Nee’s cutie mark was gone.
She didn’t notice right away. When she got up on the morning of her first builder competition, she immediately dawned her blue plaid tool skirt, which covered and protected her red flanks and thighs. She carefully loaded her wagon with the tools that didn’t fit into her skirt and left her home for the competition.
All of her hometown of Arrojar had turned out for the event. The food sellers and merchants had set up their colorful canopies. Visitors from nearby Klugetown jostled and haggled in the crowd. Nee arrived in confident strides to her contest building site.
The smiling mayor mounted a platform that stood above the mingling crowd. “Commence!” he shouted, and Nee’s world dropped away. She loved being in “the zone,” seeing the whole building structure rise up in her mind. Random and meaningless pieces joining together to become something new and magnificent. Time disappeared.
In what seemed like mere moments to Nee, the happy mayor shouted again to end the competition. The sun had already started to drop from the sky.
After the judges inspected the builder’s work, a winner’s list was passed to the Mayor who began by reading out the third place winner.
“Ms. Nee Hill!”
Nee smiled slightly. She removed her tool skirt, folded it into her wagon, and proceeded to the stage. To keep from being nervous as she moved to the stage, she focused on the mayor’s face. He looked back at her. He appeared . . . concerned? Nee realized the crowd had fallen silent and that every pony was looking at her in a curious fashion.
“What’s going on?” Nee whispered to the Mayor when she reached him.
“You’re cutie mark,” the Mayor gasped, “it’s gone.”
---
“But it can’t just be gone!” Nee shouted for the thirtieth time as she sat in the ward.
“I’m sorry,” said Doctor Kuongoza, for the thirtieth time. He adjusted the purple tie beneath his lab coat, “you must remain calm.”
“But it can’t just be gone!”
“I’m sorry, but there is no trace of it.”
“But it can’t just . . .”
“Ms. Nee Hill,” Doctor Kuongoza said firmly, “you don’t have a cutie mark. Why you don’t have a cutie mark, I don’t know. There is no sign of injury or disease, and even if there was, there is no known injury or disease that would result in the loss of one’s cutie mark. Getting one, yes. Having multiple ones, yes. Losing one, no.”
“What about magic?” Nee asked.
“Ms. Hill, speaking as a unicorn and a doctor I can tell you, sometimes things simply happen, and we don’t know why. The challenge for you is to discover what you will do next.”
---
Nee awoke the next morning from a troubled sleep and realized that she was late. She may no longer have a cutie mark, but she did still have a job, and they were counting on her.
However, when Nee got to her work site, more than a few of her colleagues were standing around talking quietly. When she approached, they stopped. Her boss, Cara, a great blue and white pegasus, came up to her.
“Ah,” Cara began awkwardly twisting a wing, “Nee. Nice work at the competition.”
“What’s wrong,” asked Nee.
“Well, it’s your illness, isn’t it,” said Cara.
“But I’m not sick,” said Nee.
“What did the doctor say,” asked Cara gently.
“Nothing,” she said. “He said he doesn’t know what caused it.”
“So, then, it could be an illness?” said Cara.
“And contagious!” shouted a pony in the back.
“No,” said Nee, stunned, “I’m not sick.”
“Nee,” began Cara, in a rehearsed tone, but still twisting her wing, “I am responsible for the safety of the ponies on this work site, and until we know what caused this,” Nee felt tears beginning to come, “we need to be conservative.”
Nee felt herself losing control, and then growing embarrassed at losing control. She left at a gallop, her orange and white tail fluttering behind her.
---
When she arrived at her home, she noticed some pony had painted a large orange ‘X’ on her door. She looked up and down the street as if to see who had done it.
She caught sight of a purple unicorn filly playing in the yard across the street. When the filly looked up and met Nee’s eyes, she stood and started to walk toward her own house.
“Excuse me,” Nee said. “Your name is, ‘Huir’, isn’t it?” The filly kept walking toward her front door.
“Huir, I need your help.” Huir stopped.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” Huir said, not looking up.
“Why not,” asked Nee, shocked. “Who told you not to talk to me?”
“The ponies from the city. They painted the ‘X’ on your door. They said not to talk to you. They said it wasn’t safe.”
“I am not sick,” said Nee, through clenched teeth.
“They didn’t say you were sick.” Nee straightened up. “They said you were cursed.” And with that Huir went inside.
Every muscle of Nee’s face was limp, every nerve silent. She turned back to the large orange ‘X’ on her door and felt the hot blood flow to her face. She spun around and delivered a back kick to the door cracking the wood. She put on her tool skirt, hooked up her wagon, and ran.