Three stories about Derpy.

by alafoel

Derpy Hooves

Moon gloating in a pitch sky: Ponyville lays bathed in the grey-light residuals of nightshine, bearing cut-offs and secondhanders of the sun’s own words, yet coming off as strikingly more beautiful and distinct. At least, that’s what you’ve always thought: Maybe it’s just the calm that night brings, this round and warm and wholeness of an emptiness, distant lights in happy homes and still, still, still streets. Certainly fraught with none of the rush and bustle that comes from Ponyville’s daytime markets or mail deliveries - you know a lot about mail delivery, of course: Your name is Derpy Hooves and you’ve been delivering mail for a not-insignificant portion of your life, and - unfortunately - you really don’t have the time right now to appreciate the current lunar beauty. You’re in a bit of a hurry.

You have to get to Pinkie Pie’s surprise party for you that she made you promise you wouldn’t tell anypony that you know that you know about it, it being some sort of (now wholly unsurprising) I'm-glad-you-got-well,-and-soon-party type party. You, with your hobble on the cobble and wings pressed astride barrel, are notably not flying: You haven't flown at night for a long time - your vision isn't the best which, alongside the dyspraxic/CIP comorbidity issue, has led to many experiences of gravity’s familiarity lost, it having been thrown away through the same legs your head rested between, thrust into some Gaskinian Knot, stars being but nopony's guide in your own sea of imbalance, the grass for the ceiling and the sky for the floor. But, now, the cobble hobbling, hooves protracting tap-taps from the stone beneath, sets you well on the path to Sugarcube Corner, sets you in the moonglow that bounces in perfect strips across your coat and, soon enough, sets you in front of that wood-oak monolith: marked with its own pretty-pink-paint, proclaiming itself the gateway - this liminal arbiter of space.

If you weren't already aware of the surprise party, the bakery’s exuberance of warm-yellow glow, streaming through window-glass and staining hoof-path and no-longer-greeneries alike, would have likely been unusual.

The expected proclamation of knock-knocking of hoof on wood was dashed instead with the creaking of hinges, door folding inwards, already unlocked and loose. A cacophony of ponies staring inwards, outwards all towards you - grouped and bunched and stead astride of one another in wait, your hoof bringing with it the final hand of the clock. You recognize most of them, their vacant eyes boggling inside your own - direct guided, invisible strings taut between you and everypony else. The cacophony lets out a cacophony of their own: “Surprise!” Again, their eyes making contact with your own. Your eyes. There are an awful lot of ponies to cram into one bakery, this profligate of hooves for someone like you, staring, staring into your eyes.

Despite the working of brain and throat, no words leave your maw but only a hopeless gumming of tongue about itself: What are you supposed to say? You are not surprised. This is expected, of you and Pinkie at least. The head is blasting, furnaces all on, firing every which way beam of light and electricity: Bolts and courses throughout, you feel your rear-left leg shaking, slightly. You swallow. There are a lot of ponies looking at you. Looking at your eyes. One word leaves your maw: “Oh.”

The bounces of pink form and mane habits the crowd, tripping through in different spots til her snout is almost touching yours: “Hey Derpy! I’m so, so, so, so glad that you got better after you totally crashed out the other day! We all are!” Pinkie Pie’s head crooks indicated smiling, agreeable faces in the crowd.

“Oh. Thank you. I was alright.” You reflexively bend and stretch your wings. “Sort of thing happens all the time.” A weak laugh escapes your maw.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh! Remember that time you crashed out and you totally had to go to the hospital cause your wings were broken? ‘Member that?” Her head tilts as she speaks, the same way you’ve seen Applejack talk to her dog.

“I remember. That was pretty bad.” You sniff and suddenly think to touch your face. “This wasn’t so bad. I’m getting better now.” Pointed daggers of iris and pupil still make their way from eyes of other ponies to your own. “Thank you for this party.” You then think to add: “It surprised me.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear, derps!” Some ponies try to adorn you with sobriquets. Most do not.

Pinkie Pie sinks back into the pulsating sanctum of flesh and breath. You are still on the threshold, waiting to be scooped up and chewed. Your hooves press against the floor, ungular pressure taking up the stress of a sieved brain.

You might as well enjoy your party, right?

Hoof in front of hoof, considered ballerinic ambulation: Precise movements as you let yourself drift in to the tide, wall of hooves and maw opening to let you succumb, you glaze past bodies and dissolve into the center, the one, the Body, the Party. Some ponies are still staring at you. Others aren't even aware you sidled in. You're not sure which is worse.

It's a bustle of forms, you're stuck between hoof and fur and table splattered with food, drink, little cakes. Embedded in the throes of social saturation, words whispered and shouting drifting across, zagging in your ears and bunching into your head, this swirl. Pinkie Pie is still there, chatting now to another pony you don't recognise. There’s a cake with your face emblazoned on the icing, this confectioned reflection of form fit with gog-eyes and smile, staring back at real gog-eyes with no smile beneath. Hooves, again, work beneath to draw you to the table. You are eager to take a bite out of yourself, to carve in and grab a slice. The pink form seems to notice you, and zips right back.

“Ooooooh, you're gonna love it! It's peach and vanilla!” she says.

You didn't know they did peach cakes, but you like peaches. “Sounds nice.”

She already has a slice ready for you, hands it over while she starts to speak. “SOUNDS nice? Wait til you taste how it TASTES! This is gonna be the bestest ‘I'm so glad you didn't seriously injure yourself the other day and you already got better already' cake you'll ever eat! Oh, unless I have to make another one someday.” The cake does taste nice. “I HOPE I don't have to make another one someday. Or no, I hope I DO have to, ‘cause then you wouldn't be seriously injured. Or, uh… I dunno. I lost myself.” She laughed. “So, how ya enjoying the party?”

You struggle to talk with cake in your mouth. “I don't know. I just got here.”

“Well that's fine, cause this baby is lastin’ ALL NIGHT!” Her hoof is slung around you as she speaks. “And it’s just for YOU!”

You pause. “What do ponies do at parties?”

“Talk to different ponies. Eat cake. Get a hug from their best friend, Pinkie Pie.” She says. “Look's like you've got two of those down already!”

Before you can respond she already has you in a close embrace.

“IT'S YOUR PARTY!” she shouts at you, before walking off. Now it's you, solitary in a numerous beast, the only one of a many, cake half digested and floor beneath and unsure. Unsure. Every pony else is already entangled in some play of two or three, spent in their little circles exchanging eyes and words, blocked and icy, no more space aside. How are you meant to talk to other ponies if the other ponies are already talking to each other?

Then you notice her.

Her face ahead, maw relaxed, set across the table from yourself, you recognise Berry Punch - readying herself to sup on the liquid spoils of the banquet. Her eyes drift, make contact with yours but lack spark and purpose. A dagger blunted beyond use. This is your party. It’s for you.

“Hello.” You manage to allow yourself this only after a couple seconds for prep.

“Hey,” the mare replies, “what's up with the party?”

“Oh.” You take some time to work the gears in your head. “I don't know.”

“It’s your party, right?” She sips from the cup held in her hoof. You worry this is a coded message you don't understand.

“Oh, yeah.” You touch your face. “I got hurt the other day, but only a little. So I think Pinkie wanted to celebrate. I'm better now.”

She crooks her eyes, drags down the brow. “Celebrate you getting hurt?”

You laugh. “No. Celebrate me getting better.”

“Cool.” She takes another sip. “How'd it happen?”

You think. “You’d have to ask Pinkie that. I don’t really know about parties.”

“I meant the injury.” Her grin was now pulled wide cross her face. “Ponyfight? Manticore? Railroad spike?”

“Oh, no. Just a crash landing.” You bend your wings to prove the point.

“Ah.” She takes a sip. “I knew a pony once, D.I.Y. sorta pony. Liked makin’ and fixin’.” Another sip. “One time he figured he'd build himself a shelf, talked about it so long. Designed it himself, bought and chopped the wood, had the paint and all ready. It was just assembling it. Hammer and nails. Bang, pop. First two pieces together. Bang, pop. Next one too. Then he’s lining it up, like the final nail he needs to hammer in, the nail is there, one hoof holding it, the other's steadying it, hammer in his maw. Then, who knows what happens? My guess is a sneeze. But suddenly, he doesn't know what happened, suddenly the hammer went down and the nail was right there, in his hoof. Well, not in the hoof, like the bit betwen the hoof and the rest of the leg. Like, the flesh that keeps it together. Right in there, hammered inside and hurting. For some reason he thought he could get it out himself just fine, like he didn't need to go to the hospital. Bad idea. That's when the bleeding really started” - you reflexively touch your face with your hoof - “like, REALLY started. So like he's trying to get the nail out, first with another hoof - that just jams it round, tears more of the flesh. Lodges it in further, and this point he's like holding back tears. I would'a just cried if I were him, but I guess he just didn't want to. So the hoof didn't work, figure's he'll use his teeth to get it out - which is a darn awkward position, if you think about it, tryna get the hoof in his mouth like that, but he's tryna get his teeth round it and he can’t tell if that metallic taste is the nail or the blood because, wow, yeah, he's bleeding a lot. Didn't realise til he wrangled his leg round his maw and felt how wet it was, but it was wet, soaking. So but he's got the nail clenched between his teeth now, and it must be bent or something by now because he just cannot get it out, he can't, it won’t come out - he’s tugging and tugging on this nail, but it won't budge, it's just like… Stuck, and every time he tries to pull it out it catches or something and hurts even more, so now he's tryna get it unstuck, jiggling it about again - remember, he’s in a lot of pain, and the jiggling isn't helping, right? But jiggling it about trying to get it free, and its like going through that sinew, right? The more he tries to get it out the more he pierces and tears. Now he really wants it out, he just wants this to be over. He's jamming his teeth in there, just gnawing and going crazy, his brain isn't even trying anymore he's just doing whatever he can think with his like primal, stupid brain, and thats gnaw and bite and shove, get it free, and then… Bang, pop. Clatter. The nail's on the floor, at last. But it doesn't stop hurting, no, it's even worse now. This searing fire of pain, like blood torrenting out, full on horror novel blood, and that's when he sees it: He popped his hoof off. It’s just hanging there, loose, from strings of flesh. Off. And that's when he decided to go to the hospital.” Her grin swims across her face, eyes sunken inside and deep before they readjust to you and widen again.

You don't know what to say.

So, staring at you, some face of death upon her, she asks you a question:

Are you okay?