//------------------------------// // Chapter Four // Story: Generosity // by Richie Richter //------------------------------// Chapter Four After a few more stories––each of which was worse than the last––the foals began to lose interest in the stories, their short attention spans becoming obvious. After one about a pegasus and a dragon they thanked Rarity and sprang up from the carpet. Rarity moved the rocking chair from one side of the room to the other, plopping it down in front of the fireplace. She watched with a placid smile as the foals went about their business. They split off into groups, a few ponies to a group, and in each group, a different activity.                  There was a group sitting around on the carpet, playing with the various toys, dolls and action figures. The colts separated from the fillies, aware of their incompatible play styles. The colts seemed to have split into two teams. Their figurines were engaged in pitched battle. Violent and bloody, the colts hid from the carnage behind mighty walls of wooden blocks as they planned their next attack on the enemy fortress. Sending scores of brave knights to their doom.                  The fillies had adapted a more civilized way of play. Their fortress was a mighty, but shoddy-looking dollhouse, built in typical victorian style. Painted mostly pink and white, it rose higher than the sitting fillies. They were all playing for the same team, working together for the advancement of ponykind. They talked in small, delicate voices, a unique voice to each character. Their speech akin to how a mare of high class and good morals would speak. Occasionally, a battle scarred warrior would be flung away from the chaos created by the colts into the calm of the fillies. They would welcome these beastly brutes into their home and give them food, water, and a bed to sleep in. The stallions would talk in gruff, gravelly voices. (The fillies were at their cutest when they attempted, although rather poorly, to give one of these newcomers a norse accent.) Their speech was akin to how a stallion of bad manner and good musculature would speak. Slowly they would assimilate these bloodthirsty barbarians into their more civilized lifestyle. Their voices would soften, as well as their gestures and actions. They would teach them how to act like proper ponies. Ponies with etiquette and plenty of respect for their feminine counterparts. If it was determined that one of these new members of society had shown enough chivalry towards the mares, they were given a date with a mare of their choice. If things went well, their courtship would continue. Giggling, hoof holding, kissing, fancy dinners, moonlit strolls, and beachside weddings. All in the span of one afternoon.                  It was unbearably cute.                  And somewhat ironic, thought Rarity.                    She shifted from one cuteness to another. Three colts were seated at a table discussing and modifying the intricate contraption in front of them. Scribbles, Rivets, and Gears. Or at least that's what they liked to go by. The three were inseparable. They had held adjacent letters during their greeting, and had sat next to each other during the stories. They were self proclaimed tinkerers, always fiddling with something broken or creating something new entirely out of scraps found (or taken) from around the orphanage. They seemed to be partly responsible for the missing pieces problem. They scavenged bed posts, torn sheets, broken plates and silverware, nails, screws, and even entire wooden boards. It was probably why so many of the missing planks from the outside of the building were within hoofs reach of a foal. How they managed to remove these boards, Rarity had no idea.                  Scribbles was the most imaginative of the group. A pegasus, he spoke with a fluffy, incredibly thick north Bridish accent. So thick that it sometimes became a mystery just what he was trying to say. He had a light beige coat with a fiery red mane, and Rarity could swear that she could already see traces of red fuzz growing on his chin, neck, and upper lip. Everywhere, really. His cutie mark was a yellow notepad, flipped open with a pencil hovering nearby. He was usually tasked with sketching new and interesting things to build. He had a notebook like the one on his flank, every inch filled with fantastic designs, and there always seemed to be a stubby pencil wedged behind one of his ears right above his thick, circle-framed glasses. The design the trio was working on seemed to be one of his custom creations. It looked like...well it was kind of like a...similar to a...a...honestly, Rarity had no idea what it looked like. And as for the purpose of the mechanical monstrosity? She couldn't even begin to imagine.                  Next, there was Rivets. His real name was Pop Rivet, but like so many names given to foals, it was too clunky for any practical use. ('Rivets, mate, drop the pop, eh? No need fur it, yeh? Need to stay hip an cool if you wont to have even a mite chance of finding a mate! ...Mate.'––as Scribbles would often say to him.) And if Scribbles could draw it, then Rivets could build it. He was the most hooves-on pony in the group. A full-bodied earth pony, he had a matte black coat and a mane with the color and consistency of locomotive grease. His colors hid the fact that both were actually almost always covered in real grease. His mark was a crossed hammer and wrench. Most foals found it difficult to use their hooves for anything other than walking. More advanced use almost always left them at a loss, but such was not the case with Rivets. He handled his tools with the skill of an experienced craftspony. It was an impressive feat. Rarity couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Rivets drop something, yet there wasn't a day that went by where Rarity didn't let something clumsily fall from her hooves.         Last, there was Whirring Gears, but like with Rivets, he prefered Gears. If Scribbles could design it, and Rivets could build it, then Gears could make it work––get the gears turning, if you will. His coat was white, but covered in grey splotches of grease. His mane was thick, dark brown, and cut short and neat. Like with scribbles, he also wore a pair of glasses, but his were small and black, rectangular and modern. His face was sculpted and classically handsome. He looked exactly like a pony you might see in one of those Fifties propaganda movies. Where all the ponies are smiling, well fed, and good looking. Where everypony was surrounded by the newest and best in-home appliances, furniture, and technology. A place where everything was just swell. The wife would be in the kitchen, cooking––of course––while the kids fought for a spot at the front window waiting for their daddy, Gears, to come sauntering up the street, sharply dressed with a black fedora upon his head, suitcase swinging at his side. And the stallion of the house would come home from his long days work, kiss his curvaceous, apron-wearing wife and drop his brown suitcase in exchange for his two great kids, a filly and a colt––again, of course. One aspiring to become a high school football captain, and the other... Where was I again? Oh yes, Whirring Gears. His mark was two interlocked grey gears. Gears was responsible for the electrical components of each build, wiring and connecting this to that and that to this. His skill with magic was uncanny for a unicorn of his age. He must have been about as old as Sweetie Belle, yet he could manage several objects at once. His tools would hover around his head like moons to a planet. He was the most serious about his work, and he conducted it with meticulous, almost mechanical precision. He was cute to watch when he got so caught up in what he was doing. His eyes would never leave the thing in front of him, and he would stop only to wipe the sweat from his brow. But sometimes he worried Rarity, working straight through lunch and dinner, or deep into the night if one of his machines failed to start. But as soon as the job was done he would smile and bounce around like any good foal should. Rarity had never seen a foal with such tenacity.                  Rarity had never seen a team with such tenacity. It wasn't all work, of course, but, more often than not, the trio would be toiling away with their newest invention. Checker told Rarity about how useful they were around the orphanage. They would fix broken lamps, mend damaged furniture, and keep all the appliances in the kitchen and laundry room running like clockwork. Free of charge! she would say, giggling. And as a result of their tinkering, they had developed skills beyond their years. Rarity was thoroughly impressed.                  They would make a lovely little bunch of engineers.                  Off to one side of the room a pony sitting in a crumbling director's chair was barking orders through a plastic, red-rimmed megaphone. Four ponies were on the receiving end of his rage. They were cowering behind bed sheets hung to look like stage curtains, dressed in scruffy-looking costumes assembled out of a patchwork of different materials. Sometimes, their costumes were nothing more than quilted blankets thrown around their shoulders, a far cry from the diamond studded masterpieces she had created for her school plays.         The director finally calmed down, he was even wearing a little black beanie to further his sense of absolute superiority over his lowly actors. A few ponies went back and forth on the stage, and then they began to speak. Rarity had hoped to hear their lines from her chair, but their voices were drowned out by the others in the room. She didn't need to hear them to see that the colt on the right was already struggling with his lines. His hoof was twirling in front of him. It was as if he was attempting to pull the words out of the air and into his brain. He stumbled and stuttered and turned red, Rarity could see the sweat pouring off of him. The colt bowed his head in defeat, and at that, the director had had enough. He threw his hooves in the air and hurled his megaphone at his actors. He kicked over the director's chair and smashed his hat into the ground. This time, Rarity could hear what he was saying––he was yelling loud enough for everypony in the room to hear. Rarity hadn't expected the amateur director to have such a colorful vocabulary. The entire room was silent as he stormed away down the stairs, mumbling more under his breath. After he had gone, everypony returned to their activities. The actors were abandoned on the stage, dumbfounded with mouths agape.                  Rarity giggled and moved on to the next group. If she had ever ended up here––god forbid––she would probably be mingling with this set of ponies. The foals were sitting in a small half circle, drawing, painting, and coloring. Their selection of materials was pitiful. They drew with broken crayons, stubby pencils, dry markers, or heavily diluted watercolors. They used anything they could find as canvas. Even paper was a luxury at the orphanage. They filled up activity books, and then filled the margins of those same activity books. They would paint by numbers and wash off the pages to paint them again in another muddy color. They drew on scraps of notebook paper, erased and drew again. Markers were used as nail polish. They would color anything and everything, even each other. The ponies unfortunate enough to have white coats were used as fresh canvas. Everything was drawn on except anything important. They never scrawled on the walls or marked up the floors. The books were free of any wanton graffiti. No drawing was done on furniture or sheets, all the toys were kept nice and neat.         Despite their lack of proper materials, they still managed to create impressive pieces of art. No pathetic little refrigerator drawings were ever done here. The kind that are pinned by flower magnets to the fridge, stuck there by a mother desperate to feed their foal's sense of self-worth. No. These foals had talent. Whenever they finished filling a page they would always come up and present their work to Rarity, and she would always approve. And not in the way that a mother does to a daughter upon being presented with an atrocious artistic atrocity. There was no need for petty lies because their work was actually worthy of merit. She was genuinely impressed.         They were always trying to impress her, no matter what they were doing. They would always share their newest accomplishments with her and argue over her undivided attention. It was nice to know that her opinion was so valued, but sometimes it could become overwhelming. They hounded for her approval like coyotes to the kill. And she was that fresh kill. They circled her with gleaming teeth, ready to fight for every last juicy scrap of approval. Always ruthless. Always relentless in their effort. (Relentlessly adorable.) Today however, they seemed to be keeping mostly to themselves, giving Rarity some much needed time to herself.                  Two foals were seated behind a bed in the corner of the room. They had turned the bed up onto its side and draped a blanket above them in an attempt to create some privacy in the single room of the orphanage. From her seat by the fire, Rarity could sneak peeks into their shelter if she strained her neck. But she chose to respect their need for privacy. Her eyes drifted to the blanket fort. (For the most part.) She pursed her lips and snuck a peek inside. Ruby Dust and Scattershot, she thought as she returned to a sitting position. Ruby Dust was a shapely unicorn filly. Strawberry Red mane and a butter-yellow coat with bright, lime green eyes. She looked an awful lot like Roseluck, Rarity noted. Roseluck was one of her favorite clients to design for. Her colors were gorgeous, and they always proved a beautiful compliment to a beautiful dress. Scattershot, on the other hoof, was a handsome young lad. A strapping and solidly built pegasus colt, his colors were a reversal of Ruby Dust's. Soft red coat and butter-yellow mane, but deep blue eyes instead of green. Excellent Royal Guard material. They were reading a book together, one of the larger and more advanced volumes to be found on the shelves of the orphanage. But they were doing much more giggling than actual reading. Nonetheless they seemed to be enjoying each other's company.         A hoofball landed in Rarity's lap, one that a few of the larger colts had been tossing around. She took it up in her magic and pushed it back their way. They thanked her and continued to play, throwing the pigskin around the room. Pigskin? What a dreadful nickname! Who came up with such a vile term? They ought to be ostracized! I mean, they make those balls from synthetic fibers, not pigskin...right? Rarity followed the ball with her eyes as it sailed back and forth around the orphanage. Then again, Applejack keeps a drove of pigs at her farm, and for what reason? Not milk, or fur, or even for post cessational hides like they do with some of their bovines. And definitely not for meat! Heavens no! But then why keep pigs if they serve no purpose? Perhaps...no no no no no no no Rarity don't be ridiculous! That would be revolting! I don't feel it's right to use any animal product, no matter how it’s taken. I don't care if the animal died of 'natural causes', it just doesn't feel right. And there's just no way that they would be throwing around...no, just no.                  Rarity never had much interest in professional sports, especially the dirty, high-contact ones. They were much too rough and messy for her tastes. However, she did enjoy a good, honest game of tennis or golf from time to time. Especially golf, mostly because it gave her a chance to dress in trendy, tight-fitting sportswear. The kind that all the tour professionals would wear. She was quite good, at least for a casual player. She treated each shot like she did one of her finely crafted and unique suits or dresses. One of a kind and shaped to perfection. But even she enjoyed a good display of boorish masculinity from time to time; however, she didn't need to watch professional athletes to get her fix. She had an ace in the hole, the town's big, red, local farmpony. The sexual imbalance in Ponyville was astounding, almost two mares to every stallion, and sometimes the mares would get a little needy, especially in the spring and summer months. When things started to heat up. Rarity giggled at the thought. They would spy on him, shamefully hiding in the bushes in the hills overlooking the farm, or if you were lucky enough to be a pegasus, you could drift along on a cloud which would provide an even more complete view. And more privacy too. The best time to spy was during the early spring months. There was plowing to be done and the soil was still partially frozen––it would take more effort to till the fields. 'It's been a cold spring so far', the mares would joke, 'bring your popcorn and refreshments! Dig out your lawn chairs, we're up for a good show!' Rarity shook her head in disgust. And some of them would actually bring these items. With so many mares coming at once, there was no doubt that he had caught on to them.                  Then why doesn't he confront any of us? thought Rarity, Oh! But maybe he likes to be watched? That stud. Mmm. Maybe he likes being watched when he's breaking through a fresh row in the field, making it look so easy even though it's so damn hard, struggling against his harness, hooves digging into the earth slowly advancing him across the field, plow tearing through the ground close behind, eyes intense and focused, undeterred by strain and fatigue, muscles bulging like armored plates, body smeared with dirt and glistening with the sweat of impossible exertion, taking short and ragged breaths, legs thrusting, grunting and groaning and moaning and-                  Rarity kicked herself. Her cheeks were rosy red and she felt hot. She fanned herself desperately. It felt like somepony had turned off the A.C. (That would have been a convenient excuse, except that the orphanage had no air conditioning.) She scooted her chair away from the fire while she continued to fan herself. She tried to return her attention to the colts, but visions of red kept filling her mind.                  A few colts were throwing a hoofball around the room, the ones who were naturally gifted with athleticism and good hoof-eye coordination. Again, Rarity was impressed by the foals. The ease in which the colts would handle the ball was incredible. Using magic or flight in professional sports wasn’t allowed. Athletes needed to get by using nothing but their hooves to catch, throw, run, skate, swing, etc. But she could barely hold a cup of coffee in her hooves without dropping it––scores of cups and plates had met their doom in her kitchen, dashed upon the cruel squares of sparkling linoleum––and yet these colts could handle the ball with such ease! They almost never dropped a pass or overthrew a teammate, but when they did, it almost always caused chaos. The ball, when dropped, would obliterate an enemy fortress, ruin an otherwise perfect date, nearly destroy a carefully crafted contraption, cause an actor to botch his or her lines, smudge a masterpiece in the making, or interrupt a joke being told to a friend.                  The colts would offer hasty, red-faced apologies before continuing their play. It was the nature of their game, and the space they were given to play. During the day, they were allowed to go outside to play, but only when either Checker or Tenderhoof was able to watch them––wouldn't want one of the more adventurous foals wandering off. (Or running away.) Thus they were forced to play indoors. In and amongst the other groups of fillies and colts.                  The fillies and the colts. The foals. Her smile fell and she went weak. A darkness began to creep deep down inside. She looked around at the children in the room, each one outstanding in their field. She saw in them, the future, the best that the world had to offer. Each with hopes and dreams, aspirations and life that they hoped to live. She saw those who wanted to create, those who wanted to perform, those who wanted to play, those who wanted to make the world a better place, those who wanted to dream, and those who simply wanted to live happily ever after. And none of it mattered.                  Victims of fate, their dreams were struck down before they even had a chance to see the world for what it could be. They knew only its cruelty and unfairness. Their precious innocence, lost too soon after it had been granted. They were still children. They still behaved like children. They smiled and skipped and laughed and joked like all children do, but that was only when there was something to distract them from inconvenient truth. They lived in an orphanage and they were the orphans.                  What happened when the day was done and everything had gone quiet? When they were lying in bed. What was it they thought about as they lay there, unable to find sleep? While the wind buffets the orphanage. While the last embers of the fire die out, leaving them to shiver underneath mounds of tattered blankets. While tears collect at the corners of their eyes. Laying there, shivering, in the starless dark of night. Such impossible questions for a foal to answer, yet they found a way, an impossible way. Somehow, they managed to understand it.                  There was never enough of anything because the big ponies up at Canterlot only gave so much money to orphanages every month. The money they gave out was never enough. They were forced to live in poverty while other ponies were free to squander away their wealth without a second thought. They survived off of donations from generous ponies and charities. They understood why they were here and who they were. They were orphans, they lived in an orphanage. They were here because their parents either died or abandoned or abused them. And because there was no one left who could care for them––no one left who could love them––they were placed in an orphanage. They were to wait at the orphanage until somepony came to adopt them, or until they got transfered to a foster family, or until you turned eighteen. In which case you were released. But you could always run away if you couldn't bear to wait that long. They were orphans, they lived in an orphanage.         They were victims of fate, and they accepted it. And as soon as they accepted it they would roll over in their beds and stop shivering. The tears would dry from their eyes and they would sleep.         And despite all this, Rarity knew no finer group of foals. Their lack of privilege had made them strong and mature and tough and smart. It was their terrible situation that allowed them to do such impressive things. They were tortured by their understanding of the world. All of them were intelligent, talented, and persistent, but they were also confused, cynical, sometimes dismal, and even scared. Rarity would see it in their eyes. See it when they abruptly stopped playing, suddenly aware of themselves, remembering why they were here and who they were. They would stare into space, blank expressions with cold, worried eyes. Rarity would see it, and her heart would break every time. They would be brought back by one of their friends and continue to play, like nothing happened. Shoving any and all upsetting thoughts to the back of their minds to be thought about later when they were lying in bed, shivering under mounds of tattered blankets. Their greatest burden had become their greatest blessing. It was The. Worst. Possible. Thing. And Rarity meant it with every bit of seriousness in the world.                  More tears, Rarity thought. They were beginning to well in her eyes, making her vision blurry.The foals were oblivious to her emotions as they continued to play. She sniffled and wiped away a few stray drops, but she knew she wouldn't be able to stop the sobbing that was on it's way.                  "Dinner's ready!"                  Tenderhoof was calling from the stairs, his deep voice shaking the entire building. The foals cheered, before hopping up and rushing down the stairs, filing in behind Tenderhoof as he led his troops to the dining room. She smiled as they hurried away. Her eyes began to droop as she remembered how tired she was. She had never gotten a chance for that nap that she so much desired. Now seemed like the perfect time to have it, now that everything was quiet. She closed her eyes and settled into the rocking chair, getting herself as comfortable as possible. She sighed and drifted off into a deep and peaceful sleep.