//------------------------------// // A Letter // Story: Secret Agent Macintosh: Whispers // by islandsun //------------------------------// Chapter One A Letter Ponyville was never a very interesting place, at first glance. It was just another town, with normal towny things to deal with. Not too far from Canterlot, and not too slow, just rather normal. Then of course there was the whole ordeal with Nightmare Moon and the Elements of Harmony and the rest is history. But even after that ruckus, it looked and felt like a normal town. As long as you stayed away from people like Pinkie Pie or Twilight Sparkle, a pony could carry on without having to deal with too much surprise or chaos. They might even miss an Ursa Minor rampaging through the market, or if they tried exceptionally hard, they could even miss the great Parasprite infestation. There were many unusual happenings, almost too many to count. As normal as the town of Ponyville appeared on the surface, it would always turn into an unbelievable culmination of coincidence and oddity if any pony was too look deeper. And there was one pony, only one, who was just like that town. A stallion who knew so many secrets, knew times that should be far beyond him, a stallion who fraternized with royalty and had seen far more than he should of, yes, he and that town were very similar. They both worked very hard, endlessly so, and they both appeared like they would never give up. An idea that seemed to be hard at work this very day, on the edge of Ponyville, in a dirt field. Big Macintosh plowing the ground, like he often did, with an air of resoluteness and strength about him as he did so. It was hot out, too hot too early, and Big Mac decided to assume that the Weather Pegasi must have made some sort of mistake. He was sweating mostly from the heat, but also from the exertion he must have done a million times before. Sometimes Applejack would help him, but she was with her friends today, like she was more and more often these days. He told her that she could go. Still, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking that he wanted her here, with him. That was how he always wanted it, to be with her. No matter if it was in this heat, trudging through dry earth that would get on their hooves and coats. Big Mac grunted as he hit a particularly tough patch of dirt. Maybe she would come back soon. That would be nice, he thought. A different kind of thought entered his mind, one which had been nagging him for a long time. He hated those thoughts, and how they stuck to the back of his mind so often. So instead, he thought about the other, also loathsome thought that plagued his mind lately. Well, “loathsome” wasn’t quite so accurate. The truth was he was split on the topic. On one hoof it was what he had been waiting for so long, hoping that he would finally be able to have an adventure again. On the other hoof, he had been dreading it. The letter came in the mail exactly one week ago. It had no return address but he knew exactly who the sender was. He put off opening it for as long as he could; instead he held it in his hoof as he propped up the mailbox Derpy broke upon the delivery. He opened it when he was alone in his room, his hooves shaking as he read it. Yet, he was able to breathe a sigh of relief when he was done; all it told him to do was be prepared. He had almost laughed at that. He had been prepared for the past year! But there was something in the tone that gave him an ominous feel, something was definitely going to happen again, and it was going to happen soon. “We might need your help, in the future. When the time comes, will you help us, for Princess and Country?” asked the blue stallion. Big Macintosh sighed, trying to push that memory out of his mind as well. It seemed there was nothing he liked to think about lately. So instead of thinking he concentrated on his work: the plowing. Just pure physical labor to get his mind off of things. Big Macintosh was nothing if not a farm stallion. He worked, day after day, for the family, for the farm, for the apples, and he worked hard. There were many ponies, far too many, that thought he was stupid, because he never talked. But there is a thing that ponies do, when they don’t talk. They think. And there was rarely a pony in all of Equestria who thought as much as he did. Equally there was not a pony in all of Equestria alive who thought as poor about Big Macintosh as Big Macintosh did. In his own opinion he was a horrible stallion. A weak thing, not by the physical standards that all the mares of Ponyville seemed to compare him to, but in every other aspect, he was simply weak. When Applejack left for Canterlot, he cried, every day until she came back, or the time she told him that she was not coming back to Ponyville, or seemingly, every time she was away. He was weak for snuggling with that weird ragdoll at night. Farming was his life. And so was Applejack. In Big Macintosh’s opinion there was no mare more beautiful or more innocent than his sister dearest. He felt the tug again. It made him angry after he felt it. Then sad. A year ago he was injured, and Applejack wore herself ragged trying to buck all the apples. That made him feel sad too, but in those days there were so many things that made him feel sad. He tried to do what chores that Granny Smith gave him, but they could only occupy him so much. So he tried his hoof at writing to keep himself occupied. He wrote, and he drew a little bit too, about all the marvelous things that he had seen. All the secrets he found. The times that he kept hidden from even Applejack and all of Ponyville. All his guilt, prides, and even a few stories all in a little journal of his own. All the while he put on the best stoic face he could for everypony else. He couldn’t show them how he felt. He told himself, during those dark times, “Big Mac, if you ever loved them then you wouldn’t burden them, not with this.” He kept the journal, the secret one, in his wardrobe, where he kept almost all his secrets. It may have seemed a little bit unsecure to other ponies, but he didn’t trust another place to hide those dirty things. Of course, he also had a wardrobe in his wardrobe, but most of the clothes belonged to his Grandfather, Johnny Smith, and he didn’t wear them very often. Although…he had found himself trying them on more often lately. He planned to wear those clothes if he was indeed called back. And so they become as just as bad a reminder as that stupid letter. He knew that he would have to go back eventually, somewhere in the back of his mind. He would have to see more amazing things, and more atrocities. But more importantly, he would have to leave Applejack. Maybe he would be forced to do more bad and dirty things. His mind was made up on the issue a long time ago. He would do it if it would protect her. Big Macintosh found himself tearing up as those horrid thoughts burned through his mind. He felt as though he would break down…any moment now. Suddenly something distracted him. A loud crunch and a jarring impact. He glanced back, almost relieved by the good distraction. The plow had broken. Slowly he unhitched himself from the contraption, and then lightly kicked the edge of it. “Buck it,” he said out loud, trying to hold up some semblances of anger for the accident which would no doubt cause him a collection of normal irritations. “Big Mac!” called out a voice from behind him. He turned around, surprised to see Applejack trotting towards him. It appeared that Big Mac was acting perfectly normal as he waited for his sister to meet him, but the truth was that he was frozen, and he was staring at her. How her blonde hair always seemed to fall in exactly the right way, her green eyes always seemed to be bright, and her light coat and apple cutie mark always seemed to be what his eyes were begging to see. Oh how beautiful she was! To him everything seemed so perfect about her. But, he often had to remind himself that beneath and within Applejack was just as beautiful, the very essence of Honesty as the world came to know her and the kind and strong mare that Big Mac loved. He surprised himself that he allowed the thought to break through while he was in her presence. He did love Applejack, and in more ways that he could ever let her know. “Howdy there Applejack,” he finally managed to say. She was smiling, obviously she had a good time with her friends. “Yeah, Howdy to you to. I got a letter for you. A little bit odd though, no return address. Oh, and Derpy broke the mailbox again,” Applejack told him. Big Macintosh blinked. He ignored the compulsion to look to the ground in self-pity and shame. So it really was time then. Doing his best not to hesitate, he accepted the letter and stuck it in between his yoke and his neck. He knew that it would be sweaty and damp when he tried to read it, but he didn’t care. Reading it wasn’t going to be a pleasant experience anyway. “Thanks a bundle Applejack. As ya’ can see the plow is broke, you go ahead to the house, I’ll drag it up to the barn,” he said. “Ah, nonsense Big Mac, you’ve been working all day and I ‘avn’t even seen ya! I’ll do it and we can walk together,” she objected. Big Mac had intentions to resist, and take it up anyway, but she was already grabbing it. He smiled to himself. “How was the day out?” asked Big Macintosh. Applejack burst into all the details, about Twilight’s schedule for optimal amounts of fun per hour, and Rarity accidentally slipping into a puddle, with some equally accidental involvement on the part of Pinkie Pie. Big Macintosh listened intently as he walked by her side, only giving her an Eeyup, or N-nope when it was needed. It was only after the broken plow was pushed into the barn that Big Macintosh spoke up to his sister. “Hey, Applejack,” he said. “Yeah?” she asked, stopping. “I…I just wanted to say that I loved you,” he said to her, allowing himself just this once to say it. After all, not even he knew what was going to happen after he read the letter. He Walked close enough to his dearest Applejack for their coats to brush. He nuzzled her gently. For some reason Applejack blushed at the sudden display of affection. “Well…thank you kindly Big Mac, I love you too.” She spoke as his sister, but he didn’t care. He would cherish those words until the day that he died. “Eeeyup,” he said to no one in particular before they both entered their house. Just as he expected, the dinner prepared was wonderful, delicious, warm, and normal. He didn’t talk very much throughout it, even receiving the scolding from Granny Smith without uttering more than three words. She went off on how in her day Johnny would have found a way to fix the problem with a ball of yarn and a screwdriver. But just like all things that ponies enjoy, the dinner ended far too quickly. As there was nothing left to be done for the farm, the family, or the apples, he was forced to retire to his bedroom. He gave one last fleeting glance at Applejack, who was standing downstairs, before he closed the door behind him. He was left all alone in his dimly lit room. Sighing, he took off his yoke, and brought out the wrinkled letter in front of him so that he could stare. Don’t worry, if it’s a letter, then it’s nothing catastrophic, but I promise that I won’t send for your help unless the situation is dire,” the blue stallion had told him. He couldn’t help but sigh one more time before he opened the letter, his hooves shaking just like before. His eyes grew wide and his throat whimpered as he saw what lay inside. 51-93-59-0-45 Nine numbers, his summons. Big Macintosh closed his eyes tightly, so hard that it hurt. “Pull yourself together, stallion,” he muttered to himself. “Everything will be alright.” But suddenly, he rejected that idea. “No!” he whispered sternly. “You will be more than alright, you understand, you will be bucking brilliant!” He stood to his hooves defiantly and trotted over to his wardrobe, opening it without any sign of hesitation. He grabbed the suit first, his grandfather’s suit, and with a near comical fury he put it on. It was a dark and black thing, complete with a grey vest, and a slick black bowtie. Last, he put on the old brown coat, untouched since the death of old Grandpa Smith. Some of his knickknacks were still in his pockets, but Big Mac decided not to mess with them. Finally, he diverted his attention to the box at the very bottom of his wardrobe. Swallowing once, he quickly tapped in the combination to make it open, revealing something that Big Macintosh could only describe as revolting. Something that didn’t belong to him, but rather to a dead pony. The blue stallion and the dead pony had called it a vortex manipulator, a tiny little device that strapped to his ankle and was encased in a cool black material. Big Mac forced his hooves to take the horrid thing and strap it to his ankle. It gave him shivers when it was on. He then turned back to the letter, and trying to follow the old instructions as best he could, typed in the numbers that were sent to him into his Vortex Manipulator. Big Macintosh looked at himself in the mirror. He looked so strange. Almost like some kind of secret agent that came from a film. He found that he liked it a little. “Oh that’s right,” he whispered to himself. He was going to Canterlot, he knew that it wouldn’t be himself if he tried to talk the way they did, but…he didn’t want to make a fool of himself around those ponies. Especially one in particular. “Purple pocket pants in a poor paced plight of prancing pilot piles,” he repeated the odd tongue twister several times before moving on to, “Three Trotting Tailors Tied Twenty Tabby Timed Tables in a Triangle.” The sun was long set by the time he was satisfied. He took a deep breath, and picked up a letter he had written before he walked out his door, knowing that he had one last thing to do before he left. He trotted on the tips of his hooves, careful to not make a single noise that would wake a single soul. He placed his own hoof written letter on the kitchen table and then slowly opened the back door, making sure it did not creak. From there he broke into a gallop, seemingly fleeing from everything he loved in that darkness. He galloped and galloped and galloped, never stopping until he reached another secret place. The place was hidden behind a growth of brambles not far from one of their apple orchards. There lay Big Macintosh’s greatest grievance, the thing he hated most in the entire world other than himself. The inscription on the wooden marker read as thus. Here lies the body of Captain John Hart: a pony who once trotted in eternity Big Mac stared at it with guilt. He was a dirty pony because of what he did. Those memories burned within his mind: the memories of the pony he killed. The deceased wasn’t a good pony, far from it, but he was still a life that Big Macintosh crushed with a swift kick from his hind hooves. And it was because of that wretched pony that Big Macintosh hated himself more than any other pony alive. He remembered what the blue stallion had said. “When the time comes, will you help us, for Princess and Country?” “No,” he declared to himself. “For Applejack.” He activated the vortex manipulator, and disappeared.