//------------------------------// // Chapter 36 // Story: Spring Broke // by kudzuhaiku //------------------------------// Copperquick awoke to a punch in the snoot followed by a demanding, “Foosh.” This sort of awakening fell well outside of the boundaries of normal, and because of this, it took his sleepy brain some time to process and determine exactly what had just happened. He never reached his conclusion though, because there was another punch, a harder one this time, and then came the command again, only angry: “Foosh!” “Ow!” Nothing woke one up like a good punch to the snot locker. Eyes watering, Copperquick came to an unintended conclusion: his daughter had some strength in those stubby little legs of hers. When he lifted his head to address her, she got him a third time and this one, this one hurt. “What’s going on?” asked Buttermilk while she half turned over to find out what the commotion was. Just as Buttermilk was about to say something else, Copperquick, his nose throbbing with its own heartbeat, heard a meaty thump and then the pegasus in the bed beside him shouted, “Ow! Oi! What in the name of cheese was that for?” “Foosh! Fooshy-foosh!” Copperquick looked at Buttermilk with teary eyes, Buttermilk looked at Copperquick, and there was a filly between them, sitting up and looking quite distressed. When she raised her hoof once more, it was Buttermilk who reacted; with lightning speed, the pegasus departed the bed, wings buzzing, with Esmeralda held in her forelegs. Mighty Midge snatched Esmeralda away from an unsuspecting Buttermilk and then flew away, buzzing through the kitchen while cooing at his stolen prize. Copperquick, his nose still achining, was a little surprised to see Midge, because he was usually gone. Buttermilk’s father seemed quite taken with Esmeralda and was eager to spend his day off spoiling her. Her breakfast was already on the floor; Midge plopped her down so she could eat and then sat beside her, humming to himself. This felt nice, this moment of family togetherness. The excitement and anticipation of the coming race only served to further heighten the moment, but Copperquick wasn’t quite awake enough to fully take it all in. Crossing the room, he sat down at the table, turned his head, and watched while his daughter buried her muzzle into her bowl of mush. “One thousand gold bits, Copper,” Mighty Midge said, his voice far too chipper for this early, almost sunless hour. “All you have to do is go fast, and you can do that, right?” “Oi, Midgy, it’s too early for that kind of talk.” Butter Fudge’s right ear rose from its relaxed position and her tail swished around behind her. “Not sure how I feel about this gambling. It’s for a good cause though, I suppose.” “I don’t see it as gambling,” said Buttermilk to her mother. “How so, Beezy?” “Gambling has an element of chance, like rolling dice or getting just the right cards. This is a matter of skill and the random factors are well-controlled, such as having different races for pegasus ponies, unicorns, and earth ponies. It comes down to the fastest, and the fastest gets the prize money.” “Oi, still a gamble. No guarantee Copper’ll win. Though, if I were a betting mare, I’d drop a hefty portion of my considerable savings on Copper making the other ponies eat dust for lunch.” Butter Fudge’s right eyebrow rose to join her raised right ear and gave her daughter a pointed stare. “Oh, you’re talking about the gambling that is going to happen on the race itself—Moomy, that’s different.” After a moment of concentration, Buttermilk’s eyes widened. “Moomy, what are you planning? You’re not about to do what I think you are, are you?” “You keep saying I need to change, to be more flexible, to be more open-minded about stuff—” “Moomy, if you and Daddums want to help Copper, giving him the bits directly is a better, safer method.” “There’s my smart filly,” Midge remarked while Esmeralda rooted around in her mush. “Your mother and I discussed doing just that last night, Beezy. A bit of pillow talk just before bed. We’re confident—” “Daddums, every gambler feels confident about winning! It’s a fool’s game, you said so yourself.” As she was prone to do when challenged, angry, or threatened, Buttermilk fluffed out and when she did, her father scowled. Then when he too, fluffed out in response to his daughter’s aggressive posturing, Buttermilk became even more distressed, and she gave her father a silent, challenging stare that was distinctly pegasus in nature. “Oi, stop that, you two.” Butter Fudge, having shared her living space with two pegasus ponies for so long, knew exactly what was going on. “You both look like excited feather dusters and seeing you like this puts me in a mood to clean house.” Mighty Midge’s ears stood up and he gave his mate his best, most offended stare. “The way I see it, Copper’s going to work for it, and that satisfies my sense of what’s right. I’m paying him to win.” Butter Fudge ignored her husband’s bulging cheeks and the throaty, warbling noises of challenge that he made. “This is not the home I grew up in,” said Buttermilk in a matter-of-fact way while her father waved his wings about in a threatening manner. The problem with living with pegasus ponies, as Copperquick saw it, was that they were not earth ponies. Having observed Buttermilk’s reactions for quite some time now, and now witnessing her father’s response to being challenged, Copperquick realised that living with pegasus ponies was for the birds, but he was far too polite to say anything. It was impossible to have a serious conversation with a challenged pegasus. The skiff bounced over the choppy water and the ride was more than a little rough. Overhead, the sky was overcast, but it did not appear that it would rain. It was warm, without it being overbearingly so, and the pleasant, constant wind—while the cause of the choppy water—was just what was needed for a perfect spring day. Copperquick held his daughter in the crook of his foreleg and she reached out for Buttermilk, who flew alongside the skiff, expending no real effort at all to keep up. There was heavy traffic in the waterways and it seemed that everypony were all going to the same place—the derby. It seemed as though everypony who was anypony was out to watch the races. In the distance, there was a massive yellow and orange striped pavilion set up, along with several other smaller pavilions set up around it. Signs were everywhere, guiding visitors in, and advertising who had made this possible: This year’s derby is sponsored by the joint efforts of the Solanum Incorporated Consortium and Pie Family Industries to celebrate our new frozen, ready-to-heat-and-eat potato pot pies! Buy now in your grocer’s freezer section! No hassle! No fuss! No mess in the kitchen! In just one hour, supper is done! Another sign said, We made a mess in our kitchen so you wouldn't have to mess up yours! Copperquick sighed. It must be nice to have meaning and importance tied to one’s name. He was a Pie—technically speaking—but that technicality did nothing for him, it did not improve his life in any meaningful or significant way. Perhaps that was the purpose of life; make your name mean something. Build a legacy. Butter Fudge Oddbody made cheeses that the wealthy elite of Canterlot went gaga for and her soaps fetched a premium price. Buttermilk could easily ride on the success that her mother had made with her name, but Buttermilk had chosen her own path; that of a public crusader. Even if he was somehow successful, his name wouldn’t mean anything. If he gave up his foalhood moniker and became Copper Quick, or Mister Quick, he would be, at best, a social worker, and he could not see this establishing a legacy for his name no matter how hard he tried. He had different goals, different dreams, though he wasn’t entirely sure what those were at the moment. He strove to be well respected and average. Beyond that… well, what else was there beyond that? Casting a sidelong glance at Buttermilk, he felt a mild spike of envy. She knew what she wanted and nothing would get in her way. Not even an unplanned pregnancy. There was no doubt in his mind that she would keep going and would have a successful career. Honestly, becoming a stay at home father didn’t sound so bad. He didn’t feel diminished by the idea, he didn’t feel gelded by the idea of being a devoted parent. Of course, this didn’t conform to societal norms, so he wasn’t sure what this might do to his hopes to be well respected and average. His eyes lingering upon the zooming pegasus, he knew what he wanted in life: her. It didn’t matter what he was doing; what did matter was her. Everything else was a means to an end; career, parenting, the day to day stuff that when all crammed together, was life. He gave his daughter a squeeze and knew that Esmeralda wanted the same thing; even now, she reached for her mother, she kicked, she fussed, and she fidgeted in his grasp. Today, if he won, the winnings would go a long way towards getting started on a better life. It was spring, he was in love, and life—while far from perfect—was pretty good right now. Knowing exactly what he wanted in life had simplified things. It had taken a heavy load off him, and he felt lighter, light enough to run. Today, he would run for the roses… Tonight, he would eat them with Buttermilk. Tilting his head back, Copperquick took a gander at the world’s largest cast iron skillet. Princess Celestia herself had flipped flapjacks and served breakfast for the Equestrian Foreign Service Auxiliary after a successful, tremendous fundraiser to aid crippled veterans. Of course, the Solanum family had provided the massive skillet. It was, indeed, so big that it would take an alicorn to lift it and flip flapjacks. How was such a thing even made, anyhow? And who could eat a four yard wide flapjack? How much syrup was needed? Butter? Thinking of butter brought Buttermilk’s churning to mind, and this left him a bit sweaty. Esmeralda squirmed in her carrier, kicked, and made fussy whimpers in between yawns. Sooner or later, she would go to sleep, and all would be well with the world. Overhead, Buttermilk circled the skillet with her father, getting a pegasus-eye view of the cast iron cookware. “Oi, I never understood the fad of making things big,” Butter Fudge said while standing beside Copperquick. “A few years back, I saw the world’s longest scarf. Some mare has been knitting it for years. It’s over a mile long. I don’t see the point, so I don’t.” Copperquick wickered in response. “Registration was nice and painless, at least. Now there’s a few hours to kill, Copper. Tell me, do you need anything to go fast? Need Buttermilk to give those legs of yours a rubdown? It’s a five mile stretch, Copper. Think you’re up for it?” One eyebrow raised and Copperquick engaged his brain. Five miles? When he was doing delivery work, he would run all day from one end of Canterlot to the other. Five miles was a sprint. If he paced himself, he could easily go for two-minute miles. Of course, if he pushed himself, he could probably do five laps around the one mile track in seven or eight minutes. “It’ll be easy,” he said at last while thinking of the posted record time for earth ponies. Eleven minutes for five miles was not a good time. If that was the best that the locals had to offer, the race was already won. Today, and only today, perhaps, gambling was easy money. A sea of equinity flowed around Copperquick, with some pausing to look at the giant skillet. There was much to see, to try, to taste, to smell, to hear. This was a feast for the senses and he had stared at the cast iron skillet long enough. Nearby, a new model of steam-powered tractor chugged to life and the deafening clatter of mechanised progress thrummed in his ears. “The Wonderbolt Equestrian Guard Recruitment Show begins in ten minutes, ponies! Ten minutes! Remember your patriotic obligation and sign up for the Equestrian Guard today! Rainbow Dash says the golden armor will make you twenty-percent cooler!” Ears perking, Copperquick thought about the guard after listening to the announcement. He had no intention of signing on, no desire to join, but he thought about the recruitment effort itself. How many families might go home later with one family member in the guard? How many sons would soon give their mothers a tearful goodbye? How many couples—couples like he and Buttermilk—would soon be seperated? How many rushed weddings would be performed, with hastily spoken vows followed by rushed goodbyes? Suddenly, he didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be anywhere but here, but had no choice but to stay. Already, his thoughts troubled him and he couldn’t help it; the thought of families being pulled apart from one another bothered him in some abstract, fundamental way. Why? He couldn’t say why. “Oi, there’s about to be a lot fewer young faces around here,” Butter Fudge muttered while her ears lay back into her mane. “There’s already too few young faces round these parts. I’m all for doing one’s duty to country, but maybe they should go and ask elsewhere. We’ve done been bled dry, almost. It’s causing a labour shortage.” When Copperquick turned to look at his future mother-in-law, he saw storms flashing in her eyes and something about the way her lip quivered made his belly muscles tighten. She was angry—or perhaps something beyond anger, it was hard to say. He took a step closer, thinking to comfort her, but then took a step back when she snorted. “Those recruiters always come, and it is always with a show or some means to dazzle and impress. And they come here, to this place, ‘cause there’s a lot of ponies here that aren’t well off or maybe they’re just bored with a simple, peaceful life. The Equestrian Foreign Service Auxiliary made this bloody big skillet to help needy veterans and they had themselves a big gathering just like this one. No doubt, the recruiters were there too, ready to pick off whomever they could.” “You seem upset—” “You’re bloody right I’m upset, Copper. I’m all for doing our duty, but we’ve given enough. Let the foal-catchers prey on somepony else for awhile.” He considered her words for a short time and reached one conclusion: he was part of today’s entertainment, part of the lure that brought ponies in, or would be. Desperation motivated him and that same sort of desperation would no doubt have an impact upon others. The need to survive, to provide, to do right by one’s self and one’s family made one mull over otherwise unthinkable options. Desperation: it made the need to win all the worse.