‘The morning after the dinner party I wake up at the crack of dawn and immediately head over to Sweet Apple Acres at a brisk trot with a clear plan of action to address Shoddy’s difficulties’... is what I would say if that were true.
It is not.
In truth, it is mid-morning as I take a walk – a slow walk – to Sweet Apple Acres. I did not get much sleep last night, as I spent a good deal of it tossing and turning as my brain wracked itself trying to come up with a solution.
To be clear, my brain wracked itself. I did not wish for my brain to wrack itself; I much rather would have put the problem out of my mind until the next day and thus faced it with a conscious consideration made fresh and lively by a rejuvenating sleep.
Sadly, this was not to be, as my thoughts very much took on a life of their own and dragged my mind along for the ride, giving no consideration to the fact that my brain is, well, mine, and you’d think that would give me first pick of its activities.
The decision of one of my members to act in a fashion detrimental to the whole is lamentable. But then, it is an imperfect world.
All of which is to say that I haven’t the faintest notion of a plan, save only a general sense that perhaps Applejack can offer some insight into Shoddy based on her own history with him.
This vague idea is complicated by the fact that what he told me last night was, implicitly, told to me in confidence. I do not wish to break his confidence by indulging in the vice of gossip, nor do I wish to break his trust by divulging that which he may not want others to know.
On the other hoof, there are times when it is necessary, even morally obligatory, to break confidence so as to keep someone safe. Things (fortunately) are not so bad at this time, but… are they at least bad enough to justify my telling Applejack at least some of what I know? That is a difficult question to answer.
It would help if I knew if there were parts of his story she was already aware of. Unfortunately, I have no idea how much of his past Applejack knows.
They served together for years, which suggests he probably told her something. Cagey though he may be, in my experience most soldiers will let slip something now and then, even if they don’t mean to, and Applejack is an easy mare to trust. That said, I very much doubt he told her everything he told me.
For once, I may well know more about the situation than one of my veteran friends, and I can’t help but find it cruelly ironic that, for once, I wish for them to know more than me.
By the time I have reached the Acreage, I have decided that I can tell Applejack some details as it relates to him struggling to find something he’s good at. His vocational struggle, at least, she is aware of in general terms. I think I can safely tell her he’s not sure what his special talent is or where he got it without telling her all the heartache and personal sacrifice which created the situation.
Beyond that, I have no idea.
Two zebras are visibly on duty as I approach the farmhouse, though it’s entirely possible there are others around whom I simply don’t see. It’s still odd to me seeing so much security around the Acreage, odd in a way that seeing the security around Twilight’s castle never really was. I know it’s still early in the process, but I somehow suspect that this’ll be a longer adjustment, for me at least. After all, Twilight is an alicorn princess who lives in an honest to goodness castle, albeit an architecturally unusual one. Once I got used to the castle, it wasn’t a hard mental jump to think “castle = more security.” Honestly, it was more surprising to me that it required any mental jumping at all.
But Applejack is... Applejack. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to her having a royal status comparable to Twilight or Cadence.
Though, to be fair, I’m not sure she ever will either.
Good heavens, listen to me ramble! I must be more tired than I realized. You’d think after all this time, I would get to the point, even if only in my own mind. I’m as tangential as Shoddy right now.
The two guards let me approach the house without incident, and Kafil meets me at the door with such speed that I feel confident he was discretely watching my approach from within the farmstead. He greets me with his typical warmth, and his ready smile and cheerful demeanor are enough to lift my spirits out of the disordered musings of my tired mind.
“Lady Rarity, it is a pleasure to see you again,” he says with a courteous dip of his head. “I trust you are feeling better after a night’s rest?”
Not hardly, but it’s kind of him to ask. “Oh, I doubt I shall be running any marathons today, but then, I’ve hardly had adventures to keep me quick on my hooves lately,” I reply truthfully. A touch evasive, but I must save some face.
“Well, your presence was missed, but none begrudged your wise choice to take a restful evening. After all,” Kafil adds, “they are wise who seek rest when life makes great claim to their energy.”
On the surface, that sounds like a platitude, but there’s a deep undercurrent to his words and a subtle gentleness in his tone. It strikes me this is his diplomatic way of checking up on me because he hears the things I’ve left unsaid – a keen judge of character and a true gentlecolt. It’s easy to see why he was picked for this assignment.
“I don’t know that I have any tasks which constitute a ‘great claim’ on my energy,” I reply. “It is not as though I’ve been on any world-saving adventures with my friends of late.” Probably just as well, given that two are pregnant, one is an invalid, and they all earned a rest from their labors. But a small, jealous part of me desires some friendship-related crisis which would necessitate our intervention so that we may end some grave threat by making it ‘taste the rainbow,’ as I’ve heard our use of the Elements pithily referred to. For the first time in my life, I sympathize with Twilight’s compulsive desire to ‘make a friendship problem’ all those years ago.
“Perhaps you are not galivanting about the countryside on a quest,” Kafil acknowledges, “but then... I have always found physical exhaustion to pale in comparison with other forms of exhaustion. Folk often talk their bodies tiring, yet keep silent over tiredness of mind and spirit. Ironically, it is the latter tends to be the deeper strain.”
Once again, I detect a sympathetic undercurrent to his words. Written in text and read in monotone, his words would be rather innocuous. Yet in his kind voice, his open body language, and his inviting gaze, they take on another meaning. He quietly offers me the opportunity to share some of my worries if I wish, while keeping his remarks open-ended to allow me to keep such thoughts to myself if I don’t.
It’s... rather touching, really. We met not too long ago, yet he freely offers his time and a listening ear. A kind and generous stallion indeed.
With that said, I have no desire to bare my heart right now. Instead, I say, “Well, perhaps I have been burning the midnight oil overmuch of late. Speaking of the midnight oil, how late did the others stay out last night?”
Politely following my transition, Kafil replies, “Oh, the festivities lasted another few hours. Colonel Lulamoon, Princess Twilight, and Pinkie Pie wound up delving into a scientifically complex discussion of the chemical components in fireworks, which no one else could really follow—”
Sounds about right, I think.
“—so the rest of the merrymakers wound up watching Her Royal Highness Applejack engage in a ‘Battle of the Boasts,’ with Rainbow Dash.”
“That somehow doesn’t surprise me,” I remark wryly. I guess I didn’t really miss much then.
“The truly impressive thing is that Trixie managed to join the Battle of the Boasts… while maintaining her conversation with Princess Twilight and Pinkie Pie.”
Okay that I would have liked to see. “What time did Shoddy return to the party?” I ask. In my head, the question was more along the lines of ‘Shoddy better have gone back to the party last night like he told me he would or so help me…’
Fortunately for Shoddy, Kafil answers, “He came back a couple hours later and spent much of the time listening to the Boasts. From what Her Royal Highness Applejack has told me on other occasions, he could easily have joined in himself, but he opted to remain quiet.”
Of course he did. Did he stay quiet the whole time, I wonder?
Kafil, once again seeming to hear my unspoken question, answers “After the battle ended, Spike bent his ear about some ‘comic books,’ I believe. He seemed to quite enjoy himself.”
Oh, bless that little dragon! I have a pile of gems with his name on them!
“That would explain today,” I say aloud. “This morning, Shoddy told me he’d made plans with Spike to raid the local comic book shop.” Or rather, he left me a note because I got up so late. Not that I’m about to admit that. “I thought I’d take the opportunity to come out and bend Applejack’s ear, but,” I sigh, “she’s not here, is she.”
“She is not,” confirms Kafil, “though, if you’ll forgive my curiosity, how did you know?”
I smirk. “Because you said ‘Her Royal Highness Applejack’ twice and didn’t get a bushel of apples hurled at you from the other room by an irate royal redneck.”
Kafil chuckles. “Most perceptive of you, and not much of an exaggeration. She will likely not be back for another hour.”
“Typical,” I snort. “And after I trudged all the way here. Would it be all right if I waited for her to return? I know I probably should walk back to town – Celestia knows I could use the exercise with the dearth of adventuring in my life – but I’d much rather not exert myself today.”
“Make yourself at home,” smiles Kafil. “I think Her Royal Highness would, what’s the expression… ‘box my ears’ if I turned you away.”
“And that’s if she was feeling generous,” I confirm as I walk inside. “Thank you kindly, Kafil. Always a pleasure.”
Fiddlesticks. I’d rather counted on finding her here. Ah, well, c’est la vie as they say. At least the Apples are known for hospitality.
I take my seat on the green couch in the living room. It’s a hideous old thing – threadbare, scratched, faded, stained, and beaten down by generations of farm life. Hardly the sort of furniture one would expect to find in a royal household. Yet, for all its multitude of faults, in defiance of all laws of engineering and entropy… it’s perhaps the single most comfortable piece of furniture I’ve ever sat on in my life. Not even Celestia herself has such splendid sitting comfort at her disposal. It’s like a novel that’s so exceptionally poorly written that it turns into a comedic masterpiece of legendary proportions.
Somehow, the Apple Family managed to craft the magnum opus of living room seating, a magnum opus which, in an act of either mastermind-level pranking or supreme irony, happens to be one of the ugliest crimes against living room décor I’ve ever sat on. The fact that I do sit on it, with only the barest hint of a shudder no less, is a profound testament to the magnificence of their accomplishment.
It is such a comfortable couch, in fact, that I find myself yawning as I sink into its depths. Not that I plan on napping, of course. It would be rather uncouth to pass out uninvited on a friend’s couch like a vagrant, a slovenly roommate, or Rainbow Dash.
“Hiya, Miss Rarity— oops! Sorry! Didn’t realize you were sleepin’.”
I categorically deny that Applebloom woke me from a doze. I was merely resting my eyes and most certainly did not jump half a foot in the air at the abrupt sound of her voice disturbing my sleeping mind. Further, I did not let out an unladylike whinny of consternation, and any suggestions to the contrary are simply slanderous.
“Not at all, Applebloom,” I manage, keen to make it clear that any perception which contradicts my official statement is merely the result of an overactive imagination. “I was merely resting my eyes.”
Applebloom has the grace to show no sign that she doubts the official report.
“What brings you out here today, Miss Rarity?” she asks as she wipes some motor grease off her brow with a rag. I belatedly realize she has a fair amount of grease and oil splashed on her coat and a toolbelt around her barrel, suggesting she’s just come from her workshop.
“Well, I was hoping to bend your sister’s ear, but it seems she will be out for another hour or so.”
Applebloom grins. “And so ya decided to, uh, rest yer eyes a spell?” she suggests innocently.
“Quite,” I reply evenly.
“Fair enough,” nods Applebloom. “Say, since yer out here anyway, ya wanna see what me an’ the girls ’ave been workin’ on out in the shop? We’ll clean up the space before ya come out,” she hastens to add. “Ah think you’ll be mighty impressed.”
I’m just impressed that the three of them have matured to the point that they’ll offer to clean up without being prompted just to spare my cleanliness compulsion from going into overdrive. “That sounds delightful, darling. I’d love to.”
“Great,” beams Applebloom. “Give us ’bout ten minutes ta get h’er all cleaned up. Ah’ll come get ya when we’re ready.”
As she departs, I am startled to notice that she’s grown to be as big as Applejack was at that age. With the lean muscle and frightful fitness of a farmer and the toned physique of a soldier-in-training, she could easily pass for a mare several years older. Her comportment is likewise one of a mature adult, rather than a young mare still finishing high school.
I suppose it should not be any great shock to my system. After all, farmers tend to be matured quickly by the responsibilities of working for a living from a young age. Furthermore, with her older siblings called to the front, Applebloom – and Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo for that matter – had to grow up quickly.
As one of the only members of our little friend-group to remain in town throughout the war, I had the distinct privilege of seeing the Cutie Mark Crusaders grow into fine young mares. So, again, you would think that I would not be startled to notice how much they’ve grown, especially since I realized that obvious fact long ago. You would be quite within the realm of sensibility to think that it would not faze me.
You would be wrong.
It is true that I was there to see them mature. It is true that I got to see them earn their cutie marks. In fact, in an odd twist I was quite literally present for all three marks, despite them coming on separate occasions, and found myself in the role of being a sort of sisterly stand-in for Applejack and Rainbow Dash.
That was a welter of emotions, I must say. On one hoof, I was tremendously honored that they granted me that role. On the other hoof, I couldn’t help but feel like a usurper, partaking of moments that belonged to others.
Fortunately, Applebloom and Scootaloo both were grateful I was there, and said as much at the time. Getting their marks was bittersweet for both of them. Sweet for the success, and bitter because their siblings were away at war. My presence helped alleviate that sorrow, it seems. For their part, Dash and Applejack both reassured me – repeatedly and emphatically in the face of my worries – that they were thankful that I was there to represent them from afar.
Intellectually (and, to an extent, emotionally), I believe them. I know them to be telling the truth. Yet there is that part of me – a small, self-conscious, internally judgmental part of me that feels like I was an outsider trespassing where I had no place – that refuses to go away no matter how much I know it to be a liar and a fraud.
Ah, well, at least the gratitude of my friends has helped quiet the wretched little thing. And it was a wonderful experience to see them find their marks. After all those years of searching, they finally succeeded. It didn’t all happen at once – close, but not quite. Each filly earned her mark while doing her part to help out around town during the war.
Applebloom had taken to tinkering with mechanization of equipment around the farm. With her older siblings gone and so many farmers going to war, the Apples were making do with inexperienced workers, aging workers, and 4F workers (whose physical limitations had kept them from going to war in the first place). Applebloom found herself doing a lot of the work by herself, assisted by Scootaloo and my own dear sister. To compensate for the dearth of able farmers – and the other Crusaders’ enthusiasm at times *cough* let’s say outstripping their qualifications – she built machines to make the work more efficient, less strenuous, and more foolproof. She took existing tracked vehicles – mostly slow-moving construction vehicles or tractors, such as were occasionally found in Ponyville even before the war – and modified them to be better suited to farming and less temperamental.
When her first prototype got up and running, she was so excited that it was helping out around the farm that it took a while for her to even notice her mark – three gears, each with an apple at the center, and each with a color that seems to correspond to… well, I’ll get to that.
Sweetie Belle put her musical talents to work singing to cheer up the town. When those newfangled radio stations started being put in, the station manager asked her to lend her beautiful voice to the airwaves to cheer up the countryside. She made quite a name for herself, and found her special talent in the process – three musical notes, representing her talent for reaching ponies with her voice, and also representing another connection. As for being a singer known throughout the country, she remains more anonymous than you might think. Wisely, she used a stage name, so most ponies (including her JROTC classmates) don’t know Sweetie Belle and the famous ‘Serenada’ are one in the same pony.
Being a radio personality had the unexpected side-benefit of exposing her to the inner workings of radios. The station managers were only too happy to show her how to operate them, and she proved to have quite the knack for it. As radios become an increasingly important part of the military (and civilian life for that matter), more opportunities for specialized work will be open to her. And – heaven-willing – those opportunities will keep her away from the front lines should conflict flare up again.
Scootaloo, for her part, took to tinkering right alongside Applebloom. Except instead of focusing on farming equipment, she’d take cast off, broken equipment and put it through its paces, trying to make speedier contraptions for daredevil stunts and trying to copy some of the ‘autocarriage’ designs that we’re seeing here and there, especially in bigger cities.
Personally, I’d be content for such contraptions to stay in the cities and racetracks, and – fortunately – that has been the case in Ponyville so far. The autos remain out on the dirt tracks where they belong, and ponies continue to use their hooves. I’ve heard the mayor and town council are even passing ordinances to ensure that it stays that way, at least in Old Ponyville and other historical sections of the city, which most everypony seems happy with.
That said, I’ve also heard that many returning war veterans are interested in the autocarriages and Scootaloo’s… creative interpretation of the designs. I have further heard that there’s some sort of auto sport in Appleoosa. ‘NASCART’ or some such. I can’t say I see the appeal but, well, to each their own.
Actually, Sweetie Belle has mentioned to me that she and the Crusaders have been working on some sort of armored autocarriage for the military. Doubtless the military is also working on such things, but the fillies have a mind to throw their own hat in the ring. Applebloom and Scootaloo are handling the engineering and Sweetie is lending her knowledge of radio equipment to try to give it the capability to communicate in the field. Mind you, I have no idea if they’re making any headway, but I prefer the idea of them getting jobs in military R&D to the idea of them serving in a combat regiment, so I’m not objecting.
Ah, but I realize now I forgot to mention Scootaloo’s cutie mark. Three wings arranged with their bases meeting at the center and their wingtips outstretched. If you were to draw a line from wingtip to wingtip, it would form a perfect triangle.
Now, you may have noticed a pattern: three gears for Applebloom, three notes for Sweetie Belle, and three wings for Scootaloo. This wouldn’t ordinarily be too unusual, as many cutie marks have three component pieces. But this case is a little different, because each young mare’s mark has one other similarity: color. Specifically, a tri-color of orange, purple, and maroon, with each filly having all three in equal measure.
It seems evident that their marks are linked somehow. What exactly that means can only be speculated at – and I must say Twilight has done a lot of speculating – but it seems clear that the three are meant to work together. So perhaps their crazy inventions aren’t so crazy after all.
I fear in my mental rambling about their accomplishments, their maturation, and their vocational discoveries via cutie mark, I have strayed from my original point. That point is this:
Despite being present for all of this, present for their growth, present for their self-discovery, present for their maturation into fine young mares, I still can’t seem to believe it.
I still can’t get over how quickly they’ve grown up, how it seemed like only yesterday that the tiny fillies were underfoot, their squeaky voices eager with excitement as they darted about seeking new and inventive ways of turning my mane grey with their madcap schemes. I feel like if you could just turn the clock back a day, Sweetie Belle would still be small enough for me to give her piggyback rides without giving myself a hernia, Applebloom would scarcely be bigger than Big Mac’s hoof, and Scootaloo would still be zipping around on a scooter that the big farm stallion could use as a roller skate.
Of course, if we could turn back time that far, I suppose we’d have to go through the last few years of misery again. I, for one, would rather cut off my horn than endure that again.
Although… I wonder if perhaps Shoddy wouldn’t mind another pass at it.
Applebloom’s return puts a halt on my perhaps unproductive musings on time travel, which is probably just as well. At her invitation I follow her out to the workshop.
It might be more accurate to call it a ‘garage’ or ‘machine shop.’ Roughly the size of the old barn (and, thankfully, with a much better track record of remaining intact), the workshop looks like another standard farm building until one goes inside. There, one is greeted by the presence of farming vehicles and related machinery in various states of assembly, repair, and storage. It has been a while since I’ve come out to the Crusaders’ workshop, and I must admit that I’m not quite sure what to expect. All I know is that Applebloom and the others have come a long way from constructing an admittedly impressive semi-motorized parade float and the associated traps they’d meant for Babs Seed.
Hm. I wonder how Babs is doing these days?
Upon entering the workshop, I am welcomed by the sight of Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle, who are grinning with eager anticipation and standing beside a great… something. I presume it’s a machine of some sort, but with the tarp covering it in its entirety I can’t say for certain. Applebloom trots over to join them in both the anticipatory grin and in the obligatory ‘prepare to see my greatness!’ that comes before the unveiling of one’s masterpiece.
“Well, girls, don’t keep me waiting,” I prompt. “Show me what wonders you’ve created!”
The CMCs need no further bidding. Sweetie Belle clears her throat and begins dramatically, “Lady Rarity and assorted farming implements,” she begins, addressing her ‘audience.’ She rolls on, unbothered by my eye roll, “Presenting for your viewing pleasure, the latest in Equestrian force-multiplying technology…” she gestures grandly to the veiled invention, “… an advanced machine years in the making…” the other two young mares stand by to fling off the tarp, “… the pinnacle of Ponyville mechanical ingenuity and modern military versatility…” Applebloom and Scootaloo fling back the tarp, “… the PV-1 Landcrawler!”
My jaw falls open.
How shall I describe the PV-1 Landcrawler to you? If I were to pick a single word, it would be a toss-up between ‘ingenuity’ and ‘insanity.’ Imagine, if you will, a tread-driven tractor or construction vehicle, one of those monstrous mechanical wonders with thick metal tracks and a great roaring engine running on some incomprehensible mixture of machinery and magic such as Dr. Time Turner and Twilight were wont to tinker with when they sought to see how science and magic together could optimize power-output. Add one iron box, set between the treads and covering the engine block and Celestia-knows-what-else. Cut a hatch in the front of it. Then, take a metal washtub, turn it on its head, and bolt it to the top. Add a cannon-like perturbance to the front, a hatch to the top, and a tall wire mast to the rear. Finally, hold the entire thing together with a truly staggering number of bolts, welds, and probably a half-dozen other attachments that I have neither the engineering wherewithal nor the patience to list.
Absurdly, the Landcrawler reminds me of the Apple Family couch – it’s ugly, grim, and seemingly forged from cast-off scraps and junk; yet, simultaneously, it also looks functional, ably assembled, and probably accomplishes its designed role better than its outward appearance would lead you to believe.
“I… I… I don’t know what to say, girls,” I say honestly. “I’m… I’m beyond impressed!” The trio beam. “It seems like only yesterday you were… and now this…” my eyes moisten with pride. In the past, they’d always modified existing equipment; this looked to be something new. “You’ve certainly grown into fine young mares.” I step forward to give my sister a hug, then invite the others into a group embrace.
After the congratulations, I move up for a closer look at the machine itself. Again, the engineering goes over my head, but I’ve seen enough of the tractors and similar machines around town to realize this is a similarly professional quality, yet different from other models. “You built this all out here in the barn?”
“Well… not all of it,” clarifies Applebloom. “You know the South Gorge FleetFarm Factory?”
Indeed I do. Ponyville never had much need for construction equipment or tractors before the war. What cranes and such as they used – such as the one which malfunctioned and led to Pinkie saving the construction workers during the Mare Do Well incident, back in much simpler times – were few and far between. They could move at little more than a crawl and were seldom used. They also tended to be temperamental – again, like the one that caused the near disaster at the construction site – and were seldom seen save in big cities.
The war changed that, as it did so many things. With ponies needed on the front, increased mechanization was needed to handle farmwork, construction, and so on. There also needed to be a greater refinement of the processes to make the equipment better and more reliable, leading to a demand for more prolific and more advanced machines. With Ponyville becoming something of a hub during the war, it made sense to build a factory to meet that demand, which would create jobs and ensure that people who moved to Ponyville (as well as current residents) could create wealth that would continue even after the war ended, rather than risk becoming a ghost town with the cessation of hostilities.
However, the citizens of Ponyville did not want a big loud factory built straight in town. We’re still a small town at heart, even with the growing population and passage of trade. To balance the rural character of the town and the need for mechanization, we built the FleetFarm Factory further down the rail line at South Gorge. It’s a fairly short commute – and some of the distant Ponyville suburbs are actually as close to the factory as they are to the town square – but far enough away to preserve something of the small town feel even with modernity.
“I am familiar with it,” I say, belatedly answering the question as I struggle to comprehend the vehicle before me. “It would be hard not to be, what with the factory owner helping you patent some of your inventions.”
“Right,” blushes Applebloom, still embarrassed that she has actual patents on the books. “Well, as you know, Steel Mill has a deal with the Apple Family where we get discounts on parts and tractors in exchange for FactoryFarm getting first crack at licensed design improvements—”
“And for your help troubleshooting their new designs,” I add with a smile. I helped engineer that deal, but it’s really Applebloom’s genius that made it possible.
Blushing more deeply, Applebloom continues, “He also helps us machine new parts for testin’. We bought a tractor from FleetFarm as a test bed and started makin’ changes. Anything we couldn’t handle with tools here in the shop,” she gestures to the mechanical equipment taking up much of the wall space, “we get machined at the factory. Mill’s been helpin’ us work on this fer ’bout two or three years now, ever since the DARD Challenge fer a mechanized combat vehicle got announced.”
My gaze flicks to Sweetie Belle. “And you wait until now to tell me?” I ask archly.
Sweetie Belle plays with a lock of hair nervously. “We, uh… we weren’t sure it was going to work.”
“I was sure,” insists Scootaloo.
“That’s because ya don’t do so good in math, so ya don’t really comprehend the laws of physics we had ta cheat ta get this thing movin’,” remarks Applebloom dryly.
Scootaloo smirks and buzzes her wings. “Well, I was right, wasn’t I?”
Applebloom sucks in a frustrated breath of air. “Ye~eeah…” she finally admits, stretching the word into two syllables.
“And it does work, then?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah, it runs,” smirks Applebloom, rapping her hoof on the side of the hull with a dull *clang*. “She ain’t gonna top more’n about four point two miles-per-hour, but, hey, that’s still more’n Leoneighdo da Vinci ever managed,” she says, referencing the Renaissance pony inventor who’d inadvertently inspired Rainbow to name her tortoise ‘tank.’
“To be fair, he was working with a purely magic engine, not a hybrid magi-mechani like ours,” notes Sweetie Belle.
“Eh,” shrugs Applebloom. She gestures to the tubing sticking out of it. “Obviously, there ain’t any real guns on ’er—”
“Not for lack of trying,” grumbled Scootaloo. “Can’t believe the CO said ‘no.’”
“—but,” continued Applebloom pointedly, “she’s fitted to carry a 37mm cannon with thirty-three shells, with two .30 cal machineguns to back it up.”
My brow furrows. “Machineguns?”
“New automatic weapon to replace Chatterguns,” explains Sweetie Belle. “Same rate of fire, but one barrel so it’s more portable, smaller, and has fewer mechanical breakages.”
“Mm,” I nod, trying to sound enthused. I must admit, as impressive as their invention is, I don’t like thinking about what it’s built to do. In an attempt to distract myself while remaining polite, I turn to Sweetie Belle. “And your part in all this? Forgive me, but by your own admission you don’t share Applebloom’s and Scootaloo’s proclivity for engineering.”
Sweetie smiles proudly. “I can’t do tractor treads and armor, but I can do radio.”
I tilt my head to the side quizzically. “I thought radios require groundlines.”
“Current models do,” explains Sweetie, “but they’re working on developing wireless radios using magic to make the connection.” She gestures to the antennae-looking contraptions protruding from the back. “Twilight and Time Turner let me sit in with them working on the new designs. I’ve, ah…” she blows on her hoof and polishes it against her coat with a satisfied smile, “made some improvements of my own.”
She gives me a technical explanation which – I admit – goes mostly over my head. The gist of it, however, is that she suggested a different alignment of the crystals for greater durability of the radio and smaller overall volume needed.
“At this point, the wireless radio is a just working prototype,” she says. “It barely reaches ten pony-lengths, and bad weather makes that even shorter; not exactly field-ready. Frankly, the whole Landcrawler is a working prototype. Four mph is still slow, and it’s got a lot of teething troubles.”
I raise my eyebrow. “Teething troubles?”
“Technical difficulties,” she clarifies. “It breaks down. A lot. Still, it’ll probably be ready for the battlefield before the radio is. But,” she regards the tank with a satisfied smile, “the design is already future-proofed, since we were able to work out the ergonomics of the radio. Plus, we got an in-tank radio system set up for crew communication, so they can talk to each other over the noise.”
My lip curls slightly before I can stop it. “So it’s loud then?”
The girls laugh. “Oh yeah it’s loud!” chuckles Scootaloo. “Why do you think we didn’t fire it up for a demonstration? The crew has to wear helmets with built-in ear protectors if they don’t wanna be deaf by twenty-five, and that’s without firing the cannon or machineguns.”
“Honestly, that crew comms invention o’ Sweetie’s may have a better shot at getting adopted than our tank,” says Applebloom, throwing a hoof over Sweetie Belle’s withers. “It ain’t like we’re the only ponies workin’ on makin’ a tank, and a lot o’ the other designers got more resources than we do. But Twilight says the other teams entering the DARD Challenge ain’t done a crew comms fix yet. Sweetie here made somethin’ new.”
Sweetie Belle blushes. “Twilight and Time Turner figured out the technicals. I just had the idea and helped them tinker.”
I smile proudly and trot over to put a hoof to her shoulder. “Your modesty is very becoming, Sweetie Belle, and I admire your humility.” I tap her on the sternum. “But you had the thought to work for the comfort and capability of the crew. That’s no small thing.” I look over her shoulder at the tank. “Whatever else, your invention will most certainly save lives, and hopefully get us through…” I stop short of saying ‘the next war,’ because my throat catches at the words. “… get ponies like Shoddy through easier,” I say.
Now why did I suddenly jump to Shoddy?
“How’s he doin’?” asks Applebloom, either not noticing my discomfort over the thought of another war or – more likely – choosing not to comment on it.
“He’s… he’s adjusting,” I say, trying not to divulge more than I ought. “I think he would benefit from having a… clearer idea where he’s going. He needs—”
My train of thought derails mid-sentence, knocked off track by the blindingly obvious.
How could I have been so stupid!?
“Tell me, girls, in addition to schooling, Junior ROTC, and designing weapons with the help of local geniuses and factory managers, do you still help ponies with cutie mark problems?”
After finding their special talents, the old ‘CMCs’ had spent many an afternoon helping their classmates and younger ponies find their own. They proved to have quite the knack for it, to the point that it seemed to be a part of their own, oddly-synchronous special talents. Twilight has long speculated it’s part of their special talents, or at least related to them. I must confess, however, that between helping Twilight, managing my own business, and helping manage two others throughout the war, I lost track of whether the three of them were still pursuing that endeavor.
Based on the eager glances the three of them shoot each other, the answer is ‘yes, yes they were.’
Sweetie Belle gives me a sly grin and says, “Miss Rarity, why don’t you step into our office.”
I blink in confusion. “Into your what?”
They gesture to a side door to which I had not been paying particular attention – a door rather resembling a private investigator’s office door, with wooden frame, a large glass pane inset, and bold-printed lettering reading:
CUTIE MARK CRUSADER
PRIVATE VOCATIONAL CONSULTING, LLC
My voice lowers an octave as I say the only thing I can under the circumstances.
“What?”
Well. This is surreal.
My astonishment at discovering that the girls have had yet another extracurricular activity that I’ve been blissfully unaware of delayed my entry into the room long enough that they had time to set up.
And what a setup it is.
The Cutie Mark Crusader Private Vocational Counseling (LLC) office looks like its straight out of the pages of a Shadow Spade novel. A ceiling fan operating on a small magic motor spins lazily overhead, while filing cabinets and shelves full of what look to be case files dominate the walls. A hat rack in the corner is dominated by a plethora of bell hats, fedoras, trilbys, bonnets, homburgs, feathered headbands, wide-brimmed sunhats, and a variety of other similar accoutrements.
A heavy wooden desk with an antique lamp and blotter fill the far side of the room opposite the door, along with an ashtray (thankfully empty) and what I sincerely hope to be a prop smoking pipe. Two chairs sit before the desk, with a wheeled chair behind it. The grimy window centered behind the desk looks to have been pried straight from the set of a detective play lets in natural light behind the desk while obscuring the world outside to the point that it could just as easily be in a big city as in the country.
The three girls somehow managed change their attire before I entered, each donning either a period dress or a feminine long-coat, with each being expertly paired with either a feathered headband or a cap.
Sweetie Belle sits behind the desk, leaning back in the chair with a hood-eyed, sharp-edged look on her features. Applebloom leans against the wall behind her like a bodyguard, flipping a coin to herself and blowing bubblegum, which I suppose is better than chewing tobacco. Scootaloo sits perched on a short file-cabinet by the window, playing soft jazz on a saxophone, because of course she is.
Oh, did I mention everything is black and white? And I do mean everything – the room, the furniture, the girls, and – most disturbingly – me.
Yes, the moment I stepped through the door, I became black and white.
Before I can even get a dazed query out, Sweetie begins monologuing to an invisible audience to the tune of Scootaloo’s jazz. “It was a cool fall day when the fashionista blew into my office like an autumn wind,” she narrates. “I could tell by the look on her face she had something on her mind…”
“Sweetie, what in—”
“…Either that or she’d once again forgotten where she left her reading glasses.”
Oh I’m going to kill her later.
“Sweetie, what on earth is going on?!”
Unmoved by my ire, she monologues on, “The fashionista was inquisitive. Perhaps too inquisitive.”
My jaw hardens. “Sweetie, why am I black and white.”
In her normal voice Sweetie replies, “Twilight put a glamor enchantment on the room. Like it?”
I sigh and shut my eyes tight against the oncoming headache. As I massage my temple with a hoof, suddenly in need of a cup of black tea – or perhaps a shot of brandy – I say, “Remind me to never loan you my Shadow Spade books ever again.”
“We find the setting helps put our clients’ minds at ease,” remarks Sweetie primly.
“Oh it does, does it?” I ask dryly. “A glamor enchantment and saxophone music?”
Applebloom shrugs. “Ain’t had any complaints.”
“Well, points for unique marketing I suppose,” I sigh. Glancing at Scootaloo, still softly playing jazz, I ask, “And since when do you play saxophone?”
She stops long enough to look up, saying, “You don’t know everything about me.”
Feeling quite like I’ve stumbled into a bizarre alternate timeline, I square my shoulders and make my way farther into the room. “You know, under ordinary circumstances I would have many, many questions for you, but at the moment I’ll just ask the one before availing myself of your services.”
“Ask away,” prompts Sweetie Belle.
“How in the wide world of Equestria do you find time for school, work, designing a mechanized vehicle, farmwork, Junior ROTC, and this…” I gesture to the room, “bizarre approach to vocational training?”
The girls exchange a glance, then Applebloom replies, “Pinkie Pie… may have helped us plan our schedules.”
I blink rapidly for several moments, pondering the various implications of that answer, including the fact that Pinkie Pie was overseas until relatively recently, the various times each of these activities entered their schedules, and what exactly a Pinkie Pie time-management plan would entail.
I quickly decide that my headache is bad enough as it is and I don't need a migraine.
"Fine,” I snap. “No further questions. Let’s talk about Shoddy.”
Sweetie gestures to one of the guest chairs. “Please take a seat, Miss Rarity.”
My eyes narrow. “Don’t push it.”
Sweetie dips her head contritely. “Sorry.”
With that, I take my seat and begin the narrative. I lay out the circumstances of Shoddy’s difficulties in much the same way I would have for Applejack – describing what he’s struggling with while leaving out the things too personal to include. Right at the start, Scootaloo exchanged her saxophone for a typewriter and took notes like a stenographer, while Applebloom occasionally paused my narrative to collect another ‘case file’ to use as reference, which the three of them would review mostly in silence, broken only by hoof-written notes scratched on writing pads, presumably for reference to similar cases.
Overall, the process is intensely surreal, but I find myself weirdly drawn into it to such a degree that I scarcely notice after a time. As absurd as it is to say, I find myself strangely comfortable in the setting. Perhaps there is something to the noir approach to vocational counseling after all.
Either that or there’s something in the water at Ponyville, and we’re all just crazy. To be honest, both explanations are equally plausible (and arguably complimentary).
Once I’ve gone through as much of the explanation as I can give without violating Shoddy’s confidence, the three of them sit back and ponder. “Well,” I prompt, “what do you think.”
There’s a brief silence before they begin making suggestions.
“Ah get the impression the answer is right under our noses,” suggests Applebloom. “Like… maybe the mark ain’t about the work per se, but somethin’ more basic.”
Scootaloo nods. “Right, like the Diamond Tiara case. It wasn’t jewelry-related like the mark would seem on the surface – it was persuasion skills, which had only incidentally been discovered when she persuaded her father to carry dress-up tiaras in his stores. The tiara wasn’t the special talent – the skill behind it was.”
“That makes sense,” says Sweetie Belle. “Shoddy worked so many jobs that focusing on any one of them would be a dead end. We have to find the common factor. He moved around from place to place…”
“… working different jobs…” continues Scootaloo.
“… but always moving,” concludes Applebloom.
“Right,” says Sweetie Belle. “So maybe it’s not the work, but the moving, or, more accurately…”
“… endurance,” chorus Applebloom and Scootaloo.
“More precisely, the endurance needed to power through manual labor and the mental fortitude to endure repetitive, heavy work,” expands Sweetie. “That’s why it showed up on a long hike between towns.”
“A back country road like that is just a long, mindless walk,” says Applebloom, sounding to speak from ready experience. “There’s a special kind of strength ta just put one hoof in front o’ the other on a long road, then work for hours on end day-in and day-out when ya get where yer goin’.”
Scootaloo smiles. “He’s a ground pounder,” she says. “Built for all the grunt work Marines do.”
“Long marches an’ heavy lifting,” says Applebloom.
“Powering through pain,” says Sweetie Belle.
“Crushing skulls,” says Scootaloo.
The other two glare at her.
“What?! It’s true!”
Applebloom rolls her eyes and continues, “Point is, his thing seems to be mental tenacity, physical endurance, and mind-over-matter-but-the-matter-is-still-crazy-tough.”
Sweetie nods and turns to me, saying, “That’s our initial assessment. What do you think?”
What do I think? I think I’m at a loss for words for the fifth or six time this week, and about half of those were today with the three girls. I also think I’ve got a speck of sentiment and familial pride in my eye, based on the sudden moisture I detect there.
“I think…” I say a touch huskily, “that I am very proud of the three of you. Sweetie, you told me a little while ago that I’d done a lot during the war; I think the three of you have just as many accomplishments under your belts.”
Smiling, Sweetie Belle replies, “Well, when we’ve all got such great, affirming older sisters and friends to look up to, who tell us that you believe in us – and mean it – it turns out we can accomplish a lot.”
Yes, definitely a few specks of sentiment and familial pride in my eyes.
Having significantly dampened my kerchief, I say, “I think you girls have gotten right to the heart of the matter. You seem to have figured out the mystery of Shoddy’s special talent, as well as revealing why he excelled as a Marine.”
“Well, sure, that skill set’s perfect for a grunt,” Applebloom agrees, “but it’d be perfect for other stuff too if’n ya can figure how ta apply it.”
“Yeah,” agrees Scootaloo. “Plenty of jobs require that kind of grit, doggedness, and mind-over-matter determination to push through.”
“Ya just need ta find somethin’ that’d let him exercise that talent, bring out that sort of ‘just one more mile’ mindset, an’ Ah think that’d really help him find job satisfaction.”
“And,” adds Sweetie Belle, “it would sort of let him ‘redeem’ that mindset from only being in a warrior context. Don’t get me wrong, it’s perfect for a warrior, but even a soldier shouldn’t only be applying that kind of skill in war. Sergeant Hardline says that leads to combat fatigue. My guess is he needs to learn how to exercise his talent in more than just one context again.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I reply. “Now the only question is how to help him exercise it.”
Hm, ‘exercise.’ That reminds me how much I’ve missed the exercise I got back in our adventuring days. I could stand to start exercising again.
Exercise, exercise.
Wait…
A slow smile spreads across my face. “That gives me an idea…”
As soon as I get back from my visit to the Cutie Mark Crusader Private Vocational Consulting (LLC), I make my proposal to Iron Shod:
Be my personal fitness trainer.
“Aw, shucks, Miss Rarity,” Shoddy says, rubbing the back of his head anxiously. “I don’t know the first thing ’bout bein’ a personal trainer.”
“Oh, pshaw, darling,” I scoff. “It’s perfect! I need to get back into shape, and you know how to get into shape. That’s the first rule of business, darling: find a demand, devise a solution, and meet the demand.”
“But… but…” he protests. “I ain’t got no trainin’ ta be a fitness trainer!”
“Oh, I don’t see any problem with the idea Shoddy. You can just…” I trail off as something outside the window catches my attention.
Namely, a red flag waving outside my window. “You can… um… one moment please, Iron Shod.” I trot over and throw the window open to peer outside. There I spy Pinkie, waving a red flag as if in warning.
Seeing me, she waves cheerily. “Hiya, Rarity!”
“Hello, Pinkie Pie,” I reply. “May I ask why you’re waving a red flag?”
“Eh,” she shrugs. “Just seemed appropriate.”
“O~kaaaay,” I say. “Well… you have fun now.”
“Yuppers!”
Shaking my head I turn back to Shoddy and say, “You can just take what you learned in the Marines—”
I am cut off my ominous music playing outside. Once more, I throw up the sash and peer out to find Pinkie Pie, this time playing…
“Pinkie, darling, why are you playing a pipe organ?” A newcomer to Ponyville would have asked, ‘How did you get a pipe organ into the street.’ Such newcomers either learn not to ask such irrelevant questions or else they don’t last long.
“Eh,” replies Pinkie with another shrug. “Just ’cuz.”
“… Okay, Pinkie. You enjoy yourself.”
“Thanks! You too!”
Shaking my head, I return my attention to a rather bemused Iron Shod and say, “You can just take what you learned in the Marines—”
I don’t even turn around when the organ hits a note that sounds rather like “Doom.”
“—and apply that to training me.”
Shoddy winces and scratches the back of his head. “Well… if you say so, Miss Rarity.”
“I know so, darling. Trust me, this is a wonderful idea.”
My room, Ponyville, 0600 hours the next morning…
At 0559 hours, I am sleeping peacefully.
At 0600 hours, the shriek of a drill sergeant’s whistle levitates me approximately six feet into the air.
“GET THE LEAD OUT, RECRUIT! IT IS 0600 HOURS AND YOU ARE LATE FOR OUR FIVE MILE WARMUP! LET’S GO! GO! GO!”
As Shoddy launches into a slew of Drill Sergeantese, a single, solitary, introspective realization crosses my mind:
This may have been a bad idea.