The Secret Life of Big Macintosh

by WardenPony


Chapter 3

The Secret Life of Big Macintosh

Chapter Three

He couldn’t breathe, but that’s not what worried him. Big Macintosh’s fear came from his confusion: Where was he, and how had he gotten there? The trace amounts of oxygen left in his brain burned away as his memory struggled to snatch any snippets of his dangerous predicament.

Three words, and three words only, responded to his memory’s call. They bounced carelessly, tauntingly, along the insides of his skull. As his eyes rolled back, those three words shouted, stabbing his mind with flashes of colorful pain.

Apples.

Socks.

Sharks.


“Big Macintosh, my quiet friend! It’s good to see you here again.”

“That don’t exactly rhyme, Zecora,” Big Macintosh said in the doorway with a playful wink.

She shot him a bemused glance. “If you listened, as of late, my rhyme and meter are approximate.”

“Clearly.” Macintosh grimaced, though a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

Zecora huffed. “Not all can change their speech like you. I speak the way I promised to.” Her eyes grew wide with a little gasp and she tried to peer around the stallion. “Of promises I have set in stone, did I just break one? You are alone?”

Macintosh chuckled and stepped into the hut, closing the door behind him. “Don’t worry, Zecora,” he said, setting his straw hat on a small table among a number of mysterious flasks. “I’m alone. I came to ask for another favor.”

The zebra laughed. “Another? Big Mac, at this rate, you’ll owe to me your soul and fate.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Macintosh admitted.

Zecora waved a hoof; the rings around her knee jangled musically. “I kid, my friend, I only tease! That which you need is yours, with ‘please’. To help a Knight of your grand Order I could not do beyond my border. It is an honor, one most high—” She bowed. “—to have a place in your mind’s eye.”

“Sometimes you don’t make any sense,” Macintosh said with a grin.

“The sense it makes is perfect here,” Zecora said, lifting a hoof to her temple, “but, in the rhyme, can be unclear.”

“I respect your ways, Zecora. You know I do. Your magic’s of the mightiest sort—more so than Miss Twilight in a number of respects—and that’s why I come to you.”

Zecora nodded, both in gratitude and encouragement to go on.

“There’s an unusual duststorm brewing on my family’s farm.” Before Zecora could ask, Macintosh clarified, “Not here in Ponyville. It’s my cousin’s property, Delicious Orchards, just north of Fillydelphia.”

Zecora tilted her head. “A storm of dust, up by the coast? Of all things strange, that seems the most.”

“How long have you lived in Equestria?” Macintosh asked.

Surprised, Zecora answered, “If my memory is clear, Winter marks my seventh year.”

“Then you wouldn’t know,” Mac realized, nodding. He took a deep breath through his nose and said, “Twenty years ago, a series of unexplainable duststorms battered the greenest parts of Eastern Equestria. I was only a foal at the time, but I can still remember how worried everypony was around here. We knew our orchards wouldn’t survive a random storm like that. None came, thank Celestia.” He met Zecora’s eyes. “This storm over Delicious Orchards… it doesn’t seem to be hurting the trees, but it’s bad enough to keep my cousins from working the land. It seems like just the situation where I might find… what I’m looking for.”

He cleared his throat uncomfortably and pretended to scan the masks on the wall.

Zecora smiled. “You need not worry; of your task I promise I will never ask.”

Macintosh chuckled lightly and looked down. “Thanks, Zecora.”

“Anything to help a friend. Now, do you want this storm to end?”

Perking up, Macintosh shook his head. “No, no, definitely not. In fact, as long as it’s active, my cousins are helping Applejack at Sweet Apple Acres, giving me more time for my mission—and peace of mind, for that matter. What I need is a quick path to Fillydelphia.”

Zecora lifted an eyebrow, spurring Macintosh into elaboration. “I can’t risk taking the train,” he said, shifting his eyes to the hut’s round window. “If anypony recognized me and reported to my sister, I’d have one heck of a mess to clean up. No; I need an alternative mode of transportation to cross half of Equestria as quickly as possible.” He offset his jaw and looked back to the zebra. “Any ideas?”

“A journey to the fields by the eastern sea traversed as quickly as can be.” She nodded thoughtfully and moved to an overhead cupboard, swinging its doors open with a nudge of her snout. Inside was a small pair of Zebraharan drums and a large, rolled scroll. Zecora took the curled parchment in her mouth and brought it to the table on which Macintosh had placed his hat. He placed it back over his ears, leaving room for her to smooth out the large square of yellowed paper. On it was painted a map of Equestria.

Zecora pointed to the Everfree Forest with the tip of her hoof. “For speed and secrecy, the fastest way seems to be rafting to Horseshoe Bay.” She slid her hoof along the river that flowed east from the forest, stopping at a round inlet above the Hayseed Swamps. “In one or two days, you will arrive at Baltimare. Fillydelphia, you see, is not far north from there.”

Macintosh’s wide eyes were locked on Manehattan Island. “Applejack… walked there?” he asked quietly.

“Hmm?”

He shook his head. “Nothing, sorry. Ride the river down to Baltimare, you say?”

“If ‘quick and quiet’ is what you seek, no other route will take less than a week.”

Macintosh nodded. “Then it’s perfect.” He glanced hopefully at the zebra. “You don’t happen to have a little boat I can borrow, do you?”

“I do not think a boat would serve you well,” she said, rolling up the map, “unless in Baltimare you plan to dwell. A disposable raft you can leave to the river would be a more practical craft to deliver.”

“Good thinking, Zecora,” Macintosh agreed, straightening the black canvas duster that draped over his back. “I’ll get to making one right away.”

“One more piece of advice I feel I must impart,” Zecora said, stopping him with a hoof on his shoulder. “The river is a swamp here in the Forest’s heart. The strong flow of its water will not be your assister until the Ancient Castle of the Royal Pony Sisters.”

Macintosh snorted. “I’m familiar. I’ll go there now and build my raft. Do you have anything you’re willing to part with that might be helpful on the journey?”

A lively glint in Zecora’s eye confirmed the Knight’s question. She spun around and began to rummage through her many bizarre belongings, muttering to herself in her native tongue. Macintosh picked up simple words like “where”, “stupid”, and “magic”, but his Zebraharan was still at elementary levels. His missions for the Order, though increasingly frequent, had never taken him south of the Badlands.

“Ah! Here they are! I believe these will help.” Zecora turned again and laid three items at Macintosh’s hooves. “A canteen, a torch, and a length of green kelp.”

Macintosh was careful not to lift a skeptical eyebrow and waited for the zebra to explain.

“All three are enchanted with ancient zebra charms. Treat them with care, Sir Macintosh; I’d hate to see them harmed.” She narrowed her eyes sternly before continuing. “The canteen is eternal, and whatever liquid fills it will never drain until another liquid substance kills it.”

“You mean to say that whatever drink I put in there will never run out?”

Zecora nodded. Macintosh smiled and took the round, brown canteen from the floor.

“The torch’s fire needs no source except the words of a needful horse.”

Experimentally, Macintosh lifted the thinner end of the torch in his mouth. “Light up,” he managed to say around the wood. Its other end ignited instantly, casting a sparkling blue light that bathed the hut in a steady glow. “Perfect,” Macintosh said, looking gratefully into Zecora’s proud eyes. Shaking the torch put the fire out and Macintosh added it to the stealthy saddlebag under his cloak.

“The kelp is of the rarest breed,” Zecora said, twirling the long, green strip of rubbery seaweed around her hoof and offering it to the red stallion. “When eaten, air you will not need.”

Macintosh blanched at the stuff. “Uh… what do you mean?”

“If any small amount you rip off and eat, you will still breathe in places that air does not meet.”

“So it lets me breathe underwater?”

“In water, in caves where the air does not flow, in tightly closed spaces—to these you may go.”

“Great,” Macintosh said in a low voice, taking the slimy plant from around her hoof. He held back a gag and tucked it quickly into a pocket of his duster. “I hope I don’t have to use that,” he admitted, grimacing. “I don’t like seaweed.”

“Then I too, for your sake, hope you need it not,” Zecora said, “though it may save your life in a perilous spot.”

“I’ll remember that,” Macintosh promised, tipping his hat to her. “So long, and thanks for all the kelp. Er, help.”

Zecora chuckled. “You’re quite welcome, dear Apple Knight. I pray your paths are pure this night.”


As the Sun set on Ponyville, its biggest and reddest inhabitant moved quickly through the Everfree Forest. After a brief run-in with a manticore, Big Macintosh was only minutes from the ruins—with a number of sharp teeth and a large, poisonous stinger added to his arsenal. They could be fashioned into useful weapons somewhere down the road, just in case his mission led to dangerous circumstances. He couldn’t imagine how a search for socks might escalate to physical violence, but he wasn’t taking any chances, especially when those socks were woven with the fabric of improbability. Quite literally, anything could happen.

He reached the river before he found the castle. Though it was shallow enough for him to cross on hoof, fishes of various sizes and species often leapt from the surface, arcing lazily through the Moonlit air. Attributing the senselessness to magic—something he, as an earth pony, did often—Macintosh trotted to a rotting tree on the river’s mushy bank. With one swift buck to its blackening trunk, Macintosh split the dying plant into scores of useful chunks of wood. He removed two lengths of rope from his hidden saddlebags and began to fashion a large enough raft.

Fifteen minutes later, as Macintosh was hard at work, the river’s glassy surface began to tremor and churn. Pausing at his project, Macintosh looked upstream. A single frothy wave was careening along the river at startling speeds. Pulling his half-completed raft away from the riverbed, Macintosh watched as the thick white line whisked past him, disappearing around another bend. Mere moments later, the water had returned to its original calm.

Macintosh frowned. That had certainly been unusual, but was it improbable enough to investigate? He decided against it, focusing on the task at hoof. Before another fifteen minutes had passed, the resourceful stallion slid his raft into the gently flowing water and hopped aboard, lying on his stomach and using his tail as a sort of makeshift propeller.

Zecora had suggested that his trip to Baltimare would take more than a day. He made himself comfortable, coasting down the center of the river, trying to admire the strange beauty of the flanking forest. Before long, as the river picked up speed, the number of trees dwindled to none and Macintosh pulled his tail from the water. The gentle rush of the river reminded him how long it had been since he last slept. Luna’s softly glowing Moon invited him to slumber and leave her bizarre assignment to Future-Macintosh.


Macintosh’s skinny legs pounded against the tree. Again and again he kicked the trunk with all his might, sending flakes of bark twirling madly through the air. He growled in the back of his throat as he bucked, his young voice cracking under the strain.

He kicked and he bucked and he slammed his raw hooves, grunting and squeaking and crying all the while, for almost five whole minutes before his rage was interrupted.

“Now, what did that poor tree ever do to you?” a soft voice wavered. Macintosh’s blurry vision caught a short green mare to his left. Her question was bathed in concern and kindness.

“Go away, Granny,” Macintosh said with a sniffle, kicking the tree twice more. “I don’t wanna talk to nopony right now.”

“You sure about that, Macintosh?”

He didn’t answer, bucking and bucking with greater ferocity.

“One day you won’t be able to do that, you know,” Granny Smith said. “If you give it all you got, them hind legs o’ yers’ll split a trunk in two when you’re as big as yer daddy was.”

Macintosh gnashed his teeth. “Don’t you dare bring him up right now! I told you to go away!” His throat felt like an egg beater had spun around inside it. The bucks grew weaker with every tear and sob that left his face. “I don’t wanna th-think about them anymore!”

“Oh, Macintosh, surely you don’t mean that,” Granny Smith pled.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he shrieked between gasps. “What’s there to think about? How they’re gone? How th-they’re never comin’ back? How you w-won’t even tell us what happened to ‘em?”

Granny voice grew stern. “Macintosh, I told you many times: there was an accident.”

“What kind o’ accident kills two ponies at a pastry competition?” he sneered. “That may fool Applejack, but I ain’t a foal no more. I’m nearly a stallion! I know they weren’t where you say they were—heck, I wonder if they were ever where you s-said they were!”

A fresh wave of warm tears squeezed between his eyelids. He dropped to his quarters and curled up against the battered tree. “I just… I cain’t believe their just gone…”

“Oh, Macintosh,” Granny said again with a well of sympathy. Stepping forward, she let out a heavy sigh. “You’re right, Macintosh. You ain’t a foal no more. You’re growing into a fine young stallion, strong of body and keen of mind. But there are some things—some secrets—that you’re still too young to know. Even if I told you, you just wouldn’t understand yet.”

Macintosh made a noise as if in pain. Wilting, Granny Smith made her way to the skinny colt’s side and wrapped her wrinkled forelegs around his shaking frame. To her relief, he buried his freckled face into her coat.

“You will know someday, Macintosh. You’ll get the whole truth.” She sighed again, sadly this time. “The whole truth. When one swift buck from your Apple Family kickers can crack any o’ these trees clean in half, just like yer father’s could, then you’ll understand. Then you’ll be ready. It’s just a matter o’ time.”

He could only whimper into her shoulder. She stroked his straw-colored mane with a gentle, loving hoof, waiting for the quiet night to calm his sobs and—


Macintosh gasped as a cold wave of river water rushed onto his raft. It soaked the fur of his belly and made him leap to his hooves, causing the wooden square to wobble. Macintosh locked his knees, staying as still as a statue until the raft resumed a steady float. The first beams of Sunlight were shooting from the horizon like spotlights; their reflections on the river danced in Macintosh’s eyes.

He snorted through his nose and pulled the hat from his head, blinking away the images of that vivid dream. Holding the hat to his chest, he angrily tossed his mane. His dreams hadn’t been haunted by his parents’ death for years. Frowning, he surveyed his surroundings in hopes of a distraction.

The water was choppier than it had been when Macintosh fell asleep. Looking over his shoulder, the Knight noticed another river emptying into his own a few hundred feet back. Its additional water disrupted the flow, which also explained his rude awakening. Shaking droplets of water from his back legs, Macintosh tried to picture Zecora’s map of Equestria. If his memory was reliable, two rivers converged about halfway to Horseshoe Bay. Another look at the Sunrise, a quick estimation, and Macintosh suspected he would reach Baltimare close to midday.

With a patient breath, he lowered himself back onto the raft and began to admire the bright, lively forest which grew along the riverbeds. The trees flew past him on either side, reminding him of the river’s imperceptible speed. He relaxed as deeply as possible, both grateful that Zecora’s wisdom was saving him a lengthy trek, and knowing full well his next chance to relax would not likely be soon.


As was designed, the raft fell to pieces as soon as Macintosh untied his rope. He watched the chunks of wood speed down the river and drown at the mouth of Horseshoe Bay while he coiled his ropes into storable circles. Once they were tucked beneath his duster, Macintosh turned and began to gallop north.

In his youth, Macintosh had never been a particularly strong pony. He worked the farm as best he could, helping his parents gather apples, squeeze cider, and prepare Zap Apple Jam. It wasn’t until he matured—many years after their deaths—that the Apple family genes kicked in. Intensive farm labor had transformed a shy, gangly colt into a composed, burly stallion. Little did the inhabitants of Ponyville know that the quiet farmer’s plow was not his only tool of exercise. During his year of rigorous training under the Order of the Apple, Macintosh learned endurance along with strength, speed along with agility, and combat along with strategy. His hooves hammered over the grassy outskirts of Baltimare, carrying him at near-pegasus speeds toward the great City Hall.

The alabaster building was as beautiful as it was imposing. As he neared the giant, domed hall, he appreciated its Baroquine architecture, noticing ancient Equestrian symbols sculpted seamlessly into its décor. Even the Order of the Apple’s crest was hidden among the entablature. The nearer he came to the city, the slower his pace became, until he slipped right into the bustling crowds of Baltimare’s afternoon.

He made his way across the city to the eastern edge. The giant ocean gleamed on the horizon. The distant crashing of its waves was friendly to Macintosh’s ears. He had crossed that ocean nearly a dozen times now, mostly to settle political disputes with the griffons or Haissan.

Turning northward, Macintosh could see Fillydelphia’s tallest skyscrapers above another forests’ treetops. If he hurried, he could reach the city before Sundown, but would likely be too exhausted to do much else. He wrinkled his snout. At times like these, he envied winged ponies.

Then again, there was a reason the Order of the Apple came from a family of exclusively earth ponies. Pegasi were too headstrong and impatient for the work of a secret Knight; unicorns were too intellectual, prone to overthink their assignments. The Princesses required exact obedience to their often unusual demands. Macintosh was still unaware of some of his completed missions’ purposes, but he had sworn himself to the Order and fully trusted the Princesses. He would do what he was asked to do when he was asked to do it, whether he completely understood its benefits or not. That was the Order’s creed.

He made his way to the sandy coastline and began his long gallop north. He was a machine, each part of his body snapping back and forth in perfect harmony and rhythm, thrusting his frame along the shore like a train engine rather than a pony. Sand sprayed from his hind hooves in a cycling geyser. His shortcut tail flapped in his wake like a royal flag, the banner of one advancing into war. Macintosh’s war, however, was mostly with time. Time, socks, and improbability.

He rested two or three times along the empty beach, munching on a measure of oats or gulping down a nutritious apple. Before too long, the forest to his distant left gave way to Fillydelphia. The city, too, he galloped past, focusing his eyes on the orchard covered hills enveloped in a swirling smog of sand.

The closer he came to the Delicious Orchards, the more his face and cloak were pelted with tiny, harsh granules. He grimaced at the grit and pushed on, refusing to slow his gallop until the farm’s main homestead was within a hundred feet. At that point, the air was so thick with raging sand that Macintosh had to keep a hoof pressed on his hat.

“Uncle Strudel!” he bellowed over the roar of the storm, pounding on the front door with his free front hoof. “Open up, Uncle Strudel! It’s Macintosh!”

The door swung open, revealing a thin, mustachioed stallion wearing green lederhosen. “Ooohhh-ho-ho!” he crooned, extending his hoof under Macintosh’s hat and violently rubbing his scalp. “Noogie-noogie-noogie!”

“Gah!” Macintosh swatted his hoof away. “Uncle Strudel, I’m alone! I’m on a mission!”

The old stallion’s goofy smile vanished in an instant. “Well why didn’t ya say so, you overweight lummox?” He snorted and stepped aside. “Hurry up and come in if you’re gonna. Lettin’ in too much sand.”

Macintosh grumbled under his breath. While his cousins, Golden and Red, were delightful mares and excellent bakers, their father Apple Strudel was far less than pleasant—when he revealed his true, grizzled, Order-veteran self to Macintosh, at least.

“So.” Apple Strudel slammed the door shut and gave his scarlet nephew a sidelong glance. “The big girls have you doing more of their laundry, do they?”

Macintosh couldn’t help but chuckle. “Quite literally. I’m looking for Luna’s magic socks.”

Apple Strudel’s expression didn’t change. A stale silence hung in the air between the secret Knights.

Eventually, the elder stallion shrugged. “I found stranger,” he droned, trotting slowly to another room. Macintosh followed him, doubting his honesty.

“They’ve been missing for twenty years and they can take on any size or style,” Macintosh said. “The socks control improbability.”

Strudel lifted a brow. “That’s… unusual.”

“You ever deal with something like this?” Macintosh asked. “Any advice for me?”

“Don’t panic,” Apple Strudel counseled. “And make sure you have a towel with you.”

Macintosh reeled. “A towel?”

Again, Apple Strudel’s shoulders twitched apathetically. “They’re useful.”

“Yeah, okay,” Macintosh said succinctly, rolling his eyes. “I’ll cut to the chase. I think this storm has something to do with the socks.”

“Oh?” Apple Strudel pursed his lips and looked to the ceiling. “Hmm…. It is quite improbably fortunate, what with your farm needing help at the moment.”

“My thoughts exactly.” His emerald eyes peeked out the window. “Where’s the sand coming from, Uncle Strudel?”

Apple Strudel chortled coldly. “How should I know? I don’t have the faculties of body to do any explorin’ these days, especially in this blasted weather.” He scowled. “I probably don’t have to ask you to do the detective work for me, but I do ask that you’ll come back and report when you figure it out. I’ve been mighty curious for more than a week now.”

“Will do,” Macintosh promised, shaking the sand in the brim of his hat into a waste basket. The noise of the stuff as it fell to the bottom caught his attention. He took a few grains in the flat of his hoof and held them close to his eye.

“These are… pretty small…” he said.

“Well, it is sand,” Apple Strudel mocked.

“No, I mean… it’s fine,” he said, holding the grains toward his uncle. “Doesn’t look like regular land-sand to me.”

Apple Strudel narrowed his eyes at the stuff, his brow rising ever higher. “Luna’s nipple, you’re right. That’s sea-sand if I ever saw some.”

“I just came from the shore,” Macintosh said, tossing the grains to the ground. “I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Wasn’t paying much attention, though. I’ll go down and give it a closer look.”

“Better bring a towel,” Apple Strudel said seriously.

Macintosh smirked. “In case my hoofsies get wet?”

Frowning, Apple Strudel pulled a large grey towel from a low cabinet in the kitchen and tossed it Macintosh’s way. “Just take it.”

Macintosh shrugged and stored the folded towel into the airtight saddlebag under the cloak on his right side. “Anything else you care to give me?”

Strudel snorted again. “I’m sure that zebra of yours gave you plenty of goodies,” he said with a sneer.

Clenching his jaw, Macintosh turned and left the house without another word. He lowered his head against the wind, letting his hat deflect most of the sand. From hill to hill he trotted back to the ocean, surprised to find the gale of sand grow stronger toward the water. Was all this sand really coming from the shore? What sort of devilish wind was spewing this much for this long?

Trudging through the orchards straight into the whipping wind, Macintosh took notice of the damage to trees—or, rather, the lack of damage. Though the sand was visibly bombarding every apple, the fruit seemed largely unaffected, swaying gently from their stems. He offset his jaw as he studied one closely. The skin was not even scratched in the least.

The brim of his hat hid his view of the ocean until his hoof touched the shore. At that point he braved a peek into the storm and dropped his jaw at what he saw.

From the side, it was invisible. Dead on, Macintosh was gazing into a hole in the ocean. As if a giant rodent had burrowed a tunnel into the water, a cylindrical tube began right at the shore and descended at an angle to what seemed like the bottom of the sea. The entrance was vomiting metric tons of fine, bright sand in a cyclonic wind that bathed Delicious Orchards in a magical, senseless storm.

“That’s… impossible,” Macintosh breathed.

His granny’s voice swam through his head, imbued with wry encouragement. “Magic is as magic does, just funny that way.”

“Eeyup,” Macintosh said, pulling his hat tighter over his ears and approaching the gaping vortex. “Real funny.”


The watery tunnel acted much like a slide, or perhaps the barrel of a gun. As soon as Macintosh set hoof inside the massive fissure’s inner wall, it swept him up and threw him down into the darker depths.

Macintosh refrained from yelping, gritting his teeth and peeling his eyes in spite of the wind and sand. He sat on his haunches on the strangely solid slope, allowing his canvas duster to billow wildly behind him. The changes in pressure did a number on his ears. Popping a whole apple into his mouth, he chewed on the stem and seeds to help his inner ears adjust.

The light grew eerily dim as he dropped at a steady speed. He tried not to imagine what bizarre creatures of the deep were watching him descend behind the circular wall of water.

A fish the size of his Cutie Mark jumped through the open space some distance below Macintosh. He watched it fall into the other side and disappear among the nearly black water. Curiously, he pushed one hoof through the wall as well. It created a beautiful, crisscrossing wake along the vertical liquid plane. Macintosh smiled at its otherworldly beauty—and gasped as a many-toothed creature latched on from the other side.

He pulled his hoof back into the tunnel, wincing at the large, misshapen fish that chomped and growled at the end of his limb. Trying to shake it off, Macintosh lost his balance, spinning and twirling with the magical current and losing his sense of direction. At some point the monstrous fish let go of his hoof, but Macintosh’s fear only doubled at his loss of control.

And then, suddenly, the slope leveled out. Macintosh slammed into a shifting pile of white sand at the bottom of the ocean. The tunnel continued east, further into the water, with a dry, sandy ground on which a pony could comfortably trot. The Knight squirmed out of the mound of sand—clearly the supply of the storm, seeing as the wind caught uppermost layers and shot them up to the mouth of the tube—and regained his composure in the comparatively stagnant, horizontal path.

There was no wind there. It seemed to start from nowhere at the bottom of the slope. Swallowing the mushed remains of the helpful apple in his mouth, Macintosh straightened his cloak and hat and marched over the sand.

Light from the surface dwindled to none the farther into the ocean he trot. Pulling Zecora’s torch from his pack, he lit it with a vocal request, illuminating the path ahead with a soft blue glow. He wondered where it would lead. Whether or not the tunnel had anything to do with Luna’s missing socks, it was worth investigation. The Princesses would want to know about something this bizarre.

The cylindrical water tunnel flowed and bent around him, casting strange shadows by the light of the zebra-charmed torch. He steeled his nerves against the wavering movements, ready for danger without cowering from it. Every deliberate step left a small crater in the powdery sand.

A particularly large shadow to his left caught Macintosh’s attention. He ignored it, moving forward with intense determination.

The shadow moved along with him.

With a knot in his stomach, Macintosh stole a quick glance at the concave wall. To his worry’s credit, the tall, dark spot along the water resembled the form of a pony. The Knight excused it as his own silhouette and bit the torch tighter, dispelling any traces of fear…

Until the seagreen face of a pony burst through the water and smiled at him.

Macintosh let out a low scream and sprinted down the magical corridor, leaving his fallen torch in the sand. His hooves thundered beneath him, reverberating in the narrow tube and heightening his panic. He skid to a stop, scattering grains of sand into the surrounding ocean, and pulled the manticore’s stinger from his pack. Breathing hard, he faced the left wall with the impromptu weapon held defensively between his hooves, waiting for a watery attack.

A dripping hoof tapped him on the shoulder. Macintosh spun around—roaring—and tried to plunge the stinger’s point into the creature’s neck. He ended up swinging aimlessly through the air as the hoof pulled back into the ocean with a quiet splash. On the ground, instead, was Zecora’s torch, illuminating the frazzled stallion with a calm, sapphiric glow.

He breathed through tightly clenched teeth for a while, staring at the torch in disbelief. Glancing at the stinger in his grasp, he suddenly tossed it away, lifting the peaceful torch in the crook of one foreleg. Holding it close to the liquid tunnel, Macintosh peered into the darkness beyond.

“Who are you?” he croaked, fighting to control his shivering limbs. His ears twitched as he drew in a giant breath. “Who are you!?” he called into the water.

A pair of shining eyes appeared near the torchlight. Macintosh gasped and stared at them for many silent seconds. They stared, unblinking, back at him. Though distorted by the medium between its eyes and his, Macintosh took note of their dark blue irises and smiley squint. Their familiarity was as shocking as it was beautiful. There was no question: those were pony eyes.

What are you?” he whispered.

As if in answer, a pale green hoof emerged from below the glowing orbs. Macintosh stepped back in fright; the hoof paused in its path. They were still. Gulping, Macintosh slowly moved forward; so did the hoof. Before long, it had broke the surface all the way to its elbow. Examining the foreign limb, Macintosh noticed a line of small fins growing through its short, matted fur, like the spiny scales of a dragon made of gossamer and morning dew.

The pair of disembodied eyes seemed to “smile” even wider as the hoof swayed back and forth. It took Macintosh a moment to realize it was waving at him. A goofy smile adorned his face as he lifted his free hoof to wave back.

It pointed down the tunnel in the direction Macintosh had been going and jabbed the air a couple times. As soon as Macintosh nodded, the hoof slunk back into the wall. The eyes vanished into the darkness of the deep and left the earth pony alone.

“Whoa.”

Placing the torch between his teeth, Macintosh took off down the long, straight corridor, eager to see those eyes again. Could it be true? Was there any chance that a race of ponies lived in secret beneath the sea? The notion alone seemed highly improbable…

And with that thought, Macintosh’s awestruck smile broke into a full blown beam.


“Do you think he is the one?”

“Of course he is! How could he not be?”

“Clarify what you mean by ‘the one’, High Tide.”

“The one to save us. The one to set us free.”

“Of course he is! Just look at him… what a hunk!”

“Attractiveness has very little to do with capability, Sea Shimmer.”

“Well, sure, but you gotta admit: he’s cuuuuuute!”

“I will admit that.”

“… As will I.”

“Come along, girls. We must prepare the city for him. The Garment can only do so much.”

“And by that you mean everything, right? Heehee! Who knew a magic thingamabob could be so useful if you just asked it to be?”

“It has certainly given us hope, but we cannot rely on it to finish the job. We must intervene”

“Awwww… whyyyy? Can’t we just float back and watch him take those bullies down? I bet it’s gonna be one Desert of a show!”

“He knows nothing at this point, Sea Shimmer. We must inform him of the enemy if he is to vanquish them for us.”

“Wavebreaker is right. The poor stallion must be terrified.”

“Hmph. I guess you’re both right. Hiiihhh… Okay, let’s go help him out.”

“He seems to have taken a liking to you, Shimmer.”

“Huwaaaie! Really? You think so?”

“Do you see the look on his face? Unless the land-ponies are really as backward as the old tales suggest—which I doubt is the case—he appears terribly excited to find you again.”

“Eeeeeeeep! Haha! I knew it! He likes me! Heeheeheehee…”

“Oh dear, Wavebreaker. Heheh… what have you done?”

“I apologize already.”


The tunnel led into a large dome of senselessly suspended water. It peaked some fifteen feet above Macintosh’s head. The darkness was so absolute in the space that the torch’s light didn’t reach more than two ponylengths in front of him.

The sand beneath Macintosh’s hooves gave way to a cold floor composed of many large, smooth slabs of grey stone. The clop of his iron horseshoes echoed unpredictably, assaulting both of his ears at random. Having no idea what to expect, he moved across the atrium cautiously, aimed for the center of the dome. Its clinging darkness scattered from the blue light by his face, and a motionless figure suddenly loomed just beyond his range of clarity.

One of his eyes twitched, but he did not slow his stride. The nearer he drew to the dome’s central effigy, the clearer—and more baffling—it became. When every detail was illuminated by the magic light, Macintosh’s jaw fell slack with disbelief. The torch clattered to the cobblestones and rolled to the statue’s base, painting its painfully familiar face with streaks of jagged shadows.

“No way,” Macintosh muttered. His whispering danced through the dome all the same.

Before him stood the massive likeness of a great white shark. Shaped into a pose of action, the statue seemed to be swimming at prey, bent into a projecting S and holding its deadly jaws wide. Macintosh grimaced at the details in the gritty stone, following its body with his eyes. The beast was suspended on a pillar of dark polished stone which, in turn, sprouted from a wide, square base. Upon the base was a shiny plaque engraved with inequine characters, and lying behind the plaque was…

Macintosh’s abdomen clenched. Taking a few quick trots nearer to the statue, he drank in the blessed vision lit by his grounded torch.

A long, wool sock of midnight blue lay pulsing and quivering beneath the sculpted shark. Macintosh sighed with elated relief and reached out a similarly quivering hoof to pick up the magical tube.

Stop!

A strange voice ricocheted around the liquid sphere, making it impossible to identify the source. Macintosh leapt back and scanned every lit part of the room.

“Who’s there?” he thundered, rising to his full height. “Step into the light!”

“Step?” asked a high pitched voice, similar in tone to the first but surely different. “What does that mean?”

A groan joined in the echoes next.

“Sea Shimmer! You promised to be quiet!”

“You said I could answer if he asked me a question,” the bubbly voice reminded.

“He didn’t ask you a question, he asked Wavebreaker a question!”

“Nuh-uh! He didn’t say her name! Did you hear him say her name? I didn’t hear him say her name! Hey, Wavebreaker, did you hear him say your name?”

Macintosh’s ears twitched, flattening and straightening in an attempt to pinpoint the voices. It seemed like they were coming from directly above him, but that couldn’t be right…

“Girls, please!” hissed a third voice, the same that had shouted “Stop!” “Both of you, quiet down. Can’t you see your making him panic?”

Macintosh became aware of his shuffling hooves and slammed them down into a bold stance.

“Where are you?” he finally asked, frustrated with his ears’ calibration.

“Heehee! We’re right up here, silly!”

Swallowing once, Macintosh lifted his gaze. At the uppermost curve of the dome, three faces hung upside-down from the water, allowing their manes to sway and drip onto the stony shark.

Manes… faces…

Pony faces.

All became still and completely silent, save for the gentle slosh of the surrounding dome. Macintosh’s swelling eyes analyzed each face: all three were mares, and pretty ones at that; their coats were pink, yellow, and pale green with blue, pink, and turquoise manes, respectively. The pink one bore a stern, but kind, expression, and appeared to be the oldest. The yellow one, who looked a great deal like Fluttershy, was glaring at the third face with annoyance. The green one, who Macintosh assumed was the owner of the bubbly voice, wore a giant, carefree smile that even Pinkie Pie would have gawked at.

“Hi!” she called down to him. Her voice seemed distant, somehow, as if coming through a gramophone. “I’m Sea Shimmer! Remember me?” She stuck a green hoof into the air bubble and waved enthusiastically.

A smile came back to Macintosh’s lips. “I-I do remember,” he said, chuckling. “Hello, Sea Shimmer.”

“You can call me Sea Shimmer, if you want, but most ponies just call me Shimmer. Unless they’re mad at me, then they like to use my whole name for the extra oomph!”

“Stop shouting, Sea Shimmer!” the yellow one growled into her ear.

Shimmer giggled. “See?”

“How did you get up there?” he asked. Realizing the backwardness of his situation, he added, “Or rather, how did you get down here in the first place?”

“We live down here, silly!” Sea Shimmer chirped.

Macintosh’s brow went up. “You do?”

“Sea Shimmer, please,” the pink one said in a level voice. “Let me explain it to him.”

“Ng’awwww… fine.” The green face pushed her lips to one side and rose into the water, disappearing from sight.

“What is your name, landpony?” the pink face continued.

Macintosh blinked. “Macintosh Apple,” he replied. “And yours?”

“I am Wavebreaker,” she said, nodding politely. “This is High Tide, and you’ve met Sea Shimmer. We are the Prince’s royal messengers.”

“The Princess?” Macintosh repeated, rotating his ears towards the overhead ponies to cancel out some of the atrium’s reverb. “Did Luna send you to follow me?”

“Luna?” Wavebreaker asked. “I am not familiar with the name. We are servants of Prince Calupan, God of the Sea, and we require your assistance, Macintosh Apple.”

The silence in the dome became tangible, pressing on Macintosh’s back like a cart full of dirt.

“Uh… you can call me Big Mac,” he managed to cough.

“Big Mac?” Sea Shimmer’s voice erupted from behind him. He whirled around, surprised to see her seafoam green face poking out of the water at eye level. Her bright blue eyes were half closed, her turquoise mane draped and dripping over half of her face. “I’d love to see why they call you that.”

“Sea Shimmer!” High Tide shrieked, vanishing from above. Wavebreaker sighed and shook her head, which began to migrate down the wall like a droplet on a windowpane.

Sea Shimmer’s smirking head was yanked forcibly into the ocean by a yellow hoof. Wavebreaker took her place, looking to Macintosh with sad, purple eyes.

“How did you…?” he mumbled, glancing back and forth between the peak of the dome and her new location. He gulped. “Do you really… live down here?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but Sea Shimmer’s piercing voice attacked the air once more from an unseen spot of the dome.

“It’s not that hard, Big Mac! Then again, we don’t have any extra hooves to slosh through all the—”

“There you are!” A splash, and then silence.

“Extra hooves?” Macintosh asked, turning back to Wavebreaker with a bewildered expression. “What in Equestria is she talking about?”

Wavebreaker tilted her head. “What is Equestria? Is that what you call the land?”

Macintosh’s faced pulled into a confused grimace. “What? Yes, the… that land up there, it’s in Equestria… it’s a whole country, takes up most of the North Amareican continent…”

His words faded away as he watched the pony’s movement—or lack thereof. Her face was staying almost completely still, sticking out of the watery wall like a permanent fixture. If anypony he knew was in that water—assuming they could somehow sink to the bottom of the ocean—all their kicking and paddling would throw their head every which way, not to mention how quickly they would tire…

“What are you?” he asked, feeling his heart pick up the pace.

“We are seaponies,” she answered plainly. A thin, pink tendril broke through the water beneath her face like a snake, startling Macintosh. It stayed where it was, shifting left and right amidst the water with a gentle curl. He stared it in horror until something finally clicked: the head and the tendril were coming from the same body.

“Sweet Celestia…” he breathed, taking off his hat in respect and reverence.

“Do not be frightened,” Wavebreaker continued with a warm smile, pulling her tail back into the sea. “We are much like you, landpony. And as members of the same family, we plead for your help in our time of suffering.”

“Suffering…” he said, turning his head toward the shark statue. He pointed at it with his hat. “How did you get that sock?”

Wavebreaker’s brow creased. “Excuse me?”

“The sock. The sock in the middle of the dome,” he said, thrusting his hat in its direction. “How did you find it?”

“I think he refers to the Garment.” High Tide’s voice came from the right. Her yellow face glided along the wall until it came to a stop beside Wavebreaker’s.

“Ah.” Wavebreaker nodded. “Of course. The Garment has been among us for nearly twenty years. It was discovered among the wreckage of a large sunken craft of landpony design. If our scholars translated its markings correctly, the vessel was named the Trotanic.

Macintosh gasped. “Of course. The Unsinkable Ship.”

“Unsinkable?” asked High Tide. “But… it sunk.”

“The chances of the Trotanic sinking,” Macintosh remembered, nodding gravely, “were over a million to one. It was very… improbable.”

The seaponies looked at each other. “It’s funny you should say that,” High Tide continued. “For many years, the Garment was locked away deep in a temple of runes on account of its… unusual affects.”

“Say no more,” Macintosh said, holding up a hoof. “I’m on a mission to find this very sock, and three others like it. Their magic controls improbability—making that which is unlikely to happen, happen. What I don’t understand is how you managed to make it do this.” He gestured to the dome and the tunnel leading into it.

“What, the thingamabob?” Sea Shimmer asked, emerging on the other side of Wavebreaker to High Tide’s visible dismay. “I love the thingamabob! I wish I had twenty!”

“Who cares?” growled High Tide, offering Macintosh an apologetic glance.

He waved his hoof. “No big deal. I want more information.” He looked at Sea Shimmer. “What do you know about the sock?”

“That it’ll do what you ask it to, as longs as it’s crazy enough!” she chirped, suddenly zipping up the wall and twirling on its surface, splashing on the mystical barrier between the water and air.

“You asked it for this?” Macintosh asked Wavebreaker.

“The Garment was infamous for its power,” she explained. “We thought that, perhaps, if we found a way to control it, we might be able to free ourselves from our bondage.”

“What bondage?” Macintosh asked.

High Tide bowed her head as Wavebreaker continued in a conspiratorial whisper. “The seaponies of Oatlantis have slaved under captivity for generations. Rebellions have risen and fallen like the tide, but our kind is no match for their power. We thought the controlling the Garment would give us a fin up. Instead, when asked for a way to set us free, it created this. We believed it was a sign that somepony was coming from the land, somepony that would set us free.” Her tired eyes brightened and a smile graced her lips. “You are that somepony, Macintosh Apple. You must be.”

“You just… asked it?” he clarified. “How do you mean that?”

“I wasn’t there,” Wavebreaker admitted. “None of us were. The Magicians brought it to the center of the city and—”

“Worked their magic!” Sea Shimmer cackled at herself, spinning directly above Macintosh and pelting him with droplets of cold water.

High Tide groaned and disappeared again, followed by the predictable disappearance of Sea Shimmer and her makeshift rain. Clearing his throat, Macintosh trotted closer to Wavebreaker and her part of the wall.

“Is it… sentient?” he asked.

“The Garment? I do not know.” Wavebreaker shook her head. “But it cannot be moved. I apologize for shouting at you when you approached it, but the last time a pony tried to relocate the Garment, the tunnel of air began to collapse. I did not want you to drown.”

“Well, then, thank you kindly,” Macintosh said, placing his hat back on his head, “but I will need to find a way to take it back with me to the land.”

Wavebreaker pursed her lips in thought. “If you help us,” she said, “then the Garment is yours.”

“And how exactly can I help you?” he asked, stepping even closer to her pink and weary face. “Who keeps the seaponies captive, and where is Oatlantis?”

“Silly Big Mac!” Sea Shimmer said from nopony knows where. “You’re already in Oatlantis!”

Suddenly, a thousand lights ignited in the ocean. Macintosh shielded his eyes from the sudden exposure, stepping away from the glittering wall of the dome. He gnashed his teeth and squeezed his eyelids tightly, slowly peeling them to peek around his lifted hoof.

Wavebreaker was in exactly the same position, smiling sweetly at the stallion—but he could see all of her through the slightly distorting bubble. Her body, while quite similar to an earth pony’s until the waist, extended seamlessly into a long, curling tail the same color as her coat. It drifted calmly through the water as she hovered, nearly motionless, just outside the dome, her head poking through to the base of her neck.

Behind her, the scenery took Macintosh’s breath away. He was standing in the center of an underwater metropolis, complete with towering, golden buildings and streets inlaid with cobblestones. Tall, decorative lampposts lined both sides of the streets, spilling light all through the water to reveal its color and life.

The city was virtually empty aside from himself and the three seapony mares, but even as he watched, more of the two-hoofed equines took to the streets from their homes and apartments. Many of them noticed him and quickly swam his way, extending their curly tails behind them and slithering forward like graceful eels. They were as diverse, colorful, and expressive as the ponies in his hometown. The only things they lacked were a pair of legs for bucking.

Slack-jawed and silent, Macintosh watched the seaponies gather around his bubble with looks of shock, excitement, and even relief. He heard their muffled murmurs through the barrier of air, but only Wavebreaker’s voice was clear:

“Daytime,” she succinctly explained. “Welcome to Oatlantis.”


“I think the Universe is confusing ‘convenience’ with ‘improbability’,” Macintosh finally said.

Wavebreaker blinked, something she did often while her face was in the dome of air. “Is that bad?”

“It’s a little frustrating,” he admitted, “and confusing, but certainly not bad. It seems far too good to be true: that I, searching for this very sock, would be the one to find tunnel? That you would need the help of someone with my expertise?”

“What are the odds?” High Tide asked with a wink.

“I found them!” a male’s voice echoed through the dome. A brown seapony with a silvery mane stuck half of his body through the barrier by High Tide and set a soggy crate on the ground. “Goodness, that thing is heavy out of the water.”

“Heheh… thank you, Nautilus,” Macintosh said, standing up to open the crate. Inside were a number of metal scraps, scavenged from the wrecks of various ships, that the seaponies stored in a warehouse for reuse.

“Are those the right kinds, Big Mac?” the seastallion asked.

“They’re perfect,” he said, smiling. “I’ll need a few hours to arrange them properly, but I think they’ll do just fine.” Turning to Wavebreaker, he asked, “Just how big are these things?”

She pointed to the statue behind him. “That is an accurate representation of their average size.”

Macintosh twisted around, scanning the stony shark with a predator’s eyes. “I see,” he said, frowning. “This won’t be easy.”

“But you can do it?” High Tide asked.

Macintosh’s ears twitched. “How long do I have before they make their first rounds?”

Nautilus lifted a hoof to his face, around which was bound a strangely marked watch of sorts. “They come at midday,” he answered, “in about six hours.”

After a long sigh, Macintosh rummaged through the wooden crate and removed a long iron rod. “It’s worth a shot, anyway,” he said with a shrug. He bit his lip. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but why doesn’t your prince deal with them?”

All three seaponies inside the dome frowned. “How would he do that?” asked Nautilus.

Macintosh shuffled his back hooves. “Doesn’t he have all sorts of magical powers? Ain’t he an alicorn?”

“A what?” High Tide asked.

Macintosh cleared his throat. “Never mind,” he said, sticking his snout into the crate and examining several pieces of metal. “I’ll be ready when the sharks come. You’re sure that’s all I have to do?”

“Hmm?” Wavebreaker asked. “Oh, yes. Yes, that will mark this as our territory and keep the sharks away forever.”

“I hope you’re right,” the Knight said, planting himself beside the crate and setting aside several pieces, “for all your sakes.”


Midday came quickly. As a series of harrowing gongs rang through the water, many ponies swam into the nearest, largest buildings. It seemed as though the brilliant lamps of Oatlantis dimmed as a heavy silence blanketed the town in the wake of its sonic warning.

Sea Shimmer whisked through the city streets, leaving behind a horizontal column of bubbles that shot toward the distant surface. Between her anxious hooves was a slippery black bag. She struggled to keep it in her grasp as she gyred and gimbled her tail at full speed.

She barreled around a corner and squeaked in fright, flattening herself against the wall of the nearest building. Though her destination was in sight, the statue was no longer the only shark in the water.

“Ha!” a bluish beast with a conical nose barked. “Tell me, Dorsal. Why does the first pony we see always try to hide?”

A pale orange female smirked beneath her wide-set eyes. “Instinct, I imagine. She things we’re going to eat her.”

“Eugh!” The blue shark stuck his tongue out past rows of serrated fangs. “Eating a seapony? They’re far too bony for my taste. Takes hours to pull the ribs out of my teeth. I can’t think of anything more painful.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a sizzling projectile lodged into the base of his throat. His upper fins automatically reached for the wound even as his mind slowly registered the pain. His pupils shrunk with every failed breath until they rolled back in his head.

“Cutthroat!” the female hammerhead shouted, diving below him to examine the entry. The third shark—a bulky great white—eyed the scene with nothing but disappointment and began to search for the source of the shot. His attention was pulled to Sea Shimmer as she hurried down another street away from the center of the city and its dangerous company.

“What are you waiting for?” Dorsal shouted at her hulking companion. “Go after her!”

“She didn’t attack,” he said, barely moving his lips.

“What? Of course she did!”

“It came from below,” he said, dropping his gaze. “What is it, anyway?”

Dorsal turned back to the blue shark and grimaced at the greenish ooze leaking from between his jaws. Though his extremities twitched, the fish was obviously dead. Holding in her lunch, Dorsal stuck her fin into the gaping hole in her late companion’s neck and extracted the projectile.

“It looks like some kinda… giant thorn,” she said, carrying the thing to her leader and letting the blue shark’s body drift away. As she held it out for the great white to take a look, three smaller shells ripped bleeding holes into her fin.

“Aaugh!” she screamed, pulling the damaged fin close to her chest and letting the larger chunk sink. “What the Desert was that?”

The great white sighed. “Find cover,” he suggested, staring down at his sculptured likeness on the seafloor. “They are not likely finished.”

“Does this having something to do with that freaky tunnel they made? I told that thing was trouble!”

“Find cover,” he repeated, swinging his massive tail in a slow cycle. While Dorsal swam for the safety of an alleyway, her leader descended to street level. He sneered at the cobblestones arranged among the sand. Why ponies were so bent on making everything stylish, he would never know.

“Show yourself, pony,” he called out in a low, bored voice. “I know you’re down here. Your stunts may have incapacitated my crewfish, but we are both aware you do not have the… heheh… ‘firepower’ to kill me.” He smirked, turning his head left and right to scan the city center. That useless bubble made it hard to view the whole area at once. “Swim out and face the consequences of your incredibly stupid actions. Scavenged landpony technology won’t help you now. Seaponies are not built to use their tools.”

A glowing chunk of pointed wood suddenly burst through the magical membrane around his statue. He had only enough time to glance at it before the makeshift torpedo took his right eye’s place in its socket.

Raaaawwwuuurrgghh!” the great white roared, throwing his massive head back in agony.

Inside the bubble, Macintosh smiled.

“Sorry, Jaws,” he said. “I ain’t no seapony.”

Behind him, a splash was followed by a frantic voice.

“Big Mac! Hey!” Sea Shimmer said, leaning into the bubble from above and panting heavily. “Nice shot! I brought those rocks you asked for! Sorry for taking so long.”

“You’re just in time,” he said, directing her with the wave of a hoof. “Swim up above and drop ‘em down to me.”

She nodded, gliding along the outside of the bubble until she was directly over the statue that Macintosh had built his launcher behind. “Whoa,” she said, dropping the black bag into his waiting hooves. “What’s that thing?”

“No clue,” Macintosh admitted, opening the bag and removing three red gems, “but it works.”

“That’s a nifty bag,” Sea Shimmer complimented. “Kinda hard to hold, though. Why’d you need those rocks to be dry?”

“Easier to heat,” he answered, grinding all three gems together under his hooves. Their magic activated quickly, heating to temperatures too scalding for Macintosh’s hooves. He reached into the same black, airtight bag and—rolling his eyes—removed a thick towel. Draping it over his hooves, he grabbed one flamestone and placed it in his machine.

“Whoa!” Sea Shimmer shouted, pointing at the glowing gems. “I didn’t know those shapey rocks could do that!”

“Only the most special ones,” Macintosh said, grinning. “Who knew getting my cloak repaired could be educational?”

“Huh?”

Macintosh didn’t answer, aiming the barrel of his weapon at the writhing shark beyond the bubble. Locking it in place, he stepped back and delivered a swift buck to the panel at its side. A series of makeshift gears spun, thrusting a metal rod into the back of the barrel at breakneck speeds. The rod collided with the flamestone, launching it through the air, membrane, water, and flesh, and lung tissue of the shark.

“Yeah!” Sea Shimmer cheered. “Talk about heartburn!”

The pale hammerhead poked one eye out from her hiding place. She gasped at her gushing boss, howling and thrashing in the central plaza. She darted into the center of the street and glared at the tiny sea pony hovering above the dome of air who dared to laugh and pump her hoof at the great white’s demise.

“You disgusting little sea urchin!” Dorsal shrieked, rocketing forward with twitching jaws. “I will teach you the meaning of eviscerate!”

“Whuh-oh!” Sea Shimmer took to her namesake. Empty hoofed, she spun her tendril like a propeller and whisked down an adjacent, empty street, staying just ahead of the raging shark. “Big Maaaac!” she screamed in fright, and though the red earth pony couldn’t hear her in his magic bubble, he immediately noticed her struggle.

Grunting, he repositioned his clever arrangement of rope and metal scraps, swiveling the barrel on a loose ball and socket with one hoof while dropping a searing flamestone into its open end (with the help of his uncle’s towel). Following the erratic hammerhead with his right hoof, he readied his left to smack the panel and launch the burning gem. As the cat-and-mouse sea creatures flew overhead, Macintosh punched it as hard as he could.

He missed, largely due to the great white shark that leapt from the far curve of the dome and nearly clamped down on his hind legs. Without thinking, Macintosh kicked into the air and bucked the creature on the tip of its snout. It flopped to the stony ground and roared, wriggling toward him like a ferocious swollen slug. Backing away from the beast, Macintosh swept his eyes in a grand, observant circle, breathed in deeply, and assumed an offensive pose.

“You’ve killed me, you landpony scum!” the shark gurgled, blood leaking from the corners of its mouth. “What did you think this would accomplish? You think I’m the only shark in the ocean? This changes nothing! The seaponies will always cower in our penumbra!”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Macintosh growled. The shark lunged forward with a hollow, guttural shriek; Macintosh dodged toward the statue, loading and aiming the final flamestone in a single sweep of his towel-wrapped hoof. Spinning on his front hooves, Macintosh delivered a rattling buck to the metal panel. The bubble was filled with an angry red glow and a pervasive ringing, but the roaring of the great white shark was gone… replaced by the sizzle of the smoldering hole at the crown of the predator’s skull.

Macintosh slumped against his launcher and sighed, wrinkling his nose at the smell of burning shark flesh. He lifted his head to search for Sea Shimmer somewhere above the bubble—when the tail of the steaming shark delivered a powerful, posthumous twitch.

Ironically, the dead shark’s tail launched the launcher into the stone shark’s tail. It sent a thin crack along the belly of the sculpted beast, compromising its connection to the darker column. The stone shark teetered forward as if to swallow Macintosh. He leapt away just as the statue collapsed, grinding against its polished pedestal and catching the sock on its pelvic fin.

Macintosh’s irises had less than a second to shrink.

The sock, annoyed and disgusted with its new position, made three immediate changes to its environment. The statue disappeared; the dead shark turned into a string of cheese; and all of the magical cavities of air boring through the ocean, including the dome around the empty pedestal of central Oatlantis, collapsed in a concussive clap three times as loud as thunder.

Macintosh was slammed on all sides by the water, rendering his frenzied mind totally unconscious.


The damaged statue of the shark was hurled through time and space, because a few seconds earlier that had been terribly unlikely.

Of all the times and places it could have reappeared, the statue popped into being quite remarkably near its origin point: only a few days earlier, several miles above a small village called Ponyville.

Along with its relocation, the statue was given a rather unique and advanced form of sentience that allowed it to think while it gravity’s grasp. Here is a complete documentation of its first, and final, thoughts while it fell to Equestrian soil:

Aaahhh! What’s going on? Who am I? What’s my purpose in life?

What do I mean by who am I?

Okay, okay, calm down… take a few deep breaths… huh, that’s interesting, it doesn’t seem like I’m able to breathe. My insides feel rather dense and solid. Hmm… if I can’t breathe, how do I know what breathing is? Are other creatures able to breathe? How do I know that other creatures exist?

Goodness, so many questions, and none of them answerable. I ought to focus on things I can answer… that will certainly be better for my psychological health.

Hmm… what is this curious noise all around me? It seems rather quick and harsh, and it feels as if it’s coming from below. I ought to give it a name… what about… wind? Yeah, that sounds pretty good. I’ll call it that until I can come up with something better.

Wow, I rather like this wind! It feels amazing on my belly, especially inside that long, scraggly line coming from that chip on my… well, I suppose I should start giving everything names at this point… I’ll call that thing… my tail! Yeah, tail!

It seems like that should have more of a purpose. I can’t even move it. Oh, well… one step at a time…

Oh, goodness! What is that big, round, flat thing that’s coming at me very fast? I ought to give it a nice name, as well. It needs a big, round name to match how it looks… ow… roun… ground! That’s it, ground!

And what’s that little spot on the ground? It’s quite a different color than the rest. I’ll call most of that color green, and that little spot… red! Goodness, that’s a grand name. Red. Well done, me. Perhaps my purpose in life is to name things?

Hmm, maybe that red spot isn’t as small as I originally thought. It’s still quite little compared to me, though. And look, it’s moving! And breathing! It must be another creature! I’ll call it a… pony! A little pony! And now it’s mine! My little pony!

Oh, what an adorable little pony it is! I wonder if it’ll be friends with me?

And that’s where its thoughts stopped, because the statue landed squarely on top of Big Macintosh and, due to its lack of structural integrity thanks to the crack in its underside, shattered into several, insentient pieces.


He couldn’t breathe, but that’s not what worried him. Big Macintosh’s fear came from his confusion: Where was he, and how had he gotten there? The trace amounts of oxygen left in his brain burned away as his memory struggled to snatch any snippets of his dangerous predicament.

Three words, and three words only, responded to his memory’s call. They bounced carelessly, tauntingly, along the insides of his skull. As his eyes rolled back, those three words shouted, stabbing his mind with flashes of colorful pain.

Apples.

Socks.

Sharks.

Sharks!

His eyes snapped open, burning in the salty ocean water. He was suspended limply in water just above an empty pedestal, his cloak billowing around him like a ghostly, ebon aura. Every inch of his hide felt as if it had been slapped and his brain pounded mercilessly. Ignoring the pain, he turned his dizzy head in all directions, searching for Sea Shimmer and her bloodthirsty aggressor.

He saw them flash past a pair of towering skyscrapers—or surfacescrapers, he imagined they were called—darting down a perpendicular street. With bubbles spewing from his nostrils, Macintosh tried to paddle closer, desperate to save the screaming seapony.

A hard, black veil obscured his vision, stealing his peripherals first. Beginning to panic, Macintosh looked straight up, unable to identify the distant ocean surface. He searched for an alternate solution on the ground beneath his noodly hooves. His open saddlebags lay at the base of the pedestal, but nothing he could see in them could offer the air he needed.

Something clicked in his mind: he didn’t have the means to satisfy his need for air... but he had a way to eliminate it. Shoving a hoof into his duster’s pocket, Macintosh removed a clump of slimy, stringy seaweed. With scrambling hooves, he managed to untangle the ball, slipping one end of the long green strip between his teeth. He bit down hard, ripping off a mouthful of the bitter plant. Chewing rapidly, he swallowed the stuff and closed his eyes, waiting for its magic to take effect.

He waited. And waited. And waited. And suddenly, he realized there was nothing to wait for. Upon opening his eyes, his vision was restored. Grinning, Macintosh tucked the rest of the seaweed back into his pocket and swam downward, gathering his saddlebags and latching them to his body beneath his cloak. His enchanted torch, still glowing blue, was floating beside a string of cheese and two inactive flamestones. Clamping the torch in his mouth, he began his slow swim to join the aquarial chase.

Fortunately for Sea Shimmer, Macintosh was not the only pony coming to her rescue. Inspired by the landpony’s tenacity, Wavebreaker and High Tide—emerging from their hiding place inside a golden building—flanked the foaming hammerhead and shouted to their companion.

“We have you covered, Shimmer!” High Tide said.

“Hey! You didn’t use my full name!” the pony called over her shoulder, beaming. “I knew you liked me deep down under that stingy yellow coat!”

Scowling, High Tide slammed into the shark’s right side, wrapping her hooves around Dorsal’s wide head and covering her eye. Wavebreaker did the same to the other side of the shark, blinding the giant beast.

“Aaaaugh! Get offa me!” she yelled, swinging her head back and forth. The seaponies held on tight, pulling the speeding shark down toward the cobblestone streets. When they were only a few ponylengths from the ground, they leapt in opposite directions, leaving Dorsal to smash her face on the slabs.

Broken and moaning, Dorsal sprawled prostate on the ground, her wide-set eyes spinning senselessly in their sockets. Four red hooves pressed down from above, increasing her pain and restricting her breath. Focusing her vision, Dorsal’s eyes locked on a scowling stallion with gleaming emerald eyes.

“Get outta here,” he spoke without air, his bass voice rumbling through the water like the hum of a cello. “Two dead sharks are enough to mark the seaponies’ territory. Let’s not make it three.”

He pushed a hoof deeper into her ribs. Wincing, Dorsal nodded. Macintosh hopped off, floating menacingly above her, until the shark wiggled off the street and took off into the deeper ocean, far away from Oatlantis.

If he could sigh at the moment, Macintosh would have. The next few minutes passed in a blur. Seaponies poured from the city’s many buildings, cheering for their freedom and swarming Macintosh with thanks and praise. There was some sort of ceremony in which Wavebreaker carefully bestowed him the sock, filled with a number of small, decorated runes that apparently counteracted its magic. As soon as he began to feel lightheaded, the seaponies carried him back to the beach, thanking him profusely and begging him—especially Sea Shimmer—to return soon.

Their giggles rang in Macintosh’s head even as he stumbled through the frothy waves and dropped into the warm, dry sand. The bizarre tunnel was closed up, and the sandstorm over Delicious Orchards was gone. Glancing over his shoulder, Macintosh raised an eyebrow at the calm surface of the water, hardly believing that, at the ocean’s bottom, a race of two-hooved ponies were rejoicing at their newfound liberation from an oppressive predator.

“What are the odds?” he asked himself under his breath, chuckling softly. As more and more oxygen filled his lungs and mind, his experiences solidified in his memory. Along with the past, thoughts of the future took precedence. He gazed triumphantly at the sopping, midnight blue garment in his hoof. But Princess Luna’s daunting words still echoed in his ears.

“I’ll need all four of them. We can’t have any go missing. Each one holds the same level of power as the others. Even if a single sock was to go astray, the results could be catastrophic.”

“One down,” Macintosh panted, draping the sock around his neck, “three to go.”

He cleared his throat, ran the wet towel over his mane, and took off at a brisk trot toward Uncle Strudel’s homestead.