//------------------------------// // A promise and a treat // Story: From the Big Apple: A Tale of Misadventure and Affection // by Nurse Bedpan //------------------------------// “And that’s really all I can say about that,” you conclude, sans fedora; during the latter part of your “fashion retrofit,” Miss Rarity managed to convince you to remove the hat. In retrospect, wearing your thinking cap miles upon miles away from home is rather… misguided. The article of clothing is now hanging on a far away coatrack, being lazily fiddled with by a white tabby. With its weight off your head, you feel as if you're just a little colt instead of a hard-boiled private eye. It’s a welcome change of pace. Despite the rather jarring welcome, you are now able to gain better footing with the alabaster unicorn before you. As your recounting continues, you pour more and more of yourself into your story, narrating the happy memories with newfound gusto and the frustrating parts with all the seething pain your frame can manage. Somehow, knowing that somepony else wants to listen to your current predicament has made it easier for you to say what you feel. You gain a better understanding of your previous encounter with the draconic junior librarian. Is this what it’s like to feel at ease with a stranger? Is this what Babs felt that day from those years ago? For all intents and purposes, Rarity means incredibly well – every little grunt or shuffle you made was addressed immediately and expertly by the dressmaker; even as she made her nips and tucks, she listened quite intently to your unfolding of this caper. She said very little, aside from the occasional “Mmm” and “Oh my, just dreadful!” – you couldn’t blame her, really; the seemingly unending number of manipulations she was making during the entire process was nothing short of mind-boggling. Needles here and there, multiple rolls of fabric, and even her cat were not far from her piercing gaze and invisible hoofwork. Upon concluding your story, you are guided to the boutique’s waiting area. “You aren’t simply a ponyquin, little one – you are a guest, and guests deserve some hospitality,” the mare chirps. As you plop yourself onto a small blue chair, she drags a rather large and posh looking red sofa to her side; she promptly, yet still gracefully, drops onto the couch belly first. She squirms about momentarily, adjusting herself for comfort before summoning two tall glasses of iced tea to the round table in front of you. “Now, let me hazard a guess, my dear,” said the mare prostrated beside you. “Your eye injury was inflicted by a filly, wasn’t it? Just a few inches smaller than you, hmm? And I take it she did this in retaliation?” she states knowingly, her eyes squinted but not betraying her judgment. You shrink away in fear and embarrassment. Within a few minutes, she had been able to deduce that you were beaten by a filly for trying to hit her. A quiet mutter of “She deserved it,” escapes your lips, followed suit by your forehooves wrapping themselves around your snout. You and your big mouth. “It’s alright, little one. Rarity is not one to judge,” she states, looking up at her well-lit ceiling. “I’m not denying your reasons for fighting – few things are as noble as defending the honor of a close friend,” she punctuates, that same knowing twinkle in her eye. Maybe she’s an undercover cop that’s just pretending to be a dressmaker to fish out some dastardly perp? She’s reading everything in your story, even the parts you yourself don’t want to pay much attention to… “I take part in self-defense classes as well, you see. It does wonders for the figure and a lady can never be too careful.” She stands up, hoofsteps clattering against the white marble floor. She looks around her store conspiratorially before drawing close, her face mere centimeters away from yours; she’s so close, you can feel her breath. She looks you dead in the eyes and speaks quietly and seriously, “Promise me that what I’m about to share with you will never leave this boutique and that you will only use it when the time is right. You don’t owe me bits or any precious stones – simply promise me that you will keep your word.” Despite the low volume of her voice, you’re compelled by the authority in her words. You nod slowly, making sure to maintain eye contact with the grown mare. She takes another look about her store before addressing you. “The greatest weakness of filly self-defense is that it relies on reversals and leverage. Forget everything you know about advantages in height or weight – she can use both of those against you. Judging from how you recounted your experience, I can suggest only one thing: do NOT hit her. No matter how she eggs you on or chides you, you must not give in. If you do not hit her, there is nothing in her repertoire she can use against you.” She keeps her close distance to you for the next minute or so, later backing off and smiling to ease the tension. Her eyes go back to the normal, relaxed state they were, her eyelashes no longer accentuating her furrowed brow. She grabs one of the glasses in her blue aura and takes a ginger sip. Seeing this, you do the same with your hooves; only now do you realize that you’re shaking in place. As the ice rattles against the glass, you let the gravity of the situation hit you fully: this stranger just taught you how to stand up for yourself; with little to go on, she has trusted you with a secret in the hopes you’ll use them for the greater good. That you’ll use them to protect your friend. “Now, a lady keeps her promises. You’ll want to go to Sweet Apple Acres, east of here and further down a trodden, dirt path. There should be a clearing nearby, behind the Apple Family’s living quarters. You’ll find what you need there.” Nodding and thanking the mare, you turn to leave, but a magical tug on your ear forces you to turn back. Rarity is flat on her couch again, levitating her notes and measurements around in a swirl of blue. She regards you quickly and concludes, “My little gentlecolt, you must understand that Ponyville is not like the big city. The ponies here treasure their companions, be they childhood friends or newly met acquaintances. Do not presume the worst for Babs; instead, try and see why she loved her stay here. She isn’t some case you need to unravel or a toy that needs fixing” she says while eyeing you knowingly. “She’s your friend and you need to always respect her.” She concludes by lifting your fedora over so you can reach it with a bite. “Now run along on your quest, sir knight! May the sun and moon smile upon your endeavor!” As you reach the front door, you hear the mare call whimsically out to you, “I’ll be done with this piece before you know it, darling! It’ll be simply to die for!” As you make your way outside Carousel Boutique, you notice that the sky has already attained a fading, orange glow. You decide that it’d be best to head back to SugarCube Corner as soon as possible – Uncle Carrot may already be halfway through ripping his mane out by now. ================================================================== By the time you return to SugarCube Corner, your uncle looks to have baked, decorated, and sold over a dozen full-tilt party centerpieces. His eye-bags are more pronounced and some of the hairs in his curly, orange mane are standing on end. He looks like he just raised his own Frankenpony monster. Or to be more accurate, monsters; Pound and Pumpkin Cake are freely crawling about the kitchen, covered in flour and flowers, among other things. They appear to be wholly unmindful of their haggard father or their newly-arrived big city cousin. The shop itself is now full of ponies, either quietly munching on a snack by themselves or chatting loudly over some drinks. “Hey, there’s my nephew! A certain somepony came by earlier today and told me what you’ve been up to. Now what’s all this about heading to Carousel Boutique? I thought you’d be more interested in Prankster Palace than a clothing shop,” he chuckles. Eeyup – he even grins just like your pop when he cracks a joke. As unnerving as it is, it’s also a very comforting assurance that you’re safely with family in this strange, new place. As Carrot Cake walks about putting orders on tables, receiving payments, and occasionally getting entangled in the antics of his children, he manages to tell you of the day’s events: while you were chatting up Miss Rarity, Spike had come over to SugarCube Corner for “personal supplies, including four very large gemstone-encrusted cupcakes.” During his stay, he told your uncle where you had headed off to and that you would be in good hooves. “Wow. I didn’t even ask him to do that for me,” you say. It looks like Huffy the Magic Dragon still had a few lessons on friendship he had to teach you yet. “Oh, and another thing – your Aunt Cupcake will be back here by tomorrow morning. Make sure you say ‘Hi’ to her before you go out again tomorrow. She worries, just so you know,” Uncle Carrot says with a faraway look in his eye. You swear, every minute or so, the stallion acts every bit as fatherly as your own back in Manehattan, albeit with more work ethic. According to your uncle, your aunt, his wife, had a small accident with the taffy puller and was recuperating in Ponyville General for the night. “She sends her best and she hopes you’ll have a great stay.” You spend the rest of the late afternoon and evening keeping your cousins occupied while Uncle Carrot worked or vice-versa, sometimes switching duties with the older stallion. These two sibling clones of yours were certainly a hoof-ful. “I don’t know what we’d do without our regular sitter around,” the yellow stallion says as he scoops up the two sleeping bundles of exhausted baby pony. “That mare doesn’t look or act much like it, but she’s one of the most responsible ponies I know. It’s like there’s more than one of her around the way she gets all of her chores done.” After helping with tucking your cousins in (Pound Cake’s thrashing about made him the more difficult), you say your good nights and make your way to the guest quarters at the very top of the building. Apparently, the room’s original resident, one Pinkamena Diane Pie (“What a strange second name,” you think), was more than willing to lend her bedspace to you while she went on a trip with her friends, Twilight Sparkle and Fluttershy. As you reach the top of the stairwell, you are greeted with a large, two-floored room that, oddly enough, seems to be prepped for a party. The veranda above is painted a vibrant pink to contrast with the cream walls; balloons are tied onto the railings, as are large streamers that connect to the central point of the inner roof. To your right stands a wooden desk with an old record player, its golden horn giving off a healthy gleam; across from it is a long table covered in a pink tablecloth. Next to the long table is a simple vanity – this is still somepony’s room, after all. Confetti is strewn about everywhere on the blue hardwood floors. This is certainly an unexpected touch to the living space. Trudging your way over to a generic looking bed, you take one last look around the room. A few more things catch your eye: a large black fireplace designed to look like a frosted treat, a larger bed with a candy-themed quilt sitting across from the spare one you are going to use, and a wooden cabinet. Noticing the door to the cabinet is ajar, you walk over to close them tightly – a force of habit cultivated by the belief that bogeyponies could come and go using dark spaces. Your nerves get the best of you as your apprehension causes you to swing the doors open in an effort to flush out the things that would go bump in the night. The insides of the doors are emblazoned with identical carvings of a single balloon, its string curling down merrily towards the floor. The cabinet itself is filled with a bevy of items: large overalls, a patchwork bodysuit with bells on the leggings, a selection of eyepatches largely similar to the one you’re wearing, and even some bath sponges. As you are about to push the doors shut, a small blue circle draws your attention. Closing the doors caused the room’s light to center in on this innocuous, little… “It’s a… cupcake?” The simple confection is adorned with blue icing and sprinkles. After you pick it up with your hooves, you see that a note is hidden under the sugary treat. Partaking of the midnight snack (“Hmm. Tastes fresh.”), you read the note aloud to yourself. “Welcome, welcome, welcome A fine welcome to you Welcome, welcome, welcome I say how do you do? Welcome, welcome, welcome I say ‘Hip hip hooray!’ Welcome, welcome, welcome To Ponyville today!” Flipping the little note over, you read “I.O.U. 1x Welcome Party!” Huh. It’s weird, you think as you slowly make your way over to the bed and lie down to drift off. “It’s like the cupcake was made in advance, but it tastes like it was baked just this morning.” The last thing that you hear before drifting off to sleep is a soft, muffled giggle.