Title:           The Way Part 4
Author:          ElephantInTheRoom
Pastebin link:   http://pastebin.com/wvcc9Bf9
First Edit:      Thursday 14th of January 2016 08:13:05 AM CDT
Last Edit:       Last edit on: Sunday 31st of January 2016 06:39:20 PM CDT

>One by one, the rest of the ponies from the truck filter in.
>Red pegasus mare, purple pony stallion, a white, mauve maned pony mare...
>Ten ponies all together, yourself included, cooped up in your tiny straw bedded pen. They shuffle about, low murmurs and sobs permeating the group.
>Through gaps in the fencing you can see another pen across the way, the scene there much the same.
>You approach one of the bowls you spied earlier upon entering. It's filled with water.
>You stare downward; a pair of yellow orbs beam back at you. Your wavy, purple mane wafts to the side as you turn your head, inspecting yourself.
>The mare you see staring back almost looks happy, a smile slowly creeping onto her face.
>What an odd person... pony... that mare must be.
>She couldn't really be you, could she?
>Little ripples spread across the surface of the water, obscuring the reflection.
>You're reminded of your thirst.
>The bowl you're standing over is one of three, each filled with water. It's large, black, and made of a thick plastic. The water is clear, but there are flakes of dirt and straw floating around the top.
>You're expected to drink out of this, like an animal.
>Suddenly you're not sure how thirsty you are anymore.
>That dark blue pegasus from earlier, a stallion, is standing next to you. Any misgivings he may have had over your previous display apparently forgotten, he appears to be at the same impasse as you.
>You lean in slightly, only to recoil backward after a few inches. You know your body needs water, but your mind is shouting at you, telling you not to degrade yourself like this.
 
>Another pony is trotting up to the bowl, taking position on the opposite side. It's blue eyes.
>She glances from you to the stallion, her eyes showing a brief glint of understanding before she casts them downward at the bowl.
>The world is frozen around you, silent, as if watching the scene unfold.
>You believe that you catch only the briefest look of hesitation just before her muzzle plunges into the bowl.
>There's a sloshing sound as she greedily laps up the water.
>A few moments pass and she raises her head upward, again looking back toward you.
>Her muzzle is sodden, dripping with water.
>She smiles, blushing ever so slightly.
>It's warm, infectious even.
>You step forward, hoof pressed against the side of the bowl.
>Bottoms up... well, bottoms still down you suppose.
>Your muzzle pierces the surface.
>The water is cool and refreshing, though drinking like this is more than a little awkward.
>You slurp and suck at the water. It's loud and you can't help but feel a bit embarrassed.
>Your eyes open and you look up, blue eyes appears to be beaming with pride.
>After a moment you find yourself joined by the stallion.
>This is hardly something you would have found hygienic, but it seems that after being collared and corralled you're willing to part with yet another little piece of dignity you had been clinging to.
>Finally, refreshed, you withdraw from the bowl.
>The other ponies had been watching and, one by one, make their way to the bowls. It's clear that no one has had a sip to drink in quite a while.
>Your stomach grumbles and you figure that it's worth trying your luck with the feeding trough.
>You trot over, only to find it empty. The grumble turns to a sad moan.
>You're a little worried at your own disappointment, would you honestly have dipped your head into whatever slop had been in this thing?
>Yes, yes you probably would have.
 
>You make your way to one of the side walls, resting up against it on a soft mound of straw.
>Watching the others, you're a little surprised to find your mind prodding at you. Something isn't quite right.
>Aside from the fact that they're all talking horses, of course.
>They're missing something, all of them. Your view centers, as if by instinct, on each of their flanks.
>They're blank.
>But you're all little horses, what did you expect?
>There's a thought slowly bubbling upward in your mind.
>Cutie... mark...?
>It's like that show, the one you used to watch, it feels like so long ago.
>My Little Pony, My Little Pony~...
>You shake your head, as if to expel the thought. That's just a little too weird for you right now.
>You've been in here for a little over an hour now and you're surprised at how the atmosphere has begun to change.
>The hushed murmurs are gone, the sobbing too. Instead, you can hear the other ponies chatting, even laughing on occasion.
>Eight ponies, only a short time ago cowering in fear and despair.
>Eight ponies, and one little ray of light.
>She's moving between them, speaking to each in turn. Joking, laughing, smiling, lively as the spring sun.
>Their responses aren't ever dramatic, usually just a weary smile and gentle nod. Little by little though their sadness seems to be fading away.
>The sound of a ringing bell brings you out of your train of thought.
>The pen door swings open and Jim enters; he's carrying a large, heavy bucket.
>Oh no. That can't be what you think it is.
>”Arright ladies, fellas, lunch is 'ere.”
>It is.
>”Ah need every one'er ya up 'ere at yer trough, come on now, no dally'in”
>There's a hesitant shuffling as you all begin lining up at the trough. You find yourself at one of the ends.
>The apprehension in the air is palpable, you clearly aren't the only one not looking forward to eating whatever is about to be dumped into this thing. You doubt that even filet mignon would be appealing like this.
 
>”Good, 'er we go. It ain't no fancy dinin, ah know, but it's the best we got.”
>With that Jim tilts the bucket over. Globs of chunky, colorless paste begin to land, each with a distasteful plop.
>It's oatmeal, at least you think it is. It's more like oatmeal's ugly toothless cousin.
>Jim walks down the line, making sure to drop enough of the goo in front of each pony. Having emptied the bucket he turns to walk out, stopping briefly to speak.
>”Go ahead'n eat'cher fill, then we need'ta be gettin y'all cleaned up an ready fer the floor.”
>And then he's gone, leaving behind a wake of anxiety and distress.
>They really did mean to sell you, and they meant to do it today.
>But you're getting out of this place, out of this pen. You'll be going to a good home.
>A good home? Did you really just think that? What about the others? What about blue eyes?
>They're going to take you out of this pen, and when they do, you'll have a chance.
>You have to try.
>Even if you don't know where you'll go, what you'll do.
>You can escape, you can be free.
>Until then you need to keep up your strength.
>You look back down at the slop, your stomach grumbling painfully.
>You glance sideways. The other ponies are all looking from side to side, then back down at the slop. It's like they're all facing the same dilemma.
>Then you catch the gaze of those familiar blue eyes. She's staring at you, it's almost like she's speaking, telling you something.
>It's as if you can hear her voice in your mind, soft and encouraging. Go ahead, it's okay.
>So you do.
>It isn't pleasant, to say the least. The taste is as bland as the texture is mushy. You'd lowered yourself into the paste as gently as possible, but it still manages to get all over your nose and muzzle.
>The others take your cue and dig in themselves, but not before you catch blue eyes giving you the slightest nod and smile.
>You heart flutters briefly and, for just a moment, you find yourself almost enjoying your meal.
 
 
>Aside from the occasional slurp or gulp, your mealtime passes by silently, your comrades in bondage clearly too famished to attempt small talk around the trough.
>You finish early and, having sated your bodily needs, decide to seat yourself in front of the pen door.
>A cool, runny sensation on your nose alerts you to the presence of some leftover oatmeal. Reflexively you reach out with a forehoof, attempting to wipe the slop away.
>Unfortunately your hooves are notably less dextrous than your old hands. You only succeed in smearing the slimy substance over more of your muzzle.
>Undeterred you try your luck with your tongue. In contrast to your hooves it's much more versatile than you remember. Slowly sliding it out of your mouth, you manage to wrap it upward along the side of your nose and muzzle, a slight flick of your head bringing it even farther and catching most of the residual meal.
>Most, but not all.
>After all that effort you've managed to go make yourself go cross eyed. In your peripheral vision, however, you just so happen to catch the sight of that familiar chartreuse coat.
>Another slick, wet tongue brushes over your face, clearing up the last bit of oatmeal.
>Your body jolts as you're brought out of your focus and you shoot blue eyes your best deer-in-headlights look.
>There's another sensation too, a gentle spasm in your crotch followed by a warm, moist drip.
>Oh no, no no no.
>This is not happening.
>She's staring down at you, giggling, a hoof pressed to her face.
>Every drop of blood in your body is flowing straight to your head.
>She couldn't possibly know what she just did to you, could she?
>Stop looking so guilty or she will.
>Your face feels so red you could probably guide Santa's sleigh through a hurricane.
>Her giggling has slowed, she's looking at you as if with a sense of understanding. A sensual, seductive gaze slinks onto her face.
>She knows.
 
>There's a commotion outside the pen as the door flings open.
>You jump to your hooves as several men step inside.
>They're each carrying a pole with a wire noose at the end, the kind you'd expect to see animal control using.
>There are more men standing outside, blocking your escape.
>The pen descends into chaos as the ponies flee in terror, desperately trying to avoid the inevitable.
>You're caught up against the fencing with blue eyes to your side. One of the men stands in front of you. By his looks, he couldn't be much older than 20. He's tall, blonde, more than a little scrawny, and clearly a little shaken at the idea of what he's doing.
>Your flank is pressed against the fence. The best you can manage is to reel yourself up, turning your head left and right to avoid the noose.
>You catch a brief glimpse of blue eyes. She's shaking slightly but she's sitting still, her head downcast.
>The metal wire slides over your head, brushing across your ear and your tag with a sickly twang. The pole jabs you in the side of the neck, enough to hurt but not enough to bruise. The wire tightens, constricting around your neck as the pole forces you down on all fours.
>Your neck burns as the wire slides across your coat. The pressure yanks you forward, then sideways and out of the pen.
>Despite the pain, you turn your head to the side. Blue eyes is right behind you, followed by a chain of downtrodden ponies.
>You're in the open, then trotting down a hallway. Your handler is holding the pole at an angle such that you're forced to keep your head tilted diagonally. It's awkward and it makes walking difficult, but you manage with only the occasional painful tug.
>After a few minutes you reach a room with a light wooden door. Inside, the room is large, tiled, and open, looking a bit like a gym washroom. The tiles are a bleached pearl and the ceiling is concrete. Even for a washroom, the place looks vaguely dirty.