//------------------------------// // One Shot At Glory // Story: Tangled Roots // by Bad_Seed_72 //------------------------------// One Shot At Glory It was the call of a raven that woke Babs Seed up with a start this time. Still lost in her fevered, hazy R.E.M sleep, coming up slowly from the deep and back to reality, she jumped from the bed. Rubbing her eyes, she groaned and muttered, “Horseapples… what time is it?” Light began to break on the horizon, Luna’s moon held high above the defiling steeples of Manehatten office buildings. The architects of the new age of industry and commerce considered themselves to be builders among divinity, and made their artifices as so. Unfortunately for them, Heaven laughs at all attempts to outsmart it, and their points of entry towards the sacred would never be completed. Shaking her head, Babs went over to her sister’s east window, opening it slightly. Feeling the cold morning mist wash over her face, she spotted her alarm clock: a particularly irritated crow perched in an apple tree a few gardens down the lane. “Dammit, it’s too early fo' dis.” The school-bells still had about two hours before they would chime their way into another mechanized ritual. Babs Seed had never been one to skip school. Among ponies her age, she was one of the most studious, devouring text and data with all the voracity of a starving timberwolf. Although she knew that she probably could have gotten away with skipping now and then, where would she go? What would she do? She was not a shopper or a criminal, so the majority of her choices were shot right there. There was a lake on the other side of the Manehatten Hill that she would visit from time to time, to feed ducks crusty bread or just sit and think. Otherwise, Babs Seed had no place to escape during the day. And now, with the Manehatten CMC to lead, she had an example to set and morals to uphold. Truancy, however tempting it could be, was no longer an option. Sighing, Babs turned from the window, eyes catching her sister, spread-eagled and drooling, mane looking all manner of adjectives. Giggling at the sight of the usually well-groomed pony reverting to an unkempt mare in the warm embrace of sleep, Babs trotted out the door, careful to miss the floorboards that tended to creak underhoof. I could wake her up, but I’ve already done dat once befo’. Maybe Allspice is up. I sure could go fo' summat sweet right now. ~ “… Buckwheat pancakes? Again?” Allspice asked, raising an eyebrow in annoyance. “Please, Allspice?” “Miss Babs, we’re almost out o'—“ Her pupils dilated, reflecting all light possible. Wearing the most convincing frown she could muster, Babs replied, “Pleeeease?” Sighing at her hooves, Allspice relented. “Fine. But this is the last time! Youze is lucky I happened ta be up an' 'bout at dis hour.” Allspice had not yet reverted to the habits of foalhood, sleeping with the dusk and rising with the dawn. However, at this time in the morning, she was usually a ragged mess with a mug of steaming caffeine and her mane in curlers. Thankfully, the foal had not been downstairs for that sight; Allspice had no patience this morning for antics. Swishing her bobtail happily, Babs Seed plopped down into her stool, rubbing her hooves together in anticipation. Allspice makes the best breakfast I’ve eva had. Iffa I was stuck on a desert island, I’d bring her along, jus' fo' the pancakes. But, wait, a rational voice in her mind objected. How would she make pancakes iffa she didn’t bring a carriage-load o' flour a' such wit' her? An' what would Earth ponies like youze two be doin' out in the middle o' the ocean anyhow? Shuddup, youze! Dis is no time o’ day fo' logic! Drumming a forehoof on the dining table, Babs Seed said, “So… youze look real nice ‘dis mornin’, Allspice.” Holding the handle of a frying pan in her mouth, Allspice turned, eying the foal suspiciously. Whereas Greyhoof had been much more personal with Babs—almost as if he were a father figure substitute—Allspice and Babs had held maybe two or three conversations she could remember in all her serving days. It wasn’t as if she didn’t like the foal, her thoughts continued as she splashed a cup of almond milk into the pan before adding the dry ingredients. She was adorable in her own awkward little ways, and though she would never mention it to her masters, when Babs Seed stood on her own four hooves, Allspice had to fight her own urges to stand with her against all opposition. Something had changed in her employer’s foal since she had left the gates of glorious Manehatten. “Uh… thank youze?” Allspice muttered, sparking the pilot light on the stove, the batter hissing with gratitude as she did so. “Didja do somethin’ new wit' youze mane?” “No…” the chef said, drifting off into awkward silence. “Ah. Well, it looks good!” Babs Seed beamed, offering Allspice the most genuine smile she could conjure. Youze is the new head honcho ‘round here, servant o' no. Best I’d git on the good side. Plus, we’ve never been much fo' talkin’, so might as well start now, right? What time but now? Babs waited patiently as the cook fulfilled her duties. Two golden discs, finding that perfect balance between fluffy and crisp, plopped down on the plate in front of her. Returning the frying pan to the stove to whip up some of her own, Allspice replied grudgingly, “Thanks… Madame.” … Dis might take a while. ~ Citrus Blossom stirred, her ears teased by the chirping of sparrows. In her dreams, she was trotting proudly on a runway before a crowd of awe-struck ponies, who captured her with their eyes and cameras. She wore a dress of fine lavender silk, speckled to and fro’ with what surely amounted to pounds of rhinestones. Destiny was not deaf to her whispers. She had made it out of Manehatten at last, leaving behind all facades and routines. She was a star in her own right, orbiting the bounds of glory and fame. Taking Hoity Toity by the forehoof, she began to weep from joy, exclaiming, “Yes! Yes! I’ll take it! Of course!” The contract laid before her at the end of the runway, this supermodel of a mare grasping her quill like an escape rope. Her movements were calculated, complex, each looping letter one step closer to becoming all she’d ever wanted. Hoity Toity smiled, and replied with a shrill SQUAWK! “Huh?!” Celestia disapproved of ponies who lived after midnight or made the unfortunate decision to become one with the dead, slaving away at the aptly-named “graveyard” shift. Rising her zombies with the climbing of the morning sun, usually by 1000 sharp, Celestia had no more time for tricks. Celestia, by virtue of the transitive property, thrust Citrus Blossom’s eyelids open, trapping her dream in a jar. It would be released back to her once the Royal Duties were finished and Luna rose her hypnotic lantern once more. Citrus groaned, feeling for the familiar shape of a foal next to her. Nothing. The clock mocked her. 1003. Babs Seed had been in school for a little over two hours now. Yawning, Citrus slowly climbed out of bed, cursing herself for oversleeping. “Heh… guess I’ll have to catch her after school.” She sighed, flicking the Sandmare’s dust from her mane as she exited. Many moons had passed by uneventfully for Citrus, dreams little more to her than escapist fantasies. Nightmares hadn’t visited her for as far back as she could remember. Babs’s night terrors worried the mare. Was there something she hadn’t told her? Was anypony picking on her again, throwing up their hooves in challenge? Was she still feeling guilty over how she’d treated the Ponyville CMC? Or was there something else that had happened back there? Or was it… “No, no, of course not.” Citrus scolded herself, flicking cold water from the bathroom sink onto her face. A pit formed in her stomach at the mere thought of her suspicions. She chastised herself for even flirting with such an idea, as if thinking of it breathed life into its bones. ~ Feeling serendipitous, Babs Seed whipped into the classroom just before the great oak doors called her a juvenile delinquent. After savoring ever last morsel of her favorite breakfast, the foal had wandered around the Orange Family gardens, stopping to smell the roses a tad too much in her glee. Luckily, with quick hooves and only a trickle of traffic, she’d outsmarted that blasted bell one more time. Of course, the only desk remaining was in a corner, adjacent to Fencer. Cautiously, Babs slipped into her seat, prepared for the inevitable. Come on, bitch, hit me wit' youze best shot. I’ll show youze right where ta go, right next ta youze buddy Boone on the concrete! Fencer said nothing. Stealing a glance over at her adversary, Babs Seed expected to be impaled by glaring daggers, or at least dismissed with a flippant sneer. Fencer gave her no satisfaction, staring straight ahead as the stern stallion began to take roll call. What the hay? She stared this time, searching for malice in her assailant’s eyes. Not even a twitch. But what 'bout the others? Are dey all heeya too? A quick scan of the packed classroom confirmed her suspicions: Boone, Fencer, Switch, and Lucky Toss were all present and alert, displaying a depth of attention and intensity towards the droning instructor's lecture on laws of motion that Babs had never seen before. Normally, these delinquents, if they attended class at all, lost themselves in paper airplanes, note-passing, doodling or, their favorite pastime, teasing the blankflank foal. Today, they were enthralled by something as rudimentary as a lecture, taking down extensive notes from the chalkboard with pure tunnel vision. Odd as that was, there was one more curveball thrown the Babs's way, which smacked her straight between her eyes. Slinga’s still gone. All his cronies are heeya… but the big cheese is rottin' somewhere else. Babs shifted uncomfortably in her seat, unable to pay even a cent of attention as the teacher began to explain the basics of motion and gravity. Was this a sign of things to come? Had the storm passed over her at last, sparing any further destruction… or was she within the eye of it now? An' was Slinga dat storm headed ma way? “Youze! Filly in the back!” shouted the instructor, pointing his forehoof towards Babs. “What is Isaac Newpony’s first law o' motion?” “Um… er…” A yardstick slapped down on a wooden desk with an angry WHAP! “Don’t tell me you’ve been zoning out dis entire lecture, young filly!” The entirety of the classroom turned their heads expectantly. It was always a pleasure watching another fail—no, it was delicious. Poof! The Turner-angel was on her shoulder again, shaking his grizzled, stubbly muzzle. Come on, kid, youze got all eyes on youze, cream o’ the crop an' bottom o’ the barrel both. Think o' summat! “Um…” Horseapples! I was jus' readin’ ‘bout dis a few nights ago… wait… “An object at rest will stay at rest, an' an object in motion will stay in motion, unless acted upon by an outside force, sir?” “Was dat a question o' an answer?!” the stallion snapped back. “… An… answer?” Babs hesitated, eyes wide. She realized her mistake. “Yes, sir, dat is ma answer.” Snorting, the stallion granted his student no affirmation of success. “Dat’s correct, but iffa I catch youze lost in la-la land one more time, young filly, youze’ll be cleanin' dis entire classroom wit' youze own toothbrush!” The instructor, along with the disappointed foals, turned their backs to Babs and continued with an elaborate diagram on the chalkboard depicting a foal at rest receiving a brick to the face in motion. … Why does he always threaten dat? Does he have a toothbrush fetish o' summat? Sheesh. ~ Recess usually was a time of quiet contemplation for Babs Seed (on the days she hid in the library, bribing the librarian with some manual labor for her stay) or a time to practice her chameleon skills (when Slinger and his gang came out of the background). Feeling bold, empowered by her worst enemies’ seeming disinterest, Babs wandered out to the playground during government-mandated playtime, seeing things with new eyes. A large group of foals were organizing a game of hoofball in the fields beyond the blacktop, and a smaller group appeared to be starting a round of four-square. It had been ages since she had joined in any of their pony games. A year and a half, at least. A familiar colt rushed over to her. “Hey, Rustla,” she greeted, smiling. “Hey Babs! Do youze wanna join our hoofball game? Quick Step, Turn Key, an' Flora are playin’ on ma team, too!” Blushing, digging one forehoof into the blacktop, Babs Seed replied shyly, “Um... I dunno, Rustla. I haven’t played hoofball in eons.” “Eons? Come on, Babs Seed, youze ain’t the Princesses!” Rustler whined. She chuckled. “Well, youze got dat one right, bud. I guess I’m not.” “C’mon." He motioned her over, pointing a forehoof towards the field. “It’s a sunny day! We won’t be havin’ too much o' those soon. An' don’t worry. We can teach youze how ta play iffa youze don’t know how.” Overflowing with gratitude, she said at last, “Alright, youze got me. Let’s play.” The Manehatten CMC team won, and Babs Seed never felt a greater victory in her life. ~ Bernie Madhoof sat at the dinner table, a full glass of wine comforting him among the piles of tax forms and vendor invoices that threatened to swallow him whole. Libra Scales sat next to him, typewriter under her hooves, tallying the month’s revenue. Taking a deep gulp of Merlot, Bernie turned to his wife and grumbled, “What’s the damage this time?” “Not too much, really.” Cross-referencing last month’s spreadsheet, Libra said, “It looks like profits are slightly up this month from last.” “Strange.” Madhoof drummed a hoof on the oak in time to his internal rhythm. “You would expect to see decreased demand. Celestia is beginning to usher in autumn; the time of the apple is near.” A scowl adorned his muzzle. Bernie hated apples. They were far more versatile in all manners of nutrition and culinary arts than oranges. Pectin and fiber slammed the worst effects of sugar to the curb, if not downright negating them, and the orange contained almost no fiber or pectin. Even their treasured nutrient—Vitamin C—was matched by the apple. Ultimately, beyond Vitamin C, oranges were Nature’s cookies—delicious once in a while, but coming with a heavy price tag if consumed frequently. Applesauce was a staple among bakers, even in his own home, giving cakes and cookies rise and fluff. Fermented orange juice was consumed by despairing inmates alone—“prison hooch”—while fermented apple cider had its own season. Apple pie, apple crisp, apple cobbler… the list went on and on for all things oranges just quite didn’t fit. It was so unfair. Bernie Madhoof had not been blessed into this world with his riches. Bit by bit, he had conquered Manehatten and the entire orange fruit industry, distributing his products far and wide throughout Equestria. The company was his lifeblood, his livelihood, his entire reason for existence. The loss of any revenue, as miniscule as it would seem to some, terrified him. The fever-dream of returning to a diet of beans and corn, sweating in a textile factory somewhere beyond the reach of foal labor laws, had made economic loss nothing short of a phobia to Bernie Madhoof. He would sooner sell his own foals then go down with the ship. Offering a slight grin, Libra replied, “Well, it doesn’t look like our customers see it that way. With the extra left over from this month’s sales, we’ll weather any hits that may cross our paths.” “Be damned if that’s true.” He ushered to Allspice, who was busying herself with tonight’s recipe in preparation of Babs Seed’s arrival from school. “You! More wine!” “Yes, sir,” Allspice said quietly, trotting over and pouring her employer a fresh glass. In the wake of Greyhoof’s absence, Madhoof’s manners had disintegrated even further, and it was rare for Allspice to hear her own name from the stallion’s lips. It didn’t matter. She hated him anyway. “Come, now, darling, things aren’t that bad.” Libra placed a forehoof over her husband’s own. “You worry too much. Barring the worst-case scenario, we can just increase prices a li—“ Pulling his forehoof away and crossing both of them across his chest, Bernie Madhoof barked back, “And alienate our shareholders? You have to be kidding me. No, we better bring our best once the leaves start changing.” His eyes narrowed as he sighed, “If only that ungrateful niece of yours would’ve taken your offer when her hide was dirtying my floorboards.” Libra Scales loved her husband, loved him beyond all rationality. She was aware of her own misguided emotions. Within the Manehatten elite, their marriage was known to be stagnant at best—rocky at worst. Indeed, he was not the same stallion she had fallen in love with two decades ago. Back then, at the academy, he had been a sorcerer, winning her heart and hoof with the quickness of his thinking and the depths of his dreams. All that seemed to have whittled away in the rat race, along with his tolerance for anypony and anything that did not resonate with him. His mind was as closed as the boundaries between Heaven and Earth, only (hopefully) opening upon death. Her patience was tried the hardest when he mentioned Applejack, and the Apple side of the family in general. “You know she loves the farm,” she said soothingly, taking his hoof once more. “You know that’s where she belongs, where she’s needed. Big Mac and Granny Smith—and Apple Bloom now—love their industry as much as we love ours.” “Bah!” He retracted again, knocking back his second glass of Merlot. “You’re drinking awful fast tonight.” “So?” “So… is there anything specific as to why?” “Don’t you try to psychoanalyze me, Libra.” He sneered and slammed the glass down into the oak. “Everything’s fine.” “Is this about Greyhoof? We can always hire a new butler, dear.” Libra fumbled around through her paperwork, grabbing a yellow legal pad. “I can make a note of it and go down to the newspaper offices tomorrow, put up a wanted ad.” “No. We’re fine as we are. Cheaper, too.” “Oh.” Disappointed, Libra Scales put down the notepad, offering her husband a fake smile. “Well, that’s okay, too. You’re right, we’re fine.” As I always am, Bernie Madhoof thought. “Oh! Before I forget, darling… has Citrus told you?” Raising an eyebrow, he asked, “Told me what?” “About Babs’s new club at school. The Manehatten… what was it again? Cutie Mark Conquerors? Cutie Mark Friends? No… Oh! The ‘Cutie Mark Crusaders’, that’s right.” Feeling old demons stirring in his abdomen, the stallion scowled. “And what is that little group supposed to be about?” Feeling as if she were navigating through a vast minefield, Libra Scales began to pluck her words from the path of least resistance. Her little foal was beginning to grow up, the little seed finding roots of her own in the Earth. She had been pleasantly surprised (though not as surprised as Citrus) to hear of her daughter’s newfound leadership skills. And, hay, if would help her get a cutiemark, then maybe it wasn’t such a strange idea after all. She feared Bernie wouldn’t share her excitement. “Well… it’s a group for foals who don’t have their cutiemarks yet. Apparently, there are four little foals at her school that don’t have theirs either. It’s to help them figure things out, self-discovery and whatnot,” she said nonchalantly, offering silent prayers that yeast had not yet began to take hold of her husband’s brain. Without wine, cider, or whiskey, Bernie was able to hide his prejudices, keeping them locked away in some recess of his mind. Beyond foalhood, most ponies gave little thought to cutiemarks or blankflanks, reminding themselves that there was a time for everything. A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to rejoice, and a time to mourn; a time to be blind, and a time to see. A time to question, and a time to know one’s destiny. But the yeast brought all of the evil out of the stallion, displaying it proudly for the world to see. It was nights under the influence that made Libra Scales question her love and devotion. In her dreams, she was a pegasus, not an Earth pony, and she would soar. After a long, awkward wait, feeling expectant beads of sweat slip down her neck, Libra was relieved to hear Bernie dismiss her explanation with, “Pish-posh. If it brings that little brat one step closer to getting her orange mark, I’ll allow it.” Orange mark? “And what if she doesn’t get an orange mark?” Libra challenged, pretending not to notice Allspice slip out of the room to the basement to get some ingredients from the storage shelves. Or, that’s what she would've said if asked. Bernie laughed heartily. “I'm not going to support a blankflank all my life. If she has no ambition, then she can become a street-sweeper or something and support herself.” “No.” Libra Scales shook her head, nearly face-hoofing at his misinterpretation. “No. Bernie. What if… what if Babs gets her cutiemark, and it’s not an orange?” Smiling, feeling a particularly prickly demon stretch and yawn, the stallion said, “Then she’s no daughter of mine, and she can become whatever she’s cursed to be, under some other stallion’s roof. Or mare’s, most likely.” Line, meet sand. Slamming her forehooves down into the table, leaping from the stool, sending forms flying to the ground, Libra cursed, “Dammit, Bernie! Can you drop that act?! I’m getting buckin’ tired of you saying nonsense like that!” Stretching his hindhooves onto the now-cleared table, Bernie Madhoof leaned back in his stool and asked as innocently as he could, “What are you talking about, Libra? I don’t know what you mean.” A torrent of incomprehensible gibberish issued from his wife’s muzzle, stumbling over her words in pure frustration. He pressed a hoof to his ear mockingly. “I’m sorry, Libra, what was that?” “You… You… You bastard! You know exactly what I mean!” The mare felt her muscles tighten, nervous adrenaline shaking her with its demands. Fight-or-flight, though it was an evolutionary option, seemed ridiculous to her—fight was all that should remain. “You don’t know if Babs is a… a…” “A fillyfooler like your sister?” He guffawed, amused at his own punchline. “Oh, we can argue all day and night if she’s my foal, but she is certainly yours, and if she turns out to be a carpet-muncher, blame your own disgusting genes.” Libra snatched the wineglass from the table and thrust it at a wall, barely missing the stallion’s muzzle, shattering it into a million little pieces on the floor. He stared at his wife, jaw agape. In all twenty years of marriage, he had never seen her commit an act of violence or destruction. Never. Before he could babble and request an explanation, Libra Scales swiftly exited the kitchen, making a beeline for the door. “I’ll be in the garden. Don’t come running if you want to remain a stallion.” Bernie Madhoof rang for a servant to sweep up the glass, and he stared into the table, wondering where he’d just went wrong.