, but it escapes you. “I’m sorry we don’t have anything stronger, I’m sure it’s just an oversight to be corrected presently.”

You don’t know what she means. You don’t particularly know where you are. It gives the impression of being… somewhere? You suppose that’s a good place to start.

It’s a waiting room, some part of you thinks. Yes, that does seem plausible. After all, there is a table, chairs, and there is something that even looks like a magazine rack, though all the magazines have are pictures of a redheaded woman with a variety of people.

Me, you realise. Pictures of me.

Strange, isn’t it, how you only remembered that now?

“Of course,” the Unicorn says, “there’s a question about how you came to be here. It’s not every day that we have something quite like you through here.”

“Like me?” you ask.

The Unicorn smiles. “How about we start from the beginning.”

HLS Columbia, Secure Location. March 8th, 2022.

The HLS Columbia: a great grey edifice sitting in the middle of the port, surrounded by dozens of soldiers in black bodysuits, all of them armed with sleek assault rifles. One of the already-famed Thunderchild-class, and the home of Ex Astris Victoria, the little-known R&D wing of the HLF, commanded by one of the more contentious individuals floating about in the middle of this war.

No pun intended, thought Commander Lucky Strike as she looked at her watch. The Columbia was due a visit from one of the PHL’s own R&D specialists. Captain Romero had asked Lucky Strike to escort their guest upon her arrival.

Wonder what this research team is going to be like, Strike thought idly.

They hadn’t even told her how the team was going to get here, only that they would be using their own method of transportation. Privately, Strike wondered how they expected to be able to get to this location, which was far enough off the beaten track that coming here would be difficult for anyone not using an off-roader.

Even as she thought it, however, there was a sudden wheezing, groaning sound. Strike paused, blinking, as the sound trumpeted across the deck

“Ma’am?” one of her security guards said

“Keep on your toes,” Strike said, holding up a hoof. Even as she said it, however, her eyes widened as… something began slowly coming into being.

It was tall - something like nine feet tall, in fact, with a lamp on top that was flashing as it faded into existence. Strike had seen a lot of pretty odd magic over the years, but something about this felt alien even to her. After a moment, the thing resolved into the shape of a blue box, with the words ‘Police Public Call Box’ written atop it in big, easy-to-read letters.

“What the actual…” one of her marines whispered.

“Stop it,” she said, frowning. “This… isn’t it -”

As she spoke, the front door of the box popped open. Strike stepped back and she heard clicks as her marines aimed their weapons at the door… and then a man stepped out. He wore a green tweed coat covered in a checkered pattern, save for the suede contrast collar. Brown eyes blinked under a streak of slightly spiked, messy red hair.

“Oh,” he said, raising his hands and stepping out. “Sorry, should I have called ahead?”

“Let me guess,” a female voice asked from inside. “Aiming guns are your big ginger head?”

“Well… yes,” he said, smiling without looking back into his box. “Sorry. I’m the Doctor - Doctor Richard Bowman, if you need the name. I’m expected?”

Lucky Strike narrowed her eyes, before holding up a wing. “You’re the R&D man?”

“We’re the R&D team,” the female voice said.

A moment passed, and then a Unicorn mare stepped out of the box: she was grey. That was the overriding impression Strike could glean from her.

“This is Chalcedony,” Bowman said, motioning to her and slowly lowering his hands. “We were sent by Colonel Munro. I think someone else was tapped for this job -”

“But we were around, so this works out better for most involved,” Chalcedony finished dully. She looked around. “So this is the famous Columbia, huh? Nice.”

Strike blinked, before waving off her troops.

“Right,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Lucky Strike, Chief Of Security. Captain Romero wants to speak with you both before you proceed with your… uh, appointment.”

“Oh, does he?” Bowman said, smiling. “Nice. It’ll be interesting to meet the man they call ‘the HLF’s R&D’. Maybe we can swap notes.”

Chalcedony was less enthused. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Strike said. “Matter of principle, you understand. The, uh… subject… used to be a member of his crew, after all.” She snorted. “Still is, sort of.”

“Be polite, Chalcedony,” Bowman said softly. “After all, we’re guests on their ship. Besides, spirit of cooperation, eh?”

“If you say so, Doctor,” Chalcedony sighed. She smiled tiredly at Lucky Strike. “I guess we’re yours, Commander.”

Strike nodded. “Well, if you’ll follow me. The Captain’s waiting.”

The ship’s interior was threadbare, with a few examples of the Ex Astris Scientia symbol painted slightly haphazardly here and there, along with the occasional graffiti tag – some of which had been left alone, but a couple of which had crewmen scrubbing at them.

“We don’t generally like people tagging the walls,” Strike said to the Doctor’s look.

“I suppose that would mess with the vibe the place is going for,” he replied. “Surprising to see it, truth be told. I’ve never known the HLF to go for the veneer of professionalism.”

“It isn’t a veneer on Captain Romero’s ship, sir,” Strike said with a slight preen. “We signed up to fight a war. That means we do it properly.”

“Do what properly?” Chalcedony asked.

“Everything,” Strike replied.

Chalcedony looked dubious, but said nothing more, and Strike didn’t much feel like pressing the issue.

It was a few minutes before they reached the office of Captain Romero. His name was printed on the door in smart letters, and the corridors within sight of his door were studiously cleaned. Strike knocked once.

“Come in,” a voice called out.

Strike opened the door, and entered, her guests behind her.

Captain Romero was, as ever, dressed in his two-piece blue uniform, and he stood to greet them as they entered, a small smile on his handsome face. His dark hair was perhaps a tad more ruffled than it usually was: it must have been a rough morning.

“Ah, excellent,” he said, looking at the two of them. “You’re the PHL researchers, yes?”

“Yep,” Bowman said, his mouth popping slightly as he said the ‘p’. “Doctor Bowman, and this is Chalcedony. She’s my - not assistant, but…” He looked at Chalcedony. “Would ‘colleague’ work?”

“Too vague,” Chalcedony said.

“Companion?”

“Unfortunate implications.”

“Even more during the Victorian era, I promise you. Compadre?”

“… no.”

“Amigo? Freunde? Mon ami?”

“No!”

“Oh. Well -”

“Friend works.”

The Doctor blinked. “Okay then, friend it is.”

“Yes, well,” Romero said easily. “I’m sure whatever term you’re wantin’ to use, you’re the right people for the job.”

Strike briefly pondered if he meant that, or if he was just being nice. It was always difficult to tell. Especially when he was dealing with people like… this.

“Please, have a seat, both of you,” Romero said quietly. “I’d like to ask a couple of questions before we go down to Sharon’s quarters.”

“Questions?” Chalcedony repeated. “This is supposed to be a visit for us to examine a Newfoal patient. I wasn’t made aware of anything that special.”

Romero sat, too, and placed his hands on his desk, clasped firmly. “Alright. What did they tell you?”

“That you’re keeping a Newfoal,” Chalcedony said simply, scowling. “And that we should prepare for her to be anomalous.”

“I assume she’s in your infirmary?” Bowman asked.

Romero shook his head. “In her quarters. She’s… been remarkably accommodating.”

“Accommodating?” Chalcedony repeated, eyes widening. “How… why…” She paused, taking a breath. “Newfoals are not accommodating.”

“What’s the background?” Bowman asked quietly. He had his hands in his coat pockets, but he looked more serious now, his earlier flippancy almost entirely gone.

“She was ponified onboard three weeks ago,” Lucky Strike put in. “Since then, she’s been mainly confined to quarters, with… some test excursions.”

“And there’s been no attempt on her part to pointy or injure anyone?” Chalcedony asked. “No… violence?”

“None,” Strike said quietly.

Romero sniffed. “I… had probably best tell you of the particular circumstances. It’s almost certainly relevant to Sharon’s… temperament.”

“Particular circumstances?” Chalcedony repeated. “What do you mean?”

Strike let out a derisive snort. “How do you like your blackcurrant juice, ma’am?”

Chalcedony blinked at the non-sequitur. “Excuse me?”

“The batch of potion used on Sharon wasn’t potion,” Romero said quietly. “It was blackcurrant juice. Watered down, with some added purple dye. Didn’t even have the potion’s viscosity.”

Bowman’s eyes widened in shock. “That… I’m not going to lie, that’s all-but unheard of. Actually, it might just be plain old unheard of.”

“I was the intended target,” Romero said flatly. “We were testing the aggressiveness of the Geas, giving fake potion to a prisoner to see if it triggered a response. He nearly broke his collar grabbing it and throwing it. He missed me.” Romero’s voice actually strained slightly. “Got Sharon, instead. She was just a technician. In the room, fixing one of the lights.”

“Could it have been spiked?” Chalcedony asked.

“I vetted it myself,” Lucky Strike put in. “If that was potion, the Captain has a D-cup.”

“Strike,” Romero admonished.

“Sorry, sir,” Strike said.

“You don’t mind if I check that?” Chalcedony asked.

“Do we still have some?” Romero asked Strike.

“We’ve got the bottle of dye in the lab for testing, and the blackcurrant juice too,” Strike replied. “I can get them sent to PHL R&D, but…”

“But?” Chalcedony asked.

“We’ve been trying to keep this under wraps,” Romero admitted. “I’m happy to share, but you have to understand… if this were to get back to the Solar Empire…”

“I understand,” Bowman said, holding up a hand. He was frowning. “Alright. We’d best speak with her, then. Try to get a measure of her compared to the Newfoal baseline.”

“She’s in her quarters,” Strike said.

“You can go see her now,” Romero said quietly. “When she… when she relapses, try to be patient. She’ll be worried.”

“Relapses?” Chalcedony repeated, but Bowman held up a hand to forestall further conversation.

“We understand,” he said quietly.

Romero nodded. “Alright.” He looked at Strike. “Take them to Sharon.”

The quarters were neat, tidy, almost too organised. There were a few pictures of a human woman with short, spiky red hair and a wide, cheeky grin standing with a variety of people dotted about. There was even a picture of that woman with Captain Romero in what looked like a selfie, her with a cheeky wink and him with a tired smile.

But there was no woman here. There was, instead, a mare. Shaven headed, Unicorn, pale.

“Oh, hello,” she said brightly as Strike, Bowman and Chalcedony entered the quarters. “How nice to have visitors.”

Bowman smiled. “Hello. I’m the Doctor, this is Chalcedony. We’re here to help.”

“Oh, isn’t that lovely,” the Newfoal said, grinning. “Hello to the both of you. I’m Sunbeam. It’s so lovely to meet you.”

“That’s a nice name,” Bowman said, his smile not slipping.

“I suppose it is,” ‘Sunbeam’ said. “But we can’t really choose what we’re born with, now, can we? I just consider myself lucky.”

“I’ll wait just here,” Strike said quietly from the doorway. “We don’t know if she might… y’know.”

“I understand,” Bowman said, nodding, before looking back at ‘Sunbeam’. “Chalcedony, do you…”

“Of course,” Chalcedony said, stepping forward. “Sunbeam, was it? Is it alright if I ask you a few questions?”

“Oh. Of course not,” Sunbeam said. “I’ll answer as best I can.”

“Good,” Chalcedony said, before flipping out a notebook.

She looked down at it, frowning slightly, and took out a pen. She clicked it once, before looking up at Sunbeam again.

“Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself?” she asked.

“Oh, there’s nothing much to tell, I don’t think,” Sunbeam said. “I… I…” She paused. “Why, I think I’ve always been on this ship, isn’t that nice? This is a very friendly ship. Or at least, so I’m given to understanding.”

“Indeed,” Chalcedony said. “And… do you remember much about the crew?”

“Oh yes,” Sunbeam said. “The Captain has always been very welcoming. Why, I think this room used to belong to a friend of his.” She motioned to some of the pictures. “I think so, anyway. I don’t think I’ve seen anypony – Excuse me, it’s the word ‘anyone’, isn’t it? – else take a… what are they called?”

“Selfies,” Strike put in, her voice hollow.

“That’s it, selfies,” Sunbeam said, smiling brightly. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone else take a selfie with him.” She sighed. “Oh, it’ll be such a shame if he never takes the potion.”

“I see,” Chalcedony said, glancing up at Bowman.

He looked back at her with a shrug, before looking back at Sunbeam.

“What do you know about… about the person who used to be in this room?” he asked.

“They keep calling me ‘Sharon’,” Sunbeam replied, “so… maybe it was her room? It seems very odd that they would mistake me for her, we look so very different…”

“Quite,” Chalcedony said hollowly. “But what about her? What do you know about her?”

Sunbeam blinked. “About… about who? I…” She blinked again, her smile faltering for a moment, before she smiled again. “I’m sorry, I must have spaced out for a moment there. What were we talking about?”

“Sharon,” Chalcedony pressed.

“Steady, Chalcedony,” Bowman whispered.

“What do you know about Sharon?” Chalcedony continued, almost unheeding

“Oh, well I…” Sunbeam began, her smile faltering again. “I’m sure I must have… I…”

Her smile faded completely, and her eyes widened. Her pupils shrank ever so slightly, and her breathing quickened.

“I… where…” She looked at Strike. “Lucky. What happened. Where am I? Why do I feel weird?”

Lucky Strike closed her eyes for a moment, before taking a breath and opening them.

“Sharon,” she said calmly, “do you remember last time?”

“Last time?” Sunbeam – Sharon – said, her eyes still wide with horror. “I… I… yes, you were… and the Captain was… and I…”

“Wait…” Chalcedony said. “Sharon?”

Sharon looked at Chalcedony, her eyes still wider. “Who are you? Why am I here? What’s happened?!”

“Calm down, Sharon,” Strike said quietly. “You’ll be alright. I’ll get the Captain to come down and see you.”

“The Captain… is he…” Sharon took a breath. “I had to… there was… will someone tell me what’s going on?!”

Strike brought a radio up to her mouth. “Get Captain Romero down here, please. Relapse.”

“Wilco,” a voice on the radio replied, and Strike felt herself relax.

“It’s alright,” Bowman said, holding out both hands gently. “We’re just here to speak with you. That’s all.”

“S-speak with… with me?” Sharon said, her eyes darting from Strike to Chalcedony. “I… why? What’s wrong? What happened to me? How did I get here?!”

“Try to stay calm,” Bowman said.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Chalcedony asked.

“Being…” Sharon swallowed, apparently trying to calm down. “I was with the Captain and Strike, we were testing a prisoner, they had me there to fix the lights.” She blinked, her eyes widened. “He… he grabbed that vial of blackcurrant juice they brought, then…”

She trailed off, her eyes widening.

“… then I was in here,” she whispered. “And the Captain was here, and Strike. They were… they were confused? Then… then now.”

“Alright, you need to stay calm,” Bowman said quietly. “You -”

“But I don’t understand!” Sharon yelled, raising a hoof as if to gesticulate. Her eyes caught the appendage, and she blinked, her next words dying on her lips.

“No,” Sharon whispered. “No, that’s… no. No. No!”

“Sharon,” Strike said.

“This isn’t possible, it’s not… I am not a f-f- I am not a f… f…” She was struggling to say a word. She looked at Bowman, Chalcedony and Strike with an expression of terror. “No. Please. No. I’m not, I can’t be… I… I…”

The hoof dropped to the floor, and then after a moment, Sharon smiled.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her tone back to where it had been when it had been ‘Sunbeam’ talking. “What were we saying?”

There was a horrified silence as what just happened settled over the room. Chalcedony’s eyes were wide, and she had dropped her pen. Bowman had his eyes closed, one hand over his forehead, rubbing gently.

It was at that moment, predictably, that Captain Romero entered, his eyes wide.

“Sha-” he cut himself off almost immediately at the sight of the Newfoal and her smile. “Ah. Sunbeam.”

“Captain,” Sunbeam said, still smiling. “How wonderful to see you. Oh, but you’re still human.” Her expression became an almost exaggerated sad one. “You know, it’s going to be no fun for you having to acclimate to Equestria without some time to get yourself steady on your hooves.”

“Don’t worry, Sunbeam,” Romero said tightly. “Everything’ll be fine.”

“What I don’t understand,” Bowman said afterwards, “is just what it is that catalysed the transformation.”

“That’d require us knowing what catalyses it in a regular potion,” Chalcedony said dully. “I’ve read all the research - no one really knows. Potion’s… weird.”

“Hate,” Romero said. Whether he was guessing or just saying it to be dramatic, Strike couldn’t tell, but judging by the dull, tired expression on his face, he was being quite serious.

“Poetry aside, Captain,” Chalcedony said, “I… don’t think you’re too far off there. Or at least, there’s some metaphysical element that defines standard scientific and magical theory.”

Romero nodded slowly. “We’ve seen just about all the research. But with this…” He ran a hand through his hair. “Our best bet is that the potion has some part of it, some integral catalyst, that isn’t physical, but… but some kind of conceptual catalyst. Hatred. The desire to inflict pain. Maybe linked to the Geas. Linked to the magic Queen Celestia uses.”

“Well, it’s a start,” Bowman said quietly. “That might mean that there’s a chance to find a way to reverse it. It might be a first step.”

“Finally,” Chalcedony added. “We’ve had enough false starts in this field.

“A chance is better than none,” Romero said quietly. “I’m happy to take it.” He took a deep breath. “And now you know why she’s still alive.”

“We’ll speak with some other experts,” Chalcedony said quietly.

Romero nodded slowly. “Tell them to keep it on the down low. No need to advertise to the world that blackcurrant juice can ponify people, right?”

“Quite,” Bowman said. He smiled. “It was good to meet you, Captain. Here’s hoping we can work together in future.”

“Good to meet you,” Romero replied, holding out his hand. “Best of luck out there.”

“To you as well,” Bowman said, shaking the man’s hand firmly. He looked back at Chalcedony. “Shall we?”

“Of course,” Chalcedony said. She looked up at Romero. “Keep an eye on her. Anything changes, let us know.”

“Of course,” Romero said, nodding once.

“So,” Lucky Strike said as the box disappeared with the same trumpeting, wheezing, groaning sound that had heralded its arrival. “D’you think they’ll figure something out?”

“Here’s hoping,” Romero said. “Them, or us, or someone.” He sighed, turning away from the edge of the ship. “I want us ready to depart in a few hours. Tell Renner and the others.”

“Aye, sir,” Strike said. “And, uh, sir?”

Romero turned to look at her.

“I’m sorry you missed Sharon,” she said quietly. “She… it might have been better that you missed her, she wasn’t…”

Romero said nothing, instead turning and heading back inside the Columbia.

Well, shit, Strike thought, suppressing a sigh.

Welcome to one of those stories that just won’t leave me alone, in which we decide to see just how effed up the world of the Reduxverse can get.

Update 10/04/2020: this prologue was rewritten to accompany the rebranding of the Reduxverse. 🙂

“Do you remember?” the purple Unicorn asks you, still sipping her tea.

“Remember… what?” you say, your voice hesitant.

“Before,” she says, smiling serenely.

“Before… before what?” you say.

She sighs. You frown. She smiles, takes a sip of her tea. You lean back in your chair, trying to think.

“The guard,” she says. “And the blackcurrant juice. And before.”

And you’re remembering now.

There is a room. It is much like any other room you’ve been in, and the details escape you. But there are people here.

There is Sharon, there are other people (and ponies), and then there is Daniel Romero.

“You’re joking.”

Daniel Romero, handsome, fiftyish, dark hair and blue eyes, is laughing, sitting - or, more accurately, lounging – on a sofa, one hand holding a glass of wine. He’s wearing that two-piece uniform he had designed for his crews, the simple zip-up jacket, the little badge… yet, somehow, he’s turned it into loungewear. Or maybe that’s just how Sharon is seeing it. Opposite him, on a broken computer chair, lounges Lucky Strike, sipping a glass of what might be vodka, but you can never tell with her.

“Not at all,” he says. “I genuinely believe that all this talk about how Celestia was always a tyrant is dangerously misguided. Even stupid.”

Sharon can’t help but think he’s talking bullshit, but she bites anyway. Because he’s Daniel Romero, and Daniel Romero never just talks bullshit. The man’s a walking ball of contrived and carefully cultivated enigma, an image he clearly thinks is sexy. The worst thing is, he might even be right.

“Alright,” she says, “why?”

“Think about it,” Romero says. He smiles, his face drinking ever so slightly, only enough to make his blue eyes twinkle even more. He sits up, a little straighter. “I read up on Equus’ history. First when the portal at CERN appeared, then later. Thousands of years, these immortal Princesses ruled the ponies. Thousands. And in all that time, generally speaking, they’ve been paragons of virtue.”

“People change,” Sharon replies, holding up her own glass.

“Sure they do,” Romero retorts, “but that quick? That harshly? There’d have been warning signs dating back decades with her. Perhaps even centuries. As it is, ponies generally agree it’s not been more than… six years? Certainly, no more than fifteen at least.” He snorts, derisive. “And yet they’re all so quick to forget that she was essentially Mother Teresa for thousands of years.”

“The Cap is right,” Lucky Strike puts in. “The Changeling Purges… none of us knew what to make of them when she announced them. Would’ve expected her to just let the Changelings stay crippled, their leader bloodied… but going on the warpath like that?”

“What are you saying?” Sharon asks. “That something happened to her?”

“Seems likely, doesn’t it?” Romero retorts. He takes a sip of his wine. “Might be linked to… well, everything else.”

“That… doesn’t seem very likely,” one of the other ponies says. “Like, at all. What could have been behind it?”

“‘Likely’ is subjective,” Romero points out. “To humanity, the idea that another world would decide to pop up near ours, let alone us fighting a war with pastel ponies with magic, was unlikely. Yet somehow the notion that there’s more behind the sudden radical shift in personality than just Queen Celestia deciding that she’s evil now surprises you?”

“She betrayed us!” the other pony snaps. Sharon doesn’t know his name, but it doesn’t matter much to her. “We should never have let Alicorns rule our kind!”

“Why not?” Romero asks. “They did pretty well for six millennia. Or was six millennia of peace too boring for you?”

“She let us stagnate,” that pony says.

“Peace is stagnant?” Romero asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You humans have had your best advancements in war,” the pony retorts. “Nuclear and solar energy, computer technology, shields, bulletproof armour, other weapons that make it possible for you to defend yourselves…”

“Ever considered that a lot of those advancements were made for wars?” Romero says, chuckling. “Besides, you’re arguing for wars like WWII. Would you have liked forty million corpses and a shattered Western world if it meant you ponies had iPhones fifty years later?”

The pony shuts up.

“Bit of a false dichotomy, isn’t it?” Sharon pipes up.

“Of course it is,” Romero replies with a shrug. “But the idea that we have to have wars for progress proceeds from a false assumption in and of itself: we have progress because of wars, but then we’ve never, ever had a period where we’re not at war with someone, or preparing for war with someone, so we don’t actually know what we’d be like without wars. Except, presumably, plagued with fewer cross-filled graveyards.” He takes another sip. “We’re going off topic, anyway. The idea that Celestia kept you stagnant is ridiculous. You’re telling me you always had steam trains?”

“Of course not,” the other pony says. “But -”

“What about that DJ stuff Vinyl Scratch uses? Or the basic computers some of you had?” Romero continues. “All that stuff always been around, or is that progress?”

The pony sighs, clearly conceding the point, and Romero gives a big grin.

“The idea that it was somehow bad that she gave you thousands of years of peace is frankly revisionist history,” he says. “The idea proliferated by half the PHL that she was somehow always this bad but decided to stop pretending now for no discernible reason? Laughably dense.”

“Then… what?” Sharon asks. “What happened?”

Romero only takes a sip of his drink, giving Sharon one of those smiles.

“That,” he says, “is the question.”

It’s only later that night, in his room, her body still tingling from the caress of his lips all along it, that Sharon finds herself appreciating that Daniel Romero is, of all the things he could have been, an idealist.

She sits up in his bed, watching him go over to the porthole of his cabin and stare out at the starry night.

“What are you thinking?” she asks him.

He looks at her, smiles one of those inscrutable smiles, and then points out of the window.

“The farthest star that can be seen from here,” he says, “is called Deneb. They say it’s somewhere between one and three thousand light years away.”

Sharon frowns. “Uh huh. And…?”

Romero grins, amused at her non-reaction. “There’s a thing I used to say to all my students, back when I taught astronomy. ‘There is more to this universe than meets the eye’.”

Sharon is still frowning, but now she feels intrigued. What’s his point? She stands up, pulling the thing sheet around herself and walking up to him. He points back up to the sky.

“Right now, we’re not seeing Deneb as it is right now,” he says. “We’re seeing what it was like three thousand years ago. Our very own window to the past.” His expression becomes wistful. “And right now, if there’s anything on Deneb looking out at us, they’re seeing… what? The fall of Rome? The rise of Rome? Ancient civilisations, long perished, but the light from those civilisations, the light bouncing off of all of those cities and people and everything… all of it long gone, and yet, somehow, still there.” He looks back at Sharon now. “Whatever happens on Earth, whatever happens to us, to the human race, the light from us, from our world as it is right now, will stretch out into the sky, and keep going. In three thousand years, Deneb will look out at the sky, and see us.” He chuckles. “Kind of like immortality, don’t you think?”

“Not really, though,” Sharon says, quirking an eyebrow. “We’ll be dead and gone, and sure, there’s light, but that’s nothing more than a shadow, or a ghost.” She feels a sudden chill. “That’s all Deneb will see, and that’s all that’ll be left of us.”

“Not all,” Romero says, and he’s suddenly serious. “I believe - real talk now,” he adds, taking note of what must be one of Sharon’s ‘oh, not this’ expressions. “I believe that somewhere, deeper than any of us could possibly know, what we do, what we say, is recorded, taken note of.” He looks up at the stars. “Every action we take is reflected across the vastness of space. I believe… I truly believe… that someone, somewhere out there, takes note of it. Remembers it.”

“That would be nice,” Sharon says lightly. Romero looks back at her, something akin to disappointment in his expression, and she laughs. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make fun. It’s just… right now, the world’s hanging on a thread. Hard to see what good talk of some thing somewhere recording or remembering everything really does.”

“It comforts me,” Romero said quietly. He looks back at the stars, and for a moment they’re reflected in the whites of his eyes. “Makes me feel like… I dunno. Like if there’s more out there, it means that somehow, all of this might matter.”

“Or that it might not?” Sharon points out.

“A cynic might say that,” Romero says quietly. “But if I was a cynic, I’d have given up years ago. Wars of extinction are for people who think there’s hope.”

Sharon chuckles. “If you say so, Captain. Now come back to b3d, you’ve a long day tomorrow.”

“I’ve a long day every day, Sharon,” he says, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes at the portentousness of the statement. “But you’re right. Sleep is the one luxury everybody needs more of these days.”

It’s a cold morning, the next day, when Captain Romero calls Sharon in to run some routine maintenance on a plug socket. The room that she’s called into isn’t one of her favourites - it’s one of the hospital rooms, with one if the captured ponies in it. He’s an ex-Guard, scuttlebutt says. Some conscript the Captain’s studying to see if he can learn more about the magic that controls Equestria.

Lucky Strike is the one who greets Sharon when she enters the room, her beret askew.

“Hey,” she says, casual. “Need you to look at some of the sockets. Think there’s something up.”

Sharon enters the room, her toolkit at her side. She feels a little self-conscious - her uniform, the blue jumpsuit most of the crew wears, is dirty and stained from an hour in the engine-room. She goes over to the socket and starts looking it over: there’s a little melted plastic, which is never a good sign. She pulls her sleeves up, unscrews the casing, and starts looking at the wiring.

“How is it?” Strike asks.

“Some of the wiring’s overheated,” Sharon replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. She doesn’t look up at the sound of the groaning prisoner. “Might need to get some more stuff in. I swear, the number of problems this ship has, I’m starting to wonder if we got the dud.”

“Just get on it, Sharon,” Romero says, not unkindly, “and make it snappy. This guy’s not exactly fun company for anyone.”

Sharon looks up at that, her eyes drifting to the ex-Guardspony. He’s greeny-blue, like a sort of turquoise-but-not. Sharon snorts. There’s probably a colour name for it, something stupid like “magenturqulean” or something. He’s straining against his restraints.

“When I get loose!” he suddenly yells. “Kill you! Kill you all!”

Romero and Lucky Strike share a glance, and then Strike motions. One of the techs standing off to the side brings up a vial of liquid. Sharon’s eyes widen.

“Captain?” she asks.

He shakes his head, and motions to a bottle sitting on one of the desks. Robinson’s Blackcurrant Juice: half empty, that same purple. Sharon looks back at Romero, who winks, and she winks back. She knows his game now, or at least part of it.

He trying to see if the guy’s crazy enough to ponies someone in here? she wonders. Don’t need to give him fake potion to prove that. Just look at the guy!

Romero holds the vial in front of the Guard’s face.

“Sure you want to kill us?” he asks. “Isn’t there something else you’re supposed to do?”

The Guard’s eyes widen, and he suddenly becomes very still. Something glints in his eyes, almost invisible, but Sharon sees it, and frowns. She stands, observing, curious now. Something’s strange about this.

“Give it to me,” the Guard whispers. “Give me it!”

“Don’t, sir,” Sharon says. “I don’t like this.”

Romero looks at Sharon, then at Strike, who shrugs, and then he places the vial in the hoof of the crazy Guardspony. The pony is staring at it now, eyes even wider.

“Make you clean,” he whispers, “make you pure, make you clean, make you pure, make you clean…”

“You taking notes, Verner?” Romero asks the techy behind him.

“Aye, sir,” the techy says, starting to jot something down on a clipboard. Sharon approaches closer, frowning.

“What…” she murmurs. “What are you looking for?”

Romero smiles. “Well -”

He doesn’t even finish getting the first syllable out before the Guard moves. His hoof jerks, almost involuntarily, and the vial sails through the air. It sails past Romero, almost in slow motion, before smashing onto Sharon. The liquid drips, some of it onto her arm. She looks at it, blinking.

“Heh,” Strike says, her voice oddly distant to Sharon’s ears. “Poor bastard can’t help himself…”

Sharon looks up, and in a moment, her eyes meeting Romero’s. He’s smiling too, but it falters. Sharon is not smiling.

“Captain…” she says.

And then something cracks. She looks down at her arm, where fur is already sprouting from the place where the droplets fell onto her arm. And then the Captain is yelling something and Strike is yelling something else and the Guardspony is screaming and -

“Do you remember?” the purple mare asks you again.

And you do.

You were… you are Sharon.

“What… what happened?” you ask weakly.

The purple mare only smiles.

Boo.

Worked on this as a sort of mental exercise/experiment. Unfortunately, this doesn’t mean I’m coming back proper to fimfic to do writing on stuff, but there might be sporadic stuff. Depends on… a lot of stuff, tbh.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this.

Cheers,
Jed.

This is how it feels to be Captain Daniel Romero in the hours after Sharon is… after what had happened.

You can’t think. You can’t focus on the papers you need to sign. There are many reasons for this, of course, but there are two pressing ones.

First: you are a Captain of a research vessel who has just borne witness to something that changes everything you thought you knew. You had forgotten, you realise, that you were dealing with magic. What you thought was impossible is possible. It is a lesson, and you are determined, for the sake of the mission you have taken on, to learn it well.

Secondly, of course, is the pain of losing Sharon.

They were saying “kill her” from the moment it happened. Of course they were. You would have done it, too, for anyone else. Oh, they believe you when you say that keeping her alive is good for research, that you’ve been needing live Newfoals for study, but the truth is plain as day, and in your heart you know even Strike knows it.

Sharon was different. Different because she was smart, different because she was pretty, different because she challenged you, different because maybe you just liked the attention (you’re only human, after all), but different all the same. For anyone else, a bullet would have been the first gift you gave. Merciful death.

For Sharon? The very idea burns your soul. It hurts. You do not entertain it. You do not consider it for a second.

Renner does. Your XO is your age, and takes as little shit as you do. That’s simultaneously why she’s the perfect XO, and why you’d never pursue a relationship with her. Renner makes her displeasure plain one hour, three minutes and twenty eight seconds after Sharon’s… after the incident, when the XO storms into your office, moving quickly despite her ever-present limp.

“Captain!” she says, angry. “Is it true?”

You don’t bullshit her. “Yes. A crewmember was ponified.”

You can say the word ‘ponified’, and you can say the word ‘Sharon’. Putting the two together seems to be the real obstacle.

“Ponified by something that wasn’t even potion!” Renner yells. “How is that even fucking possible, Daniel?!”

She must be angry, you think. She’s using the first name.

“Magic,” you say, in answer to her question. Perhaps a tad facetiously, but you’re allowed.

She pauses for a moment, her mouth working spasmodically, like it can’t decide what words to use, how to reply to such a complete comment. But she buys it, you can tell. You’re both too old and too weary to not buy it. It’s an old joke, by now: every time you can’t understand how the Empire can do something insane or miraculous… magic.

She sighs. She’s worn out. Something you have in common.

“Who?” she asks after a moment.

“Sharon,” you reply.

She pauses at that. “Sorry to hear.”

You nod, silent. It’s fine. It has to be. It cannot be undone.

Yet, you suddenly think, and there it is. You’ve been fighting for so long to save the Newfoals, trying to study the horror that is their existence, but now it’s personal, in a way it never was before.

Because you’ve lost someone.

And it’s not just the particular loss that anyone else on Earth can describe. It’s bone-deep, painful, cutting. It shouldn’t have happened. Couldn’t have happened.

But here you are.

And then Renner says words that cut into you, dissect the fog around your brain and demand action.

“What now?”

This is how it feels to be Commander Lucky Strike in the hours after Sharon is ponified.

Sharon - the thing that was Sharon, which is being extremely docile - is moved from where she was ponified to her quarters at the Captain’s request. Is he being nice? You don’t know. You don’t pretend to understand some of the thought processes behind that man. Your mind drifts back briefly to the conversation where he had, of all things, tried to defend Queen Celestia, tried to make a case that something had obviously happened to her. So you don’t question it. He’s got a plan: he’s always got a plan. You just need to wait for him to tell you your part in it.

The Captain knows what he’s doing, and you trust him.

You’re hyper-alert: all the instincts that make you a good security officer turned up to eleven. You feel the adrenaline going through your veins, turning you from what the Captain calls a ‘skittish magic herbivore’ (you forgive him the racial insensitivity: he’s hardly the worst HLF, or even PHL, for that) into a motherfucking machine, made for murder, mayhem and other nasty words beginning with ‘m’. In this moment, no matter who you were faced with, you could kill them stone dead. You are a machine.

But.

You can’t deny that there’s something different about this. You’ve known humans who’ve been ponified - of course you have, you’ve been fighting this war since Romero was working from the Purity back in the day. You’ve seen the study reports. You’ve seen the deed done by PER. You’ve killed what’s left of friends.

You never thought you’d have a thing that was genetically built from bits of a friend stuck on your ship. You wonder whether the Captain has considered that Sharon… that what’s left of Sharon… might be detrimental to the crew’s morale.

It is so much easier to work with these things, you think, when you didn’t know who they used to be.

But the Captain knows what he’s doing, and you trust him.

You just wish you knew what he was thinking.

At least, you think to yourself, the thing that used to be Sharon is quiet. Almost too quiet, but frankly you’d rather it was too quiet than talking. You can’t stand these things when they talk. You can’t stand the smiles, you can’t stand how empty they seem next to real ponies or humans. You wonder to yourself how anyone, anypony, any being in their right mind can look at these things and think that they are, in any way, right.

But none of them are quite in their right mind, are they? you remind yourself. That’s what the Captain says, that’s what the studies are proving. And the Captain knows what he’s doing, and you trust him. You keep saying that to yourself, not because you doubt it, but because the things you’re asked to do…

… okay, maybe you doubt a little. A man bringing Newfoals and Newcalves aboard his ship for study? You’d have to be a fool to not doubt. Even the XO doubts, you know she does. You’ve heard the arguments (half of the deck the Captain’s cabin is on have heard the arguments).

But, despite it all, you know that what he’s doing has good intent. Despite it all, you know that he’s trying his best.

The Captain knows what he’s doing. And you trust him.

Throughout the ship, hushed conversations begin to happen, as the hours after Sharon is changed turn into a full day.

Even on a ship as large as the Columbia, the rumour mill is fast, moving along corridors and through locker rooms and into lounges and restrooms faster than the speed of sound. It is often been a joke that the Captain would find a way to weaponise the rumour mill if he thought it would win the war.

Now, of course, there are rumours that the captain is weaponising something else entirely.

Of course, most of the crew have been with him for a long time. They believe in him. Even so, there are rumours. There are rumours that he’s keeping her in her room, rumours that he’s going to do… something. No one quite knows what. Keep her? Study her?

Then the question becomes another.

Is that what he’d do to us?

This is Captain Daniel Romero at work.

The next few days after the incident, you decide to buckle down, ignore the pain, and do what must be done. In a way, this is your element, your medicine, your rest. You turn a powerful will upon the threat at hand, and you bend all your thought upon its destruction.

Evocative images, even when the reality is that you’re still stumbling in the dark, worried you'll do it all wrong. But then you mentally slap yourself, you buckle down and ignore your doubts too.

Because that’s all you can do.

You’re not a scientific mind. That much has always been clear to you. At first there was a certain frustration in the fact that you knew the answer to this war was in science, and you knew you had nothing to add to that discourse.

But then, later, you realised that you did. You had the power to bring these people together, and you have the power to make them prioritise. You set the agenda, you chart the course, and just like everything else in a captain's life, your crew does as you command.

So, like any good Captain, you set the agenda.

You make a list of things that you need to know. This… this thing is an anomaly. It should never have happened. So, why did it?

Question one, you write on your notepad. How did a fake potion manage to convert a human being?

You don’t write Sharon’s name. You can’t. That’s one block you can’t break, and so you circumvent it and move on.

Question two, you continue, scribbling. Is this a standard Newfoal, or is it anomalous?

By writing this you set the priority: you will discover just what the differences between the thing that you have in your possession (the thing that used to be Sharon, some part of you whispers, and you push that thought away), and every other one of its kind. There has to be a difference: there is no way it is a standard Newfoal. But even if it is, that, in and of itself, means that you will have learnt something.

For a moment the implications of what you will learn terrify you. There is no such thing as potion, you fear, only liquid medium, a conductor for terrible magicks, a placebo that the soldiers of the Solar Empire think will convert you. And when they think it does, it does.

That is a fear, you think, but it is not proven. This is the first time this has happened.

You pause. Isn't it?

The next thing on your list isn’t a question. It’s an imperative. You need to know if this is the first time, or if somehow, somewhere, this has happened before.

Get all files on Newfoals, anomalous and otherwise, that you can, you writer. Speak with Col. H. M. Find out if this is an isolated incident.

You’re always careful to use initials. The PHL are working with you, they always stress, except when they aren’t, except when people like Robert Gardner are giving interviews insulting you, except when there’s reports of your people being arrested, blocked, seemingly ignored, and even shot in ‘friendly fire’ situations.

Not a priority, you think, dismissing thoughts of Gardner from your mind. You’ll fix that problem when you’ve less important shit to worry about.

Question three, you write now. How can this progress the cure?

The cure. The reverse potion. A theory, they call it, and they’re half right.

“The problem,” one of your sciencey types said once, about a year before you got the Columbia, “is that we can almost guarantee fixing the body. There’s gotta be a magic for that. But the soul…”

There’s the rub. The soul. That thing that up until this line of research became a thing, you weren’t even sure existed. But now you know. And sure, there’s a certain joy in knowing that there’s a part of you that exists beyond death… but to know that this selfsame thing is being tortured in every single Newfoal…

It’s the sort of thing you shouldn’t think about, you think paradoxically. Or you’d go mad from grief.

But the existence of the soul complicates matters. How do you make the intangible tangible? How do you fix something that cannot be measured, cannot be repaired?

You keep writing, ignoring the magnitude of the question. What else can you do?

This is the Newfoal lying in a bed. She is sleeping, and looks peaceful. Perhaps she is peaceful. No one is there to tell otherwise.

No one physically, anyway.

Something is watching her, someone no one can see. This someone is watching to see if she is the one they are waiting for. They can’t tell yet: no one can.

“Where will you go?” this being asks the unconscious Newfoal, in a voice no one can hear. “What will you become?”

That is the question on everyone’s lips and on everyone’s mind throughout this ship. As scuttlebutt continues to spread like wildfire among the crew, the being wonders what the subject of that scuttlebutt would make of it, if anything.

And then there’s a noise at the door. A knock.

Ah, the being thinks. Now it begins.

“So,” the vision of Twilight Sparkle says, taking a sip of a cup of tea. “What else do you remember?”

Sharon doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t know if she can.

“This isn’t real,” she finally said, practically hissing the words. “Is it.”

“That’s an interesting question,” the vision says. “‘Real’ in the sense of physical reality? No, though to assume that’s the only qualifier is terribly physica-centric.” She takes another sip of her tea. “But I assure you. This is very real.”

Sharon blinks, processing what the vision of Sparkle is saying as best she can.

“That’s not really a word,” she finally says sulkily.

Twilight Sparkle only laughs. “Everything is a word somewhere. And we have heard many in this place, believe me.” She paused, rethinking her sentence. “Most, admittedly, some variations of begging for release, freedom, etcetera.”

Sharon scowls. “You’re sick.”

“Oh, there, you’re absolutely right,” Sparkle says, and now there is something off in the way she says it. Something cruel. “But, unfortunately, not in the way you mean it.”

“I'm walking to the something, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah - Collapse! I'm drinking too much blah blah, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah - Fall out!”

Daniel Romero watches the Newfoal through the glass, scowling as he sees her gently tap her hooves, dancing to the track with a small, contented smile. It’s one of a random playlist - or at least, Lucky Strike thinks it’s random. For all she knows, these are Sharon’s favourite songs.

“She knows the track, doesn’t she?” she asks from next to Romero, her disbelief leaking through her voice despite her best efforts. “I mean… she knows it’s a human song, right?”

“She does,” Romero says quietly. His voice is tight, controlled. He’s in full work mode, Strike can tell, where emotions don’t get to play a part. She knows that well. “We told her we’d be playing human music through, and that we wanted her to pick her favourite.”

“Even telling her that would have normally set a Newfoal off,” says the tired-looking Dr Well Met, who is now - by virtue of his previous experience - Sharon’s case worker. He’s a grey Earth Pony stallion, wearing a lab coat over a blue uniform jumpsuit, and always looks so exhausted that saying he’s ‘tired’ is practically an insult. “But there she is. She’s enjoying it.”

“Enjoying it,” Romero whispers.

Lucky Strike has known him long enough to know he has made a mental note. Just one other thing different from everything else Newfoal. One other thing that makes Sharon - or ‘Sunbeam’ - anomalous.

“Any other experiments of this sort that we could run on her?” Romero asks after a moment.

“Depends how invasive you want me to be,” Well Met replies. “Obviously standard procedure isn’t to do anything that causes permanent damage, but…”

Lucky Strike tries to tune out the talk: she knows that it’s an important part of their work. The important part of their work, the part where they would somehow find a way to undo the damage that had been done by Queen Celestia and the Solar Empire. But still, there is something so… nonchalant about the way that they are talking.

The Captain knows what he’s doing, Lucky reminds herself. And I trust him.

“I think,” Romero says after a few moments, “that we’ll leave her be for now. This in and of itself is telling us a great deal. We’ll interview her later.”

“If you say so, Captain,” Well Met says quietly.

Escorting ‘Sunbeam’ back to Sharon’s quarters is… unusual. She’s smiling. Not docile, as she has been before now. No, now she seems like a fully realised personality, talking about the music gently.

“There must be some way to preserve those chord progressions,” she says about ‘Vermillion’. “It was so… powerful!”

“You like it, huh?” Lucky Strike asks her.

“Of course I like it!” Sunbeam replies. “The drums, the bass, the guitar… it’s a masterpiece!”

A Newfoal who likes Slipknot, Lucky Strike thinks, resisting the urge to laugh. This is… it’s insane. It’s terrifying. What caused this, and how long will it last? Will she regress, or…

No. She doesn’t dare think that this could be a positive. Sunbeam hasn’t responded at all to her old name. She might not even remember that she had one.

When they get to Sunbeam’s quarters, Romero is there waiting, hands behind his back.

“Sunbeam,” he says to the Newfoal in what might be an attempt at a kind voice. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she says. “I’m fine… uh, sorry, I don’t think I caught your name, sir?”

Romero smiles, and opens the door to her quarters. “I’m the captain. You know Commander Strike.”

“‘Strike’,” Sunbeam replies as they enter her room. “That’s such a strong name. No wonder you’re a Guardspony.”

Lucky Strike feels her eye twitch involuntarily. “I’m…”

“We’re not part of the Royal Guard or any Equestrian institution on this ship,” Romero says smoothly. “We operate as part of Ex Astris Victoria, a subset of the Human Liberation Front.”

“Oh!” Sunbeam says, and for a moment Lucky tenses, wondering if she’ll attack. Instead, however, she smiles. “I see! That makes sense. I was wondering why there were so few ponies aboard.” She pauses. “‘Human Liberation Front’… I’m confused, I thought you were at war with Queen Celestia.”

“Did you,” Romero says tightly.

He meets Lucky’s eyes, and she stays tense.

“We are,” he says.

Sunbeam blinks once. She frowns, ever so slightly.

“You… are,” she repeats. She looks at Lucky. “I… I’m sorry, that doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Romero asks her.

“Well…” she looks like she’s struggling. “I… I’m sorry, a Captain, I…”

She pauses, her eyes widening. She blinks. Once, twice, a third time.

“What?” she says. She looks up. “Where…”

“Sunbeam?” Romero says, frowning now, arms unfolded.

“Who?” the Newfoal asks. She looks at Strike. “Lucky?” Now back to Romero, eyes widening in something that might be horror. “Dan - Captain? What’s happening?”

“Sharon…” Strike whispers. Ice runs down her spine. This isn’t possible. It isn’t even probable. It’s…

And then the Newfoal blinks, and frowns.

“I’m sorry, I must have spaced out for a moment there,” she said, shaking her head. “What were we talking about, Captain…?”

Romero blinks, his eyes wide. He looks horrified, and Strike can’t blame him.

“Romero,” he finally says. “Daniel Romero.”

“Captain Romero,” the Newfoal says, nodding. “I’ll remember that.” She smiles. “Well, I know you’re HLF, but you’ve been nothing but kind to me since I got here. I hope I get the chance to repay that kindness.”

Romero and Strike exchange a look.

“I appreciate that,” the Captain finally says. “We’ll leave you to it for now, Sunbeam.”

“Of course,” Sunbeam replies. “Thank you, Captain Romero.”

Sitting in the rec room after the experiment, Lucky Strike takes a sip of bitter vending machine coffee.

“Lucky? Dan - Captain? What’s happening?”

It hadn’t been Sunbeam speaking, she thinks. It had been Sharon. Sharon’s voice and Sunbeam’s were of course identical, but it had been the intonation, and the way she called the Captain by his name…

This Newfoal isn’t just anomalous, Lucky Strike thinks. She’s a Luna-damned miracle.

“Commander Strike! Lucky!”

Lucky Strike shakes her head and looks up at the call. It’s another Pegasus, a blue mare with a red mane who goes by the name of Jessie (for reasons Lucky hasn’t pried into - everybody has their secrets, their history, on this ship).

“Jessie,” she says, smiling as best as she can. It’s hollow, and by the brief look of concern

“There you are,” Jessie says after a moment. “Luna’s sake, I was beginning to wonder if I’d find you.”

“Well, here I am,” Lucky Strike replied quietly, taking a sip of her coffee. “What is it?”

Jessie takes a deep breath, seemingly unsure where to start. “I’ve… been talking to some of the guys. Jim, Biggs, Wedge…”

Lucky Strike rolls her eyes. “And?”

“And we heard about Sharon,” Jessie whispers. “Look, we get it. The Captain does this stuff. We study them so we can fix them, right? But…”

There’s something in Jessie’s eyes. Is it… disloyalty? The thought sticks at Strike’s heart in a way she doesn’t like. You are not back there. You don’t have to feel that way. You don’t have to feel that way for anyone. But then Jessie lets out a sigh, and the expression passes.

“We just… some of us just think that we should… let her go, is all,” she says. “It’s one of us, you know?”

Let her go. Of all the euphemisms used to describe the euthanasia of a Newfoal, that was the one that had taken up residence among Columbia’s crew. It was the unavoidable side-effect of the sympathy the science teams had to have, the sympathy that, like an ink stain, spread across the pristine surface of the otherwise dispassionate dispatching of the things that used to be people.

“The Captain wants to study her for anomalies,” Strike says in lieu of responding to the second point. “He thinks that… well, due to the circumstances…”

Circumstances the crew don’t know. There’s very few secrets at what Romero calls ‘Level Omega’, but Sharon and the circumstances around her are one of them, one that only Romero, Renner, Well Met, Strike herself and couple of their other experts know. And only Romero and Strike witnessed Sharon’s…

Relapse.

That seemed impossible to think of, and yet there it was.

“Is she an anomalous one, then?” Jessie asks, eyes wide in horror. As well she should be - they all know the stories of whatever Shieldwall does with his anomalies.

“We can’t classify her properly yet,” Strike says, trying to be reassuring. “When we can, I’m sure the Captain will let us all know properly.”

“Right,” Jessie says, nodding. There’s a brief silence, and Strike knows the other mare is thinking of something. “Lucky… you don’t think he’d do that to everyone, do you?”

“Do what?” Strike asks, knowing full well what Jessie means.

“Lock them up,” Jessie replies. “Keep them. It’s… it’s degrading, isn’t it? Whatever’s left of them being paraded around like that?”

Strike feels a bout of irrational irritation. “If you feel that way, why didn’t you go to Challenger with Emerald and Steph?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jessie retorts, snapping. “I believe in the work. But…” She sighs. “But people have a right to know why what’s left of Sharon is being paraded around like this, don’t they? Why she’s still alive? What it is that means their friend has to suffer like this instead of…”

She trails off, but Strike, feeling her anger ebb away, smiles.

“Instead of letting her go,” she finishes quietly.

“Yeah,” Jessie says.

Strike nodded. “Alright, how about this. I’ll speak to the Captain and Renner about it. Renner can hopefully knock some sense into him if he doesn’t want to compromise.”

“Thanks, Lucky,” Jessie says, smiling. “Knew you’d get it.”

And Lucky Strike really does get it. Oh, she can’t exactly say it. Can’t say ‘I understand why you feel this way’, can’t say that she disagrees with the Captain’s handling… she’s his right hand, after all.

But she can still feel it, somewhere deep down.

“You think we should tell them,” Romero says later when she goes to speak to him about it.

Lucky Strike nods. “Not the most important aspects, of course, sir. About the potion and that. But… maybe if we tell them that she’s anomalous. Maybe even warn them that she relapses…”

Romero is silent, unmoving, and Strike wonders if she’s crossed a line. If there’s even a line to cross, and not just some eggshells to forever tread around a man who’s clearly used to things going just so.

“Why?” he finally asks.

“Because…” The world’s stick in her throat and she pauses, clearing her throat carefully. “Because Sharon was one of them. One of the crew. They have a right to know why you’re not… not…”

“Euthanising her,” Romero says bluntly.

Lucky Strike wets her lips. “Yeah.”

“I see,” Romero says, and then he simply looks thoughtful again.

For a long moment, there is a tense silence between the two of them, and again Lucky Strike wonders - has she crossed a line? Or does Romero see her point?

“You’re dismissed, Commander,” he says after a moment. “You’ve given me… a lot to think about.”

Lucky Strike nods, and offers a quick salute. Romero returns it without spirit, and Strike leaves. When the door to his office closes, she stops,admits out a deep breath. Her heart is hammering.

There was… something about this talk. It scared her. It keeps scaring her. She doesn’t know why, and that scares her too. It takes her a few minutes to realise the reason.

Captain Romero is a difficult man to read, but after all the months and years she’s known him, Lucky Strike has learned to get a read on the man. It’s not an easy read, no sir, but it’s a read nonetheless. Now, however, she doesn’t have a read.

I know he cared for her, but…

She shakes her head. I trust him. He knows what he’s doing.

With that thought, she walks off, feeling less than happy about the whole thing.

Sunbeam is looking up at the ceiling of her quarters, thinking. She is new, and she is full of questions about herself and where she is.

Why is she here? Isn’t she at war with these humans? Why then, does she feel so safe among them? So familiar?

The confusion is painful. The confusion is more than painful, it is pushing at the edges of her nascent consciousness.

For a moment, her eyes glaze over, and then Sharon is staring at her ceiling. She recognised that it is her ceiling.

She blinks, and Sunbeam smiles. She knows that she feels safe here, and so she allows her confusion to disappear.

She feels safe.

That is enough for now.

Well heck, it’s been a year.

Oops…?

Fun fact: I started doing this in past tense, but present tense felt better given what I’ve been writing for the last few chapters.

This one actually feels like it’s gonna wrap up in about three chapters, so keep your eyes peeled. It might be the first complete story I’ve done on here in ages 😂

You might not have noticed, but as of 19/04/2020 the prologue was rewritten. This accompanies the general rebranding of all these stories as part of the Reduxverse.

Sharon quickly decides that it’s easier in here to remember the times she had spent with others than to speak with the thing wearing Twilight Sparkle’s face. There’s no positive discourse to be had there, nothing but the snide voice and the sneering tone.

She remembers a time before, when she had been free, sitting on the deck of the HLS Purity before EAS got the Columbia. This was before she and Captain Romero had the same friendship they enjoyed subsequently of course…

“Friendship? Is that what you call what you and he were?”

Sharon ignores ‘Twilight Sparkle’. It’s increasingly clear that, wherever they are, Sparkle can read her mind, or hear her thoughts, or however one wants to put it.

You remember the conversation. It was a difficult one, the way a lot of deep talks with Daniel Romero are. Not the first time, not the last. He was sitting on a recliner, sipping a glass of what might have been whiskey. You remember him being infuriating but you don’t recall why. You remember finding him fascinating, but you’re not sure what triggered it. You recall bits and pieces, but not everything.

“Who and what you were is a memory, destined to fade,” Sparkle gloats. “Surrender to it.”

But you ignore her. Because you know you are not a fading memory. You are not. You are alive.

“Of course you are,” Twilight Sparkle says. “But for how long?”

You are Captain Romero, standing in front of your crew. There’s maybe a tenth of your 3,000-being crew here, but what you’re about to say will be broadcast throughout the ship.

It’s important, after all.

“I’m aware that there have been rumours floating around the ship,” you say. “Rumours about Sharon Meyer, about what happened to her and what’s still going on with her.”

You sigh, and for a last fleeting moment you wonder if you’re doing the right thing. Renner didn’t want you to say this to your crew. It was another of the arguments that you’d had - in some ways the worst yet.

“This,” she had told you, “is the biggest news in the war against the Empire ever, and you want to tell the whole damn crew?!”

“Not everything,” you’d reassured her. “The key points. Sharon is anomalous. Docile. Not a threat, but a key piece in the chess game. This might be the gambit that wins us everything.”

“Dammit, Dan,” she had said then, resigned, tired. It’s the same refrain you’ve heard a million times. ‘Dammit, Dan, this is impossible, this is insane, this isn’t right, this isn’t the best way forward’. You respect what she says.

That doesn’t mean you won’t do what you were going to do anyway.

You are silent on a pedestal, the crew waiting on you to speak. Always waiting for you to speak. That’s why you’re the Captain.

“What you’re about to be told is as much as I can declassify,” you say after a moment more to think about it. “Sharon was converted during one of our experiments with the Geas.”

There are murmurs now, confusion. Fear. It is as you expected.

“The exact circumstances of that experiment are classified and all speculation on the topic is banned for the safety of the crew,” you say in a tone you hope brooks no argument. Eyes turn from him to each other. You take a breath. “That being said, I am instigating more stringent safety measures about which Newfoal variants are permitted aboard this ship.”

A brief murmur of approval. Good.

“Some of you are wondering what has been done with Sharon,” you continue. “She has been kept alive for the moment, and we are working with her to learn everything we can.”

Murmurs again. Now disapproval. They’re afraid. They’re wondering - why Sharon? Why not let her go? You might sympathise, but you know why, and they have to as well.

“What is important is that Sharon is not a normal Newfoal,” you say. There is silence - this is new. They are surprised. You take a deep breath. “She has presented symptoms of anomalous behaviours, which warrant further study on our part.”

Anomalous? That word brings with it connotations. Everyone here knows the name Imperial Creed, the rumours of Shieldwall, the horrors of Freeport, the experiments that the Solar Empire has created. They’ve all seen a Newcalf, a Spitter. A handful - your eyes fall on Lucky Strike and her team - have even seen things like the brainfoals, the megacorns and worse.

“Furthermore…” you continue, before pausing for a moment.

This is the part where you’re not sure whether you should say what’s happening. Renner didn’t think you should: she thinks what you’re going to say is too sensitive.

But it’s the truth. And this is a situation where your crew deserve the whole truth.

“Furthermore,” you say again, “I can confirm that Sharon has relapsed into her human personality at least once.”

Now there is a sudden outburst.

“Impossible!” someone yells.

“No way!” another voice cries out.

“Is she cured?!” someone almost sobs.

“This is obviously big news,” you say to them, holding up both hands to calm them all down. They quiet down slowly, though there is still murmuring going on. “Huge news, in fact. We will investigate what this means, not just for Sharon herself, but for other Newfoals. All of them, if we can.” You take a deep breath. “But I assure you, if there is something we can learn from this, we will. We won’t rest until we discover how, why, and if this can act as a means to cure others.”

A few cheers and yells of approval from the assembled crew.

Good, they’re on side, you think. You smile. Your crew understand - how could they not? They’ve followed you this far. They serve with you on this ship. They’re your crew.

“The Solar Empire has taken a lot from us. From all of us.” You take a breath, and then you smile. Vicious. Victorious. From the stars, you will find victory. “It’s high time we took something back.” A cheer. “It’s high time we did something no one has ever done. We will use this… learn from this. And I swear to you - this ship, this crew, will one day use what we learn to strike a blow at our enemy. We will help to win this war!”

Another cheer, the whole audience. Hats are thrown. People clap, jump, scream. Throughout the ship the cheers and applause are echoed, reverberating throughout this marvel of human and pony ingenuity.

We will win the war, you think again. And Sharon might just be the answer.

Two days later, you’re standing in an observation room, watching Sunbeam interacting with Daisy - Daisy is a standard Newfoal you captured months ago, previously held in a secure location before being moved to the Columbia.

The two’s demeanours couldn’t be more different. Daisy is tense, agitated, angry. Sunbeam is smiling, serene. Docile.

So different, but they’re the same thing, you think.

The two of them are in a secure room - padded, with no way of making a makeshift weapon out of anything. There is no way they can escape - the one entrance is a double-locked door, sealed with deadbolts and electronic locks alike, and

“We’re hoping this will reveal something about Sunbeam’s psychology,” Well Met says from next to you. “Hopefully, Captain, we’ll learn how anomalous she truly is.”

“Hopefully,” you repeat.

“What’s your name?” Sunbeam asks Daisy after a moment.

“Daisy,” Daisy tells her. “What’s yours?”

“Sunbeam.” She pauses, tilting her head. “What are you doing here?”

“I was captured,” Daisy hisses. There’s something livid in her eyes, a fury that seems completely absent in Sunbeam. “What about you?”

“I… I think I’ve always been here,” Sunbeam replies, smiling brightly.

“You mean you were one of the crew?”

“One of the crew?” Sunbeam repeats, frowning now in something that might be confusion. “I’m… one of the crew?”

“She doesn’t know what she was,” Well Met mutters, scribbling in his notebook. “Interesting.”

“Is that relevant?” you ask him.

“Everything is relevant, Captain,” Well Met tells you, looking up with a smile. “That she can't remember anything of her previous life? That might be another side effect of her circumstances.”

“How do you like this ship?” Sunbeam asks after a short silence.

“It’s full of humans,” Daisy replies, still angry. She looks around, less like a peaceful pony, you think, and more like a crack addict searching for a fix. “We should ponify them.”

“Really? I mean, probably, but…” Sunbeam is hesitant. “You know, I don’t think they want to.”

“Does it matter what they want?!” Daisy hisses. “They’re humans!”

“They’ve been very nice to me,” Sunbeam says. “They’re not that bad.” She pauses. “They’re not bad at all.”

“They’re humans!” Daisy repeats. “They’re the enemy!”

Sunbeam is frowning. There is something odd in her expression.

“They’re not,” she finally says.

There is a pause.

“What,” Daisy says flatly.

“I said they’re not,” Sunbeam says again. “Not my enemy. At all.”

There is a momentary pause. You look at Well Met, whose eyes are wide with shock.

“That’s not good,” he says. “We need to get security in there no-”

Daisy screeches something unintelligible and leaps at Sunbeam, her hooves going around the other mare’s throat.

“Get security in there!” Well Met yells into the intercom, but you move faster.

You’re through the observation room door and outside the cell door in six seconds. It takes ten agonising seconds for the palm-scanner to unlock the electronic lock, and the three deadbolts take another five seconds.

The door opens, and you run into the room. It takes a further three seconds to grab Daisy and throw her bodily from Sunbeam. By the time you’ve done so, two security guards burst in with tranq guns - Daisy goes down with two darts in her chest.

Sunbeam is shaken and hyperventilating. You kneel down next to her.

“I don’t know what I said,” she says. “S-she shouldn’t have… I didn’t…”

“You’re alright,” you say to her.

She smiles brightly, the empty platitude seemingly exactly what she needed to hear.

“Well Met!” you yell. He enters, eyes wide in horror. “Get her looked at.”

“Aye, Captain,” he replies. “Right away.”

You look back at Sunbeam. “You’re going to be fine, Sunbeam. I promise you that.”

“Thank you,” she says sincerely, smiling up at you. “Thank you so much.”

And like a brick hitting you you’re reminded of what she is. Of who she was. You stand, feeling the blood leave your face.

“Carry on, Dr Met,” you say quietly, as you leave the room.

It’s much later, drinking alone in your office, that you manage to work out the things you learned.

Sunbeam doesn’t automatically consider humanity the enemy. She might follow Celestia - in the same way a Christian follows God - but she doesn’t act like a fanatic.

It’s like the difference between a lunatic fundamentalist and a regular old church goer, you think, but it’s a difference that shouldn’t exist. Outside of Slow Newfoals, there were never reasonable Newfoals. The weaponised ‘fast’ potion (which very quickly became the only potion) removed the original personality very quickly.

This is… unprecedented, you think.

The facts are leading up to one conclusion. It’s not a conclusion many of your colleagues would agree with - indeed, not a conclusion that all of your crew will be happy with - but it’s the only one you’ve got.

Alright, you think. It’s time to bring in the PHL’s R&D.

“WHAT?!”

“Captain, I must protest -”

“YOU ARE FUCKING KIDDING ME, DAN!”

“- the PHL and UNAC are at best uneasy around us, and at worse actively hostile -”

“You want to let them aboard Columbia?! You seriously want to have them aboard our ship?! God knows what they could do!”

“- depending on who they send we could be opening ourselves up to a serious security breach -”

“And that rat-bastard Gardner would have a field day!”

It’s interesting, you muse, to be sitting here as Victoria Renner screams in your face and Lucky Strike calmly states a dozen reasons why your idea is a bad one. It’s like watching television but you’re in it: surreal, to the point of comedy.

“Look,” you finally say, holding up a hand to forestall further complaints from either of them. “I get it. Us and the PHL don’t exactly get on -”

“Unless you mean get on like oil and water,” Renner cuts you off. “Sir, there is nothing we need from them about this, and they won’t be able to -”

“We don’t know that,” you cut her off. “You don’t know that they’ve never seen this. And you don’t know whether they’ll have insight.”

“You think they will?” Strike asks.

“I think it’s worth the attempt,” you reply. You lean forward. “Don’t worry about men like Gardner. UNAC and the PHL might be getting increasingly tight in their organisation -”

“Understatement,” Renner says flatly. “There are units of UNAC troops that are easily more than fifty percent PHL attaches now. Their Agents and Operatives are all over the country.”

“And they’re on our side,” you remind her gently.

“There have been at least a dozen cases of PHL and UNAC killing troops on our side that’d disagree with that assessment, sir,” Lucky Strike says flatly.

“But as an organisation, they’re on our side,” you reiterate. “Whatever the deal with individuals in their organisation is, we’re in this together. And like it or not, they’ve got the experts. We need that expertise.”

Neither of them like it, you can tell. But this isn’t a conference, but a briefing.

“Strike, prepare us for some guests,” you say after a moment. “Renner, get us docked at one of our secure points near Boston.”

“Near Boston.” Renner closes her eyes. “Fine. Aye sir. Whatever.”

She stalks out, her leg clumping against the floor.

“Are you sure about this, Captain?” Lucky Strike asks.

You smile. “Completely.”

It’s amazing how easy it is to lie.

Commander Strike.

Doctor Bowman and his friend Chalcedony have just left when you sit down to have a drink. It’s not long before a few of your friends come over – Prisma, an alabaster Unicorn mare with a light blue and purple mane, who’s been in your Marine units since their inception. She’s trotting along with Jessie and another pony, a stallion called Milk Pail who has a habit of always wearing his modified Hardball armour, even when he really doesn’t need to.

“Commander,” Prisma says. She sits down, putting a cup of steaming coffee on the table gently and blowing on it. “I’m gonna guess our, uh, guests are gone.”

“Yup,” you reply. “Not gonna lie, I’m happier for it.”

“Me, too,” Jessie says coldly. “Never feels right to me when UNAC and PHL are about.”

“Eh, I’ve heard good things about Chalcedony at least,” Prisma says with a shrug.

“You have?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Since when?”

“Since Marcus started playing Skype chess with her,” Prisma replies, smiling coyly. “Think they met pre-Barrierfall in Britain.”

“Dammit Schaefer,” you mutter, wondering if you have to have a talk with him. There’s technically no regulations against maintaining friendships with people outside the crew – even with PHL or UNAC – but it’s not up there with things.

You wonder what the Captain would say about it.

“Hey, Commander,” Milk Pail asks. “Why don’t you trust the PHL? They’ve got ponies, they should be our friends.”

The temperature at the table drops.

You snort. Oh boy, that’s going to be a fun topic.

“I don’t not-trust them,” you say. “But ever since I joined up with Ex-Astris, I’ve had one self-righteous PHL pony after another look at me like I’m some poor deluded filly who doesn’t know what she’s doing by being here. Even my family.” You take a sip of your drink, wishing it were something stronger. “I’ve no problem with the PHL, really. UNAC in general’s got more assholes than I’d like, but that’s inevitable. My problem’s with the ponies who act like they’re the only game in town, and anypony – anyone – else is just an idiot or deluded.”

“I hear that,” Jessie says. “Most ponies think I oughta have joined up with Lyra’s outfit from the getgo, but it was Biggs and Wedge who risked their lives to save me, and Cap who took us all in. None of their fancy agents saved me from the Empire, and none of their fancy agents got me out from Janvier’s base.”

“I mean, I get it,” Prisma says. “I’ve gotten the poor-lost-little-lamb look before. But they have money and resources we don’t. They’re not as bad as some of us think, but... “

“But?” you ask.

“But there’s something so overbearing about it all,” Prisma said. “Don’t have to like it, but who else would we work with? Division P?”

“Besides,” Milk Pail points out, “Cap works with the PHL.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course he does. Luna knows that man’s got an ego, but he’s been talking cooperation alongside Yarrow and Maine since the beginning.” You sigh. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it, or them.”

“I mean,” Prisma says, “Gardner’s UNAC, not PHL. So it’s not like -”

“You and I both know the PHL are beholden to UNAC,” you cut her off. “The PHL aren’t us, and we’re not them. And on both sides, there’s always going to be people who put territorialism, or some idea about ‘how things should be done’, over common sense. Look at the fuckin’ Carter side -”

“Point immediately fucking taken,” Prisma says.

“So you don’t trust the PHL because of the assholes?” Milk Pail asks.

“I don’t trust the PHL because the assholes are hidden,” you reply. “It’s easy with the Carter side of the ‘Front. Lovikov shot his Commander for ponification, when he was mostly armored. Taskforce Paris shoots anyone they feel like, or worse. It’s the same with O’Donnell and the Sons of Macha. Birch and Galt… don’t even get me Luna-damned started on those nutjobs. It’s like someone handed a nuclear warhead to a spoiled foal that’s never been so much as told no.” You take another sip of your drink. “But you can never tell with the PHL or UNAC. There’s a veneer of respectability. Because they’re ‘official’, but behind the smiles, they’re just waiting to trip you up or tear you down. Gardner is the worst of the bunch, but a man like that doesn’t get somewhere on his own.”

There’s a pause at that.

“At least,” Prisma says quietly, “they might have been able to help Sharon?”

You snort. “We’ll see. I don’t think they will.”

“You don’t?” Jessie asks.

You sigh, looking around, suddenly aware that more than a few eyes are turned your way. So you think carefully before saying the next sentence in your head.

“I don’t know,” is what you settle on. “Sharon’s case is… unique.”

More so than you two know, you think at them, but you can’t say that. Maybe if you could it would be easier, but it isn’t, and you can’t.

“Maybe they’ll figure something out, or use her to figure something bigger out,” you continue. “But… I dunno, it doesn’t feel like they will.”

“Just because you don’t trust them -” Prisma says.

“It’s not that,” you cut her off. “It’s… it’s not something they can fix.”

“We don’t have that much of a choice but to try,” Prisma says. “Look at the Carter side – That’s what absolute failure to compromise looks like.”

“No one’s asking us not to compromise, not to work with them,” you snap. “But with this… it’s more like, it doesn’t feel like any of us can make it work. Not Us. Certainly not them.”

The words feel treasonous out of your mouth, but they also feel right.

“Then why are we letting her live like this?” Milk Pail asks. “Isn’t it… wrong?”

“Until we prove we can’t help her, or learn something from her…” you sigh. “The Captain thinks that it’s best to let her… continue… and you know how he is.”

They nod, none of them happy about it. How could they be? Like the rest, they understood what the Captain was going for when he said they would be keeping Sharon alive, but that didn’t mean they agreed.

The bond you feel with the Captain transcended words. You’ve tried to describe it before, with words like ‘loved’ or ‘liked’ or ‘respected’ and failed every time. He’d understood you in a way few did even back when you were in Equestria, but you wish you could say the same for him.

How can a man exude such an aura of control, even as he makes decisions you struggle to comprehend? Giving virtually everything to the PHL, even as he talks behind their backs and has to know that they want his organization and consider him optional. And the funding. Oh, the funding. There are holes in Romero’s books you could (and technically have) fit the Thunderchild ships inside.

Captain, you think then, you need to learn something soon. Otherwise…

You don’t want to think it, because if you don’t think about it, it cannot happen. But the word is already stuck, somewhere deep in your mind.

Mutiny.

You’d die to protect him from it, but you can almost smell that feeling in the air.

Captain Romero,

It is 6am. You are tired and feeling less than charitable. The PHL R&D people’s recent visit demonstrated that Sharon’s case – Sunbeam’s case – is more complex than you would have wanted it to be. It was the second relapse.

The second. Not an isolated incident, not a freak accident of a faulty conversion.

This is… unprecedented. Unheard of. You know this should be cause for celebration. This is literally the first situation of its sort in the history of this conflict. There were Slow Newfoals, but they didn’t relapse into their humanity, they lapsed into what is now considered the ‘default’ Newfoal state. This is the exact opposite.

“Alright,” you say to Well Met as you approach the door to Sharon’s Sunbeam’s quarters.

He’s there, eyes wide and a hoof coming up to his mouth. He motions to the open door, and you pop your head into the door, frowning as you do so.

A small speaker is blaring music. It’s Sharon’s playlist, you know: you’ve heard it a dozen times.

“#Needless to say I keep a check, she was a bad-bad nevertheless…”

“She’s still listening to music?” you whisper, looking down at Well Met. He shakes his head and points at Sharon Sunbeam herself.

She has a spanner held in her horn’s TK field, a sickly pale blue that seems to flicker with a deeper blue now and again, as though it’s a sputtering LED. And yet it’s working well enough that she’s screwing a piece of hardware together well enough. You recognise it after a moment – a piece of REV armour servo that Sharon had tucked away somewhere where she thought you couldn’t see it, one she’d been working on to ‘make better’. It’s amazing what you learn about a woman when you read her logs, and it’s more amazing that you don’t feel guilty for the breach of privacy.

The dead have no privacy, you want to think, but between the relapse and… this… you start wondering if Sharon’s really dead at all.

Well Met is looking up at you, eyes wide, and you understand why he brought you here now. The song is still playing.

“#… calling it quits now, baby I’m a wreck. Crash at my place, baby you’re a wreck.”

Without another word, you turn and leave, and Well Met follows.

“You see what I mean,” he says.

You don’t answer, your mind reeling with possibility. Beautiful. Terrifying. Hope and fear mix within your mind, until your mind is a battleground of warring thoughts.

“Sir?” Well Met asks.

You stop, before looking down at him. His eyes are still wide, filled with that strange, cosmic wonder. He’s seen something that shouldn’t be possible, just like you. His mind, a scientist’s mind, is brimming with the possibilities, just like yours, but unlike you, he’s not afraid. For a moment, you envy him. But then you remember: you are the Captain. You chart the course.

“Doctor,” you say after a brief moment of silence. “That… that’s not normal, is it?”

“That was Sharon’s hobby, sir,” Well Met said. “Not Sunbeam’s.” He takes a deep breath. “Not only is it a human piece of technology that she should instinctively hate, but if it’s anything to do with her past life, she should hate it even more. What we’ve just seen…” He closed his eyes, composing himself. “It’s not just unprecedented, it’s insane. It violates Newfoal science as I’ve understood it since Newfoals were first conceived.”

You nod, your feelings confirmed.

“Alright,” you say. “Then I’ll speak to her tomorrow.”

“About what, sir?” Well Met asks.

“What we just saw,” you reply with a small, bitter smile. “And what it means.”

You turn and walk away after saying that, the matter closed, and music drifting from the half-open door.

“#Then you’re left in the dust, unless I stuck by you. You’re a sunflower, you’re a sunflower.”

Sharon.

“You can’t begin to imagine the future you are denying yourself,” the creature that looks like Twilight Sparkle says at one point, the two of you still sitting in your mind, trapped with each other. “You cannot begin to imagine the future we will build.”

“‘We’?” you ask her.

“We, the Newfoals, the ponies of Equestria… all of it,” the Not-Sparkle says, idly looking at her hoof. “Your world is built on fear, on worry, on hatred, on anger. Competition, corruption, replaced with cooperation and cohesion.”

“All while lacking free will,” you scowl. “I’ve seen Newfoals. They’re just… shells.”

“They’re free,” Not-Twilight retorts. “Free, not just of the cares and worries of human life, but the terror of choice.”

“Free from choice, huh?” you say, shaking your head. “How’s that work out?”

“Perfectly,” she replies. “Without choice, they are free from the burden of finding their own path in life. Without choice, they are free to simply enjoy the task before them. Without knowing the false freedom of choice, they cannot be overwhelmed by all that life could be. Without what could be, they are content with what is.”

You smirk this time, reminded of a half-forgotten memory. “Ponies that know not what they have lost but only what they’ve been given, right?”

“Ah, I see, you understand,” Not-Sparkle says to you, smiling.

“No,” you counter, “I’m misquoting a maniac from fiction. He was stopped. Celestia will be too.”

“Ah,” Not-Sparkle says, her smile fading. “A pity.”

“And what about natural born ponies?” you ask. “I’ve met some. They’re pretty wilful.”

Not-Twilight snorts. “Ponies have soul marks that tell them what they are meant to be, and yet choice was still a terror that condemned them to uncertainty and doubt.”

A chill runs up your spine (and you ignore the thought that, what if it isn’t really your spine?) and you swallow.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask.

“There are others who see the truth already among the natural-born,” the Not-Sparkle says. “Others who understand what is happening. The Newfoal is the template – all life on Equus will follow.” She grins, a vile rictus that somehow seems to stretch her face beyond what should be physically possible. “From now… until the end of time.”

And right there, you feel it. Sick to your stomach, cold, and terrified.

This, you think, is bigger than we ever thought.

Special thanks to Doctor Fluffy, who created Prisma for Light Despondent, and helped me flesh out the conversation between HLF ponies.

(Let’s get real, four years ago nobody would have ever written ‘HLF ponies’ like that 😂. I may be a mediocre writer at best, but I get to do fun **** occasionally)