//------------------------------// // Chapter Four: The Truth at Last // Story: Coming Home // by Robodog Carson //------------------------------// "So, Pinkamena, why don't you tell me where you all were when I needed you?" I asked, after about thirty minutes of silence. Glancing over at Pinkie while changing lanes, I took in all the visual tics that betrayed her calm demeanor. She was nervous, anxious, maybe even scared. This didn't make sense to me. If anything, I should be the one who was scared. Here I was, about to finally get some answers to the questions I'd been wanting to ask for months, and Pinkamena Diane Pie, the girl that had helped me overcome my fear of the dark with her "crack-up at the creepy" theory, was afraid to answer a simple question. "Well, Dashie...you have to Pinkie Promise Promise not to get mad." 'Okay, something is definitely not right here,' I thought, before nodding my head at her words, "Okay, Pinkie, I won't get mad." Despite my words, Pinkie didn't seem any less concerned. "Say the words, Dashie. That way you can't go back on them," she said, meeting my eyes for the first time since the car had started 32 minutes ago. "Alright. I, Rainbow Dash, Pinkie Promise not to get mad. 'Cross my heart and hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye.'" I felt pretty foolish saying those words, but it seemed to have the desired affect. Pinkie literally slumped against the seat, twiddling her thumbs and, presumably, mustering her courage. "The first reason is that we were on a safari in Africa, courtesy of Fluttershy's boss at the animal shelter. We didn't even know you were back until after we got back, but that wasn't for another 8 months. Africa was awesome, by the way. When we tried booking appointments to come and see you, they were either cancelled, overridden, made on days where no visitors were allowed, or some other reason. We actually tried coming in person, but were forced to leave..." clearly, there was something else. Something she wanted to hide. "Okay...what else?" "Well, Dashie...Applejack did some digging into your family history," the pink-clad girl began, messing with the bright-pink and yellow-striped leggings she wore; over the leggings she wore a hot pink mini skirt. Her top was a pink top that hung off one shoulder and had a spaghetti strap going over the other. Her pale-blue eyes wouldn't meet mine for awhile, but when they did they flitted back and fort between mine, "We, um...we found out where your father is..." I almost crashed the car. The brakes squealed and I just managed to pull onto the shoulder, turning on the hazard lights and letting my heartbeat settle back down, "My father is dead." I told her, staring at the steering wheel. "Oh, um...s-see, that's where you're wr-wrong Dashie...your dad is alive. Granny Smith...she didn't tell you because...well..." she sounded uncertain, like there was something coming that would upset me greatly. Ever since we'd first met, Pinkie had been in tune with my emotions as though they were her own. "Well?" I asked after awhile, "You can't just drop a bomb like that and then not tell me. Why did Granny Smith lie to me?" my voice was quavering as I held back tears. "When we spoke to him...about you...he...hedidn'twanttoseeyou and gotmadatusforbringingyouupin, well, in thefirstplace," Pinkie shot off the last part like a machine gun, each syllable punching a new hole in my heart, turning it from a sponge to a block of Swiss cheese. My father...my flesh-and-blood...didn't want to see me. A million different things ran through my head all at once, chief of which I put to words. "Okay...but why were you gone for so long? Why didn't you contact me? Why didn't your families tell me?" I couldn't keep the pain and sadness out of my voice, and so Pinkie leaned over fractionally and covered my shaking hand with one of her own, clad in a pink fishnet fingerless glove. "You were going through recovery. We thought that if you found out where we were, it could jeopardize the recovery process," the words were definitely Twilight's, as she was the only one of my friends who would use the word jeopardize, "But then, we followed your dad back to his house in Washington State, and it was in the middle of the forest so we lost cell service. We kept trying to convince him to come see you, but he point-blank refused! After a month of making appointments to see him and trying to convince him, we finally gave up." 'My father couldn't be that immoral, could he?' I had to admit that I didn't know much about him. All I knew was what he had been like when I was a child. People change, after all. "Pinkie, half of that story sounded like complete bullshit," I said candidly, looking at her with cold eyes. She flinched, but didn't move her hand away from mine. "I know! I know it does! But you have to believe me, Dashie! Come on, look directly at me and tell me I would willingly stay away from you when you really needed me." her eyes burned with a fierce intensity, warming me all the way to my chilled core. Of course Pinkie wouldn't do that. When I'd really needed her, she'd always been there. And yet, the entire story about my dad seemed straight out of a prime-time TV show. My dad was a trademarked villain, apparently, and my friends were the protagonists. Actually, scratch that; it was more like a crummy soap opera. "You know I can't do that, Pinkie, but that doesn't change the fact that this story sounds made-up. I can accept that something kept you from coming to see me, but this doesn't make much sense." I crossed my arms, pulling my hand away from hers. "B-believe me, Dashie, I thought the same thing while it was happening. We h-hadn't told anyone we were leaving, and those who figured out we were leaving didn't know where we were going, so that's why they didn't tell you anything. They didn't want you to worry. We didn't want you to worry. When we finally decided to give up, a blizzard hit while we were in the mountains! Flights were delayed, roads were closed..." She was non-verbally begging me to believe her, and if we'd been standing I swear she would be on her knees looking up at me with prayer hands. "I...Pinkie, it's really hard to believe. How could every appointment have been cancelled?" I asked, raising an eyebrow in my trademarked "I'm calling your bullsh*t" look. Pinkie fidgeted, her fingers twitching like they wanted to hold something. "We couldn't figure that out, either! Not until Twilight brought up the possibility that someone might not want us to see you. Then we had to answer the question of who. It took awhile; lots of speculation, some investigation, a little spying, and even less blackmail. All we managed to find out was that one of your emergency contacts told the hospitals not to let us see you at all." Pinkie's eyes welled with tears, looking down and away. I found myself slipping into the old routine as I wrapped my arms around her, comforting her while I still felt miserable. Soon, however, Pinkie turned the tables and hugged me. She comforted me, brushing the hair from my face. "I missed you, Pinkie. You and your crazy fashion-sense," I gave vent to a sob and hugged the shapely girl before me, putting my head into her shoulder and my arms around her waist. She smelled of vanilla ice cream and freshly-baked cookies; courtesy of her job as a baker for Mr. and Mrs. Cakes' sweet shop. I took in the sweet scents, relaxing greatly and going practically limp against her. My head spun as I tried to process the information Pinkie had dumped on me. "Oh Dashie, I missed you too!" Pinkie assured, hugging me just as tightly as I was hugging her. We stayed like that for a long time, finding comfort in the others' presence and embrace. I'd missed Pinkie-hugs something fierce, and was perfectly content to remain in her embrace for as long as possible. Unfortunately, life continued on as normal, and I'd forgotten to shut off the car. That meant my car had been using gas this whole time, and it was the obnoxious ding! that broke up our hug. "Crap." I muttered, throwing the car into gear and driving back on the road. The drive to the gas station was full of loud music, laughing, and purposefully-horrible singing. Pinkie's brown and pink-streaked hair fluttered around her face, as she rolled down her window, and I decided to join in as well. The wind roared past my ears, drowning out the song and my and Pinkie's voices. As the gas station came into view, Pinkie and I rolled up the windows and turned off the radio, smiling broadly and laughing at the others' wild hair. I made a vain attempt to smooth mine down for a minutes, before giving up and getting out to pump the gas. With a full tank once again, I told Pinkie that I was beginning to feel a little tired. She nodded sadly and agreed that I should get home and get some rest. "Bye, Pinks." I said, hugging her as I dropped her off at Sugar Cube Corner. She hugged back, exited, and waved from the storefront until I was out of sight. That night I had the best sleep I'd experienced in months. A week had passed since I last stepped foot inside Apple Acres. A week had passed since I spoke to any member of the Apple family. A week had passed since I'd spoken with Pinkie Pie. Five days had passed since I told Scootaloo that if she wanted she could continue living with the Apples. She'd seemed so relieved, and accepted immediately. Completely alone for the first time in two years, I turned to drinking. I still performed my daily exercises, still showered and ate and brushed my teeth, still worked at fixing up the outside of the house. Ivy had grown on the walls and into the shrubbery, the beautiful oak tree had gotten it's branches too long, the gutters sagged under the weight of the junk that clogged them, and the path was studded with weeds. I found it was much easier to perform these tasks with something to drink by my side, and that liquid varied between alcohol, Monster, Gatorade, and water. Working on my yard gave me a sense of accomplishment, of control, and it was wildly empowering. I could do so much on my crutches it was unbelievable. Finishing up with whitewashing the fence, I stood up carefully and wiped my hands on the now paint-stained jeans I wore. I grabbed my crutches from where they rested against the mailbox, slipping them under my arms with a sigh of resignation. I made to head back inside when I heard a car door slam a few houses down, followed by shouting. I turned my head curiously, adjusting on my crutches so I was facing the house in question. There was a man and a woman, and the man was carrying boxes to his truck. Already there were four boxes in the truck bed, and from the way the woman stood I assumed he still had more to retrieve. I wonder what a relationship is like....I quickly turned my mind off the subject and the couple, forcing it onto another, like how I needed to head into town and get some more supplies. I grumbled about it and went to the garage, typing in the code on the keypad and waiting for the door to open. Within the small structure was my father's teal-blue 1970 Challenger 528 Hemi Richmond 6-speed. Letting my hand trail the shiny paint-job I grinned at it's excellent condition. My father had absolutely loved this car. The door stuck a little as I pulled it open, but once it was open I tossed the crutches into the back and sat down on the tan leather seat. I grabbed the leather steering wheel and put the keys in the ignition, twisting and listening to the muscle car roar to life. When I first arrived I'd had Derpy help me give the car a full inspection, and with a few minor repairs the beast was ready to roar once more. I pressed on the gas and left the garage, taking the controller out of my pocket and closing the door to the garage behind me. I turned onto the street and drove further into town, searching for the market I remembered vividly. The market used to be located on 5th Street, but imagine my surprise when it was gone and turned into a skate-park/roller rink. The new market was a supermarket located further up the road, across the street from a hardware store. The first place I stopped, however, was a gas station located further up the street from both buildings. Exiting the car and limping to the door, I got the sense that something wasn't right. Reflexively I pivoted on my good leg and faced the man behind me. He seemed disappointed that I'd noticed him, but reached into his pocket for something. β€œ'Lo there, sir. You new 'round here?” I asked in a conversational tone he had to be new, no one in their right mind would openly try to mess with me. They had too much respect for me, and besides that, High Pointe had a history of being extremely peaceful; a trait I once despised. The man before seemed to fall for my ploy, relaxing and withdrawing his hand from the inside pocket I assumed held a knife or some other kind of weapon. As if sent by the universe itself, a police car pulled into the lot before the man could respond, and he quickly slunk off. BANG! A new sound alerted me, and this sound came in the form of something hitting metal, like a dumpster. Don't go look. Seriously. Don't be a hero, you friggin' cripple. What could you possibly do, huh? Slowly limp to the rescue? Ooooo, I'm sure that will just send whoever is back there running away in terror! But seriously. It' not your concern. Get your gas and go shopping. For all of this, I still didn't listen. I leaned against the wall, my crutches were left in the car, and walked to corner, trying to be inconspicuous. Upon reaching my destination I peeked my head minutely around the corner, looking into the alley I hadn't expected to find. The light here was dim and I allowed my eyes to adjust. I saw trash all along the alley, graffiti on the walls of the buildings, trash dumpsters, trash bags, and trash cans. One specific thing caught my eye, and I had to struggled against the immediate surge of white-hot anger that erupted in my chest. There, in the alley, was Applejack, arms held forcefully behind her, her bag in another figure's hands as they rifled around, taking her belongings. She was bruised and was standing awkwardly. A third figure stood a little apart, pointing a gun at the farm girl, knowing the device would keep her from struggling too much. I assessed each of the figures individually, deciding the figure with the gun and the figure holding Applejack were the two strongest and most dangerous, while the figure doing the rifling was incredibly weak. Making up my mind I slipped into the alley, keeping to the darker spots along the walls. I used trash bags and dumpsters to disguise my approach, adrenaline making me immune to the pain in my leg. I managed to roll and use the leg like a normal leg, unaware of any damage I could be inflicting. My heart thudded in my chest as I got closer, my eyes narrowing and my head clearing. The figure with the gun was the closest to myself, and I sneaked up from behind, throwing a rock at it's wrist and making it drop the gun. β€œHEY!” I shouted as I rushed forward and shoved the figure away, drawing my own pistol and sending a sickening pistol whip to the back of the rifler's head. The third and final figure, the one holding Applejack, got a kick in the knee and a sucker punch to the jaw. The one who'd held the gun got back to it's feet and punched me in chest, clearly having partaken in some sort of self-defense class, and gave me more punches to the chest and gut as it put more distance between myself and Applejack. I blocked desperately, but he kneed me in the gut and brought his elbow down on my spine. He proceeded to send a crushing kick to my side, and when I recovered I rolled away and backed up a bit. Applejack was weak when I'd arrived, sporting bruises and the like, and she'd been tossed to the side when I'd assaulted the figure holding her. I'd forgotten about her while getting pummeled, but the moment she crossed my mind I countered the figure's next strike and went on my own attack, shoving it a good distance away. I hadn't seen Applejack stand, nor had I heard her move, but she smacked the the figure in the back with a cast iron pan that had been discarded by some unknown person. I pulled out my phone and called 9-1-1, explaining in detail what had transpired. I walked over to Applejack, having still not said any words to her, and tended to her more serious injuries. I tore off the bottom of my shirt and wrapped it around a major cut on her arm in a crude tourniquet. I dabbed at the cuts on her face with another piece of torn shirt, all the while ignoring the ungodly pain in my back, side, and leg. When the First Responders arrived, I showed them my Military ID and dog tags, and you'd think they were about to shit themselves. They took care of our injuries and quickly deduced that my ribs were broken and I might have some internal bleeding. Once the paramedics arrived I let them take me in a separate ambulance from Applejack, too tired to fight about it.