//------------------------------// // Dr. Do // Story: From Stalliongrad With Love // by LoyalLiar //------------------------------// VIII Dr. Do - - - September 14th, 1452 A.S. 1 Awesome Bullavard 0541 Hours         Ink inclined his neck at the knocking on the wall of solid clouds.  "I'll be there in a second!"  Sweat dripped down the bulging muscles of his neck.  With some degree of effort, he kept all four of his legs pinned to his sides.  "Девяносто девять… сто."  Gasping in a breath, he extended his legs and lifted his right wing from the floor.  A quick flap of the sore limb restored some semblance of styling to the feathers beneath the rippling muscles, while simultaneously discarding more than a few loose pinions.           He momentarily grumbled at the interruption of his morning workout, even if no actual words were uttered.  He resolved to finish the set of pushups for his other wing before bed, giving no particular care for the advice that working out directly before going to sleep was medically inadvisable.         Having 'groomed' himself, Ink walked off the hard cloudstone floor of Rainbow Dash's trophy room, and onto the plush raw cumulus carpeting of her living room.  Across a messy and sparsely decorated room, Ink could see an empty doorway looking out on Ponyville.  Rainbow had forgiven him the door he had broken in exchange for his forgiveness of the head-wound he had suffered four days prior.           The absence of a door was notable for the smiling gray face staring through the open space it should have filled.  "Hi, Mister Ink!"         "Good morning, Derpy.  You're here early this morning."         "Yup!"  The mailmare tilted her head gently to the side.  "Sounds like your head is finally healed up.  You're going to be back at school tomorrow, right?  Dinky wanted to ask you a whole bunch of questions." Ink cocked his brow. "Did she… tell you?"         "Tell me what?"  Derpy asked.  "Ooh, is it a class secret?"                  "No."  The stallion found himself at pause as to whether to continue.  "She didn't mention anything about my past?  She didn't tell you who I am?"         "Of course not, silly.  I already know who you are.  You're Mr. Ink, the substitute teacher from Stalliongrad."         Ink's brow rose, and then fell softly as his mind wrapped itself around the idea that the wall-eyed mare might perhaps be much wiser than he had given her credit for.  "Okay.  Well… why are you here, then?"         "Well, I came with First Class Priority Mail for Rainbow Dash."  Derpy's head darted into her messenger bag, and pulled out a manila envelope.  "Straight from Manehattan; might be the Wonderbolts.  I'll bet she'll be excited.  Also, Mr. Ink, I don't actually have a letter or anything, but Twilight said she'd like to see you once you could talk right again.  Maybe you should stop by the library."         "I'll be sure to do so."  Ink extended a wing toward the mare.  "I can give the envelope to Rainbow when she wakes up."         "Oh!  Thanks!  I always hate just leaving Rainbow's mail out front here, but she never checks her mailbox on the ground…"         "It is not problem."         "I think that's 'not a problem'," Derpy corrected, as she hoofed over the package.  "Have a nice day, Mr. Ink."         “You too...”  Ink’s brow rose as he noted a particularly bad moment for the mailmare’s eyes.  “Can I ask you something before you go?”         “Sounds like you just did,” she teased, before cocking her head to the side and smiling widely.  “Go ahead.”         “What’s with your eye?”         Ink had been at least conscious of the fact that the question might bring about the mare’s ire.  Instead, to his pleasant surprise, Derpy chuckled.  “This old thing?  When I was little, some bullies were picking on my little sister.  I drove ‘em off, but one of them hit me pretty hard in the side of the head.  Of course, the buck wasn’t as bad as falling from Cloudsdale.”  Derpy’s levity began to fade as her eyes drew to a focus, in perfect line with Ink’s.  Or rather, with his left eye.  “Actually... you hurt your head too, right?”         “...yes?” Ink asked.  “Is something—”         “I think you should go find a mirror,” Derpy told him with urgency and seriousness.  “Like, fast.”         Pressing a wing to his left eye, Ink turned without so much as a goodbye and rushed back into Rainbow’s opulent home.         Chuckling to herself lightly, Derpy flew away. - - -         Daring Do lunged, barely sliding between the descending stone barrier and its place on the temple floor.  The idol of Discord made it through without trouble, but only a flick of her wing retrieved her most prized possession before the Zebrican temple shut itself off from the world forever.           “Phew.  That was a close one,” she muttered, restoring her pith helmet to its place on her head.         “Indeed it was, Doctor Do.”         Daring jumped at the distinctly familiar voice.  One didn’t usually expect a Stalliongradi accent in the depths of the Zebrican jungle.  Turning away from the temple for the first time since her near-death, she saw his smug smile.   His red coat ended at the edge of a long black leather jacket, topped in black fur he had no doubt skinned from some poor animal with his own hooves.  His hooves were shod in bladed steel just as sharp as his tongue, and just as cruel as his harsh brown eyes.   “Commandant.” “You do remember me, Dr. Do.  So glad to hear it.  I’d like you to meet my friends.”  The Commandant’s blood-toned wing gestured to the jungle, and a few dozen war-painted Zebras emerged.  Daring recognized them by the patterns of the white and red lines running perpendicular to their stripes.  The Mshenzi tribe were a legend in the world of archeology: the lost cannibal tribe of Zebrica.  Her gut told her that the Commandant wasn’t clever enough to have dug up such a forgotten people, but her mind wasn’t about to call his bluff when they were clearly obeying his commands.   He continued his speech as her mind raced.  “My friends, this is Doctor Daring Do.  Professor of Archeology at the University of Manehattan, and world-renowned explorer and treasure hunter.  While your reputation may not precede you here, Doctor, I’m sure you must be familiar with my company.” Without even thinking, Daring snapped back at him.  “What, were your Black Cloaks too scared to come to Zebrica this time?  Or could they just not take the heat?” “I assure you, Doctor, my subordinates are occupied with pressing matters.  Matters, I might add, which also concern me.  So I’ll give you a simple ultimatum.  Give me the idol, or I will pry it from your cold, dead hooves.” “I thought we had something...” Daring muttered sarcastically, as she eyed the spear wielding zebras.  She was a good flier, but she wasn’t sure she could dodge that many spears.  Then there was the risk of the Commandant chasing her.  The bigger pegasus wasn’t nearly as agile, but he was a lot faster.  Gulping down her pride, she extended a hoof.  “Fine.  Take it.” “I’m glad you see things my way,” the Commandant muttered, as he snatched the golden statue of the draconequus from Daring’s hooves.  Spreading his wings, he rose into the air over the jungle.  “Wala kula yake haraka haraka.” Daring gulped.  Her ear wasn’t all too trained to the dead languages of Zebrica the way her eyes were, but she was able to pick up enough.   “How about you don’t eat me at all?” she asked, as the zebras paced forward. - - - Golden Oaks Library 0612 Hours         “You seem like you’re in a bad mood, Mr. Ink.”         Red Ink was surprised by the statement.  It was usually altogether blatant when he was in a bad mood, and it had been a very long time since he’d heard an honest comment to that effect.  He took a sip of the tea sitting on the table in front of him, gagged down the bitter flavor, and nodded.  “That... that mailmare.  I thought I would have to get eyepatch.”         Twilight seemed surprisingly unaffected by the comment.  Then again, that lack of surprise was easily explained by the all-consuming void Ink had decided had to be contained between the pages of the novel hovering in front of her face.         Spike, who had been across the main room of the library shelving books, shrugged.  “Meh; I’m not seeing it.”         Twilight looked up from her book.  “Sorry, what?”         “I said he wouldn’t look very good with an eyepatch.  Too short to be a pirate.”         “Say that to my face, little dragon, and see what happens.”  Ink pounded his chest, prompting Spike to take a step back and raise a brow.  Satisfied with the reaction, Ink returned his hoof to the ground.  “That’s what I thought.”         “Geez... lay off buddy.  I’m short too.”         “I’m not short,” Ink growled.  “It’s not my fault you Canterlot ponies are all unnaturally tall.”         Spike cocked his head.  “Uh, they aren’t any taller than—”         Twilight interrupted with a raised hoof.  “Actually, Spike, you’ll find that on statistical average, an adult pony in the Domain of Stalliongrad is four point six inches shorter than their equivalent in the Domain of Canterlot, due to malnutrition brought about by the effects of the Dragon Wars, and then later the Blizzard Revolution.”  Twilight concluded her explanation by setting her rather thin novel face down on the table and sitting upright properly.  “Now will you two please stop arguing?”         “...fine.”  Spike went back to shelving books, but couldn’t resist launching a parting phrase over his shoulder.  “He started it.”         “I’m sure,” Twilight muttered.  “Actually, Roscherk, I was hoping to talk to you about that.” Ink’s brow rose.  “I had not realized we were using first names now.” “I told you ‘Twilight’ was fine a long time ago, actually.  But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”  The librarian stood up and walked around the little table so that she could look Ink in the eyes at a more even level.  “Specifically, I wanted to talk to you about how you behaved when Foresight and your father were here.” Ink groaned inwardly, bracing himself for the impending onslaught of her criticism. “I was impressed with the way you controlled your temper.” “...what?” “I’m not saying you couldn’t still use some improvement,” Twilight continued, oblivious to Ink’s shock.  “However, you didn’t light your wings on fire, and you kept control of yourself.” “Perhaps you remember a different day than me.  I threw Thunder Crack through one of your chairs.  Right?” Twilight shrugged.  “Like I said, you could use some improvement.  But more what I mean is how you behaved with Foresight.  When you came to Ponyville a few weeks ago, you would have burnt down the whole library if you got in a shouting match like that one.  I’m not saying  you’re anywhere near perfect.  I just wanted to say that I had noticed an improvement.” “Oh.  Well, why bother mentioning anything before I was ‘done’?” “Dr. Compensation’s research suggests that positive reinforcement is fundamental to the development of positive habits.”  Twilight smiled at the recitation of knowledge, as if encountering an old friend.  “Also, I feel like having you continue to meet with me to practice Equiish and work on your control of your Empatha is beginning to hit what I might label a ‘point of diminishing returns’.” “...you have only just taught me to speak Equiish, Twilight.  I do not speak Cirran.” “Quod non Cirran. Noli esse ridiculum.”  Twilight chuckled at Ink’s show of misunderstanding, despite her own lack of familiarity with the effectively dead language.  “What I mean is that if you want to get any better at handling conflict appropriately, you should spend some more time with my friends, and maybe start learning some more about the Magic of Friendship.  It has been a while since you wrote a friendship report.” Ink rolled his eyes.  “I talked to her face to face.  I do not see the need.” “She used to make me do them face to face,” Twilight noted. The pegasus groaned.  “Can you imagine what it would have said, Twilight?”  He let his voice slip into a deliberate mockery of his own accent.  “Dear Princess Celestia, today I am learn that being punch into face by Rainbow Dash is much hurt.  Mailmare is making think my eye is broken.  Now I am not into speaking well, and am making fool of self in front of father.  Friendship is stupid.  It is too hot here. Sign, Red Ink.” His self parody completed, Ink gave an impressively sarcastic bow.  Twilight offered his performance a bit of simple applause as she finished off the last of her chuckles.  “So Derpy told you that your eye had gone lazy?”         Ink nodded.  “I asked her what she happened to her eye, and she told me she fell on her head when she was younger.”         The librarian couldn’t help but smile.  “You should be careful around Derpy, Mr. Ink.  She’s smarter than you’d think.”         “Is she Honor Guard?” Ink asked rather bluntly, earning a stare that could not merely be described as wide.  Oceanic was a decent approximation for the spread of Twilight’s eyelids.  “You think I am kidding?”         “Well... yeah, pretty much,” Twilight managed, once she regained control of her tongue and settled her laughter at the ridiculousness of the insinuation.  “She gets a lot of unfair blame for being stupid, but she really is kinda... clumsy.”         “Clumsy?”         “She dropped a piano on my head once.”         Ink pondered this for a moment, in light of his experiences with the mare who had so bluntly threatened his life, and then casually deceived him with so little difficulty.  After this moment’s thought, he replied to Twilight with the utmost sincerity. “Maybe—and I am just saying maybe—Mentor decided that he wanted to get rid of you.” “What?” “You know, like... assassination?  You had, perhaps, done something that challenged Princess’ power?” “Firstly, Mr. Ink, that’s ridiculous.  What threat could I possibly pose to Princess Celestia, even if I did have something against her?  Even if I somehow became her equal in Arcana, I’m not about to sprout wings or something.  Secondly, I’ll have you know that the Commander and I were on excellent terms.” “Really?  Did he ever tell you his name?” It was a loaded question, of course.  The pony might as well have actually been named The Commander, were it not for the reality that “Hi, I’m The” looks pretty stupid on a mass-produced nametag sticker.  He only went by a rough approximation of his real name during the Blizzard Revolution to avoid drawing attention to his position. Twilight gave the stallion a ‘brook-wide’ dead stare (as opposed to the ‘ocean-wide’ gaze of a pony begging to live) before replying to his original question.  “When I was little, I asked him why he had Commander Hurricane’s armor.  He told me he was actually Commander Hurricane, but that it would have to be our little secret.  Princess Celestia sometimes had him teach me about history; I believed him about having lived through a lot of it until I found the West Horn history textbook he’d been using to brush up.”  Twilight stared off at the wall for a moment, before actually answering Ink’s question.  “I didn’t know his real name until the funeral a few weeks ago, if that’s what you’re asking.  Then again, I don’t see what difference that makes.  I don’t believe he was the sort of stallion who would just kill somepony because they were inconvenient to Princess Celestia—and I doubt she would allow a pony like that around either.” Ink’s impending burst of laughter at the expense of a young mare’s gullibility was interrupted by the door slamming open to reveal a little orange pegasus filly.  “Hey Twilight!  Have you seen Rainbow Dash?” Twilight gritted her teeth at the number of books that had been toppled from their perches by the slam of the door against the nearby wall.  “No, Scootaloo.  I imagine she’s still asleep.” “Actually,” Ink interrupted, “she’s out of town today, Scootaloo.” “Mr. Crowview!”  Scootaloo jumped a little bit, hovered on her little wings for just a second, and then ran forward and slid to a stop sitting just in front of him.  Somewhere in Stalliongrad, a lonely puppy froze to death that very instant, in a perfect example of Starswirl’s Three-and-a-halfth law: Conservation of Adorableness. Mr. Krovyu, who had found the pronunciation of his name anything but adorable, winced and contorted his neck at a sound that he would gladly have likened to a screaming cat being dragged by its claws down a chalkboard.  “Yes, Scootaloo?” “You’re all better!  Are you going to be back at school tomorrow?” Ink nodded slowly.  “And I would appreciate it if you continued to call me Mr. Ink.” “But that’s not your real name!” Ink groaned.  “Just... Mr. Ink is fine.” “Well... okay.”  Like so many young and rambunctious fillies who had managed to make off with one too many chocolate bars while nopony was looking and were consequently on raging sugar-highs, Scootaloo’s focus launched off of Ink expeditiously.  It settled on Twilight’s book. “Is that the new Daring Do, Twilight?” Always eager to see a young mind indoctrinated with the value of the printed word, Twilight lit up like a fireworks stand with an angry Red Ink inside.  “Yep!  It comes out tomorrow, but Mr. Up sent me a personal copy after I gave him a copy of my notes on Commander Hurricane’s journal.  I’ll put it up to be checked out once I’m done.” Scootaloo considered temptation by biting her lip momentarily, before shaking her head in a surprising show of willpower.  “Nah, that’s okay.  I’m gonna go get my own copy, signed and everything!” “I thought Fed Up was going to be in Manehattan all day.  You aren’t going that far, are you?” Scootaloo looked suddenly guilty, like this pathetic excuse for a simile.  “Yeah, well... I’m going to go with Applebloom and Applejack.” “Applejack?  Really?  I thought she was with Resistant prepping for applebucking next weekend.” “Yeah, well... hey, Mr. Ink, there’s this really cool, uh, Stalliongrad history thing I want to show you for school and you should come outside right now and look at it.”  Scootaloo urgently pressed against Ink’s foreleg.  The futile action was rewarded when he humored the filly, allowing her to lead him outside the library. Ink took in the Ponyville morning air, and was overcome with a curious feeling which he only barely managed to resist voicing in song. Morning in Ponyville shimmers, morning in Ponyville shines, and right now my gut is telling me, that shortly, I’m probably gonna die. “Did you say something, Mr. Ink?” Scootaloo asked. He shook his head.  “Not out loud.  Now, what did you actually want?”   “I wanna go to Manehattan.  It’s gonna be Rainbow Dash’s birthday soon, and I wanna get her the new Daring Do book, signed.” Ink cocked his brow.  “Do you know how far Manehattan is?” “Uh... well, I know it’s on the ocean, across from Stalliongrad.” “It is a long way.  We would have to spend the night there.  What would your parents say?” “Uh... nothing?” Scootaloo proposed. Ink shook his head.  “You expect me to pay for your train ticket and just let you go?” “No, Mr. Ink.  I expect you to fly.”  After a moment’s pause at the glory of the subtle accent that had slipped into the phrase, Scootaloo continued.  “Look, I really wanna do this for Rainbow Dash, and I need your help.  I promise you won’t get in trouble.  It can be our secret, okay?” A moment later, it was revealed that even Roscherk Krovyu had a soft spot in his charred and blackened heart for the wide, pleading puppy eyes of a filly trying far too hard to get her way. Either that, or he just didn’t care about the potential consequences.  Probably the latter. - - -         Daring pulled back on the mane of the little filly in the oversized Manehattan Yankee’s cap.  “Whoa there, Squirt,” she whispered with intensity.  “It’s a long way down.”         “There are ponies down there, Dr. Do!” Little Disc warned.         “Ponies?  But Onyx Ridge has been abandoned for eight-thousand...”  Daring’s words died on her tongue as she leaned over the ledge and down into the bowels of the ancient barbarian fortress.  “Oh.”         “Who they?” the little filly from Shanghay inquired in her peculiar accent.         “Black Cloaks.  I hate those guys.”  Daring reached into her bag with a dexterous wing  and dug for her notebook.  “I was expecting Wargs to be holding Dad.  Something’s up.”  The mare’s suspicions were confirmed when a blue creature that was decidedly not a pony revealed itself.  “Ahuizotl is working with them?”  She watched as her oldest rival stalked amongst the black-cloaked figures.  “Where’s the Commandant?  Do you see him, squirt?”           No reply was forthcoming.  “Squirt?!” Daring turned to find a blood-red hoof wrapped tightly around a squirming, fighting filly.         “You were looking for me, Doctor Do?  Here I am.” - - - Gathering Avenue, Manehattan 1019 Hours         “No, listen to me, Little Disc is by far the best kid sidekick in all of fiction.  I mean, think of Temple of Do, right?  She totally bucks Ahuizotl in the face, and then she frees all the other kids and―”  The colt was cut off in his tirade by a pair of blood-colored wings beneath a long black coat, soaring barely over his head.  “Hey, mister; badass Commandant cosplay.”         Ink allowed Scootaloo to scamper off his back and onto the paved Manehattan street before turning around to get a good look at the colt who had just addressed him.  A sixteen-ish face, painted a thick blue, stared back at him.  That wasn’t even the tip of the weirdness iceberg, but it was enough to send a chill down Red Ink’s spine.  Atop the colt’s head was... another fake, stuffed head that looked like it had been made out of paper scraps and garbage.  There were gaudy fake gold bracelets around some of his ankles, and his tail had been bound up to resemble that of a cat; at its end was a paw-like thing.  Beside him was a rather obese colt, who had been painted to look like a tiger.         A part of Ink wondered whether he even had the capacity to care about an explanation.         In the undeniably awkward silence that filled the time it took Ink to perform this analysis, the colt had settled on another topic of discussion to broach with the pro-tier cosplayer.  “What do you think the Commandant’s real name is going to be?  They say it’s finally going to be revealed in the new one!”         After puzzling over the meaning of the sentence, Ink settled on responding the way Twilight would have expected him to.  “My name is Roscherk Krovyu.”         “Whoa, you actually speak Stalliongradi?”         “No way, Check,” his fatter friend interrupted.  “I’m sure he just looked up a few words at the library or something.  Besides, everypony knows the Commandant is gonna be her dad from the past, with the Scepter of Midnight.”         “You’re an idiot, Con.  I bet you five hundred bits he’s undead Commander Hurricane, from the Phoenix’s Hearth.  Why else would Fed Up give us that huge cliffhanger about the body getting thrown into the fire?  Plus, the Commandant didn’t show up until the next book.”         “Yeah, but they talked about him way back in The Sapphire Stone.  Don’t you remember that whole scene with...”         Their dialogue didn’t actually drop off in volume by any decrease in the intensity of their argument.  Instead, the rapidly decreasing volume was caused by Ink and Scootaloo walking away.  The hardened soldier of the two turned to his guide.  “So... what are we actually doing here?” “We’re headed in there,” Scootaloo answered, pointing with a hoof toward the broad, flat edifice of the Manehattan City Convention Center.  “Looking for Fed Up; he’s an author.” The two semi-strangely dressed colts called after the departing duo after a moment of awkward realization.  “...hey, wait, where are you―” When a pegasus flares their wings, they are expressing an intense emotion: arousal has attained a certain reputation for this behavior, though it is far from the only example.  Between perceptive pegasi, the inclinations of feathers can convey a specific emotion, rather than the mere presence or absence of such a strong feeling.  Shock, for example, is denoted by a flight-formation spread capable of taking off at a moment’s notice.  Rage, in turn, involves the spreading of feathers to their maximum extent in order to shed the excess heat produced by the associated Empathic discipline of fire.  When a pegasus desires to express this rage toward a single individual, they do so by bending their wings backward and around at the shoulder joint, to point the tips of both limbs toward the subject of their ire simultaneously.  It is a rather acrobatically involved motion whose necessary effort is far more indicative of a mutual hatred than, say, the uplifting of a single central digit on a ‘claw’ or analogous appendage. The purpose of this lengthy diatribe is so that our non-pegasus readers can appreciate Ink’s mutual talents of bodily flexibility, and particularly unhealthy levels of overall hatred for his average fellow pony.  Rather than bothering with his wings, Ink performed this motion with his hind legs.   The two colts could barely even be described as offended; their overwhelming emotion was one of amazement. As the stallion continued on his way, the presence of his long black coat prevented Scootaloo from noticing the gesture, and thus she said nothing in response as they made their way toward the convention center. “What was that?” Ink asked while the two stallions were still well within earshot.  “Are they in a cult?”         “Huh?  No!  They’re Daring Do fans.”         “What’s a daring do?”         “Not ‘a daring’.  Daring Do.  They’re books about an awesome archeologist doctor.”         Ink was puzzled by this comment.  “You know what archaeologists do, right?”         “Yeah!  They go dig up buried treasures and―”         “No, those are pirates.  Archeologists are boring ponies who dig up chunks of broken pots trying to figure out whether or not Starswirl the Bearded drank enough milk as a foal.  They do not find treasure.”         “But―”         Ink trod upon Scootaloo’s dreams like a glorious red velvet carpet over a thousand porcelain Hearth’s Warming ornaments.  “If you want to go on an adventure, you’d be better off moving to Stol’nograd with me.  Rainbow Dash can teach you how to fight, and then you can put in an application to join the Black Cloaks.”         What Ink did not mention, simply out of lack of conscious care, was that there did not exist in the entire world even a single paper copy of a job application for the Black Cloaks.  Instead, their leader encouraged would-be defenders of the Domain of Stalliongrad to travel out into the wastes of the domain and kill a monster; the bigger and deadlier, the better.  It’s severed head was then to be placed on his desk in the armory down the street from Burning Hearth Castle, where he would judge the competitiveness of the applicant, and decide their starting salary.  The Black Cloaks employed a professional boar taxidermist who helped in this assessment, and whose official title was ‘Secretary to the Commandant’―after all, his foremost obligation was to keep Ink’s desk clean. “Rainbow doesn’t like to talk about fighting,” Scootaloo said.  “Or her trip, or guardsponies, or really anything like that.” “What, because her friend died?”  Ink didn’t notice the utter shock on the filly’s face as he walked toward the Manehattan City Convention center.  “She acts like nopony else has ever lost somepony.  Oh, poor me.  I lost friend and now I will never be a guardspony again, except if Stol’nogradi I don’t like comes to my town.  Pathetic.” “Hey!  Don’t be mean to Rainbow Dash!  She’s not pathetic; she’s totally awesome!”         “Her Empatha is as strong as mine,” Ink observed with a bitter lack of self-awareness.  “She can break sound by flying at it.  Yet, despite her goal, she is not ‘Wonderbolt’.”  The word was accentuated with wing-quotes.  “Her only claim to fame is being friends with Sparkle.  She works as weather-pony in a two-bit town.  If she actually wanted something from life, she would already have it by now.”         By this point, Scootaloo had almost lost her temper in that potent tightly-bottled mixture of anger and sorrow that ‘civilized’ adults refer to as a tantrum.  “You take that back!” she shouted.         “Why should I―”         Perhaps, Mr. Ink― just perhaps― because you’re having an argument with a little filly in the streets of Manehattan and everypony is now staring at you. “Ahem,” Ink said (notably not actually clearing his throat or coughing).  “What I mean to saying... no, that’s not right.  What I mean to say, Scootaloo, is that Rainbow Dash has some very significant skills, but I feel like she is wasting them.  If she would just get over the other guardspony friend who died and put on some armor again, she could someday be almost as good as me.” Ink stepped calmly out of the metaphorical fountain of his overwhelming hypocrisy and pride, and up to the literal convention center doors.  They opened easily at the press of his hoof.  His jaw subsequently opened at the simple pull of gravity. - - - The two pegasi squirmed against one another, back to back, inside the rather creaky barrel floating its way down river at an unsettling pace. “This is your fault!” “How, Doctor, is this in any way my fault?” “Oh, I don’t know,” the archeologist replied with unprecedented sarcasm.  “Maybe its because you thought that Ahuizotl would share his treasure with you?  Or maybe it’s because your plan was to have all three of us work together?  Or maybe it’s because you’re black-hearted and don’t care about anything except power!” The military stallion pressed back against the smaller mare.  “In my defense, he was only supposed to betray you.  And how was I supposed to know he already had the Hoof of Glory?  Otherwise, he’d be the one in this stupid barrel, and I’d be up there enjoying...”  The Commandant paused.  “What in Tartarus does he actually eat, anyway?  Come to mention it, what is he?” “An ahuizotl.” “Gee, thanks, Doctor.  I know his name.  What kind of creature is he?” “An ahuizotl.  It’s the name of his species, though I think he might be the last one.  That’s beside the point, seeing as we’re tied together in a barrel going down the Amarezon!” The Commandant scoffed.  “You say that like it’s a big deal.  We just wait until we spill up on shore and then find a rock to cut the ropes.  Simple.” “It would be... if there weren’t a waterfall a half-mile down the river.” The Commandant’s struggles grew far more intense, but they were of little help against the ropes binding him to his arch-nemesis.  Soon, the roar of the water was audible over the sound of their hooves scraping against the wood of the barrel.  With a sigh that Daring could not hear, but felt against her back, the leader of the Black Cloaks gave up his effort.  “I will see you in the Summer Lands, Dr. Do.” “I guess you can call me Daring, now,” she replied.  “Though I wouldn’t cross your wings over the whole Summer Lands thing.” They shared a laugh, cut brief by the sound of roaring water.  Daring spoke up again.  “There is something I’ve sort of always wondered.” “Yes?” “What’s your real name?” “Well, Dr. Do― er, Daring... It’s...” Enjoy this excerpt?  Be sure to pick up Daring Do and the Satchel of Tirek Available September 15th   - - - “It’s a jungle...” “Yeah, its supposed to look like it’s from the books, Mr. Ink.  Daring usually goes exploring in the jungle or the desert or―  What are you doing?” Ink was prodding a plastic tree with his hoof, his face the picture of ‘enigma’ one might find in an arbitrary dictionary.  After a moment’s consideration, he bit down on a fake leaf, ripped it from the tree, and swallowed it with a pained expression on his face. “Disgusting!” “Well, yeah, it’s a fake tree.  Jeez, do they not have plants in Stalliongrad?” Ink gagged, coughed, and regurgitated the leaf.  Any more artistic explanation would only serve to spread his displeasure.  “We have pine trees,” he answered.  “I have only seen palm trees in pictures.” “Well, there aren’t gonna be any real palm trees in Manehattan.  Now can we actually go inside?” Ink nodded, and turned away from the plant to a little bench and a mare in a pith helmet sitting behind it. “Hello, explorers,”  the mare greeted as Ink and Scootaloo approached.  “Ooh... that’s a great Commandant costume.” Ink’s brow rose. “Do we... know each other?” “A Stalliongradi accent too?  I’m impressed.”  Her hoof moved to a little steel box sitting on the table, whose lid she flipped open.  “Are you two interested in three-day passes, or just for today?” “Uh...” “Just today,” Scootaloo provided, before her teacher could beg any clarification.  “We wanna meet Mr. Up.” “Oh, well, you know the winners of the costume contest get to meet him for lunch, right?  I bet if you hurry, you can still get entered.”  She turned to Ink.  “It’s twenty bits for you, and ten for the filly.” “Thirty bits to go in a building?  That’s highway robbery!” Scootaloo’s pouty face continued to have no effect on Ink.         “Thirty bits is the price, mister.  And I don’t care how scary your ‘Black Cloaks’ are.”  She pantomimed the single quotes with her forehooves.  “Do you really want to upset your daughter?”         The thought made Ink die a little inside; he was quite sure he had a few children somewhere in the world, and one of his few truly inspired fears was the idea of having to meet one of them.  He knew there had to be at least one (statistically speaking) who had made a blood-oath against him for some perceived slight or abandonment.           Ink’s jaw dropped, and then locked shut again.  Rather than wasting time in protest, he slammed a hoof down on the table.  “I will give you twelve bits.”         “Uh... this isn’t some flea market, sir.”         “Okay, how about twelve bits and I don’t...”  And then, his hoof seconds from lashing out to grab the mare’s throat, Roscherk Krovyu hesitated.  “Er, rather, what I meant is... seventeen bits?”         “The price is fixed.”         A glimmer of an idea was born in the stallion’s mind in that moment.  He contorted his face in an artificial anger that was rather foreign to a pony who so often found himself in possession of a surplus of the genuine article.  “Of course price is fixed!  You are part of bourgeoisie, making monopoly over common ponies of proletariat!  What do you think crowds will do when I tell them that you kept a down-on-his-luck stallion from taking his little sister inside?” “Uh...” “Either she and I walk through those doors, or you are going to have a very bad morning tomorrow with the press.  Your choice.” He didn’t even bother to wait for her response; Ink picked up Scootaloo with a toned wing and carried her into the convention hall.  The filly squirmed in his grip until they stopped in a smallish sort of chamber between two sets of double doors.  Ink set her down, and began scraping off his tongue with his hoof. “What was that?” “That is how Predvidenie got his way when he was a foal, since he was too much of a bitch to stand up for himself.  Also, if I ever hear you say those words, I will expel you.” “What words?  ‘Bitch’?” “No.  Proletariat and bourgeoisie.”  Ink spat on the fake tree.  “Мерзость.”  He rolled his shoulders and looked around the convention hall proper to take assessment of the situation. Booths, displays, and decorations filled the open hall, decorating about a third of it as a jungle, a third as the wide steppes of the Marehara desert, and the rest as a sort of old-world university.  An enormous amount of work and money had gone into creating a realm of fantasy for the ponies present. And the ponies.  Ink had never really seen so many in one place outside of a battlefield.  Ponies in costumes, running around and mingling.  Ponies making friends, and arguing over whether or not ‘Daring struck first’ ― whatever that meant.  He was so consumed in the shock and the confusion that he barely noticed Scootaloo’s growing excitement, until her buzzing wings actually began to disturb his jacket. “You wanna... go look for this ‘Fed Up’ pony?” “Do I?”  Scootaloo ran forward so suddenly that Ink nearly lost her in the mass of faces dominating the room.  Fortunately, even with his vertical deficiency, his overall mass was great enough to plow through the crowd with ease.  With that rather abrupt transition into the convention proper, Ink’s adventure began. - - - Daring Do and the Fan Meetup VII Manehattan City Convention Center 1246 Hours “This ‘pizza’ stuff is pretty good,” Ink muttered, as his unnaturally dexterous wings folded his seventh slice cleanly in two, and he shoved it into his mouth. “I still can’t believe you’ve never had a slice of pizza before.  What do you even eat in Stalliongrad?” Ink managed to catch the pizza on its way back up, so that it didn’t spill all over the floor.  “Please, Scootaloo, not while I’m eating.”  Discarding the now-ruined pizza, the stallion pulled another slice from the cardboard box balanced between his wings and gulped it down.  “But in Stol’nograd, which is not a pun, I am quite fond of potato pelmeni with khren.  Or lily sandwiches.” At the mention of the second item, Scootaloo’s eyes widened slightly.  “So you do eat normal food?  Just not pizza?” Ink shrugged, at first unable to answer with another slice of pizza in his mouth.  After a moment to swallow, he smiled down.  “Pelmeni is far more normal than this stuff.  Who puts cheese on a tomato?”  Before she could respond, Ink forced the conversation away from what would undoubtedly eventually be a revelation about the peculiar eating habits he had picked up in the revolution.  “Too bad all the signed copies of that book were sold out, huh?” “Yeah.  At least you didn’t make a whole big scene like you almost did at the ticket counter.  Although, how come you didn’t do that whole thing with the berg-wazzy―” Ink’s wing slapped Scootaloo’s ears.  “What did I tell you about those words?” “Ow.  Sorry, geez.  Don’t have a cow, Mr. Ink.” “Good.”  The stallion gritted his teeth.  “I didn’t use those words because it wouldn’t matter.  If they don’t have more books, complaining about the government and richer ponies isn’t going to make one appear.  It will be easier to hunt down this ‘Fed Up’ pony face to face and get him to scrawl his name on covers of books.” “Yeah, but everypony knows Fed Up hates talking to big groups of fans.  You have to win the costume contest to talk to him, like the mare at the door said.” Ink took a moment to disregard his disclusion from the term ‘everypony’, and then settled in for what his gut warned him was going to be a terrible time.  “Costume contest?  You mean like all these ponies who are dressed up and making to believe they are my soldiers?” “Well, uh, yeah.  See, in Daring Do, there’s this character called the ‘Commadant’...” Ink nodded.  “Commandant Roscherk Krovyu.” “No, not you.  He’s the bad guy in the story.”  Ink scowled.  Scootaloo didn’t seem to catch on.  “I guess he’s red too, but I don’t think he’s really supposed to be short...”  The smell of smoke brought the filly’s attention around.  “Uh, is something wrong?” “No...” Ink managed through gritted teeth. “Why would anything be wrong?” “Well, I dunno.  You just seemed sort of tense.” At this point, the absence of flames on Ink’s wings was something of a miracle.  “Look, Scootaloo, I am...  I don’t care about the books, okay.  We go, you win this costume thing, and we can leave before anypony realizes that I ran off with a filly half my age alone.” “What’s that supposed to mean?”  Realization dawned like Celestia before her morning coffee on Scootaloo’s face.  “Wait... you’re not the ‘stranger’ from ‘stranger-danger’ that Miss Cheerilee―” “No!”  Ink shook himself.  “Absolutely not.”  With a swift twist of his wing, the stallion produced what seemed to be a knife of jagged black crystal from within his likewise dark jacket, and held it close to his chest where only Scootaloo could see.  “I keep a special knife for ponies like that.” “Cool!”  Scootaloo reached out to touch it, and found the blade twisted out of her reach.  “Aw, come on!  I’m not gonna cut myself.” “Better that you not risk it.  If you cut yourself with that knife, you will never fly again.” Scootaloo’s eyes widened, and Ink sensed a conversation that was four parts uncomfortable, two parts military atrocity, and one part political conspiracy.  He cut off any discussion of Coltpenhagen at it’s core, interrupting with a new conversation to a random passerby. “Hey, you―you know where the costume thing is?” The pony Ink had randomly spotted out of a crowd had painted his coat red, and wore a crappy imitation of Ink’s jacket, which had probably cost twice as much as the genuine article.  Rigid, fake red wings gave him an appearance of constant arousal which in no way matched the irritation on his face when he turned around. “What’s it to ya, shorty?  Think you’re gonna win with that lousy getup just ‘cause you got lucky being red with wings, huh?” Ink forced himself to take two deep breaths to dispel his irritation at being called ‘shorty’, and put on the most pained, unnatural smile that anypony had worn since... well, to spare another anecdote, since a very long time ago. “My friend and I would like to enter, yes.  Do you know where we go?” “Well, you’re outta luck, squirts.  I’ve got the last entry myself, and neither your scruffy flank, nor the wannabe Little Disc are gonna get me to give it up; there’s few enough entries I can get away with auctioning this, and make a few hundred bits.” Ink’s brow rose.  “Can I buy it off you?” The earth pony chuckled, looking Ink down and... down some more.  ‘Up and down’ doesn’t work on somepony that short.  “You can’t afford it, buddy.  Maybe your blank-flank sister can help.” “Hey!” Scootaloo cried.  “Come on, Mr. Ink.  We don’t want his stupid―” Ink’s wing didn’t unfurl.  One instant, it was against his side, and the next it was rigid out to his right, cutting off Scootaloo’s words.  The stallion’s chest rose and fell with every panting breath.  “Apologize to her.” “Or what?” “Well, to start, I will probably have to tell your mother.” Some ponies are born stupid.  Ink was convinced this one had to practice to get as good as he was.  “Oh, real sick burn.  It’s not like you’d know where to find her if you wanted to.” “I’d just have to head to bed,” Ink replied, feeling a bit too lazy to do anything creative with the easy lead-in.  “She isn’t that expensive, if you have a real job.” The stallion growled.  “If you’re looking for trouble, punk―” “Then I would likely have to go find somepony actually scary, and not some two-bit, snot-nosed punk who think’s he’s a badass because he happened to hit a growth spurt before everypony else in his elementary class.” The other stallion threw the first swing, but by that point, it was already over.  He was too slow for Ink not to block, had he cared to.  He was also too weak to actually get anything more than a twitch and a mild sting out of Ink’s cheek. Then the real Commandant replied.  A hook to the right shoulder put him off balance, and then an uppercut actually flipped the colt head over hooves onto his back.  Ink stepped forward once, and caught a blow to his ribs, which he barely noticed.  He spun the stallion onto his back, grabbed his still-stinging right foreleg, and twisted it up behind his back. “Security!” two gold-clad guardsponies shouted as they charged forward from somewhere amidst the crowd. Ink smiled as calmly and non-sociopathically as he could manage.  “It’s fine, officers; I have the situation under control.”  And then, with a particularly dexterous hoof, he flipped out the silver badge he kept on the inner pocket of his jacket.  “Commander Krovyu, Honor Guard.” “Whoa!  What’s an Honor Guard doing here?” Ink had a clever answer about ‘taking his sister on vacation’, but found himself infinitely more amused when he didn’t have to use it.  The older of the two conventional guards put a hoof on his companion’s shoulder.  “Not our business to ask, Buckle.  Sir, we’ll be glad to take this one off your hooves.” “Hold on, sir!” the other guard interrupted.  “You really buy that this random pony is―” “For the love of Celestia, Buckle, shut up.”  He continued, whispering, though Ink could easily hear him.  “Didn’t you hear about what happened to Captain Armor in Baltimare?  We don’t want to stick our noses in Honor Guard business.  I’m not losing my job over a scuffle at a Daring Do convention.” Buckle nodded.  “Ahem.  Sorry, sir.  We’ll take this one back to the station for some basic questioning.” Ink stepped away from his victim, casually lifting the stallion’s ticket for the costume contest as he did so.  “Nothing too harsh; he just needs to learn not to pick on little fillies for not having their Cutie Marks yet.” Like so many civilized adult ponies, the guardsponies glared down at the grown stallion.  Despite how easily he had fallen for Ink’s bait, something in his eyes suggested that he knew exactly what was happening, and that he wasn’t likely to find much hospitality in a Manehattan Guard Station cell. Ink led Scootaloo away from the rather unfortunate scene, and was quickly distracted by a magically amplified voice. “Attention: all costume-contest competitors should assemble at the main show hall in five minutes.  Thank you!” “Oh boy...” Ink whispered in Scootaloo’s ear.  “Here we go.” - - - Fed Up lived up to his name as he leaned on the edge of the stage, supported by a leg brace on his right foreleg and a cane pressed against his side.  The aging earth pony glared at yet another reminder of what his writing had been reduced to, and only had the spirit to throw a half-hearted wave at the costumed fan before sitting down on the faux-expensive pillow that had been laid down for him. The uneducated, unimaginative droves roared for him, and his heart sank even further.  It took a sigh and a strengthening of will to even look up into their faces.  “Good work, everypony.” Somewhere, Applejack felt suddenly sick. The M.C. Pony, whose name Mr. Up had promptly forgotten on their introductions at the last four conventions, waved a far more enthusiastic hoof.   “Actually, Mr. Up, we still have three more contestants.” The stallion grumbled under his breath, hoping the microphone wouldn’t catch it.  He was sure it had to have been covered by that damnable theme song, which seemed to be following him everywhere. “Fine.  Send them out.” The first one was a mare, dressed in a rather high-quality outfit of his predominant protagonist.  Underneath the pith helmet, her face shone with confidence that echoed in her stride.  In short, she was just like every other half-decent would-be actress he’d seen paraded across the stage in the show.  Out of sheer laziness, he took note of the number pinned on her shirt: 4-24. After a few poses and a passable recitation of some lines from the books, she finally got out of sight, leaving only two more to go.  Up committed her number to memory as the victor of the ‘Daring’ category out of sheer laziness, and steeled himself for the last competitor. When two ponies started coming up the stairs, he found himself immensely grateful that he wouldn’t have to sit through them both separately.  The little orange filly made a pretty good Little Disc, he had to admit.  Then the second pony stepped onto the stage, and Up stood in shock. “That’s... amazing.”         ‘The Commandant’ nodded slightly, and mouthed something Up couldn’t parse. “These are some impressive costumes,” the unicorn M.C. called out.  “Do you have anything you’d like to say, or do, for the audience?” The stallion flared his wings.  Five seconds of pyrotechnics later, everypony knew who had won the ‘Commandant’ category of the contest. - - - Ink and Scootaloo walked alongside some Daring Do pegasus and another filly painted bright blue.  Their destination was a small room with five chairs and a round table.  Atop the table lay four copies of Daring Do and the Satchel of Tirek, alongside a pile of mediocre deli-bought daisy sandwiches and water bottles. “You did it, Mr. Ink!” “It was going to happen, Scootaloo,” Ink muttered.  “I am the Commandant.” “Well, yeah, but not the one from the stories.” Ink chuckled.  “Scootaloo, I bet you three hundred bits that if I pick up that book there on the table and look up ‘the Commandant’s name, it’ll say ‘Roscherk Krovyu’.  The author is making a stab at me, and he knows it.” “What?”  Scootaloo cocked her head like a confused puppy.  “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means I know him from Stalliongrad, Scootaloo.  It means―” Ink was cut off by the door swinging open to reveal an irate, limping author.  “Alright, let’s get this over with.  What are your names?” The filly in blue stepped forward first.  “Well, I’m Ahuizotl.” “Yes, I know,” Up muttered with fatigue in his tone.  “What’s your real name?  So I can sign your pre-release copy of the book?” “Oh, right!  Well, I’m Sally Forth.” Fed Up nodded, and scrawled something mostly illegible on the inside cover of one of the books.  “Alright, ‘Daring’, you next.  What’s your name?” “Uh... I’m uh...Spectrum Sprint.” “Took a while?” Ink teased, as the author wrote. “Alright, little one, you’re next.” “My name’s Scootaloo... but could you write it for ‘Rainbow Dash’ in there?  It’s a gift.” “Really?”  Fed Up’s brow rose, alongside that of the incredibly subtle ‘Spectrum Sprint’.  “A little filly like you came all this way to get a present for somepony else?  I have to admit I’m impressed.” “Well, I didn’t come all this way alone.  I couldn’t have won the contest without Mr. Ink’s help.” Fed Up chuckled.  “No, I suppose you couldn’t have.  Alright, here’s one copy for Rainbow Dash.  I guess that just leaves you, ‘Mr. Ink’.  What’s your real name?” “I think you know, Mr. Dostudyevsky.” Everything stopped when Fed Up, née Fyodor Dostudyevsky, dropped the fourth book onto the floor.  “No.  No!  Not you!   I thought the costume was eerily good, but... What do you want with me?” “Exactly what Scootaloo said.  I’m helping her get a book for her friend.” “It can’t be that simple.”  The older stallion’s eyes went glassy for a moment before he shook his head erratically.  “You ruined my life!” “...what, do you want a kiss to make it better?  I sent you to the Wall like.. ten years ago.  And you weren’t even there that long before we overthrew Frostbite anyway.” “Because you were so much better!”  Fed Up roared.  “When the riots at Burning Hearth started, I wrote for Stoikaja’s rebels.  You broke my leg, and it’s never healed right since.  I finally gave up and ran away, but of course I couldn’t be ‘Fyodor Dostudyevsky’ anymore, or you and your crazy Black Cloaks would find me.  So I started writing here, under the name Fed Up.  But nopony wanted to read about social reform, because life under Celestia is great.  So I was stuck not selling any books, and I wound up writing this garbage―” “Whoa, hang on!” ‘Spectrum Sprint’ interrupted.  “Daring Do isn’t garbage!” “It’s trash!” the author ranted, pounding on the table.  “Unintelligent, meaningless garbage.  But every time I try and insert even the slightest bit of intelligence or deeper meaning, everypony has a collective heart attack about it!” The old stallion panted to himself for some time.  Finally, Ink couldn’t contain his amusement any more.  He shook his head slowly.  “Well, Mr. Dostudyevsky, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you really don’t mean as much to the Black Cloaks as you seem to think.  The truth is that I couldn’t give two shits about what you write outside the Domain.  And, frankly, as long as you didn’t give the money from your books to the rebels, I wouldn’t really have cared even if you had stayed in Stol’nograd.” ”Херня!” “Please, Fyodor, not in front of the foals.” “You would have drummed up some charges and thrown me into the dungeons under Burning Hearth Castle with all the other dissidents.” Ink actually laughed.  “Secret dungeons?  Do I look like the kind of pony who enjoys that much leather?  You’re supposed to be smart, so think for a moment.  Do you think Celestia would let us continue to rule Stol’nograd if we were dragging ponies screaming from their beds at night and locking them away under the castle?”  And then the levity briefly left Ink’s voice.  “Imprisonment is expensive, whereas fines and executions are very cheap.  And if you think you warrant an execution, you have a vastly overinflated opinion of yourself.  Now, you can write Scootaloo’s name in that book, so she has a copy for herself, or you can run away and leave it unsigned; I really don’t care.  I don’t give any more of a shit about your book, or your foalish stab at me than I do about you in general.  I did the best I could in Stol’nograd.”  Ink turned toward the door.  “Scootaloo, I’ll meet you outside.” “I’ll tell the guard about you!” Dostudyevsky shouted.  “Celestia will hear what you did!” “What, that I helped a little filly get a special birthday present for her personal hero, who happens to be one of the saviors of the country?”  Ink smiled sarcastically over his shoulder.  “Please do.  I’d appreciate it.”  The door to the room swung open at Ink’s hoof, and he strode out.  As it slowly shut, his voice could be heard through the shrinking crack.  “Oh, and sorry about your leg.” - - - September 16th, 1452 A.S. 1 Awesome Bullavard 2206 Hours         Rainbow Dash lay back on her lush cloud bed and smiled.  It had been a great birthday; definitely one for the books.  And speaking of books...         Her hoof shoved aside a hard-cover novel, whose inner cover bore a rather hollow note from ‘Fed Up’ to ‘Spectrum Sprint’.  It was kind of cool that she’d managed to win, but that prize wasn’t halfway as meaningful as the book she held in her hooves.  There was still a bit of blue wrapping paper stuck to the corner, which she peeled off carefully.  Its cover opened to the most beautiful words she’d ever found inside one of the novels. To Rainbow Dash, Looks like you’ve got a fan.  Take care of her, -Fed Up Happy Birthday, Rainbow Dash Someday, I hope I can be as awesome as you. -Scootaloo Of course, she’d already been reading the thing, but she hadn’t quite finished it yet.  There was still that last scene... - - - Daring and the Commandant tumbled out of the leathery bag together; its omnipresent heartbeat slowly settled as they lay on the desert sand side-by-side.  They knew they should have been enemies, but some strange sense of comradery tempered their fatigue and kept their hooves against the coarse ground. “You know, Commandant,” “Yes, Doctor?” “You never told me your real name.” “Well,” the Commandant chuckled.  “That’s a funny story.  I could tell you, I guess, but now that we aren’t about to fall off a waterfall.  It’s probably better I just show you.” Before Daring could move, the Commandant was up on his hooves.  His wings peeled off the black coat covering his chest and body. For the first time, Daring could see something else beneath it.  This strange object was likewise black, but shiny and lacquered to a degree that confused her.  It was only when the garment was mostly off that she recognized the shape of a cuirass, and the accompanying plates of armor.   Not the sort of armor the Canterlot Royal Guard wore, though; this was old stuff.  Ancient stuff. Cirran stuff.  “You... no way.  That’s impossible!” “Is it though?”  The Commandant laughed.  “I guess you did find an archeological relic on this journey, Doctor Do, even if it wasn’t the one you were actually looking for.  I’d love to give you an interview, but right now we should probably do what we can to stop Ahuizotl from taking over Equestria.” “Whatever you say... Commandant Hurricane.” - - - Ink slammed the cover of the book, three doors down the hall in Rainbow’s guest bedroom.  “Shit...  I owe Scootaloo three-hundred bits.”