Birds of a Feather


                                            >It's a dark and stormy night

                                            >Well, dark and cloudy at the very least

                                            >Quite mild actually, for an evening on the East coast

                                            >Especially considering it had only been two weeks since the last snow fall

                                            >Didn't matter to you of course, cozied up in your little apartment

                                            >Sure it was just a single room, but it's not like you had anyone over

                                            >You know...ever

                                            >But at least you had the internet

                                            >It would never leave you at least

                                            >Actually tonight was more interesting than usual

                                            >Cruising around the gayest board on the web (second gayest if Reddit counted) a thread had piqued your interest

                                            >Adjusting the patch covering your missing eye, you begin reading with the one you had left

                                            >OP, the faggot, was offering two options to you

                                            >You could go to Equestria, but you'd be friend-zoned forever despite being perfectly accepted

                                            >Or you could bring your favourite to Earth, scared, lonely, completely dependent on you for everything, slowly falling in love over time...

                                            >You hit that keyboard harder than Ray Rice as you type out your reply before anyone else can

                                            >'Option 2'

                                            >You weren't dickless wonderfag, you had needs man

                                            >As you hit enter and reread the OP, the rest of its catches sink in

                                            >Irrational, terrified, confused, and if anyone ever saw her....

                                            >Even as you feel the weight of your haste pressing down on you, a sharp crack of lightening makes you jump out of your seat

                                            >Slowly, as rain begins to patter down outside, you regain your composure and sit back down

                                            >Refreshing the thread, you notice you're actually the third reply

                                            >And that it had exploded with posts

                                            >They keep piling up, and inside fifteen minutes it's hit 499 replies

                                            >Almost immediately after number 499, a final post was made

                                            >It was that famous picture of the fedora tipper, but for some reason the words set a chill in your core

                                            >It simply read 'Good luck'

                                            >On the next refresh, the bright red text of a furious god of cleanliness appear at the bottom of the thread

                                            >Another peal of thunder sounds, and suddenly the lights go out

                                            >For a moment, everything is still besides the fans winding down in your computer and the pounding of your heart

                                            >A quork sounds from the other room, reminding you of your OTHER responsibility

                                            >You sigh as your pulse slows down and comfort yourself knowing that at least your pet is okay

                                            >Fumbling around in the dark, you manage to find your way over to the fridge and take out a bit of diced beef you had been saving for stew

                                            >Sighing, you take a few of the smaller bits and grab the flashlight from the top of the refrigerator while you're at it

                                            >You flip it on and nearly leap out of your skin as Huginn, your pet raven, flaps to an awkward landing on your shoulder

                                            >You stroke his head and slowly  feed him the bits of meat from your hand

                                            >He'd been yours since you were a kid

                                            >Your mother had brought him in after finding him in the backyard with a broken wing

                                            >With the help of a veterinarian that lived across the street, you'd nursed him back to health

                                            >After that, even though you'd tried to release him, he'd always come back

                                            >Eventually, when you had moved out, he simply followed along when you'd driven to the new apartment

                                            >Sure there might have been a “no pets” policy, but what the landlord didn't know wouldn't get you evicted

                                            >Your thoughts turn back to the weird occurrence that had happened with that thread

                                            >So many replies in such a short time

                                            >And then that last one, the near instant deletion, and subsequent power outage

                                            >But it's not like any of it could be real, you think

                                            >After all, despite your highest wishes to the contrary, Equestria was just pure fiction

                                            >You sigh in a mixture of relief and depression, happy that at least you hadn't hurt anyone with your moment of selfishness

                                            >Suddenly, an almighty thud echoes from the balcony and Huginn flaps off your shoulder and jumps to his perch, cawing loudly in alarm

                                            >The scare nearly gives you a heart attack, and your pulse skyrockets again

                                            >Apprehensively, you make your way over to the glass doors to the outside and peer through the darkened glass with your eye

                                            >There's a lump on your patio

                                            >It's not small either, easily the size of a Saint Bernard, but still as the grave

                                            >You open the sliding door and step out, immediately being lashed with heavy rain

                                            >Resisting the urge to cry out for Jason, you place a hand on the lump with a great deal of caution

                                            >You feel the texture of wet fur, but feathers as well, and your breath catches in your throat

                                            >Abandoning your previous fear, you pick the ragged bundle up in your arms and rush it inside

                                            >With a hum, the power comes back at last, and guilt nearly overwhelms you as you look down at what you're carrying

                                            >In your arms, shivering and looking in a great deal of pain, is Gilda

                                            -

                                            >The seconds tick by like hours as you stare down at the gryphon in your arms

                                            >Shock has drained your rational mind entirely and frozen you in place

                                            >Despite the reintroduced electricity, the room seems quieter than a mausoleum

                                            >So it's a surprise to you when your first thought is “That's not a pony”

                                            >The absurdity of such a flicker of thought finally snaps you back to the present and sets your mind racing

                                            >Fortunately instead of having an existential crisis about posts on the internet and how they impact other realities, your better nature takes over

                                            >You set Gilda down on the one couch you have and fetch a thick towel from the bathroom

                                            >When you come back, you give her a more thorough examination before you even think of drying her off

                                            >It's only then you notice her left wing

                                            >At first glance, it looks okay, but when you look closer...

                                            >Near the end the wing turns from a graceful arc into a sharp turn downwards, clearly broken

                                            >What's more, most of the primary feathers are either snapped or plucked clean out

                                            >You swallow and scratch the back of your head, then turn your back on Gilda and sprint to your computer

                                            >Over the next half hour you pore over every reference image of Gilda's wings you can find

                                            >Another half hour sees you comparing them to various other birds, finding the closest match possible to her wing shape, down to the angle of feathers

                                            >And finally, gathering the materials for splinting a bird wing properly

                                            >But more of course, she wasn't exactly normal bird sized

                                            >At last, you're ready

                                            >You move as quietly as possible back to the gryphon sprawled over your couch

                                            >Before anything, you do a gentle, swift examination of her vitals

                                            >Her breathing is steady, if shallow and rattling oddly

                                            >There's no obvious blood, on the surface at least

                                            >But as you move to touch her wing and begin to splint it, a slight noise stops your hands dead

                                            >A strange squeaking emanates from Gilda's limp form

                                            >For all the world it sounds like the whimper of a puppy, but in the same staccato of a bird chirping

                                            >You stay frozen, hands hovering over her

                                            >The guilt of exactly what you've done stills you to your core

                                            >It's hard for you to even breathe

                                            >A moment of selfishness tore someone away from everything they knew and cared for, and thrust them into the unknown and why?

                                            >Because it was just a dumb thread

                                            >Almost unconsciously, you gently start patting the feathers of her wing dry in preparation

                                            >Your thoughts continue along the same path though

                                            >How were you supposed to know that this was going to happen?

                                            >You'd never believed any of those retarded theories about the multiverse or whatever

                                            >So it was totally impossible to blame you for this

                                            >But despite you being blameless, you still have to deal with the consequences

                                            >The universe was unfair like that

                                            >But hey, now you'd get to hang out with Gilda!

                                            >Right as soon as you patch her up of course

                                            >And with that thought, you yank yourself back to the present and prove that the internet isn't complete trash

                                            >Throughout the entire operation Gilda keeps making the whimpering noise

                                            >You suppose crossing space and time is more than mildly traumatic

                                            >It was bad enough to break her wing, who knows what it could have done to her mind

                                            >But you're no psychologist, so you focus on the things you can fix

                                            >Eventually you get the wing positioned as close to all the references as possible and set it with your materials

                                            >Having done the best job you can, you go ahead and start drying off the rest of her

                                            >As you do so, Huginn hops along the back of the couch, croaking curiously at the strange creature occupying it

                                            >You scratch his back feathers as you work the towel along Gilda's back

                                            “She's going to be our guest for a little while Huginn. That means no pecking her, got it?”

                                            >For his part, the raven looks at you and cocks its head sideways, looking as though it's asking why

                                            >That or making a sarcastic comment about speaking to animals

                                            >As you're smiling to yourself about that last thought, you notice Gilda's eyes snap open

                                            >And then, near instantly, you're against the opposite wall and staring at a furious gryphon stalking towards you

                                            -

                                            >Out of nowhere, Huginn swoops down and pecks at Gilda's face, croaking furiously

                                            >She screeches and leaps sideways, slamming her broken wing into the wall

                                            >Another screech of pain and she collapses to the ground, shivering

                                            >Slowly, carefully you approach her prone form

                                            >You hear that same whimpering sound as before, punctuated with quiet sobs

                                            >With a gentle grip, you pick her up and bring her back over to the couch

                                            >Huginn perches on your shoulder when you set her down, clacking his beak in a warning to the gryphon

                                            >You pet the top of the raven's head and reexamine the bandaged wing

                                            >It doesn't look like she shifted it at all, which is good

                                            >But the impact alone would have been excruciating

                                            >Gilda's breath is coming in gasps, and her eyes are wide open and fixed on you

                                            >You sit at the other end of the couch from where you laid her and force yourself to relax

                                            >Huginn hisses and snaps his beak at Gilda, until you take a peanut from a dish on your coffee table and feed it to him

                                            >For her part, Gilda continues to stare at you silently and barely even blinks

                                            >You do your best to ignore her and turn on the television

                                            >You flick to a news channel, just so you can have some background noise then return your gaze to Gilda

                                            >Her feathers puff out and you notice her wings twitch as you do

                                            >It'd be adorable if she hadn't just thrown you across the room

                                            >So you decide to extend a bit of an olive branch to her

                                            “Are you hungry?”

                                            >Her eyes narrow and she looks you up and down before nodding her head silently

                                            >Huginn flaps his wings to balance on your shoulder as you stand and make your way to the fridge

                                            >You take out a few more pieces of the beef, and Huginn  nips at your ear as you close your hands around them

                                            >Before going back to Gilda, you walk over to a cage you kept around for the rare occasion that you actually needed to get the raven to fuck off

                                            >In this case you reluctantly decide it's needed, if only to keep Gilda as calm as you can

                                            >With that done, you walk back to the couch, sit at the opposite end, and lay the bits of meat out in front of the gryphon

                                            >She stares at you, slowly moving her head forward towards the beef

                                            >Then in a blink, her head snaps forward and she gulps down a chunk of the food before cringing further back into the cushions, unbroken wing flared out

                                            >It startles you and you jerk backwards, but don't make any movements towards her

                                            >Gilda repeats the motions the same way until there's not meat left and licks her beak

                                            >You scoot a bit closer, and she lashes her tail and shrinks back from you

                                            “Easy, I'm not going to hurt you.”

                                            >Her wings droop slightly at your gentle tone, but she remains cowering into the cushions

                                            >You stop about a foot away from her, trying to keep from crowding her

                                            >Despite everything, Gilda seems to be much calmer than earlier

                                            >Granted the only measures you have of her are passed out and murderous fury

                                            >But now you have scared wariness to add to the scale

                                            >And even if she wouldn't respond, you were going to keep talking to her

                                            >You know she can talk after all

                                            “Listen, I'm going to go look something up. Please don't destroy anything, or attack Huginn, while I'm doing it, alright?”

                                            >She keeps silent, but curls up in the corner of the couch and folds her wing partially over her face

                                            >It's folded down enough for her to keep watching you as you cross the room to your computer

                                            >Now that you think of it, that's a bit creepy

                                            >But as that thought crosses your mind, a bit of guilt starts creeping back with it

                                            >She DID deserve to be suspicious of you

                                            >After all, you were the one who brought her here

                                            >But she didn't know, or didn't need to know, that

                                            >Not yet at least

                                            >You pull up the history on your computer and manage to find the thread fairly quickly

                                            >You punch the post number into the archive and pull it up

                                            >Before you did anything, you needed to know everything about the conditions you were subjecting yourself, and Gilda, to

                                            >At least then you'd have a reason to feel guilty