//------------------------------// // Chapter 1 // Story: The Trottingham Gutters // by meoaim //------------------------------// Her hooves skidded against the cobbles as she galloped down the street. The little filly dashed through the crowd, feeling the chill autumn wind whip against her purple mane and dig into the orange fur that covered her scrawny frame. Her eyes registered the faces of surprised shopkeepers and pedestrians as she ducked and weaved through crowds of ponies. A small pair of wings lay flat against her sides. Not for the first time, the filly wished that she could simply take to the air, but her tiny, stunted wings did not give her the natural pegasus gift of flight. Behind her, wearing a face contorted in anger, a finely dressed, black-maned stallion pursued her across the road. He was driven to catch her and it seemed nothing was going to stop him. His target’s dexterity let her weave through the crowds with ease, but he simply barreled through anypony not quick enough to get out of his way. “Get back here, child!” the stallion said, managing to get across the thick, condescending accent of a noble-blooded pony even as he gasped for breath. One only had to look at his clothes to verify that he was one of the privileged members of the Trottingham elite. He wore a clean cotton shirt, a pressed dress jacket and a black well-to-do bowler. Unfortunately, his attire was not doing him any favors as he ran towards the filly. Scootaloo grunted through her teeth as she picked up speed. She knew why this noble was chasing after her. In her mouth she held the stallion’s coin purse. Judging from the sounds of the coinage inside, it was probably going to be the best haul she had gotten all month. “Unhand my pouch this instant!” the stallion yelled. Scootaloo rolled her eyes and quickly rounded a corner to gain some ground on her pursuer. She noticed, just in time, a fruit vendor’s stall right in front of her path. Scootaloo acted quickly. She leapt forward, effortlessly passing over the rows of fruit for sale and drawing out a gasp of surprise from the mare watching the produce. The stallion was nowhere near as agile as the filly. He slipped against the cobbles and slammed hard against the side of the stall. Pears, apples and plums splatted against the ground, causing a fierce verbal assault to issue forth from the salespony. The stallion’s mind was more focused on keeping his balance and catching the now rapidly escaping filly. He kept on galloping, just barely managing to keep her in view. He was lucky the little thief was apparently flightless. Otherwise, his earth pony self would stand no chance at catching up. Scootaloo dashed forward as fast as she could. She knew that, compared to other ponies, she didn’t have much speed. But that didn’t really matter when you knew the terrain as well as she did. Past the buildings racing by her, Scootaloo spied a multitude of tall, angular silhouettes. She grinned; she was close to the Stacks. They were the closest thing that Trottingham had to ruins, and the closest thing Scootaloo had to a home. It was filled with dangerous, crumbling buildings that stretched far up into the sky. Most ponies called it a deathtrap, but if you knew your way around it, it was a great place to live. Most of the time. This stubborn stallion wouldn’t dare follow her there. None of the “proper” ponies ever went down into the Stacks. Still rushing down the wide market streets, Scootaloo suddenly turned and dove into a nearby alley. It seemed random, but Scootaloo knew better. The alley was the quickest and nearest route to get from the markets to the Stacks.  After several more minutes of running, Scootaloo cautiously slowed down to a trot. Her ears picked up only the sound of her own hooves and the gentle creaking and crumbling of the decrepit structures that surrounded her. Like all her previous marks, her pursuer must have heard what happened to ponies who went into the Stacks and wisely decided that a bag of bits wasn’t worth his life. Her hooves finally stopped. She let the bit bag drop from her mouth and clink against the ground. She felt the adrenaline in her fade let herself smile. She had been so nervous about stealing, back when she had just started; taking from other ponies had rubbed her the wrong way. But it was like what her sister had told her a long time ago: If you weren’t willing to take, the world wasn’t willing to give. Scootaloo undid the strings of the bag and the glitter of coins greeted her eyes. It seemed the stallion wasn’t just well off, he was positively loaded. This wasn’t just the most she’d make all month; this was the best catch she’d seen all year. Scootaloo’s mouth watered. She pictured a dazzling array of cakes, sweets, and cupcakes which she would soon be able to enjoy. She wouldn’t even be fishing them out of a dumpster! Her reverie was short lived, however, as an unexpected sound suddenly broke through to her perception. “There you are m’dear.” said a polite, masculine voice which was very nearly right behind her. Scootaloo’s head turned just enough to catch a glimpse of the stallion whom she had thought she lost mere moments before. The stallion’s eyes were smoothly trained on her. His appearance was a little worse for wear: sweat drenched his fancy clothes and his hat had been lost somewhere along the way. If Scootaloo was any judge, this appeared to be one determined pony. He charged straight down the alley. Scootaloo didn’t waste any time. She scooped up the bit bag and bolted away from the enraged stallion. This was weird. Nopony had ever tried to follow her into the Stacks. Maybe he was stupid or something? Regardless, there was one surefire way to lose him, even if he was crazy enough to follow her. “Slow down, child!” the stallion entreated. “While I am slightly cross at your filthy behavior, I only wish to reacquire my belongings! Afterwards, we may both go about our business!” Scootaloo didn’t say a word as she led him further into the Stacks. She was nearly there. She just needed to go a little bit further. Her dexterous hooves glided on the pavement, as she performed a hairpin turn and made her way into a very thin and claustrophobic passageway. The stallion followed, smashing against the opposite wall as he struggled to copy the thief’s maneuver. He soldiered through it. It was only a matter of time before he caught up to her. The filly may have had more agility, but he had his earth pony endurance. He galloped into the alley. To his distaste he found it was a tight squeeze; brickwork flanked him with barely two inches of space on either side. Still, he had seen what was up ahead. It seemed that this young cutpurse had just run herself into a- Dead end. “I have you now.” they both thought simultaneously. She gently slowed to a stop, as the alley terminated in an abrupt wall of shoddy masonry and flaking stone. Very carefully, she managed to turn her body around in the cramped quarters and faced towards her pursuer. The stallion also slowed. He looked at Scootaloo with an expression of relief and took a moment to catch his breath. “It would appear you have trapped yourself, child,” he said, no trace of malice in his voice. He stepped forward until he was just short of Scootaloo’s small frame and gave her a gentle smile. “Now, if you would just be so kind as to hand back my property,” he said, extending a hoof. “we may go our separate ways.” Scootaloo eyes scanned over the stallion’s body. Fit, but not too fit; probably not used to sudden movements. It was the perfect scenario. She nodded before speaking, “Alriffht,” the bag in her mouth garbling her speech. “You gotsch me.” With a small “plyeh” sound she spat the bag onto the cobbles, not quite close enough for the stallion to reach. “I know when a pony’s cornered.” “Good,” the stallion chipperly replied. “It is pleasant to see one’s lessers act in such a reasonable manner.” He gave Scootaloo another warm smile and let it drop when Scootaloo did not return it. “But yes, if you would just return my belongings, m’dear.” He motioned his hoof back and forth. Scootaloo let her ears droop ever so slightly and subtly flexed her wings, working out the kinks. She kept her eyes fixed to the bag, not making eye contact with the stallion. “Alright, mister. But I don’t suppose you’d be willing to take pity on a poor, hungry foal and just let me have the bag?” Her voice sounded meek and faltering. At least, she hoped it did; it had taken weeks of practice to get it just right. “I think whatever pity I may have possessed evaporated when you made off with my pouch,” the stallion replied. “Though if you are truly in need, there are several houses for the poor. I would be more than happy to direct you to them,” as he spoke his tone dipped. This was taking entirely too long, and the trapped filly seemed far too calm given the circumstances. The looming buildings and his current, cramped situation screamed at him to get out of there as quickly as possible. Scootaloo heard the stallion’s honeyed words. But her sisters had told her all about the poorhouses. She was never going to step hoof in them for as long as she lived. Her eyes still glued to the ground, she continued, “Really? There are houses for ‘lesser’ ponies like myself? I had no idea there was a place for me.” There was a small pop from Scootaloo’s back. Her wings gently fanned out. The stallion didn’t notice. “It’s true, child. I know of just the place.” he dipped his head lower, in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “I can show you right where it is.” Scootaloo slowly tilted her head up and appeared to return the stallion’s smile. His neck still dipped low, he gave a couple of quick nods. “You will be able to leave these filthy buildings behind you and we will find you place where you will do some good. So just give me back my pouch and everything will be al-” Without any warning, Scootaloo smacked her right hoof into the coin bag in front of her. The bag slid through the legs of the stallion, coming to a stop several feet beyond him. The stallion’s muzzle tilted to watch the bag slide past him. He turned his head back up just in time to see a tiny hind leg heading straight towards his forehead. Wings buzzing furiously, Scootaloo impacted the distracted noble’s head. He let out a shocked “Hrrk!”, as her hoof made contact in the center of his face. The sudden weight caused the stallion’s chin to smash against the ground. He cried out in pain. Scootaloo extended her hind leg and leapt off, her wings providing just enough lift to propel her right in front of the bag of coins. She swiveled her head back and took in the sight of the groaning stallion. “Like I said, I know when a pony’s cornered,” she quipped, her voice resuming it’s usual high-pitched and scratchy candor. “And right now, you seem pretty cornered.” She scooped up the pouch with a happy smirk. The stallion blinked dazedly, trying to regain his bearings. He rubbed his sore chin. “That was quite painful...” he growled. He was still facing the now vacant dead end where the little thief had been, moments before. He prepared to turn and resume his chase, but it only took a second for him to realize a simple fact of the cramped passage: it was too tight for him to turn around in. The filly’s small size had allowed her to turn around and perform her little trick, but his larger size simply wouldn’t allow it. Scootaloo watched with satisfaction as the large (and in her opinion, rather stupid) pony thrashed against the brick walls. “You...” the embarrassed noble began. “You little rat! How dare you trick me! Return to me the goods that are rightfully mine, or I swear your life will become very unpleasant!” Lacking any other options, the stallion started to slowly back out of the long corridor, a task hindered by his lack of posterior vision. Scootaloo could barely contain her laughter at the threats coming from the slowly advancing hindquarters. He could certainly talk, but she was going to be long gone by the time he managed to worm his way out from where he was stuck. She transferred her ill-gotten gains from her mouth to her back. “Oh, I’m real scared,” she mocked. “I just love ponies like you: deep pockets and the brains of a brick!” The stallion’s face reddened. “You don’t even understand the importance of what you have taken from me, you foolish urchin!” He grunted in frustration as his flank lightly clipped the bricks at his side. “You think you’re better than me? Just ‘cause you speak fancy doesn’t make you any less of an idiot who ran right into a trap! You and your type are so full of yourselves!” she sneered. “Just keep on thinking I’m some type of worse pony, just cause I wasn’t born in a golden stable! I’m gonna make better use of this money than you ever would!” With that, the filly flicked her tail and stuck out her tongue. The gestures went unseen by the struggling stallion, but Scootaloo didn’t really care. She checked to make sure her recent acquisition was safely balanced on her back, then smartly trotted away. He had only gotten halfway out when he could no longer make out the echoes of the filly’s footsteps. He had underestimated her, letting his concern for those beneath his station cloud his judgement. Still, this was, at most, only a setback. This uncultured, little gutter filly, whatever her name was, was not going to get away so easily. It was absolutely crucial that he retrieved his property. After all, his current failure notwithstanding, how difficult could it be to track down one orphan foal? -------------------------------------------------- “You lousy varmints!” The sturdy, orange mare with the blonde mane yelled and shook her hoof furiously as the black maned stallion sped off. It was no use. He was already out of earshot amidst the shouts of the other marketplace hawkers. “When I find you, you’re payin’ for every last pound ah produce!” She yelled again, but she knew it wasn’t going to do her any good. The orange mare, wearing a stylish stetson, surveyed the squashed produce that had so recently tumbled from her stand. Most of it was ruined, which deepened the frown on the freckled mare’s face. Her family depended on her to bring in the bits, at least while her brother was still looking for work. But how was she supposed to sell bruised pears and crushed apples? The mare’s name was Applejack. She and her big brother and little sister had moved into Trottingham not more than six months ago. Adjusting to a new life in the city had been difficult for everyone, but they had to move where the money was. Her cutie mark, three delicious red apples, marked her special talent for farming, but the closest thing she could find to farming in a city was working the fruit stands. She didn’t even grow what she sold anymore, the entire situation, well... It was a load of horse-apples. If you could pardon the language. That stallion had been chasing after that little filly – the one with an orange coat, just like hers , and a purple mane. Applejack had seen her stalking around the market before, occasionally buying but mostly just idling around. She had never taken the little one for a pickpocket, but that seemed the most likely explanation for the way she was being chased like a sheep in a wolf den. It was a shame really, but Applejack would need to report her to the proper authorities. Soon as she figured where exactly the proper authorities were, in this place. She’d always prided herself on trying to make an honest living. It just wouldn’t sit right with her if that filly continued her dishonest activities. Especially if those activities led to angry ponies crashing into her stand. Anywho, her future plans could wait for the more pressing matter of rescuing the day’s profits. Piling up what little she could salvage from the remains of the fruit back onto her stand, she plodded back behind her stand to her post. “Get your fresh fruit here!” Applejack yelled. “Slightly bruised and somewhat used! Special clearance price, fillies and gentlecolts!”