Regret.

As the elevator opens to the hallway of Ponyville General’s third floor in the east wing, I feel regret. And nothing — not the ding of the bell, the scent of carpet cleaner, or the coolness of the AC — makes me feel any better about any of this.

How’d I let them talk me into this?

How’d I talk myself into this?

You know why you’re here.

…Yes, I suppose I do, but… it still feels wrong — it’s been too soon. If I see him now, he might think I’m being obsessive, or overly concerned, or… something. I mean, I wouldn’t like it if the pony who saved me showed up the very next day to stop by and chat and just see how I’m…

…Actually, that would be rather nice.

But still, it’s…

What?

…Awkward?

Only if you let it be awkward.

…No, no, that… that can’t be right. There has to be some other caveat I’m missing — a proper reason, however small, that justifies why I feel the way I do: conflicted; caught between moral obligation and personal preference. In other words, I suppose, I’m going against my own tradition. Not that I mean to sound cold-hearted or anything, it’s just…

Sweet Celestia, this is some mess I’ve found myself in.

Then dig yourself out.

Easier said than done.

Better done than not at all.

…Stars above, it’s near impossible to argue with myself.

The elevator begins to close again, snatching my attention and snapping me out of this internal war of wills. I reach out a hoof and catch the sliding door before the way is shut, push it open, and force myself into the hallway before I have half a mind to follow it down. The junction I stand in offers three nearly indistinguishable corridors, but I don’t need directions: I remember the journey well enough from last night.

I take the path right and proceed around the corner, and I spy the same chair I sat in at the far end of the hall, as well as the leftover cups I never put away. Just across from it, his room. Between me and there, nothing and nopony, just thin air and the same ambiance as before. It certainly feels less awkward now, seeing where my destination lies, as if I were imagining a perilous voyage through uncharted lands, fraught with danger and dark, devious forces, and all it’s turned out to be is a few simple steps. Because that’s what it is. Just a few simple steps.

I can do this. I’m not entirely sure I want to, but I can. I’m strong enough. Resilient enough. A simple stroll down an empty hall doesn’t scare me.

I am in control.

With an inward breath, I lift my head a little, puff out my chest and fluff my wings, tucking them in closer. And then I start walking. Slow, but steady. Progress is being made.

Nothing to fear, I tell myself. Nothing to fear at all.

…But what if he—

No.

…But—

No. You owe him. And if nothing else, you owe Dad — you said as much to Spits and Soarin.

…But nopony has to—

They’ll find out if you don’t. What, nopony’s going to notice a celebrity coming to a small town like Ponyville to see the weird creature she saved? How long before word gets to the local press, and from them to the bigger outlets, and from them to Cloudsdale?

…I hate how right I can be, sometimes.

You hate it, but it’s better than being wrong. Besides, you’re already here.

I raise my gaze up and to the right; indeed, I’ve already made it to his door: Room 42. It’s open just a tad, both thankfully and not, so I won’t have to see a nurse about this, and I can see a thin sliver of the interior through the gap, but nothing definitive.

Inside is the source of all my current troubles, just as I’m the source of his, and the only thing that separates us is a navy blue slab of plywood and metal fixtures. Poetic, I suppose, in a uniquely unwelcome way. But I’m out of options. That, or I’m too tired to think of another — and if I do, I’m pretty sure my conscience would like to have a word or two with it, smother it to death, and hang its sorry corpse above my head as a warning.

Never any half measures in the game of self-assurance.

Too bloody right.

I press my lips together, eyeing the handle. It’d be such a simple action, to just reach over and nudge the door a little wider. That’d get his attention, he’d ask who’s there, I’d have to introduce myself and apologise for intruding, and it’d all just… somehow work itself out from there. I mean, I trust myself to think on my hooves well enough — I’ve demonstrated that pretty well over the past two, three days — but I’m sure there's no easy way to start this conversation. Or explain why I’m here to begin with, come to think of it, should he ask.

Maybe if I…

…No. No, this happens now. The fledgling has to fly eventually, and no amount of delay or preparation will help in the slightest. Better to just gather what nerves I have left and jump in the deep end, before I find myself in a loop until another nurse comes along.

With an outward breath, I deflate somewhat and hover a hoof just in front of the wood — may as well play it straight and show how unsure I am about all this. Not the nervous wreck like Fluttershy was, once upon a time, according to Rainbow, but more humble than anything.

And then I gently push and poke my head through.

The rooms appears much as it was when I left: the khaki carpet’s still perfectly clean, as are cream-coloured the walls. The only immediate difference I can see is the lighting, where the afternoon sun filters through the open blinds of a large window on the opposite end, overlooking a courtyard.

The longer I observe, however, and the less reaction I receive, the more of an interest I take in the bed, and I notice he doesn’t seem to be awake. His eyes are closed, his head slumped back, two wires running from his ears to a device on a tray placed over his lap; listening to music.

I deflate a little further, and with a soft groan and roll of the eyes, I open the door fully and stroll in. My conscience hadn’t convinced me to do the right thing just so I’d be shot down before something happened; no half measures when it comes to whether this is worth my time either.

It’s a weird thought, that I’m now seeking a confrontation, when only a few seconds ago, I was on the brink of doing anything I could to avoid it. But I can’t afford to dwell it. I entered with a purpose, and I won’t allow myself to back out now. I’m not sure how I’d live with myself if I did.

I continue to the far corner where a spare chair sits, drag it over to the bedside, and take a seat, tail poking through the gap in the backboard, resting on my haunches. Hopefully I seem more composed than I feel.

With the added height, I see what remains of lunch on the tray: half a grilled cheese sandwich served on a plate with a side of steamed broccoli, and an empty cup of water. Pretty standard as far as hospital food goes, I suppose, but with Ponyville being pastoral, a lot of ponies here find their special talent in cooking. I don’t doubt the cafeteria worker who made that sandwich could beat any Cloudsdale chef blindfolded.

Just thinking about it makes me hungry.

But I’ve wasted enough time thinking about things as it is. If I wait any longer, afternoon will turn to evening, and I want to catch some sleep before dark.

I lean forward, reach out a hoof, let it hover for a moment as I take a proper look at his dozing face and all its peculiarities — bruises and stitching aside — hesitate, then look at my hoof, force it closer, and tap his shoulder.

Instantly, he takes a sharp breath through his nose and opens his eyes, blinks a few times, then brings his free hand up to rub them. There’s no saline bag now, I realise, and no heart monitor, just a small bandage where the line fed into his arm. “Did I drift off again?” he mumbles lamely, still drowsy.

I hesitate for a split second, wondering if there’s still a way out, but the thought passes by as quickly as it came. “Yeah,” I say, shifting my weight and sitting squarely on my haunches once more, hoof returning to the seat. “Looks that way.”

His hand lowers and he turns to me, then his brows rise in surprise. “Oh, it’s…” he begins, but almost immediately drifts off as he squints. “…Fleetybee?”

“Fleetfoot.” I resist the urge to look away in annoyance. “And yes, it’s me.”

He stares for a few seconds more, thinking, then cocks his head. “Didn’t you have… purple eyes before?”

I blink, this time resisting the urge to look away in… not embarrassment, just… something else. I do, however, allow myself to clear my throat and shift my wings. “Yeah, uh… Those were… those were contacts. These are their actual colour.”

He doesn’t respond, still staring, measuring me. But just before his gaze begins to seem critical, he purses his lips and softly nods to himself, lowering his eyes and chewing on his cheeks. “Well then, hello. Nice to see you again.” He returns to me. “You look a little worse for wear.”

Part of me wants to object, but it’s the truth; on my way here, I realised I wouldn’t look my best, and probably wouldn’t smell it either. The only bath I’ve had in the last twenty-four hours is a superficial wash given by the nurses to clear up the dirt and grass stains from the accident. My coat’s frazzled, my mane’s tangled, and both it and my tail feel greasy. My wings could do with a bit of preening too.

But at least I don’t have a mug as ugly and battered as his.

“You’re one to talk.”

He shrugs. “The doctors did what they could. Don’t blame me if they screwed up.”

I smirk a little. Acting sassy wasn’t the right move, in immediate retrospect, but at least he has the grace to turn a soft punch on the shoulder into actual humour. But at the same time, it makes me think of everything that happened last night, in this very room; how I stood there and gossiped with Redheart about him to his face. And that memory makes my smirk fade as quickly as it came.

“Hey, it’s fine,” he assures, obviously picking up on it. “Just a few cuts and bruises, nothing permanent — I’ll be right as rain once my arms and ribs fix themselves.”

I lower my eyes, and my ears follow them. “It’s… not that.”

He pauses, and then an eyebrow rises. Not judgementally, just… expectantly.

“…I’m… sorry I called you ugly.”

“Oh,” he utters, surprised, then softly shakes his head with a dismissive sneer. “Nah, don’t worry about it. So long as you’re not planning something nasty, talk shit about me all you like. You’ve earned that much, at least.”

I look to him again, an eyebrow of my own rising in expectation.

“You saved me.” He gives a small, appreciative shrug. “I owe you one.”

This time, I pause, but quickly look off towards the corner of the room before I begin to stare. It was bad enough hearing that from Spitfire, but from his mouth directly is even worse; so many nerves being strung, and nopony knows they’re strumming them.

“Besides, it’d be weirder if you said the opposite.”

…Huh. Now that I think about it, yes, I suppose it would be. And I’ve seen and read enough movies, plays and books that have the exact same storyline: hero saves stranger, and it’s love at first sight — a fated romance, in most cases, as Redheart so wonderfully put it. All because the hero did something any good pony would do.

Gag.

I roll my eyes. Just out of his sight, I hope, or else I might have some explaining to do, or cook up another white lie and feel even more guilty for it.

“Anyway,” he sighs, “what brought you here? Just passing by, or something?”

I return to him, ears perking up somewhat, but not all the way. “Oh, you know…” I begin, shrugging, glancing about idly, but not uncomfortably, “just… checking up on you, I guess — see how you’re doing. Something like that.”

He nods and lowers his gaze, pondering. “Well, everyone’s treating me fine so far. A few more curious looks than I’m used to, but otherwise, yeah, fine. Still getting used to talking ponies, though, so I guess it’s a two-way street.”

I nod as well, then angle my head to the tray. “And the food?”

It only takes a single glance at his unfinished meal for him to instantly melt back into the bed, eyes closed lips stretched in a satisfied, open-mouthed smile. “So that’s why I fell asleep…”

I linger on his smile for a moment before responding. Why, I don’t know. “Not the music?”

“Hm?” He returns to an upright posture, looking at me again, then raises his brows in realisation and takes out his earbuds. “Oh, no, not really. I mean, I have albums and playlists I can listen to for that, but… this is honestly the best damn sandwich I’ve ever had.”

“It’s that good?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Much better than any restaurant I’ve been to, and leagues ahead of any fast food I’ve had. And if this is what you serve in your hospitals, I’m dying to know what fine dining’s like here.”

I pause once more. His enthusiasm’s… off-putting, in a way — as if I expected a more sullen, sombre affair, and part of me is somehow disappointed — but it’s also infectious, to a degree, and another part of me can’t help wanting to play along. But I force that down and maintain a cool, calm, collected disposition, neither warm nor cold, distant or jovial. Merely agreeable. Pleasant. Or at least as pleasantly agreeable as I can manage.

“What’s it like here, anyway?”

My ears perk up fully, attention on him again.

“I mean, Redheart already gave me the lowdown on Ponyville, but what’s the rest of the country like?”

An impersonal question. Good. “It’s alright,” I say, looking to the window and the blue sky beyond. “Same as every other place, I guess, as far as ponies are concerned — you have your good, you have your bad, and sometimes you have your downright ugly.”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

I snort and smirk again. “Actually, you’re not too far off the mark with that.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I’m… something of a performer.”

“What, like an actor?”

“…I suppose, yeah.”

He pauses, waiting for me to elaborate.

I hesitate for a moment, a slight tightness in my chest, wondering if it’s better to leave him in the dark on my occupation so I don’t overwhelm him. But then I remember I’m dealing with someone who’s never heard of Equestria before, let alone the Bolts, so… he wouldn’t really be all that starstruck, would he?

“I fly for a living.”

Great, hit the nail on the head with that one.

“You’re… a pilot?”

I roll my eyes at myself and shake my head — of course that was needlessly cryptic. “No, I’m… just…”

Damn it, why’s it so hard to say? What am I afraid of? That this random guy — this veritable nopony — is going to judge me for having a successful career? What kind of backwards thinking is that? Mum’s the only one with any reason to criticise, and that’s because she’s her.

“…I’m just a flier. You know, like a… a stuntpony.”

“Ah.” He pauses yet again, then nods once more. “An aerial acrobat, right?”

“Yeah.”

“…Okay, I can sort of see that.” He continues nodding. “So, your job takes you all over the place, does it?”

“Pretty much.”

“And you’ve seen a lot of ugly people?”

“Plenty.”

“But none as ugly as me, right?”

I snap back to him.

He lifts his hand defensively. “Just poking fun.”

I realise I’m frowning, and I look away to soften it. Was that really fair of me, to get touchy over what I’ve agreed wasn’t my proudest moment? “Sorry.”

“Hey, it’s fine, it’s fine. I should be the one saying sorry, if anything — need to learn my boundaries with you. That is, so long as you plan on stopping by again.”

My ear twitches. I’ve been here not five minutes, and he’s already asking me that question? I’m sure my company hasn’t been that impressionable. “Sure,” I say, keeping the discomfort out of my voice as much as possible. I’m not sure we know each other well enough to make this a regular thing, even if my conscience would strangle me in my sleep if I don’t, but I‘ve made too many promises to back out now. “I… might swing round.”

“That’d be nice.” He nods again. “You can tell me all about these ugly people you’ve met.”

That gets a snort out of me. “Is that all you care about? Who’s uglier than you?”

“Well, I mean, it could be interesting. If you can top Redheart’s stories, that’d be stellar.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He shrugs.

I smirk. “Well then, you’re in for some doozies.”

“I’m sure I am. But not right now.” He turns to the tray and pulls it a little closer. “Not while I still have an appetite.”

My smirk turns into a smile. I don’t really have that many tales to share, owing to the fact I’ve barely mingled with the general populace more than five minutes at a time, so this change of course is a welcome reprieve. But then again, if I fail to deliver, I’m sure he’ll call me out on it — maybe say I owe him some interesting gossip, or something. He seems like the type.

He picks up the sandwich and takes a bite, and in an instant, bliss washes over his bruised and battered face. “Oh my god, it’s cooled off and I still love it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is our food really that good compared to yours?”

“Oh, sister, you have no idea.” He gives me an eager glance before taking another bite. “I wouldn’t be making this big a deal out of it if it wasn’t. I mean, this is just plain cheese. I can’t even begin to imagine what Celestia eats up in Camelot.”

“Canterlot.”

He looks at me, pausing curiously.

“It’s Canterlot.”

“Oh, right, horse puns,” he says airily, then shrugs and returns to his meal. “Sorry, just some… eerie similarities between this world and mine.”

“Such as?”

“Camelot and Canterlot, for example. Also minotaurs, griffons, hippogriffs, and basically almost every other talking race you have here.”

My brows knit. “Hold on, but didn’t you say humans are the only ones who can talk?”

“Yeah, and we are.” He finishes off a mouthful and looks at me again. “The rest are myths.”

I cock my head. “Myths?”

“Yeah, myths.” He takes yet another bite, but when I don’t respond, he waits until he’s stopped chewing and swallows before elaborating. “You know, legends, folklore, tall tales. Stories from ancient times and long-dead religions we cut up and retell and mix and mash to our heart’s content, like a Frankenstein’s monster of culturally significant texts.”

I blink.

“Never mind.” He shakes his head dismissively. “I’m a bit of a history nut. And let me tell you: my world does not have enough appreciation for what history can teach us. And those are some stories I can tell you, if you’d like.”

I remain silent, still processing what I’d just heard. And a few seconds later, I’m more or less completely up to speed. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”

He sighs and glances away. “Sorry, I’m just…”

“Tired?”

“…Yes and no. Mostly no, but… you know. Still adapting, and all that.”

I gently nod. “Must suck to be so far from home.”

“Yeah.” His gaze drifts over to the door, and then around the whole room. “It’s… certainly an experience, I’ll tell you that. I guess I’ll know just how different this place is when I’m allowed to walk again.”

I nod once more, keeping quiet, uncertain how I’m meant to soften that little blow. Well, a big blow, come to think of it — I can’t really say I’ve known anypony who’s found themselves stranded in a foreign land. But then an old thought strikes me — a thought that might steer the conversation back to friendly waters; we can’t change the past, but the future’s not set in stone. “Have you heard back from any of the princesses yet?”

“No.”

I blink in surprise. “No?”

“Nup. Nada.”

“…But it’s been a whole day, almost.”

“I know, but still, nothing.” He shrugs and finishes off his sandwich. “Look, I’m sure they’re good people, but… what’s the wellbeing of some random nobody compared to an entire nation?”

I continue to stare, now in a mixture of feelings; curiosity that nothing’s happened since I’d left, shock that he’d give up hope so soon, even jokingly, and unease over how blasé he’s being about the whole affair. “I’m sure they’ll make an exception,” I try to defend for no particular reason. “I know Twilight’s all about catering to the little guy."

“Sure, sure.” He nods to himself with puckered lips, then gives me a pointed look — not aimed at me, but shrewd all the same. “And yet, she hasn’t come.”

He’s no liar. He’s too smart for it. He wouldn’t dare be one with so many witnesses around, and especially if he knew how hard Redheart shut me down last night. But then that leaves Twilight, who wouldn’t be an alicorn if she weren’t worthy to lead, and Celestia would have a thing to say to her about neglecting her duties.

Unless Celestia’s…

No. No, that’s conspiracy theory territory, and I’m not about to pull a Soarin over some stupid little happenstances. Twilight’s just buried in her books, doing research, probably corresponding with her mentor in Canterlot. What she’s reading into, and what they’re talking about, I can’t say; that’s princess business, and I’ve no interest in delving through piles of scrolls and dusty tomes for the scantest reference of obscure creatures.

According to Rainbow, it’s almost like she gets off on it.

“But that’s okay, I guess.” He sighs and shrugs, then gestures to the tray. “With food like this, I’m not really in a rush.”

Although it comes out as earnest and light-hearted, I detect a hint of sarcasm behind the remark. Faint, expertly concealed, but there all the same. I know because I’ve made similar comments before. Better make another course correction. “So, what were you listening to?”

“Hm? Oh.” He picks up his device, pushes a small, almost invisible button on the side, and the screen lights up. He taps a few numbers, and the display fades into a list. “I Want to Break Free by Queen. Good song, great band.”

“Genre?”

“Rock, more or less — they’re kind of all over the place; a bit of opera, a bit of pop. Funk too, I guess. I don’t know. But they’re definitely, definitely iconic.”

I hesitate. “Sounds… interesting.”

“Trust me, it’s better when you actually hear them play.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

He holds my doubtful gaze for a moment, then glances away with a soft huff of recognition. “Well then, if they’re not your thing, there are plenty of others on here. My personal favourite’s Justice; a techno group from—”

“No techno.”

His eyes widen, his brows rise, and his lips stretch in an exaggerated look of surprise.

I slowly shake my head. “I loathe it with a passion.”

“Okay, okay, to each their own,” he says good-naturedly, lifting his hand once more in defence. “In that case, I suppose you’re a fan of more traditional stuff.”

Putting it so bluntly makes me sound so unsophisticated. Granted, I’ve never taken much pride in just how prim and proper I can be, but it stings a little. And it’s weird to think how saying such a simple fact could tug at strings I never thought I had. “I’m not a musical prude, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m… not. I’m just wondering if you’re… down to earth in this regard. Pardon the pun.”

I wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t pointed it out. But he’s right, and I’m being needlessly edgy about this, so I lower my gaze to the device in his hand and think for a while. “Progressive rock, I guess, if we’re talking newer styles,” I finally answer, meeting his eyes again. “Country too. Some pop. A few movie soundtracks on the side.”

“Ah, you like your instrumentals.”

I shrug. “Sometimes I want to fly without singing along.”

He nods idly, considering something. And then his face brightens, even if his smile doesn’t return. “Well, I don’t know what you’d like from the selection I have, but if you’re into a mix of rock, country and pop, I might have the song for you.”

One of my ears perks up, as does an eyebrow.

He scrolls up the list, taps on an item, then offers the earbuds. “George Michael’s Freedom.”

“What’s it about?”

He looks up in thought for a moment. “It comes from a time in his life when… the music industry was pushing him to be something he didn’t want to be. They claimed they knew what was best for him, but he wasn’t having it. And this song was his response.”

I hesitate, the short tale reminding me of my current predicament, but eventually accept his offer with my wingtips, and guide the earbuds to their rightful places.

“Huh,” he muses, watching as my wings return to my sides. “Feather-fingers…”

I look down to one and unfurl it, confused.

“Oh, no, sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.” He clears his throat. “Okay, so, uh… do you… want me to start, or…?”

I look at him curiously, but soon dismiss the thought and fold the wing again, shifting into a more comfortable position on the chair, nodding once. I’ll have plenty of time to ask what he meant by that later.

He nods in turn and taps the play button.

A tambourine comes through, and… a small pair of bongoes, I think. And after four short repetitions, a piano and bass guitar join in, quickly followed the silky voice of a stallion — or whatever I’m supposed to call a male human — with a lot of hidden range. And as soon as I hear all of this in unison, my eyes widen.

Sweet Celestia…

And before I know it, the singing’s gone and the music crescendos in an instrumental bridge, so undeniably groovy I’m sure I’d be bobbing along to it if I weren’t so impressed. And the hoof sliding down the keyboard is an excellent touch. But it also snaps me out of my stupor, and I take out an earbud to hear him properly. “This is country where you’re from?”

“Nah.” He gives me a playful, knowing look, and his smile returns. “But I had to say something so you’d give it a shot.”

Devious. Not as calculating or self-serving as Mum, for which I can be thankful, but cunning all the same. And I can’t really fault him for doing so when the music’s this enjoyable. I replace the earbud in time for the first proper verse, and the pre-chorus, and the delightfully grandiose chorus itself, and time slips by as I listen and bob and botch the lyrics.

He, on the other hoof, lip-synchs perfectly, even to the echoes and overlapping vocals; he knows this song inside and out. It’s probably a classic — has that iconic, old-school vibe — and although I’ve not heard it all the way through, I can see why it would be.

One track in and I’m already considering asking for them all.

I’ll have to bring my music player next time.

And then I stop.

…Next time?

I glance across to him to make sure I’m not being watched, only to find him nodding and swaying his head along to the beat with his eyes closed; I’m safe to think for a minute.

So… Next time…

There was always going to be a next time. You knew that.

Yes, sure, but… what, now I’m anticipating, or heavens forbid, keen on another meet-up?

Would it really be so bad?

…If it follows the same course as today’s meeting, no, I suppose not. But saying it, let alone thinking it, makes it sound so definite; there will be a next time, and nothing will get in the way of it. I’d have to plan ahead, shift things around — make time for it, as if it’s part of my everyday life from now until forever.

What else, then?

…Nothing, really. It’s just… a sobering realisation. This is the start of something irreversible — not without burning every single bridge I’ve built, at least. A new and uncertain chapter in my life. And I’m looking forward to the next step down this undiscovered path.

I’m actually… liking it.

Maybe Soarin and Spits were right about this.

I snort. If that’s the case, I’ll never admit it.

“Something up?”

A quick bolt of ice runs down my spine as my ears pin all the way back and I pluck the wires from them, staring at him with wide eyes. “Sorry?’

He examines me with a curious, concerned expression. “You looked a little lost in thought there for a second.”

“Oh.” Damn it, caught out. Better backtrack. I shakes my head. “Nothing, nothing, just… figuring out what the weather’s meant to be like on the way home.”

“Ah.” He turns to the window. “Looks pretty clear.”

“Sure, but… I don’t know Ponyville’s weather schedule.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Weather schedule?”

Oh, right, a land without ponies. “You know, like…”

I drift off as I hear something.

Voices. Two mares. One familiar, one less so.

I look to the open door, and spy the two approaching through the shallow angle I have on the gap; Redheart’s coat of pure white, and the purple coat of a relative stranger, even though I think I know who this stranger is. And sure enough, as they step inside, my hunch is proven correct.

Twilight Sparkle, the Princess of Friendship and Element of Magic, walks into the room, mainly focussing on Philip, but also taking notice of me. For Redheart, my presence doesn’t go unnoticed either, giving me a appreciate smirk, if with sly, knowing undertone I can’t quite pin the source of. Before she can speak, however, Twilight clears her throat.

“Good afternoon,” she welcomes, lifting her foreleg in a feeble attempt at a wave, putting on a brave face and sounding as confident as she can, but ultimately coming short by a few yards. “I’m Twilight Sparkle, Princess of Friendship, but you can just call me Twilight. Or Twi, or Light, or whatever takes your fancy.”

He doesn’t respond.

Neither do I.

I guess we both want to see how badly she’ll mess this up.

Twilight realises she’s not getting the reception she was hoping for and returns her hoof to the ground, her smile waning. “You must be Felipe Ajam Guadalupe Montero.”

“Philip.”

She shuts her mouth, ears lowering. “Of course,” she says to herself, then pipes up with a new grin. She’d be terrible at poker. “Well then, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Philip.”

Silence.

Now she knows she’s being grilled. “I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you sooner — princess duties and all that. Had to… you know… talk with Celestia a lot, get her approval, comb through archives of Equestria’s history.”

“In other words, nothing to do with running the country; you just shut yourself in a library for half a day.”

I look at him in surprise. Criticising the princesses from behind the scenes is something ponies do all the time, but talking smack right to one’s face — especially the one who’s saved the world a couple dozen times — is completely unprecedented. To my understanding, at least.

Even Redheart widens her eyes and puckers her lips, and she had no problem telling me off.

Twilight, however, shifts her wings and glances away with an uncomfortable frown. “Yes, I… may have gone a tad overboard with the preparation side of things,” she mumbles shamefacedly, though I feel like there’s more she isn’t saying. “But at least you had Redheart and Fleetfoot. They’re good company, right?”

I switch back to her and raise an eyebrow, setting the earbuds down on the bed. Was she seriously taking credit for the work of others?

Philip shares a short, meaningful stare between myself and the nurse, then returns to Twilight. “They’ve been alright so far,” he says with a soft, almost nostalgic sigh, and then drops his voice to a colder, cutting tone. “Better than some.”

This time, however, she doesn’t look away. She’s still a little guilty from being called out before, but her resolve has steeled; this is a problem, and it’s her duty as the Princess of Friendship to fix it. She looks to me with the same expression. “Fleetfoot, thank you for saving him and coming to see him today,” she says, trying to sound calm yet commanding, but the reluctance behind her mask is clear for all to see. “But I think it’s best if we talk alone for a while.”

Impending drama. Yes, time to vacate the premises. It doesn’t feel right to just leave him like this, but what else can I do? Defy Twilight? On what grounds? And… why do I care so much?

With a sigh, I shift in the chair and begin to hop off.

“Hey, Fleet.”

I stop and turn back to him.

He seems resigned to his fate, but hides it behind a look of concern. “Get some sleep before you see me again. Looks like you need it.”

My ear twitches, and I feel surprised he’d stop me just to say that. But there’s also… a small sense of gratitude coming through — that he’d remind me to take better care of myself, because Merciful Sisters know I haven’t been doing it lately. “Thanks.”

He nods with a faint, very faint smile before it fades away, then shoos me away with a wave of his hand. “Now, go on. Get. Let the grownups have their alone time.”

I smirk; humour in a less-than-ideal situation — can’t fault him for that. But there’s nothing left for me to do, as much as I… wish there was… and I slide from the chair and stroll for the door, giving both him and Twilight parting glances as I go.

Redheart follows, closing the door behind us as we exit the room and enter the hall, then make our way for the elevator round the corner. “So,” she begins after a few paces, “quite the looker, huh?”

“Oh, shove off,” I exclaim with a laugh, knocking her on the shoulder with a wing.

She’ll never let me live this down now.

And to be honest… I don’t think I mind.

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