//------------------------------// // Plan B // Story: Tinker, Tanner, Hunter, Spy // by Shamus_Aran //------------------------------// Ponies running for their lives were an uncommon though not unheard-of sight in and around Ponyville. For that matter, they had been sighted pretty much anywhere Ponyvillians went. And places Ponyvillians knew about, or had business dealings with, and so on. So it was no great surprise that the assembled Equestrians watched Archer, Pinkie, Vinyl, and the rest of the “Yelling at Bears” band avalanche their way down the basement stairs, slam the door behind them, and proceed to seal it with every type of locking mechanism known to ponykind. Archer swiveled to meet the displeased stare of the Mayor, as well as those of the hundreds of ponies behind her. He winced. “Plan B it is.” *** Away from the other newfound inhabitants of the basement, Pinkie was once again rummaging through her massive stockpiles of unused machine-based detritus. The fact that she had amassed such a wealth of mechanical parts, scrap metal, and other technological bits and bobs was a testament either to her insatiable inventiveness or to a burgeoning case of Mad Scientist Syndrome. Those who knew her, when confronted with such a prospect, would merely express confusion at the notion that she didn’t qualify as a “Mad Scientist” already. Archer had said something on the way down about fire, and she knew of no better fire-related gizmo than the one she was searching for. She was so sure she had left it somewhere under here, if she could just dig deep enough... Ah! There it was. It was roughly the size of a cart, though considerably lighter with no fuel. The two oblong incendiary tanks were connected to a rough, rectangular-ish body, which in turn extruded a rough, rectangular-ish neck. A small aperture at the end was blackened with slag and grime, evidence of long and frequent use before welding pins came into use. And right at the end of that neck was the reason for all that soot: arguably the most important part on the device. And rightfully so, for without it, the whole thing would be useless. It was missing. The whole thing was useless. Uh oh. *** “Okay,” Archer began, in front of the reassembled and now rather peeved Ponyvillians. “Making a loud noise didn’t work. But we know why, and rest assured, we’re going to make sure the giant town-destroying monster is sober next time.” “Won’t be a next time until you pay for my replacement sound system!” called Vinyl, whose surly attitude had gotten her banished to the crowd. “Duly noted,” he replied, to his credit only flinching a little bit. “But there is another weakness native to the ursine kingdom. A weakness we can exploit using equipment from this very room.” “Which is?” “Fire.” The crowd collectively winced in a brief flash of primal fear. Understandable, of course; horses were never big fans of fire. “So,” the Mayor sighed, after regaining her composure, “not content with simply luring the Ursa to where it can do the most damage, you also plan to burn Ponyville to the ground around it?” The crowd was suddenly very cross with him, and made their crossness known rather loudly and emphatically. “As a matter of fact,” he called over the ensuing din, “I have a much better plan than that. And it does not involve burning anything you would not like to see burned. As we speak, Pinkie Pie is...” he waved a hand in the general direction of the more workshop-like sections of the lab “...rummaging, I guess, for a very specific piece of equipment known as an Arc Torch. On the box, it’s labelled for welding work, but someone who knows what they’re doing can easily modify it into an impromptu anti-personnel weapon.” “And I take it you know what you’re doing?” asked the Mayor, unconvinced. “Absolutely! In fact,” he gestured to his left, grinning, “here’s Pinkie right now, here to tell me where it is so I can start—” “It’s busted,” Pinkie said. Archer’s expression did not change. “What.” “The igniter’s missing, and I have no idea where it is. The Arc Torch won’t work until we find a new one.” He looked at the crowd. He looked back at Pinkie, Destroyer of Plans. Then back at the crowd. “One moment,” he said, dragging Pinkie “offstage” and up the basement stairs. *** “Missing!?” “That’s what I said.” Sugarcube Corner’s kitchen was an ideal place to yell at someone without being noticed, day or night. Archer was taking full advantage of that fact and apparently banking on the theory that high volumes somehow made Pinkie a better finder of things. Pinkie, for her part, didn’t like this theory at all. “Ack- I- I don’t even...! Why!?” She shrugged apologetically. “I guess a few years of being forgotten under a pile of junk will do that.” “Well, this is just great!” he cried, turning and pacing further into the kitchen. “My only other plan and it keels over in the stable thanks to one missing part! What else could go wrong tonight?" And right on cue, an angry pony stormed in to give him a piece of his mind. No, not that one. The other one. “What is all the yelling about!?” There, standing in the doorway, was Inkwell. Her mane was holding more than twice the number of curlers it was supposed to be physically capable of supporting, a sleeping mask hung askew from her horn, and a half-thrown-on bathrobe was draping itself over her back. Archer was rather taken aback. He didn’t think people actually dressed like that. “Nice getup.” “Don’t ‘nice getup’ me, mister!” she yelled, intruding facefirst into his personal space. “What’s with all the noise!? I’m trying to sleep and suddenly the entire town hears Big Macintosh yelling like he’s stubbed a hoof!” “Yes, well, that would be because he was trying to scare off the Ursa Minor.” Inkwell’s expression shifted from anger to sheer bewilderment. This had the unintended side-effect of exaggerating the bags under her eyes.“Huh?” Archer took a deep breath before replying. “You remember that party we were throwing tonight well we went and we had a lot of fun but then a bear appeared suddenly and we tried to chase it off with loud noises but it was drunk so it didn’t run away and now we’re trying to kill it or chase it off with fire but our Arc Torch is broken because the igniter’s missing and now I don’t know what to do.” He exhaled sharply, bending over and clutching at his side. Pinkie patted him softly on the back. “I’ve trained you well.” “What’s an Arc Torch?” Inkwell asked, caught in a sort of mental whiplash from the verbal barrage. “Welding tool,” Archer said between breaths. “Takes matter with significant energy content and alters its oxidation point. Shoots that substance through a flame produced by the igniter, usually making a stream of plasma hot enough to melt steel. Or, with the right modifications, a gout of flame so hot as to rival dragon’s breath.” “And without this igniter?” He sighed. “Might as well be spraying it with water, for all the good it’ll do.” She nodded pensively, trotting around him and levitating a cookbook off the shelf. “What are you doing?” “How big a flame are we talking about?” she asked, ignoring his question. He shrugged. “No more than a spark, I don’t think. Phlogiston is one of the most flammable substances in existence.” She nodded. A second later, she ripped a page out of the cookbook and tapped it to her horn, causing it to go up in a flash of blue fire. “Hey!” Pinkie yelled. “That’s Sugarcube Corner property!” “Oh, come off it,” Inkwell said, rolling her eyes. “It was a page from the notes section. Nopony uses those.” “A valid point,” Archer commented, inserting himself between the two mares, “but that still begs the question of why you felt it had to be incinerated.” She smiled wryly, loudly tearing another page from the book. “I’ve got your ‘spark’ right here,” she said, furling the paper into a thin roll and sparking a small cloud of blue-purple embers off the end. “Now let’s go get rid of that bear so I can go back to bed.” She trotted out of the room, leaving the other two rather impressed, if a little nonplussed. “Well,” said Archer. “She seems... eager.” *** Back in the basement, the crowd had defaulted to headless-chicken panic mode. Archer pressed through the chaos, recovering the megaphone from beside the fallen projector. “Land’s sakes, people, have a little faith! We fixed it!” The crowd halted. “You did?” asked one pony, clearly perplexed. “I admit it took us a while, but I swear you act like we didn’t have a plan in the first place!” “To be fair, you really didn’t until just now,” another piped up, far behind the first. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Granted. But we do now, and it’s ninety-five percent guaranteed to work.” “Ninety-five?” asked the Mayor. Archer nodded. “And the other five percent?” she asked. He shrugged. “I blow up.” The crowd gave a collective gasp. “B-but just a little! Look, a ninety-five is still an A.” Rainbow Dash poked her head out from her napping spot on top of one of the rafters. “He’s got a point, you know.” “Aww,” he said. “You’re sticking up for me? How nice.” “No it’s just that every time I’ve had to save the day, it’s been a million-to-one shot. Ninety-five percent’s a nice change of pace.” He sighed, looking back down at the crowd, who unlike him all seemed to have heard Rainbow say something inspiring and insightful. “Heartwarming. Now,” he said, bringing the megaphone back up and addressing the many ponies present, “If we’ve all worked the running and screaming out of our systems, I would ask that everyone present remain calm. If nothing too terrible happens, the Ursa situation will be resolved within the-” “Archer!” Pinkie hissed, just out of sight from the audience. “...within the hour,” he continued, pointedly ignoring her worried tone. “And, if any of you are into that sort of thing, I can introduce you to the wonders of Bear Bacon.” “Archer!” she whispered again, frantically. He deigned to walk over to where she was frantically waving her hooves. Were this any other mare, the nearby ponies would likely be worried or even concerned. But this was Pinkie Pie. She did things like that. “What,” he muttered, low enough to remain out of earshot of the now happily mingling Ponyvillians. “I ended with Bear Bacon. Don’t ruin the moment.” “That’s just it! There’s not going to be any Bear Bacon Barbecue because we’re out of lighter fluid!” “What,” he said, rather redundantly. “What do you mean?” “No phlog,” she said. “We’re fresh out.” He paused for thought. Phlogiston was fuel. The fuel. No phlog, no fire, and with no fire there was a big, mean, unstoppable bear on the loose, intent on devouring all of civilization. Or at least this part of it. So, by the transitive property of association, running out of fuel leads to horrible agonizing bear death. Keep your basements stocked, folks. “So?” Pinkie asked. “Are we as doomed as I think we are?” “Possibl-” Archer began, before interrupting himself. “No! No we’re not.” He turned to her with a mad grin. “And you know why that is?” She shrugged. Quite a feat for a creature with no arms. “Because phlogiston isn’t the only fuel source in the world. Get Inkwell and follow me to the storeroom,” he said, making a dash for the stairwell. “I’ve got an idea.” *** “This is the worst idea ever,” Inkwell groused, straining under the weight of one of the (former) phlogiston tanks. The rounded plate-glass container was filled with a pink sloshing substance with the consistency of recently-swished gelatin dessert. Archer, torch under one arm and megaphone in hand, grit his teeth and ignored her. The chilly night air in the evacuated Market District of Ponyville made this rather difficult, as there was nothing else in it to listen to other than the nearby Ursa ransacking another empty stand. “I don’t see what’s so bad about it,” Pinkie replied, bouncing as if the tank on her back weighed nothing. “I mean, not only do we get to beat an Ursa with fire, we get to beat it with fire made from icing!” She looked at her two compatriots, beaming just a little too much with eyes just a little too wide. “I didn’t even know you could set icing on fire before today!” Inkwell sighed, turning back to her suddenly taciturn leader. “You’ve doomed us all.” “Yes, well,” he replied stiffly, “it was the only thing on hand with high enough caloric content to be a suitable stand-in for phlogiston. Hopefully I can salvage things before the night’s out.” He peered around a corner, drawing back slowly and motioning to the two of them. “Hook me up.” Pink and Ink drew thick rubber hoses from spools on their tanks, connecting them both to sockets on the not-business end of the torch. Archer noted with a grim mental chuckle that the receiving port could take up to eight of such hoses. As he boldly marched into the square, he assured himself that nothing could ever need that much fire. “Inkwell,” he said, as the Ursa turned to ponder its new guests, “light me.” *** A gout of bright pinkish fire WHOOSHed from the end of the Arc Torch, startling the Ursa and causing it to stumble and crush the cart underneath it. “Behold, bear!” cried Archer through the megaphone, as much for intimidation as for his own confidence. “I, Man, have made fire!” He waved the massive tongue of combustion back and forth, cowing the monster as it shrank from the heat. Alcohol or no, fire was the one thing any non-fire-related monster could be relied upon to fear. “Gaze upon my opposable thumbs and tremble!” He chuckled. “They hate it when you mention the thumbs.” “Focus!” cried his two tank-bearing mares in unison. “Right, right.” He made an awful bellowing noise, herding the Ursa back and away with continued blasts of flame. It made a pass at attacking the small trio -- it was drunk, after all -- but immediately recoiled when its paw passed through the flame and lost most of its starry fur, and a good bit of skin besides. For the first time that night, the Ursa fled. “Come on!” Archer called, dashing after it. “We’ve got it on the run! We can’t let up now!” Pinkie took up the cheer, bouncing after him. Inkwell, on the other hand, was tired. She had been up all night bookkeeper-ing, had slept for two hours before being awoken by a raging bear, and had just sprinted a few hundred meters. It was no surprise, then, that all four of her legs made a pact then and there to betray her and the citizenry of Equestria in the name of not moving. She collapsed. The hose on her tank unravelled as far as it could go before decoupling from the receiving end of the Arc Torch with a clank. The frosting still in-transit to fiery, combustible glory spilled out of the unattached head, never to realize its true destiny. Sometimes life was just unbearably tragic. *** The Ursa had made it three blocks out of Ponyville before stopping and sniffing at one of the nearby homes. Judging from the way it was clawing at the streetward wall, inside held either a lot of honey, a lot of alcohol, or someone who had just insulted its parentage. We can safely assume it was not the latter. “Go on!” megaphoned Archer, startling the Ursa into flinching backwards and scooting another few hundred yards. “Go on, get! Get out of here!” The Ursa nearly complied before remembering itself and growling at them. Archer turned his head back. “Inkwell, light me!” Inkwell, as you know, was nowhere to be found. “Inkwell?” He looked in front of him again, into the Ursa's severely displeased visage. He clenched the torch’s trigger again, out of reflex more than anything. A tiny spark emitted out of what had once been the igniter. A thin blob of icing extruded out, smoldering and blackened on top. He gulped. “Well,” he said, hefting the inert length of the torch in front of him. “I can still smack you around with this.” With a roar, the Ursa swung a massive paw at him, wrenching the torch out of his hands and sending it hurtling end-over-spark-emitting-end into the ruined house front. On its way in, it shattered something that apparently contained a very highly-flammable substance. There was a muffled explosion as said substance ignited, shattering several other objects within. ...All of which appeared to hold equally flammable liquids. It drove the Ursa a few blocks away, of course, but now one of the buildings was on fire. Somewhere, Archer recalled specifically saying that something like this wasn’t going to happen. And now he felt rather embarrassed. “You know,” Pinkie said, sliding up beside him and being absolutely no help whatsoever, “In hindsight, maybe we shouldn’t have picked Berry Punch’s house to shoot fire in front of." He exhaled sharply, attempting to rid himself of the stench of burning wine. “Thank you, Pinkie, for the advice,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Is there any insight you’d like to share with regards as to what we’re supposed to do next?” She pondered, stroking her chin with one hoof. “Nope!” she said, smiling gaily even as Archer slipped further into abject despair and self-loathing. “Come on,” he said, turning away from the flaming facade and trudging back the way he came. “Let’s find Inkwell. And let’s also hope we’re not going to get hanged for this.” “You worry too much!” she said, bouncing along behind him. “It’s a valid strategy.”