//------------------------------// // Realistically, 'Friendship Is Blackmail' Wouldn't Have Gotten Past Marketing // Story: Anchor Foal: A Romantic Cringe Comedy // by Estee //------------------------------// I wake up in the middle of the night because I'm alone. It took a while to figure that out. I thought it was the stress of being in a place that's still at least half-wild. Knowing a storm could hit at any time, or a monster could come out of the Everfree (still have to find out why it's got a name) and crash through the barn. Or just being so far from home, that can cost some sleep. And most ponies might say I'm not alone. It's just about the opposite, because I'm hardly the only pony bunking in this barn. I took a count just now while I was working my way out, and it's up to forty. A new work crew came in a few days ago, and that means carpenters who haven't gotten to hoof-hammer their own houses. There's a lot of company in here and most nights, I'd swear unto Moon that the majority of it snores. But when I wake up, I'm on my left side, with my legs outstretched and apart, as if there's something I was reaching for. Somepony who was supposed to be between them. I guess I've been married long enough that I don't remember how to sleep single any more. Maybe that's part of why I started this journal. Why I left whatever safety the barn offers to write in it some more. (Got to try and hire some of the hammer group once they wrap up what they originally came in for, and it's not going to make a great impression if I wake a few up with my trying to see and write by corona light.) It's something I can talk to. It's been harder to get ponies to talk than I thought it would be. I think part of that is because there's so few unicorns around. I see some come and go with the deliveries, providing protective spells for the goods. But I'm the only one who's intending to move in permanently. The earth ponies had the place to themselves for a few years, maybe long enough to feel like it was going to be theirs forever. But that's the pattern. They come in first. They always have. And I thought they enjoyed it, breaking new ground. Making a little more of Equestria safe for settlement. But with me, from a couple of them, it feels like there's some resentment. That because I wasn't here the whole time, I don't deserve to be here now. I didn't put in the work. I'm doing my best to catch up. Thank Sun Mrs. Smith isn't like that. I've talked to her a few times: kind of hard to live in somepony's barn and not exchange a few words when I'm dropping off the bunk rent. Good mare, even if she's a little sarcastic now and again. I asked her what she was going to do when all her boarders had their own places, and she said she was looking at us as a trial gallop for taking on tenants. Except that she was pretty sure the tenants would smell a whole lot better. (Note to self: offer to redo gutters on farmhouse room for her, add mini-tower wherever the joists are strongest. Pretty sure I can rig up an outdoor shower that way.) She's pregnant. Not that far along: just enough that she's starting to show. Still going around her farm every day and cooking meals for more than forty. That's probably going to be the first foal in this settled zone. She thinks it's a filly. I think she's wrong. We might have to get a bet down. Pregnant. I think that's why I've been looking at her so much. (I may have to explain that to her husband. I know he's caught me at least once, and I don't want him getting mad.) We were getting ready to try for our first when this opportunity opened up, and I put it off in order to come here. Didn't exactly leave a happy spouse behind, but we need financial stability. Our kids are going to need that. The goal is for them to be better off than I was, and that starts here. I think she'll see that, when she gets here. When it's safe enough for her to come. In the meantime, I've been starting on the foundation. With my own crew so light, most of that's been just me, which really surprised Mrs. Smith when it came up. She said she's never seen a unicorn do so much physical labor, and I told her that the mark means something and in my case, a pair of hoof-hammering shoes means the pony had better be ready to do some productive kicking. I know how to get the job started. I could get it finished myself if I had to, first nail to last. But it takes too long that way. I've put the word out that I'm hiring, and then I put together some notice boards so the word would stay around after I left. Made them solid. I think they're going to hold up for a while. But it's hard to get ponies to talk to me. I've tried cracking a few jokes, and it just gets me looked at. I don't trust myself to go drinking, not when I'm drinking against earth ponies and anything which isn't imported should have been outlawed: I haven't seen one pony with a brewer's mark and there's about two dozen past their manifests and trying for it anyway. They've had a few years of surviving together: I haven't. I'm the stranger here. They're not exactly rude, for the most part, and I've only seen the two who were angry. But even offering fair wages, even getting the base down myself so they'll know I'm here for the long haul, I feel like they're waiting for me to prove something before more of them sign on. I keep looking up while I'm working on this. Part of that is checking for possible attacks from the sky. Most of it is looking for clouds. I'm sick of getting rained on out of nowhere. I heard somepony say there's a science called meteorology which lets you try and figure out how the weather might turn out on its own, so now all we need is a library and I'll check out a few books on it. I thought this was going to be an adventure. Parts of it have felt that way, especially when we were scouting for the mill's site. And I remembered the books from school. So many of the old settlers kept journals, because they knew they were doing something most ponies would never experience. They wanted the ones who weren't there to understand what it felt like. They were writing to the future. Maybe that's the other reason I'm writing this. But I'm not going to publish. Writing isn't any part of my mark. Maybe I'll wind up with a story or two, but who would want to read it? Who would look at the life of what I'm hoping is going to be a happily retired former sawmill owner with more grandfoals than he can count? Or maybe I know that one already. It's a long way off. Everything is. But tomorrow is going to have me back out at the site with the four ponies I've hired so far (if they all show up) and it'll all trot that much further down the road. I know where I'm going. I just have to get there. But it's a longer trip than I thought. And all I usually get to talk to is paper. I need to make some friends. Friends... She was gradually making her way through Ponyville and in theory, the journey was meant to eventually put her on the path towards the cottage. The reality of it was that she was once again on the prowl, only this time, she was the pony who wasn't entirely sure what the stalk was supposed to look like. Proper baiting also seemed to be in question and when it came to dealing with any results, there was an extant, extensive set of tools which suddenly didn't apply because making the subjects slowly (and most of the time, financially) bleed out might not be the best tactic any more. Friends. Fleur was trying to remember how you were supposed to go about acquiring those. Her slow trot paused, just long enough for her left hind hoof to lightly tap against the cobblestones three times. The precisely-styled tail curled in twice, covered her mark on each side before going back to its standard loft. It could be fairly said that when it came to certain types of interaction, Fleur made friends rather easily. It was far more accurate to say that she tended to draw in those who desperately wanted to say they were her friend simply because as a term, 'conquest' was best held back until whatever you were hoping to boast about had actually taken place. With Fleur, it usually wouldn't. She could generally afford to be choosy. Sort the catch, pick only the best, and -- well, strictly speaking, it wasn't always best to kick the whole of the remainder over the side of the boat. There were those who believed it was best to show some courtesy to the links you were passing in the chain as you worked your way up, lest they use the sight of your being knocked back down as a chance to wrap themselves around your throat. But there were other categories of friend available. For example, there were clients or rather, there were those who felt that while everypony else had to pay for Fleur's company, she was only collecting bits from them because she was required to do so: the receipt was just professional courtesy. Any number of ponies had somehow reached the conclusion that Fleur would happily spend unpaid time with them just as soon as some opened up, and a few of them had even been right: those tended to be the residences where reaching the physical evidence to back up the talent-indicated blackmail material required her to get past a few extra locks. Escorts, certain categories of dancer, models and actresses -- there were multiple occupations which relied on having their professionals project an aura of but for you, it's real, it's all real, maybe I have to force a false laugh with the rest of them but you're the one who's funny and in the majority of cases, it didn't take much effort to make that illusion cover what the other ponies had decided were orgasms. There were also remoras. (It had taken Fleur some time to encounter the first of those, and the mere thought made her want to start grooming her fur in the middle of the street.) In the wild, there were very few predators whose kills were completely clean: those content to survive on leavings and incidental fragments could manage quite nicely on the leftovers from those who were willing to do the actual work. Within the sapients' jungle... while Fleur did what she could, the truth was that she sometimes managed to attract more than she could strictly manage in a short time, and that was what lured the remoras in. Somepony who had recently been weakened by rejection was that much easier to catch, and so a few mares had attempted to subsist on her leavings. It was hard for somepony like Fleur to avoid picking up a few: the fact that she didn't want any never seemed to register with them. Remoras would declare themselves to be not just friends, but assistants: the groomers of her social calendar, those who took care of the little things on her behalf. And once you had a sufficiency of the things swimming in your wake, you just might find that anything you truly wished to catch had already been stripped to the bone. Remoras, however, were largely dedicated to letting the predator do all of the real work, and so had some interest in keeping that party intact until the moment a better hunter came along. In that sense, whoever they were attaching themselves to was meant to serve as a lure. It put them in direct contrast to those who had seen Fleur as bait. Kick her into the social waters, make it clear that she was weak and vulnerable and ripe for the taking -- inflicting a few small wounds to help spread the scent was just practical -- and then wait. Most of what tried to consume her would be ambushed, and if anything got through -- well, there was always more bait, wasn't there? Sometimes it even volunteered -- -- her slow trot paused, just long enough for her left hind hoof to lightly tap against the cobblestones three times. The precisely-styled tail curled in twice -- -- and then she realized what she'd been doing. Her nightscape had never been under her control. Her body had to be. Every subtle erotic movement, every alluring smile. All crafted to perfection. For any part of her form to have been acting, even temporarily, without direct orders and full awareness -- -- stop. Just -- stop. That's not me any more. It can't be. Besides, even if she actually had been that desperate (and she'd used so much time, so many Celestia-negated moons in making sure she would never be that desperate again), it wouldn't have worked. Not only was she in exactly the wrong place, but the signals were years out of date. She wasn't sure anypony anyone knew what they meant any more, certainly not in Ponyville. It would take a long time to reach those who might remember what they used to mean and given the standard turnover rate, it was likely that very few of them were still part of that life. Or, given one of the more typical reasons for that turnover, alive at all. Good. She took a slow breath, was pleased by the number of ponies who hadn't been able to pretend they weren't watching it. That was a place to start -- -- except it isn't. Her license was gone. The most ready route she'd had towards making friends had been destroyed by sunlight and fire. (Vengeance against the responsible party was, at best, still a work in progress.) It was the reason she hadn't bothered to make the courtesy introduction for whatever escorts happened to be holding down Ponyville: the meeting typically included a display of paperwork, and hers was no longer valid. She wasn't going to have any clients see her as more than a hire because she didn't have any clients, and there was no realistic way to acquire them. Escort services were legal in Equestria: Fleur's mandatory studies had taught her that it had been a part of the nation almost from the moment there had been a nation at all. Escort law was under the dominion of the Night Court, and that legislative body had kept those services legal across centuries of challenges from generations of self-titled moral guardians: those who hated the prospect of anypony enjoying sex so much as to somehow pass that anger down through their blood. (The natural presumption was that the sex act had been performed solely for the purpose of procreating future lawsuits, and all parties involved would respond to any actual pleasure by beating their heads against something until enjoyment, and possibly consciousness, went away.) There was a precisely-crafted body of statutes guiding escort training: license requirements, updates, certifications. Everything about being a licensed escort was legal -- and so the law was less than fond of those who tried to use streetcorners as their audition sites for Amateur Hour. Those caught once would be gently nudged towards course registration forms. Anypony caught twice had officially pushed their luck over the edge of the cliff, and plummet rates meant they got to watch it impact the prison floor a split-second before they did. It doesn't mean I can't have sex. This time, the hesitation was created by the drifting scent of hot sugar. It was still only coming from one side of the street, but that was something which wouldn't hold true for much longer: the fast-approaching competition now had empty display cases visible through new glass, and somepony had been carefully applying sparkling letters to the door. Fleur distractedly noted the bright colors which had been carefully layered within the shop's interior: based on decoration style alone, the owner was going for a younger clientele. It reminded her of Sweetbark. A candy shop which expected to see most of its traffic from schoolchildren could reasonably get away with the hues, creating a world where the only pain came for those who overindulged, severely neglected their brushing, and were a little too close to their last dose of dental potion. A vet couldn't, shouldn't... Another breath, one deep enough to both cause a minor swoon on her right and make her think about just how good a proper nougat would taste. Or a Delight. She hadn't had a correctly-prepared Delight in -- -- stop it -- -- the trot resumed. Sex: she seldom had any trouble in finding partners, usually encountered more difficulty in getting ponies to stop offering themselves up. But while under the watchful (if, at best, semi-competent) eye of Ponyville's police department, any attempt to maintain relationships with multiple partners (outside of a group marriage, and trying to gain an invitation was currently going a little too far) would likely lead to accusations of unlicensed activity. Fleur would have a hard time proving her lack of receipts -- and even if she somehow managed to do that, Miranda Rights would be quick to conclude that what had been described as having been purely for fun (and certainly more than the police chief ever managed to have) was actually being performed with the intent of rebuilding the web. Pulling in more blackmail material. Getting ponies to give her what she wanted. Which would have been, at best, a half-truth. Fleur wouldn't have been on the active prowl for secrets, although she would have happily filed away nearly anything which happened to present itself. She simply wished for ponies to give her what she wanted: the destruction of Sweetbark's artificial reputation. And frankly, that was something everypony should have wanted. So if it's sex, then I get one pony. She thought about that a little more, and did so while expert eyes began to reevaluate the passing population. I'd have to finish with one. If I start actively dating, I could justify going through a few. But the police are going to watch that, too... It was possible that she'd only been permitted to get as far as she had with Caramel because his tastes were so well-known. Everypony had been fully aware that he wasn't interested in her sexually, and so had seen fit to let her repeatedly ram her horn into a wall until the amusement value began to grow stale. One pony. In terms of influence, Filthy Rich was the best choice. (For using a social hub, it would have been -- she very nearly shuddered -- Pinkie. Not that trysexuals didn't have their charms, especially since Fleur was confident in her ability to steer the mare towards what she personally liked -- but she was also completely certain that any gossip about that relationship would have found its way directly to the palace.) She would need to step up her efforts in that direction -- after she took care of one other thing, because there was no way she was going to enter a state of artificial monogamy before finding out where Joyous lived. I can probably get away with dating him, as long as I make it look like I'm just -- settling in. I should be able to fend off most of what the police can try to do, especially since they're supposed to treat me normally. But if he isn't enough... In terms of fiscal support, he was likely enough for anypony. For destroying the life of a single unworthy so-called vet, however... that had yet to be determined, and the process of ruining that mare's existence needed to begin quickly. There was an argument to be made that it was already long overdue. Which seemed to bring her back to the original issue. She thought about it some more, as the temperature began its too-slow climb through the precisely regulated autumn day. Considered whether she looked as distracted as she felt, then wondered if any visible display of the emotion was coming across as unattractive. A quick check of her reflection in a handy window was enough to reassure her, along with adding the usual question about the sanity of the settled zone's residents because the more logical thing to have done with the sale was to buy the couch and get a quill free. Making friends... The majority of adult friendships were easy to define. You found those who wished to use you and for the most part, you pretended to let them. If it wasn't too much trouble, you might actually let them get something out of it every so often, mostly to keep stringing things along. And the whole time, you were actually using them. It was a mutually beneficial semi-parasitic relationship, for a very loose definition of 'mutually'. It was easy to make that kind of friend, when you were an escort. As far as Fleur was concerned, the profession not only encouraged it, but had been built to take advantage of it -- at least for those intelligent enough to both perceive and seize the opportunity. But she wasn't an escort any more. Normal sex would provide some degree of the take and sort-of-give required, but she'd just realized that she was limited in the number of ponies she could visibly pursue. The ones who tried to use me. The ones I used without their ever knowing it... Celestia hadn't uncovered everything: Fleur was confident of that. There were things the alicorn couldn't have discovered, not when it had been so long ago and far away. ...the one who cared about -- the clacking, the mindless -- This time, she stopped moving entirely. Tossed her head once, failed to dislodge the memories, the sounds which were ringing in her ears, ponies were staring at her and of course ponies always did that, but she wasn't sure about the nature of those stares any more and the clacking was just in her head but it was also in her ears it was in her life for every moment she might continue to live at all and it was getting louder, for the first time in years it was getting louder -- -- she tossed her head again: a lighter, more controlled movement, something which simply readjusted her mane to what it should have been, and resumed her journey. Making friends with adults. When sex isn't involved, when it can't be. When you can't use somepony too openly or quickly. How do you do that? She... didn't seem to remember. Maybe it was just a variation. An updating of something older. Think about -- making friends with children. Making friends when I was a filly. But I -- -- I have to get home I always have to get home I can't stay away for too long because the sound might The trot had subtly accelerated, and she forced her speed to drop. Don't run. Galloping is too public. It makes everypony wonder why you need to be moving so quickly. Just move casually, like you're in no hurry to be anywhere, like nothing is following you I need to work. Work consumed time. But it also created security. And there was more than that. She had spent nearly two years of Canterlot time in work. Learning secrets. Building the web. Arranging for the future, using her limited time as best she could, time which Celestia had destroyed, but until that moment Fleur had worked almost constantly and -- -- work is what you do instead of remembering. She had thought about it more since coming to Ponyville than she had for her entire time in Canterlot. Sweetbark had made her remember. There was a price to pay for that. Make some friends. Without my reputation. Without my license. Without having sex with more than five ponies. How was she supposed to do that? And then she figured it out. Ponies came to the cottage. Ponies who frequently wanted to talk, to talk about anything because they falsely believed it might take their minds off what could potentially happen to their companion. And most of the time, those ponies would be faced with a near-silent yellow-winged sound absorber, something which ensured their words went no further. But Fluttershy was on a mission. Those ponies were coming to Fleur. There were always things to do at the cottage, and Snowflake was only capable of managing most of it. For starters, it was clear that the vast majority of social interactions needed to be left to Fleur. Besides, as small talk went, 'Yeah!' arguably qualified, but it started to get repetitive after a while. "So you're Fluttershy's assistant?" the near-senior earth pony stallion inquired as she wrote up his receipt. (She was beginning to ask some serious questions regarding the dominance of brown fur in the local blood.) His gaze roamed across her form: no assessment of her beauty or his chances -- she'd already solved his puzzle, and no amount of makeup she could apply would ever render her into a male -- but a simple sort of roaming confusion. "How does a pony like you get into that line of work?" She'd decided to let the impression stand, at least for a little while: it explained what she was doing at the cottage and gave her a reason to keep coming back, along with providing a possible legitimate reason for invoicing Celestia on a second salary. But she understood why the question had emerged. Mares like Fleur became models and if they were lucky enough to keep Lens Cap out of their lives, some of them even remained in the profession. Others went onto the stage: those who couldn't act to save their lives went in front of movie cameras to serve as semi-mobile set dressing. They could be found trotting alongside the flanks of the rich and powerful. Setting trends. Moving social levers. Oh, and there were times when they became escorts -- but when it came to potential occupations for the truly beautiful, 'veterinary assistant' wasn't exactly at the bottom of a typical list. The list required to accommodate the entry, fully unrolled, would have stretched into Tartarus, presumably imprisoning any chance of having it truly happen forever. The stallion wasn't interested in her, not sexually. But he was asking about her. Make some friends... "It helps to be interested in animals," Fleur said, and the field-held quill continued to move along. Politely, "I'll just finish the receipt and then I'll get your change. I might need to step out for a few seconds. I don't think there's enough in the till to break this coin." He was now looking at her mark. "So that icon is --" "-- I actually grew up around animals," she smoothly interrupted, and was briefly amazed by the sound of her own words. But she'd been remembering (and there would be more than Sweetbark paying for that), and when constructing a story for somepony -- well, what made you sound more credible than a touch of the truth? A little bit of surprise. "Really?" Mostly animals. Partially. Actually, if looked at by percentage... "Yes," she smiled. "So I was doing some things when I was fairly young." And added an expert shrug. "You know how it is. When you're in a farming family, you farm..." He nodded and better yet, smiled back. "I'm a farmer myself," the stallion admitted. "The first thing I ever did with my parents was planting seeds..." His eyes briefly turned misty, then refocused on the present. "A long time ago," he softly added. "A long, long time. And that's where you learned to groom dogs so well?" "Yes." Which was a lie. There had been some grooming, but it had been with -- "So what's the first thing you ever did? Taking care of animals?" "Feedings," she admitted. They wanted to see if I could do it. If I could make myself get that close. The next question was a natural one. "And what made you decide you wanted to keep doing it? For me --" misty again "-- it was the first harvest on my own field. The one my mother let me try with, just to see if I could manage by myself. Biting into a rutabaga which nopony had grown but me." Fleur thought about it. (She'd been remembering. She was remembering too much. The walls had been kicked, and the most recent cracks hadn't had the chance to heal. Otherwise, she never would have said anything at all, and she would tell herself that until she almost started to believe it.) Friends make connections. And a farmer would have multiple, professional opportunities to gossip about a vet. She didn't tell him everything. Location never became any part of it, or who had been around her at the time. She simply mentioned what she'd faced, followed by exactly what she'd done. Because that was something a friend would talk about, there was virtually no chance of having it ever get back to Canterlot and if all else failed, she'd just deny it to all parties. Escorts told stories: there were times when having interesting conversational material was a necessity. And nopony who'd known her in the capital would ever believe it was a true one, so -- "Is that what he paid with?" Snowflake asked. The pegasus softly whistled. "That's way up the scale. I know Fluttershy doesn't have that many smaller coins around. Was it an old bill?" "Several moons of unpaid visits," Fleur replied. She wasn't really looking at him. Her gaze was focused elsewhere. "So it added up," he exhaled. "Good. And that's a nice recovery to start with." Thoughtfully, "It feels like she's been getting more ponies settling up lately --" "-- it didn't add up. About two-thirds." He looked at the big coin again. "So you found change somewhere?" "No. He just -- left. Without taking any." One more look for each, with neither really noticing what the other was paying attention to. "That's a really big tip," Snowflake softly decided. "She's never gotten one on that scale before. Have you ever seen a tip like that?" Yes. "Not for this." She kept looking at the recently-vacated space. All I did was tell him a story... "The postpony's due by later," Snowflake said. "I'll ask her if she can drop off the receipt." "So you really were at that party!" The light blue unicorn mare began to merrily laugh. "That proves it! Nopony would have known about that little slip unless they'd been in attendance! Oh, having a backup witness...!" Fleur, who could spot somepony with aspirations of social advancement within seconds and knew that no matter how the mare had described her attendance, the only way to have had that viewing angle on The Ill-Advised Hat Collapse Of '73 was to have been watching from the kitchen entrance, faked a laugh of her own. "I think I saw the exact moment when she began to regret including the birdcage." With a smile, "Which was just before the bird finally began to enjoy it." The field-held brush worked another tangle out of the raccoon's fur. The mare was now giggling. "Some nobles are just weird." And you're a pony who likes to spread stories. You feel as if it's making you look more important. A natural gossip... Make some friends. Fleur nodded. "You wouldn't believe half of it," she semi-truthfully said: her actual estimate on the percentage was closer to twenty. Grey eyes were beginning to sparkle. "Tell me," the mare conspiratorially whispered. "What's the weirdest thing you've ever heard about a noble?" The brush paused in its motions. "The weirdest thing?" The mare eagerly nodded. ...identifies me as the pony with that picture, if Celestia doesn't know it already. I really can't go on the witness stand right now. Nopony would be happy about that kind of overturn in the Day Court. She would have dismantled the gears by now... "You know something weird," the mare softly decided. "I can see it in your eyes. You're just trying to figure out whether you should say it..." It was more a case of knowing several hundred things and already having rejected the first sixty-two. "Something weird," Fleur smiled. "All right. But no names. Although I think a mare of your party attendance record just might be able to guess." The unicorn happily nodded. "So --" "-- and when emergency services finally cut through the last lock," Fleur finished, "they refused to take him down until he told them just how much he'd paid for the pinwheel!" The white rabbit silently stared at her. Stomped its right hind foot against the floor three times, then raced into the nearest cubbyhole. "...right," Fleur sighed, and all four legs pushed her fully upright again. "So apparently that's how everything reacts to that punchline..." That particular day had also seen the scheduled arrival of a task which, if Fleur had truly thought about it, was a perfectly natural requirement of Fluttershy's life. It was just something Snowflake really didn't enjoy doing and when she'd picked up on the first of the scents shortly after getting back from the bathroom, made the completely natural and correct guess as to what was going on -- well, it had been equally natural to volunteer. Because not only was it something to do, but Fleur considered herself to have been going through a very long series of bad days (with the current one as a particularly foul specimen), and this was something which stood a chance to improve her life. Besides, it got Snowflake out of the cottage for a necessary patrol of the grounds. She was presuming the fresh air would eventually help him stop gagging. She was almost happy, as she puttered about the kitchen. (Almost. She had very clear memories of the last surge of true happiness, and suspected Celestia was still indulging in the occasional snicker.) Admittedly, there were aspects of the operation which were less than satisfying. For starters, Fluttershy had been using the cheap stuff -- no, it was worse than that. There were things in the freezer (not a walk-in: barely large enough to hold the supplies, perhaps two moons away from failing to keep the temperature and something had to be done about that) which had clearly been scavenged. Yes, it was a savings, especially given the usual high local price of the ingredients, and Fleur certainly understood how to work with what was available. But for her first personal attempt in years -- -- oh, there it is. The edges of her field smoothed somewhat as the little bubble enveloped the freshly-discovered jar. 'A little marjoram covers many sins,' and in another minute, I can kick in a clove to go with that. Another bubble was just barely grasping the far end of a long celery stalk: she had to stir with something and as far as the incomplete coverage went, it was best to let the soaking begin immediately. Adjust the temperature a little there: that's boiling too fast. She really needs a better stove -- "-- excuse me?" When Fleur looked back on the encounter, she would realize the mare's words had possessed several interesting qualities. For starters, they hadn't been spoken so much as forcibly exhaled, using speech as an extra means of pushing air away. They had also been more than a little desperate, and were just barely managing to contain roughly seven hundred percent of the usual amount of non-Fluttershy skittishness. The pegasus (just barely within the doorway, wings vibrating as if takeoff was an option which had to be postponed second by second) was a rather trim specimen, with a nicely swooped sort of hairstyle. There were ways in which she was attractive, but none of it ever quite approached true beauty. The sort of pony who might benefit from collecting the leavings of a mare who was doing most of the work. Make some friends... "Oh, hello!" Fleur brightly said, and allowed the celery to stir a little faster. "I'm sorry I didn't hear you come in." (She had: the hoofsteps just hadn't registered as any level of threat.) "Do you have an appointment?" Trying to do no more than the rather tricky act of lightly chiding and looking sorry at the same time, "You know, most ponies don't come this far. But if I left you in the waiting area for a while and you felt you had to come looking --" "-- grooming," the mare swallowed, and then looked as if she'd instantly regretted it. "My bird needs... her beak and nails trimmed..." Actually, it was hard to tell exactly how attractive she was, especially with the way her snout kept contorting. Fleur was having an equal amount of difficulty in determining the true shade of the fur. "I'll be out in a few minutes," Fleur pretended to apologize. "I just can't leave things at this stage." The mare stared at her. The pots. The steadily-stirring stalk. Back to her. "...what are you doing?" "Cooking," Fleur unnecessarily explained. "Do you like cooking?" Because weren't friends were supposed to have common interests? Some of the liquid was boiling. Little splatters were flying over the rim, which meant that on top of everything else, Fluttershy also needed better pots. Fortunately, fields had their privileges: Fleur was standing far enough away to keep herself clean. "Cooking -- what?" She needs help with her makeup. Using that shade of green on the undercoat really wasn't doing the mare any favors. "Well," Fleur educated (while feeling it should have been equally unnecessary), "we have carnivores here. They have to be fed. So I'm boiling some bones down, to get at the marrow. And that other pot is going to be simmering for about seven more hours, because it doesn't look like anypony's been extracting gelatin and that has all kinds of uses." Which was honestly the best fate she'd been able to find for the scavenged miniature monster corpses which had mostly qualified as roadkill. And when all someone could do was finish off whatever they'd found on the side of the road... The mare swallowed a second time, and so reached the local lifetime limit on the act. "Meat," she just barely got out. "Cooking it properly takes care of just about anything which might have been wrong with it," Fleur shrugged. "And today, that's going to take a lot of cooking. Honestly, I don't know where half of this stuff has been. Or what it's been through." Thoughtfully, "Except for that half-rent corismatch body. That was clearly attacked by a zantray." Brightly, "But don't worry! I spotted the discoloration from the saliva and cut those parts out. It's perfectly safe." "...for carnivores," the mare finally said, at least for what managed to emerge as words. "It's necessary," Fleur softly stated. (The celery switched to stirring counter-clockwise.) "Everypony who has a dog. A cat. Owls, even if they mostly hunt their own. There are ponies who have to deal with meat every day, even if it's just been processed into pet food. We just have to use more of it, because there's so many animals here. It's natural." The mare choked one last time, forced herself to breathe. "I..." And then she visibly marshaled herself, with wings and features stilling just before the smile emerged. "...I suppose it is." Fleur nodded. "It can't be easy," the pegasus continued. "Just being in there." Ponies... went through Fleur's mind, and was discarded in favor of a reassuring smile. "So what's that one with the celery sticking out of it? Is that for one of the omnivores?" "No," Fleur (almost) happily declared as she turned her full attention to the indicated pot, which was just about ready for the clove. "That's mine." (The vocalization which emerged in response to the simple statement, with all of the other sounds subtracted out, could have worked out to something along the very rough lines of '...yours?' and so a distracted Fleur felt free to continue.) "It's griffon cuisine! Modified. I've got eggplant in here, along with some carrots and bell peppers. Soaking in the juices. And nothing absorbs like celery! When it's done..." She didn't realize that she'd just openly licked her lips. It wouldn't have mattered. She'd already missed every other visual reaction: spotting what happened in response to that wouldn't have changed any of the upcoming stories. Things which were about to be launched at the speed of flight. "Of course, I separate the meat out after," Fleur added. "That goes to the animals. But the vegetables -- you wouldn't believe what it does to the taste." Thoughtfully, because friends also shared experiences and she'd frankly put a few too many carrots in, "Actually, if you're curious, I'm sure I can find an extra plate --" -- fine, Fleur internally grumbled for the sixth time. More comfort food for me. Especially as she needed a lot of comforting. She planted her left forehoof against the cloth or rather, the topmost of the four absorbent layers she'd dropped on top of it all. Pushed harder. And I'll scrub the spot down afterwards with the Foal Soap. That should get rid of the scent. Fleur glumly glanced over her left shoulder, surveying the hallway. From this section The shrew, in what it probably thought was a rather subtle move, was approaching one of the larger floor spots. "Don't touch that," Fleur rather pointlessly told it, just before her field lifted it away from the area. "I know where it's been." And in a dark way, it was actually somewhat impressive. She could have at least touched down for a few seconds. To finish in one place. Fleur hadn't even known it was possible for a pegasus to fly and vomit at the same time.