Behind Blue Eyes


                                            "Behind Blue Eyes"

                                            >At last, home.

                                            >A groan slips your lips as you exhale the last drag of your cigarette and stub it out under your boot.

                                            >You are Alycorn, writefag and in your own humble opinion all around swell dood.

                                            >Seeing as this is writefaggotry about you, you can pump your own ego if you see fit damn it.

                                            >Either way, it's been a long day again as you walk from your jeep to your apartment, idly lighting another cigarette as you go.

                                            >Active duty service is a fine career, sure, but that doesn't mean it's easy, or even fun.

                                            >More often than not it's stressful and a right pain in the ass.

                                            >But whatever, home sweet home.

                                            >You blink as you approach your front 'porch'.

                                            >Amazon box?

                                            >Oh hey, neat, maybe those christmas presence you bought arrived, or the spare masks.

                                            >COVID and Christmas, what a fucking year 2020 has been.

                                            >You idly pull your knife as you approach the box, keeping an ear out for any unusual sounds as you approach.

                                            >Nope, not a bomb.

                                            >Or at least, not one with a mechanical clock set to it that you can tell.

                                            >It's addressed to you, and the return address is the Amazon Warehouse.

                                            >So far all signs point towards 'it's your box, might as well open it.'

                                            >You slit the tape with your pocket knife before slipping it back into your working uniform's pocket, and pull the box open.

                                            >Only to be very confused.

                                            >You didn't order this.

                                            >Heck, you're not even really sure what it is.

                                            >You reach into the box, pulling out a welding mask and a leather thong.

                                            >No not that kind of thong, perverts.

                                            >A long, thin strip of leather used to tie things up.

                                            >You hum at them, idly looking the mask and leather over.

                                            >The mask is kind of odd, now that you're looking at it, as it wouldn't fit on your face right.

                                            >You actually attempt to put it on after checking there isn't anything sticking out on the inside that might catch on your skin or hair or possibly get in your eyes, and nod in conformation.

                                            >This welding mask wouldn't work at all with your face.

                                            >It's bulbous and the way it's shaped it would jut out from your face if you're trying to look through the eye shield.

                                            >In fact, it would probably swing down and chop you in the throat if you weren't holding it up right now.

                                            >Curious.

                                            >You take it off and go to put the mask back in the box when you note a sheet of paper that you could have sworn wasn't in there before.

                                            >You pull it out, noting the thickness and roughness of the 'paper'.

                                            >It's more like cardstock if anything else, very firm.

                                            >The sheet itself is like an oversized business card, and as you flip it over from one side to another, you notice some subtle embossing.

                                            >Whoever made this definitely went all out.

                                            "Golden Apple Artistry- Cosplay Products for real cosplayers, by Sunny Days and Lunar Nights?"

                                            >You blink slowly, staring at the card for a little bit longer before you finally dial back your urge to toss the box and fucking book it.

                                            >First off, you got work tomorrow.

                                            >Second off, this is obviously a really elaborate prank.

                                            >Pretty well executed too.

                                            >You'll have to commend your battle buddies when you get online to talk with the Semper Filly crew.

                                            >Military pony fans stick together, and they're the only ones outside of 4chan that know about Fair Winds.

                                            >The Leather Thong? Fair Wind's braid and tail tie, to keep his mane and tail out of the machinery he works on for his airship mechanic and engineer job.

                                            >The mask? His wielding mask.

                                            >Impressive stuff really, they did a fantastic job on making the mask.

                                            >And the leather feels really good, slightly oiled to keep it strong and clean.

                                            >You note a bit of staining on the leather, as if some darker oil had soaked into it here and there.

                                            >Nice touch.

                                            >You like cosplay, but you usually make props for other people, due to not really having the time to go to Cons yourself.

                                            >Sure, it'd be really cool to wear some armor and do something like that.

                                            >It's all performance art in the end.

                                            >Still. You've got no builds planned and no cons due to COVID.

                                            "Still... who the fuck makes something and names themselves after Discord, Celestia, and Luna? I mean, seriously, real obvious there folks."

                                            >You snort in amusement as you finish off your cig and tap it out on your boot again, tossing the two butts in the ashtray by your door as you pick up the box and bring it inside.

                                            >One could also argue that someone who writes TF for a living should be genre savvy enough to catch the situation he'll soon be in, but hey, this is real life.

                                            >That kind of shit doesn't happen IRL.

                                            >You laugh at yourself as you close and lock the door behind you and start to dress down for the day, ready to relax and catch a break.

                                            >Your roommates aren't home, looks like it's just you for now.

                                            >You hang up your uniform and idly put the box on the end table near your computer as you power it up, greeting the cats of your household as you go to feed them.

                                            >The kittens fed, you settle into your computer chair and pull your headset off the charging stand.

                                            >Flicking your music on, a smile breaks through as Sabaton starts up and you start checking your few media sites.

                                            >Yep, time for a normal, easy, relaxing night of music, vidya, and maybe some writefaggotry later.

                                            >Destress? Thank you please.

                                            >You forget about the box as you start up Doom Eternal.

                                            >Yep, time to slay some demons.

                                            >It's gonna be a good day.

                                            --------

                                            >You were incorrect.

                                            >It was not, indeed, going to be a good day.

                                            >Oh not the gaming, that was all well and good.

                                            >But when you got onto the social medias to check in with the crew, no one claimed the prank gift.

                                            >"Nah dude, not us."

                                            >"Yeah Fair, try Top, he's the only blacksmith here."

                                            >"Wasn't me man, pretty awesome mask though, gives me a few ideas..."

                                            >"Looks like it'd fit on a pony wonnit? Wonder how they got that modeled."

                                            >You frown as you look at the messages again before sneezing and letting out a whining groan.

                                            >Fuck off, you're in your own damn home, you can whine if you want to.

                                            >The headache that formed after about the third hour of gaming was not staved off by the 800mgs of asprin you chucked at it with a whole can of boomer juice.

                                            >If anything, it's gotten worse.

                                            >Which is really fucking annoying, considering that the energy drink/asprin combo normally kills your headaches pretty well.

                                            >You bite back a curse as you massage your temple and sit back in your chair, staring at the box.

                                            >Your attention keeps getting drawn back to it, because it's such a -weird- thing to get.

                                            >If you knew any better, you'd say it's a shitty start-up to one of your greenfics.

                                            >Only even worse because it would be a self insert, and everyone knows how shit those are.

                                            >You sigh, letting yourself lean back fully, your chair tilting back as one of your cats jumps into your lap and decides your chest is the perfect place to hang out, cuddling under your chin and into your neck.

                                            >You idly scratch her, the rumbling purr giving you something to concentrate on that isn't the mysterious box or the pain the the ass headache.

                                            >Thinking through a headache sucks, but you really can't let it go.

                                            >You let off another sigh, covering your eyes with the hand that isn't scratching your youngest cat, and let yourself drift for a moment.

                                            >Thoughts swirl through your mind aimlessly as you let your mental state wander.

                                            >Maybe you could write a story about this?

                                            >Probably.

                                            >You'd need to tart it up a lot.

                                            >Like, a metric shit-ton.

                                            >New character, for sure.

                                            >Fair Winds is a great character n' all, but seriously, he's a joke.

                                            >Your mind wanders to 'your' OC, chuckling under your breath even as you mentally picture the sailor pony.

                                            >Your group has several artists and writers in it, and they were far more 'bronies' than channers, keeping the fandom name even after many channers discarded it.

                                            >But fuck it, you love 'em anyway, they're your brother and sisters in arms.

                                            >You'd literally take a bullet for any of them, and you know they'd do the same.

                                            >So when they said you had to have a Waifu, they assigned you one.

                                            >Purple-Smart is cute enough, but you really don't get it.

                                            >Then they said you needed and OC, because they wanted a 'group picture' to be drawn by one of the artists in the group.

                                            >So you said 'fuck it' and talked to the artist.

                                            >They want an OC? Fine.

                                            >They'll get a OC in the form of a true shitpost.

                                            >You laugh even as you idly dance your free non-kitty petting hand through the air, eyes closed as you recall the voice chat.

                                            "It's simple, he's the roughest, toughest sailor we can make... but he makes Braeburn look masculine."

                                            >Rarity-esk eye highlights?

                                            >Check.

                                            >Mare-proportions and muzzle, just slightly squared off for the 'masculine' trait?

                                            >Check-o.

                                            >Toughest Job you could think of in a Steampunk scenario that requires a take-no-shit attitude and a perchance for violence and procession maintenance?

                                            >Yessir.

                                            >And thus, Fair Winds, the roughest, toughest, meanest son-of-the-white-sea to ever sail the Equestrian skies.

                                            >You chuckle, trying to recall what color Fair was, even as you kind of wonder why in the world your mind wandered towards who Fair was.

                                            >You know who he is, he's your character, even if you don't use him very often.

                                            >That makes your eyes snap open as you sit up.

                                            >Well, slowly sit up.

                                            >Sleeping kitten.

                                            >The welding mask was -Fairs-.

                                            >So was the leather thong.

                                            >Circlingbacktowhereyouwhere.exe

                                            >But in all seriousness now that you were seriously considering it, it was way too weird.

                                            >You haven't thought about Fair in a while.

                                            >You've thought about ponies a lot, but outside of that aborted attempt at a way-too-forced CYOA, you've basically put Fair on a shelf.

                                            >A good variety of art thrown your way by your friends aside, you've not really considered him in a while, mostly because the character himself is fine as is.

                                            >Sure, you could write a few different stories about him, hell, you can think of a good five or six off the top of your head.

                                            >Plenty of space for character development.

                                            >But who, and why, would you get cosplay parts for a OC you've never really considered as yours or you?

                                            >Your headache flares and you let out a little groan.

                                            >A glance at the clock says it's 2345.

                                            >Nice, but it's way too late at night.

                                            >You've been ruminating on this for far too long.

                                            >Fuck it, you're going to bed.

                                            >You carefully remove the kitten from your chest and shirt and deposit her into your bed as you walk towards the head connected to your room, a yawn cracking your jaw as you walk in.

                                            >Shoot, that felt really good.

                                            >You didn't realize just how tight your jaw was feeling.

                                            >You smack your lips a bit as you turn the water on and step in front of the mirror, idly snagging your electric toothbrush and teeth whitener and start prepping for bed.

                                            >You sigh, running a hand through your short-cropped hair, and flick the brush back and forth under the cold water even as your run a hand across your jaw and chin.

                                            >Bleh, stupid stubble.

                                            >Hair shouldn't grow back that fast damn it.

                                            >You start to brush your teeth even as your mind starts shutting down for the night, and you idly look at yourself in the mirror.

                                            >Same ol' same old there Aly.

                                            >You resist the urge to shoot yourself fingerguns like some kinda dweeb.

                                            >Yep, same high-fade, recently trimmed.

                                            >Same old pearly-whites.

                                            >Same old square jaw and high cheekbones.

                                            >Same old ice... blue...

                                            >Holupaminute

                                            >Your eyes aren't ice blue.

                                            >You have anime protagonist eye syndrome.

                                            >Heterochromia iridum, two different colored eyes.

                                            >It's kinda cool, they actually change colors as well depending on lighting and your mood.

                                            >But that's besides the point.

                                            >Your eyes have never, -ever-, been this shade of blue before.

                                            >You blink a few times, and you can swear that a shade of red or purple replaces the blue for a moment, but sure enough, this icy-sky-blue holds.

                                            >You slowly continue to brush your teeth.

                                            >Good hygiene isn't stopped by weird fucking eyes.

                                            >That doesn't mean you're not taking an extrodinant amount of time to brush your teeth simply staring yourself down in the mirror.

                                            "... ok, that's kinda freaky. *SPTHA*"

                                            >You spit out the toothpaste and with a wet brush, re-brush your teeth, this time more focused on brushing.

                                            >You don't wash all the tooth paste off, the fluoride is good for your teeth after all.

                                            >You look at yourself in the mirror again, and idly tap your fingers around your eyes for a moment, trying to see if you're just seeing things.

                                            >So far all the answers point to 'no.'

                                            >You groan.

                                            >More weirdness.

                                            >Whatever, you're too tired for this shit, and your headache has only -increased- at this point in time.

                                            >You're going to bed.

                                            >Fuck this shit I'm out.mp4

                                            >You climb into bed, sighing at the cool comfort of your silk sheets.

                                            >If you're gonna sleep on it every night, fuckin SPLURGE on it, my anons.

                                            >And even with your pounding headache, you quickly slip into Morpheus's realm.

                                            ------

                                            >Silk sheets staying deliciously cool no matter how hot the house is and keeping a nice, regulated temperature when it's cold is probably the best part about them.

                                            >Even waking up your nice and comfortable.

                                            >Except for the absolutely splitting headache.

                                            >For fucks sake, what the hell are you going to have to take to deal with that?

                                            >A slow whine slips your lips as you curl up a bit tighter, disturbing the cats as you grip your head.

                                            >Fuck ow shit fuck motherfucker sithfuck shit.

                                            >Cursing is helping, but it just doesn't sell how much that fucking hurts!

                                            >You fumble for your phone, the piercing air-raid siren blasting at full volume informing you it's time to get the fuck up.

                                            >And worse, if you don't get the fuck up now, you're going to be late for work.

                                            >But quite frankly, you don't think you're gonna make it that far.

                                            >You finally snag your phone and turn the alarm off, gazing blearily at the screen.

                                            >0530.

                                            >Yep, you've got an hour to shit, shower, shave, and get to work.

                                            >You open your mouth to complain a bit only to notice how sore your throat feels.

                                            >Fuck you, must have been sucking the silver bullet last night.

                                            >You open your phone and ponderously scroll to find your LPO's number and hit dial.

                                            >The 'ringing' tone is almost as piercing as the air-raid siren and hurts just as bad, making your headache throb in time with the rings.

                                            >RRR-"Alycorn? It's... more than an hour before work, what's up buddy?"

                                            >Good ol' Petty Officer 1st Class Smith.

                                            >You went to C basic and Career school for your current aviation platform with him.

                                            >Smart guy, already picking up that something was wrong just from when you were calling him.

                                            "Aye boss, I feel like someone kicked nine kinds of hell out of me. I'm going to medical."

                                            >Shit, that's your voice right now?

                                            >Forget the silver bullet or greenie weenie, you fuckin' deepthroated some fucking barbed wire.

                                            >"Well you certainty sound like shit."

                                            >All heart in the military, really.

                                            >"Alright, we're on COVID restriction, so after you hump your ass to medical, make sure you snap a picture of your SIQ chit for me and text it over. Get some rest man."

                                            >The phone hangs up and you let your face plant back into your pillow, only to grunt in pain.

                                            >The fuck did you just push into the pillow?

                                            >It hurts, but you force yourself to sit up, even as your groan in pain, looking at your pillow in confusion as your oldest cat looks up at you from the corner of the bed closest to your pilllow.

                                            >She normally is laying on top of your hand and arm, so you're glad she isn't this morning.

                                            >You frown at the silvery silk, not seeing anything unusual with your pillow before you shift and step out of bed, stumbling to the head.

                                            >Ugh, bright lights go away, but you need to look at yourself to see if something is wrooooooooh what the fuck.

                                            >You stare blankly at yourself in the mirror, blinking slowly in the way only someone that's half asleep and on a raging hangover can.

                                            >Maybe you're not hungover, but shit, someone spiked you on the -good- shit.

                                            >Right smack dab in the upper center of your forehead, just peeking out of your hair, is a little pointy spiral of white bone.

                                            "... What the fuck."

                                            >You can't help but lean forwards over your sink for a closer look, even as you slowly part your hair to try to see down to your scalp.

                                            >Not that there's much hair in the way in the first place.

                                            >It's more to give your hands something to do other than touching it, which you assume from your faceplant would be -quite- painful.

                                            >Sure enough, you've got bone poking through your skin.

                                            >And yet, not a speck of blood.

                                            >You frown, tilting left and right.

                                            >Nope.

                                            >No blood, no viscera, not even a scab.

                                            >Just, there was skin there last night.

                                            >And now there isn't.

                                            >And a little point of bone.

                                            >Who the fuck put a spike in your head?

                                            >And why the fuck did it look like it was the perfect spot for a fucking horn?

                                            >You feel your breathing deepen and your heart kickstart and start turning over faster as the new information drops into your mind and starts to inform you that this is probably something you should be panicking over.

                                            >All at once the panic is forced away as you calmly and firmly smack the ever-loving SHIT out of yourself.

                                            "FUCK."

                                            >That hurt!

                                            >And it sure as fuck didn't help your headache.

                                            >But more importantly, it woke you up, and killed your panic in a heartbeat.

                                            >You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and letting it out slowly.

                                            >You continue to do so for several cycles before you've gotten your heartrate back under control before looking yourself in the mirror again.

                                            >Yep, it's still there.

                                            "Riiight. Ok Aly, gameplan- you look like shit, you feel like shit. Keep your cover on and over the horn, get through medical, and come home."

                                            >You sure as fuck qualify as sick.

                                            >You're turning into a fu-

                                            >Nope.

                                            >You kill that train of thought off as soon as it pops into your head.

                                            >There's no way in hell.

                                            >And if there is several ways in hell, and the pigs are loose, flying, and not only has hell frozen over but there's a fancy new fucking ski resort installed, then it doesn't change that you got to get to medical.

                                            >You're not in any condition to go to work, but the government owns your soul so if you don't get that SIQ chit then you're not going to be able to deal with this in a safe, controlled situation.

                                            >That is to say, locked in your room.

                                            >Plan in hand, and feeling much more calm because of it, throbbing headache, which you idly realize is probably being caused by the MOTHERFUCKING HORN GROWING THROUGH YOUR SKULL still pounding away, you start getting dressed.

                                            >Medical does require you to be in the uniform of the day.

                                            >As your slowly start lacing up your boots, doing your best to keep your kitten away from the boot laces which she's currently finding to be an excellent toy, you bite your lip in contemplation.

                                            >You pop more aspirin as you force yourself to your feet.

                                            >You really aren't in any condition to drive, but your roommates aren't here.

                                            >And any sign that you are currently a little...

                                            >Distinctively not normal.

                                            >Sure, lets go with that.

                                            >Is probably not something you want to advertise.

                                            >So with a determined grimace, you make sure you've got your keys, house and jeep, your phone, and your wallet, and that your wallet has all the relevant bits and pieces in it, carefully put your cover on so that your... horn... is tucked inside, and make your way into the energy-sapping cold of a desert morning.

                                            >Checking your phone as you lock the apartment door, you note that it's almost 0700 already.

                                            >You spent almost a hour and a half just getting dressed today.

                                            >You are -really- hurting.

                                            >Gritting your teeth you resist the urge to curse aloud, and promise yourself to keep a firmer grasp on the passage of time even as you walk to your Jeep.

                                            >No one to talk to in the parking lot, good.

                                            >You get into your Jeep, and after a moment of centering and focusing off the pain, you start it up and drive off.

                                            >You also notice that you haven't winterized your tires yet, so your tires are running two PSI lower than they should be.

                                            >Whelp, nothing for it.

                                            >Time to get to base.

                                            -----------

                                            >The trip to base was thankfully uneventful.

                                            >You feel like shit, but you got on no problems.

                                            >It's still dark outside, so no one's really paying attention to your eyes, and from what you can tell, you look as you normally do.

                                            >Even if your cover is shifted up a little.

                                            >As you pull around to the medical tents set up for COVID screenings, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

                                            >No one else but you and the medical personnel are here yet.

                                            >Good.

                                            >You park your jeep and get out, walking up to the medical tent as you put your face mask on.

                                            >You don't think 'bone jutting out of your head' is contagious, but still, COVID precautions.

                                            >The corpsman inside blinks at you as you walk in, and gives you a wry smile.

                                            >"Yeah, you're looking not-so-hot. COVID screening?"

                                            "Yes please."

                                            >Yeesh, you're rasping pretty hard right now.

                                            >"Oof, you do sound rough. Here, sit here and take off your blouse."

                                            >You deblouse and sit in the chair, and the corpsman wraps a pressure cuff around your arm and starts the blood pressure machine before quickly putting a pulse checker on your right finger, even as he takes a oral thermometer out.

                                            >"You want to take your cover off? This is a decoverable area."

                                            "No, the pressure is helping with my headache."

                                            >"Ok, so you have a headache, and I'm assuming a sore throat, any coughing?"

                                            >As the corpsman runs through the basic battery of medical questions, you quickly get checked up, and he lets out a little sigh seeing your temperature.

                                            >"Yep, you're running a fever, one-oh-zero. Doc will see you shortly, and I'll get one of our runners to get a COVID test kit out here and start writing up your SIQ chit. Does your command know you're here?"

                                            "Yes."

                                            >Short answers seem best, even as you mentally boggle at the notion that you have a fever on top of everything else.

                                            >You sure as hell don't feel like it.

                                            >Come to think of it, if you're running that hot, you should be sweating.

                                            >While the corpsman is looking away, you look yourself over briefly.

                                            >Nope, not sweat spots, not on your pits, neck, or even your crotch.

                                            >You even wipe your forehead.

                                            >Not a drop.

                                            >That's weird.

                                            >You try to remember how hot horses normally run, but the headache isn't really helping you recall anything, and you vow to look it up later.

                                            >It... might be relevant information.

                                            >You return to your 'yeah, I'm sick' pose as the corpsman turns back around, paperwork in hand, and gestures for you to join him at the other end of the tent.

                                            >A short wait later, and a quick discussion with doc, who doesn't comment on your cover, you're sent back to your Jeep, and directed to pull up to another tent where they're administering the tests through the window of cars.

                                            >Everything is moving smoothly right now which is great, because you don't have to think very hard minus the almost agonizing pain as a swab is shoved up your nose and into the back of your throat to get the sample needed for your test, and your paperwork is signed.

                                            >You snap a picture of it with your phone and send it to Smith before you finally make your way back home.

                                            -------

                                            >You get back to your room and strip off your uniform with a sigh, tossing it all into a ball on the shelf of your bookstand you reserve for your uniform for easy access in the mornings.

                                            >Immediately you strip down entirely as you start a shower, making sure it's not going to be blistering hot when you step in as you look at yourself in the mirror.

                                            >Well, your junk is still there, so that's good.

                                            >You're carrying some extra paunch there around the middle, haven't been working out enough because COVID closed the on base gym and you're too cheap to use the off-base gyms.

                                            >That's a lie.

                                            >You're just a lazy sack of shit and you know it.

                                            >You chuckle at yourself, poking the extra fat.

                                            >At least you're not full on dad-body.

                                            >You let out a sigh.

                                            >Ok, time to deal with the elephant in the room.

                                            >Or maybe the unicorn.

                                            >You stare at the little spiral of bone, frowning as you gently poke it with a finger.

                                            >Yep, that's definitely in your head.

                                            >It doesn't hurt you more to poke that, but it sure feels weird.

                                            >You frown.

                                            >Is it longer?

                                            >It looks longer.

                                            >Your eyes flash scarlet as you stare intensely at the little spiral of bone, and you glance at your eyes and bite back a curse.

                                            >Red eyes and concentration is pretty spooky, but when the fuck did your eyes get so big?

                                            >You would swear you've got fuckin' anime eyes, big, dewy, and expressive.

                                            >A girls anime eyes.

                                            >You quickly look down at your manhood to reassure yourself it's still there.

                                            >Bait and tackle in tact... for now.

                                            >You groan, massaging your forehead again before you turn and stride into the shower.

                                            >Fuck this shit, you'll have more time to think about it when you're clean.

                                            >The hot water is a blessing as you decide to spend a good amount of time in it.

                                            >No Navy Five Minute shower today.

                                            >You're giving yourself a deep clean and relaxed experience.

                                            >The hot water itself running against your scalp is soothing and you sigh in relief.

                                            >Yep, that's -exactly- what you needed.

                                            >You massage your head under the running water, luxuriating under the heavenly feeling of your headache being relied by the soothing heat.

                                            >You close your eyes and let your thoughts drift as you shower, humming under your breath as you let the water run down your body.

                                            >A while passes before you open your eyes and let your thoughts collect and return to you from where you mind wandered, gazing at your shampoo bottle.

                                            >You laugh softly.

                                            >Yeah, Mane n' Tail.

                                            >Fitting.

                                            >When you were growing up, spending your summers on your grandparents ranch, Mane n' Tail was the go-to shampoo and conditioner for all the farm hands and the kids.

                                            >Why not? You can literally buy it basically by the gallon and it works just as well on humans as it works on horses.

                                            >You've been using it as your mainstay shampoo and conditioner since you've gotten into the military and it's yet to steer you wrong.

                                            >You take some of the shampoo into your hands and start working it into your hair when you blink as you glance at the floor of the shower.

                                            "... Whookay, pretty sure I didn't get that dirty just going to medical."

                                            >The water sluicing off of you is dark brown, almost black.

                                            >You stare at the water a bit harder before letting out a distressed, if not filled with tired acceptance, sigh, continuing to scrub your hair.

                                            "Right, well, lets see what fantabulous colors I end up as today."

                                            >Look, once is happenstance.

                                            >Twice is coincidence.

                                            >Three times?

                                            >Enemy fucking action.

                                            >You're a writer, and you aren't willfully ignorant.

                                            >This is literally your bread and butter for storytelling devices at the moment, and you can read the pattern pretty clearly.

                                            >Even as you finish washing up fairly quickly, you quietly dread what you're going to see when you step out of the shower.

                                            >Once the water runs clear as the... well, 'dye', for lack of a better term, is washed out of your hair, you take a deep breath, turn the water off, and towel off, eyes closed, before you step out of the shower.

                                            >You stand in front of the mirror, let the breath out, and take it anew before opening your eyes.

                                            >...

                                            >Yep.

                                            >Today is hell isn't it?

                                            >Fuck the hair-color, how the FUCK do you have FUCKING EYESHADOW ON WHEN YOU LITERALLY JUST TOOK A SHOWER.

                                            "Fuck -all- of this shit, I'm done."

                                            >You deadpan at yourself.

                                            >Yep.

                                            >That is the face of a man who has given up on today.

                                            >Pretty girly eyeshadow/liner and all.

                                            >Oh, the some-fucking-shade of purple/blue and white striped hair that is a good inch longer than it was before you got into the shower and a completely different color is some bullshit.

                                            >But GUYLINER?

                                            >Nope.

                                            >Fuck this shit.

                                            >Fuck -all- of this shit.

                                            "I don't get paid enough to put up with this crap, and I I'm pretty sure I'm not getting paid to be a pony."

                                            >Your already stupidly long eyelashes have shaped nicely, giving you pretty fluttery eyes, and frankly, if it weren't for the fact that you can actually see the individual lashes when you lean in a bit, you'd swear they were drawn on.

                                            >You close your eyes and sigh, rubbing your face in the vain hope that when you look at your hands some of the eyeshadow will have come off.

                                            >You check your hands.

                                            >Nope.

                                            >You continue to frown at yourself in the mirror, idly noting which changes you can see.

                                            >Hair is longer and appears to be growing longer by the minute.

                                            >The headache has passed fully at this point and even with more hair, you can clearly see the horn which is only getting longer and more spiraled at this point.

                                            >At least it looks like it's going to end up on the long side and rather pointy, like the more mythical style of horn than show accurate.

                                            >Maybe you can gore someone for being a idiot later or calling you girly.

                                            >The idea puts a little smirk on your face as you finger-gun the mirror again.

                                            "Whoes you cawlin' Goirly?"

                                            >You laugh, standing a bit taller and puffing your chest out a bit.

                                            >Whatever is happening to you, you're taking it on your terms damn it.

                                            >You are -the- Alycornanon.

                                            >This is your genre, you aren't going to let it control you.

                                            >After a bit more time staring in the mirror, noting that your stubble is coming in purple, you decide to avoid the post-shower shave and to simply brush your teeth before you head back into your room.

                                            >Snagging your phone from where you idly tossed it when you were stripping down, you turn on the camera function and turn it on yourself.

                                            "Alright, I don't know who's going to see this, and that is the most cliché way to start a video like this, but there isn't really a better way to do it, but I'm apparently turning into a pony..."

                                            >Might as well document it.

                                            >Maybe you'll figure out how to upload shit to youtube from your phone and make those assholes on /mlp/ happy.

                                            >And so you begin to record, blissfully unaware that your troubles are just starting...

                                            ---------

                                            >A while later, you've finished your first log of your changes, and now you're bored.

                                            >You gently rub your throat as you sip on some water, frowning as you stare at your computer.

                                            >You're not really sure what you're gonna end up turning into here, and seeing as there's a pretty solid shot that you'll end up full pony at the end of this, you are rather uncomfortably aware that you're on the clock.

                                            >Every moment here is valuable, so what the hell are you gonna do with it?

                                            >You groan, gently resting your head on your keyboard's wristrest, even as you feel your horn poke one of the keys.

                                            >You lift your head up and check.

                                            >Big ol' line of h's in discord.

                                            >Right then.

                                            >You sit up fully, contemplating the computer some more.

                                            >You also glance down at your compression shorts and nothing else clad unmentionables, and hum.

                                            >Probably... would be a good idea for a wank.

                                            >I mean, yeah, you -appear- to be turning into Fair Winds.

                                            >But who knows, right?

                                            >You bite your lip in contemplation before you decide to... ahem, browse for a while.

                                            >See if your mental state has changed any.

                                            >You let out an annoyed little huff.

                                            >An actual moment where your Bisexuality works against you- if everything is sexy, how can you tell if your sexual preferences are changing?

                                            >You shake the thought from your head as you prepare to de-pants the situation only to look down and to get yet another shock.

                                            >You're looking... bigger.

                                            >Not what you were expecting.

                                            >You've always been above average, but where before you could just feel good about yourself, now...

                                            >Well, you were starting to qualify as 'hung as a horse'.

                                            "Guess things are changing faster than I thought..."

                                            >Your voice is quiet, even as you stare at your member for a moment before you jolt in realization.

                                            "I didn't feel it happen. I'm missing transformations as they happen."

                                            >And isn't that a soul shaking realization?

                                            >You felt the horn growing in but something as important as your fucking dick getting swapped for a horses you missed.

                                            >Now you de-pants with the quickness, and once again move to the mirror.

                                            >There will be time to game or jerk off in a moment, you've got more pressing concerns at this second.

                                            >You start scanning and rotating a bit, trying to get a good grip of where you currently stand transformation wise.

                                            >The big, flat-headed horsecock is a pretty solid sign that you're advancing along at a pretty solid clip.

                                            >Your genital hair is slowly shifting away from your crotch, you assume to make way for a eventual sheath.

                                            >You stick your tongue out in disgust at the thought, and decide to ignore your potential genitalia issues and instead focus on looking at yourself dead on in the mirror.

                                            >The horn is now a solid four, five inches long, and as far as you can tell, still growing. It's sharp and well pointed at the tip, and a delicate spiral flutes it's way down to the base of the horn.

                                            >It's kinda pretty honestly.

                                            >The base of the horn is slightly purpled, and you assume the rest of the horn will change color to match as everything else comes in.

                                            >Your unshaved scruff has thickened, but hasn't grown longer, giving you an almost amateur-artist vibe of a purple beard and sideburns that cover the sides of your head and both of your cheeks, down and around your mouth, and it appears to be creeping up the side of your nose and over your cheekbones even as it stretches down your neck.

                                            >It's not scratchy, and in fact, is almost high-quality plush velvet soft.

                                            >It feels nice on your skin and you can't help but pet it for a moment before catching yourself and trying to refocus.

                                            >Good thing nobody saw you doing that.

                                            >No matter how soft you are.

                                            >Your eyes have fully shifted to a more pony-like shape and distinctiveness, dewy and full of emotion.

                                            >Eyes are the window to the soul, and yours have quite a lot to say right now, though you really wish they weren't so...

                                            >Feminine.

                                            >You sigh a bit at it, though at least you're keeping your dick.

                                            >It's rather important to you.

                                            >What with it being such good size n' all.

                                            >You sigh and slap yourself a bit with both hands.

                                            >Right, now is not the time to be thinking about dicks.

                                            >There will be plenty of time for that in a moment.

                                            >Taking a closer look at your arms and legs you note that your hair there is also changing color and spreading into the thicker fur coat that you've been expecting.

                                            >You turn, looking at your backside in the mirror.

                                            >Your wing tattoo is still in full view, and you despair a bit at the fact it's going to be covered by your fur coat.

                                            >Otherwise, back looks normal but for a little nub pushing your skin out at the base of your spine.

                                            >With a little effort, you get it to shift from side to side for just a second.

                                            >Dock, check.

                                            >So your tail is growing in as well.

                                            >As if you needed more confirmation.

                                            >You take record of all of this with your phone, no commentary this time for brevities sake, and return to your computer, putting your headset on and getting your mic positioned.

                                            >You smile to yourself as you key up exactly what you want to play.

                                            >Warzone sounds like a great way to pass some time, and you can show the whippersnappers a thing or two before you're stuck with single player games until you can really figure out how to manipulate your keyboard with just your horn and hooves.

                                            >You assume, anyway.

                                            "Testing, testing, one two three~"

                                            >You call into your microphone for a mic check.

                                            >Your throat doesn't feel sore anymore, awesome!

                                            >You also have gone from being a high baritone/low tenor in your normal speaking voice right back to being a counter-tenor like you where in highschool.

                                            >You just hope you can avoid squeaking or cracking at this point, no matter how much you're personally amused at how girly your voice is.

                                            >Just your normal speaking voice is well into the alto range.

                                            >Whelp, best not to think on it too hard as the game boots up and you get into the thick of it almost immediately.

                                            >Time to kill a few hours.

                                            ---------

                                            >After a few good hours and a several wins, you sit back in your computer chair with a pleased sigh.

                                            >Oh yeah, that went well.

                                            >You pause and hum, idly making plans for ponyhood in your head.

                                            >Gonna need to rebind all the keys for WoW.

                                            >The new ExPac and that thirty days of playtime was a gift, and you never let a gift go to waste.

                                            >Playing with hooves is probably gonna be difficult but WoW isn't exactly a difficult game.

                                            >You yawn, arching and stretching before rubbing your muzzle with a sigh, standing up.

                                            >Time to drain the lizard.

                                            >You hum warmly and step into the head, glancing at yourself in the mirror.

                                            "... Oh."

                                            >A very mare-ish if not outright mare-like muzzle is staring back at you.

                                            >Funny, the complete restructuring of your face didn't hurt at all.

                                            >Your eyes look a little wonky, too small for your head, but you're sure that's gonna change soon if the light itchiness you feel is any indication.

                                            >You still have business to take care of and quickly relieve pressure before going back to the mirror.

                                            >The fur has completely covered your face and head at this point, leaving you wearing a layer of minky-soft fur.

                                            >Sheesh, you're gonna be the best plush-doll EVER at this rate.

                                            >You smile and rub your cheeks.

                                            >Outside of the uncanny valley of your eyes being too small for your head and normal human ears that are sitting above your temple, looks like the pony-process is going well!

                                            >Your headache is completely gone and you're taking that as your horn finally being fully grown, and you marvel a bit at the size before you feel a great instinctual need.

                                            >Every man knows it well.

                                            Stepping out of the bathroom you snag your dicebag from your desk and open it, pulling out your tape measure from your wargaming bag.

                                            >You pull it out and note that the very tip of it had a small hole.

                                            >That'll hold well on the end of your horn.

                                            >You carefully maneuver the tape measure near the tip of the long fluted horn and slowly measure it out.

                                            >You feel the pressure of the tape measure being extended using your horn but otherwise it doesn't hurt so you keep going.

                                            >Thankfully your wargaming tape measure is quite flexible, important when getting true distances for movement up and down terrain in 40k, and you're able to measure from the base of your temple, just above your forehead, to the tip of your horn.

                                            >You mark the spot with a finger and carefully pull the tape off your head and check the length.

                                            >You almost choke when you realize your horn is over a foot long, shy of a foot and a half at 14".

                                            >You've got over a foot of bone jutting out of your head. How the hell can you not see it?

                                            >You glance upwards and realize you can in fact see your horn, you've just been ignoring it this whole time.

                                            >Yikes.

                                            >The changes really are coming in faster.

                                            >You from, rubbing your muzzle in thought again before you groan in annoyance.

                                            "Noooooo, I need to make another log already?"

                                            >10/10 Whining, Rarity will be proud.

                                            >You pause at the thought.

                                            >Will be?

                                            >Would be.

                                            >Rarity doesn't exist.

                                            >You glance at yourself in the mirror.

                                            >Neither does people turning into ponies but here we are.

                                            >Right, shelve that thought for later.

                                            >You sight, laying your hands on either side of your sink and hanging your head, taking a deep breath.

                                            >You're really shelving a lot at the moment.

                                            >But better to shelve it than think too hard and cause yourself to panic or despair.

                                            >You carefully remove your shirt and look yourself over again even as you pick up your phone and start recording.

                                            >You keep your silk boxer-briefs on, however.

                                            >The bulge tells the story there.

                                            >Yeesh, at least as a pony you don't need to worry about pants, or you'd never be wearing pants that fit your waistline ever again.

                                            >I mean, unless you're -planning- on showing off your bulge to everyone who looks in your general direction.

                                            >You flutter your pretty eyes at yourself before you start turning, keeping the camera on yourself.

                                            >The fur has now spread to most of your body, and you note that you're both gaining and losing muscular definition.

                                            >Notably, all the fat on your body is basically gone.

                                            >Where? Heck if you know.

                                            >But you're sure feeling lighter.

                                            >And hungry.

                                            >Your stomach practically roars at you to feed it, and you feel a heavy desire...

                                            >No...

                                            >NEED.

                                            >For meat.

                                            >Proteins.

                                            >Right, time to start talking.

                                            "Alright, Log 2- the Pony Transformation has been going -very- quickly. We're currently... I'm not a hundred percent sure how many hours in due to not being sure when the physical changes really started but we're going to call this hour twelve, as it's been twelve hours since I woke up and went to Medical this morning."

                                            >You continue to monolog as you walk out of your room to the kitchen, your cats idly trailing behind you or ignoring you otherwise.

                                            "Transformation... eh, I'd say I'm currently about twenty-five percent? Horn appears to have fully grown in, the eyes have changes but haven't grown to fit the muzzle or the rest of the facial structure, and the body horror of my ear's current location is... well, a little terrifying but I'm assuming all the cartilage and basics of how the ears work are being moved with them and this is helping keep the fridge nightmare realization out of my head."

                                            >You continue to talk as you open the fridge and get all of the Thanksgiving Turkey out of it.

                                            >All of it.

                                            "Currently I'm experiencing an extreme hankering for protein, whatever I can get my hands on. I'm assuming that the transformative process is super energy intensive and so I'm going to stuff myself silly and hope that'll help. I've already hit the point where I can't be seen by other people, otherwise folks will most likely panic."

                                            >You quickly whip up a leftovers sandwich, grinning at the fact there was still meat stuffing left over.

                                            >And Sweet Potatoes with Marshmallow! Yes!

                                            "So yeah, I'll record more when I have an update. Hopefully my fur doesn't spread too fast."

                                            -----

                                            >A grunt and a curse very unbefitting of the pretty voice it's attached to slips your lips as you refrain from smashing your mouse.

                                            >Yep, your fingers are going pretty quickly here.

                                            >A few more hours have passed, and you've been getting the last game sessions in, but the tactile response of your fingers to your keyboard and mouse have lessened significantly. You were doing fine till you had gone from five fingers to three, and then your thumbs fused in and you -really- started having problem.

                                            >At least it appears you're not going to have cloven hooves, and you idly note that you probably should be freaking out a lot more than you currently are over the fact that your hands are almost fully hooves at this point, but the rest of your arms and legs configuration, as well as that of your spine and shoulders, hasn't fully adjusted for walking on all fours yet.

                                            >Things to worry about later you suppose as you sigh sadly, staring at the screen before taking your headset off and carefully putting it back in it's cradle by pinching it between the remaining gap of your-soon-to-be-hooves fingers and putting it back into it's charging base.

                                            >Just because you're going pony doesn't mean you can't be careful with your stuff.

                                            >You forlornly sit back in your chair, staring blankly at your computer monitor even as you note that your team did end up winning, despite your lackluster performance before you carefully use what dexterity you have left to close out of the game and pull up youtube.

                                            >Nope, now you're stuck in the sad loop.

                                            >It's time for ponies.

                                            >Anything to distract you from what you're currently going through.

                                            >A twinge of pain and a loud cracking sound as your hips start to readjust themselves to fit your soon-to-be four-legged configuration is probably a good sign you're -really- going to need that distraction.

                                            >A little whimper escapes you.

                                            >Oooh that's really not good.

                                            >That hurts a lot in fact.

                                            >You try to adjust yourself as best you can so that you can pull yourself onto your bed behind the computer desk from your chair.

                                            >It takes a try, and some very careful positioning, but you do manage to get up there without jostling yourself too much.

                                            >Thankfully, the towels you laid out earlier are right there and you quickly pick one up in your muzzle and bite into it.

                                            >You're not about to crack a tooth or something if this turns out to hurt a lot more than you were expecting it to.

                                            >Mind you, the fact that you weren't on the floor writhing in pain already said that this was going to be a lot less painful than it could be.

                                            >But no chances.

                                            >You glance at the clock next to you.

                                            >Yep, you've been gaming all night.

                                            >You didn't want to sleep.

                                            >Honestly, you don't think you could.

                                            >And it terrifies you.

                                            >What if the change expediates while you're asleep?

                                            >You could miss it all.

                                            >What if the change takes you?

                                            >You know... you? Your soul? Memories?

                                            >Would you notice?

                                            >Would you even care?

                                            >You don't want to find out, and shiver at the thought, fear jolting down your back and making your fur stand on end.

                                            >Nope nope nope.

                                            >Bad thoughts go away.

                                            >Distraction.

                                            >Need a distraction.

                                            >Computer too far away now, you will never be able to get music playing or start up MLP.

                                            >You let out a little shuddering breath as your curl up on yourself a bit, eyes clenched shut as you try to avoid crying, reaching out and snagging your Alicorn Twilight plushie.

                                            >With socks.

                                            >Shut up, it's really cute and she's got that minky soff plushy fur.

                                            >You hug the plushie close even as you do start to cry, muffled by the towels as you bite in a bit harder.

                                            >It hurts.

                                            >You're so scared.

                                            >It's so damn easy to put up a brave front and pretend you're ok with it all, but in all honesty it's just easier to do that than face the facts.

                                            >No amount of fic and greentext reading can prepare you for the actual pain.

                                            >Or being totally and completely alone.

                                            >In fact, that's probably the worst part.

                                            >You're alone.

                                            >No one will save you.

                                            >No one even knows.

                                            >No one can help you.

                                            >No one is coming.

                                            >A sob rips out the back of your throat as despair grips you and takes a hold of you.

                                            >The weight of it's insidious designs coiling into your mind and gripping your heart as the tears fall freely.

                                            >Alone.

                                            ------------


                                            >You wake up a few hours later, if the alarm clock you're currently staring at is telling the truth.

                                            >Your body aches all over and even without moving you can tell that the ramping up of the transformation that you had estimated earlier was the truth.

                                            >Twenty-four hours and a few minutes from when you had gone to medical and you've fully shifted through.

                                            >You push yourself up, noting the tear-stained look of your purple-smart plush, and apologize quietly even as you try to figure how to get down from your bed.

                                            >Your cats look on as you wobble a bit, and slowly figure out how to get out of bed.

                                            >Thankfully, your body seems to be carrying some instincts with it, and you're able to clamber down without hurting yourself.

                                            >Well... this is it.

                                            >You quickly scour your brain for any changes.

                                            >You don't think you've noticed anything but would you even notice anyway?

                                            >You step to your full length mirror and sigh, staring at it and looking at yourself.

                                            >Yep.

                                            >That's the one.

                                            >Fair Winds stares back at you, mane not done up and hanging loosely.

                                            >Tail the same, long and brushing the floor a bit.

                                            >Your fetlocks look like they haven't been trimmed in a while, and overall you'd say you looked pretty scraggly.

                                            >You sigh, sitting on your flank as you stare at yourself.

                                            >Well, at least your body is conforming to pony flexibility.

                                            >Sitting feels comfortable and not unlike sitting normally.

                                            >But that does bring up the never-ending question that's been hounding you since this started.

                                            >What next?

                                            >You sigh quietly before you trot into the bathroom.

                                            >Might as well take care of business first.

                                            >A short jaunt into the shower because you're not exactly sure how to aim your new equipment yet, and some running water later, and you're left with wet fetlocks but a significantly emptier bladder.

                                            >You sigh and blow your mane out of your eyes, grumbling a bit at how inconvenient it all is before you carefully jump back up onto your bed. It's not quite that far off the ground, but it's a bit of a height for someone who isn't used to walking around on all fours.

                                            >You lay down, watching your cats for a moment as they sniff at you and after determining that it's you, or at least you're ok, coming closer to sniff at your face.

                                            >You gently nuzzle your youngest, who purrs in acknowledgement and greetings as your minky fur rubs their soft kitten fluff.

                                            >Mmm, that actually feels quite nice.

                                            >You let out a sigh and let yourself lay down completely, staring at nothing for a little bit before you let the question come back to you.

                                            >What next?

                                            >You glance up at the horn you're sporting and let your eyes narrow.

                                            >Magic is the first thing on the to-do list.

                                            >You haven't glanced at your flanks yet, so you don't know if you got Fair Wind's cutie mark or not.

                                            >But at the bare minimum being able to perform telekinesis is gonna be important.

                                            >As your determination skyrockets, you shift to a comfortable position on the bed as you start trying to light up your horn and inflict your will upon the world.

                                            >Six hours pass in a blur...

                                            ----

                                            "ALAKAZAM!"

                                            >The cats scurrying away as you flash-bang yourself

                                            ----

                                            "Azarath Metreon ZINTHOS!"

                                            >Absolutely nothing happens and you stare at yourself wearing a black cape in the mirror, feeling really embarrassed.

                                            ----

                                            >Your face is changing colors as you hold onto the air as your horn dazzles you in the mirror, shining brightly as you try to force your magic out.

                                            >You zap yourself with a magical blast and throw yourself onto your bed.

                                            ----

                                            "Aaaaugh, this is so STUPID!"

                                            >You are now throwing a temper tantrum, and frankly, it feels really nice.

                                            >You're cussing heavily as you glare at the door to your room.

                                            >Which you had closed like an idiot.

                                            >And now you need to figure out how the fuck you're going to feed yourself.

                                            >Because you are absolutely feeling hungry but you can't turn the fuckin' knob to your own damn door!

                                            >You're about thirty seconds off from just putting your hooves through the fucking thing when you stamp both of your front hooves.

                                            "Fuck you I didn't want to go through anyway!"

                                            >And of course you open the door.

                                            >Your horn lights up brightly, and you get a hold of the knob with your magic.

                                            >You blink, and then smirk, rubbing your hoof against your chest.

                                            "Of course I got it, I'm just that good."

                                            >You have no idea how the fuck you did that.

                                            >But you do remember the feeling.

                                            >It's kinda... floaty?

                                            >It's weird, like you're thinking about where your hands are, but that's about it.

                                            >I mean, it makes it easy, but you got a hunch that figuring out other types of magic will take a looooooot more work.

                                            >You take a sigh as you make your way towards the fridge.

                                            >First, better get fed.

                                            >Second, learn how to walk, trot, canter, and gallop.

                                            >Third, get a bit better at magic.

                                            >And finally- get on the internet and shitpost.

                                            >Wait, no.

                                            >Figure out if other people have been changing.

                                            >And maybe go find them yourself.

                                            -----

                                            >A quick meal later, and you're staring at the thong and wielding mask of Fair Winds.

                                            >... Of you.

                                            >You sigh, and look up at the mirror, and let your horn light up.

                                            >Figuring out how to move around actually went very quickly, and you figured out something quickly.

                                            >A long mane and tail kinda suck.

                                            >You kept tripping on yourself or pulling on your mane which really hurt.

                                            >You're able to keep your tail from dragging on the floor no problem, but your mane is -long-.

                                            >So now you're carefully braiding your mane and figuring out how to tie it up with the leather thong.

                                            >A little hairpulling here and there, and some rather frustrated curses later, but you're soon sporting a very basically tied up mane, and are looking at yourself in the mirror again.

                                            >It feels kind of stupid to keep doing so, but at the very least you're feeling a bit more at home in your own body at this point.

                                            >You sigh deeply, before shaking yourself from head to hoof and stretching out.

                                            >Keeping the press on and not letting yourself stagnate is quite important.

                                            >Slowing down now is just going to get you distracted.

                                            >And mourning.

                                            >The what-ifs would probably hit you like a physical blow if you were being perfectly honest with yourself.

                                            >You frown, carefully settling into your computer chair even as your horn lights up.

                                            >Two rather human hands form out of magic and settle onto your keyboard.

                                            >Enough prattling around.

                                            >It's time to get down to business.

                                            >First place to check for others?

                                            >Well, assholes and shitposters it may be...

                                            >But you -know- one of the faggots on ptfg would brag about it if they ended up becoming the pony.

                                            >You pause, snagging your phone and taking a picture of yourself before moving it over to the computer via the cloud.

                                            >You let out a little breath, and muse for a moment even as you go through the familiar action of getting to the thread.

                                            >Best not to scare anyone who's changing off by coming on strong about this.

                                            >You'll have to take it slow...

                                            >But how?

                                            >... Oh.

                                            >Duh.

                                            >Are you or are you not a writefag?

                                            >A little smirk on your lips as you contemplate your next moves, you bait the line and throw it out to see who bites.

                                            "I think I'll call it 'Behind Blue Eyes'... bet I could pretend that someone gave me the prompt..."

                                            ~Fin~