Archer’s face was buried an inch into the dirt and his ears were ringing. That didn’t stop Arrowhead’s voice from sounding loud and clear in his head, though.
“You know this is, like, the third time you’ve nearly died this morning, right? I mean, it works wonders for your personality, but I’d rather you cut down. Too much adrenaline is bad for you.”
“Bite me,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Sorry, you’re not my type.”
“Are we one hundred percent sure I’m not dead?”
“Yep.”
“Are we sure that this entire experience since the night in the forest clearing hasn’t been some kind of divine-mandated purgatory for killing all those woodland creatures?”
“Hmm.... yeah, pretty sure.”
“Well, alright. It is on these and only these conditions that I’m sitting back up.”
“Go for it, chief.”
Somehow, the cart had managed to explode. Again.
Pinkie was covered in black soot, though that was likely the worst of her injuries. If she survived a grenade going off in her mouth, she could survive a borked fuel line. Thanks to being directly behind and to the left of her, Archer got off with a splitting headache and the taste of dirt.
Unsurprisingly, his native human enthusiasm for seeing things blow up was rapidly dwindling.
“Pinkie? Are you okay?”
Slowly, the black, pony-shaped mass opened one eye. Then the other. It coughed.
“Wow,” she sputtered. “I’m never doing that again!”
“You promise?”
“Pinkie Pie Swear, I’m never doing that again!”
“What.”
She stood up, shaking off her ashy covering. “Cross my heart, hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye,” she said, accompanying the chant with appropriate hand (hoof) movements. “I’m never going to mistake a fuel line for anything else.”
“That...” He stopped. What was one supposed to say to a display like that? “Alright,” he muttered, shrugging. “Glad we got that cleared up.”
“Whoa, nelly! You two okay?”
Oh, look. It was... Apple Juice? Apple Cider? He could swear her name was some kind of apple drink.
“C’mon, you two, speak to me.”
“Yeah, we’re fine. I’m just a little wonky in the head, and Pinkie is...” Archer turned to the bubble-gum-flavored pony, who was currently trying to pull out the cart’s actual capacitor coupling with her teeth. “...Well, she’s Pinkie.”
“Uh huh. So, I take it y’all got everything under control?”
“Actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Well, fire away. I’m all ears.”
“You see, Miss...”
“Applejack,” Arrowhead whispered in his ear.
“...Applejack. I know me and, uh...”
“Big Macintosh.”
“...Mister Macintosh didn’t exactly get off on the right foot. Err, hoof.”
Applejack snorted. “Yer darn tootin’. I don’t think Ah’ve ever seen big Mac so spooked as when he came runnin’ home, saying a 'demon' was after ‘im.”
“He thought I was a demon?”
“Or somethin’ to that effect. Mind you, we don’t get a whole lotta non-ponyfolk around here. N’ Big Mac... Well, he’s not the stoutest soul on Celestia’s green earth, I can tell ya that much.”
“Really?”
“That surprises you?”
“Well, you know, I saw him. He’s so...” How could he put this?
“Big?”
“Yeah, let’s go with that.”
“Well, he ain’t called ‘Big Mac’ for nothin’.”
“Then how is he so scared of, you know, little old me?”
“You nearly speared 'im and roasted 'im for breakfast.”
“Right, right. About that. I wanted to-”
“-Admit you were bein’ a presumptuous jackanape who shoots first, worries later, and thinks with his stomach?”
My ego is skewered quite thoroughly enough, thank you.
“Not in so many words, but yes. Also, I would like to inquire about a job.”
“...A what now?”
“A job. I need to earn some ‘bits’ as you people call them, and I figured I’d start here as, you know, a gesture of goodwill.”
Applejack was not a very expressive pony. Fortunately for her, Archer was unable to appreciate the utter rarity of the rapid shift her face took from confusion to amusement to uncertainty and then back to neutrality.
“Well, alright,” she said, “But you’re gonna have to take it up with Mac. He’s haulin’ barrels over by the barn.”
“Alright, glad that’s settled.” He turned. “Pinkie, are you going to need my help for anything?”
Pinkie unburied her head from the blasted wreck’s innards. “What? Oh, sure, I’m fine. Go do your... whatever.” And with that, she dove withers-deep into the metal ruin, hunting for parts.
“Come on,” said Applejack, chuckling. “I’ll show you where he is.”
***
“C’mon, Big Mac! At least talk to ‘im!”
“Nnnnope!”
Applejack had been arguing with the barn door for over half an hour since her (very) big brother had caught sight of Archer and barricaded himself behind it.
“Ah promise he ain’t gonna try n’ eat you!”
“Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.”
She turned to Archer. “Sorry ‘bout this. He’s not normally this... ah, ornery.” She turned back to the door. “Mac, you open this door right now!”
The fact that she managed to squeeze five syllables out of those last two words could only mean she meant business. Unfortunately, Big Mac wasn’t buying it.
Only one thing for it.
Archer carefully approached the door, knocking sharply.
“Mister Macintosh, I need a job.”
“Nope, nope, n- hang on, what?” A pair of eyes looked through an opened slat in the door. “Come again?”
“I’m flat broke, and at any rate, I’d rather eat Sugarcube Corner fare than you. You probably don’t even taste that good.”
Mac’s eyes narrowed. “I don’ trust ‘im, AJ.”
“Mac, it’s fine. He’s spent a good two or three days here, and he hasn’t tried to eat anyone else. Give him a chance!”
“Course he hasn’t eaten anyone else. He only has eyes for me.”
The ridiculousness of this statement, combined with the utter seriousness of its delivery, sent Archer into a fit of hysterics. Faster than normal, it segued into amused introspection.
For the first time in his life, Archer decided put himself in a Fae’s shoes. Err, horseshoes.
If a Fae had tried to eat him, would he have given it the time of day afterward? Would he come out of the barn, hand offered, and give it a job? No! So, obviously, a measure of diplomacy was required.
“I’ll leave my bow and arrows here.”
They both looked at him.
“Really?”
“Yep. And my knife.”
The door opened slightly. “AJ, yer sure he don’t have any hidden claws or nothin’?”
“Sure as sugar!”
“An’ he don’t have no evil magic on ‘im?”
“Buddy, if I could do magic, I definitely wouldn’t be here.”
“Fair enough.”
“So what do you say? Will you take me on?”
Macintosh’s head slowly eased out from behind the door.
“Fine.”
As the great red horse lumbered out from the relative safety of the barn, Archer came to an observation that would be remembered by all parties involved for years to come.
“...Man, you look a lot smaller when I’m not hungry.”
Applejack laughed. Archer chuckled a little at his own joke. Macintosh spooked himself and ran just a little faster than normal to retrieve his “work” yoke (to replace his “on break” yoke, which was made from particleboard instead of wood). Applejack sighed and looked over to Archer with a look of mock worry.
“Wuzzat serious?”
“Yeah, actually. You need to understand, I hadn’t had a good, meaty breakfast in well over a week when I took that shot. I was ready to wrestle a manticore over a carcass if I thought I could get away with it.”
Applejack chuckled again. “I’d pay good money to see that.”
“Well, keep in mind I’d never actually do it if I actually had even one arrow to my name,” he said, waving his bow in front of him. “I’m not called ‘Archer’ for nothing, after all.”
“Well, not to bust yer bubble or anything, but we don’t do a lot of shootin’ around these parts.”
“It could be a useful talent. You don’t know.”
“Yeah? An’ what could an apple farm use a reasonably good shot for?”
Archer pondered this.
“...Security?” he offered, holding up an arrow for emphasis.
“There ain’t a single bandit for two towns either way, and the one three towns over is related to us.”
“Monster insurance?”
“Monsters don’t come out here, Archer,” she said, in a voice that suggested he should have known this already.
“Um... pest control?”
“If’n you can shoot the caterpillar off an apple, you’re better off in show biz than farmin’ work.”
Archer pondered more, wandering into the apple grove as he did. Applejack followed him, a little too eager to shoot down whatever his next suggestion was.
He could always help harvest, he mused, though he was more the foresty, foragey type and not the farmy, walk up and pick applesy type. Still, it was a skill - one of the few he could legitimately lay claim to other than shooting things in a professional and efficient fashion.
There was introspection to be had here, but Archer would have none of it.
“Hey,” said Arrowhead, suddenly behind him for no reason. “Look at this.”
Archer turned behind him. There was nothing, except for an imaginary definitely-not-friend and Applejack, who took Archer’s refocused attention to mean he was about to do something impressive.
“What?”
“The apples, dummy! Look!”
Arrowhead pointed at a cluster of three apple trees which had no specific outstanding qualities.
“I don’t get it.”
“You know this better than I do, man. Arrows. Trajectories. Projectiles. Focus.”
Archer focused. His mind settled on three red dots suspended in the leaves - apples, defining a rather neat ballistic arc.
“You're nuts.”
“Doooo iiiit.”
“There’s no way-”
“Come on! This is your chance to impress the boss! Do you want to eat at Sugarcube Corner again or not!?”
Convincing a man in the King’s employ to do something outwardly nonsensical usually requires an appeal to his better nature. Arrowhead, having no better nature to appeal to, had settled for pastry. It worked well enough.
Archer dropped to one knee, nocking his bow as he did so. He judged the necessary force and vector for the arrow’s path. The wind... well, the wind wasn’t an issue, what with all the trees, but it was a necessary consideration. The apples were lined up almost too perfectly... but he wasn’t about to question it.
He drew and released, sending the arrow into and through the tree boughs and producing a trio of satisfying squelches as it pierced and carried along each apple in sequence. It whistled through the air for a short bit later, before there was a fourth splat, a short yelp of shock, and a heavy thump.
“...Big Mac?”
***
...
Yep, he'd been spooked again.
He swore he wouldn’t let the human get the drop on him a second time, but here he was - spooked. And with apple juice running down his nose, no less. He was seriously considering screaming, but his nerves were so shot, it was an iffy proposition of him ever stopping.
Archer and Applejack took in the scene as they rounded one of the trees.
Big Mac was sitting, still as a statue. The arrow had struck him square on the forehead, though the impact was thankfully cushioned by the third apple, which the projectile had failed to fully penetrate. Said apple was now all over his face, which was another matter entirely.
Mac’s expression was one Archer had seen before. It had been on the face of a man rejected as a dinner prospect by an Orc hunting party for being too ugly - massively relieved he wasn’t dead right now, but mortified that he was in this situation to begin with.
Archer giggled a little. Then, admitting to himself that this was indeed a humorous occasion, he laughed some more. And then some more upon seeing Macintosh attempt to glare at him through a face covered in apple pulp.
“I- ha! - I got you! It... it took me three whole days, but I finally got you!”
Applejack concurred with Archer’s observation, and made her opinion known by breaking out into similar peals of laughter, muttering something between breaths about how “he got you good.”
Macintosh dabbed at the applesauce running down his cheek. On a whim, he tasted it.
“Huh. You know what, it’s actually not that bad.”
This set Applejack and Archer off again, the two leaning on each other for support by this point. Mac chuckled.
Okay, so it was sort of funny. He supposed.
***
Meanwhile, on the clouds, unseen by most and unnoticed by the only one who knew of his existence, an imaginary burgundy pegasus fiddled with the cloud under his hooves and smiled to himself.
Everything was going according to plan.