//------------------------------// // Part II // Story: The Fight for Cranberry Hill // by Insert Pen Name //------------------------------// The Fight for Cranberry Hill Part II A FiM fic by (Insert Pen Name)         Applebloom, Scootaloo, and Sweetie Belle shivered slightly as they sat against the back wall of Sugarcube Corner. A gentle snow was falling, and the wind had picked up slightly. Across the alley, a familiar puffy pink tail protruded from the open door of the tool shed as its owner rummaged around within.         “What exactly are ya lookin’ for?” asked Applebloom, having been waiting patiently for several minutes now. "You'll see," answered Pinkie Pie. "I know I stuck him in here somewhere... aha! Found you!"         The pink party-pony emerged, carrying a large, pony-shaped piece of ¾” plywood. The Cutie-Mark Crusaders watched with renewed interest as Pinkie carried the strange object to the far end of the alley, about fifty metres distant, and stood it up so that they could see what was painted on the other side.         “What... is... that?!” asked Scootaloo in alarm.         “I call him ‘Mister Clowny Face’!” said Pinkie Pie brightly. “I use him for target practise. Normally, I shoot pies and cakes at him instead of snowballs, but I don’t think he’ll mind you girls borrowing him for a teeny bit.”         The Crusaders just stared. Mister Clowny Face was clearly the product of a very active, and possibly artificially supplemented, imagination. Applebloom was certain that he would give Sweetie Belle nightmares, Sweetie Belle shared that sentiment completely, and Scootaloo was struck by a sudden impulse to land a jump-kick on the plywood pony’s clown-faced head.         “So, now what?” asked Applebloom finally.         “Now we shoot snowballs at him!” said Pinkie Pie. “With this!”         With a flourish, Pinkie Pie suddenly, and inexplicably, produced her famous Party Cannon, much to the delight of the three fillies.         “Awesome!” squeed Scootaloo, her eyes wide with anticipation.         “You’re really going to let us use this?” asked Sweetie Belle.         “Of course! You said you needed better firepower after all. Except it’s not really ‘firepower’, it’s more like ‘snowpower’, since you’re shooting snowballs instead of fire, but then again, ‘snowpower’ does sound kinda silly, so I guess you could say ‘firepower’ if you really wanted to, even though cannons don’t really shoot actual fi-”         “So how’s it work?” interrupted Applebloom.         “Oh, it’s easy. Make me a big enough snowball, and I’ll show you everything you need to know!”         In a burst of excitement, the three fillies immediately fell to the ground and began scooping snow into a projectile that would fit the bore of the Party Cannon. Sweetie Belle suddenly adopted a frown.         “Hold on, how are we supposed to shoot snow out of a cannon? Won’t it melt?” she asked.         “No it won’t!” answered Pinkie Pie with a smile. “That’s what this is for!”         As if on cue, Pinkie deftly reached behind her and pulled out a thick, pink, paper tube, which she twirled playfully on the tip of her hoof.         “What’s that?” “Pinkamina Pie’s Premium-Power Party Powder plus Primer (Patent Pending)!” answered Pinkie. “Try saying that ten times fast!”         “Huh?”         “You see, when I first started using the Party Cannon, I tried using plain old boring black-powder, but that didn’t work so well. Turns out that scorched cake and flaming confetti aren’t really good for parties.”         “Hey, I would love flaming confetti at my birthday!” piped Scootaloo.         “Well, maybe some parties,” chuckled Pinkie Pie. “Anyway, since the normal stuff wasn’t working, I decided to try and come up with my own recipe. So I spent a couple of weeks up in my room, mixing and–”         “Hold on, the Cakes let you experiment with gunpowder in their house?!” exclaimed Applebloom.         “It was kinda my little secret,” said Pinkie sheepishly. “Anyway, in the end, I came up with this stuff! It blows up so fast that it doesn’t have time to get hot, but not too hard that it ruins all the cake! So now my cakes don’t get burnt, and my confetti’s not on fire, and your snowballs will be A-okay!”         The Crusaders each exchanged nervous glances.         “Can explosives work like that?” whispered Scootaloo.         The other two merely shrugged.         “Right, let’s do this!” chuckled Pinkie. “Watch closely now.”         Applebloom, Scootaloo, and Sweetie Belle watched intently as Pinkie Pie casually kicked the Party Cannon into an upright position, dropped the powder down the barrel with a flourish, then loaded their specially-made snowball.         “Oooh, tight fit...” muttered Pinkie to herself as she started ramming down the snowball with a toilet plunger.         “Is that bad?” asked Sweetie Belle.         “I dunno. I’ve never fired an actual cannonball before, never mind a snow-cannonball. I’ve shot cakes, and pies, and presents, and confetti, and streamers, and scoops of double-fudge ice cream, but no cannonballs. Funny, eh?”         The Crusaders instinctively backed up a step as Pinkie directed the Party Cannon to fire on Mister Clowny Face.         “So...” began Pinkie as she carefully lined up her aim. “Ready to see some action?”         There was a threefold flurry of eager nods.         With a smile, Pinkie made one last adjustment, raised her hoof, and fired.         Three things happened thereafter. The first was a satisfying *boom* that echoed across the walls and elicited the response of several neighbourhood dogs. The second was that the Party Cannon recoiled about ten metres back, hurling Pinkie Pie head over hooves into a nearby snowbank. And the third thing was that the snowball fired clean out of the cannon, flew straight down the alley, struck Mister Clowny Face in the head, and promptly reduced the plywood pony’s entire top half to splinters.         “Woah!!!”         “That was awesome!” cried Scootaloo. “We are so taking this thing! Watch out, Diamond Tiara, ha-ha!”         “Are you nuts?!” wailed Applebloom. “We can’t use that thing out there!”         “Why not?”          “We’d take some poor pony’s head off! Literally! Seriously, Scoots, we’re fighting a war, not tryin’ to kill somepony!”         “Plus, I don’t think it’d work out so well for us either,” added Sweetie Belle, indicating the hapless pink hindquarters struggling to extricate themselves from the snowbank.         Scootaloo made as if to protest, but ultimately thought better of it.         “So now what do we do?” she asked.         “Wow! What happened hewe?” All eyes turned towards the far end of the alley, where a small, wide-eyed pinto colt in a green beret stood inspecting the wreckage of Mister Clowny Face. “Hey there, Pip!” called Sweetie Belle. Upon hearing his name addressed, little Pip gave a sudden start, hurried over to the three fillies and snapped to salute. “Pipsqueak the Pwivate, at yuh sehvice!” he said proudly. “I’ve been looking all oveh foh you thwee; I’ve got an impohtant message fwom Majow Wumble!” “Alright, let’s hear it, then,” said Applebloom. “Wight, The Majow has called a genewal stwategy meeting in Cohpowal Twist’s basement at 17:00 houws. I don’t know when that is, but he said you would, so that’s okay. “We’ll be there, Pip,” said Sweetie Belle. “Tell Rumble not to worry.” “Yes Ma’am!” nodded Pip. “By the way, is that what I think it is?” he asked, gesturing excitedly at the smoking Party Cannon behind them. “Yep,” answered Scootaloo glumly. “Wicked! Is it foh us?” “Nope.” “Nope?” “Nope.” “Why not?” protested Pip. “You want some poor pony to end up like Mister Clowny Face over there?” asked Applebloom, indicating the splintered remains of the plywood pony. “Ugh, good point,” said Pip, turning to leave. “Anyway, I’d betteh get going. See you lateh.” “See you later, Pip!” Sweetie Belle called after him. “See you at the meeting!” “Hey, Applebloom?” whispered Scootaloo. “Yeah?” “When is 17:00 hours?” “Uh, not sure. Hold on, seventeen, take away... Hey, what’s seventeen minus twelve?” “It’s seven, isn’t it?” suggested Scootaloo. “No, that’s seventeen minus ten, you dodo!” Sweetie Belle rebuked. “Okay, if you’re so smart, you tell us what it is.” “Um...” “Nevermind, I got it,” said Applebloom. “It’s five. So 17:00 hours must be five o’clock.” “Cool. What time is it now?” asked Scootaloo. It was at the exact moment that the town bell began to ring. The Crusaders stood frozen to the spot as the bell tolled one, then two, three, four... five. “Oh shoot! C’mon girls, we gotta move!” And move they did. With unchecked haste, the three fillies took off through the snow, out into the main street.         ...         “Uh, girls?” called Pinkie Pie, her voice muffled by the heavy snow. “A little help, here? Hello? Anypony? Gummy?”          * * *         If there was one thing that could be said in favour of Twist’s basement, Applebloom was still trying to figure it out. Stacks of mouldering cardboard boxes, misshapen piles of dusty old furniture, countless grotesque artifacts from an older, tackier time; it was, in short, a complete dump. In the centre of this forsaken space, a round table and several small chairs had been set up, illuminated by the flickering glow of an ailing ceiling lamp.         Fortunately, the three Crusaders weren’t the only ones late to the meeting. Dinky, Shady, and Archer each arrived several minutes later, much to Rumble’s annoyance.         “What the hay, Sergeant?” he said as Archer trudged down the stairs. “You were supposed to be here like ten minutes ago!”         “Well maybe next time you should send a messenger with longer legs,” retorted Archer.         “Then how did he get here first?” challenged Rumble, indicating where Pip sat smiling beside him.         “Er...”         “Nevermind, we’re all here,” sighed Rumble. “Corporal Twist!” he called upstairs. “How’s that intel coming along?”         “Almoth finithed!” sang Twist in response.         “Alright. Well, until then, let’s get some other things out of the way. Captain Chowder?”         Chowder gave an affirming nod, then pulled out a notepad whilst clearing his throat in an authoritative, and plainly overwrought, manner.         “Okay, first item on the list... Applebloom’s promotion.”         “What?!” cried the Crusaders in unison.         “That’s right, Applebloom,” said Rumble with a grin. “For your heroics earlier today, I’m promoting you to Lieutenant. Congratulations, soldier. Here’re your bars.”         Rumble passed her two strips of yellow construction paper and a pair of safety pins. Beaming with pride, Applebloom made to put them on, realised that she had nothing to pin them to, and in the end simply set them aside with a resigned shrug.         “Heh, thank-you, sir, I won’t let ya down.”         “I’m sure you won’t,” answered Rumble as Applebloom exchanged silent hoof-bumps with her friends. “Anyway, next item?”         “Uh, let’s see...” muttered Chowder. “Twist is supposed to be next, but she’s not done yet, so... Oh, Private Dinky has something to show us. Dinky?”         All eyes now turned to the little mauve filly, who calmly stepped forward and drew out a large, dusty book from her schoolbag.         “Fillies and gentlecolts,” she began, laying the book open on the table for all to see. “These are the schematics for a weapon that will make Diamond Tiara’s super-slingshot look like a cheap rubber band, courtesy of our local library.”         Chowder leaned forward to read the header.         “What’s a... ‘treh-butch-ett’?” he asked.         “Trebuchet,” corrected Dinky. “It’s pronounced trebuchet. It’s sort of like a catapult, only bigger. And much more awesome. With one of these, we can pound Cranberry Hill back into the Paleopony Period!”         “Nice! So what’s it gonna cost us to build this thing?” asked Rumble.         “Well, I’ve made a rough estimate...” answered Dinky slowly. “Looking at the current cost of lumber and hardware and other materials, we’re looking at, say... A hundred-and-twenty-seven bits.”         The table fell momentarily silent.         “Chowder, how much do we have in our reserves?” asked Rumble.         “Uh, give me a moment,” mumbled Chowder, flipping through his notepad. “Uh, at our last count, eight bits, and I think I spent two of them to buy my whistle,” he answered sheepishly.         Dinky frowned.         “Well, I guess we could maybe scrape some of the materials together ourselves.”         “I think my dad has some two-by-fours in our basement,” suggested Shady.         “And we got tools up at the farm,” added Applebloom.         “We’ll take your idea into consideration, Private,” said Rumble gently. “But in the meantime, let’s look at more tactical solutions. Corporal Twist!”         “Aaaaaannnd... done!”         Moments later, Twist came down the basement steps, proudly bearing a misshapen mass of cake on a broad baking pan. Both items were slathered in a thick coat of vanilla icing. As she lay the strange confection on the table, everypony else besides Rumble and Shady stared at it in confusion. Pip was the first to recognise it for what it was.         “It’s the Hill!” he said excitedly.         “That’th right!” giggled Twist.         “Aw, sweet!” cheered Chowder, who immediately reached out for a hooffull of frosting, only to be thwarted by a timely swat from an extendable steel pointer.         “Hey, hooves off the intel!” barked Shady, waving his pointer menacingly as Chowder nursed his stricken hoof.         “Don’t worry Chowder,” cooed Twist, putting her forelegs affectionately around Chowder’s shoulders. “I’ll let you lick the bowl afterwardth...”         “Ahem, moving on...” said Rumble. “Sergeant Shady, you may begin.”         Shady nodded, then began his presentation of the vanilla-iced replica of Cranberry Hill.         “Right, as you can plainly see, Diamond Tiara’s got herself a pretty good setup on top of the Hill...”         He indicated with his pointer a crude facsimile of Diamond’s fortress, made out of miniature marshmallows.         “The fort itself is pretty well designed. These bastions in particular provide wide, overlapping fields of fire, which allows the enemy to defend the walls from just about any angle.”         “Looks like somepony’s just got their cutie-mark in architecture,” muttered Archer.         “The real issue, of course, is that darn slingshot,” continued Shady, pointing now to a pair of toothpicks stuck in the very centre of the marshmallow fort. “Not only can it hit our own positions down here...” He indicated where their “trenches” had been carved in the icing. “But there isn’t a square inch of that slope that they haven’t pre-sighted for bombardment. They can hit us anywhere, anytime,” he explained bitterly, swatting the “Hill” for good measure, then surreptitiously licking the icing off his pointer. “Clearly, our first priority is to figure out what to do about that slingshot. So, any suggestions?” As it turned out, there were several. Dinky continued to extol her trebuchet design, Archer suggested building decoys to draw their fire, Chowder snuck a hoofful of icing, Twist proposed moving single file to hide their numbers, Scootaloo favoured an all-out bumrush, while Applebloom and Sweetie Belle fell to arguing over the virtues of digging a tunnel under the Hill. Amidst the chaos, however, a tiny voice spoke up. “Um, excuse me?” said Pip timidly. Nopony took any notice. “Excuse me,” he said a little louder. Still no response from the older foals. “Hey! Somepony’s twying to talk hewe!” That got their attention. “You got something to say, Pip?” said Rumble with narrowed eyes. Pip gulped. “Um, I know I’m just a Pwivate and all, but is thew a weason we can’t just go awound?” he asked nervously. For a moment, the table was silent. “What do you mean, ‘go around’?” asked Shady. “Go awound,” repeated Pip. “Like, instead of chawging head-on whewe they can hit us, why don’t we just hit them from the side whewe they can’t hit us?” he asked, illustrating his point by drawing a sweeping line around the side of the hill (and scoring a generous amount of icing in the process!) Again, dead silence. Shady impulsively made as if to object, but quickly backed down. “You know, that’s actually a pretty good idea,” said Rumble, visibly impressed. “Good one, Pip.” Pip grinned broadly as the others voiced their collective agreements. “So, which side should we attack from, then?” asked Rumble. “Um... why not both?” suggested Pip. “Both,” repeated Rumble. “Both. That is brilliant. This kid is a tactical genius,” he said, giving Pip a firm pat on the shoulder. “In fact, I’m giving you a promotion! From now on, we’re calling you Corporal Pipsqueak!” “Corporal Pipsqueak, I like it,” murmured Chowder. “It’s got that ‘guy who gets ordered to do everything important’ kind of vibe.” “Don’t listen to him,” said Rumble quickly. “Congratulations, Corporal. We’ll be putting your strategy into play tomorrow. Diamond Tiara won’t know what hit her!” “Thank-you, siw!”   “Right, so, anything else?” asked Rumble. “Um... No, sir, nothing,” said Chowder. “Then in that case, I declare this meeting adjoined.” “You mean ‘adjourned’,” corrected Sweetie Belle. “Whatever. Corporal Twist, you may do the honours...” At Rumble’s command, Twist advanced on the table, with an excited glint in her eye and a very large, freshly-honed knife clenched between her teeth. “Who wanth cake?” she sang giddily. To be Concluded...