#ive got quite the backlog of this ive already written and just need to post

[intherainbowfactory]

Pony Rituals (5/6)

Epiphany! That was what was needed! There was no way that the two of them would be able to work out their problems on their own; they needed a third observer to bring them together by busting their preconceived notions of what the other thought of them! Manipulation would set them free. In my mind’s eye, I began to picture the ponies as sorts of dolls, marionettes, actors without a sort of driving will to give them anything except the horrible existence they eked out before I came into their lives.

And so I enacted my plan. I would bring both of them to neutral ground to meet and talk things out without them being the wiser for my plot. I would enter the friendship lesson so that I could finish it and get out of there quickly before I arouse any suspicion; I may be an expert infiltrator and... I may somehow be considered a friend to both parties I'm bringing together, but I don't know enough about pony culture to pass for one, and I have a couple of bad physiological habits that wouldn't be able to fool a discerning mob. 

The DJ, whose name I learned was Scratch, would be summoned by a letter I would forge so that she would come to the next town the caravan of actors was travelling towards. I would make it so I would be there to mediate between the two as I surmised that the conversation would be awkward, but not hostile.

Finally, we arrived at the next town of Ponyville right on the date before I would have her and Scratch meet. Success! I knocked repeatedly on the door to Melody's wagon that she built herself with her own four hooves. I was so excited for her! Half-formed future exchanges between Scratch and Melody played out in my mind: in a cafe, over tea and donuts, they start laughing over a shared joke and have so much fun rolling all over the floor laughing and screaming! Or maybe they’ll have a heartbreaking, tearjerking reconciliation in a moodily lit fancy restaurant while lamenting their numerous woes… I love playing with my pony dolls! They’re so much better than stubborn changelings.

Trotting in place at the door for minutes lost in imagination bolstered by my companions, I gradually came to feel that something was wrong. Melody didn’t answer the door.

I knocked again. And again. Oh, no! I thought but did not say since I’ve been getting better at doing that. Did I seriously forget how to knock on doors? That must have been the only reason why Melody was not letting me in! How could I have forgotten! I learned how to knock on doors on my very first infiltration mission, where I replaced the filly of an Appaloosan mare. It was only for two days, but I still got a lot of love, and I learned from the natives that the proper way to knock on a door is to pound on it at all times of day or night and in all situations, so I did.

Melody opened the door a crack, hissed at me to get in, quick, and pulled me into the darkness inside her wagon.

I screamed like a little filly for a while. Boy, does that actor juice mess you up but good! When I stopped, I noticed that Melody had the curtains tightly drawn and wrapped over every window or opening (even the bottom of the door) to stop all light from entering her caravan, and she was holding a candle on an upturned hoof that illuminated a face that bemusedly stated, “Are you done,” before she said those exact words.

Moving over to nuzzle her withers (I had realised long ago that the withers were a very calming, huggable, and extra fluffy spot on my supposed friend to put my muzzle on), I told her that I might be done screaming like a filly depending on how dramatic the moment would feel, earning for my troubles an indulgent expression from her.

…An indulgent expression on a face with reddened eyes, layers of bags evident on them. A face with a wild, unbrushed slept-in coat leading to a wild, unbrushed bed-head mane with several black hairs sticking straight out of it. Noticing this led to me noticing how her tail twitched stiff periodically, or shook with an unnerving rapidity quicker than even my eyes could follow. In turn, this led my eyes to her legs which were also shaking and seemed to have lost some muscle, looking as if they could only barely support her weight. Her weight, which was looking awfully unhealthy.

Diagnosis: sick pony. Time to feed some hay to her, brush her mane, and play sportsball with her to raise her fun levels! Or, that would have been the case if I hadn’t tasted something concerning coming from her emotional eigenvector. It had the faint taste of the same sort of sour yearning, for lack of a better term, for Scratch, but worryingly enough, it was subdued by a pinch of amusement and smothered relentlessly by a gagging sense of shame that I could only barely recognize from my hours as an Appaloosan filly.

And so, the only diagnosis could be that Melody needs emotional support.