//------------------------------// // Presses // Story: Scootalift // by Estee //------------------------------// The little basement didn't bother him, really. Claustrophobia was the second most common fear among pegasi. Snowflake didn't suffer from it. With his sheer mass, some spaces were always going to be more confined than they would have been for anypony else (excepting the Princesses): in such cases, he just tried not to sigh (because expanding his rib cage clearly wasn't going to help matters) and waited it out. He had no particular love of being crowded in, hardly relished being confined, and total immobilization was something dreaded by all with wings -- but just being under ground set off no alarms within him. Other pegasi normally would have seen that as being slightly odd, but nopony except Fluttershy (who had a basement of her own) had ever bothered getting to know him well enough to reach that particular bit of difference -- plus there was just so much other oddness to cover long before finding out about the little things. With some time to use before meeting up with his (very temporary) student for her second lesson, he had gone back to the basement beneath his little house. There had been things he'd pushed aside during the search for his original library and starting harnesses, which included something he wanted to consult now -- because it had been years since he'd peered at those figures and the only way to be certain was through revisiting them. Under the ground, and not a twinge of fear. He simply pushed piles from place to place, treating the entire quest as a room-sized sliding puzzle with only one clear space available, and he was generally occupying that... ...there. He sorted through them until he found the very first. Noted the small tooth marks in the cover, matched those impressions as closely as he could, read the contents. Well. He thought about it for a while, then decided there was no real way to make a direct comparison. After all, she had her scooter, and that had to deal with wheels, axles, lubricant -- and ground, with all the interference that implied. Grass, rocks, small animals to swerve around or jump over, all added to a much higher friction coefficient. The differences accumulated quickly and made the scales into something impossible to balance. She had all of that to deal with when making her times, and all he'd had was -- -- something else. It was not grouped among the piles, nor had it been consigned to a box. He'd hoof-hammered a pair of hooks into the wall and hung it in a place of honor. Snowflake glanced up at it. Smiled, and held both position and expression for quite some time, for there was nothing wrong with old friends taking a moment to catch up with each other. I could take it outside and use it. The stray thought surprised him, although the internal mirth which banished it was much more expected. No, he couldn't. It no longer fit him. His mass was well above what it had been when he'd started: measuring the change would mean bringing in orders of magnitude. He could stand on it without breaking the thing, he was sure of that -- but hardly in the same posture as before: legs squeezed together, all hooves touching... He couldn't use it. She could. ...no. There was too much risk involved. Scootaloo ran into buildings and trees and rocks and other ponies and, in one oft-retold example which only made the flourspout shoot higher into the sky with every repeat, the kitchen at Sugarcube Corner -- and none of that ever chanced having her fall, not more than the distance from the peak of the latest out-of-control leap. She couldn't pull out of a plummet, was incapable of even moderately slowing one, and Snowflake didn't want to be in a position where he was the only pegasus on safety duty, especially for a filly who didn't seem to know what caution was. Because he could fly, knew it, had spent a large portion of his life proving it to others again and again, but keeping the final proof locked within himself... She doesn't think about the risks on the ground. She wouldn't do it in the air either. There was a certain amount of hypocrisy beginning to nag at the back of his mind. He tried to ignore it and, when that failed, attempted to reason with it. But I was good. I didn't fall. Okay, not more than -- -- but my dad was always there, and hers... Dad watched me. He didn't understand. I'm not sure he ever did, or even does now. But he made sure he watched me, as much as he had to, even when it took him away from other things, because he thought it was something he could do for me. He didn't understand how clouds felt. How tacky they were under my hooves. How it always felt like I was sticking a little, or embedded, and the only times I ever felt right was when we were on some other surface in the sky, or visited ground, or -- Old friends. Anyway, put it all together and there was truly no way to compare times, so it didn't really matter who had won the contest between decades, did it? He'd picked the ice cream. Call it trainer's privilege -- -- maybe if he talked to somepony who knew about that kind of science and got some numerical information on the friction differential between materials... Later (if at all): he had to reach the training area and start getting things ready there. He'd already found the extra equipment for the day -- one measuring stick for exact gauges of vertical leaps, a tape for horizontal bounds -- but there was still some setup work to be done at the site. Best to get out of the basement, because it wasn't as if he was showing off for anypony by displaying how well he could deal with that confinement where so many others could not, much less how comfortable it could be... ...there was another book. Directly beneath his old friend, distinctive edge poking out of a recently-shifted box. Snowflake blinked. "Now how did you get in there?" the only voice which was ever heard in the little house softly asked. "I must have mispacked you during the move..." No answer, of course, and he'd only been speaking to break the silence. But this one belonged upstairs, and so he gently took it between his teeth, careful to clamp down only on the reinforced corners, and brought it that much closer to Sun. Time to head for the field and set things up for the workout. The lesson scheduled to follow it, the one which would get Scootaloo to quit... well, given any typical day in Ponyville, that would arrange itself... Openly curious, with more than a hint of that longing suffusing every syllable. "What's the cloud for? Is that supposed to be a crash cushion or something? Because after we get in the air today, I'm not going to need that --" He'd wrangled it down to ground level, compressed its mass until it was no more than seven hoofwidths thick, and then placed it three body lengths to the left of the lunge path. "Let me see your homework." She ignored him: jumped off the scooter and trotted up to the edge of the cloud, poked at it with her left forehoof. "Come on, there's got to be a reason you stuck this at ground level. Am I bouncing on it? Kicking it into submission?" The purple eyes abruptly brightened. "Does any part of the lesson involve lightning?" This time, the inner vision playing in Snowflake's private theater showed the interior of a courthouse, shackles around all four ankles, his entire body locked within a triple-strength freezer so as to prevent the creation of magic through movement, watching helplessly as every single resident of Ponyville presented him with the civil suit judgment bill for the electrical damage to their homes. And then the swirling storm of bankruptcy forms came back for their second round. "No." He'd just barely kept his voice level on that one. "But as long as you're high-jumping, I thought we'd get in two kinds of practice at once. Have you had any chance to do density shift training?" The confusion twisting her face provided the answer. "Density..." "Choosing whether to let a cloud be solid or vapor to your touch." She shook her head. "I've touched a couple, when I was -- boosted... but I really haven't tried to drop through one on purpose. I mean... when you..." and it wasn't so much a trailoff as a desperate hope that he'd never inquire about the missing portion of the sentence. Can't fly. But he would never say it aloud. "So for some of your high-jumps, you won't be going straight up. We'll try to get you landing on the cloud. You'll also do a few leaps starting from that surface. And then we'll see if you can let yourself sink through slowly and reach the ground that way, instead of jumping down. Don't expect to get that right away, Scootaloo, and don't blame yourself if it doesn't work: this isn't something I generally teach, plus you need to have some sense of your own field." He wasn't sure he could teach it: passing along the proper feel was hardly within his normal range -- but making the attempt had just seemed right. "And for a filly your age... your own field was preset at birth to make solid into the default, until you grew up enough to take control of it. It takes effort to turn that aspect of your magic off, and it's not going to be a casual one for the first few times out. I know a lot of adult pegasi who still have trouble doing it, especially in a hurry, and there are a few who never get it to work. Your field is going to treat it as an inherent risk, and that can mean you wind up fighting against yourself to make it happen." A slow nod, along with a surprising moment of silent thought. Part of the latter eventually reached her voice. "Does it work with anything that's been molded?" "It works on streets: the planners know to leave a loophole for it. But not with buildings." Having walls and ceilings permeable to plummeting pegasi just wasn't good for anypony's security -- but there were also times when it was better to give up on the landing, plunge through the surface you'd been about to crash into, and reorient a little below. Given the way Scootaloo tended to steer when she was on the ground, he was guessing it was a technique she was going to need, and frequently. If he could just manage to teach the thing and even then, as he'd said, it wasn't the sort of thing most pegasi mastered after a single try. They only had four days remaining. At best -- no, worst. "And if you bounce up and down on the cloud instead --" the eyes were a little too bright "-- you get lightning? Like what that one mare does --' "-- there's more to it than that." "Like what? Oh, come on, you can tell -- and you're just going to stand there with that dumb little smile on your face, not saying anything, forever." A snort of annoyance, which still thankfully had no ability to turn into one of ion-charged destruction. "Okay... lunges, jumps, pushes, density shifts..." "And letting me see your homework. Or we won't be starting any of the others." "I did it." "Then let me see it." Six failed excuses later, she did. And she had in fact done the work, at least in the sense that ink had landed on the page in several places and if somepony was sufficiently imaginative, desperate, or concussed, it might be possible to make out the patterns of multiple completely wrong answers within. Snowflake took thirty minutes to go over the relevant sections of the textbook with her, which included the four required before she actually began reading any of it in a supremely bored voice which had no interest in proper emphasis on anything. An additional ten were required before she made all the necessary corrections, which was altogether enough to let him start the laborious process of learning to decipher any part of what was quite possibly Equestria's Worst Mouthwriting. She was a good jumper, although her vertical leap would need some work before it caught up to the horizontal. There hadn't been enough time (and there would never be) for the lunges to show any improvement, no matter how loudly she insisted to the contrary. Her pushes were actually on the strong side for her age. And sinking... she didn't get it the first time out, or the tenth, and even though he hadn't expected her to, he was still starting to blame himself well before the twelfth came around. "We're done, Scootaloo. I want to reach the restaurant before the dinner shift starts to arrive, and that means heading in now." "I can get this!" she insisted from her position on the edge of the cloud. "I'm not jumping down this time! I'm going to sink! Just watch me! It's just -- shifting my field, like you said -- wait. Restaurant?" "It's still also about having that sense of your field. If that hasn't really started to come in yet, you're not going to get this." He knew he'd told her that before. The current theory was that if he repeated something twenty times, there was a chance for one to get through. The theory hadn't found anything approaching a level of hard-won proof yet, and this iteration got blocked along with all the rest. "Restaurant? Not ice cream?" "We're going to try a salad today. A balanced one. Your parents know you're eating with me -- I left another note." Three minutes of total earnings for the job and dropping, which was assuming he didn't eat, and as for whether those unseen adults had ever read anything at all... "Just hop down." "One more." "It's your eighth one-more." "It'll be the last." "It's the seventh time you've said that." "Is that a weight on your flanks or a really weird looking ledger?" "Scootaloo." She ignored him. Her eyes squeezed shut, the fur on her forehead shifted as the brow underneath furrowed. Her tail flicked twice, she concentrated... ...she sank. Not much. A single hoof-height and as soon as she became aware of it, the descent froze. "I..." "Keep your eyes closed, Scootaloo." It had almost been a whisper. "Don't think about anything but the feel. Just let it happen..." Slowly, so very slowly, her legs vanished within the cloud. There was a tiny clicking sound of hoof impacting pebble. "...I'm... I'm down." He nodded. Remembered she couldn't see him. "Yes." It was a simple word, and all the more so for the astonishment he'd managed to keep out of it. On her first lesson... "You're down." "If I can get down --" the excitement was building again, her now-open eyes dancing "-- I can get up! Let's stay! You just watch me, I'm going to jump just like you taught me, then I'll flap and I'll just stay --" "-- we're done for the day, Scootaloo." Because it wasn't going to happen today, or two days from now, not under his watch at all... but it would happen. He knew it. And he wondered if she was starting to believe it too. But not my way. Hers. He had to get her back into town so the real lesson could begin. "But I want --" "-- do I have to start quoting contract pages?" Her face immediately flashed into fury. The tail transitioned from flicks to full-scale lashes. He quietly held his ground and waited it out. "...oh, fine... stupid salad and then I'll go home..." Her shoulders and hips shifted, and not by much. "...um..." Softly, trying not to smile, "Yes?" "...I think I'm stuck..." He'd scouted the site carefully, keeping in mind the duration of the workout, travel time, any possible homework examination period (which had run over) and visibility. It was that part of the spring where those eateries with outdoor courtyards had begun to reopen them and allow patrons to dine outside, although a few still kept torches burning around the perimeter to warm the air as Sun dropped towards the horizon or, in the case of Mr. Flankington's ambushed customers, to dispose of the mistake. They were a little later in arriving than he would have liked -- but that was actually working to his advantage. They'd missed the majority of the group trot home for Ponyville's local commuters, but there were still a few coming in from the train station and, on a pleasant spring night, other ponies were just choosing to enjoy the air before it became too chill: friends and couples trotting about, trying to settle on a place to eat... There was pony traffic, and he had reserved a table which left them completely visible to all of it. Admittedly, there had almost been some trouble in claiming it. Many of Ponyville's business establishments refused to serve the Crusaders. Some were trying to issue restraining orders with cushioning barriers of at least twenty body lengths, which didn't leave a whole lot of street to trot down. But she'd been with him, and when the server had still tried to pretend he'd never heard of the reservation... Snowflake had looked at him. Just looked. No words, no shifting of weight: just a simple, calm red gaze in the specific direction of a much smaller pony, one who seemed to lose additional size with every moment of direct regard. He hated doing that. But there were times when it was necessary, and for this lesson to work at all... "Are you going to eat this stuff too? When it actually shows up?" He shook his head. "You'll eat at home or something?" "Yeah." "Salad?" He thought about it. "...yeah." She frowned at him. "You really don't talk much when you're in public, do you?" A shrug. The most immediate border torch was on his right. There were very few patrons visible in any other direction: after all, there was a Crusader in the area and where Snowflake had silently insisted on his reservation, others had quietly canceled theirs. But there was street traffic, and that was the important thing. He had no need to talk. The inevitable was approaching, and too much speech from him before it started would only give her something else to hear. He listened, focused past the low crackle of the flame. (Pegasi establishments had a different way of keeping customers warm, and it was completely silent.) Any minute now... "You look kind of like you're waiting for somepony," Scootaloo observed, and it shocked him. "Is anypony else eating with us?" Another head shake. "...whatever. Why does a dumb salad take so long to make? The owner has a mark for that: shouldn't the stuff come out in seconds? Maybe it's just a talent for overcharging..." She grumbled to herself a little more, stared back at the gate which led to the interior, kitchen, and a server who was stalling as long as possible in the desperate hopes that the occupants of the table would simply give up and go away. It gave Snowflake's other guests time to arrive. The pitch of the tones had been chosen more carefully than the words: carry perfectly, reach every ear in the vicinity, make it absolutely clear as to which ponies were speaking while still giving them a chance for smirking denial if somepony actually confronted them, not to mention running room... "Well, that's unexpected, isn't it? I didn't know they were letting manticores eat in town... oh, wait, it's just him. Of course, they're around the same bulk, so it's a natural mistake..." A giggle. "No, you should still apologize -- to the manticore. Everypony knows they're much smarter." "They're mindless beasts," the first giggled back. "That's what I said! Much smarter!" Two mares. Late teens, from the sounds of them. And on any other day, he would have focused his attention on anything else, done his best not to listen as the words sank in regardless -- but for this one, they were perfect. Scootaloo's head, which had been on the verge of using the table as a pillow, jerked up. She started to look in that direction -- -- his right foreleg unfolded, straightened out beneath the table and gently poked one of her hooves. She stopped moving. Neither mare had noticed. And if they had, they would have been pleased. Reaction was the goal, after all. "So what do you think? Daughter? Maybe that's why the Crusade keeps going: he's too stupid to know it's happening at all..." "You're terrible! Besides, he would have been how many years old? I heard he's around Fluttershy's age..." "You're right. Plus he'd never figure out how. He can work on every muscle except the one in his skull. I don't know what that bundle of tremble sees in him..." With happy bluntness, "Another freak. What else?" And now he was having trouble staying on his bench. He'd been expecting this, although not quite so much of it or this quickly. It happened -- well, not every day, for there were times when he simply wasn't around enough other ponies for it to start. But with the young, the snide, those convinced that the best way to prove their own perfection was by pointing out the opposite in everypony else, and the ones who could simply never reconcile the different... He was used to it. All of it -- when it was personal. It was the attacks on his near-sister and temporary student which had muscles tensing all over his body, and it took a true effort to keep his wings out of the challenge position -- something he knew only looked ridiculous. "So that's the same reason he's got her out to dinner! Freaks together!" And it was Scootaloo who lunged, whose wings flared out as the fury-flushed head dropped and the legs pushed away from the bench, hooves landing in full pre-charge pose... "Don't." It had almost been a whisper (and yet it was enough to make Scootaloo freeze). It had barely been audible to his own ears, and it would have had to do some major work to get past the mock shriek of twinned terror which had come from the two teens. But still, somehow, they had heard it. "It's a miracle! He's learned a second word!" "She's not his daughter! She's his tutor! Cheerilee's going to have him crammed behind a desk! One breath and everypony in the class will get impaled by flying wood --!" Which was enough for that particular round. Snowflake turned his head and looked at the teens. Very briefly, just enough to quietly register their colors and marks. Another pair of shrieks, ones quite not so faked. And then they galloped away giggling, with the mirth only managing to fool themselves. Slowly, Scootaloo's head rotated until her eyes were on him again. The rest of her body remained ready to charge. "You're not going to do anything? -- no, don't just shake your head again! You heard all of that! You can't just sit there and ignore it!" Softly, "What am I supposed to do?" "Fight them! You're strong and they're not! You could --" "-- kick children. Hurt them. Over words." Breathing heavily now, her heaving ribs expressing a rage which seemed to have more than the recent encounter powering it. "So that's what you do with bullies? Just ignore them, thinking they'll get bored and go away --" "-- they don't." The quiet voice of experience. "If you react to a bully, they know they can make you react, and so they keep finding things which make it come out, over and over. But if you ignore them, then it becomes a challenge. They decide there's something out there which will do the trick, and they only have to find it. Some gallop a long way to get the thing which will work. Ignoring doesn't solve anything. It just makes them feel it'll be more fun when the quiet finally breaks." "But... but if they're your own age... and you fight..." "...then I'm bigger. Stronger. Which means most ponies see me as the bully. I'm alone: they travel in packs. Their stories claim innocence and support each other. Mine is singular. Weight of numbers means more than just weight." Her tail drooped. The mane seemed to collapse on itself. All four knees sagged. "Then... even when you're an adult... you can't make it stop? There's nothing which makes them stop? You can't scare them, you can't fight them, you can't... anything...?" Snowflake shook his head, watched the defeat soak into the orange coat. He hated this. He wished she'd quit when the aches came in. Had never come into his tent at all. He'd said the words then, given more than a hint of it. But with this filly... she wouldn't listen, and that meant she had to see... "Why...?" she helplessly asked. "Why would they still... even for an adult... with you..." "Because I look like this." And before she could try to ignore, dismiss, or insist against any part of it, "The way you want to look." Eventually, the salad arrived. She picked at it, nudged ingredients aside with hooves and nose, rearranged the contents so that the total amount of food wound up looking exactly like somepony hadn't eaten a single piece of it and had no idea how to conceal that fact. And while they sat there... while she refused to take in the calories her body so badly needed, all desire for the simple joy of food negated by misery... more ponies passed them. Some spoke. None quite so blatantly as the first two, several in low hushed tones which were probably nothing more than private discussions, things her ears would be only too ready to recognize as something else. But for some of those who gave more open voice -- there were jokes, and none of the fun was meant to be shared with the target of it. Once he'd seen that the reaction had fully set in, he paid for the food and, knowing exactly what the server had been up to, completely ignored the tip. And then he walked her home. He stayed on the ground, keeping pace with her. She kept her gaze on the street, saw no part of it. She refused to acknowledge his presence at all, lost in visions of mockery-filled years to come. But there was still a way out of it for her, and she would take it. A silent night of misery, denied tears soaked into a pillow which surely must have become wet from something else entirely, and then she would see it. All she had to do if she wanted to avoid every last phantom encounter was quit. Take the bits back, never think about strength training or lunges or him, especially him, ever again. Go back to a normal life and in time, fly the normal way. He had saved her. And he hated himself for it. Sun was just about completely lowered: Moon would be making an appearance at any minute. They were almost at her home: it was starting to become visible towards the far end of the street. No lights glowed from any window, nothing seemed to welcome the approaching travelers. It simply loomed, waiting for its chance at failing to confine the approaching pain. "So I'll see you the day after tomorrow?" No answer, which was the perfect (and, for a moment, the perfectly loathed) one -- "-- does anypony sink all the way?" He froze. She still wasn't looking at him. Her head remained down, she continued her slow trot forward, and the closed eyes were not wet, at least not in a way she would, even now, consider admitting to. "Does anypony ever just stand in the street, or their backyard, or anyplace which hasn't been molded, and just -- sink? All the way through, until there's nothing under them but air until the moment there's ground and no stupid butterflies show up and make you start singing, you just fall and keep your wings, stupid useless wings, pressed to your sides until you don't have to..." "Scootaloo --" A whisper. "Do they?" He needed words. More than anything else in his life, anything which he had ever longed for in the past, dreamed about, prayed for, he needed the words which would turn it all around, make the experience he had subjected her to not have happened, bring her back to that confidence laced with arrogance and the certainty that hers was the right way and everypony else would see the proof when the Crusade finally paid off in a glorious tripled moment of manifest. But he hadn't spoken much as a colt, for few others cared to listen. Barely had anypony to converse with as an adult. He could find words -- but not always in time, not the right ones if any even existed for this, and... ...she just kept trotting, getting further and further away during every desperate moment of futile search, receding as he remained frozen under deepening shadows. There were no words. There was only laughter. "Hey, look! The blank flank is on her way home, or whatever we're all supposed to pretend is it! What's wrong, Scootaloo... no mark again today? Or any day? I've got an anniversary coming up in a few moons..." A giggle. It was a filly sound this time, young and delighted and completely pleased with itself, with every last one of those qualities adding an extra layer to the sickness. This was joined by a little laugh from a second voice, for they almost always traveled in packs. He could see them up ahead. One pink, one grey. Glints of fading Sun bouncing from lenses and tiara. Scootaloo didn't answer. She just kept shuffling along. The pink one burst into a short gallop, got in front of her, blocked the front gate. "Where are you going? To talk to your parents again? Oh, I forgot -- where are they supposed to be this time? Las Pegasus? Baltimare? San Dineighgo? Trotter's Falls? Anywhere they don't have to be embarrassed by their blank-flank failure -- or are they hiding?" A sudden surge of delight. "Because they never want anypony to see them, not just because of you, but because they're blank-flanks too, it's in your blood and you'll never have a mark, any mark at all, maybe it's even a disease and you gave it to your stupid friends!" Scootaloo's head came up for a moment, just enough to see the smirking filly in her way. She turned, started to move along the fence. Heading for the back gate. The pink one got in front of her again. "Oh, don't leave now! I haven't seen you for a few afternoons, and I only heard stuff blowing up the once... where have you been? Finding a place to give up, or cry, or maybe a chicken coop so you can live with all the other flightless --" The little tremor reached the speaker, vibrated up through her hooves, traveled through her legs, shook the mane and sent the tiara slightly askew. Snowflake took another step forward. That made everything worse. He had been in shadow: they hadn't seen him. But now he was within those last rays of Sun, set off by rose hues and pinks and gold flaring from hooves and earrings, blocking out any light which might have reached them... "...yeah?" he softly asked. They stared. The grey one took a hoofstep back. The pink rallied. "You can't touch us," she confidently declared. "You couldn't any other time and you can't now. You're an adult and my Daddy's got lawyers, anything you say, they'll say different and you only say the one thing to begin with, nopony would ever believe you about anything and her... everything she and her dumb friends do, everything they destroy... Another step. This one made the glasses slip. The pink didn't break. "You can't." And there was a laugh in it, a delighted and mocking one. "Everypony knows you can't!" Snowflake nodded. "Yeah." And he didn't. His techniques... he had only the most basic, and those at low strength. His own field had tested out to be below average: he simply couldn't power the more advanced aspects of pegasus magic, and there had been times when he worried about even adding his portion to a group effort, from fears that his weakness would somehow make something crucial go wrong. His wings flared out, flapped. Both fillies stared at the sight. Giggled -- -- the gust hit. Wind whipped dirt and dust into the pink one's eyes, splattered the glasses of the grey. Manes were rearranged. "HEY!" the pink one yelled. "STOP THAT! YOU CAN'T TOUCH --!" "-- I'm not," Snowflake said. And as they froze in shock at the words, he flapped his wings again. And again. Poor techniques. A below-average field. But he'd been able to do his part for the waterspout effort despite all his worries... because you simply weren't a pegasus if you couldn't manage a little wind. All wind creation required was putting your own strength into the air. And with his field at work on it, the process was decidedly inefficient -- but when it came to strength... The gusts came faster, stronger. Scootaloo, facing away from the source, head down, was protected, especially as Snowflake was aiming high. But the other two... "STOP IT!" the pink screamed as her manestyle completely came apart. "I ORDER YOU TO --!" The tiara blew off her head. The intricate weave hit the ground a split-second before the glasses. "...my tiara." Nearly all the volume had vanished: there was just enough left to convey the shock. "You... you might have broken my --" Snowflake quizzically tilted his head slightly to the right. Brought his wings back. The sound of desperate galloping was twinned, short-lived, and came with shattering glass as the pink one, who only cared about getting one end of her precious accessory safely in her mouth, paid absolutely no attention to the other lost item. Snowflake didn't give chase: there was no reason, and even less point. Speaking of weight of numbers... He knew her father, had worked for the stallion a few times, respected him -- and still knew the only number that parent ever listened to was one. "You... you made them go away..." Scootaloo's voice was weak. There was barely enough strength to carry the astonishment, and at that, it was a weight she couldn't seem to keep aloft. He burst into a short gallop, ran to her side. "How often does that happen? They've made their share of jokes about me, especially Diamond, but I've never seen them go after a filly." Not that he was surprised. "When do they usually try it? Is there a place where they try to intercept --" Her head came up, and the light in freshly Moon-lit eyes nearly stopped every word there could ever be. "-- that's the answer!" It was almost a shout, and it was one of triumph. "...what?" "You're too strong to fight for yourself! So you just fight for everypony else!" Dawning wonder threatened to return Sun to the sky. "That's how you fight when you're strong! You defend your friends, and you know that because you can't kick or bite or anything else, if it gets really bad, they'll defend you!" She threw herself against his forelegs. The little body pressed itself there, held the position, air being taken in with sharp, welcome gasps of relief. And he was frozen. He couldn't move. He didn't know what to do. There were no words, no actions, certainly no feats of strength to fix this. All he could do was take her weight and wait. "I have friends," Scootaloo whispered, "and they'll stay my friends, they'll always be my friends no matter what I look like or how strong I am, they've been with me for all the Crusades and the explosions and the stupid tree sap... they'll fight for me, any time I need them to, and... it'll be okay..." Her face was against his chest now. The tears were soaking into his coat. "Nopony... nopony ever sinks... do they?" He lowered his head, tried not to let his knees bend too much under an intangible mass which somehow seemed too heavy, still found his chin in contact with her mane. "Somepony," he gently said, "always catches them." She did not invite him inside to meet anypony: she simply trotted happily through the entrance into the dark hallway, closed and locked the door behind her. And the instant he was certain she wasn't peering out of any window or trying to watch him in any way, Snowflake facehoofed. As such things went, it was an extremely careful and decidedly empathetic facehoofing. It was cautious, for the power behind that hoof could split a skull. But it was also solid, had some reverberation to it, and said everything which words could not -- excepting the three echoing in his mind. I'm an idiot. Of the two who had approached the dark house, which was incapable of doing more with spoken words than passing them through at top speed while never paying any attention to the meanings within? The one standing dumbstruck under Moon, impacted by his own sheer stupidity. She'd said it on the first day, right there in the tent. 'I have friends.' She had a support system. Others who would carry her burdens, comfort her, fight for her when the need arose, accept her no matter what happened... she'd said that part too... In that regard, Scootaloo had everything which a young Snowflake had not. And it made her stronger than he was. He couldn't scare her off with the fear of alienation because there were already those around who would not leave her, not through all the pains and failures of the Crusade, and such a bond could never be broken by mere muscle. But for that... she was stronger than he. And perhaps it meant she could continue with the training after all, even on his road (not that such would be necessary), except for all the frilly gross adult stuff which she didn't care about -- right up until the moment she discovered every last chance at it had been forever closed to her... Three days down. Not pain, for she fought through and past that every day in the name of the Crusade. Not isolation, for that battle was conducted with a filly on each side... Nopony had stopped the Crusade. Nothing would except the manifestation of three marks. There had to be a way of stopping a Crusader. Somewhere, somehow, and quickly, because if he didn't think of it... Strong like me. It was a weight he wouldn't be able to carry.