//------------------------------// // Thecret Identitieth // Story: Washed Up // by ambion //------------------------------// Flotsam was both giddy from his antics and relieved that they were now over. Thirst lead him to his sparse cabin, his good spirits allowed Patches to follow him in. She was wild, hooting her delight, spinning in dizzy reenactments of the battle. Ricochoeting off the bedside dresser the filly slammed into Flotsam, only to collapse in a heap of giggles. “Maybe you’re a janitor!” Pleased as he was, there was still the niggling matter of memory to concern himeslf with, and between smiles his brow would pinch with thought, his gaze go distant. “I don’t think so,” he said, also hoping that to be the truth of it. Made feeble by silliness, Patches sprung up only to slink down again in a sprawl of limbs and giggles. “A thuper janitor!” said she, who wasn’t about to be put off by reason and good sense. The swabby’s spirited attempts at mop-themed martial battle cries and accompanying poses had them both laughing wildly. Wiping away a tear and fighting to breathe, Flotsam struggled to stifle his chuckles. “Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. No capes though. Maybe a mask, but no capes.” The filly was a flurry of lanky limbs. “Capeth are cool!” “And I’m not saying they’re not, but it’s my super costume were imagining here.” “Remembering! We’re remembering it.” Flotsam paused. “Well,” he said with more reservation, “I don’t remember a cape. I don’t remember much.” Now the filly was on his bed. Halfways on at least, though the crown of her head was rooted firmly to the floorboards, her hooves far above. This is one of many typical poses for expressionable smallies. “Thtill gone?” She tapped her head and nearly lost her precarious balance. “No, it’s there. Here, whatever. It’s here in my head, I know it is, but I just can’t seem to...no, not yet anyway. It’s like a book I can’t read, except I’m the book.” Patches scrabbled upright, making a mess of Flotsam’s bedspread. “It’th okay,” she said with a smile, “I can’t read either.” Flotsam eyed the filly. Not for the first time he wondered just how old she actually was. Surely old enough to be literate? A moment of shut-eyed dizziness passed over him. Literate. It had been his thought, but the word was someone else? Patches? He looked at her. No, not wrong, but not the right...colour? He shook his head and the moment ended. Fumbling he found his water and drank it. Like it, the dregs of memory were strange and distracting; he decided not to chase after them. “So, how’d you learn to fight like that anyway? I think this ship isn’t big enough for two super janitors.” The filly’s laugh was a balm for his troubled thoughts. “Janitorth don’t uthe kniveth, thilly!” “We’ve definitly established something along those lines. Are all the fillies trained like that where you come from?” Patches shrugged. Her indefatiguable good cheer seemed suddenly less so. “I dunno. Thometimeth I thee other fillieth when we make port, but I’m not thuppothed to go far from the thip. One time they puthhed me over and tried to thteal my banananda-” “Bandana-” “Yeah, that, thteal my bandanana tho I hit her on the head. It wath thad. They didn’t thteal it,” the filly added, but going by her tone it was poor consolation. “So where’s home for you?” The filly looked at him as if he had asked what water was. “Here. The thhip.” “But, you know, I mean...” Flotsam gestured helplessly. Maybe she lived on the ship, he wanted to say, but how could she be from the ship? Surely she was still a product of...biology? “Don’t you have any family?” he asked wretchedly, already wincing with dread of what answer he might receive. “Oh yeah! Captain’th my mom! I’ve got lotth of momth except lotth are more like thithterh inthtead, but Captain ith like everyeoneth mom.” This she declared with a stern nod of certainty. Flotsam could only blink. His ears were still reconciling ‘sisters’. “I thuppothe that maketh you a dad. Or a brother...” The filly scurtinzed him fiercly, her head ticking side to side, presumeably as she weighed the two perspectives. Flotsam could only grin nervously. “Nah, you’re definitly a brother.” The filly’s eyes went wide. “I got a little brother now!” “Wait, little brother?” Bells rang across the back of his mind, aching and fervent. “Well duh!” Patches declared, oblivious to Flotsam’s mounting anxiety. She listed her points rigidly. “I wath here first. I thow you the ropeth of being on the thip. I beat you in fights. All that thayth I’m the big one.” “You hardly beat me Twilight!” Flotsam laughed, though no sooner had the syllables gone beyond recall before he realized that he was arguing the point with a child. He smiled at the ironic hopelessness of his position. His smile faded by degrees. “Wait, did I say...something?” But it was gone, and Patches looked as confused as he felt. She flopped out of the way as Flotsam sat, rubbing at his head. Then he turned his attention towards the door. “Is it just me or does practice seem to be getting a lot louder?” The filly squinted and her ears picked up. “Uh oh.” “I’ll go check, you stay here.” Patches replied with a quick hop to her hooves and a blown raspberry. The sudden brightness of daylight was blinding. Blinking his sight clear, Flotsam heard only ocean stillness. There were mares tangled in rigging. Mares hanging precariously over the edge. Mares pinning mares and wrestling yet more mares, all still. At the centre of the still-picture femaelstrom were Charming Booty and Harpoon, their weapons mutually frozen mid-strike. All eyes - quite a few of them blackened and swollen - turned as one onto Flotsam. From the foredeck, four crewmares dazed and scattered at her hooves, Captain Nauticaa glared. “Uh oh,” Patches whispered from the corner of her mouth, “thhe’th mad.” “How mad?” Flotsam whispered back. “Piththed.” “Pi...? Oh. Oh dear,” he whimpered quietly.