We Crusaders Three: The Filly's Tale
I. Beginnings
My name’s Sweetie. Belle. Sweetie Belle. Celestia, it looks so strange spelled out on the page like that. It’s so strange to be sitting in front of a typewriter and writing. I’m so used to being on the street, causing trouble. Well, there was that time I was a junior reporter for Heartstrings when she got roped into running the Ponyville Times.
Back when I was just a filly, before I got my cutie mark – how long ago that now seems – I was little more than a brutish thug. Because I was one. With my good friends Scoots and Bloom, I caused trouble all over Ponyville and got into some pretty messy jams.
I suppose I should talk about Scoots and Bloom now, shouldn’t I? It’s been so long since I’ve seen them… Scoots is a test pilot now, a darn good one. Bloom got married and had a couple kids and moved to Fillydelphia with her husband, Pipsqueak. I always did like Pip, even though we routinely beat the piss out of him for his lunch money when we needed some.
I’ve talked a bit about them but not about them. Scoots, she’s a pegasus. She could never fly, she just flapped her wings and would hover there feebly, like a chicken only chickens ain’t quite as funny-looking. She always had her mane cut short, a shock of unkempt purple hair coming to a curl in the front. It was kinda silly-looking, but she was always tough and ready for a scrap so anypony who laughed at her learned not to pretty quick.
Bloom’s just your typical earth pony. I felt closer to her than I did Scoots, on account we had something similar: Our sisters both abandoned us for the same prick. Tell the truth, I envied Bloom deep down inside. Her mane was the prettiest shade of pinky-red, and she always made sure to tie a bow on the back of her neck. When the bow got faded and worn me or Scoots’d lift or buy – usually lift – a new one for her and give it to her.
Back in those days, Ponyville was Equestrian in name only. The real man in power wasn’t President Blueblood, it was Spike. Babyface Spike. The prick I lost a sister to. Babyface rolled into town one day, as part of the Saddlecian mafia, with his pet bookie Twilight Sparkle in tow. The Saddlecian mafia pretty much took over the town that day, though no one wanted to admit it.
Then came the War. Stallions were sent off to the front lines, fighting the Griffins and back-stabbing Diamond Dogs. Stallions including my Pa. He died out there, on some godforsaken patch of land. My mother died soon after, of a broken heart. And my sister? She ran straight into the arms of that prick Babyface Spike, leaving me to fend for myself.
I spent days wandering the streets, looking for a handout. Then I met Scoots, who was at the time a master pickpocket. I later learned she had stolen some bits from the Mayor’s saddlebag, but had been spotted by a copper. She ducked under a gap in a fence and the cop somehow missed that, probably distracted by the thought of donuts. He came up to me and asked where Scoots had gone. I lied and said she headed for the docks. The cop dragged his fat flank off and Scoots popped out, looking at me from the top of the fence. I never could figure how she got up there.
“Thanks for the save! I thought the Blob there had me,” she said, pushing herself over the fence and landing hard on the pavement. Admirably, she didn’t seem to be hurt much from the impact. “I’m Scootaloo! But if you call me that I will cut you.” Her mood and voice darkened with that last bit. “Call me Scoots instead!” Now she was happy again.
“I’m Sweetie,” I said after a bit, a little unsure of what Scoots wanted.
“Look, I’ll cut straight to the chase here,” Scoots said, reading my mind. “I’ve got a proposition for ya. It’s getting hard for me to steal stuff all by myself. I need somepony to watch for me. Y’know, keep an eye peeled for cops and nosy Nellies.” She opened the bag of bits so I could see a glitter of gold, then she shut it lickety-split. “Be my watchpony and I split it sixty/fifty.”
I ran those numbers through my head, putting the few years I had of formal schooling to use. “I don’t think that comes out right. Sixty and fifty is a hundred-ten. I think fifty/fifty would be better.”
Scoots laughed and slapped me on the back. “That’s why I need a bright filly like you! I don’t math good. So, fiddy/fiddy? I get the bigger half right?” I gave her an entirely lost look, which just made her laugh. “I’m messin’ with you. So, Sweetie – partners in crime?”
She extended a hoof.
It was a few months later we met Bloom. Me and Scoots were wandering the streets on Golden Harvest Lane at night. It was a very stupid proposition, but we were very stupid fillies at the time. Now, GH Lane led to Sweet Apple Acres, the old apple farm that had fallen into disrepair just like the Apple family that ran it.
“I’m telling you,” Scoots was saying, “Rainbow Dash is just the best. She was gonna be the best Wonderbolt they ever saw.”
“Yeah,” I retorted, “if she hadn’t broke her wing doing that dumb-rump sonic rainboom.”
Scoots got some fire in her big purple eyes when I said that. “Shut up, dummy! If she had pulled it off, ponies all around would still be talking about it!”
“But she didn’t, and now she’s just drinking cider telling everypony that’ll listen that Spitfire has a thing for other mares.”
That got that mad look off her face, and replaced it with one of pure shock. “Spitfire – whuhuhuhuhuhwhaaa” were her exact words, I believe.
As I basked in the glow of Scoots looking stupid – which given her manecut wasn’t hard to come by – I noticed another filly walking slowly down the street, burdened down by a basket. She looked really sad, which was bad. Not because of any empathy I might have had – I did have some, don’t get me wrong on that– but because GH Lane was kind of a rough neighborhood. It was filled with Dog refugees and immigrants. It was barely safe for me and Scoots to walk down, much less a depressed-looking filly weighed down by whatever it was in that basket.
I nudged Scoots and pointed in the direction of the filly, and we both trotted off to meet her. She paused under a street lamp – smart girl – right as her basket fell off her back. The top flew off, and apples rolled across the street. They were small, yellow apples that barely looked fit to eat. The filly fell back on her rump and looked at the flood of apples, big eyes wet with tears.
“Hey, girl, don’t cry,” Scoots said, setting the basket right side up. “We’ll help ya with these apples. I’m Scoots. That’s Sweetie.”
I waved at her, and used what little magic I had to gather up the better looking apples and lift them into the basket. Scoots plopped the lid back on and shot the filly her best smile. Even I had to admit she was cute with that grin.
“Thank ya kindly,” the filly managed after a bit, flipping her pinky-red mane out of her eyes. I noticed for the first time she had a bow in her mane, a dreadful polka dot affair that was more than well-worn. “Ah’m jus’ tryin’ to get these apples to the market f’r tomorrow.”
“We can help you get it there,” Scoots said. “All we want in return are a couple of those–” I shot her a dirty look. She caught it and gulped, “dee-licious looking apples. Deal?” She stuck her hoof out. The filly examined it, then took it in hers and shook.
“Deal.”
“Well, what’s your name,” Scoots asked, sizing up the basket and trying to figure out how to get it to the market without causing a repeat crash.
“Ah’m Apple Bloom,” the filly said.
“That’s a goofy name.” I rolled my eyes. Look who’s talking, sweetheart. “I’m gonna call you Bloom-Bloom from now on.”
“How exactly is that better?” I interposed.
“It just is, that’s why. You gonna ask Flank Sinatra why he sings ‘Badda-bing-badda-boom baby’ all the time? Shut up and help me with this basket.”
We somehow all managed to get under the basket, putting the futures of all of our backs in jeopardy. Straining, we started down the street towards the centre of town where the market was.
“Isn’t there somepony else who could’ve brought these apples to the market?” Scoots asked, sweat beginning to run down her face.
“Mah brother used to, but he ain’t come back from the war. They said he’s Em-Eye-Ay, whatever that means. Mah sister… She ran off. Ah don’t know where.”
“Reminds you of anypony?” Scoots shot at me. I glowered at her. If I hadn’t been carrying that heavy basket on my back, I would have hit her. Repeatedly. And hard.
Instead, I just said, “Maybe.”
We marched the rest of the way in silence, an hour’s worth of walking and resting and walking. When we reached the market, it was almost day again. We set the basket down and lay down to watch the sunrise. Our view was spoiled by the skyscrapers and lights of the town, but any sunrise is better than no sunrise.
“Bloom-Bloom, you said your brother was still overseas and your sister ran off. Where’s the rest of your family?” I asked, not realising I had used Scoots’ stupid nickname until the last second.
“Gone,” she said simply and sadly. I felt a pang of sympathy at this, deep in my heart. Here was a filly, my age, going through the same things as me. Scoots and I could never bond in this way; Scoots had never known her family, she was an orphan.
“Do you want to hang out with me and Scoots?” I asked, grabbing onto the opportunity to keep her as close to me as possible, as though I were drowning and she was my life-raft. Here was a chance, a chance to be with somepony who understood what I was going through. Bloom looked at me, then at Scoots.
“Ah gotta run the farm-”
“You said yourself, everypony’s gone,” Scoots broke in. “They’re gone, Bloom-Bloom. We’re not. You can stay with us.”
Bloom did her little inspection of both of us again. “What do y’all do?”
Scoots laughed, a big smile breaking across her muzzle. I tried to fight it, but I couldn’t help myself – I started smiling too! Scoots’ smiles were contagious. “We do what we want!”
Do I need to tell you what Bloom said? It’s right there at the beginning. We were all together, us, the Cutie Mark Crusaders.
Oh, how we hated that blasted name! We got that name when Detective Derpy busted us for painting lewd drawings of Diamond Tiara on the side of Miss Cheerilee’s schoolhouse. We were all blank flanks, see, and one of the cops joked that we were crusading for our cutie marks and Derpy thought it was cute enough to write us up as the Cutie Mark Crusaders. Bitch.
We embraced the epithet with pride, however, even though we decided to just call ourselves the CMC. For a short while, the CMC was a four-pony gang. Then we kicked Pipsqueak out because he was a boy and boys were only useful for beating up back then. Pip never got mad at us for that though, and he became our main source of income by selling newspapers on the corner and then getting beat up by us for the money he made doing his job. I wonder if his parents ever knew that a bunch of girls were taking his money. Probably not.
It was summer and therefore hot. It was sticky and muggy, and the pegasi said there would be rain in the near future. We had no money and Pipsqueak had hired some muscle to prevent us from beating him up again, so our bank had effectively closed.
We were bad up for money. So bad up Scoots made a suggestion I still can’t believe she had the guts to make to this day.
“Why don’t we ask Spike for a job?”
My eyes widened in shock at the very thought of working for that slimy reptile. I fixed her with my wide-eyed stare and said no thank you I would not work for him only I did it in a much less polite way to which Scoots said well maybe I’ll go on my own only she did it in a much less polite way too. I told her off which led to her jumping me. We scrapped for a bit and she came out on top. The CMC way was to scrap during a disagreement, and we would follow the winner’s suggestion.
We were going to Spike’s.