Ponyville was just like any other town in the sense that it had a large variety of services to serve the public’s needs. It had public parks, hospitals, and a surprisingly booming public transit system. And if a pony ever needed some groceries, they could always count on the marketplace to be open.

One place many ponies didn’t know about, though, was quite deserving in its place of obscurity. It was nestled right up against the edge of town, without even an identifying word of signage – the only thing to mark that it wasn’t attached to its neighbors was a small insignia, cartoonishly depicted – a brain with the ever-recognizable “red cross” symbol next to it. The interior was unassuming, and there was hardly anypony in there, even including behind the reception desk. But a small door led to a set of stairs, and that was where the Ponyville Psychiatric Ward really branched out, fanning out into many rooms for each and every purpose.

One of these rooms in particular (numbered 113) was coated in soft, white panels, from floor to ceiling and along every single wall. In the center of the soundproof and windowless room sat an unassuming mostly-white capsule, almost shaped like a bowling pin. An observer on the interior would soon notice the capsule beginning to rock in random directions, seemingly of its own accord, accompanied with some strange other sounds with each revolution. The truth was that the current occupant of this rocking capsule was none other than Pyrisa Miracles.

Sealed inside the tight, inflated-latex interior and further gripped firmly by the harder plastic exterior, her hooves were frozen together as tightly as they would go. A quick glance towards the “front” of the capsule would reveal an almost impossibly-widely beaming face, albeit not of the captive’s own accord. A hard plastic mouthguard forced her mouth into a cheek-splitting grin saw to it that the captive pony seemed outwardly exuberant in almost every way. And indeed, the strange sounds would eventually be heard to be laughter, muffled only by this very same device.

On the back of the entire setup was a small digital clock, currently displaying “0:6:16:50:10” and counting down. The lock was closed tightly, sealing the two almost-seamless halves of the capsule together until the clock reached a nice arrangement of 0s.

There was a single break in the corner of the ceiling for a small, also-white vent from which a light, dizzy odor emanated throughout the room. Her lungs shook as she giggled involuntarily, sharp little gasps punctuating the air as she recovered for the next batch. Her mind was unable to focus on anything at all – her hooves strained futilely against their smothering rubber pockets, her body rocked back and forth and side to side as the capsule wobbled in reaction to every movement, never seeming to tip over. Every time her mind tried to land on a detail, a plan, a movement, it just seemed to sort of slip away into a kind of happy, giggling delirium, and another round of wobbles and tight stretches. The poor mare probably wouldn’t even remember her name by the time she was released…

Pyrisa Miracles had been one of the “lucky” few to hear the details of her treatment beforehand. She would, in fact, be released. That she had been assured of – she wasn’t in trouble, she hadn’t done anything wrong that she could have helped. But an “anonymous” pony had tipped the staff off that she could use some help, however unconventional. And so, Pyrisa had been sat down and secured to a “consultation chair” while she was informed of her upcoming treatment, and the reason for it. Indeed, she had been displaying signs of “severe nymphomania”, and had been deemed a danger to herself and others on the grounds that “danger mustn’t necessarily be grave to be threatening”. It was made clear to her that apparently she was considered mentally deficient, and any amount of protests led nowhere, which eventually led to her silencing. Her “consultant” had then laid out her “treatment” quite clearly:

She would be sealed inside a capsule in a room that would keep her from harming or being harmed, and whose mouth guard / gag was intended to help her keep a “positive attitude”. Laughing gas would be steadily pumped into the room at all hours, keeping her delirious, unthinking, and generally sedate until she’d had time to calm down and suppress her urges. The room was then further treated for her special needs. Her initial sentence was to be a week in confinement, but on recommendation from one of her closest friends, a time dilation spell was to be placed on the capsule, slowing the actual progress of time for anypony inside, while allowing everypony outside to progress as normal. Indeed, the recommended factor had been 30:1; thirty subjective seconds inside the capsule would only be equivalent to a single one outside. And unfortunately for her, the sentence would be measured by means exterior to her cell…not by any inside. In effect, the treatment would end up 30 times as effective in the same amount of time. That way, the sentence would be long enough to effectively rewire her libido.

Pyrisa had tried her hardest to wiggle free and escape after hearing all of this, but before she knew it, she’d been sedated, sealed inside, and left to her own devices within the cell. Only…there was one thing she hadn’t been told, and wouldn’t know for at least a half a year of her subjective time longer, amongst her addled concentration, hopeless wiggles, and almost-constant laughter. No amount of wiggling, wishing, moaning, crying, or laughing would help until time was up and she would finally be allowed to go free, and finally learn perhaps the most frustrating fact about her predicament…

The Ponyville Psychiatric Ward hasn’t been operational since the town’s founding.