//------------------------------// // Hoofprint // Story: Seeing the Pattern 2: Death Take You // by Aegis Shield //------------------------------// Seeing the Pattern 2: Death Take You Part 9: Hoof Print “Now this, mah boy, is gonna help us plow and till the fields ten times faster than ever before. Us Apples are lucky for bein’ able to test the prototype for this fancy machine.” Said Papa Apple, Big Macintosh’s father. The young stallion, just a foal at the time, looked up at his father and smiled grandly. “Eyuup! With a thing like this ah reckon we could expand Sweet Apple Acres ten times over iff’n we wanted to!” Big Macintosh leaned over the side, looking at the spinning, whirling blades that were blasting away at the soil. It turned it, mulched it, dug deep to draw out the moisture and fertile minerals—then dropped it right back down again in even rows. “Y’know the Apples have always done things by hoof, but I don’t see any harm in tryin’ something new now and then.” said Papa Apple. “Yer mother don’t approve o’ course, but ah reckon us stallions are out in the fields most’a the time anyway, doin’ the heavy work—” He snickered with his young son. “So we should have some say in how things get done around he’ah.” Big Macintosh laughed gaily, nodding up and down. It was only out in the fields that he and his father had time to be buddies, and every hard day’s work left him with more nuggets of wisdom. The colt reared up, looking over the railing again to watch the machine work. His father worked the complicated levers, leaning over an instruction manual as thick as a phonebook. Now and then the machine would kick up a big rock, and long mechanical arms would rush down to grasp it and toss it aside. It would make the machine kick a little, but the two ponies held on just fine. “What do you reckon this field’ll be, Pa?” the foal wanted to know, gesturing grandly over all the freshly tilled soil they’d already created. “Ohh, corn ah reckon. Or maybe wheat. We haven’t done wheat in awhile.” “Not more apple trees?” “Well, nopony ever survived on just apples. You gotta duh-versify to do well in life.” The stallion smiled down at his son, hanging on when the machine kicked up another rock. He looked so small, but he’d grow big and strong just like his father. The Apple family tended to produce massive stallions (to the point where their midwives knew to have whisky on hoof), and their farm work only made them bigger and stronger. Holding on to the raised seat he was strapped to, Papa Apple turned the steering wheel rapidly. The many-toothed machine gave a groan, turning slowly as it went to cut another swath in the earth. He pulled a steam valve that hung on a pull-chain, whoo whoo! That made Big Macintosh laugh, prancing about the deck of the contraption. The machine KICKED again, much harder than before, flinging both pony’s to the railing and sending Big Macintosh right over the edge! The machine had struck some sort of boulder, hidden under the surface of the earth, and had stutter-stopped on it. He squealed in terror, holding onto the edge of the deck with his tiny hooves. “Papa!” he cried out. Papa Apple rushed to his son’s aid while the machine bucked and whined and hissed out steam at all different angles. “Hang on!” he shouted. Leaning under the railing and over his son’s head, he grabbed Big Macintosh by his tiny yoke. Grunting with effort and using only his teeth, he swung his foal onto the deck again with a rush of powerful strength. Both of them lay there panting, while the machine vibrated harder, threatening to throw them both off of itself. “I gotta shut it down! Hang on to something!” the Apple patron roared while his son clung fearfully to a stray mechanical pipe. “Be careful Papa!” Big Macintosh whimpered, trembling and holding on to his anchor with all his might. The machine bucked wildly while the stallion crawled back to the control panel. Just then it gave a terrifying sound of something deep inside bursting. The foal’s anchor/pipe suddenly ruptured, jagged metal flying across his neck. He whinnied in agony, the desperate recoil dragging the pipe’s edge’s across his vocal chords, down his little chest and across his little under carriage. A shadow passed over Big Macintosh, it was his father being flung through the air. He saw him going over the side. The sounds of the machine’s tilling teeth ripping his body spattered the air, and a great fountain of blood rushed like a wave up onto the deck of the machine. His screams would haunt Big Macintosh for the rest of his life. Barely alive, the little red foal staggered to the control panel, using the last of his strength to pull himself into the raised seat. Falling over all the buttons and dials, it was all he could do to pull the key. The machine died, the earth-tilling teeth and robot arms grinding to a halt. Blood waterfall’d from his splayed open neck and chest. Big Macintosh laid his head down on the steering wheel to die... Big Macintosh woke with a grunt, his chest itching furiously. He sat up, scratching wildly at the massive scars hidden under his fur. Panting a little, he rubbed the sweat from his forehead and checked the clock. He was up five minutes early. He heaved a great, shuddering breath, rubbing his eyes before he rose from bed. He hardly ever dreamed of that day anymore, but it always made him so itchy. Leaning in an aching way, he found his hooves and went about his normal morning rituals before going to check on his sisters. Applebloom was curled up in her little bed still, cute and innocent as could be. Her crude bits of artwork were strewn all about the room, plans for she and her friends to find their cutie marks. The stallion vowed to laugh the day she got a cutie mark that was for finding cutie marks. What would that be? A blank flank on her flank? He smirked good-naturedly. The stallion got a bit of a surprise when he peeked in on Applejack. Mainly because she wasn’t alone in her bed. A quick check of the rainbow-colored mane and wings sticking out was all it took to know the guest’s identity. He frowned a little disapprovingly. His sister was a fillyfooler, huh? Groaning inwardly and rolling his eyes, he gently closed the door. She’d bring it to light later and they’d have to sort it out. He couldn’t say the idea made him very comfortable. He’d just forget about it for now. Peeking in at Granny Smith was always interesting, for her position when she found sleep was often unusual. That day, Big Macintosh found her with her head at the wrong end of the bed and all of her pillows in different corners of the room. How? Why? There was no telling. It was one of those Apple Family mysteries. Seeing all the mares in the household were still asleep, the barrel-chested stallion went downstairs to start a meager breakfast. Winter though it was, there was still lots to be done on the farm. He had a fence or two to repair, and he wasn’t quite done sharpening all the tools in the barn. It was best to get that done during the winter so it was one less thing to worry about during the warm months when the planting and harvesting was going on. He opened the door to go outside, a lantern in his mouth to light the way to the barn. “Umph!” he reared a little when he saw a figure standing on the porch waiting for him. Holding the lantern a little higher, he exposed pink fur and a curtain-like mane. He blink-blinked in shock, letting his face do the talking since his throat hurt him when he spoke. “Good morning to you too, Big Macintosh.” Pinkamina said with a toss of her mane, smiling a rather chilly smile. “Up early to do chores as usual. Your sisters and the rest of the family must be proud.” The last word in her sentence was rather poisonous, making the red stallion’s eyes narrow a little. What was she up to? “No doubt you’re headed to the barn or something, can I walk with you?” Big Macintosh nodded slowly, already on edge and suspicious about her intentions. They walked in silence, the icy silence of the wee hours of the winter morning harboring no insects or other sounds. The clip-clop of their hooves on stepping stones and then gravel was the only sound between them for a time. Big Mac pushed the barn door open with his nose, glancing over Pinkamina’s shoulder. He was glad to have led the strange mare away from his family, if she was gonna have a meltdown or something he didn’t want her near his kin. Setting the lantern on a hook, he turned to face her at last. She made a point of closing the door behind them. A slight breeze pressed on the barn, and the slightest motion of hooves crunched hay loudly. Big Macintosh cocked his head at her, motioning for her to speak. “I know your secret, Big Mac.” Pinkamina blurted finally, unable to hold herself back any longer. His brow rose in surprise. “Then again, it wasn’t that hard to figure out.” She started pacing back and forth. “The stallion with massive hooves, and a deep voice, and incredible strength— who else could it have been, here in Ponyville?” Big Macintosh felt color coming to his cheeks, a deeper red than normal. He lifted a hoof, leaning back a bit Suddenly she was in his face and he startled back a little. “Admit it, Big Macintosh! It can’t be anypony else!” she roared accusingly. Beads of sweat went down either side of his face, and he looked everywhere but her. “Not so tough without your cloak, are you?!” she rushed at with a whinny of battle! “Alright! Ah admit it!” he rasped out, lifting a hoof to shield his face. “Ah confess!” his throat practically caught fire, and he scratched at himself furiously. The pink mare skidded to a halt, sure she had her enemy in his corner now. “Then hoof it over!” Pinkamina demanded the source of Death’s transformation powers, his magical cloak. She’d seen him do it enough times, she’d figured it out. “Hoof it over and we can end this once and for all!” she was very proud of herself. Not only had she caught him off guard but apparently wracked with guilt! This was gonna be easier than she thought. “Alright! Ah keep it here, you can have it, ah promise!” Big Macintosh coughed throatily, tormented with the pain of speaking. He leaned on one of the beams of the barn for a moment, catching his breath so he didn’t lose a lung. Speaking hurt him enough, but doing so while upset was just torturous. Pinkamina scowled, staying very close so he wouldn’t try any funny business. She followed the crimson stallion into one of the barn stalls. It was loaded down with drawers and drawers of things. Screws, wedges, nails, corks, small tools, anything that could be bought in bulk and usually had one use. The pink mare silently applauded his hiding place. Even if someone went looking for Death’s cloak here, it would be hours before they found it. She was tense, though, poised for battle. If he came at her with a scythe or something like in her dreams, it would actually be best to be quite close to him. A long-reaching swinging weapon was useless against a pony that was within hoof’s reach, in a tactical sense. She’d thought long and hard about it, and even bopped him on the flank when he hesitated. The big stallion flinched like she’d struck him, ears turned back. He leaned high, silently counting drawers so he could find the right one. “Hurry it up.” She snapped, keeping him on the ropes so he wouldn’t gain any last moment confidence and try something. Big Macintosh counted four drawers down, three to the left, then seven more down, then four to the right. Placing his mouth over the ringlet of the drawer he pulled it open and reached inside. Turning, he gave it to her. A Smarty Pants doll. “Don’t tell Twi-light.” The stallion rasped pathetically, his eyes big and soft. If Pinkamina had been an anime character she would’ve fallen directly onto her head in a prat fall. He placed it on the floor in front of her, looking humiliated and ashamed. “What the buck is this?!” Pinkamina grabbed the doll up, turning it back and forth like it was a puzzle box. “A raggity doll?! This isn’t Death’s cloak!” she pelted him with it cruelly. Big Macintosh flinched like she’d struck him with a rock, quickly picking up the precious object and cradling it gently. Whatever Pinkamina was after it wasn’t Smarty Pants, thank Celestia. Pinkamina reared up, putting both hooves on his massive shoulders, “You listen here, Big Mac!” she swatted the doll from his hooves, her patience having run out by now. His face was shocked as she put her muzzle to his, until he looked at the poor doll laying limp on the ground. Big Macintosh gave a rough snorting sound, pushing her back. “Nnope.” He was already reverting to his usual two-word vocabulary. She was losing her grip on him! She could practically see his internal shields coming up, and an angry glare was sealing up any cracks in his defenses. A hoof the size of a dinner plate pushed her, digging her hooves in, alllll the way out of the stall and out of the barn. They stared at each other for a long time, both angry. Some hidden line had been crossed between them. “Nnope.” He said again, slamming the door in her face. Pinkamina stood there for a long time, then peeked into the barn through a crack. The massive stallion was sitting on his haunches, holding the doll with both front hooves, rubbing his cheek against it. The pink mare had never been more confused. She stepped backward in the snow a few times, brow furrowing in angry frustration. She stared down at her hooves, then her chest. She stopped a moment, blink-blinking. Big Macintosh’s hoof print was on her breast, as clear as day. Tracking snow into the barn and across hay and dirt had made mud. A slow, rather chilling smile worked across her face. She had Big Macintosh’s hoof print. =-=-=-= “Twilight Sparkle.” Pinkamina was knocking on the library door with her face. Or her forehead rather. She didn’t want to reach up with a hoof and risk wrinkling her pristine evidence. “Twilight Sparkle!” she called more loudly. The sun was barely rising, having just cleared the horizon and slowly laboring its way into the sky. Twilight came to the door looking very frizzy in the mane, having been pulled from a wonderful Con Mane spypony dream (being a Con Mane girl was one of her secret fantasies). “Pinkamina?” the lavender librarian said drowsily, eyeing her up and down. “It’s early…” she trailed off when she saw the huge hoof print plastered across the pink mare’s chest. She panicked briefly. “Dear Celestia did Death touch you?!” she shrieked. “Is that black plague!? Don’t come any closer, you could be contagious!” She leapt to put a hoof over her muzzle, and Pinkamina shoved a rock into her doorframe before she could slam it shut. “It’s mud.” Pinkamina said simply. “And it needs to be measured by somepony that knows fancy mathematics.” This seemed to calm Twilight down, and with the fresh adrenaline she was much more awake. “This is important, Twilight.” The pink mare said, gesturing to her chest. “I need size, age, anything you can get out of this print.” “What for?” Twilight said, leaning and already mentally making a list of the instruments she would need to do such a thing. “It’s a hoof print.” “I’m very close to finding out who Death is.” Pinkamina said. “Is this his?!” Twilight shrieked, wondering if there was a nasty bruise or broken bones beneath the mud. “Did he buck you in the chest?!” “It’s for comparison.” Pinkamina finally shouldered past her, growing impatient. “Let’s get measuring,” She said officially. “Before the Pinkie Sense goes off and I have to rush away.” Twilight nodded firmly, the door of her lab wrenching itself open. Both mares went downstairs. Spike would awaken almost an hour later, having no idea where anypony had gone. End of Part 9