Cripplechicken Comf


                                            >Be a Pony Rehabilitator.

                                            >You work for a non-profit organization in Montreal that cares for and rehabilitates escaped pony slaves from the States; many of them have suffered horrific physical and mental abuse and it’s your job to provide a safe place to help reintroduce them to society. A society that doesn’t see them as slaves, but as citizens.

                                            >It still disgusts you that the States haven’t emancipated their pony population and are one of the last developed nations to do so. Though you suppose your politicians didn’t have the most ethical reasons for ratifying pony citizenship. After all, Trudeau was quick to make a show to the public of how moral he was - complete with teary eyes - in his treatment of the ponies after several scandals rocked his administration. It did boost his popularity ratings in the end.

                                            >But at least the ponies were safe here, even though they preferred to act more like pets than fully functioning members of society.

                                            >You’ve just sent out your latest case into her new life and you have high hopes for her. Finding ponies a job that corresponds with their cutie mark seems to give them a newfound sense of purpose, as well as introducing them to other freed ponies and offering plenty of physical reassurance. They sure are an affectionate species.

                                            >You roll your eyes with a tiny smile, recalling how Lily Valley was constantly wrapped around your leg for the longest time, acting as your second, pinker shadow.

                                            >You miss them when they move on because they are truly kind creatures and good friends when they come out of their shell, but you know that they have to forge their own path after a point; you can’t hold their hoof for their entire life because there are so many others in need.

                                            >You can’t save everypony.

                                            >It seems they do like to have a human help guide them navigate life here and often times you place ponies with a foster human before they start living on their own.

                                            >You’ve considered becoming a foster in the past, but you aren’t sure it’s fair to whoever your current case is for you to be spending so much time with someone else.

                                            >Speaking of your current case…

                                            >You’re just about to meet her for the first time.

                                            >Glancing down at the clipboard in front of you, you pick up on her name and what her past situation has been like, all the basics. A young pegasus mare with some kind of wing problems; that probably would have been hard enough to deal with back home in Equestria, but you know the pegasi in the States get treated… differently. One without its usually price fetching wing abilities mustn't have been treated well at all.

                                            >You rap gently your knuckles against the clean white door, room number 3, before entering.

                                            “Scootaloo?”

                                            >The orange mare startles to her feet, her lavender eyes widening with fear before they soften at the realization that you mean no harm.

                                            >“Y-yeah that’s me.”

                                            >You smile, your crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of your eyes.

                                            “I’m Doctor Levesque - welcome. How are you doing?”

                                            >She wrinkles her nose and narrows her eyes slightly, before letting out a sigh, expression falling.

                                            >The sigh seems to deflate her entire body, which is already frail enough, and she sinks down onto the padded examination table.

                                            >“I’m as okay as I can be, I guess.”

                                            >You approach the table slowly and offer her your hand with the palm up, trying to appear non threatening even as she flinches.

                                            “Can I pet your mane?”

                                            >It earns you a suspicious, slightly confused look, but she nods, lowering her head to receive your hand.

                                            >You cough awkwardly.

                                            “Sorry, Scootaloo, but I need your verbal consent. It’s just protocol.”

                                            >Her little wings, one of which you notice is twisted at an ugly angle, fluff up and she wrinkles her nose again.

                                            >“Yeah, sure.”

                                            >With that out of the way you gently stroke her purple mane, smoothing down the short, choppy pieces that spring back up after the pressure of your hand has released them. The mare lets out a noise like a little rusty hinge as she tenses her body, eyes squeezed shut. After a minute she exhales deeply as if she’s forgotten to breathe and her body relaxes into your touch.

                                            >You continue to run your fingers through her soft violet hair while you begin talking to her.

                                            “So Scootaloo, let’s get to know each other a little bit. Can you tell me about your cutie mark? It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it, just tell me no.”

                                            >It’s a tricolor shield with - you squint - a wing in the middle? A lightning bolt? Maybe both?

                                            >The pegasus opens her mouth to reply, but looks away, focusing on the floor instead.

                                            >“Um. Back in Equestria, I made friends with the other blank flank fillies at school. The girls that didn’t have their cutie marks yet. We called ourselves-”

                                            >She pauses to take in a gulp of air, voice wobbling. Rubbing at her eyes with a hoof, she steadies herself and continues.

                                            >“the Cutie Mark Crusaders. It was me and Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom. We spent like, forever trying to find out how we could earn our cutie marks, but most of it was just. Growing up together and goofing off.”

                                            >She’s closed her eyes at this point and leans a little more into your touch. There’s the faint possibility of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

                                            >“We uh, eventually got our cutie marks by helping other ponies get their cutie marks. We knew that this was who we were - a team.”

                                            >Hmm. That certainly makes finding work for her here more difficult. Maybe she has some other talents?

                                            “So your cutie mark is about being part of a team?”

                                            >“And helping ponies find their cutie marks.”

                                            >Unhelpful.

                                            “Did Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom have the same cutie mark as you?”

                                            >“Sorta.” Scootaloo winces at hearing those names spoken by someone else, but she seems to be getting slightly more comfortable around you. “They have the shield. But Apple Bloom’s has an apple in it and Sweetie Belle’s has a star with a music note. They were kinda customized to each of us.”

                                            >Okay that’s something you can work with. You also note that she uses the present tense when mentioning her friends - does she know where they are now?

                                            “So how is yours customized to you?”

                                            >The wings press close to the mare’s thin sides and her ears tip back in frustration.

                                            >“Well you can probably see that my wings are all messed up. They never grew right so I can’t fly like every single other pegasus.”

                                            >The sudden change in tone surprised you and you didn’t realize that you had stopped petting the orange mare, but Scootaloo definitely did. Her ears flatten and she presses her cheek into your frozen hand in apology.

                                            >“Sorry,” she mutters.

                                            >You blink.

                                            “It’s okay. I’m not offended or upset. You can say as much or as little as you like - you’re safe here.”

                                            >She moves her head out of your hand and relaxes her wings from her sides a bit.

                                            >“Because I can’t fly I got really good at riding really fast on my scooter. And doing tricks. I could do like, anything on that scooter.”

                                            >That’s a start! Your brain has already started making a list of potential places where she could make pony friends and start work.

                                            “That’s amazing!”

                                            >“Yeah. It ended up being really useful when I needed to escape…”

                                            >You pause, giving her the space to elaborate, but she clams up again, ears pressed back against her skull.

                                            “It’s okay, Scootaloo. You’re safe right now. You’re okay.”

                                            >You know that some ponies prefer the pressure of a hug to help relieve them in moments of pain and so you offer one up.

                                            “Can I hug you?”

                                            >With tears brimming in her light eyes, the mare nods and then remembers she has to say it out loud.

                                            >“Y-yeah you can.”

                                            >You lean in close, wrapping your arms around her back where you can feel the individual vertebrae press against your arm. Scootaloo is rigid, not fully comfortable in the embrace of a stranger, but she rests her head on your shoulder, grateful for the pressure around her at the moment.

                                            >A minute later she pulls back and rubs a hoof at her eyes again.

                                            >“Sorry, this is all just really weird. I’m not used to people…”

                                            >You smile kindly.

                                            “It must be a lot of change at once. It’s okay to cry if you want to, or need to. You don’t have to worry about feeling judged by me; I just want to help you become you again.”

                                            >Scootaloo sniffles and nods, not making eye contact.

                                            “And I want you to know that you can always say no to me and I’ll listen. Learning to say no is important and will help you start to regain your sense of autonomy, so if I ever do something that makes you feel uncomfortable, you can just tell me no.”

                                            >She nods again, numbly, shell-shocked by the interaction.

                                            “How are you feeling?”

                                            >“Um. Weird I guess,” she laughs awkwardly, “but not in a bad way?”

                                            “That’s a good start.”


                                            >Be Doctor Levesque.

                                            >Scootaloo has only been at the Rehabilitation Center for three days now, but she already seems to be perking up from when you first saw her.

                                            >Visiting the medical center allowed her to get her broken wing splinted properly and she’s been devouring the homemade meals served in the cafeteria; her topline is starting to fill out and her jutting ribs are slowly becoming less pronounced.

                                            >Give her a couple weeks and she’ll be physically well. Well enough that you can probably start introducing her to the rest of your city - you’re particularly excited to walk her through Mont Royal Park - and even find her a suitable foster home to move into instead of the dorms here.

                                            >While Scootaloo’s condition has improved in certain areas there are some noticeable (but normal) behaviors that you’re going to have to work on with her.

                                            >She doesn’t trust easily, doesn’t matter if it’s humans or fellow ponies. Physical contact can send her reeling into fits of terrified trembling and speechlessness, although all professional personnel at the Rehabilitation Center have been trained to ask for consent before any kind of contact. The time she accidentally bumped into the janitor could not be helped, though.

                                            >The young mare is simultaneously self conscious and numb about her body, using dissociative coping mechanisms to try and separate her mind from her physical presence in the world. This is only what you can see in glimpses that she implies in your talk sessions, though; she hasn’t said this to you explicitly.

                                            >The negative self talk, however, is one of the most obvious problems you’ll have to work through.

                                            >Scootaloo has done what most escaped ponies have done when they arrive; desperately cling to you and your approval, seeing you as almost a new type of “master.” During their time in captivity they haven’t been making decisions for themselves other than basic protective decisions for their wellbeing. These ponies are suddenly overwhelmed by the wealth of decisions that have to be made every day whether it’s choosing what to eat, how they want to spend their time, or who to interact with.

                                            >It makes a decision easier if there’s a perceived “good” option to choose, “good” being what they think you want them to do.

                                            >When of course what you actually want is for them to do as they please, not trying to please you.

                                            >But these things take time and that’s why these ponies are given a safe place to recover from the trauma they’ve experienced. And all the time they need until they are ready (and you’ve given them the okay) to rejoin society as their own pony.

                                            >Having all these resources and time is a luxury you are incredibly grateful for; and it all came from one person.

                                            >The Rehabilitation Center started as a federal order that was meant to be provincially funded, which drew the ire of both the Quebec government and its taxpayers. A compromise between the provincial government and the federal government seemed nearly impossible, but in the end, an anonymous benefactor donated an exquisite amount of money to help build your top notch facility. You notice that this donor has also been quietly sending extra money to the employees who are given a feeble government salary.

                                            >The Quebec government, pleased that it didn’t have to spend as much as originally planned, has minimally supported the Center since then and has swept pony care under regular healthcare in terms of funding.

                                            >You had concerns about this mysterious donor at first, but they all but disappeared after you started working with the ponies. It’s a difficult, but rewarding job and it’s easy to throw yourself into your care for them even to the detriment of your own health.

                                            >Speaking of care…

                                            >It’s past 1 and Scootaloo hasn’t shown up for her talk therapy appointment.

                                            >You frown, glancing up at the clock and then down at your phone to confirm that the time is correct and your mare is indeed late.

                                            >Rolling your stool around over to the computer, you bring up her patient file to check what dorm room she’s in so you can go and retrieve her.

                                            >Up the stairs and down the hallway, you stop at room 3A and rap your knuckles gently against the door.

                                            >No response.

                                            “Ahem, Scootaloo? Are you in there?”

                                            >No response.

                                            >You swallow the lump of fear gathering in your throat and knock on the door again, slightly harder this time.

                                            “Scootaloo are you okay?”

                                            >No response.

                                            >Not even a rustling behind the door.

                                            >Personnel are only allowed to open patient’s bedroom doors with their permission, but in emergency situations like in attempted suicides (which you have had to deal with on several occasions) they are able to open the door without permission.

                                            >You try one last time, trying to keep panic from entering your voice.

                                            “Scootaloo, I’m worried. Are you okay in there? If I don’t get a response from you I’m going to assume that you’re in trouble and you need me to enter without your verbal consent.”

                                            >Again, silence.

                                            >You draw in a sharp breath through your nose, mentally preparing yourself for the worst. Gruesome scenes of past patients who were able to steal kitchen knives or tie towels together flash through your mind as you twist the doorknob, but you push them away. What happens, happens.

                                            >You don’t see the orange mare immediately which is a good sign; usually suicide cases don’t make an effort to hide their bodies.

                                            >Sighing in relief, you step lightly into the room. The warm white dressing gown that is given to all patients has been tossed on the floor and books you had provided on the bookshelf have been opened, but not finished, on several places including the desk, window seat, and floor. A single wrapper of a pony protein bar

                                            >Clearly Scootaloo isn’t a neat freak.

                                            >Neither are you, and the detail makes you chuckle.

                                            “Scootaloo, are you asleep?”

                                            >Suddenly the pile of blankets on the bed shifts wildly, with a muted squeal coming out from under the haphazard heap.

                                            >The caution holding back your complete relief vanishes and you smile, your heart rate settling back to normal.

                                            “It’s past one and I thought I would check on you, since you weren’t with me in my office. Are-”

                                            >You question is interrupted with another squeal, this one louder than the last and accompanied with more desperate kicking.

                                            “Scootaloo?”

                                            >You had figured the squeal was one of surprise after you entered her room and caught her snoozing, but you now realize that this is one of fear.

                                            >You rush to her side and rush to peel back the layers of blanket that have cocooned the sleeping mare.

                                            >With the final blanket removed, you reveal a sweat-soaked pony gasping for breath and thrashing wildly, the whites of her eyes visible as her irises roll back into her skull.

                                            “Scootaloo!!”

                                            >Your shout is enough to draw her out of her dreamstate and she chokes out a gasp of breath, blinking as her eyes return to focus. She’s breathing heavily, and she whips her head around to look about her room, scouting for some invisible threat that isn’t there.

                                            >Once she realizes she isn’t in danger she lowers her ears and her body visibly relaxes into the mattress, but she’s quick to realize (and berate herself for) the mistake she’s made.

                                            >“D-Doctor Levesque!! I must have forgot to set an alarm, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so stupid!!”

                                            >She wiggles out from her damp nest and leaps to the floor to throw her forelegs around your leg, squeezing tightly.

                                            >“I-I won’t do it again, I promise!!”

                                            >Her voice cracks in the most pitiful way.

                                            >You can feel her ribcage rapidly inflating and deflating against your leg as well as the tremors that ripple through her frame.

                                            >The first time you experienced a pony’s raw terror like this you were startled and allowed some of that fear to leech into your own psyche. But you’ve learned to expect these kind of responses and they no longer upset you so.

                                            “It’s okay Scootaloo, I’m not mad or disappointed. I was just worried about you, so I’m glad to see you’re alright. Were you having a nightmare?”

                                            >She doesn’t say anything, but there’s a slight nod against your slacks.

                                            “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe right now. Can I give you a hug?”

                                            >She cringes against your leg, the shivers increasing, but she nods her head anyways.

                                            “Remember, it’s okay to say no. This is about what will make you feel better, not me.”

                                            >She pauses as another little shudder goes down her spine, but she nods once more.

                                            > “I-I need. To feel safe,” she manages to whisper, squeezing her eyes shut.

                                            >You lean down and gently pry her forelegs from your leg so that you can kneel down to her level. You wrap your arms around the little mare and she chokes back a sob, burying her face into your shoulder and pretending not to cry.

                                            >The pressure of your arms around her helps to calm her down and after a couple of minutes her breathing is back to normal. She places a hoof to your chest and pushes back, so you gently release her from the hug, gazing into her tear-filled lavender eyes for an answer.

                                            >She rubs her foreleg against her eyes and coughs, looking down at her hooves instead of making eye contact with you.

                                            >“That was really weird and stupid of me, sorry.”

                                            “There’s no need to apologize, Scootaloo, you weren’t doing anything wrong and you’re certainly not stupid. It’s a normal reaction for a pony who has been through what you’ve been through. We don’t have to, but would you like to tell me about your dream?”

                                            >She shakes her head wildly, eyes widening in fear; this time she makes eye contact with you in a desperate way.

                                            >You look back at her expectantly, giving her the space to talk if she chooses to.

                                            >Her gaze returns to her hooves, but she takes a deep breath to steady herself before speaking.

                                            >“It was about stuff in my past. I don’t want to talk about it.”

                                            >You nod.

                                            >This is progress.

                                            >Scootaloo sudden lifts her nose to the air and sniffs, screwing up her muzzle and flattening her ears in disgust.

                                            >“Ugh... I smell gross...”

                                            >The rank smell of her sweat has permeated the room, but pony fear sweat is a smell you’ve grown accustomed to here so it doesn’t bother you.

                                            “You smell just fine to me, but I understand if you’d like to clean up before we have our talk session. Would that make you feel better?”

                                            >She considers the question carefully before answering, scratching behind her ear with her hind hoof in thought.

                                            >“I don’t really want to take a shower, but I don’t want to stink up your office either…”

                                            >You had considered working on touch with her earlier, though you had abandoned that in favor of giving her ways to combat her own negative self-talk. Perhaps you could bump that up a little bit? Some physical affection could be good for her right now, though she’s the better judge of that than you.

                                            >You pose the question carefully.

                                            “How would you feel about me giving you a bath?”

                                            >Her ears flick up in surprise and Scootaloo gives you a quizzical look tinged with suspicion. She narrows her eyes in distrust as if she’s sure this is some kind of trap, wings pressed to her side to make herself seem small.

                                            “You can say no and I won’t be mad or anything. But I was thinking I could help you clean up and you could get used to a little touch that you consent to. I’ll only do what you’re comfortable with, though; you’re in control here.”

                                            >Another skeptical glance.

                                            >“You’ll listen if I don’t want you to touch certain parts of me?”

                                            “Of course. This would be for your own comfort and can be as much or as little as you like. I do want you to get used to some more physical contact that’s on your own terms in a safe place - it’s called exposure therapy.”

                                            >The pegasus doesn’t look convinced and she mulls over her decision, chewing on her lip. She pauses before answering.

                                            >“O-okay.”

                                            >You raise an eyebrow, unconvinced by her shaky response.

                                            “Is this what you want? You aren’t just saying this because you think it’s what I want?”

                                            >A flush flashes across her cheeks for a moment.

                                            >“Nope.”

                                            “Sure?”

                                            >She nods again, putting her hoof down in a show of determination, wings stretching out slightly.

                                            >“I think it could feel nice. Let’s do it.”

                                            >You smile.

                                            “Alright, let’s hit the baths.”


                                            >Be Doctor Levesque.

                                            >You’re walking towards the pony showers side-by-side with your patient who seems determined not to make eye contact with you. Scootaloo stares hard at the ground in front of her as she trots alongside you, letting a wave of purple hair cover half of her face like a defensive curtain.

                                            >Even though she said she was okay with being given a bath, you can tell there’s a certain amount of discomfort associated with the idea of so much physical contact, especially when she’s in a state of vulnerability. You briefly wonder how many human hands have roughly gripped her hide where only gentle stroking should have been before pushing the thought away, focusing instead on how you’re going to manage the upcoming scenario.

                                            “Scootaloo, can we go over how this is going to go down? If we talk about it beforehand then there won’t be unpleasant surprises for either of us and it might help to make you a feel a little more at ease.”

                                            >The orange mare finally glances up at you through her mane, ears tipped forward in interest.

                                            >“Uh, okay.”

                                            “You had mentioned before that there are places you don’t want to be touched. What areas should I avoid for you?”

                                            >“Well like… You know…”

                                            >A light blush blossoms across her cheeks, but you nod without judgement, taking this in as any other kind of scientific information you need to process.

                                            “I’m afraid you need to be a bit more specific. Rules, you know.”

                                            >The blush deepens and she’s back to staring at the ground.

                                            >“Uhhhm. Like, under my tail and stuff. Not my tits either, even though there isn’t much there in the first place.”

                                            >You nod once more, internally amused by her self-deprecating humor but unwilling to show it or otherwise encourage one of her bad behaviors.

                                            >“And you won’t get soap in my eyes, right?”

                                            >The question catches you off guard and you force yourself to politely stifle a laugh of surprise. It’s a simple enough question on the surface, but it comes off as innocent; childish even. It drives home just how young Scootaloo is, no matter how adult she may seem. Who knows how many years of her childhood were lost to being a slave here on Earth instead of being a filly in Equestria.

                                            “I promise I won’t get any soap in your eyes,” you say kindly, offering a hand near her cheek. “Can I give you a pet?”

                                            >“Mmhmm.”

                                            >The young mare leans up to brush her cheek against your outstretched palm, taking refuge in your familiar touch as she warily eyes the upcoming door to the showers.

                                            >You notice a slight tremble in her flank that starts to spread to her whole body and you stop short just before the entrance.

                                            “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

                                            >Scootaloo nods even though she’s still shaking, lavender eyes round with fear. She takes a deep breath and shuts her eyes, steeling herself for discomfort before the trembling subsides into stillness.

                                            >She opens her eyes.

                                            >“Yeah, let’s do this.”


                                            >Thankfully the Rehabilitation Center has excellent showers for ponies. Originally it was going to be an open, prison-style set up, but before it could actually be built someone else offered a better design for a more pony-friendly bathing area.

                                            >Now each shower has its own stall that’s big enough for at least two ponies and a person. The shower heads are low enough for a pony to comfortably wash themselves and the water jets are strong enough to properly wash out a mane and tail. Pony hair is surprisingly thick, you’ve found out.

                                            >The shower heads can also be removed from the holder on the wall if more control is needed or if a human is helping.

                                            >You’re grateful that the builders ended up going with the second plan; this is a rehabilitation center after all, not a prison.

                                            >You’re sure this setup gives your patients some semblance of normalcy, although you aren’t sure what showers looked like back in Equestria.

                                            >In any case, you’re glad that your anonymous donor was able to find something that worked better for ponies than what the cheapskate government architect had planned.

                                            >You grab one of the clean white towels at the entrance and open the door to one of the empty shower stalls, holding it for the pegasus mare trailing behind you.

                                            “Still good?”

                                            >“Yup.”

                                            >She takes a reluctant step into the stall, her hoof making a gentle tap against the pale pink tiles, before easing the rest of herself into the shower.

                                            >You close the door and fasten the lock for privacy even though ponies are technically naked; it seems to make them more comfortable in any case.

                                            “Are you a hot shower kind of pony or just warm water?”

                                            >“Oh hot water for sure. Please.”

                                            >You grin, crow’s feet crinkling around your grey eyes as you grab the shower head from its holder.

                                            “I’d have to agree - there’s nothing like a steaming shower after coming in from a Montreal winter day. You’re lucky you’ve come here during the summer!”

                                            >Scootaloo tilts her head curiously as she positions herself above the drain for you, although she’s not making eye contact again, instead staring very hard at some invisible spot on the ceiling.

                                            >“Are the winters that bad here?”

                                            “I guess it depends on what you’re used to. In general the winters are very cold and very dry and there’s little sun for weeks at a time. It lasts longer here than other places in North America. And sometimes the air is so dry and cold that you have to breathe through a scarf so you don’t hurt your lungs.”

                                            >You pause, turning on the water and testing the temperature with your free hand.

                                            “What were winters in Equestria like?”

                                            >Scootaloo doesn’t look away from the ceiling, but a faint smile plays across her muzzle as she answers your question.

                                            >“Well since the pegasus ponies controlled the weather we could control what our winters were like. They weren’t harsh like what you’re describing - so they were pretty easy I guess. No scary storms unless we wanted a giant snowstorm. And they were filled with lots of celebrating. Like, we made winter fun instead of something to get through. That was um…”

                                            >She trails off into silence and when she speaks again her voice is much softer.

                                            >“Something I noticed when I first got here.”

                                            >Keeping her head still poised upwards, her eyes flicker to meet your gaze.

                                            >“People would complain about the weather a lot. I know it’s gotta be frustrating to not control your weather, but why not just enjoy it for what it is? It was like the only good weather was a sunny day. I dunno.”

                                            “You do know,” you affirm. “You’re right that humans do have a tendency to complain a lot. But I know that if I could control the weather I’d like to give our city a little more sunshine for sure.”

                                            >She smiles at that and you slowly turn the shower head towards her chest now that it’s at an acceptably warm temperature.

                                            >As the stream of water hits her chest, Scootaloo lets out a barely audible gasp and takes a step back before getting used to it and settling. Her thin frame relaxes almost instantly with the heat of the water and a contented sigh escapes her lips.

                                            >You even notice that her wings, which have been pressed tightly to her side from anxiety for awhile now, have started to relax away from her body in comfort. Well, except for the broken one; that’s still splinted. That reminds you…

                                            “Hey Scootaloo, don’t forget that we need to keep your splint dry.”

                                            >“Yup, already know that,” she snorts, as if offended by your suggestion that she had forgotten this crucial information.

                                            >She keeps the healing wing out of the stream of water, lifted away from her side.

                                            >Now it’s time to begin; the shower is swirling with hot mist in a pleasant way, fogging the metal on the water dial and the shower head.

                                            “I’m going to say everything I’m about to do out loud before I do it, okay? And if something doesn’t feel right you can just say so and I’ll move on.”

                                            >She nods and swallows hard, working hard to prevent another tremble from coming on.

                                            “Just gonna start by getting your back wet,” you murmur, drawing the shower head over her back and gently massaging the water into her coat with your free hand.

                                            >Scootaloo stands stiffly, dutifully accepting your touch, but not fully relaxing into it. You can tell the warm water is a pleasant sensation, but human touch - even yours - still leaves her on edge.

                                            >She continues to stare up at the ceiling.

                                            >You’re gentle as you can possibly be with her, in a way trying to make up for years of other people’s rough handling.

                                            “Then on to the legs.”

                                            >You give her legs a quick soak with the shower head and a once over with your hand to make sure they are properly dampened. As you near each fetlock and pastern Scootaloo jerks her hoof back on instinct and then quickly apologizes for it before lowering her hoof back down to the floor. Tickly feet?

                                            “Now we’re gonna get your mane and tail wet - can you keep your head up for me so I don’t get any water in your eyes?”

                                            >You get a slight nod and a mumbled “mmhmm” in response and you accept that as good enough.

                                            >Placing a hand under her chin, you help keep her face tilted up as the shower head pours water over her mane, softening the jagged bed-headed tufts into a sheet of dripping violet.

                                            >She squeezes her eyes shut even though the water falls to the side of her face, preemptively preventing any irritant from getting in her eyes.

                                            “I promised you I wouldn’t get any in your eyes.”

                                            >“Yeah, but you can’t really promise that, can you?”

                                            >Caught off guard, you clear your throat awkwardly, unable to give her a satisfying response.

                                            “Alrighty, now onto your tail. I’m only going to hold it from about halfway up so I don’t get too close, okay?”

                                            >Another muffled noise of affirmation.

                                            >Gently, you lift her tail from the midpoint, aiming the shower head so that it soaks the purple hair.

                                            >You can see that Scootaloo is screwing up her muzzle with the effort of not tucking her tail to get it away from you, but she only flinches once before letting you continue your work.

                                            “You’re doing really well.”

                                            >“Thanks,” she manages, panting slightly.

                                            >Has she been holding her breath?

                                            >Now that she’s been washed down it’s time to get her soaped up. The shampoo and conditioner available here actually smell pretty nice and upon popping the cap of it you inhale the light lemongrass scent. Mmm.

                                            >You hang up the shower head for a moment and lather the thick shampoo between your hands.

                                            “Start with the chest?”

                                            >“O-okay.”

                                            >She hasn’t relaxed since she felt the warm water, but she’s soldiering on bravely through so much physical contact. This is good progress!

                                            >You place your sudsy hands on her chest and run your fingers through the thick, damp fluff; pegasus ponies truly do have the nicest floof, though you’d never tell a soul. Scootaloo isn’t dirty so this wash doesn’t have to be too intensive. You gently tug through a couple of knots in her coat before moving on.

                                            “Neck and cheeks?”

                                            >Nod.

                                            >You slowly run your hands from her chest to her neck, to her cheeks, using your thumbs to rub little circles into her skin. Hopefully it’s a soothing sensation. You're careful to only get the soap around her cheeks and not anywhere near her eyes, though Scootaloo has already shut them just in case.

                                            “Belly, back, and legs?”

                                            >She doesn’t respond at first, eyes still firmly squeezed closed, but eventually she squeaks out a tiny “okay.”

                                            >You don’t draw this out. A cursory once over across her back and under her belly - carefully avoiding the ‘tit’ area - and she’s done. Up and down each leg; she struggles to hold back a kick every time you get near her hooves.

                                            >The trembling starts again.

                                            >Time to redirect.

                                            “Ever fancied a mohawk?”

                                            >This time it’s your question that catches her off guard and she stares blankly at you, mouth hanging slightly open in confusion.

                                            >“W...What?”

                                            “I said, have you ever fancied a mohawk?”

                                            >“Okay so I didn’t just have water in my ear,” she says, shaking her head and miming out hitting water from her ear.

                                            >You smile.

                                            “Let’s give you one right now.”

                                            >Her ears are lifted on high alert as her confusion intensifies, but you notice that the shaking has stopped.

                                            “Mane?”

                                            >“Uh… Sure?”

                                            >You take another squirt of shampoo in your palm and lather up before bringing your hands to her head. You work the soap deep into her mane, massaging her scalp with the same small thumb circles that you used before; you’re rewarded with a barely-audible sigh and a slight sag in the pony’s shoulders.

                                            >A tiny thrill runs through you at this success.

                                            >As soon as her mane is thoroughly cleansed, you slick it up between your hands into a tall purple point and can’t help but chuckle at the results.

                                            >“What, what? I wanna see!” Scootaloo bleats, pawing at the locked door for access to a mirror.

                                            >Obligingly, you undo the lock and she bursts out of the shower towards the pony-level mirrors on the wall. She stops, freezes upon seeing her sudsy reflection, and then giggles, the increasing peals of laughter erupting from her muzzle.

                                            >“I look so stupid!”

                                            >She says this with the biggest grin on her face and you find that her delight is contagious, a matching smile appearing on your own face.

                                            “I think it’s incredibly fashionable, if I do say so myself.”

                                            >She continues to giggle.

                                            >“Well I’m no Rarity, but I guess this will do for now.”

                                            >In an exaggerated stance, she struts back across the room like a model on a catwalk, giving you a sassy flick of her wet tail as she steps back into the shower. You raise your eyebrows.

                                            “Should I not wash it out?”

                                            >The façade ends abruptly.

                                            >“Oh no, please do. I was just kidding about-”

                                            “I know, I know,” you tease, “But let me get to your tail before I do.”


                                            >Soon you’re grabbing the shower head and another round of water washes her coat clean, a stream of lemon-scented conditioner bubbles swirling down the drain over the pink tile.

                                            >Scootaloo shakes off, spraying your mostly clean lab coat with soapy water.

                                            “Ah, thanks.”

                                            >“Oops.”

                                            >Your sarcasm is noted and promptly ignored by the orange mare, who has already started to preen at her unsplinted wing.

                                            >You watch, fascinated, as she works through the feathers with her teeth, tidying any separated pieces and realigning any feathers out of place.

                                            >She notices you staring and flushes, quickly stopping.

                                            “Sorry, was that rude?”

                                            >Admittedly you haven’t had a lot of experience with pegasi even though they’re the most popular type of pony for enslavement, especially as sex workers. Earth ponies and a couple unicorns have been your only patients so far.

                                            >“Not really, but it feels like you’re watching something personal…”

                                            “My apologies then. They,” you gesture to her wings, “look good though!”

                                            >Another blush.

                                            >“No, my wings aren’t that great. You should have seen Rainbow Dash’s wings; now those were sexy and functional. They were super long and narrow and had a kind of rainbow sheen to them like no other pony’s....”

                                            >You hadn’t realized that Scootaloo was close with the Elements of Harmony; you make a mental note to ask her about that later.

                                            “But yours have a sheen to them too. See the magenta? Tip it in the light.”

                                            >Flattening her ears, the mare folds her good wing close to her side again, tucking away any of the evidence of her unique trait.

                                            >“I don’t want to talk about this any more.”

                                            >The communication is clear and you back off immediately, instead offering her the clean towel you had grabbed at the entrance.

                                            “Need this at all?”

                                            >“Nah, that’s fine. I’ll just air dry.”

                                            >You unlock the shower door and you both step out into the room, damp and smelling of lemongrass. Scootaloo drags a hoof along the ground shyly before pressing her cheek to your pant leg.

                                            >“Thanks.”

                                            >She’s trying to smooth over the awkwardness about her wings and you’re grateful.

                                            “You’re welcome.”

                                            >“Are we still gonna have the talk appointment?”

                                            “That’s enough for today I think. You’ve done well.”

                                            >The way praise makes her face light up just about melts your heart.


                                            >Be Doctor Levesque.

                                            >All considering, you think the bath with Scootaloo went fairly well. There are a couple sticking points you’ll have to ask her about later - tickly hooves, wings, her connection to Rainbow Dash - but otherwise she was very brave. She allowed herself to be exposed to her own discomfort, which should help her become more comfortable with what should normally be a pleasant experience.

                                            >The only downside was that your leather shoes and the bottom of your trousers got soaked in soapy water.

                                            >The shoes were new, too…

                                            >Another trip to Little Burgundy, you suppose, though you’d rather not traverse Saint Cat’s during the peak of summer. Too many people who walk too slow drives you insane.

                                            >Damn tourists.

                                            >There’s a pair of emergency sandals you keep tucked away at the bottom of your locker, but God forbid you wear your sandals at the office like some sort of American; you’re no Doctor Ingersoll. You’ll just have to suck it up and deal with wet shoes for the rest of today.

                                            >As you squish down the hall, your mind is already churning with more questions for your little patient.

                                            >Especially about the Elements of Harmony.

                                            >When the portal between Earth and Equestria opened, it was the Elements who ventured through first with Princess Twilight Sparkle leading the way. The princess had read an ancient text of pony history that mentioned the sealing of a portal to another world for the good of all ponykind.

                                            >Confident in both her magic and friendship abilities, she reopened the sealed portal and crossed through with the other Elements, armed with nothing but a genuine desire to help.

                                            >In her hubris she thought that she could fix the problems of a world she didn’t even know.

                                            >It didn’t help that the portal happened to open in the middle of Queens, New York.

                                            >All hell broke loose.

                                            >These days the Element of Magic (who is ironically unable to use her powerful magic in this new world) is mostly just a sad figurehead for the Pony Freedom movement. She blinks big, tear-filled eyes for the cameras and speaks for her people (ponies?) at UN meetings and international rallies.

                                            >Admittedly she’s a pretty good public speaker and the regret in her voice is incredibly genuine; now that the majority of her subjects are enslaved across a foreign planet, she’s clearly realized her mistake.

                                            >Too late, so it seems, though you and what you think are many others would like to change that.

                                            >In any case…

                                            >You’re curious to know how close Scootaloo was to the Elements and if she knows anything more about their whereabouts than you do.

                                            >There are rumors that the pegasi Elements were able to fly back through the portal and warn another pony princess about the hostile new world that Twilight had discovered. They say the princess returned with them to try and de-escalate the situation, but not before the US federal forces had become involved.

                                            >As soon as the giant white alicorn with hair like the northern lights showed up, chaos ensued. No one, human or pony, has seen the princess since although some say she’s being held as a Weapon of Mass Destruction by the US government. Both Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy were able to escape, but their whereabouts are also unknown. The other Elements were sold off to various private owners when they were found to be talented, but harmless.

                                            >But maybe the ponies know more about this than you humans do.

                                            >Maybe Scootaloo knows.

                                            >What YOU know is that the initial human treatment of ponies reflects pretty badly on humanity. It bothers you endlessly to think that the situation could have been entirely different had the portal opened elsewhere in the world or the ponies met with different people at first.

                                            >A few bad apples...

                                            >You’re snapped out of your musing by a cheery greeting from Marie-Hélène, the foster program coordinator.

                                            >“Salut!”

                                            >You smile and respond with a friendly

                                            “Allo, ça va?”,

                                            >slipping back into your native tongue with the fellow French-Canadian. You’ve always thought it odd that the ponies just happened to speak English, although now you’re certainly grateful that you’ve grown up speaking more than one language.

                                            >“How’s the new patient? Wing healed yet?”

                                            “The wing is the least of my concerns with her right now, but she’s certainly on the mend.”

                                            >“She’s a cutie. From the States?”

                                            “Yeah, unfortunately.”

                                            >Marie-Hélène pauses for a moment before continuing, lowering her voice.

                                            >“I wanted to ask you some questions about a potential foster situation for her. Got a minute?”

                                            >Your interest is piqued, especially by her hushed tones - something illicit?

                                            “I have some time; tell me more.”

                                            >She gestures down the hall towards her office and ushers you towards it, herding you into the room and closing the door behind her.

                                            “This feels very secretive for a talk about a foster, no?”

                                            >She sighs, releasing the breath that she had been holding in.

                                            >“The foster works for a group that, technically speaking, performs illegal activities; I didn’t know who might be listening in the hallway.”

                                            >You raise your eyebrows, but say nothing, crossing your arms across your chest defensively.

                                            >“He’s a cross-border pony smuggler.”

                                            >You nod slowly, but still offer your colleague no response.

                                            >“What, now you have nothing to say?”

                                            “I’m just thinking,” you murmur softly, letting your arms relax so you can run a hand through your messy blonde curls.

                                            >“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

                                            “Well...This isn’t something I want to push her into; she has a lot of healing to do. I don’t want her to feel pressured to put herself in danger again just to help ‘the greater good.’ Right now-”

                                            >“I never said that she would be in danger,” Marie-Hélène interrupts.

                                            “Whatever, I just don’t think it would be a healthy situation for her to be in.”

                                            >“How about she decides whether or not she’s up for it?”

                                            >Frustration bubbles up inside you like a boiling kettle and you can help but raise your voice a little.

                                            “As her Rehabilitator-“

                                            >“Look I’m just saying-“

                                            >A very small sneeze from outside the office door startles you both, interrupting your argument before it can escalate. Marie-Hélène freezes in fear before snapping to attention and opening the door for the sneezing eavesdropper.

                                            >Her tone immediately softens as she switches back to English.

                                            >“Hello, sweetie!”

                                            >Scootaloo’s sheepish, purple-maned head peeks in through the door, ears tipped back in embarrassment.

                                            >“H-hi.”

                                            >“We were just talking about you - come in, come in,” she chirps, with a pointed look in your direction.

                                            >You press your lips together tightly in disapproval and shoot a glare back at the foster coordinator, but her eyes are fixed on your patient now.

                                            >“You were talking about me??” the pony gulps, nervously stepping into the small, cluttered office, making sure to steer clear of the unfamiliar human with the large smile. “Good things, right?”

                                            >“We were just discussing a potential foster situation for you.”

                                            >Scootaloo tips her head at you with an unspoken question, drawing nearer to your side.

                                            >It’s time for you to step in.

                                            “First of all, an introduction is necessary. Scootaloo, this is Ms. Marie-Hélène the foster coordinator; Marie-Hélène, this is Scootaloo.”

                                            >The dark-haired woman offers a friendly hand to shake, but the pony merely nods at her in response, wary of a new human presence and physical contact.

                                            >You realize you haven’t started properly socializing her with other humans yet and make a mental note to add this onto her schedule.

                                            >Perhaps you can turn this meeting into something useful, even though you would rather your patient have some time to recuperate after her bath.

                                            “Once you’ve had time to process your trauma here, we’ll set you up with a human - who has been intensely vetted, I assure you - who will let you stay in their home for a bit so you get used to home life again. They’ll help you find a job, a place to stay, and most importantly, they’ll help you make friends.”

                                            >Her ears prick up at the word ‘friends’ and you can almost see a faint glimmer of hope sparkle in her lavender eyes.

                                            >“We found someone who might be a good fit-”

                                            >You cough.

                                            “Ms. Marie-Hélène found someone who has the potential to be your foster. Nothing is settled though, and you still need time to process what you’ve been through, so I wouldn’t let this worry you right now, okay?”

                                            >Sensing the tangible tension between the two humans, Scootaloo trots closer to you with ears flattened, seeking comfort. She doesn’t outright brush against you, still wary of the other person in the room, but she’s close enough that you’re practically touching.

                                            >She’s still pretty damp and you’re actually a little relieved that she doesn’t press against your almost-dry trousers.

                                            >“Who is it?”

                                            >A triumphant grin spreads across the foster coordinator’s face, but she’s apparently mature enough to not send a gloating glance your way. She focuses on your patient instead.

                                            >“His name is CanuckAnon and he’s a personal friend of mine. He’s been a foster for several ponies like yourself and runs an organization that helps to rescue ponies across the border.”

                                            >Scootaloo’s eyes grow wide and her mouth opens in surprise. Curious and slightly more trusting of this new person now, she takes a step towards Marie-Hélène for more answers.

                                            >“People do that?! Rescue ponies?”

                                            >The comment is like an arrow through your heart, but the foster coordinator seems less affected by it or is perhaps better at concealing her emotions.

                                            >“I mean, that’s what we’re doing right? And we’re not alone.”

                                            “Not all humans are awful,” you add.

                                            >“I mean, I know that now,” Scootaloo scoffs with a roll of her eyes and a flick of her mane. “I mean, I just didn’t know that there were people out there trying to save us.”

                                            >You love seeing her spunky personality peak through in moments where she isn’t meek and terrified. You hope to see more of it someday.

                                            >“I just felt… really alone back then. If I knew there was somepony out there who was trying to help us I might have felt a little less alone.”

                                            >Another arrow through your heart.

                                            >You’ve had plenty of your patients say stuff like this before, but it never fails to affect you, even after the 100th time. Perhaps you have too much empathy.

                                            >“CanuckAnon is a good guy, Scootaloo. I think you and he will get along just fine when the time comes.”

                                            >She mulls it over, looking up at you to try and figure out what you want her to say.

                                            >“I think I’d trust somepony who was out there helping ponies. And maybe... I could help him!”

                                            >Annoyance prickles at the back of your mind that Marie-Hélène was right about your patient wanting to join a cause like this. Of course she would! But she isn’t ready right now. This is the same pony that starts to tremble when she bumps into someone accidentally; the same pony who shuts down when you ask about her past; the same pony who looks to you for approval before answering any questions.

                                            >If she can’t face these little things in the present, she certainly isn’t ready to face her past while rescuing ponies in dangerous illegal missions.

                                            “Maybe you will, Scoots. But for now, I think you should focus on letting yourself heal. Our priority is making sure that you’re okay; you won’t be able to help anyone if you don’t help yourself first.”

                                            >The orange mare looks as if you’ve hit her - shocked and then pained - and you suddenly wonder if you’ve said something inappropriate. Pages of proper patient handling etiquette fly through your mind as you try to figure out what you said wrong.

                                            >“Nopony’s called me that in a long time,” she whispers quietly, eyes glittering with tears as she looks to her hooves.

                                            >What?

                                            >Oh.

                                            >You hadn’t even realized that you’d called her by the nickname you’ve been using in your head.

                                            “I-I’m sorry,” you stammer, a little embarrassed by your mistake.

                                            >“It’s fine. I was just… surprised.”

                                            >She quickly wipes away the tears with the back of her hoof and shakes her head to refocus, a small blush blossoming across her cheeks with all of the sudden concern and attention.

                                            >“So… What were you doing outside my office anyways?” Marie-Hélène blurts, breaking the awkwardness.

                                            >A valid question.

                                            >Scootaloo blinks.

                                            >“Oh yeah! I was leaving the bath and remembered that I needed to do laundry, but didn’t have any detergent left. I wanted to ask Dr. Levesque where I could get more…”