Our Girl Scootaloo

Part 2 of 3

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With dinner over, the group meandered around to the main doors of the dormitory to wait for the bus down town. Affectionately called the 'drunk bus', the line ran back and forth between the various campuses on a half hour schedule to ensure those who had a bit too much to drink could find their way home safely. After a ten minute wait, the bus arrived and they all piled on, arriving at the student union building at seven thirty.

“No thanks, I think I'm going to find a seat before it gets too crowded. The comedian tonight is someone I've heard of, so its going to be a packed show.” Scootaloo added.

As far as she could tell, Philip hadn't arrived yet, so she took a seat near the back and kept an eye out as more people wandered in. At length, Catherine, Demi and Josie returned and she waved them over.

“No, but we are still early. Hopefully he'll-” She trailed off as she caught sight of him by the door with a friend. “Oh! There he is.”

As Scootaloo waved him over, Josie looked him up and down once and whistled softly. “Damn, Scoot! You didn't mention he was hot.”

Scootaloo blushed a bit as Catherine grinned. “I... didn't think it necessary. Besides, he's already a senior. I don't really have much of a chance with him.”

“Oh ye of little faith.” Catherine chided before whispering playfully. “Besides, who says you're the most interesting girl at this table?”

Scootaloo gave Catherine a raised eyebrow before turning back to her 'date'. “Yes. Philip, I'd like you to meet Josie, Demi and Catherine.”

They all shook hands, Josie's lingering just a bit too long, before he introduced his friend. “Everyone, I'd like you to meet David. He's a graduate student, and he just started his doctorate program.”

Josie was still staring at Philip as Cat whispered playfully in Scootaloo's ear. “Damn, girl, you've got to show me where to sign up to model.”

Scootaloo rolled her eyes as the two joined them at their table. The conversation jumped around between favorite classes, professors to seek out or steer clear of, and the usual complaints about the public transit system in town. Soon enough the comedian took to the stage, and as he worked up the crowd they soon found themselves laughing along.

At intermission, Josie and Philip struck up a conversation of their own and soon excused themselves to go looking for food. With a table of only four left, Cat pulled Demi off to one side leaving Scootaloo and David to fend for themselves.

“I have to say, I'm a little surprised to actually meet the girl who dominated our advanced genetics class this year. You're not what I expected.”

He looked sheepish for having put her on the spot, but continued anyway. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to irritate you. I guess I thought you would be some kind of know-it-all, a genetic expert in a lab coat like so many of our professors.”

Scootaloo found she couldn't help but smile at that description. “You do know I was a cheerleader for most of high school right?” His look of befuddlement was actually kind of adorable, so she kept going. “Yeah, short skirts, pompoms and everything.”

“Yup. I'm actually on a pre-med track, probably about where you were three or four years ago. So no lab coat yet, but give it time. I'll get there.”

While most people that met her for the first time had some kind of expectations, it was nice to know that at least this one wasn't a fanboy. As he sat there trying to imagine her as a cheerleader she decided to change the subject.

“You said you learned about me in your genetics class. My doctors can teach me a lot, but a new perspective is always interesting. What did your prof have to say about me?”

David blushed a bit. “That you were the greatest thing to happen to our world in a very long time. I don't know if my prof knows the first thing about you as a person, but the guy is obsessed with your biology. He's always coming in to class telling us about new thing he learned on the genetics forums.”

“It's okay. I have a few like him among my usual doctors. After all these years I've kinda gotten used to it.”

“Well, its big of you to say that. I'm just excited about some of the new work they're doing with your synthetic biology. It has the potential to really change who we are as a society.”

Scootaloo rolled her eyes. “Well they understand more every year. Eventually I suppose they're going to run out of diseases to cure, but it probably won't be within my lifetime.”

“What? No, you don't understand. I'm not talking about the cures people have cooked up from studying your genetics, I'm talking about the important new breakthroughs happening right now. Breakthroughs like this.” He finished indicating the rib where her porstheitic control chip was implanted and nodding to her prosthetic.

“What, you mean my ability to take implants? Don't get me wrong, its handy for me,” She gestured with her left arm, “but there aren't that many people out there who need new limbs or eyes.”

This really seemed to surprise him, even more than discovering her to be an ex cheerleader. “No, you don't understand. The genetic work that's been done so far was necessary and has saved a lot of lives, but this is more important. Much more important.”

Scootaloo felt a flash of anger at that. “What the hell do you mean 'more important? There are millions of people alive today who wouldn't be if no one had developed those treatments.”

“True, and in the here and now that matters a great deal, but in the long term? Not so much.”

“What the hell? What long term??” She accused in a raised voice. Some of the people seated nearby were starting to turn and watch, and from long experience she felt their stares on her back. “Hold on, the show is going to start back up any minute now.” She grabbed him by the arm and herded him toward the door. “We can finish this somewhere quieter.”

It had been a while since anyone had gotten to her like this, but she couldn't shake the feeling she was missing something. Most of the time idiots were easy to blow off. She would understand what they were trying to say, show the holes in their argument, and dismiss them as what they were, but spending a lot of time around doctors and experts had taught her to be wary of dismissing ideas she didn't fully understand.
Knowing the attention a loud argument would draw, Scootaloo lead the way up the stairs to the fourth floor – an area devoted to the HVAC equipment that kept the building functional, and where she could yell if she needed to without causing a scene.

“All right, now we can talk without making tomorrow's newspapers. So why the hell are you discounting all the work we've done so far?!”

David looked very embarrassed as he held out both hands for her to stop. “Please. Let me apologize. I had no intention of making you angry or demeaning any of the work you have done.”

David sat down on the top step and reached into his pocket, pulling out a medical alert bracelet and handing it to her. She took the bracelet which was obviously too small for him and began reading the summery on the back.

“When I was a kid I caught something, some kind of infection that my body couldn't fight off. I was a tough kid, and I held out for a couple of days before my parents noticed and took me to the doctor. Our family doctor looked me over and prescribed some common antibiotics to fight it off. Problem was, it didn't work. I don't have to tell you that a bacteria can evolve a resistance to antibiotics. The stuff I had turned out to be resistant to almost every common antibiotic; a staph infection they called it. Evolved to survive in a hospital environment where everyone is on common antibiotics.”

“They eventually figured all that out, but by then the infection had destroyed my kidneys and caused other internal damage. They put me on dialysis to clean my blood and take over the job for my ruined kidneys, but, again, I don't have to tell you the stress dialysis puts on your liver and other organs as the level of pollutants in the blood swing wildly back and forth. They couldn't say how long I had to live, but it wasn't likely to be long, and it wasn't likely to be pleasant.”

He paused and looked up at her with a soft smile. “Then, one day, someone told my parents about this new miracle treatment. Some kind of synthetic biology derived from the famous Scootaloo Scott. That's the reason I'm still here today. It's the reason I chose to major in medicine, to be a doctor. I carry that medical alert bracelet with me as a constant reminder of where I've been, and what could have happened if you hadn't shown up when you did.” He sighed and hung his head.

“I know you probably get this all the time. Hell, I'll bet Rainbow Dash in alternate Detroit is just as sick of hearing about all the lives she saved as you are. I've seen some of the thank-you notes from the cancer kids, the crayon drawings that you and Rainbow both must get from the little children who lived, whose mothers didn't have to bury their children because of your dedication to research. Hell, I sent you one myself, though I'd be surprised if you read it among all the millions of letters you must have received over the years.”

Scootaloo fingered the small bracelet in her hand and stared. Her anger had cooled, but she still didn't understand what he was getting at.

“I know how important the work you've done is. I wouldn't be here, and I might not be alive if it wasn't for you. But I still stand by what I said. The implants, the bio-electrical interface ability they're studying now is going to mean a great deal more in the long run.”

Scootaloo shook her head, but smiled and sat down on the concrete floor beside him, folding her hooves underneath her. Behind them the huge air handlers and compressors hummed and throbbed, and from below the murmur of the crowd floated up the stairs.

“Okay. I shouldn't have snapped at you. But I still don't see how you can know I saved your life and still think it’s not important.”

“That's just it. I know exactly how important it is. I'm just saying that what they're working on now is more important still.”

Scootaloo scratched the back of her head with one hand before asking. “Okay. How?”

“Hmm... I hope I have the opportunity to see it with you sometime.” He replied with a genuine smile that gave her an interesting feeling. “Basically it boils down to this question. What does it mean to be human?”

She frowned. “That's one of the oldest BS psychology questions there is. Any idiot can sound deep and thoughtful by repeating it.”

“I don't disagree, but I'm not a psych major. Call it what you like, but we can agree on some of the main points: speech and reason, ability to get along with others and function in society, an IQ of around 100 or better, some amount of memory and intelligence as defined by whatever scale you please. You don't need all of them, but a good helping of each is enough to form a working definition. This has been basically the same for so many thousands of years that most people do regard the question as BS. It’s like asking what love is, or which football team is better. We all have our opinion, and without new data, there isn't much new that can be said on the subject. But that's where you came in.”

“What happens when we can go beyond simple prosthetics? The hard drive on your computer today has more raw storage capacity than the human brain, and it costs less than a hundred dollars. Up till now that's been useless to us because we had no way to make biology talk to electronics, but what happens now that we can?”

“Much more than that. What happens when you can suddenly 'remember' any event of your life in perfect clarity – sights, smells, sounds? When your memory gets so vast that that kind of recording is suddenly possible? And then what about processor power? We can upgrade our computers to run faster by putting in more powerful processors, adding more RAM. What happens to our world when you can order a RAM upgrade online that let us think twice or three times as fast?”

“I guess I never thought about it... For one thing, someone with that kind of ability would be able to outstrip any competition for a job. If a few people started doing that, everyone else would look slow by comparison.”

“Right, and then employers start asking for only upgraded employees. 'Applicants with RAM less than ten gigs need not apply'. But that's just the beginning. Here's the other half of the puzzle; how many useful technologies were developed between 1300 and 1400 AD?”

The abrupt change of direction caught Scootaloo off guard, but after a moment's thought she replied. “I don't know... New breeds of crops and farm animals maybe?”

“Not a bad answer – it boils down to: not much. But how many useful technologies were developed in the 1800's?”

“But not nearly as long as the list for the 1900's. The point is, the speed at which we're developing new technologies is accelerating at an exponential pace. Each new invention spawns ten more, each of which spawn ten more and so on. This has already accelerated on its own, but what happens when we start applying the exponential growth modifier to the one thing that has remained unchanged throughout all of recent history: The human brain?”

“You're saying that the next jump from horses and buggies to cars and space travel won't take a hundred years...”

“Exactly. The pace of change is going to go off the charts as this takes hold. Some people refer to this as the singularity. The idea that humanity starts upgrading itself to the point that we no longer qualify as strictly human anymore. The biggest holdup for this whole process has been the difficulty of making a biological system like our brain talk to the computers that already have more storage capacity than we do.” He tapped her gently on the rib where her own implant was. “And now you've bridged that gap for us.”

Scootaloo wasn't sure quite what to make of all this, but she was definitely interested now. “So you think that we'll all be robots or something in fifty years?”

He laughed. “That's the problem. Nobody has any real idea what we'll look like once this process starts rolling. It's anybody's guess, but it should be a wild ride.”

They both sat in contemplation for a moment, mulling this over. At length David spoke up again.

“I don't know what your schedule looks like, but would you have any interest in seeing the 'Ghost in the Shell' series with me? I can pull a couple of episodes from You Tube on my tablet here.” He looked at their industrial surroundings and grinned at her sheepishly. “I know it’s not much of a theater, but you did save my life, and... I'd like to teach you what I can... if you'll let me.”

Scootaloo couldn't help but return his smile. She glanced at her watch. “Okay, it’s only nine, and I don't have class tomorrow.” She shifted to get into a more comfortable position and leaned over his shoulder. “Let’s see what you've got.”

It had taken several months to isolate the gene responsible for her coloring, and another few to successfully implant it, but now it appeared that 'Operation Counterfeit' as the team jokingly referred to it, was ready to begin. Scootaloo asked Margaret May to meet her at the Ag-Sci farm a few miles off campus after dark, saying simply that she had a surprise for her.
As she circled above the farm, Scootaloo could see her pacing back and forth by the barn entrance. She came in for a landing right beside her, and presented her with the strange looking cardboard box she had carried on her back.

She did so, and as the sound of tiny cheeps filled the air she just stood looking into the box in shock as Scootaloo grinned. In the light from the barn behind her she could see the box was full of twenty average-looking chicks, all apparently happy, and hopping about. Average in all respects, but color. They were all bright orange.

“Yup. You can still keep the feathers you find when you clean our room, I mean, that's like the best maid service ever, but I also know you're using the money for something important. So I made you some counterfeits.”

A number of the bright orange chicks had by now figured out that the sight of people meant feeding time, and most of the adorable fluffy birds were bouncing up and down and cheeping as they looked at Margaret. She couldn't help but smile.
“You are ridiculous, you know that right?”

“I try to be.” Scootaloo grinned back and hugged her, nearly upsetting the chicken box. “Just take good care of the little guys okay?”

“No problem. This should bring in enough to add a whole new wing to the hospital! Uh... no pun intended.”

Scootaloo just laughed as she let go and got ready to take off. “Just don't spend them all in one place, okay?”

Margaret waved as she launched back up into the sky, and soon disappeared into the darkness.

Scootaloo sat on the bed behind Josie and Margaret May watching them gaming on the wall mounted TV. The battle royal between the furry yellow electric rodent and the tentacle faced god of the underworld had been raging for almost five minutes now, and Josie seemed to have the edge at the moment.

Margaret was newer to the game than Josie, but since her induction into the strange group of friends she had learned quickly, and now could hold her own in many areas, including a certain fighting game. “Oh yeah? Lightning tornado!”

“Oh noes.” Josie complained as her character exploded. “Damn, May, you're getting good at this.”

“Well she should be considering she bought a copy of the game and has been practicing.” Scootaloo laughed.

“Okay, maybe a little bit.” May conceded. “But it's only because I can't go out to the clubs with all the other girls.”

“Hey, don't look at me, I've got the same problem.” Josie answered ruefully, “Getting into college early is great for your career and your liver. Social life, not so much.”

There was a laugh from the bed behind them. “Seriously, Josie? We should just be glad they lowered the drinking age to eighteen. Can you imagine what it was like for our parents?” Scoot's voice deepened imitating a stern, manly tone. “'Well, son, it's time for you to join the army and go shoot some people. Oh, and you're not allowed to drink alcohol for another three years yet. That stuff's dangerous.'”

Josie snickered as May replied. “I know, I know. But my birthday is coming up and I've really been looking forward to this...”

“Me too.” Josie added. “I've been compiling a spreadsheet of all the candidates for local office and I'm really excited!”

Josie looked between them, then sighed. “Well... I guess we can't all be political science majors.”

“Anyway, how long is it until you turn eighteen, May?” Scootaloo asked their new gaming champ.

“Its just a couple of weeks now!” she practically squeed. “What about you, Josie?”

Scootaloo looked a bit uncomfortable. “I though you of all people would know that already...”

May blushed. “Uh... Yeah, sorry about that. But no, I honestly don't know how old you are or when you're supposed to turn eighteen. You were adopted, what, twelve or thirteen years ago, but no one really knows your exact age, and I can't see them making you wait until you're half way through med school before letting you drink.”

“Well, that's about right... My dad's let me try a sip of this or that over the years, but never enough to do anything. I talked to Agent Tyler about this a few times, and she's suggested that I wait until some of my friends had come of age first; said it would cause less of a fuss that way.”

“I don't think so... It's one of the drawbacks to being a different species; I seem to grow up faster than most humans, but without anyone to compare myself to, I don't really know when I'm 'old enough' for something. I just have to figure it out for myself.”

“That doesn't sound too bad.” May thought about it for a moment. “Say, if the plan is to come of age with your friends, why don't we celebrate all our eighteenth birthdays at the same time?”

Scootaloo's startled expression melted into a grin “You girls would do that for me?”

Josie and May looked at each other and nodded. “Sure thing, we'd be happy to celebrate with you! It would mean waiting a few more days for you though Josie. Are you okay with that?”

“Hey, it doesn't affect my ability to vote,” Josie grinned. “And I can think of a few pluses to having a bodyguard around on that first night in the club. Can you imagine what Agent Tyler would do to someone who tried to put roofies in our drinks?”

Scootaloo couldn't contain her giggles. “Did you know that most drugs are still quite effective when taken as a suppository?”

“You're not suggesting your bodyguard would...do something like that?” May gasped.

“Probably not,” Scoot sighed. “She might just flash her badge and imply that the police outside were doing strip-searches, give the criminals time to, ahem, hide their stash, and then she'd probably arrange for them to be taken to the drunk-tank at County once everything kicked in.”

“...So, basically, instead of getting to date-rape someone...” Josie trailed off, an admiring smile on her face, “well! You know, I've always admired Agent Tyler. What she lacks in subtlety she more than makes up for when it comes to style.”

“We're definitely safer with her than anyone else I can think of,” Scootaloo agreed. “I mean, we're not planning to go and just get mindlessly drunk, but having never really tried much alcohol, it's probably better to have someone professional on our side just in case we overestimate our limits.”

“And it's her or Demi,” Josie agreed. “I understand he has the hurt-her-die-painfully brother speech down to ten words, but that's still a lot more protective instinct and a lot less actual capability than I think would be best. That, and I can't promise he wouldn't pose us for pictures with inappropriate articles if we had too much...”

They called Agent Tyler and talked it over, and the amused agent soon helped them pick a bar and a night for their plan. As the time grew nearer, they each gathered a few friends from class and swore them to secrecy.

They chose a Monday night to avoid the worst of the crowds, but apparently, word of the event had leaked out, and a number of paparazzi had gathered at the bar in hopes of getting pictures of the famous pony as a drunk. Agent Tyler took one glance, and drove right past the bar they were expecting.

“Our stop? Have a little faith, I used that bar as a bluff.” Tyler responded with a slight smile. “They have one of the worst records in town for serving alcohol to minors, an annoyingly high cover charge...and they were out of grenadine.”

As they looked back they could see a couple of people running out of the bar to give chase, but before more than a couple left, flashing red and blue lights suddenly lit up the main street like a Christmas tree.

“Oh, and would you look at that,” she added as the officers swarmed out and descended on the club. “Looks like they were due for a raid.”

There was an awed silence in the van for several seconds as the scene disappeared around the corner. Several miles later they pulled to a stop at a different establishment.

“Now then, this is the right place. The cabs I arranged for your friends will have them inside by now.”

The group piled out of the van and Agent Tyler nodded to the bouncer and bartender as they walked in.

“Right this way, ladies,” one of the waitresses gestured as she pointed them to a private room that could seat twenty.

“Don't worry, I'll be right here.” Agent Tyler took a seat in the padded booth next to the door of the private room. “This door's going to appear locked as soon as you're inside. Any member of the press who can match me drink for drink, I'll let inside.” The laconic Fed sighed contentedly as a waitress brought something suspiciously large and decidedly brown, with a red cast toward the bottom. It contained no ice.

“Is that a pint of ale?” Scootaloo asked. The agent simply looked at the glass, then at her four-legged friend, then sighed.

“...I'll join you inside for the first hour,” Tyler remarked laconically as she got up. The junior agent who had parked the van for them took her place at the guarding booth, and the waitress amiably followed Scootaloo and May inside the private room. Josie had stepped away for a second to ask the bartender a question, the many bottles evidently having set off a moment of ADD.

Their friends had arrived, and in the middle of the room was a three-tiered cake complete with frosting and a couple of officially-licensed Hasbro replicas of Scootaloo in various poses ornamenting the confection. Surrounding it were a series of empty glasses, little hats, plates and napkins (also of an officially-licensed character,) and at one end of the room was a back doorway with little Western-style half doors through which a server could walk to behind the bar. Every wall of the room was decked with crepe streamers, helium balloons hung in bunches, a pin-the-tail-on-the-pony chart (of Rainbow Dash, inexplicably,) had been tastefully added over a cork board and in pride of place was a meticulously handwritten Blood Alcohol Content chart poster complete with a very capable Sharpie-marker drawing of Derpy Hooves.

“I instructed Agent Glover to prepare for a culturally appropriate birthday celebration,” Agent Tyler explained, apparently as surprised as Scoot was. “She is... new.”

“No, no...this is actually kind of awesome,” Scoot smiled. “Just wait one second...”

“Sweet Celestia's garter belt! This is the best party room ever!” Josie cried, scampering into the room like an excited puppy. “Is this a carrot cake with cream cheese icing and little orange Scootaloos? And pin-the-tail-on-the-pony?! Dude!”

“You know,” Scoot whispered in Tyler's ear, “what with Josie's birthday being February 29th, this technically is culturally appropriate. She has had exactly four technical birthdays now.”

“That... actually explains a surprising amount about Ms. Findlay. I shall inform Agent Glover that her efforts were appreciated.”

“Well, don't do that, either. I think it's adorable, and however'd you know I liked carrot cake? ...Oh, right. International woman of mystery, probably knows several world leaders' favorite cake.”

“It is part of the mystique, yes,” Agent Tyler preened. “Also, this is not a pint of ale. This is a cocktail served in a pint glass. What do you know about the basic types of beer?”

“I know that Natural Light and Bud Light are both very popular,” Scootaloo observed hopefully. “Should I start with a pint of one of those?”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph in a minivan, no,” the waitress interjected. “We don't even sell that here.”

“This is Agent K.D. Haynes, my prize pupil,” Agent Tyler explained, giving what was, for her, a proud and indulgent smile. Her lip actually seemed to move for a second. “She has been undercover on several operations and specializes in forensically undetectable-”

“Cocktails!” Haynes interjected suddenly. “Delicious cocktails and perfect pints of crisp, fresh craft beer. For the government.”

“Have you ever met a politician who didn't drink, especially in the former Eastern Bloc countries?” K.D. asked.

“Good point,” Josie agreed. “So you're like the magical FBI Booze Fairy?”

“Is it true that Budweiser only shows the Clydesdale horses in their commercials to comply with truth-in-advertising laws by displaying the means of a key step in the manufacturing process?” Josie asked.

“...I am not in a position to confirm or deny that entirely plausible and certainly reasonable-sounding statement,” K.D. giggled, her stiff Agent demeanor devolving into mirth. “I also won't serve you or Ms. Scott anything which might, in her case, imply a closed-circuit system.”

What followed was one of the most elaborate and exhaustive explanation of beers, wines and liqueurs that any of them had ever heard. Two minutes into her rant, Agent Tyler disappear to the bar, and returned with a pint for each of them.

“It's a nice starter beer, Yuengling Traditional Lager in this case.” Agent Tyler whispered as she passed out the glasses. “It's a good baseline beer.”

The lecture continued as the each sipped their drinks until Agent Haynes seemed to realize the absurdity of talking about drinking, and started them all on a tasting of the bar's various offerings that, over the next several hours, worked its way through two thirds of their stock.

While the girls worked through the inventory, Agent Tyler took a seat at the table that was set up blocking the entrance to their private room, signaled the waitress, and accepted a second pint glass of whatever the cocktail was. Within minutes, the first of the paparazzi arrived and tried to get in, only to be told that only those who could out-drink the agent at the table would be admitted. After the first few reporters ordered vodka tonics or whiskey shots and quickly became too tipsy to hold their cameras, the next two or three ordered pints of Irish red or black stout (which Agent Tyler’s cocktail certainly resembled,) but, alas, they were soon eliminated from the competition due to an overwhelming urge to use the bathroom facilities.

By the time Margaret May realized she felt a little tipsy and switched to Shirley Temples (to avoid a hangover,) then back to the hard stuff again out of a remembered dislike of cherries, Agent Tyler had consumed three of the ominous pint-glass cocktail. By the time Scootaloo and Josie had burst into song, she had had six of them. By the time the latest, desperate reporter slid under the table with a rattle of empty glasses, Agent Tyler had eight empty glasses in front of her and the tail end of a ninth in her hand.

“Keep watch of the door, Glover,” she explained as two agents hauled the unconscious reporter away and the new agent took her place, anxiously eying a tenth pint-glass. “Oh. And you may have that one. I’ll get another when I come back.”

“Ma’am? I, er…my nickname at the Academy was ‘kid gloves.’ I’m a complete lightweight. If I drink this, I’m likely to pass out, too.”

“Take a sip, Glover. That’s an order. I’ll be back as soon as I secure the perimeter of the Little Federal Agents’ Room.”

Nervously, the newbie agent took a tentative sip of the cocktail. Her eyes went wide, then she took a second, then happily added a straw and began slurping contentedly away.

On her way to the ladies’ room, Agent Tyler grinned to herself. Sooner or later, every female Agent with a low alcohol tolerance got to try the signature cocktail of her branch. It had been devised by a brilliant spy and propagandist who had retired from Cold War Psy-Ops and gone to work in children’s educational programming at the tail end of the Eighties. To make it, one combined a shot of grenadine, an optional splash of apple or lemon juice to cut the carbonation and then filled the pint glass with regular or diet cola, no ice allowed. It looked like the strongest and most hangover-inducing Imperial stout a beer bar could serve, and if one dropped a shot glass of vanilla-flavored Italian coffee syrup (which resembles Jack Daniel’s quite closely, once it’s poured,) into it, the overall visual effect was of a devastating boilermaker. Tyler had seen hardened alcoholics refuse so much as a sip and had once intimidated a vodka enthusiast from a former Eastern Bloc country into just giving up three glasses into their drinking contest.

Taste-wise, it was a cherry-vanilla Diet Coke, sometimes with a slight bit of vitamin C for alertness or some lemon to cut the sweetness. The Department called it a ‘Carmen Sandiego,’ both in honor of its’ creator’s second career and to reflect the fact that while it looked like something an international supervillain would casually enjoy, it was actually perfectly appropriate to serve to a six-year-old if she’d done all her math homework and been good at ballet lessons.

Of course, drinking nine pint glasses of anything would send even the toughest of government agents straight to the ladies’ room. The things one did for national security…

The immediate goal of her mission satisfied, Tyler washed her hands and went to check on America’s first pony citizen. Somewhere in the sampling, the girls had gotten a bit tipsy and demanded K.D. make them ‘the scary drink that Agent Tyler has.’ They were too close to drunkenness already to realize it contained zero alcohol, but psychology can be a funny thing, and the Federal Agent found herself yanked into the circle where they were performing a traditional dance of Scootaloo’s people with less coordination than the hypothetical four-year-olds for which the room had been decorated.

Many hours, and even more trips to the restroom later, most of the paparazzi had left, either in frustration, a police cruiser or an ambulance. A raucous (and badly off key) rendition of the school’s fight song could be heard from the room behind Agent Tyler, and soon enough Agent Haynes emerged from the room to whisper something in her ear.

The other agent glanced back into the room as the song teetered to the end and devolved into cheering.
“No question. I don’t envy you the looks you’ll get when you roust them out of bed tomorrow. What will it be this time? Early classes?”

Tyler merely smirked.
“I was actually thinking a six AM fire alarm would be more appropriate.”

Haynes cringed out of sympathy.
“Well, we all have to learn eventually, some more than others it seems. Do you know a couple of them actually knew their limits? Even with everything I had on tap, some of them drank like adults instead of fish.”

Agent Tyler raised an eyebrow behind her dark glasses.
“Then tomorrow’s dawn will not hold the same pain for all. Very well, I will have the van brought around to the back if you will herd them into it. I assume you installed fresh seat covers?”

“Of course; we have to use that van tomorrow.” Hanes answered simply before smiling again. “Please don’t be too hard on them, they really are sweet kids.”

Tyler’s lip twitched upward just a bit a she answered innocently,
“Why Agent Haynes, whatever do you mean?”

Apart from Josie being so wired on the sugar from four Carmen Sandiegos that she spent the entire drive home telling Agent Tyler all about the elaborate crossover fanfiction she had been secretly been writing since she was fourteen and Scootaloo insisting on singing the Cutie Mark Crusader song with an extremely blitzed Maggie May nine times or so, it was a very productive eighteenth-birthday celebration.

In fact, it was almost entirely worth the combination sugar crash and hangover which rendered all three girls and all of their friends groggy and delicate over a late breakfast the next morning. Scootaloo didn’t know why it felt like a huge sentient cupcake had humped her head like an unneutered dog all night, and Margaret May didn’t care to remember what she had consumed the preceding evening, but knew it had been too much. Josie made herself a hat from a piece of tinfoil and a bag of frozen peas and asked her friends to “please stop thinking so loudly at me, my hurt is head.”

Drinking was not, for them, going to be such a big part of college life, after all.

Our Girl Scootaloo 2 of 3

by Cozy Mark IV

Ch 2.3 Of Boys and Beers