‎
‎

A young moon hangs high above the ancient city of marble and gold, one ruled by the two young celestial sisters. The Sister of the Night, Luna, is vigilant on her dark blue, purple, and onyx throne, colored to match herself.

Celestia, the Sister of the Day, has retreated to her quarters for the evening. Now she sits under candlelight at her desk, located across the foot-end of her regal red and gold bed. She channels her vibrant yellow magic through her long, spiraling horn to dance a quill across parchment. Occasionally, she uses said magic to move her solid pink mane out of her face as it falls over her eyes from her semi-hunched position.

Weary and ready for rest, she scans her tired eyes across the words she wrote once again before finalizing her message. It takes a few seconds, but she manages to focus intently from the top.

The stress of ruling a country which emerged ‘victorious’ from the Great War roughly twenty years ago weighs heavily upon her still - a battle which involved every major country on Equus, with ponies having defended themselves from dragon and changeling forces for nearly eight-hundred years.

With much recovery yet to be had by Equestria, she has little time for extra curriculars such as what she is doing now. Still, she forces the time. She shoves everything and anything out of the way to get this letter sent – a letter that she has been meaning to send for years. In this case, she moves aside her precious sleep to reread this letter one last time.

To my dearest pupil,

I know you want nothing more but to be left alone. The horrors you had to endure have not been lost on me, even after the seven years you have been gone. I know you have told me time and time again that you want no charity from me, but I have conjured an idea that will surely satisfy both of our concerns.

At my request, the human rally being held at the end of the month has been pre-configured to house the most favorable options for at-home training and domestic care. I know that you have yet to conclude your personal tests – a work which has remained incomplete for many years after you left Canterlot.

With that said, I believe this would be a perfect opportunity to finally add closure to those tests, even if at a smaller scale. This would also serve to ease the pain in my heart knowing that you finally have companionship after your prolonged isolation. I beg that you accept this gift. But, if you wish to reject it, please send me a letter of reply before the end of the week. If I receive no correspondence or if you send a letter of acceptance, please be prepared for your gift to arrive at exactly eighteen-hundred on Friday directly to your bedroom. I will assume the layout of your home has not changed.

I want nothing but the best for you, Moonlight. I miss you dearly. I hope to hear from you soon, even if the message you relay is negative. Maybe one day you may grace me with your presence again.

My loving regards,

Celestia

With a deep exhale through her nose, she sets the quill back into its pot and leaves the parchment splayed so it may dry. She rises from her desk, nearly falling asleep before she even reaches her bed. She kicks her golden slippers off, unlatches her breastplate, and sets her crown down on the nightstand next to her bed.

Within seconds of crawling onto her soft, inviting bed, she succumbs to sleep. She bothered not to even cover herself with blankets to stave off the cold night.

‎

---

‎

Morning comes. The rays of the sun violently sting everything that attempts to sleep under its gaze.

This includes a human man who lies flat on his back. He twitches at the terrible burning throughout his body, feeling as if he had been forced through an industrial drier. His eyelids tremble before they slowly break open, and his exhausted hazel eyes stare at the sky. He watches clouds lazily flying by through a mass of tall trees and vines. He does not realize it, but his ability to properly rationalize is completely absent.

He remains there, resting on a bed of grass as the world passes him by. He is not sure how long he lies there, listening to the chimes of nature that fill the environment, without a single thought passing through his head.

Finally, lost of any particular rhyme or reason, he decides it is time to rise. He sits up, rubbing his eyes and forehead before he takes in his surroundings. He sees he is inside some sort of jungle, or a forest maybe. This much greenery comes off as alien to him. Everything is completely unfamiliar. Sounds of animals and rustling flora breathe life into this humid expanse.

He looks down at his hands, staring at the back, then his palms. Everything in this place feels surreal, the first and only contemplation that strikes him is that this is just a dream. His mind draws blanks at every corner, and even if he felt like stopping to think, nothing would make sense. Blurry memories are present in his mind, but he does not think on them, he only skims over them as if they were not important.

He gets up onto his feet and focuses again on his current location. The first thing he notices is that he is sitting in the middle of a rather unnatural clearing. A faded path, he thinks. There is no way nature would cut and topple grass and vines in this pattern. He silently assumes that this path is probably how people get in and out of this jungle without getting completely lost. He takes a faith fall in one of the path’s directions in hopes that it will lead to a nearby town, and he begins his trek.

With no objective, no goal in mind, he keeps moving. He looks down at himself, noticing that he is in his working get-up, consisting of a dark grey cloth shirt, dark grey slacks, brown boots, and brown duster coat. The air is slightly nippy, so this form of attire could not be better. His deep red hair that he usually keeps tidy is a mess, unkempt and flowing in a backwards manner. Dark circles mark his lower eyelids, drawing an air of deprivation on his face. He has become accustomed to being unable to sleep very well, but his exhaustion does not serve him well in this dreamy endeavor.

The sparking engine that is his mind barely registers any stimulus around him. It is almost as if he is in auto-pilot, having his body moving autonomously while his consciousness simply tags along for the ride. He continues walking and shifting his half-lidded eyes, keeping on the dirt path.

Soon, he comes to a stop when this awkwardly formed, extremely faded path he took leads him to an end, in front of a large, rocky jut of earth. It is some sort of cave entrance, a mine maybe. What really prods his interest is the golden-encrusted doorframe and door that gives entry to this mysterious structure. Whatever it is he found, it is definitely man-made.

That surreal feeling still envelops his senses. A dreamy feeling. This is definitely a dream, he thinks. This forest, this door, and everything about his current situation, the only feasible conclusion is that he's still asleep. Viola is probably going to make breakfast soon, and she will wake him up like she always does.

So then, curious and without caution, he reaches to the door’s dust-covered, oddly shaped door handle. He gasps it and tugs it lightly, attempting to pull it open.

Click

His eyes narrow and his brows furrow, hearing an odd mechanism from the other side activate. “Hrgh,” he grunts, taking one step back away from the door.

But his caution is futile. There is a pang and a wisp, and something comes shooting out from the left side of the forest. He feels a sharp, burning sensation on his left shoulder, causing him to grunt and backpedal from the door quickly. Upon examining his arm, he sees a white, feather-ended dart stuck to his shoulder. Even though he is seeing the dart impaled into him, he does not internalize what has happened to him.

His entire left arm quickly goes numb. This may be a dream, but the pain is so real. He reaches for the dart, wincing when he forcefully yanks it out. He brings the dart up to his face and examines it. He is impressed at how deep it was lodged, at least an inch deep. The end of the dart still seems to be dripping some sort of poison.

Only seconds pass and the toxin works its beauty. He huffs an unsteady breath as his legs begin to go numb and his balance begins to fail. He attempts to take a few more steps away from the door, but falls to his knees instead. His vision blurs as he loses sensation to the left half of his body. Perhaps this is not a dream and he is actually in danger.

He tries to speak, attempting to call for anyone who could help, but his mouth only falls to lazily hang open. The sensations he feels mix erratically, they feel so real, but they also do not make any sense.

He cannot use his voice, and he cannot move anymore. It appears that he is not going to get any help. So now, he ponders whether he should fall forward and close his eyes, or continue trying to struggle. If this is a dream, there is really no reason to struggle. He will wake up, and everything will be fine. Just some sort of weird nightmare.

In the off-chance that it is not, he is probably screwed. But he is too dazed to give it very much thought.

He unwillingly chooses the former when he slumps forward, cheek hitting the moist dirt. He stares at the golden door with falling eyelids. He has known every small town near his stead his entire life, and he does not ever remember seeing anything like this before. He does not remember a forest being located even remotely nearby.

The sleepy feeling drowns away any effort to keep thinking critically. The sounds of nature slowly fade away as he closes his eyes. Maybe he will wake up. It is probably just a dream.

‎

---

‎

His breathing is quiet and rasp. He can feel his heart beating in his ears. He is barely conscious, and he is too weak to try and open his eyes.

He thinks he can hear some footsteps. Sounds like someone walking with heavy shoes on wooden floor. Viola? Viola is probably awake already. Maybe. She does not walk in the house with shoes on, so it could not be her clacking the floor like that.

Alas, he deems it too difficult to come up with a concrete conclusion. Thinking is too hard right now, maybe he should just sleep some more.

He finds that to be a great idea, and into the dreamscape he melds again.

‎

---

‎

Consciousness returns, sensations come flooding back. Everything hurts. A lot. Pain shocks his body when he tries to move.

He forces his eyes open, closes them, then forces them open again. He stares at a wooden ceiling, an unfamiliar ceiling. An unfamiliar bed. A rather small bed, actually. His feet are hanging off the opposite end to the headrest.

With some effort, he moves his head to look around the room. There is a nightstand next to the bed on the left, a closet dresser on the other side to the right, and a window next to that dresser which looks out to an unfamiliar sight. A wall of trees and shrubbery sit after a flowing river that falls off of a cliff-side nearby. The forest there is possibly the same forest he was in previously before being rescued. At least, he assumes he was rescued. He jumps to the conclusion that he is still dreaming. He knows it is probably not a dream, but he cannot find an answer in any other region of his brain.

The room he is in is very simple, almost too simple. No decorations, no paintings, flowers, furnishings, nothing. It is slightly irksome, but the structural integrity of the room he is in is clean and promising.

After staring around for a while, he decides he should try to stand up. With a heave and a ho’, he hauls himself up, sitting upright on the bed. He lets out a groan as he does, his eyes go crossed for a moment. He takes off the red and grey blankets that cover him and sets them aside. He swings his legs off the left side of the bed, sitting on the edge. The bed is strangely low to the ground. Now that he thinks of it, everything in here is kind of small. The dresser is not very big, the nightstand might as well be a footstool, and that door that exits the room looks like a headache waiting to happen.

He stands up, stumbling over to the wall closest to him as to support his weak form. He remains still and gets his bearings, breathing in deeply to fill his body with much-needed oxygen.

He immediately notices that his clothes are missing. All of them. Including undergarments. Going commando. He cannot be sure who took his clothes and what the reason for it was, but he will be sure to give them a stern talking-to about modesty.

He no longer hears the steps that he swore he heard earlier, and the lack of sounds or talking from the other parts of the home allows him to deem his nakedness unimportant for the moment. Though it may be due to a lack of better judgement, but he opines that gathering information on his current whereabouts is more important than fretting over his uncalled for nudity.

Once confident in his strength, he stops leaning on the wall and stands on his own. His knees feel weak, his arms are heavy. Dry palms though. Dry everything. He is dehydrated and terribly hungry.

”Water…”

He smacks his dry mouth and places a hand on his empty stomach. He slowly paces towards the oddly short door, opening it and peering to the other side. It leads into a hallway, and this hall contains another neighboring door to this one on the left, and two doors adjacent on the other side of the hall. The right side of the hall leads towards the living room and kitchen, they appear to be conjoined as one large room. The finds this layout oddly familiar. He ducks his head down and exits the bedroom.

He stretches his back as he walks, a mixture of a yawn and a grunt of pain leaving his opened mouth. His feet lightly resonate against the sturdy wooden floor with each step. The kitchen is small, just as everything else here. The living room on the other side has a three-cushion couch and a single cushion couch, plus a tiny coffee table in the middle. They're awkwardly shaped, but the strange furniture is the least of his concerns as he strides over to the kitchen faucet, turning it on and chugging water in a terribly immodest fashion. He closes his eyes and savors every drop.

After nearly water-logging himself, he pulls away and lets out a deep sigh. He clears his throat, banishing the frogs from inside, then he stretches his vocal chords by saying 'hello' in several different pitches. His eyes scan his surroundings while he rubs his neck.

To his pleasant surprise, there on the counter-top next to the water faucet is a plate of watermelon slices, three to be exact. He knows it is rude to take without asking, but he will be sure to make up for his indulging behavior in due time. Who ever it is that rescued him, he is deeply in debt to them already. So, with no holds barred, he attacks the slices of delicious fruit until there is nothing left but green smiles.

With something to keep his stomach occupied for a while, he finally takes some time to take a hold of his situation. The first thing he checks is his left shoulder. Indeed, there is a small red hole where the dart went in. He touches it with his right index finger, furrowing his brows. For the considerable amount of damage it caused, he feels completely fine.

"Guess I’m… alright," he whispers to himself. His voice is deep and has a rigid western drawl. "… Where the hell am I?" he questions quietly, looking around this quiet, inappropriately sized home. It is kind of comfortable, taking on an aesthetic that is right at home with him. Good old hard wood as the frame inside, probably cinder block on the outside. Hardwood floors, walls, ceiling. Fine craftsmanship, even if the proportions are not quite right. He runs his finger along the kitchen counter-top, which is made of wood as well. Not a spec of dust or grime. This lodge of-sorts is missing a lot of personal touch to it in the decorations department, but it makes up for it in cleanliness.

Though now all of that water he drank is coming back like a boomerang as the outdoors begin to call to him. He is not sure where the restroom is and he does not want to go prying deep into someone else's home without their knowing. He thinks taking care of business outside would be the modest thing to do, and besides, being cooped up inside for so long is making him a little restless. He begins his way to the front door, reaching for the handle—

“Nh,” he suddenly juts backwards as the door opens by itself.

”What the…?”

“What the!?” a voice calls. A raspy, tomboy-ish female voice.

There. He sees a horse... thing. A small horse with huge eyes. And it just spoke. It looks at him, confused and bewildered. The same expression takes his face. He cannot begin to fathom what he is looking at. It even has wings... feathered wings. Feathered wings on a horse.

”The fuck...?”

The horse thing has deep black hair with grey highlights, bright, expressive magenta eyes, and a tan coat that is covered in dirt and musk. The horse is also wearing… clothes? It looks like a faded green cloth over-shirt with a grey undershirt. The over-shirt is fitted with pockets and—

“You’re… awake?” the horse says, causing his train of thought to crash and burn. She pauses, as if to take his existence in. Her posture is tense, defensive even, but as he simply stands there and does nothing, she slowly relaxes. “... Huh. I'm impressed. After your second day out, I didn’t think you were gonna make it.” She chuckles somewhat awkwardly and puts up a wry smile. An odd smile. Nothing about her is normal to him, but seeing a facial expression like that on such a creature is baffling. "Good thing you did though, sure would have sucked if you died. Now I'll probably be able to sell you by tomorrow evening, at LEAST two-thousand bits to some horny Canterlot mare. Easy.” Her smile is seemingly directed to herself. "Maybe more than that. You sure are a handsome one, let me tell ya'~ It’s the stupid, handsome ones that sell the best. Plus, with those looks and that thing between your legs, you'll bid faster than my mom's old cherry fritters~"

His eyes are plastered on her with deep criticism. He is ripe to try and speak up, but the very idea of what he is witnessing forces his mouth closed and his mind to sprint. His outside is collected, but inside, he is screaming. He has no idea how he ended up here, why he is here, or who this horse thing is. She has been talking about him being stupid or whatever, she has been going on about selling him. Like trafficking? Is he in some reach of Mexico that has English-speaking animals that sell humans or some shit?

“Wonder who your owner was. They seriously dropped the ball letting you get lost. Well-trained and quiet, my two favorite things. Welp, their loss.” She turns to look at him, bringing her flank into the air and stretching. Bones pop audibly and she sighs in relief. “Got a full day of things to do and places to see tomorrow. Gonna need to find a way to hold you down till then. Leeet’s see here…” The talking horse reaches into her bags with her muzzle, taking out a collar and a leash.

The man's eyes sharpen in distaste. All trepidation and confusion is replaced with brash survival instinct. The horse makes her way towards him, collar in her mouth. She is going to put that on him. She is gonna leash him up like an animal.

Just as he assumed, she flies up to him with her wings and uses her right hoof to take the collar, reaching over to strap it around his neck--

Clasp.

"Gch!" the tan horse's eyes dilate to grains of sand. The human has suddenly reached out with his hand, gripping the horse's hoof to keep her from collaring him.

"... You ain't gonna put that shit on me," he states sternly.

“Ych! Ick!" the horse tries to pull her hoof away, but finds her strength completely overwhelmed by his. She flaps her wings quickly in a panic to get loose. Willingly, he lets her go, causing her to drop the collar onto the floor and fly back, falling back down onto her four legs. Her mortified expression trembles back at him as she steps all the way until she presses up against the door. "Y-You could TALK the entire time!?"

"Yeah. I can."

"You--You--! You understand me!? What the fuck!? You--Yooou--!” a blush takes her face, from her cheeks to her muzzle.

"I'm just as fucked up as you are, horse. But let's worry about this in a minute, I need to go outside 'n piss real bad," he says as he walks towards her, heading towards the door which she is blocking.

The small horse’s mind short-circuits, but her body moves instinctively. With a mixture of disgust and anger, she flies up with her wings to move out of the way, gawking with pure bewilderment.

The man speed-walks out the door, nearly hitting his head on the way out. He stomps past the wooden porch and down some steps onto the grass. He scopes quickly. He finds a suitable tree to run behind, and lets Niagara fall.

…

The little tan horse, left alone in the lodge while the human relieves himself, furrows her brows and shakes her head. She lands near the coffee table, still shook by what just happened. “Seriously, what in tartarus was that! That… that THING was--! ... It can talk!? ... Huugh, I was talking about his dick right in front of him AND I called him handsome! ... I’ll never live this down,” her ears lie flat on her head and her eyes squint in self-disdain. The human comes walking back into the house, shutting the door behind himself. The horse grits her teeth and immediately shifts her accusative gaze towards him, “You’ve got a lot of explaining to--! … do…?” the horse tilts her head in confusion.

“… What?” asks the human, holding a large forest leaf over his crotch.

“… What’re you doing?”

“The hell you think? It’s called modesty. You took my clothes and decided it fit to hide 'em.”

“Oh. Your… clothes. … Ehehe, yeah, about that…” the horse rubs the back of her head, causing the human to squint. The mare clears her throat and continues, “I… um. Kind of sold them.”

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’,” he brings his palm to his forehead.

“They were worth a lot, at least! And like you even NEED clothes! Humans don’t wear clothes!”

“You’re insane, horse. The hell’s the matter with you? Humans don’t wear clothes? I’m sure the unfortunate souls havin’ to bare witness to my hangin’ cock would say otherwise. Where in the sam-hell am I? Where's my sister?” His tone progressively sharpens.

The mare recoils defensively, “Horse!? Pony! I'm a pony, not a damn horse! No duh we talk! How are YOU talking? And what sister!? I found you alone! You’ve got a lot of explaining to do!” the little pony stomps her hoof on the wooden floor and becomes visibly agitated.

“Explainin’? I ain’t explainin’ shit, lil' miss 'gonna sell you to some horny mare.' You've got some explainin' to do. I'm ripe to find the fucker responsible fer this mess 'n put 'em in the ground.”

The tan pony gawks him down bitterly, seeing that he now blocks the exit. He returns the favor and glares at her in return. They keep this standoff, waiting for one of them to break face.

"... Less that fucker was you."

The winged pony visibly startles. She does her best to appear firm and angry, but it becomes increasingly difficult to keep her composure under his stare and his words. His body has cuts and scars everywhere, the bags under his eyes give him a sinister appearance, and the sharp, frizzled energy of his hair makes him look unstable. He is easily three times her size. Maybe more.

The mare finally caves in. "F-Fine! It wasn't me, I have no idea how you even got here! I'll tell you what I saw, just... stay over there and don't hurt me."

"Looks like I won't need to. Now start talkin’."

With his simple reply, the pony visibly relaxes. "... This is all crazy. A talking human. Wow. I wouldn't believe it, but it's right here. Guess pigs will start flying next.” She drops her defensive position and stands straight, looking at the human who is still protecting his soft spot. “You’re in Equestria, I guess. Land of the 'talking horses.'”

"Is that a state or a country?"

"What? Seriously? Equestria is like, one of the world's biggest countries. How could you not know this?"

"Because we don't have a damn 'Equestria' where I'm from. You meanin' to tell me I ain't even on Earth?"

"What the 'hell' is an Earth?"

"... Holy fuckin' shit," he lets his head hang with sorrow. His uses his free hand to press his index finger and his thumb against his eyes harshly. "... Jesus Christ, well... guess I'll follow up with, what 'world' are we in?"

"... Equus," she response with a bit more patience than before. "... Since you’re obviously not from ‘here', you're from... Earth.”

He sighs deeply, only now internalizing the situation he is found present in. “... Yeah. Land of the talkin’ humans. Some country named America. Fixin’ to believe I ain’t dreamin’.”

“Definitely not a dream. Better realize it soon."

"You'll excuse me if I take time to acclimate."

"Yeah, whatever. ... So, uh... how did a talking ape appear in Equestria?”

“That was my next question... was hopin' you had an answer to that." His heart beats in his ears as his tension pulses around his body harshly. "How the fuck did this even happen? I've got no clue how I got here. None of this makes a lick'a damn sense.”

“Yeah, well, YOU don’t exactly make any sense either. You’re not supposed to even exist. Humans. Don’t. Talk.” Her aggressive voice churns in the man's ears.

“Quit jumpin' at me, I didn't ask to be suddenly transported to horse world. Ain't nobody I know that got the power to plant me on foreign soil like this. All I know is that I don't belong here, and I need out of this place and back to mine. I've got shit to worry about that don't involve this. I've got a sister to take care of, and I bet she's worried sick because I suddenly up 'n left."

“Yeah, good luck with that. You’re probably just gonna get killed or sold to some fancy-shmancy elite in Canterlot,” she looks away dismissively. “Hmh. Or worse.”

The man eyes her silently, slowing down to think. This leads to him simply eyeing her for a few seconds as she puffs her chest in an attempt to dismiss him. "... I've got a proposition." The pony’s eyes turn to the human irately. “I don’t know a thing about this ‘Equestria’ place. I won’t get killed, promise you that... but I don't know the first thing about the land or who lives here. Won’t know where to go, or what to do.”

“What are you suggesting?” she flicks her tail with false disinterest.

He gazes into her eyes with a bored, unamused expression. "I’m gonna need your help to get home. You seem to know your way around. If I somehow got here, there's a somehow on gettin' back, right? Help me get home, I'll be out of your hair and you can keep the money you got from sellin' my clothes."

“And WHY do I have to help you? Just like you said, I've got too many things to worry about that don't involve this."

“Hmh. Already got the money from what's mine. Suppose you don’t really have to. No one's forcin' you, least I certainly won't. Consider it my gesture fer you rescuin' me, even if yer intentions were ill-made. I’ll be gone tonight and you won’t see me ever again, ain’t gotta worry about that freaky talkin’ human anymore." He looks away towards the door.

“I’ve got enough trouble,” the pony says, looking at the ground. "... Good luck finding your way back home." The human looks at the pony once again, giving her a complete look-down. Her eyes shift towards and away from him over and over as she feels his weighty gaze. After some silence, her ears drop to her head and her muzzle scrunches. "What?"

“What’s yer name?”

“Why do you even care?”

“Just wanna know the name of the, uh…” he clears his throat, “pony... that saved me from rotting out there, and tell her thanks. Couldn't make it home if I was dead.”

The pony remains looking at the ground for a moment before she lifts her head and looks proudly at the human, as if some sort of inner ego resurged inside of her. “I don't know why I'm bothering to tell you this, but... the name's Dahlia Do."

"Got a nice ring to it."

"I know it does, but listen. If you ever speak to anypony about me for whatever reason, my name's Wisp. And leave it at that. Otherwise, you're dead to me.”

"Uh... sure, I guess. Any reason why?"

"There is, but it's none of your business."

He shrugs and takes some time to nod in acceptance. “Right, well. Pleasure to meet you, Dahlia. Thanks. Fer savin’ me 'n all. It’s appreciated.”

“Yeah, yeah, save the soft stuff for someone who likes that crap." Her ears suddenly perk up when a thought comes across her. "… Hey, I’m curious. How do you feel right now?”

“Now that you mention it, I feel fine actually,” he replies, looking down at his shoulder that still has a puncture wound from the dart.

“… That was a lot of poison pumped into you. I was sucking for like half an hour."

“Huh. You must’a gotten to me just after I blacked out if you were still able to do that.”

“Well, I don’t know when you passed out, but the wound was still fresh. It also looked like the poison wasn’t able to spread around much. There was a lot of it, but it didn’t go everywhere, which is... weird. But also lucky for you. That amount of poison in those darts is enough to topple several ponies or humans. A bison even. How are you still alive?” she gives him a skeptical look.

“Just as clueless as you are."

“… Mm. So. What’s your name?” Dahlia questions.

“’Why do you even care?’” he replies boredly.

“Ha, ha. Funny. When you’ve got a manticore sneaking up behind you, I won’t know your name to tell you you’re in danger.” She flicks her tail with a pseudo lack of interest.

“You can call me Crimson, ts'what everyone else does."

Dahlia smiles slightly, pondering on his name. "Crimson, huh? Crimson, crimson, crimson. Weird word when you say it a lot."

"Lotta words end up that way if you do that. Anyways, do they sell human clothes here? Reckon they do since you sold mine.”

“Okay, I get it. Stop harping me about that. I'll get you some, but we’ll get on that tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, huh? That to say we're a team?"

"Don't get too excited. For now, just… uuh… here,” she trots off towards her room.

Crimson watches her disappear behind the doorframe. He stands there, his resting face unlively and exhausted. Dahlia finally comes back with a small grey cotton shirt that seems fairly stretchy.

“Here. Put this around your waist or whatever. And don’t get your junk smell all over it.”

“Yeah. Seein' as how you were real keen on commenting about it earlier, wouldn't want you enjoyin’ the scent.” He says this so sarcastically, he almost sounds serious. He sets the leaf he was holding onto a counter next to him, then he takes the shirt and ties it around his waist.

She scoffs, unable to hide a small blush that forms on her cheeks. “Gross. Don’t say shit like that. Like, ever again." She tries to regain her cold composure with a deep inhale. "... So. If you're looking to tag along with me, you're playing by my rules. The game plan I had for tomorrow is to resupply. That’ll be a good opportunity to get you familiar with the world around you. If we’re gonna help you get home, you gotta know the ropes. Luckily for you, you’ve got Equestria’s number one tomb raider and adventurer to aid your cause.”

“You steal from dead folk?”

“Yes. I mean, well, I guess. Don’t word it like that!” He gestures with his hands carefully and apologetically. “You wasted almost three days sleeping on my bed. It probably smells like you now."

"Three days? That's more sleep than I've gotten in the past month."

"Are you serious?" she asks with concern, to which he nods tiredly. "That's horrible. What's wrong with you?"

"Too many things to count."

Dahlia sighs out another stressed breath. "Well try your best to get some sleep, because we’re gonna be up bright and early tomorrow. I won’t have you lagging behind me.” The man nods with seldom a reaction. “... You sure you're okay?” She leans a little closer to him.

"Yeah, I'm alright. Why?"

"You just look kind of... dull-face. Out of it. That's pretty standard for humans in Equestria, but I know you can make faces."

"Making faces is hard."

"... Is it really?"

"Nah, was just jokin'. Born this way, is all."

Dahlia huffs and rolls her eyes, “It wasn't a good joke. Listen, I’m the only smartass around here. Don't try and be funny with me, alright?"

"If I can help it."

"Seriously. The only one allowed to makes jokes is me. Get some sleep, would ya’? You look... bad," she comments as she makes her way to her room.

“I'll give it effort. G’night, Dahlia.” His eyes follow her as she recedes.

The gesture of telling her goodnight causes her to freeze in place momentarily. It seems like she is contemplating what to say in return, which only turns out to be, “... Yeah.”

It comes off clearly to the man that banter is her style, but more intimate speaking might throw her off.

Her door shuts and Crimson is left to his own. He looks around the quiet, darkening home. He finds the couch speaking to him, so he walks over to it, sitting down and coming down onto his back. His calves and feet hang off the edge, but the couch itself is rather comfortable. He stares at the ceiling, his mind starts to rattle - rattle with all of the things he knows he should be thinking about. Only few things come up in his mind, his sister, his home, his family... and that voice. Maybe with a good night’s rest, things will come back.

He closes his eyes, exhaling deeply through his nose. He prays to the up above that this is just some sort of fucked up nightmare.

Next Chapter: Dodge Junction Estimated time remaining: 29 Hours, 48 Minutes