//------------------------------// // The Good, The Bad, and The Dead (Over a Barrel) // Story: Scootaloo Dies a Bunch // by alexmagnet //------------------------------// It was another lazy Sunday for Scootaloo, and she decided that hanging out with Apple Bloom was better than sitting around doing nothing. She stopped for a moment, considered this new option, then decided that, yes, Apple Bloom was better than nothing. As she crested the hill near Sweet Apple Acres, she spotted a massive tree that looked rather inviting. She grinned. Hurrying across the orchard, she reached the tall tree and sat her back against. With the sun shining down on her, warm but not too hot, and the breeze ruffling her mane, it was the perfect recipe for a nap. A few hours later, fully rested and wide awake, Scootaloo stretched out her hooves… or, she would have if she weren’t pressed tightly against the bark of the tree, encased in some kind of burlap sack. She tried to cry out for help, or at least to curse whoever did this to her, but her face was squashed so thoroughly against the sack that she couldn’t even move her mouth to speak. Suddenly, she heard a voice, coming from outside. “And that’s the story of how the trees conquered the heathen bush people and became the tallest plants in the land.” The voice seemed familiar, almost like Apple Bloom, but more consistently Southern. “Ya’ll try and get some sleep now, ya hear? Got a big day ahead of you tomorrow, Bloomberg.” Scootaloo cringed. Apparently Applejack was talking to the tree, and she was pretty sure that trees didn’t talk. That would be silly. Once Scootaloo heard the sliding door close, she knew she was alone again. And since she wasn’t going anywhere, she might as well take another nap. Scootaloo groaned, rolling over and stretching out her wings before she let out a loud yawn. As she opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the sunlight beaming right into her face, and the second thing she noticed was that she was out of the sack. She jumped up. She was alone, in the middle of a barren desert. At least, that’s how it appeared until she turned around and noticed the massive tree looming over her. “Harrumph,” said the tree, shaking its branches, sending leaves tumbling down. Scootaloo’s eyes went wide. “Did… did you just talk?” The tree shook again, saying, “Apologies, little pony. It was not my intention to startle you.” “No, it’s fine,” said Scootaloo with a nervous laugh. “I must be going crazy,” she whispered to herself. “It’s probably this heat.” “It is not the heat, little pony,” said the tree. “And you are not losing your grip on sanity, at least not on my account, certainly not.” “I can’t believe I’m talking to a tree,” said Scootaloo, shaking her head. “All right, uh—What was your name again?” The tree shuddered, sending down yet more leaves. “I am who I am, and who I am is Bloomberg, or at least that is what they call me. My real name would take too long to say, so Bloomberg will do.” Scootaloo nodded, taking a few more steps back. “Okay, umm, Bloomberg. Couple questions. First off, why are we in the middle of nowhere? And second, why are you a talking tree?” The tree laughed. It sounded like a thousand forests being chainsawed down to make way for condos, which Scootaloo guessed was the equivalent of tree laughter. “Nowhere is not a very useful location. We are not in the middle of nowhere, because we are somewhere, and therefore we can’t be nowhere, because nowhere can’t be somewhere.” “...Riiiight.” “And though I look like a tree, I am not a tree.” Scootaloo raised a brow. “If you’re not a tree, then what are you?” “Ahhhhh, now that is an interesting question, little pony.” Bloomberg’s branches rustled as he settled himself in for a story. “I… am an Ant—Ent. Yes, that’s what I am. I had almost forgotten. Now, where do Ents come from, you ask?” “I didn’t…” “No one remembers when the first Ents came to this land, or where they came from. I was born in this land many many years ago, before the tallest mountains where even a bump in the landscape, and before the lakes had a drop of water in them. As time marches on, so too do the Ents. Always marching, always moving forward. We have helped your kind for eons, but most of them have forgotten us by now.” Bloomberg sighed. “Even the elv—Apple family has deserted us.” Scootaloo caught herself nodding off, and woke up with a snap. “Oh, yeah, that’s real sad, Bloomborg. Can I go now?” Bloomberg shuddered. “You will not find your way home by wandering. I know the way, but I will only tell you if you listen to my story. It has been many an age since I last told another of my tale.” Gritting her teeth, Scootaloo weighed her options. On the one hand, she was starting to feel pretty thirsty, but on the other, wandering through the desert wasn’t all that appealing either. “All right, tree guy. Let’s hear your dumb story.” Bloomberg smiled, if indeed trees could smile. “It all started many years ago, in the shadowy forests of Foghorn—Fangorn.” Scootaloo sighed. “Here we go.” It was already midday when Applejack came trotting up to Bloomberg. “Hey there, Bloomberg. We got everything worked out with the buffalo, so ya’ll should—What the?” Applejack noticed something lying next to the tree. As she got closer, she realized what it was. “Scootaloo? What in tarnation are you doing here?” She nudged the filly with her hoof. Scootaloo didn’t move. “Must’ve succumbed to dehydration.” She clicked her tongue, looking up at Bloomberg. “You tell her one of your stories?” Bloomberg said nothing. Applejack sighed. “I’ll get the shovel… again.”