From the Big Apple: A Tale of Misadventure and Affection

by Nurse Bedpan

All things come to a loose end

“Oh, I forgive you, dear!” Auntie Cupcake proclaims tenderly before lifting you up in a warm hug. “New place, new ponies – I can understand why things would confuse you a little.”

You smile and return the hug. “Thanks, Auntie. I’m happy you aren’t too mad at me.”

After your colorful exchange with Pinkie Pie, you were encouraged by the eccentric mare to go back downstairs and mend things with the Cakes. After apologizing for your last tantrum, they were more than willing to let bygones be bygones and arranged for the family dinner to have a seat extra just for you. To your surprise, your meeting with the “proprietor of the Pinkerton Detective Agency” had spent all of your daylight hours, leaving you nothing but the evening and the very next day to wrap things up in the sleepy little town.

While you feel all the more relaxed after letting your issues go, you still have the nagging feeling of what you have to do when you get back to the city. It’s not very likely that Babs will let you just walk up to her and hug it out. What are you even going to say?

The thought of tomorrow preoccupies you so badly that you reply honestly to Uncle Carrot’s question. He nearly drops the spoon he’s using to feed Pumpkin when you answer.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking here, sport, but do you mind if we pick your brain about what made you so cross? If there’s anything we can do, you can just tell us.” He does his best to crack a supportive smile at you while simultaneously making swishing and whooshing noises to make his infant daughter concede to a spoonful of pureed carrots.

Everypony at the table, even your cousins, become slack-jawed when you give your reply:

“It’s because of this girl…”

---

Before tucking you in, Pinkie Pie explains that the “brown icing on everything” would wear off after a few more days. You still have a hard time buying that everything you saw was nothing more than some incredibly well-painted cardboard backdrops, but a quick swipe from Pinkie’s hoof proves this to be true.

“But what about your tie? And the windows?,” you sputter out before she silences you with a quick kiss to the forehead and a tussle of the mane.

“Is that really what you want to be thinking about, Private Eye?” she asks with a knowing smirk gracing her obviously entertained face. “This is your last night here. Better to not sweat the small stuff.”

You quickly roll over to your side to avoid her twinkling gaze. This mare must be psychic.

For what it’s worth though, she is right. Thinking too much about these things will probably give you dreams again. That would just make everything even harder to process.

“One sheep, two sheep, three sheep,…” you begin, letting sleep overtake you.

---

The morning air is crisp, the birds are singing, and the mattress you are sleeping on gives you just enough of a bounce to meet the day head on. Even the sepia-toned rays of sunlight don’t stop you from making your bed and packing your things with all the excitation of a pony ready for the first day of summer.

You can still picture the gushing faces of the Cakes asking you for every last detail you can give them about Babs (“What’s her name?” “How old is she?” “What are feelings regarding rhubarb and chocolate pastries?”) all without missing a beat in feeding their kids. If it weren’t so embarrassing, it would actually be very cool.

“Morning, champ!” greets Uncle Carrot, depositing a tall plate of waffles on the kitchen counter. “All ready for ya!,” he adds, followed by a wink that makes you fidget in your seat slightly.

Yeah, still every bit as awkward as last night.

“And a fine morning to our little nephew as well!” Aunt Cupcake is in even higher spirits than her husband, giving you a particularly hard kiss on the cheek and a quick tussle of your mane. “I hope you aren’t too excited about going home. We are going to miss having you around here.” She adds an almost dreamy sigh to the end of her statement, punctuating it further by wiping her left eye with a hoof and mumbling “they grow up so fast…!”

You smile at her, a little weaker than you normally would considering last night’s almost endless question-and-answer, but you still mean it. Making short work of the waffles deposited in front of you, you hop down onto the floor and take in as much of SugarCube Corner as you can – this is the first and probably the last time you’ll get to see its walls with both eyes, after all.

“I’m gonna miss being here too, Auntie. And no, my train isn’t leaving until just before this evening. I still have time to settle things!” you announce.

After giving your relatives, drooling and bouncy foals included, tight hugs each, you make your way out of the large confection shop. Turning back, you gaze at its faux-sweet walls and decorations. It’s still pretty hard to believe that you even had relatives this far out; the icing on the cake is that they just so happened to live in a giant gingerbread house.

Ponyville is full of surprises. It’s a fact.

Your first order of business is obvious: you left three fillies hanging and they deserve to know what’s really been going on.

While not small by any means, Ponyville is still navigable and to even your small hooves, capable of being covered in a very short time without help from any carts or cabs. Sadly, this is complicated today by the bustling town center. Starting your day early has put you square in the middle of over a dozen merchant ponies setting up shop.

You suck in a big helping of air and brave the sprawling crowd, with their carts, stalls, and wares being put up for display.

Or more accurately, try to brave the crowd. No sooner are you five steps in, you are swept in by the river of pastel bodies, bustling about to start the day. Each turn you make is either denied, reversed, or redirected, with as little as an “oof!” and the occasional “What the-?” marking that the ponies you bumped into had indeed been bumped into.

After at least three detours, nine distractions, and probably half a run-around, you slump your tired body down against one of the stalls being set-up along the perimeter of the square. While not completely spent, you can imagine that navigating through all of this again would leave you at low point. Your resolve keeps you from giving up however, and you brace yourself for another pinball-like attempt to make it to the other side.

“I’m sorry about bumping into your stall, mister… uh… miss? I just a little messed around that’s all.” You don’t want to leave anypony else with a bad impression of you, especially since this is the last time you’ll be here for a good long while.

A minute passes by in complete silence of the salespony behind you. Your insides become tight; part of you is expecting the worst. Did you topple over a jar full of poison beetles and the pony behind you is now valiantly fighting for dear life?

A shadow covers your sitting spot, confirming that the stall’s owner was fine and was now looming over your very small frame.

“Eeyup,” he finally replies in a familiar bass.

You release a breath you don’t remember holding and look up at the massive crimson pony behind you. His eyes are half-lidded as he swings that small piece of hay in his mouth from right to left; he then turns around and starts placing some heavy-looking baskets full of apples on top of his makeshift store for the day.

Taking the opportunity, you shakily make your way behind the stall and approach the male Apple. “Uh, Mr. Macintosh?” you ask. You hope he can spare at least some time for a request of yours. He looks down to meet your gaze, prompting you to continue. “Uh, hi, Mr. Macintosh! Er…Big Mac, heh heh. I was just wondering if you’d seen your sister and her friends around? I need to talk to them.”

Without missing a beat, he lifts you up by the scruff of your neck, up over the adjacent fence behind his apple cart parked near the stall. He deposits you neatly on the ground before replacing his hay stalk and pointing you toward a fairly narrow path. “Treehouse,” he utters simply.

You offer him your thanks (he reciprocates with another “Eeyup” and turning to place more apple products in front) and sprint down the path. If you’re not wrong, talking to the Crusaders about Babs might take more than its own fair share of time.

You arrive at the clearing, seeing nothing new in the space before you, save for the hollowed out remains of an arcade game. Instead of feeling the pang of dread you had once, you smile and think instead of what the trio may have done with the insides of the complex box. Your attention is immediately wrenched up towards the treehouse proper, where a variety of loud bangs and flashes of color are emanating from the windows. At the foot of the ramp, you see Scootaloo’s two-wheeler on its side, as if discarded quickly.

It takes only three steps before you are able to make a better impression of what’s going on inside. Three fillies’ voices arguing over “this piece” or “my head” and the continuous banging and whirring noises tell you that the Cutie Mark Crusaders are trying to build something yet again; another creative means of getting the ever-elusive cutie mark.

You stop just short of the slightly ajar door and plan your next move. “What do I even say to these three? Hi, I’m sorry for acting like a total psycho yesterday?”

Inhaling a huge breath, you step inside, ready for what the hay might happen… when you’re swiftly given a greasy wrench by a filthy Sweetie Belle. “What?” you ask, before being roughly yanked further inside by Apple Bloom, sans bow and with a large pair of black goggles. She’s smiling very widely, grabbing the wrench out of your hooves and mumbling her thanks before getting to work on a foal-sized… doll?

It’s a hodge-podge of brass, wood, gears, and what highly resembles a washing machine window. The strangest thing happens when it sighs and voices out its current state of mind: “This is way more boring than you said it would be!”

You try and say something, only to be interrupted by Sweetie Belle giving of a huge grunt of effort. Turning around, you see the white unicorn has lifted a glass dome onto her head. Her balancing effort appears to take root, causing her to puff out her chest and state “Just hold still, Scoots! The magic is about to happen!”

Apple Bloom lifts her goggles and gives a quick spit to the side and exclaiming “Done and done! I knew we could get something outta all this junk! And not for a single penny!”

She smiles at her two friends and finally looks you in the eye. “Slick? Didn’t see ya come in! Must’ve been those fog glasses. Anyways, hey! Nice to have ya back!”

Sweetie stays in place but does her best to offer up a hoof for you to shake. “I thought I gave the wrench to Apple Bloom. Explains why she’s still on that side of the room. Welcome back!”

Behind you, an irate voice intones: “Yeah, sure, welcome back. Come on, girls – let’s do this! Sweetie Belle, fire it up!”

The addressed filly complies, scrunching her eyes shut and fueling the contraption in her head with a jolt of green magic. A steady hum fills the treehouse as tendrils of magic begin to connect to you, Apple Bloom’s “fog glasses,” and Scootaloo’s scary-looking outfit. You look around for something to hide behind, but you are held in place by curiosity. What IS all this?

The humming grows louder and louder, while Sweetie Belle keeps pouring magic into her helmet. She’s mumbling words under her breath; you notice her two friends are now doing the same. Straining your ears, you can make out just one phrase: “Cutie marks.”

The humming stops…

Then suddenly starts up again as a high-pitched squeal. The green tendrils get sucked into Scootaloo’s suit, which she promptly jumps out of using an opening running along its back. She huddles up with you and the other Crusaders as the now empty pony-mech turns its headless body to the side, displaying its black, square flanks to all of you.

“Oooohh, I can’t wait!”
“Come on, come on… jus’ a few seconds!”
“This is gonna be wicked!”

The three fillies are hugging each other (and by extension, you) rather snugly, their eyes affixed to what you finally recognize as a cannibalized arcade game screen on a foal-shaped stand. The squeal stops and the screen flickers on to reveal…

A white, brown, and yellow alicorn cartoon, running in place to a stilted, if catchy tune.

“Al-ways *beep*
Want to *beep*
Be with you
*Beep*
*Beep*
And make believe with you
And live in harmony, harmony…!”

“OH COME ON!” reply the three exhausted fillies, who collapse onto the floor in a tired heap. Scootaloo gives a guttural sigh, pulling down on her lower eyelids to show her frustration.

You are the first to break the silence. “That sure is… uh… something. Neat.”

Sweetie Belle gives a non-committal sigh and a nod, followed by Apple Bloom following suit.

Five minutes pass by with not a single word shared among the three of you. Finally, Apple Bloom walks over to the pony-shaped device and gives it a quick jab to the neck, causing the whole thing to collapse. “Welp, that was a wash,” she states in defeat.

“It wasn’t so bad,” you say. “It… sorta worked.” A quick pause. “What was it supposed to do again?”

“It was gonna show us what our cutie marks were gonna be” says the little orange pegasus. “We used pieces of the F&F Flyer and that old game box to build something called an astro-pope.”

“Astral scope” corrects Sweetie. “We found it in an old book we borrowed from Spike.”

Five more minutes of total silence.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it, buster. This was a longshot and we knew it. It looks cool, at least.” Scootaloo, no longer bored out of her manners, is beginning to act more warmly again.

“No,” you say. “I meant about yesterday. About… me. I said some awful things and I wanted to clear things up before I left.”

“You’re leaving?! But… but… you just got here!” protests Sweetie. Her voice is tired but forceful, reflecting both her will and her fatigue.

“I know and I’m sorry about that too. I was never going to be here forever, y’know? And I think I have a lot to answer for when I go back to Manehattan. That’s… that’s later today.” You add the last part with more shame than you’d like to admit.

The three fillies slowly clamber up to their hooves and quickly acquire some chairs from the debris littering the floor. Apple Bloom sits herself down and smiles. “Cutie Mark Crusaders are always there for each other, Slick. Lay it on us. We won’t bite.” She adds with a joking wink. Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle offer tired smiles to get you to loosen your lips sooner.

“Remember what I said about why I was here? I might have… left one day...”
After that, you properly end your story: from Top Brass and Lemon Drops messing with you again, to losing contact with Babs after your screaming fit. The Cutie Mark Crusaders show varying expressions of understanding and comprehension. Apple Bloom does her best to maintain a neutral expression, though you suspect her head’s starting to hurt from knitting her brows so much; Sweetie Belle’s face swings between fascination to sorrow to hopeful; Scootaloo expresses her thoughts more verbally, calling you “the dumbest colt I’ve ever been friends with.”

The yellow earth filly smiles and offers you a handkerchief she fetches from the nearby footstool. “Feel better, city slicker?”

You didn’t even notice the tears flowing. You accept and blow hard into the fabric, mumbling your thanks after. “I screwed up there and I almost did the same here.”

“Nah. You jus’ got worked up over a friend is all.”

“I think that you think she’s more though,” comes a slightly excited squeak. “Shut up!” you answer with a laugh. “It’s not like that!”

“Yeah-huh. Just don’t infect her with your cooties of anything.” Scootaloo jabs your arm, but offers you a cheeky smile too. “She’ll listen. We all know it.”

And with that, the Cutie Mark Crusaders conclude their “goodwill collaboration” with their Manehattan branch with a big group hug. It’s not something you usually do with your buddies back home, but it’s something you can get used to.

---

You may have only been in Ponyville for four days but your goodbye still hurts. You also have a little bit of an entourage to see you off.

Rarity and Sweetie Belle are the first to give you words of encouragement and thanks, along with a lightly blushing baby dragon. “Thanks again for all the help, dude. I hope you liked Ponyville,” he smiles before waddling back to the platform towards a purple unicorn and a perched, snoozing Owlowysious. She must be the senior librarian, you think. Making eye contact, she gives a curt wave and a bright smile.

“Here you are, darling!” chirps the elder white unicorn, levitating a white package into your saddlebags. “I must insist that you open this in the company of your… friend.” She adds just a little hint of something or another to how she says that last part. “I assure you, she will adore it. Do give her our best!” Sweetie Belle gives you a quick squeeze around the neck before echoing her sister’s words. “Ooohh, I wish I could be there to see how you two tie the knot… err… patch things up. Yeah. That’s what I meant!”

Applejack and Apple Bloom are next, with a basket full of apple tarts. “Give some to yer kin and to Babs’s too. Ah sure as sugar hope you got what you came for, sonny.” Applejack pats you on the head, with Apple Bloom putting two or three letters into the basket. “And give these to Babs, will ya? After you straighten things out I mean. We’re gonna have a reunion soon – those’re invites.” The yellow filly beams widely and dances in place for a short moment, obviously eager to see Babs in the flesh again.

Scootaloo swings an arm over your shoulder and gives her best too. “Give that big city of yours the ol’ one-two, Slick. Show’em what the original CMC’s made out of ya.” In a more hushed tone, she adds “And pump the brakes on the mushy stuff, alright? I’m a filly and even I think way over the top.” She punctuates this with a noogie to rival the ones your brother gives you.

Lastly, Aunt and Uncle Carrot and their foals bid you their goodbyes, letting some tears flow in the process. “I’ll be fine, Uncle Carrot, Auntie Cee. Thank you for everything. I promise I’ll write when I get back home.”

Uncle Carrot is too choked up to answer, so his wife does it for him. “We are going to miss you, little one! Come back any time and we’ll always be happy to have you around. Good luck on the… you-know-what with you-know-who!” ending her statement with a cheesy wink, soon followed suit by a still speechless Uncle Carrot Cake.

Before you even have the chance to blush, you are tossed up into the air with a loud POP of confetti. You land in the arms of a very happy, if a little tearful, Pinkie Pie. “Sorry I couldn’t throw you a going-away party, kid. I’ll make it up to you when you come back.” Instead of waiting for you to answer, she throws you bodily into the just arriving bullet train set for the Big Apple. “Go sweep her off her hooves, Private Eye!”

Looking outside the window of the closing door, you finally take in the sight of all of these wonderful ponies who went out of their way to give you a home away from home. Rarity and Sweetie are both grinning, as are Applejack and Apple Bloom who wave at you spiritedly. Scootaloo has climbed onto the back of a cyan mare with a rainbow mane to get a better look at the train, and Spike is back near the front, prodding at his sleeping “junior junior librarian” to see you off. The Cakes are all smiles despite Pinkie’s very spirited display dwarfing their own. The pink mare in question is waving around a banner with a caricature of your face. Funnily enough, the banner is still in sepia tone.

Right as the train speeds up, you notice a familiar looking hat adorning Pinkie’s poofy mane.

“I guess it’s the least I could do.” You say it with a resigning laugh, making your way to your seat at the other car. The trip will be quick. You should arrive in Manehattan within two to three hours.

---

Instead of comfort, the first thing your return brings is dread. There are two ponies who meet you at the platform in the city – two ponies you could really do without seeing ever again. With a wicked smirk and a “friendly” arm around the shoulder, Lemon Drops guides you over to Top Brass. He pops out a piece of gum from his mouth, eyes it, and promptly starts chewing on it again. “I was going to give you a nice, new accessory, but I’m afraid the flavor hasn’t quite gone out yet. You’ll have to wait for your prize, shrimp.” His voice is nonchalant, as if ruining your day really is just nothing to him.

“We’re glad we caught ya, shrimpie,” Lemon Drops says with a firm squeeze. “We thought you might make a run for it, so’s we decided to chaperone your scrawny butt.”

“Why would I run away from a two-bit punk and his muscle?” You feel brave. You know there’s nothing Lemon Drops can do to you as long as you don’t give her the chance.

“Lotta lip comin’ from you today, shrimp. I didn’t hit your head on the dirt that hard, did I?” speaks the tiny tyrant, feigning guilt before breaking out into a fit of giggles. Top Brass repeats the motion with his gum, returning the sweet to his mouth, and addresses Lemon Drops: “Don’t rough him up, Lemon. At least not until he’s spoken to all of us.

As if to punctuate this ominous instruction, a second, smaller train pulls up to your platform. It is a muted gray with a square nose. A large, yellow label is tampographed on its side that reads “Lunar Correctional Facility for Wayward Colts.”

Your mouth feels dry. Your breathing becomes shallower. You can feel the blood pumping throughout your chest and your ears.

You had been so wrapped up in what you were planning to do that you forgot. Now, you wish you didn’t recognize him: his mane is buzzed short and he is wearing an orange vest bearing the letters of the correctional facility he was sent to; his eyes are still as small and beady as you remember and he appears to have grown even taller since last time you saw him face-to-face. He isn’t an overweight slob anymore; on the contrary, he looks like a slightly smaller version of his father.

Talk about bad cop.
Talk about bad timing.

Your mind nearly shuts down until it’s jolted by a quick punch to the back of your head by Lemon Drops. “You remember D-Cell, don’t ya?”

You do now.
And something tells you you won’t soon forget.