//------------------------------// // An apple a day keeps the Crusaders at play // Story: From the Big Apple: A Tale of Misadventure and Affection // by Nurse Bedpan //------------------------------// “Real life is often stranger than fiction” – it’s an old adage you’ve heard tossed around ever so often. It isn’t hard to understand at all; it’s simply a rare sight unless you’re out there looking for it. If a few hundred miles from home doesn’t count as “out there,” you don’t know what will. “Strange” is not the most appropriate word for your situation either – suspended in the air along with three fillies, each with their own looks of fear, shock, and surprise, as your experiment came to a loud screeching bang. No, it’s not very easy to explain your current situation, much less put it into words. Odd; although, your day didn’t start out mundane to begin with. ================================================================================= The castle looms in the distance, its skull-like façade appearing ominous against the stormy sky. Sword clenched firmly in your teeth, you stride forward, pushing your aching hooves into the bloodied sands. Your foes stood little chance against your mighty blade, getting cut down with a single strike. Their maws opened as if to scream, but no sounds came forth from their zombie throats. The fight, while not particularly taxing, was incredibly long and tedious. Your body felt as if it had been constricted in heavy chains. Your recent hardships are not astonishing – the evil wizard Copper Cauldron is a known coward and a trickster. Why, you can still remember your prolonged encounter with his dimwitted minion Shock Jock. If anything at all, you have been expecting far more devious deviltry from this fiend… No sooner had you reached the great stone face of the castle; you were suddenly caught in a whirling, suffocating dervish of unseen might. “Fool! Did you really think you could defeat me with a paltry sword and your injudicious chivalry?,” comes a booming voice from behind the lowering drawbridge. You gnash your teeth as Copper Cauldron reveals himself, seated on an ominous throne of black making with his vile magicks leaking from his eyes and horn. A golden chain is wrapped around his left front hoof, entangled around a figure shrouded by the castle’s darkness. “Now that you have been entrapped in the forces of my invisible Lemon Leviathan, you can forfeit any chance of saving your precious Queen!” As the unseen evil continues to smother you, you see the mad warlock tug on his thrall’s chain, pulling her into view. Her muddied coat and partially tattered mane do little to change your opinion – she looks as beautiful as the day you made her acquaintance. Your resolve cracks when your eyes meet, however – as your breath slows to a crawl, the last image burned into your mind is her tears flowing freely… “I’m sorry I left you…” It’s your last thought as the ground around you begins to shake… ================================================================================= “Honey, get me some warm milk, our nephew’s having a nightmare,” exclaims a new voice. It’s matronly and oddly calm, despite the situation. Top Brass and Lemon Drops have you at their mercy and the best this mare could do was ask Uncle Carrot to get you some… “Wait, wha…? Who? Where? How?” Looking at the foot of your bed, you see the twin foals playing with a yellow, blue-striped ball; they’re being immensely spirited, smacking the toy between them via headbutts, mouth chucks, and hoof-throws. The ground wasn’t shaking; rather, it was, but it wasn’t the ground… Rubbing the last flecks of sleep from your eyes, you sit up to survey the room you are in. You are still in Ms. Pie’s room, the only changes being the now slept-in bed you are on and a newly propped up folding table to your right side. A thick-set earth pony mare is standing at the doorway talking to a lanky, yellow stallion. Turning around, she reveals her cutie mark, an iced pink cupcake with a cherry on top, and a worried looking Carrot Cake behind the door frame. Her shaped magenta mane and blue coat contrast her heavily with your uncle, as does her short stocky build. She is wearing a yellow, pink-frilled apron. She walks over to you, tray in mouth, bearing a small plate of toast and a tall glass of what you assume is warm milk. Putting the tray down on the table, the mare greets you by name in that same gentle voice you had heard earlier. Seeing as you are now no longer in any perceived danger, your mood and breathing has evened out significantly. You smile in return and thank her for the treat. Tipping the glass into your mouth, you feel her rub a hoof on your back. “That’s right - tuck in, dear. The milk will help calm you down. We had decided to let you sleep in today, but then you started groaning and thrashing in bed. We were so worried…” She is right – the milk going down your throat warms you up significantly, slowing your scattered thoughts and allowing you to completely regain your bearings. Your brain starts to put everything back into place. Your hooves ached only because you had slept on them wrong. Your frozen body and suffocation are explained by the haphazardly wrapped covers around your barrel and forehooves. Copper Cauldron, Top Brass, was never here – he was probably back in Manehattan, throwing his weight around like usual. Babs is safe with her family too. “My name is Cupcake, but you can call me Auntie Cee. Now finish up and come on downstairs. Your uncle tells me you have plans for the day, right? You’d best get to it before your run out of daylight!” Aunt Cupcake scoops up your cousins and trots happily towards the door, leaving it slightly open for you to step through. Biting into your toast, you hear two voices growing fainter and fainter and the clattering of hooves as the family heads back downstairs. Starting to feel more relaxed, you recall Miss Rarity’s instructions the day prior. “Sweet Apple Acres, east of Carousel Boutique. A clearing behind the main house.” You should be heading there as soon as possible, you think – it’s not wise to push your curfew in a strange place. You hadn’t given much thought on waking up early today, given yesterday’s rather exhausting events. Helping to reorganize an entire library along with an owl and a dragon resembling a childhood hero of yours, followed by a grueling fitting session and one of the most emotional retellings you could ever muster. Popping the entire second square of toast in your hungry mouth, you hop down onto the hardwood floor and make your way towards the door. You turn back for a few seconds, before deciding to leave your trusty fedora on the bedside. Taking things too seriously does not work very well in the laid-back berg you’ve taken yourself too and the hat serves as a reminder of that. Your eyepatch is still stuck firmly over your left eye, ensuring a complete and speedy recovery by the time you make your way back home. Entering the serving lobby of SugarCube Corner, you spot the Cakes dashing around in a speedy, organized manner, getting their shop cleaned up after the lunch time rush. Your uncle is sweeping up the mess using a chomp-bit broom while your aunt picks up all the dirty dishes left on the patrons’ tables. Curiously, the twins are nowhere in sight. “Oh, Pound and Pumpkin? We tucked them in for their afternoon nap. Now, your uncle tells me you’re off to Sweet Apple Acres? It’s a good distance from here – would you like some bits for a carriage?” Huh. It appears that Aunt Cupcake shares your mother’s eye for detail and head for planning. All that because you stopped in your tracks for a minute? You refuse her offer, stating that you know the way and that you are used to hoofing much longer distances. She quickly places a small saddle pack on you, saying “Oh, no need to be modest, dear. Take the bits and these bran muffins with you, along with some water. I wouldn’t want you going hungry for having too much fun, now would I? Now, run along – your Uncle and I have this place under control.” After equipping you, she goes right back to clearing tables and rearranging wayward chairs. Every few seconds or so, she either walks back over to check the contents of your saddlebags or to give you little snippets of advice, such as “Don’t talk to shady ponies” and “Don’t stay out too late after dark.” You are unable to make it more than a few steps towards the door before she gives you multiple once-overs. Noticing your plight, Uncle Carrot grabs you by the scruff and helps you up over the lower half of the split-door. He mouths “She worries,” gives you a wink and goes back to work. ================================================================================= Sweet Apple Acres is not hard to find. Just like Miss Rarity said, a dirt path east of the boutique led right to the sprawling farm. The faint scent of apples hangs in the air as you survey the fast fields beyond the white picket fence. Some fields appear recently tilled and plowed while others are lined with thick trees, bearing the delicious red fruits. From the entrance where you stand, marked by a tall vine-wrapped, wooden sign bearing a hollow apple cut-out, you can see several, green hills rising in the distance, dotted with spots of healthy reds and greens. A single word passes your lips after you’ve reviewed the scene before you: “Wow.” Not that the way over was any less boring, of course. Another quick walk through Ponyville really emphasized just how much color the town had; Manehattan is beautiful, sure – but you can’t help admiring the vibrant hues of the small cottages and villas here. How would your sister put it? Rustic? Regardless, it is all very charming. As you trot into the farm proper, you take better note of some structures built onto the grounds. A small well stands immediately next to the entrance, its rope-drawn bucket swaying slightly. A tall, predominantly red barn stands to your right, its purple shingled roof and white strutted doors looming over the ground around it. A rather beaten down plow is parked next to the left wall. On the opposite side of the road are numerous smaller storehouses, all sporting a dark brown color akin to lacquered-wood. Despite all of these buildings, the place appears deserted. Nopony whatsoever seems to have noticed you… “Well, hey there, young’un!” “GAH!” The accented voice causes you to swirl around, right into the wrinkled face of an old, light-green mare. What she lacks in a horn or a pair of wings, she makes up for in the most number of accessories you’ve seen on anypony in Ponyville thus far – she’s wearing a yellow and red-dotted hoofkerchief around her neck and is using a large silver walker. Your mouth refuses to work as she starts to push and prod you with a hoof, maintaining a very wide smile; incidentally, her current facial expression reveals two rows of eerily pearlescent white teeth. “Well, ain’t you a jumpy city-slicker! No cutie mark an’ exploring by yerself? And with a medipatch on ya so soon. D’ya get into a scrap or something? Nnope, that won’t do, that won’t do,” she exclaims as she spins you around on your hooves for a better view of your entire body. She turns her head towards the red barn and shouts “Big Macintosh! Take five an’ help me get this scrappy little young’un into the house!” A few seconds of silence hang in the air. No sound can be heard aside from the echo of the old mare’s distinctive twang. “Uh, Miss? I only came here to…” Your attempt to start conversation is cut off as the ground begins to lightly rumble in short bursts. Looking down, you see small bits of gravel levitate in time with the tremors as well as a large shadow begin to encompass you and your new acquaintance. Looking back up, you see that the old mare is now wearing a more measured, closed-lipped smile, but she is still looking in the direction of the barn. Turning your head, you are met with a large, red wall. How did the barn suddenly get this close?! And for that matter, why is it breathing?!? Tilting your gaze up, you are met with a stallion’s deadpan stare, a piece of hay dangling from his mouth punctuating his imposing stare. His short orange mane is cut right above his green eyes, eyes that look oddly familiar. Around his massive neck sits a heavy wooden yoke, complete with two gray stirrups. His height is easily greater than yours and the old mare’s combined. “Hoowee, you’ve been workin’ up a sweat, Macintosh,” the old mare jokes. “Still, you smell better than the smog on this here colt. Take him inside and fix ‘em up some grub, ya hear? I’ll bring your sisters on over so’s we can get to know our little big city guest.” She then starts to trudge away. Slowly. Really, really slowly. You swear, you can make out the sounds of her joints creaking. Her pace allows you a good sight of her cutie mark: a pie; apple, if you had to guess. “The smog on my coat?” you ask the great red stallion before you. He flares his nostrils slightly before taking two quick whiffs about you. The force of his inhale causes your mane to follow as if you are standing near an upward draft. He scratches his chin thoughtfully before looking at you and answering in a pronounced bass: “Eeyup.” Macintosh plods ahead of you and signals you to follow with a quick turn of his head. As you make your way down the path, it becomes increasingly evident that the draft horse in front of you is the source of the rhythmic tremors you had felt earlier. Thank Celestia he seemed docile enough; he could easily turn you into Big Apple pie if he so wanted. His cutie mark, a green apple half, stands brightly against his crimson coat; a reminder of all the work and hours he must have put into this farm to gain such bulk. A few short minutes of walking leads you to your destination. Despite your size, you had seen the top of the large, again, predominantly red, housing in front of you. Two stories high with a small tower forming its peak, it seems your red guide has led you a step closer to your destination. Before you can finish the thought, your chaperone intones in the same baritone. “That was Granny Smith. I’m Big Macintosh. And this here,” he interrupts himself to swing his frond of hay to the other side, “is the Apple family’s main house. Come on in and get yerself settled fer brunch.” “Mr. Macintosh?,” you ask a little shakily. “Not that I don’t… uh, appreciate all the attention, but I just came by to…” “It’s just Big Macintosh, young’un, or Big Mac, if ya prefer. I wouldn’t argue – once Granny Smith gets an idea into her head, you’ll be hard-pressed to stop her seein’ it through.” His expression remains steady and stoic, as does his twang-laced voice. He isn’t really arguing with you per se, but he seems awfully persuasive. Something about his eyes still bugs you, however. “Alright. Er… thanks, Big Mac. I hope I’m not being too much of a drag here.” He regards you before walking onto the porch and holding the front door open with a massive foreleg. “Nnope.” ================================================================================= Charming. Cozy. Homely. Safe. You could go on if you knew more words like the four above. The Apple family’s main house, while not trendy or steeped in futuristic amenities, easily counts as one of the comfortable places you’ve ever set hoof in. The hardwood floors, the simple wallpaper, the pictures set in quirky frames, and all manner of frontier pony knickknacks combined make this house feel like it was built by family for family. It’s all very flattering, to be invited here by Granny Smith, the apple family matriarch herself. What little information you now have was communicated to you in short statements and phrases by Big Macintosh, eldest of three Apple siblings. A few minutes later, you and the red barn-sized stallion are joined by an orange mare and an energetic brown-and-white shepherd dog, with Granny Smith in tow. “Sorry fer the wait, Scrappy. I know how y’all in the city are always goin’ on and on’ about needin’ to be someplace else, but my dadgum hip was actin’ up again,” Granny Smith says through her uncharacteristically healthy teeth. Before you can say anything, you are once again given a series of once-overs, head to hoof, snout to flank, and mane to tail by the orange mare. She shares Granny Smith’s orange orbs and steely stare, as well as Macintosh’s freckles; her head is covered by a distinctive cowpony hat similar to what your pop wears when distracting the rowdier bulls at the rodeo. It isn’t a ten gallon, you think. It’s flatter, with a noticeable notch in the front of its round brim. “Eyein’ mah Stetson there, scrappy?,” asks the orange mare. “It’s got some tall tales attached to it, just so ya know. Name’s Applejack. And you are?” Calmed by her friendliness, you introduce yourself and hold up a hoof; this turns out to be a bad move as you are subjected to a rather spirited and powerful hoofshake, the likes of which leave you quaking in place even as it finishes. After her spirited greeting, she goes on saying “Manehattan, eh? Ah haven’t been there in a dog’s age! So, how’s the ‘Big Apple’ been treatin’ ya?” Her voice is laced with the same powerful twang as that of Granny Smith’s. Her eyes gleam with a hint of cleverness and familiarity, the latter of which seems strange to you. Hadn’t she just met you? Maybe you reminded of her of somepony else. Well, there’s no way around it, so you decide to answer her question. “It’s doing alright, I guess. It could use some cleaning up in some places and the noise can get crazy, but it’s home for me,” you conclude, beaming broadly. If anything, your stay in Ponyville has made you think very fondly of your hometown and its eccentric members, some more than others. This scenario plays out for the next half hour over some freshly baked apple strudel and some glasses of apple juice. The Apple family, it seems, is very, very fond of their own produce. It crosses your mind once, how they had yet to develop some aversion to the red fruit, but a few mouthfuls of the treats served to quash these thoughts. As evidenced by their earlier treatment of you, the farm horses are a very welcoming lot. Most of the talking is done by Applejack. She tells stories of how she had once dreamed of living in Manehattan, how she had quickly grown homesick and ended up coming back after a few days’ stay. “Aunt n’ Uncle Orange were sad to see little ol’ me go, but they let me anyway. Said it was something that we’d all regret if I had forced m’self tah stay.” Granny Smith is second to her granddaughter in terms of talkativeness. Every now and again, she’d spin a yarn about how she’d once been to other big cities (Manehattan, Baltimare, Phillydelphia) and how she had noticed how “Everypony, big n’ small, foal n’ stallion, they were always buzzin’ all over th’ place.” She states that in her younger years, ponies rarely ever settled down in one place, but they were of little comparison to today’s generation. In direct contrast to the two mares and even to himself earlier on, Big Macintosh hardly said a word. The occasional affirmative (“Eeyup”) and negative (“Nnope”) were only ever uttered when solicited. If he had any stories of his own, he kept them under tight wraps. Normally, you’d suspect he was hiding something; given his half-lidded eyes and relaxed demeanor however, even you think it’s unlikely. If you ever come back to Ponyville some time, you think it will be a good idea to chat with Macintosh some time; if asking doesn’t do the trick, the puppy-dog stare ought to… Wait. “Oh, Celestia,” you think. Your mind starts to race. His eyes were the same as Babs. It strikes you at that very moment – you are talking to the Apple family, Babs’ relatives. There’s a sudden drop in temperature. The humidity becomes suffocating. Were they always staring at you this intently? “Ah think ah see a bored young’un when I see one,” chuckled Applejack. “Welp, ah can see that the older folks ain’t yer speed. Lemme take ya out back for some more appropriate company.” Popping her Stetson back over her head, she walks over to the front door and gestures you to come over. Still slightly dumbfounded, you meekly make your way over to the younger Apple sibling. After stepping out over the porch and walking away from earshot, the orange mare stops in her tracks and fixes her gaze at you. “It never really came up, but Ah gotta ask: what’s a little colt doin’ so far away from home? And don’t you feed me some line like ya did with th’ Cakes. Ah can tell.” “What? How did…? Who?” you sputter out. “Ah know. Ah can tell. And you just did.” Oh, she’s good. Despite the discomfort you feel as Applejack squints and listens intently, you manage to fib one last time: you are able to keep out the details of the last day. “I just need to know what happened to my friend.” Time dilates as the orange mare’s lips form a straight, unmoving line. She lowers the brim of her hat over her eyes, mulling over your mostly-honest story. Slowly, she raises her eyes to look into yours… …and smiles a genuine smile. Her eyes brighten again to that familiar glint as she nods you to a thicket-obscured path. “Alright, partner – Ah can tell when you mean what you said. Now, as promised, yoou’ll find better company over yonder. They should be back by now.” “U… thank you, Miss Applejack,” you reply shakily. “Who should be back by now?” Unfortunately, your guide is now gone, back through the lush greens that once completely covered the way to the area you’re standing in. Turning back around, your eyes take in a quaint, picnic-area like scene. The sky is completely unobstructed here; the vivid blue making the place all the more relaxing. A fairly large tree stands tall in the center; unlike the Acres, this one bears no fruit - instead, it supports a rather sizeable tree-house. Its wooden walls bear the look of a hoof-made project, as does its rather diminutive, yellow-painted fence. Higher still, past the canopy of the great tree, you can see the end of a telescope pointed out towards Ponyville. Before you can make your way up the wooden ramp for a closer look at the treehouse, you are interrupted by a familiar sound. It’s a repeated whirring that you often hear in and around your hometown. You couldn’t quite put a hoof on it, but it’s something that’s so ingrained into your memories that the city would be incredibly alien without it. “Is that… a motor? I didn’t see any tractors anywhere near here…” you wonder aloud. Ponyville’s cabs were horse-drawn, so it couldn’t be a motorized carriage. Even then, you are standing outside of Ponyville itself – what could be making that sound? “LOOK OUT!” cries a panicked filly’s voice, followed by a higher-pitched wail and a very Apple-sounding “Whoa Nelly, Scootaloo!” Your body is sent tumbling smack-dab into the tree-stump you had been looking at a few seconds ago. Whatever it was that hit you, it hit ridiculously hard; it was also apparently female and had three heads, looking over you as the green field began to blur. ================================================================================= No dreams accompany you when you finally regain consciousness. You can remember Applejack leading you to the back, the open area with the tree-house, the voices, and the forceful blow that knocked you into next week. Just like this morning however, you find it especially difficult to breathe. “Oh Princess, I hope I didn’t break anything…” Cracking open a cautious eye, you survey your new surroundings – you are lying sideways in a relatively large room with four unpainted wooden walls. Light is pouring in from above you (probably a window), allowing your eyesight to adjust quickly; similarly, another window is built into the opposite wall. Some red-violet curtains adorn this opening, making the outside brighter in contrast. A crudely drawn map is nailed to the wall on the right, next to what looks to be the only way in or out (the foot of the door is adorned by a dull, fuzzy welcome mat); a green ladder is placed near the door, leading upwards into an unseen room above. Immediately to your left stands a small, wooden podium, with a rope-suspended, unlit lantern about a foot farther away hanging above… a bulls-eye? Near your head is a squat green table, its stubby legs causing it to hover very closely over the floor; close enough for a colt or filly to eat off of it with no need for a chair. Taking a sharp inhale, you sit up and quickly discover the reason for your difficult breathing – your entire barrel has been snugly wrapped in white bandages. A thick bow, level with your belly, completes your sorry new appearance. “What the…? Oh, phooey to this!” you say as you clamp down on the offending adornment. A quick tug proves to be your bondage’s undoing. Feeling the tyrannical grasp loosen from around you, you feel better fit to stand up in this new place. The upper border of the walls seems to be painted with hearts and swirls to make the place appear more welcoming. No sooner have you decided to peer out the window, you hear a shrill “Hey, girls! He’s up! He’s up!” Turning to the source of the sound, you are greeted by the company of a marshmallow-colored unicorn filly with a two-toned purple and pink curly mane. She’s beaming, as if glad to see that you weren’t any worse for the wear. “Phew! I was starting to think I was gonna spend the rest of my life in jail like Scootaloo said.” She seems cordial enough, but her trail of thought betrayed a little ditziness in the filly. “So what’s your name? And how’d you even find this place?” she asks you quizzically. Her green eyes give you a quick scan, less intense than that of the Apples some time before. She goes over to the map on the wall and pulls it aside, revealing what appears to be a roll call sheet. Crayon drawings of three fillies comprise the entire list, next to blanks filled with check marks for each pony. She ticks a cross mark next to the drawing resembling her. Before you can answer, you are joined by two other fillies – a yellow, red-maned earth pony coming in through the door holding a white case emblazoned with a red cross and an orange, purple-maned pegasus descending from the ladder you spied before. Both give a quick glare at their unicorn friend, before speaking up. “What in the hay are you thinking, Sweetie Belle? This guy could be a spy for all we know! I mean, look – he even managed to take off all his bandages! Probably trying to escape and tell on us!” “Now, now, Scootaloo – simmer down. Remember, we kinda used him as a brake fer yer scooter. Not that Ah trust this feller any more than I can throw ‘em,” says the earth pony after setting down the first-aid kit in front of you. Her large pink hair-bow tells you immediately who had trussed you up in the bandages you woke up in. “Seein’s how yer up n’ about, how’s about tellin’ us why you were snoopin’ ‘round these parts? Maybe we’ll tell you our names if yer honest with us.” She’s giving you the same look that Granny Smith did when she first dragged you over for brunch, albeit in a poor attempt to look menacing. You introduce yourselves to the fillies, telling them about your hometown and the length of your stay. When telling them about the past few days, their faces light up at certain parts: The pegasus, Scootaloo, smirks proudly when you mention your arrival at the train station; the unicorn Sweetie Belle beams widely when you mention that it was Rarity who had told you to come here for clues; the earth pony, Apple Bloom, swings from happy to mortified when you tell them how you found this hidden place. “Ah can’t believe Applejack would lead a strange colt to our clubhouse! Sheesh, you’d think family’d respect privacy more…” “Wait an apple-bucking second here, mister,” pipes up Scootaloo. She isn’t as confrontational as she was a few minutes ago, but curiosity laces her voice. “You never once mentioned what you’ve been looking for. If Applejack let you up here, then your story checks out, but I’m not letting you down from here until you’ve spilled the beans.” “I agree. If Rarity pointed you over here, you must have a pretty good reason. What made you come all the way out here from Manehattan? And all by yourself?” Sweetie Belle is now leaning in closely, her eyes trained on you. Apple Bloom follows suit, leaning in wordlessly. With no other option, you pull out your trump card: “I’m a friend of Babs and I’m here to help.” If you brought your camera, you would have taken pictures. The looks on these fillies is priceless! Their eyes wide open, shining even and their mouths going slowly from slack-jawed disbelief to the most energetic smiles you have ever been privileged to see. “Oh mah gosh, she did it! She actually did it!” Apple Bloom speaks up first, hopping in place. Sweetie Belle is tiptoeing in place, eyes closed and horn sparkling with green light. “She’s SO awesome! Doing it so soon!” Scootaloo’s reaction is the most intense – she manages to pull off a complete backflip using the buzzing of her miniature wings. “Babs Seed rocks! You should have told us sooner!” Apple Bloom regains her composure first and beckons her friends over to the podium. Scootaloo raises her hood to signal you to wait before going up the ladder again. Sweetie takes her place on Apple Bloom’s right. Around five minutes later, Scootaloo hovers down from the second level, adorned in a familiar crimson cape. She has two red bundles scooped up in her hooves – bundles she promptly throws over to the awaiting Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle. The pegasus filly then runs past you and takes her place on Apple Bloom’s left. “We didn’t expect a delegate so soon! We’d have made a more official welcome,” says the yellow filly as she twists about and struggles to put on her cape. “Shoulda known we’d have more members already,” says Scootaloo sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck. Sweetie Belle is having slightly better luck with her cape, having put it on much sooner than Apple Bloom. “I knew there was a reason a blank flank would visit us!,” she says. Despite the lack of venom in her voice, you still cringe internally at the mention of the often-used slur back at school. The three fillies give a wide smile before proclaiming in unison: “WELCOME TO THE PONYVILLE BRANCH OF THE CUTIE MARK CRUSADERS!” ================================================================================= Things get decidedly friendlier after your initial tussle with the Crusaders. Despite already revealing their names to you by accident earlier on, the fillies reintroduce themselves with gusto. You learn that Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle look up a great deal to their older sisters, both of whom you’ve met before, while Scootaloo is the proud founder of the Rainbow Dash Fan Club (the fact that she’s actually good friends with her idol is nothing to scoff at either). The three have been close for around three years and decided to start this endeavor (Sweetie calls it their “patented cutie-mark acquisition program”). Babs was officially inducted some days ago (in a ceremony that Scootaloo describes as “needing some more work and a dictionary.”) and had promised to start the Manehattan branch of the Crusaders – the latter being something you and most of Grand Central can attest to. You tell them about the last three days you spent in Manehattan, thinking of how proud they would be when they heard about Babs’ work. You leave out certain things, like your disappointment with your summer plans and Lemon Drops and Top Brass making the last day end on a sour note. The fillies maintain rapt attention throughout your stories, sometimes giggling and whispering to each other as you went on. All three apologize profusely for knocking you over (what you learn was) 20 minutes ago - they had apparently been out doing their respective chores in advance to free up the rest of the day. Sweetie Belle speaks up, or rather, squeaks out: “Hey, I know! You should join us this afternoon – like a goodwill collaboration or something!” Scootaloo perks up, agreeing with her friend. “Yeah, looks like you can handle it.” Apple Bloom reassures you with “Big Mac didn’t see nothin’ wrong with ya. We covered you up just in case, is all.” When asked about the first aid kit, she replies “We MAY have wanted to try our hooves at being Cutie Mark Crusaders nurses… again.” HOW they careened into you with such force is revealed when the three lead you back outside the clubhouse “to see how the originals do it.” You are greeted by a little blue, wooden scooter attached via small wooden clasp to a red cart. Scootaloo takes her position up front, beating her wings furiously to feel accustomed once more. Sweetie Belle helps you up into the cart and takes her place in front of you. “Don’t be embarrassed – just hold on tight.” Before you can protest, Apple Bloom locks her front hooves around you like a makeshift seatbelt. “You’d best listen, city slicker. When Scootaloo scoots, there ain’t nothin’ much that can match.” “’Cept for Rainbow, maybe,” says Scootaloo, now donning her matching purple helmet. This makes you beg the question – “What about us? Don’t we get helmets?” No one answers the question. As the environment comes toward you full throttle, you think that maybe, just maybe, your question was left behind at the club grounds. The speed is so intense; every muscle in your body tenses up and forces you to clamp your hooves tight around Sweetie. Amazingly enough, the fillies in front and behind you are laughing ecstatically. Is THIS what turned Babs so daring to begin with? Before long, you arrive at a small stone cottage farther along the outskirts of Ponyville. Disengaging your grip on the filly in front of you, you twist and drop belly first onto the hard dirt below. You can’t care less about Sweetie and Apple Bloom’s worried looks nor Scootaloo’s poorly hidden snickering – the ground is safe and that’s all that counts. “All right there, newbie? Sorry – kinda wanted to show off a bit. I’ll take it down a peg for the rest of the day, I promise.” Looking up, you are met with a pair of concerned, purple eyes. Despite her brashness and bravado, Scootaloo wasn’t a bully; her concern for a stranger, a boy no less, proved that. After a few wobbly minutes, you are brought up to speed: the Crusaders had been asked to look after the birds of a pony named Fluttershy who was away on royal business with Pinkie Pie and Twilight Sparkle. “Something about a spell scroll in the dragonlands. We wanted to go, but Fluttershy stared us down. Said we’d be safer here,” said Apple Bloom. Her demeanor reflected her respect and fear for this Fluttershy pony. “Okay. This should be easy. What’s so hard about a little bird watching?” ================================================================================= “Well, that was a bust,” says the unicorn filly glumly. “Who knew chickens could jump so high up?” “I’ll say. I’ll be picking the pine needles out of my mane for weeks!,” laughs Scootaloo. True to her word, her short mane is absolutely riddled in green fronds. Her coat is now matted in tree sap, as well as her feathers. Oddly enough, she seems to be taking it in complete stride. Apple Bloom looks over to you and notices your silence. “You doin’ okay there, Slick?” she asks, addressing you with your new nickname. “Yeah, Cutie Mark Crusadin’s tough work, but it’s all about the fun. We’d understand if y’all want a break though – this turned out to be more intense than we were expectin’.” For the past odd hour or so, you had gone from arguing with a spirited white rabbit over the location of a stash of bird seed to being helped by an incredibly benign bear to catch some uppity hens that had been led away by a basilisk. Thank the princesses, no one got seriously hurt. “And you do this kind of stuff all the time after school?” you ask weakly. “Not strictly. We usually steer clear of the Everfree, but there’s always a small chance of surprises messing up the schedule,” answers Sweetie. Her rather pampered appearance and trusting personality actually helped in this madcap quest – she talked to a bear, for harmony’s sake! You are tired, shaken, and incredibly surprised by what just happened. More than anything though? You feel alive. Exhilarated. You feel invincible. Cracking a winning smile, you say: “What’s next, fellow Crusaders?” The three fillies leading the way smile back at you. “Oh, you’ll see. We’ve got th’ whole afternoon planned till dusk,” Apple Bloom states triumphantly. As they cheer out their club name, you find yourself joining along: “CUTIE MARK CRUSADERS COLLABORATORS! YAY!” ================================================================================= “This is gonna fly! I! Can! Feel it!” proclaims the excited pegasus filly as you and the other two fillies continue to snap and lock pieces into place. She is wearing an ill-fitting black spandex outfit, supposedly for reducing drag on the aspiring pony. “Ah still say we gotta be careful, Scoots. This’n ‘F&F Fun Flyer’ has somethin’ about it Ah can’t put my hoof on.” Apple Bloom spent an inordinately long amount of time mulling over the instructions while Scootaloo was drawing out a flight plan. She kept on eyeing the apple symbol on the box’s corner with heavy suspicion. “Relax, AB – it’s why we’re doing this over the river. And Sweetie’s been training day and night with her levitation to fish me out if I end up belly-flopping.” “I appreciate the faith, girls – I really, really do, but…” Sweetie’s voice is cracking with nervousness. If the day has been any indication, the unicorn has yet to master anything beyond an illumination spell. “Don’t worry, Sweetie – we have Slick to help you and AB with the pulley if you’re not up for it!” Scootaloo turns to you and gives you a confident smile. You smile back in response. The plan is fairly sound, in your opinion. This final activity may pale in comparison to what the day has thrown at you, but it was no less ambitious. After a campaign of Cutie Mark Crusaders base-jumpers (Spike helped bring all four of you up to the top of the library and subsequently to the disapproving care of Nurse Tenderheart), nursing aides, stained glass crafters, treasure hiders, gold miners, fly fishers, puzzle solvers, maze makers, lightning collectors (your mane is still standing on end from that), and even monster truck builders, the day had finally wound down to permit one last activity. Tired from the ever-present but slight disappointment of not getting cutie marks for the day’s efforts, the peppy pegasus brings forth a suggestion. She is working on finally overcoming her gravitational constraints and is turning to you, Apple Bloom, and Sweetie Belle for some insurance. Some days back, Scootaloo had mail-ordered the ‘F&F Flyer,’ an item promising “quick and easy flight for everypony.” Its box, instructions, and even its wing decals boasted of “alicorn-like flying prowess.” It came with several harnesses, a good amount of molded canvas and aluminum frames to support the colossal construct. Oddly enough, it also came with another F&F item – the Pega-Pulley, a sort of fail-safe if the former product ever went awry. Unlike its bundled company, the pulley looked more familiar, resembling a rudimentary truck winch. It had instructions for two models – one for an adult pony to sit in and one for a “junior operator” model which requires two smaller ponies. Seeing as how you are now one Crusader extra, Apple Bloom manages to tinker the designs together, creating a three-pony Pega-Pulley. It’s fairly surprising seeing Apple Bloom exercise such technical know-how. “Applejack and Big Mac have me help clean the equipment sometimes. Ah pick up a lotta things when oiling up the sprues n’ sprockets.” Scootaloo firmly believes that with some extra hooves and some able-bodied help, she’ll finally be able to soar like her idol far sooner than biology permits. “Rainbow’s gonna be so surprised so me make a rainboom right behind hers!,” she almost squeals. Seeing how much this means to her, you and the Crusaders get to work. The contraption appears sound – a clear dome fits over Scootaloo’s back, over her wings that are still afforded some mobility. Two metallic coils rise atop the dome and spark whenever your friend buzzes her appendages. To her sides are six batlike canvas wings, supported by aluminum and brass struts; these false wings move in relative time to her wing beats. Finally, each wing has a thick iron loop at the base, hooked to cables lined through the recently assembled Pega-Pulley. The cables appear durable enough and are threaded deftly into the wooden machine. Taking your seat in the center between Sweetie and Apple Bloom, you signal Scootaloo with the go-ahead. The filly takes a starting position resembling those stunt flyers you’ve seen on the TV. She leans forward like a cat and begins to beat her wings furiously, the whirring dulled by the dome on her back. The coils start to emit a steady green energy and begin bleeding life into the molded canvas. Slowly but surely, her new wings begin to flap in tandem with each other, powered by her own, small ones. By the time all of her wings were in motion, Scootaloo’s breathing had become more labored – the effort to power her new wings is taking a toll on the little filly. Sweetie notices too, looking over and nudging Apple Bloom behind your back. Before anypony can say anything though, Scootaloo lurches forward… And flies approximately five or ten feet skyward, F&F Flyer AND Pega-Pulley in tow.