//------------------------------// // Spotting // Story: Scootalift // by Estee //------------------------------// "...and what happened after they arrested you?" Snowflake allowed himself the luxury of a deep sigh, then flipped the page of the feline anatomy textbook with his teeth and tried to look at it for a while before answering. Somehow, the various rotation views of whiskers as seen by dim cottage light weren't providing much in the way of comfort. "It really wasn't much of an arrest, Fluttershy. More of a detainment. Diamond galloped to the police and said -- a lot of things. The problem for her might be she's said them a few times before this. The officers never directly said so, but I got the impression she might have been repeating a few lies from previous incidents. Still -- I'm an adult, she's a child, and they asked me to come down to the station until they could bring her father in." Most of Ponyville's badge carriers had shown up at his house to request the trip, and every one of them had looked just a little bit nervous about the prospect. His calm trot had done a lot to defuse the situation, especially since the precinct didn't have a freezer large enough for him. "So I just sat there for about two hours, until Mr. Rich finally arrived. And -- I talked to him, and..." A slow breath. "...I swear what I'm about to tell you next is true. You might have a hard time believing it. I'm still having some trouble. But it happened, Fluttershy, and I never thought it would." Curiously, "...what?" "He believed me." The obscuring manefall meant his near-sister's blink was only visible on the left eye. "...he -- he what? Mr. Rich came to the precinct himself, not one of the servants, and he... believed you?" A slow nod. "He... he's tired, Fluttershy. I've worked for him a few times. I like working for him, because he's a pony who respects his workers. But I know what his blind spot is, and the filly who occupies it. Or I thought I did. But he's tired. I'd never seen him that tired. I told him everything that happened, and he just listened. When I was done... he signaled the officers, and he told them there wouldn't be any charges pressed, to drop anything Diamond might have tried for, and then he thanked me. Just before he walked out of the station, and he walked. He couldn't even trot. Something's happening, Fluttershy. I think -- he may be at the same point as the officers. He's heard a few stories too many, they've started to repeat, and -- I think he's finally seeing the pattern. I think he might be on the verge of seeing Diamond. And when that happens..." "...it'll hurt," Fluttershy softly continued. "...it'll make him tired. And then... he'll have to deal with her. It's been a long time coming, and... that just makes me feel sorrier for him. I don't know if there's anything left which could even be fixed... But at least for you -- the important part is that you're okay, and nothing happened to Scootaloo --" "-- she's not okay." The ancient squirrel who was snoozing in the small of his back briefly stirred, then curled up again. "She's not going to be okay until she quits, until I know she'll never be like me. She should have quit already, and I don't know what I can still do. I set the goal: get her to quit within a week. And I could usually get somepony to flee just on aches after that first workout. But today's the fourth day, I'm still seeing her tomorrow, I set the goal, and -- it's not happening. I don't know if I can make it happen, and that's with my mark..." His chin arced forward, nudged the book closed, and he closed his eyes. There were visions playing again, and too many of them featured a Scootaloo who looked like him in build, as much as an adult mare body would allow and with the addition of normal wings. Sitting in a bar, attending a dance, approaching ponies. Sometimes with her friends at her sides, at the start. But always leaving with her friends. Nopony else at all, ever. Always -- alone. "...your mark?" She was one of the few who knew. "I set the goal. It should be happening." She trotted a little closer, smiled. "Snowflake... that's not how it works. I know it's your mark, and... I know it's a rare talent. A powerful one. Determination." Shift the weight. Move the burden. Overcome. "But it applies to your own efforts," Fluttershy continued. "The things you personally try to accomplish. Physical things. You can't make your magic stronger just because you want to. You can't influence other ponies, not that I've ever seen, and I'm sure you know that. You're just frustrated because... you're so worried about her. And you want something to blame, so... you blame your magic, your mark, yourself... but you're not looking at it the right way. You're so worried that you're not thinking about things, not the way I see them. Right now, you're sort of like Mr. Rich... so can I be you? Just for a few minutes, just to tell you what you need to see? And maybe... even hear?" He took several long breaths, felt the sheer mass being shifted on each, tried to banish the ever-present odor of the cottage (dozens of animal sprays coated with every cleaning agent known to ponies, none of which were ever enough to completely work) and failed. "If there's anything you think I'm missing -- please." "...well... to start..." She carefully sat down on the other side of the low-set study table. "...even if your mark did work with other ponies, somehow, and I'm pretty sure it can't... did you ever wonder what would happen if... you went up against the same talent?" He stared at her. "Are you -- no, I know you're serious, but what would make you think --" "-- I know Apple Bloom started the Crusade, but... Scootaloo controls the direction so much of the time. I think... she's the one who keeps it going. The leader, in those times when they have one. And there's two things you can say about her, and the first one is that when you think about it... she's very determined." He blinked. It was nearly all he could do. "Then -- she won't quit," Snowflake said, and the words felt all too close to surrender. "If I was up against myself -- I wouldn't have quit. I never quit, no matter what my parents and classmates and teachers thought. I pushed all the way to the end, to my mark and beyond. Even if I refused to keep training her, she'd keep going. She's going to be like me, Fluttershy, and nopony should ever be like me. She's going to be --" He couldn't say it, and knew she still heard the word. alone He sighed. "And on top of that, I'm going to be bankrupt." Which got him another smile. "...no. You won't be." "They're already avoiding me because they know she's with me. My tent isn't seeing enough traffic. The longer I stay near her, the worse that's going to become. Ponies talk --" "-- yes, they do." With just the tiniest hint of tease and decidedly more in the way of open pride, "Would you like to know what they're saying?" That the freaks belong together. "...they're saying -- you're immune." And in his shock, all he could do was echo her. "...what?" "Snowflake... ponies gossip. A lot. And some of them gossip here. They don't want to think about... what could happen to their companions if everything doesn't work out. So they talk about anything that pops into their heads. Anything everypony is talking about in town. Rarity loves it, because I always have something to tell her. And they're talking... about you. Because she followed you for two days, and nothing happened. You were seen with her twice after that, and nothing happened. And not only that... she's with you during hours when she normally would have been with the other two. She has less time for Crusading. So nothing's happened to you -- and less is happening to everypony else. Nopony wants to believe you're the cure for the Crusade, because there's still two other fillies and nopony they'll pay real attention to. But they think you're moderating it. Making everything a little safer. A few... think you're shielding, defending us, and I know how silly that is, you have to hear how silly it can be when they say it... but they think you might be immune. And a pony who's immune to the Crusade... is kind of a pony you'd want to hire... don't you think?" She was still smiling. He was reeling. Disoriented, as if he'd taken his maximum one-push weight, increased it by one vital half-bale, and then tried to do all the movement with his head. "They really think --" "-- they really do. They'll be back in your tent, Snowflake, whether she stays or not. Soon. But... she won't stay. Because you're forgetting another part of the Crusade. And this one just doesn't come from Scootaloo: they're all guilty of it -- but she's as bad as they are, worse sometimes. It keeps the Crusade going, as much as anything else, sends them to their next failure. She's determined, Snowflake, maybe as much as you ever were... but she's also something else, something you've never really been, at least until you had her to deal with..." A small white rabbit ran up to the table. Glared at Snowflake for daring to take so much of his mistress' time, squealed once, and dashed off. "What?" She told him. And after his own training ended, he went home to wait. There was a knock on his door. The second in two days, although this one came with considerably less hooves waiting on the other side. Still... a rare event. But this time, it was a rare event he'd been waiting for, especially as he'd heard the telltale squeaking a few seconds before the oddly cautious hoof impact. His left forehoof pushed down on the lever. "Hello, Scootaloo." The purple eyes were still tilted up towards him, but that gaze seemed less steady than usual. "Can I come in?" "Do your parents know you're here?" "They --" She took a deep, reinforcing breath, and seemed to have lost the awareness that anypony seeing it would be aware that was exactly what it had been. "-- yes." "All right, then." He opened the door the rest of the way. "Not for too long, though. I don't want them getting worried." She slowly trotted in, looking about the place as if -- well, not as if she owned it. More like she was trying to figure out why he did. "I thought you'd have more stuff than this," she said, briefly glancing at a closed book resting on a small table, the volume he'd recovered from the basement. "Why?" "I don't know. Because you're an adult. Because you've got a job and you can buy stuff." He shrugged. "A lot of it is still in the basement. I'm -- a slow unpacker." Which was a truly drastic understatement: he was approaching his two-year anniversary in Ponyville. But he still had full boxes, because moving was a hassle, loading and unloading twin nightmares which just about justified their own capital, and -- -- part of him was waiting for the day he would have to move back out. Briefly startled. "You have a basement?" "It came with the house." "And you use it?" It wasn't a situation which called for anything even remotely resembling bragging. Instead, he simply repeated, "It came with the house." A little more trotting, and then she stopped. Her eyes came up to meet his face, but only briefly. "I -- was trying some things out today. During recess and lunch." He listened. "Jumping. Lunging. Flapping. And..." He waited. "...I don't feel any different. Other than when I'm feeling sore. I feel -- the same. Just like I always do, when I'm on my scooter and I'm trying to get my wings going just enough that when a jump puts me in the air, I'd stay there and..." There was Sun coming in through the little windows, illuminating the living room which no guest had inspected until that day. Very little of it seemed to reach her. "...I'm not good at this. At -- being like you." "It takes time, Scootaloo." She seemed to ignore that, continued to speak, more quickly, with doubled insistence and trebled pain, with all of that last denied. "If I was any good at it, I'd be good already! I'd be good at the moment I started, and then I'd just keep getting better! If I'm not good by now, then -- I'll never be any good at this, it won't work for me, and -- I'm sorry, I tried, I really did, I stuck with it for two whole lessons, but..." Her gaze was all the way to the floor now, but it didn't stay there for long. "...I'd know if I was good. Because..." She glanced at her right flank. At the orange fur with no other colors marking it. And he didn't look, not long enough for her to register that he'd seen the glance at all. Because he knew that would hurt her, and it was something he never wanted to do. Fluttershy had been right. "...she's impatient." It was part of why the Crusade failed over and over. Because the fillies thought the results would be instant, or nearly so. They would begin their chosen activity believing that one or more would turn out to be an immediate expert, not-quite-manifested magic pointing the way into skill without learning. And when failure came on any one thing, no matter what the cause had been -- they abandoned that particular pursuit. The Crusade went on -- but the individual crusades stopped after that first fatal flaw appeared, for there were still more skills ahead to fail at. They wouldn't wait. They refused to consider those things which they had a little interest in, anything they already liked and showed some talent at, and push those to the point where perfection might emerge. Instead, they had concluded that because those activities had not yet produced marks, they never would, and so were not worth improving. They ignored the best parts of themselves in favor of simply rushing on to the next disaster. And the next, and the next, and the next... Scootaloo was determined, perhaps as much as he'd ever been. But it was determination poorly focused, squinting ahead in a way which carefully blurred sight, prevented her from reading more than the first chapters in books, planning for a second attempt at anything where the failure had been less than total, or -- simply taking the things she was already good at, trying to make herself better at them, and -- waiting. "Not before, not first!" "I'm sick of waiting and trying and -- and this should have happened already, everypony else, this has to happen now!" And as long as she continued to believe that... the Crusade would go on. "I'll go get your bits," he gently said. They were in a small jar in his bedroom, waiting for their next trip to the tent. Separated, unspent. "You can bring my books back to me tomorrow." He turned, began to trot. And behind him, the words came out, words he knew he'd never been meant to hear. "Why -- why does everything have to be so hard?" He had an answer for that. But it was something she would never truly hear, no matter how dearly he wished she would. In a way, it had been -- nice, training her, for as long as she had been able to last. But had it ever truly been training, with a student who wouldn't learn? Snowflake went into the bedroom, looked around for the jar -- which was nowhere in sight. He frowned. Now where had he -- oh, right: loaded into his saddlebags for the trip to the tent. He went over, flipped the lid, began to rummage, got the jar out, started to turn back -- -- and that was when the scream came. His head spun. His mouth opened. The glass shattered as it hit the floor, and he instinctively vaulted the shards as he galloped back to his living room to find -- -- Scootaloo. The book. He'd left a filly who became bored easily in the presence of a book, and while some might feel it took truly epic boredom for Scootaloo to seek distraction in the written word, that level of combined impatience and exasperation was generally achieved in about ten seconds. So she'd flipped the cover -- -- to find no words waiting at all. She was staring. Shaking. Every feather vibrating at the same rate. Barely aware he was there at all, focused on something else. "Why -- why would somepony take a picture like that? Why would anypony ever...?" All she'd done was flip the cover. To the very first photo in the album. Snowflake didn't look at it. He knew the image by heart. There is a newborn foal. His coat is white, the little bit of mane present is blonde, and oddly, the hooves are gold. He is something less than a day old. He is small. Too much so. His eyes cannot be seen, for the sedatives have closed them. The drugs which his parents asked to be given, so that the only hours there were would pass without pain. There is a silver field wrapped around one foreleg, with a spark just leaving the main glow. Going back to the caster, providing an update on the foal's condition, and that update will be that the foal has yet to die. At first glance, the wings might appear red. But anything beyond that split-second, accompanied by the simplest of breaths, the only kind the foal can take, would find the truth: that the blood has soaked through the bandages again. The bone fragments were removed quickly before they could work their way into the tiny body, the stitches were placed... but the doctor had never dealt with such an arrival before. The protection given to fragile newborn wings was not there. A birth defect, one which hardly ever occurs. And without those translucent shells, those caps, the pressures of birth were brought to bear directly against the wings, and... ...the doctor -- midwife -- did what he could. But he had never seen such a birth before and, for a pegasus, would never see another. The surgery was desperate, the stitching slightly imperfect. And so the bandages are soaked again, and the stitching will be redone, and... it will be pointless. Because the foal will not live, not after the birth and surgery and partial amputations. He is too young to survive. He is too hurt to go on. He has lasted just long enough to be named, and that name is given for impermanence and fleeting beauty which nothing can save, vanished under the first touch of Sun. The foal lives. "Because," he softly said, "they thought it was the only one they would ever have." His left forehoof came up, touched the cover, flipped the book closed. She seemed to see that hoof for the first time. The color. And then she looked up, at the blond brush-cut mane, before her eyes inevitably went to all that remained of his wings. And there was so much he could have told her in that moment, that single instant where she might have been open to listening. But he had never been good with words, and so he found only three. "Life," Snowflake said, "is hard." She stared at him. And then she fled from his house. On the fifth day... well, there was no point in counting any more. Snowflake sat in his tent, noting the position of brightest shine against the tent's fabric. Lunch was approaching again, but he was uncertain as to whether he should leave the market for it. Things had been unusually busy: he'd already filled up a full booking sheet and moved on through half of a second. And one of those hirings had been a surprising one, for while he had worked for Mr. Rich in the past, the business owner had never come in to personally take him on. He was worried about that temporary employer. Mr. Rich had looked... tired. Well, it wouldn't do any harm to stay within the canvas for a while: there was every chance that the booking rush had been limited to the morning shift, but ponies who came during lunch and found a Back After Eating sign were generally up against the same kind of notice at their own workplaces. He rotated his ears, listened for any who might be on the approach. No hooves impacting the ground outside. Just -- memory, trying to intrude on actual hearing. It had taken so much effort during the night not to believe there were still squeaking wheels desperately propelling their owner away from him -- -- the tent flaps parted. He stared at her. "I --" she began, and didn't seem to know how to continue from there. "They're right here," he eventually said. His head dipped down, teeth picking up a tiny cloth bag. "I was going to drop it at your house this afternoon. You can count it if you like." Slowly, she pushed herself the rest of the way into the tent. Her eyes regarded the bench for a moment, mostly as an alternative to looking at him. But she didn't sit down, and her head didn't reach for the bag. "...I -- don't think I'm going to be very good at being strong," she said. "Not strong like you. Because --" and somehow, her eyes did not seek her flank "-- it's just not going to happen. I know when things aren't going to happen. I've had lots of practice." He listened. "But... I was thinking... we have a contract, right? And I shouldn't just back out of that. I signed it. There's probably penalty clauses and stuff." "Penalty clauses," he carefully repeated. Defensively, "I went to the library." "And what are those penalty clauses?" More than a little curious as to what she'd speed-imagined into his text. "...they're -- penalty clauses!" Which mean she probably hadn't gotten as far as registering any definition from the library's dictionaries beyond 'this is bad.' "Scootaloo, there isn't anything --" "-- so I can't be strong like you. But... I can shift my field now. I tried the density stuff on some really low-lying fog this morning, and... I was thinking... I still paid you for training, so maybe we could just... change the subject? And if any of it sort of winds up at flying, then... maybe I could give you a bonus." Her head tilted back towards her own saddlebags. She rummaged. After a few seconds, two very dirty, recently-unearthed tenth-bits hit his table. He stared at them. Then at her. "I'm -- not very good with techniques. I told you that. Your field is probably a lot stronger than mine, Scootaloo: I can say that without trying to test you. I don't know how much I could teach you. There's only so much I can show you..." "You could show me lightning." Just before the visions could get started, "No." "Why not?" "You'd need flight first." Which was the truth. "So we can work on that. After some lunges. Timed ones, where you show me what your times were, and before the ice cream -- lemon ice cream, you have to know that right now, before you try anything with that stupid contract..." She trailed off. Checked the position of Sun against the canvas, and then his face. "I mean..." she said, "there's nothing wrong with being a little stronger..." It was the twenty-ninth day. "Let me see your homework." "I did it! Come on, what's that under the cloth? I know how you think! If it wasn't something cool, you wouldn't have hidden it! You're just trying to get me worked up and asking you what it is and -- and I'm asking you what it is. Come on! Just show me already!" Steadily, "If you did it, then you'll let me see it." She fumed, and finally passed the papers over. "This is the last one. You know that. All we're doing after this is reviewing for finals." "Then instead of checking your homework, we'll be reviewing for finals." "Snowflake!" He ignored her, scanned the pages. "This is supposed to be a two, right?" "Yeah!" "Good. Then it's still wrong. Now fix it -- all right, that's fine." He got up, trotted over to the cloth, feeling her wriggling with excitement behind him, pulled the cover off -- -- and she was staring again. The whisper was almost reverent. "What -- what is that?" "It's the reason I can never reconcile our times," Snowflake softly said. "I mean -- what's it called? That just looks awesome, and I bet it's got a really awesome name to match! Those curves on the board, and that little fin -- why does it have a fin? And there's no wheels? I know it's got to be something you ride, but how do you get it to move?" "It's called a wakeboard," Snowflake gently told her. "This one's mine." "...yours?" He nodded. "It's a little small..." "I know. I ordered one in my size a few days ago, but it has to be custom-carved and I didn't want you to wait any longer. But this is what you use when you don't have ground, Scootaloo. It's what I used for a long time. I had to lunge on something, and when you go over the ripples, down the cumulus hills and start to pick up speed..." He was smiling. He knew it. "It's -- a scooter for clouds? How does that even work? What kind of speeds do you get? It doesn't need any lubricant, and you don't need to worry about axles, or wheels wearing down, or -- anything! Can you show me?" "Not on this one," he admitted. "But I can teach you." And he looked up. Purple eyes followed the red gaze. "I gathered them up before you got here," he said, nodding to the cloudscape. "And I worked on the upper surfaces. Nothing too complicated, not for your first push. But there's a few surprises. We'll see how you manage them. And then we can compare times." She was still staring. "I told your parents we were doing this," he added. "You mean you left a note." After a moment, "...yeah." "Oh, so you still say that..." "Yeah," he deliberately repeated. "Scootaloo, about your parents --" "-- that's kind of high up, isn't it?" She paused in her staring for a moment, distractedly preened at itchy wings. He nodded. He knew she was trying to distract him -- but it was a legitimate question. And he was still determined to eventually get a true answer out of her, with the current goal on that being the fiftieth day. "I wanted you to have the real experience. And we needed the altitude. Summer's just about here: it'll be hard keeping a cloud together this low for long, plus with the extra height --" "-- what if..." And she hated the next words -- but she said them anyway. "...what if I fall?" The extra height gave him time to accelerate. "Don't worry," Snowflake reassured her. "I'll catch you."