• Published 31st Oct 2014
  • 16,134 Views, 1,509 Comments

The Dresden Fillies: Great Power - psychicscubadiver

It was supposed to be a simple vacation. Just a chance to get away from the daily grind, explore a new city, and catch up with an absent friend. But when that friend happens to be Harry Dresden, all bets are off.

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The Dresden Fillies: Great Power

Written by: psychicscubadiver
Edited by: SilentCarto
Proofreader: Coandco
Cover arrangement by: Novel Idea

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Dresden Files or My Little Pony, that is Jim Butcher and Hasbro, respectively. This is a fanfiction only. This story takes place between Seasons Two and Three in MLP and between books Eight and Nine in the Dresden Files.


Marge had spent thirty-odd years serving truckers, drunks, teenagers, insomniacs, and whatever odds and ends washed up around 1 AM at a small all-night diner off of I-94. It wasn’t the easiest life, but she had managed to raise a kid and keep herself out of poverty without ever needing a government handout. As a side benefit, Marge had never needed to travel to see the strange or exotic; at a place like this, the weird stuff found its way to you.

It was close to sunset, and her shift had just started when some of that strangeness showed up. The college students peering in the front window weren’t the strangest folks she’d ever seen, but they certainly made the top ten. There were three girls in their late teens or early twenties. That wasn’t too strange; sometimes the diner got kids up from the University of Minnesota looking for directions. It was their appearance that made these three stick out. Two of them nodded to each other like soldiers readying themselves for battle, and the third tapped her foot impatiently and pouted. At last, one of them opened the door and they entered.

The first girl through was thin and taller than most men, with skin that hadn’t seen much in the way of sunlight. The dignity of her sensible haircut was undermined by its deep purple color and the pink accents. She must have been wearing contacts, because her lavender eyes matched her sweater-vest. The rest of her clothing, a blouse and long skirt, was royal purple. Marge figured she could guess the girl’s favorite color without too much trouble.

A short black girl stormed in behind her, warily hostile. Her hair put Ms. Purple’s to shame; it was dyed every color of the rainbow in alternating streaks and looked like it hadn’t been brushed this year. Her pink eyes – must’ve been another set of contacts – blazed as she strode into the diner like she was the toughest thing in town. Despite the girl’s lean, corded muscles, Marge doubted she’d have an easy time backing up that attitude.

A pair of bright blue eyes peered here, there and everywhere as the third girl stared at everything in the diner with an almost comic sense of wonder. She was rosy-cheeked and built like a Bavarian barmaid. Her dress was a frilly, overly busy pink thing not often seen outside of little girls’ birthdays, and it struggled to contain her chest as she bounced between her friends with the energy of a sugar buzzed toddler. Her curly, wildly frizzed hair was dyed almost neon pink, which was only par for the course with this bunch.

Marge waited for them to take a seat or come up to the counter. They did neither. Instead, Ms. Purple closed her eyes and stood perfectly still. Ms. Attitude glared at everybody in the diner, protectively circling her friend. Bouncy Girl hopped over and started playing the claw game, though Marge didn’t recall seeing her put in any money.

Right about then, the lights started to flicker throughout the building. The cash register turned off and on, making that horrible start-up noise, and a whining buzz of static squealed briefly from the TV that muttered in the corner. Marge cursed the lousy wiring in the old place under her breath. The cooks in back did it at the top of their lungs – thank goodness there weren’t any kids in the dining room to hear them. Ms. Purple opened her eyes and smiled. She leaned over and whispered something to Ms. Attitude. They retreated to the entrance of the diner and both yelled something that was lost in the roar of the nearby highway.

Whoever it was meant for must have heard, because another three girls and a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old boy came into view.

When Ms. Attitude strutted in this time, she had a shadow. A short little slip of a girl in a yellow summer dress almost hid behind her. Marge couldn’t decide if the new girl’s trembling was because of the early September breeze or the nervous expression that she guarded behind her rose-colored bangs.

An Asian girl watched her steps carefully as she entered, trepidation clear. Expertly applied makeup and an elegant hair style suggested money; the diamond studded necklace and bracelets confirmed it. Indigo hair and royal blue eyes were a strange combination, but hardly worse than any of her friends. Her dress could have been mistaken for an evening gown, and Marge would’ve sworn she was wearing actual glass slippers. Her hourglass figure filled out her dress perfectly, which quickly grabbed the eye of every man in the place. The fact that it was a chilly evening and she wasn’t wearing a bra made that a guarantee.

All that interest wasn’t missed by the Hispanic boy close at her side. He glared at anyone watching her with the same expression that Ms. Attitude gave to everyone, but at five-two and thin as a rail, he wasn’t going to slow down much of anyone. Still, there was something about him that made Marge uncomfortable, and it wasn’t the baggy jeans or plain black t-shirt. His canines seemed too long and his nails looked sharp. Then there were his intense eyes: emerald green, the same color as his spiked hair.

The last girl to enter was the only normal one in the bunch. Tall, muscular and corn fed, she looked like she could have just walked off of any farm in the Midwest. No crazy hair colors or outfits, just blond and blue jeans with a plaid flannel shirt and a worn Stetson. Whether those other girls had always been weird or if college had just encouraged them to ‘go wild’, this one looked to be the group’s voice of reason.

They all gathered together for a whispered conference, except for Bouncy Girl, who was still busy hunting stuffed animals. The dinner rush wouldn’t come until another hour or so, but Marge’s patience was still starting to fray. At last they finished, and Ms. Purple cautiously drew up to the counter.

“Hello,” she said with a careful smile. Her nose wrinkled, and her smile faded for a moment before she forced it back. Marge crossed her arms and tried not to scowl. The Cold Country Diner wasn’t exactly a five-star restaurant, but they ran a clean place and served better food than any stereotype would give them credit for.

Her reaction didn’t go unnoticed. “Sorry,” Ms. Purple said with a sheepish smile. “I’m not used to the smell of cooking meat. It’s… difficult to adjust. I just need directions to a friend’s house.”

Not used to meat? Her parents must have been hippies, or some other flavor of vegetarian. That would go a long way towards explaining her appearance. In an instant, Marge’s heart went out to the poor girl. “Sure thing. I’d love to help. Where does your friend live?” And if it got these kids out of the diner, that was just a bonus.

Ms. Purple beamed, and the boy celebrated the news with a fist pump. The rest looked hopeful, but they were a little more reserved in their reactions. “Thank you. His name is Harry Dresden, and he lives in Chicago.”

There was a moment of silence as Marge digested this information. With anybody else she would’ve sworn this was some kind of weird prank, but these girls had an earnest look that couldn’t be faked. Maybe they were Canadian? And somehow hadn’t checked a map before setting off on a trip to Chicago? “Well, the good news is that you’re on the right road. The bad is that Chicago is around five hundred miles southeast of here.”

Their jaws all but dropped. Ms. Attitude shook her head in disbelief. “You’ve gotta be kidding me! What, does he live on the other side of the country?

“Dash…” Ms. Purple scolded quietly, her shoulders tense.

“No...?” Marge ventured cautiously, the weird meter ticking higher and higher. That settled that they were foreign, but for the life of her, Marge couldn’t imagine where they were from or how they’d ended up in the middle of Minnesota with no idea where they were going. She grabbed a road atlas from the small spinner next to the counter and flipped it open to the ‘Continental US’ page. They gathered in closely to get a look. “This is about where we are,” she said, then traced the thin line that represented I-94 down to the southeast. “This is where your friend lives. He’s only a couple of states away.”

“It appears we underestimated the size of our friend’s country,” the Bombshell Asian said.

“Well, all right. Is there a train station nearby?” Cowgirl asked in a strong Southern accent. Which was an odd thing to hear from somebody who was supposed to be foreign.

“Maybe in Minneapolis, but not around here. Besides, you’re on the right road. Why not just drive it? Is there something wrong with your car?”

All she received was a sea of blank looks. Ms. Purple forced a smile and chuckled nervously, a couple of locks of hair springing out of place. “Right. Our car. Because we definitely have one of those, like normal humans.”

Bouncy Girl wandered back to the group, her arms overflowing with stuffed prizes, even though Marge hadn’t noticed her win anything. Pushing a Pikachu knockoff into Ms. Shadow’s hands, she stage-whispered loud enough for the whole diner to hear, “What’s a car?”

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