The flashes of light, the noise, a normal pony would've found it blinding, unbareable. But the stallion everypony was focused on was not a normal pony by any stretch. Tonight, he would prove it. His gaze was slightly lowered, fixed on the path through the chaos in front of him. Ponies on either side of him shouted, trying for his attention, trying to get a glimpse, a reaction, anything. But the stallion's expression was a complete blank. As blank as his flank.
Madison Squaredance Garden, Manehattan
10 years ago
"You ready for this?" his manager asked for the dozenth time. Literally, he had been keeping count.
"Eeyup," he replied, his go-to phrase. He would've answered that even if it wasn't the truth, despite what his little sister would've reminded him. She was still young though but her sense of honesty was impeccable. He thought about his family a lot; it helped him get through things easier.
"Welcome, fillies and gentlecolts to the thirty-eigth annual Manehattan Exhibition!" the voice boomed throughout the auditorium. The announcer, a yellow gryphon in a sportcoat spoke into a microphone held out in front of him. Two stallions, one a bold red and the other a smooth pink with a black mane, stepped into the ring.
The announcer continued, his amplified voice barely able to drown out the noise the crowd was making. The stadium was packed. The red combatant payed no attention to his noise; he was solely focused on his opponent.
Somewhere packed amongst the audience, two other ponies were concerned with something other than the noise themselves.
"They don't respect you," the older one said. The younger said nothing.
"They don't respect you," the first repeated. "That's why you're here. You know that, don't you?"
"I was told to cover this event, that's what I'm going to do," Barro said. He struggled with the camera, something about the white balance wasn't working. Being that everything was so drastically different in color, it was important that he get it adjusted quickly. His colleague already had his camera up and was shooting. Now, instead of trying to help Barro with his own equipment, he'd chosen to delve into the studio's decision to send them both out there to cover what was essentially, a glorified sporting event, a boxing match.
"What? You think an exhibition is that important?"
Barro focused on his camera but didn't ignore the question. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. They told me to cover this story so I'm going to cover it. If nopony else thinks it's important, at least I do."
"Heh," the other pony, a gray-colored pony with a black mane chuckled. "Idealist... I'm wondering."
"Wondering what, Buster?"
"Wondering how long that attitude will last in Fawkes News," Buster replied with another laugh.
Barro sighed; there was no use dealing with ponies like Buster who knew everything. "I'm going to try and get closer."
"Good luck, kid," Buster said. Barro barely heard it over the crowd. His first job, his first real story and somepony like Buster was trying to ruin it with a bunch of neigh-saying. Didn't respect him? Fawkes had hired him two months ago, he'd barely been trained in anything. Respect wasn't even a factor yet.
That was when disaster struck; another pony distracted him for a split-second. Barro was a young colt and sometimes the occaisonal well-endowed mare caught his eye. He saw a beautiful, long, flowing and naturally straight but not too straight golden-almost golden brown mane and he forgot where his hooves were for a moment. He dropped the camera.
The moment Barro felt the camera slip from his hoof, he felt his own heart drop as well. The camera, an expensive hoof-held model on loan from the studio hit the shiney floor and was instantly damaged. Although repairable at this point, the stadium was packed. Soon, multiple legs came down upon the poor recording device and it was annihilated beyond recognition in an amount of time measurable by breaths. Barro watched his story, his investment and his career literally get stomped to pieces in front of him. At the very least and he did mean very least, Buster hadn't seen anything.
"Wow, that sucks," Buster said over his shoulder. The veteran journalist stallion had followed him through the crowd.
Buster laughed again. "I really hope they don't think this is as important as you do," he said. Barro looked at the pieces of his camera. The ponies who'd stomped on them weren't even aware. Only he and Buster knew of his failure. It was then he knew what he had to do.
"This doesn't change anything," Barro informed his colleague.
"What?" Buster asked, genuinely confused.
"I'm going to get closer. I'm going to get my story," Barro replied. He dove into the crowd, pushing his way through to the center of the stadium. Unecumbered by not having to carry a camera, he was able to get through the audience faster. He remembered what he'd been taught when he'd gone to school for journalism, in Manehattan for that matter. His camera was gone but he still had a story to get. He was determined to get it.
"And in the other corner, weighing in at five-hundred and fifty-two pounds, the Undertaker of Sweet Apple Acres, put your hooves together for Liiiiiiiittlllllleeee Maaaaac!" the announcer declared. The red pony, a blank flank raised one hoof in the air, smiled and waved at the crowd. Barro got to the edge of the ring just in time before the fight started. He noticed something strange about the red pony. Well, not entirely strange but at the same time unusual. Something that made them both similar.
The challenger's flank was bare, like Barro's. Like Barro, it was a little odd seeing a pony so old to not have found their special talent yet. If he'd still had his camera, hadn't moved from his position, he probably wouldn't have noticed the small detail. Barro had just found a story.
The fight lasted a long time. The crowd's chanting, incoherent shouting didn't drown out or go away. It remained, like the roaring of an angry sea as two ships clashed in the center of a mighty maelstrom, trading blow for blow against thunderous applause. In the end, the result wasn't that surprising. The challenger lost.
Almost immediately after a winner had been decided and the award had been presented, the stadium emptied out. The endless roar of a zoo became quieter and quieter until finally, the droning left and traveled outside to join the noise of the rest of the world. Barro and Buster were among the last to leave. But Barro wasn't quite done yet.
"Well, got some good footage of the fight." Buster said, his eyes still focused on his camera. "I'll be happy to let you have so- wait, where are you going?" Barro left before Buster could say anything else, he galloped through doors and went backstage. He galloped, looking for the dressing room of the fighter he'd seen that night, the red one. He turned a corner, ran down a hallway and saw what he was looking for: security gaurds standing in front of an open door.
"Woah, woah, kid you're not allowed back here," one of the gaurds stopped him. Both well over a head taller than Barro, his only chance to get through them was to try to talk.
"How did you even get in here anyway?" one asked. "Are you with the press?"
Barro thought quickly. "Uh... does it look like I have a camera?"
"No... and no media cutie mark either. Aren't you old to be a blank flank?"
"Uh, well, kind of. I was wondering if I could just see-"
The security gaurd stopped him. "You're a fan, aren't you?"
Barro answered honestly. "Yes, yes I am," he said. Despite having just seen him, he could honestly say he was already a fan. Especially if he could be persuaded to give him an exclusive interview.
The gaurd hesitated, looked at each other and then back to Barro. "All right, you can see him. Try not to bother the guy though."
"Thank you, I promise I'll be quick," Barro trotted past the two gaurds. The red pony was sitting alone in the dressing room, looking through a matching red dufflebag. He was getting ready to leave.
"Um, Little Mac?"
The red pony looked up at him but said nothing. He appeared to be chewing a piece of wheat or something in his mouth.
"Little Mac?" Barro asked again.
"That's... that's not my name," the red colt replied. "I'm Big Macintosh... Big Mac. Little Mac's just a... just a name my manager came up with. Said it sounded more... humble."
"My name's Barro. Barro Broadcaster," Barro introduced himself, approaching the red stranger.
"Broadcaster? Are you a reporter?" Big Mac asked. Barro nodded. "I'm not supposed to speak to the press without my manager present," Big Mac said.
"Please, Big Mac," Barro begged. "I... I just want to know about you. Please, I lost my camera tonight. If I leave here without a story... I could get fired."
Big Mac paused for only a moment to think. He looked back up. "What do you want to know?" he asked.
"I just want to know about you," Barro said. "Tell me about Big Macintosh." Even though the athlete lost, Barro could tell there was something more about him, something interesting. It turned out, he couldn't have been more right.
The red stallion dropped the dufflebag on the floor in front of him. "I'm... I'm originally from Ponyville. I was born in Sweet Apple Acres and I have two sisters who are..."
All Barro had were his eyes and ears in that dressing room ten years ago. But that was enough. Just because Barro didn't have a camera didn't mean he couldn't make a broadcast. It only meant he couldn't film it, so he would have to tell a story through paper better than any video.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. When Barro was done with the true tale of the boxer known as Big Mac, the audience had a video's worth of story. It would save his flank despite the loss of an incredibly expensive piece of equipment. What started as a disaster turned out to be a triumph for the young reporter called Barro Broadcaster. He left Madison Squaredance Garden late that night, long after Buster had gone home. He smiled as he left the stadium; he had a piece that not a single camera in the world could tell, a story that would shape his career.
Unfortunately, the story didn't end there.