//------------------------------//
// 14 
// Story: The Truth 
// by Jet Cannon 
//------------------------------//

	A fifteen-year-old Applejack sat, somewhat uncomfortably, outside one of the fancier cafés in Ponyville town centre, a white-coated and purple-maned unicorn filly of around the same age sitting across the small table from her. The chairs upon which they both sat were not unpleasant, nor was the sun too hot or shining in her eyes, but she wasn’t all that fond of some of the disapproving glances she was getting from the snootier ponies present. Applejack didn’t know whether she was somehow forgetting an aspect of proper table etiquette, or if perhaps they took offense at her being there at all, but she felt extremely out of place regardless.

Her companion apparently took the latter meaning to be the case.

“Don’t mind them, Applejack darling,” Rarity said rather loudly, “I’m afraid that, despite claiming to be cultured and sophisticated, many “high class” ponies are simply snobs who believe they are better than everypony else for never once having to raise a hoof to fend for themselves.” She glared rather pointedly at several tables, and their occupants haughtily turned away.

“I am so sorry, dear,” the budding fashionista continued, her attention returning to her friend and her volume dropping to conversational levels once more.

“I wanted to treat you as it was your birthday at the weekend and I was away, but perhaps I should have chosen somewhere else instead?”

“Nah, Rares, it’s fine, honest. Besides, once the wildlife goes back to its own business, this place is actually pretty nice.”

The two shared a giggle just as a waiter brought them the drinks and cakes they had ordered. Once he had left, Rarity took a dainty bite from one of her profiteroles, being careful not to smudge cream all over her muzzle, before leaning towards Applejack conspiratorially, a mischievous grin on her face. She wanted to talk teenage filly stuff, and not even the fact that it was Applejack’s special occasion was going to stop her.

Now, Rarity realised all too well that, for most teenage filly stuff, Applejack was hardly the greatest of conversationalists. She had little interest in fashions, did not listen to the popular colt bands, had only a small amount of makeup that she applied to herself on rare occasions, et cetera, et cetera. There was one topic of conversation, however, that did not require keeping up with the times in order to remain interesting.

“Soooooo, Applejack: Bechdel’s Law be damned, have you been having much success with the colts recently?” Applejack silently thanked Celestia that she had just swallowed, else Rarity would likely have been splattered with half-chewed Eve’s Pudding.

“Wha-? “Bechdel’s Law”? “Success with the colts”? Rarity, you know Ah ain’t got time fer any o’that nonsense! Things are a might busy up on the farm right now, ya know.” She was referring to Sweet Apple Acres, as her father’s own venture had fallen through a few years ago due to lack of demand. Fortunately his mother’s establishment was going stronger than ever, and he and his family had since moved in with Granny Smith.

“Oh pish posh, darling! You mean to tell me you haven’t been sneaking looks at any of the, ah, rugged assistance your family employs? I’m sure a few of them have probably been doing the same to you, the younger ones anyway! You know, a little birdy told me that that new boy your father employed – Caramel was it? – is rather interested in you!” Rarity’s words had the instantaneous desired effect, and Applejack turned beet red and started spluttering denials before her brain could quite catch up with her tongue.

“C-Caramel?! What?! B-But Ah… No! No, we’re just friends is all!”

“Oh dear, is that all? Poor Caramel will be so upset…” Rarity giggled evilly into her straw, causing some bubbles to form in her drink, and she quickly let go of it.

“All the same, are you that surprised that you have admirers? Even if you won’t let me style your mane very often, or make you all manner of simply wonderful dresses, you are hardly unattractive simply by yourself. Those cute little freckles…”

“They are not…”

“That beautiful blonde mane and tail…”

“Cut it out.”

“And, if you don’t mind me using vulgarisms, but seriously: dat plot…”

“Are ya interested, Rarity?! Is that what yer getting’ at here?!” Rarity almost lost control of her laughter as Applejack, her face an even deeper red than earlier, very nearly caused a scene by standing her rear legs on her chair and placing her fore hooves on the table between them, glaring down at the white unicorn with a look that could frighten off a cockatrice.

“Please, Applejack, calm down, I−” A swift hoof was brought to her muzzle to control another burst of the giggles, before she trusted herself at speech again and continued.

“Applejack, I was merely teasing, please sit down. And no, I am not “interested”, as you put it. My barn doors do not swing that way, unfortunately for you,” she winked, and Applejack huffed as she sat down again.

“Ah’m not disappointed, neither do mine.”

“Although,” Rarity began again, not quite done teasing her friend, “I wouldn’t say no to a bite of another Apple…”

“Rarity…” Applejack let that serve as a warning. It was promptly ignored.

“How is Big Macintosh these days?”

“Fine.”

“Just “fine”?”

“Fine as he can be,” Applejack said as a small smile splayed across her lips, a chance at revenge (of a sort) entering her mind.

“Y’know, considerin’ that he’s probably out in the fields right now, sweat pourin’ outta him faster than rain, stinkin’ to high heaven o’that and the farm, hooves muddy, and all kindsa other nasty.” She was rewarded with the expected balking at such uncleanliness, before, of all things, a blush graced Rarity’s face.

Applejack stared, open mouthed, as the implications hit her head on.

“…y’know, Rares, for a “lady”, you’ve sure got some dirty thoughts runnin’ through that head o’yours…”

“Well, excuse me, Applejack, but I’m afraid your brother is the hottest piece of beefcake in Ponyville! Other colts are nice, certainly, but they don’t compare to Big Mac. And, in all probability, his, well, Big Mac.” Lifted eyebrow, meaningful smirk, slight shudder from Applejack.

“Thanks, Rarity, didn’t need that image in mah head…” Years from now, as she and her friends all sat around a table and listened to Applejack’s tale, Rarity wondered just how she was so shameless as a teenager, before cringing especially hard at what she said next:

“And for an older stallion, your father’s not bad either.”

Without going into too much detail, Applejack caused a scene at the café.





Despite their obvious differences, Applejack and Rarity were already firm friends by this point, and although it took some whining from Rarity the two eventually made up, hugging and promising the other to meet up again in the near future. Applejack headed back to Sweet Apple Acres, her mind straying back to their (fortunately short) conversation about Big Macintosh.

Rarity was one of the majority of ponies who did not know that Mac was not actually Applejack’s blood relative. It was not a secret, by any means, but the Apples simply didn’t feel the need to share the fact. It wasn’t as if it made any difference to them, why should it matter to others?

She could, if she forced herself to be objective and not be put off by the very fact that he was her brother, see what fillies like Rarity might see in Big Mac. He was, she conceded with another slight shudder at the terminology, definitely “beefcake”. Tall, very tall in fact, strong, handsome, more intelligent than one might think at first glance, and with an underlying calm and kind nature that could instantly put you at ease. When he wasn’t in one of his quiet, contemplative, wouldn’t-notice-a-barn-falling-over-next-to-him type of introspective moods. Which, unfortunately, seemed to be the status quo for the moment. Every now and again he would open up a bit, and it was like having the old Macintosh back, only bigger, but then the gloom would inexplicably settle again and everything would go back to “normal”.

Their parents had, of course, been very worried about him, and had used what money they could spare to bring him to several doctors over the years. Nothing conclusive ever came of these sessions, however; all they could glean was that he seemed depressed by something, but that ultimately he didn’t seem to be in any real danger, and he was unwilling to co-operate so there was really nothing to be done anyway.

The large eighteen-year-old was never cold towards his family, always showing them the respect and love they wished for, but never doing much else with himself. Yes, there was little variety in a life of bucking apple trees, but he didn’t seem to take pleasure in the hard work anymore, simply going through the motions like a machine and repeating them day after day.

It worried Applejack greatly. She wanted the old Macintosh back. The events of their first meeting were a little hazy to her, but she still remembered the connection she had felt to her soon-to-be big brother as they had stared into each other’s eyes, and still felt it whenever she looked at him. A deep, indescribable sense of family, she told herself. After all, what else could it reasonably be?

She sighed, shaking her head free of the thoughts as she had before, and looking around noticed her old tree house that her father had built for her. It was showing its age a bit, and was in need of some TLC, but other than that was most likely still in good shape. On a whim she made for it, her hoofsteps muffled by the slightly overgrown grass. When she got close enough she began to hear an odd noise emanating from the tree house, a sort of snuffling and whining, as though a wounded creature had made its way up the ramp and curled up inside. She was no Fluttershy, the shy young Pegasus about a year her junior who had recently moved to Ponyville and cared for animals, but she knew a thing or two about handling animals in distress from her farm work. Determining to help whatever it was, she carefully made her way up the ramp as well, being careful not to startle the creature with loud steps.

As soon as her eyes lifted above the floor level, she blinked and ducked back down quickly, sure that she had not just seen what she thought she had seen. Slowly raising her head again proved her to be mistaken: it was precisely what she thought she had seen. There, lying spread-eagled on the floor of her tree house, was Big Macintosh. And he was crying.

“Oh Applejack…” he moaned almost painfully, and she froze as she thought she was discovered. But he never lifted his head from the floor before him, and his eyes seemed closed most of the time anyway so she soon realised that he hadn’t seen her. She wanted to ask him what had made him so upset, tell him that she would be there for him, but she knew he would probably freeze up and refuse to talk about it, as he had whenever he showed a hint of negative emotion. And so, uneasy about listening in but wanting answers she wouldn’t get otherwise, Applejack settled down as quietly as she could and let him moan to himself. What he had to say made her eyes go wide…