> Tinker, Tanner, Hunter, Spy
>  by Shamus_Aran
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Down the Rabbit Hole
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The early spring air was soaked with fog. A light chill tinged the atmosphere, just enough to set one’s teeth rattling. In a certain section of bush near the very outskirts of a certain forest, there was no sound. Nothing had moved or made a noise for the past eight hours. Until just now, that is.

A single figure rose from the brush, making just as much noise as it had entering. That is to say, very little at all. 

The forest had been thinning steadily for miles. Whether it was a natural formation or simply a magical portal into an unknown realm was unknown. In fact, that was the very reason our current character of focus (who for now we will simply refer to as “the archer,” because that’s precisely what he was) had entered. 

His kingdom needed explorers to make sure nothing unpleasant lurked near their borders, magic or otherwise. The kingdom also needed, he noted hungrily, explorers who could keep themselves alive while they did it. That’s what the bow was for.

The forest up ahead yielded to an unnaturally well-kept field, no doubt the workings of whatever lived in this territory. As he emerged from the foliage, the archer accidentally stepped on a fallen twig.

And, believe it or not, this snapped twig would be his undoing very shortly.

A small hillock overlooked the field, a perfect vantage point for one looking to murder and eat small furry creatures. As luck would have it, as the archer surmounted the hill, one such furry creature presented itself, although it was in no way small.

Grazing in the field below was a massive red horse, with probably more meat on it than the archer would need to eat like a king for days. With good rationing, it would last him for weeks on end.

All he had to do was shoot the thing.

He unslung the bow from his back, adjusting the arrow’s path for the wind. The path in his mind bent with the air current, curving into what he had already mentally labeled “breakfast”.

As he released the projectile, a sudden gust of wind bent it sharply to the right, causing it to land just off-target. The red giant stood ramrod stiff, bolting from the scene and soon disappearing behind another one of the tiny hills that dotted the landscape.

The archer sighed, stood up, and began to clamber down from his now-useless firing point. It was at this moment something happened that would change the course of this man’s life forever.

A bright blue winged thing landed in front of the archer, who thankfully had the presence of mind to have nocked and drawn another arrow beforehand. Before he could release it, however, he noticed that the creature had swiveled on its front legs, and its rear legs were now moving toward his face at an unpleasantly high speed.

As he blacked out from the impact, he heard the arrow go high with a sharp whistle. The last thing he remembered was hoping offhandedly that he hadn’t fired it such that it would come back down and hit him, because that would be a really stupid way to die.

***

He awoke to the vague sensation of warm, dry air. Judging from the lingering moisture soaking his clothing from the morning fog, he had been wherever he was now for no more than an hour.

“Ahem... Attention, human.”

Immediately, he was snapped out of his stupor. An unfamiliar female voice that referred to him as “human”? In this line of work, that never spelled anything good. Was it a siren? A harpy? Had he fallen into the realm of the Fair Folk?

“Ugh... Human here, speaking. Yes.”

“You are hereby charged with trespassing, attempted murder, and disturbing the peace with ill intent. Do you accept these charges?”

“Murder? All I did was try to shoot a horse.”

From somewhere behind the first voice, someone chuckled and muttered something in an odd, lilting language.

“Well, that was the easiest confession I’ve ever gotten. Guilty as charged.”

“What-”

He was interrupted by clanking metal and a squealing hinge. He was in some sort of jail cell, by the sounds of things. He was roughly hoisted from his sitting position, and thrust into a staggering walk. As he moved, still trying to coax his eyelids open, the woman spoke again, this time closer to him.

“We will inform the mayor of the verdict. Your imprisonment will then be officially announced, and your punishment decided pending your meeting with your accusers and their decision to press the charges.”

“And who are my accusers?”

“Well, among others, the pony you shot at.”

He stopped for a minute. Did she just say...? No, his ears were playing tricks on him. They had to have been.

As she walked him down an interminable sequence of hallways, his eyes gradually began to refocus. The hall was built of wood, painted minty green. He’d never been here before. 

As he walked, he mentally checked the list of Fae races that could have seized him. The Fairies, of course, were the most likely culprit. They just loved to imitate human architecture, and the décor was as faux-English as you could get. The Mer-People were also a possibility, but he hadn’t been near any bodies of water in the last week. It got increasingly unlikely from there. The centaurs, of course, would need halls this high to get around. Gnomes? Dwarves? No, this building was much too big for them. Sirens weren’t even capable of constructing buildings of this complexity. Nor were harpies, wyverns, the list went on. Dragons, ogres, and trolls were right out. Their buildings were much bigger, and their tastes leaned more toward the gore-splattered.

It’s surprising how much you can rule out from a single hallway.

“Here’s our exit.”

A door opened itself at random, letting in an absurd amount of sunlight. Whoever they were, they had magic.

He entered, light blinding him for a few seconds. As his eyes adjusted, he saw he was standing on a wooden porch, in front of a crowd of...

Horses.

A herd of multicolored horses, all staring at him intently.

“Uhh, wait. Where are the people?”

“These are the people.”

A dark blue equid walked from behind him. On its side was a picture of a fountain pen, crossed with a quill.

It talked.

“The mayor will be here shortly, to inform the town populace of the verdict. I shall translate for you, if you wish.”

“Um... okay?”

After a few uncomfortably silent minutes, a tan brown mare emerged from the crowd.

Oh, wait. “Mare.” “Mayor.” This entire place was beginning to feel like a bad joke.

The mare/mayor stepped in front of him, giving him a good once-over before huffing and turning to the blue horse beside him. They spoke for a spell in that oddly cadent tongue. Satisfied, the Mayor turned and spoke to the crowd.

“’Citizens of Eqshana-’ Sorry, that’s this town’s name in Equestrian.”

“Equestrian?”

The Mayor spoke again.

“’We have found this human guilty of his charges. However, as-‘ Oh.”

“What?”

“Err... Well, you’re not headed for the noose, seeing as you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because no human knows what they’re doing on their first visit to Equestria.”

“There’s that name again.”

“Shh!”

The Mayor concluded her speech. The crowd began stomping on the ground as some strange equine form of applause.

“So what happens now?”

“Now I get to conduct the sentence for innocence by ignorance.”

“Which is?”

***

“Wait, wait, wait. I nearly kill what you tell me is a living, thinking person, and you’re giving me linguistics lessons?”

“Well, I have to. We can’t teach you anything about Equestria if you don’t know the language.”

“And I suppose this counts as the first three months of my sentence. It took me nearly that long to learn just the basics of mertongue.”

“Actually, it shouldn’t take much longer than five minutes.”

“What.”

The only two English-speaking individuals in the town of “Eqshana” had left the pavilion and reentered the building, which apparently served as the town hall. As they walked, the archer took stock of what little equipment had been left with him.

His knife was untouched, as was his tinker’s kit. His bow and quiver, however, were gone, as was his satchel and his meager supplies of food. At the thought of food came the grumblings of an empty stomach, and some very unpleasant thoughts. 

What if Equestrians were that weird breed of Fae that didn’t eat? Worse still, what if they did, but ate things indigestible to humans, like flowers or rocks? What if they ate normal food, and regular Equestrian spices would poison him?

Was he going to die from Equestrian hospitality?

“Here we are.”

He was snapped out of his grim musings by a sudden stop from his “tour guide.” She had halted him in front of another totally unremarkable door, one of scores that lined the hallway.

“What’s this?”

“The language room.”

The language room. No indication of what that entailed. Typical Fae naming scheme, and maddeningly unhelpful besides.

He was led inside, and the door was closed behind him, shrouding him in darkness.

“Let me guess, this is the part where you eat me.”

“What? No!”

His guide lit a small oil lamp, revealing the rather cramped room in its entirety. The lamp was in the center of the room, sharing the space on a small table with a single writing quill. The three walls not occupied by a door were lined with bookshelves, which were absolutely festooned with tomes written in all manner of languages.

His guide took to searching the shelves, muttering to herself.

“Let’s see... La Lengua Ecuestre... no. Wie Die Pferde Sprechen... no. Langue de Pégase... no, no, no.“

As she continued to pore through the overstocked shelves, the archer took it upon himself to do a little searching of his own. No two books seemed to be written in the same tongue. He recognized titles in Gnomelish, Dwarrow, Draconic, and even Trolltongue.

One of them was in Mertongue, and its title roughly translated to “How to fool talking ponies into swimming where you can eat them”. Wonderful lot, the Merfolk. Great at parties.

One rather large tome stood out, after a few minutes of scanning the shelves. It was entitled “Inkwell’s English-Equestrian Concordance,” and if the archer had any experience with Fae races at all (which he did), this was the book his now-rather-frazzled companion was looking for.

“Is this it?”

“What- oh, my! Yes!”

An invisible force plucked the sizeable monograph from his hands, floating to the table where it set itself down with a soft thud. Two chairs scooted themselves to the table, apparently under the same magic. The archer’s guide, in defiance of known equine anatomy and common sense, took a seat in one. She motioned wordlessly at the other.

The archer sat. The guide brushed at the mane over her forehead, revealing a single horn.

“You’re a unicorn,” the archer said, in a tone of voice one normally uses for informing a friend they just seasoned their eggs with pepper instead of salt.

“Indeed I am. Now, hold still. This will take a few minutes.”

The book opened, again on its own. The English in it was overlaid with strange symbolic characters, to the point of illegibility. Some concordance.

The guide touched her horn to the book, and both began to glow a light teal. The light spread across the table and around the room, eventually engulfing the archer.

In that moment, several things happened.

Firstly, something in the human’s mind shifted. He now understood fragments of the Mayor’s announcement, which referred to something about “royal policy” and an agreement between a king and the princess. It was probably just Fae politics, which was famously never clear.

Secondly, he became keenly aware of the symbols in the book. They began to appear roughly synonymous with the English words they overlaid, as if someone had planted an interlinguistic thesaurus in his brain. In retrospect, he would later decide that this was exactly what happened.

Thirdly, he remembered his botched outing that morning. What he had dismissed as birdsong now revealed itself as a warning, shouted at his large, red, meaty quarry from very high up. It also explained that gust of wind. The Equestrians probably had an air spirit or two in their thrall, which explained how he had ended up here.

And finally, his “teacher” told him to stop thinking so much, or else he’d cause the spell to fizzle, which would probably wipe all knowledge of every language from them both.

He remained silent for a long time after that.

Finally, the book stopped glowing. The illumination faded to the single oil lamp, and all was still again.

“Now that that’s over... Hello. My name is Inkwell. What’s yours?”

The archer shook himself awake, and blinked.

“Inkwell?”

“No, that’s my name. What’s yours?”

“No, I mean... Your name is on the book.”

“Of course. I wrote it. Well, ‘wrote’ is the wrong word, what with magic and all...”

“Ok, stop. You just taught me how to speak Equestrian?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, how do I speak it?”

“You already are!”

At this, the archer paused. His voiced had shifted a few octaves higher, and he did seem to be making completely the wrong mouth movements. But this felt so natural. Was Equestrian magic so potent it could give someone a new first language in seconds?

My, my. How insidious.

“Well, I suppose that makes a bit of sense...”

“Glad to hear it. Now, your name?”

The archer told her, seamlessly transitioning to the comparatively deep, raspy, and amelodic human tongue.

“Hmm, that’ll never do. Nopony will be able to pronounce that.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“Well, until we can officially name you, you’ll just have to be named by what you do. And on that subject, what do you do?”

“Well, I’m an explorer.”

“Hmm, no.”

“I could be ‘Scout’.”

“No.”

“’Tinker’?”

“Close, but no.”

“‘Leatherworker’.”

Inkwell gagged. “Definitely not.”

“‘Archer’?”

She thought on that for a minute. She stomped once. “Perfect!”

And so, in a miracle of literary serendipity, the archer came to be known as the very thing we’ve been calling him this entire time. Amazing, isn’t it, how this sort of thing works itself out.

Now sporting a rather unearned sense of accomplishment in the field of Equestrian diplomacy, Archer immediately asked the next obvious question.

“What happens now?”

“Now? We have to go find you a home for the rest of your sentence.”

That last word deflated his spirits a bit. Technically, he was a prisoner. Diplomacy wasn’t exactly on the itinerary. His only recourse was to find out as much as he could as fast as he could, and get out. The crown had to know about this new kingdom, and what’s more, he had to keep any ambient magic here from screwing with his brain.

And there was ambient magic. There was always ambient magic in a Fae Realm, and that was definitely a label that applied to Equestria. If he had learned anything from three years on the frontier, it was that places like this were unpredictable, dangerous, and evil.

So, he had to learn. And with that knowledge, he had to escape from Eqshana. Simple.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a library, would you?”

Inkwell’s expression brightened. “As a matter of fact, we do!”

***

The town was not overtly magical. If there hadn’t been technicolor equines wandering the streets, one could have been forgiven for thinking that this was simply a human town that hosted a populace with slightly more fabulous sensibilities than the rest of the kingdom.

It was, in fact, given away by the tiniest details. Details like the sun, which hung motionless in the utterly cloudless sky, never changing its angle. Not a single rat could be seen in the alleyways, and that was the biggest hint. Rats were like annoying neighbors. You never got used to them being around, and you hated them, but once they vanished, you couldn’t help but feel like something was missing.

Oh, and the library was a giant tree with windows sticking out of the branches. So there was that.

As Inkwell approached the door, Archer found himself slightly taken in at how off-kilter everything truly was. The buildings were candy-pastel white and pink, apples seemed to be one of the only human-palatable foods in the marketplace, and unicorns and pegasi roamed the streets, with not a single bipedal creature in sight.

Right now, a Fairy would be a nice change of pace.

Inkwell tapped on the door. “Twilight? Are you in?”

The door opened, again by magic. Honestly, he hadn’t seen an Equestrian yet that moved anything without magic.

“Yes, Inkwell, in here,” said a younger voice from inside. “If this is about Treatises on Mystical Translation, I’ve almost finished it. I’ll have it back by-”

“No, no. It’s not about the book. I have someone for you to meet.”

“Oh?”

Archer stepped forward, trying to peer inside. Before he had the chance, another Equestrian stepped out of the doorway. This one was, like Inkwell, a unicorn. However, she was bright purple in hue, and instead of crossed pens had some unidentifiable mark vaguely resembling a star. Or perhaps one of those fancy French candies Jean sold at the corner booth back in – suddenly, he was very hungry.

“This is Archer, the one who shot at Big Mac this morning.”

“Oh.” The unicorn with the candy mark suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

“Don’t worry, he’s learned his lesson. And also how to speak properly. Say hello, Archer.”

Archer was rudely yanked from his reverie on fancy French candy. “Oh, h-hello,” he muttered.

“Archer wanted to learn more about Equestria while his sentence is carried out, so I took him here. Is that alright?”

“Oh no, no, it’s fine! He does seem... interesting.”

The unspoken addendum to that, Archer knew, was “...and really weird.” But that was alright. He thought Equestria was just as strange.

“So you’ll take him?”

“Sure! It’ll make for some good research for my next letter to the princess!”

Inkwell and the other one continued to exchange pleasantries as Archer made his way inside. On some level, he heard what they were saying, but his mind was now arrested with the offhanded mention of a princess.

Fae with royalty was not a new concept. But royalty that kept such a close tie to their subjects was. This young Equestrian kept regular correspondence with the heir to the throne, by the sounds of things. In the brief moment before the sheer untenableness of such a plot sunk in, Archer had a wild vision of meeting with her, turning her against the ruling King and Queen of Equestria, and coming home the first scout in a hundred years to go out exploring and come back with a new alliance.

Then the sheer audacity of what he was thinking crashed into him. He wasn’t Tinker Chanhassen, and these weren’t the griffons. He was going to have a time of it just getting out of this blasted town alive and undetected. How he could have fantasies of persuading a royal heir to revolt was beyond him.

He wandered inside, heedless of the continued jabbering at the front door. He glanced around, and came face to face with a particular lizard. This lizard was of a breed he had never wanted to meet at such a close distance, without at least twelve times the armament he had at the moment.

“Hey there. Who are you?”

It was a dragon.

A speaking, gem-eating, fire-breathing, honest-to-the-crown dragon.

Archer summoned all of the courage he could muster, and released one of the manliest girly screams ever heard in Equestria. He then fainted.

Spike jumped off the library ladder and nudged the unconscious human with his foot.

"What's his problem?"
> Books, Jewelry, and Talking Mirrors
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

As he slowly regained consciousness, Archer made a silent vow to never black out again. He had no idea how long he’d been out this time. That morning’s kick to the face, coupled with his recent five-foot dead fall onto a solid hardwood floor, had both robbed him of any sense of time and transformed the inside of his head into a swirling vortex of pain and suffering.

Reports came in from all across his body. The head felt the worst, by far, but he'd had enough of such injuries to know it wasn’t in mortal danger of falling off. He had numbness in his extremities, but that was to be expected after fainting like... well, like something that fainted in a really undignified way.

His mouth was dry, his stomach was empty, and something sharp was poking at his boot. He was going to be eaten by what appeared to be a six-foot-tall dragon (of speaking age, no less!) in the near future, in the classic set of circumstances: scared, hungry, and totally alone.

He slowly opened one eye. There was no dragon.

Instead, an owl was perched on his boot, completely silent.

“Hello, there.”

“Hoo.”

“I suppose you’ve got a spell somewhere that tells them when I get up, right?”

“Hoo?”

“The Equestrians.”

“Hoo.”

“I said the Eq- wait, you’re not actually saying the word ‘who,’ are you.”

“Hoo.”

Well, he couldn’t expect every living thing in Equestria to be able to talk. Just most of them.

As Archer sat up, the owl flew off his leg, coming to rest in the rafters.

“Hoo.”

“Are you actually trying to talk to me, or are you just noisy?”

“Hoo.”

“Figures.”

Archer had been laid in an actually-rather-comfortable bed, on a balcony that overlooked the rest of the library. The library was, at first blush, rather similar in layout to the town hall’s “language room,” in that it was lined with shelves upon shelves of books. However, this room was much larger, and its front door was guarded by a napping dragon. 

A tiny napping dragon.

Oh. There was a ladder there. The runt must have been perched on it when it caught him by surprise. Well, all things considered, Archer felt very silly right about then.

And on top of everything else, his knife was gone from its scabbard. He wasn’t escaping today.

The library also had another door, leading into a very dark downward stairwell. Archer wouldn’t be going down there, either.

He silently descended the balcony ladder, keeping an eye on the dragon every step down. There had to be some reason it hadn’t eaten him yet. What if the Equestrians kept it as a pet? That raised some pretty terrifying implications. Maybe the rest of the librarian unicorn’s “pets” were downstairs. He definitely wasn’t going down there now.

Instead, he decided to pull a random book off one of the shelves and use his newfound knowledge of the Equestrian language to translate it.

“Transfiguration for Dummies: A Unicorn’s Guide to Metamorphic Induction”.

Wow. These guys were good.

After a brief scan revealed its contents to be completely illegible (even to his supposedly encyclopedic knowledge of the tongue), Archer replaced the book and scanned for another.

This one had a stylized unicorn head on the front. The inner page revealed the title to be “Historic Myths, Legends, and Fantastic Tales.” Immediately after that was a richly illustrated table of contents, with such items as “The Reign of Discord,” “Tale of Nightmare Moon,” “Invasion of the Gryphons,” and other such fruitily-named stories.

He could have dropped this one, too, and gone straight for a historical volume. But years of experience with magical races had taught him better.

History could be changed, but myths, legends, and fantastic tales always held the truth.

So he began to read.

Once upon a time, in the magical land of Equestria, there were two regal sisters, who ruled together and created harmony for all the land...

“Ooooh.”

***

“And then ah said, ‘Seriously? Like ah’m really gonna eat a muffin after that?’”

The three ponies at the table broke into a round of laughter. The funniest stuff always happened to Applejack, for some reason.

“Oh man, AJ, you and Berry are just a disaster waiting to happen,” chuckled one of the mares, bright cyan in color. “One of these days, one of you is going to get the other arrested.”

“Yeah, ah try to get away from ‘er, Dash, but some ponies just can’t resist the cider. How else d’ya think the Apples could afford all them new renovations?”

“I thought that was just the good crop this year.”

The orange one glanced over with an amused smile.

“Naw, Twilight, we just got one really good customer with a drinkin’ problem. Apple sales ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. Thought y’all knew that already.”

Twilight stared for a few seconds. Her eyes narrowed.

“Waaaait. This is another one of those sarcasm things, isn’t it?”

“Gee, how’d you figure out?”

Dash just started laughing harder.

“You know, Applejack, I could be mean and go into excruciating detail about how I figured it out...”

The other two at the table adopted expressions of sheer horror...

“...But I won’t.”

...And then relief.

“Instead, I wanted to show you something.”

Twilight levitated a small object out of her bag, setting it down gingerly on the tabletop.
‘
“Umm, it looks like a buck knife.” Thus were Rainbow Dash’s eloquent powers of observation revealed.

And in truth, it did look like a buck knife. The handle and blade were entirely unremarkable. The only items of note were two small gems embedded in the hilt, jet black in color, which seemed to be radiating a faint blue light.

“I know, I thought so, too. But these gems have magic in them. And for the first time, I’m actually pretty stumped as to what it’s supposed to do.”

“Well, that’s just kinda unsettlin’, ain’t it? I mean, you know pretty much everything about magic.”

“Well, Archer had it on him when he came to the library. Maybe I can’t tell what it is because it’s human magic?”

From the looks on their faces, Twilight could tell she had lost them.

“Archer’s the human.”

Still nothing.

“The one who shot at Big Mac this morning?”

“Oh,” was the reply from both of them.

“You mean the monkey-guy whose face I kicked in?”

Twilight sighed. “Yes, Dash, the monkey-guy whose face you kicked in.”

“Awesome, I beat him, that means I get the knife!”

“Whoa, slow down there!” Twilight floated the weapon up and out of Dash’s reach. “We don’t know what the magic in these gems can do to ponies. We don’t even know why Archer had the knife in the first place!”

“Well, y’all could always hop on over to Rarity’s. She might know what’s what with those gems.”

“Tried it. ‘They are two absolutely perfect specimens of Black Spinel,’ she said, and that’s all she could tell me about them.”

“Well, we could always ask monkeyman what they do. He’s still holed up in the library, right?”

“Yeah. He's probably either still out cold, or he won't have the nerve to try for the front door. He seemed pretty scared of Spike.”

Dash snorted derisively. “Afraid? Of Spike? What crazy backwards world is he from?”

“If’n I had to guess,” began Applejack, “I’d wager it was one where dragons burn down towns a lot more often than they do here. Once singed, twice shy, after all. And if I guessed right, Archer and all o’ his monkey friends musta got singed quite a lot for him to freak out like that.”

“I figured as much. That’s why I left Spike guarding the door, so Archer wouldn’t run off.”

“Oh man, can you imagine? Spike acting all, ‘Oooooh, I’m a big spooooky dragon,’ and monkeyman being like, ‘Aiiie, please don’t hurt me!’”

“...And that’s why I took the knife.”

Dash stopped laughing for a moment to consider this.

“You think he was gonna try and hurt Spike?”

“I think anyone who keeps this many weapons on their person is ready to hurt something. I also think I need to check in on him soon, before wakes up and tries something stupid like beating Spike to death with my copy of Balladric Tales.”

There was a short silence.

“Oh sweet Celestia, Spike’s about to be beaten to death with a copy of Balladric Tales! To the library, hurry!”

***

When the three arrived, the library showed few signs of a struggle. A few books were misplaced here and there, and Owlowiscious was roosting in the rafters rather than his perch, but that was it.

Spike was sleeping peacefully in front of the door, his head delightfully free of book-related injuries. So there were two possibilities: Either she had gotten worked up over nothing, or Archer had drugged Spike (or lulled him to sleep, or cast a charm on him) and fled.

Judging from the rattling coming from inside the kitchen, she could rule out that second one.

The kitchen, as if playing a near-perfect contrast to the library proper, was a scene of utter chaos. The pantry was ransacked, food was scattered everywhere, and a half-dozen attempts to create something edible lay abandoned on the stovetop.

Archer, no doubt the source of this culinary carnage, was sitting at at the table with a book in one hand and a half-eaten loaf of sourdough bread in the other. “Hi there,” he said, with a mouthful of stale wheat product.

“Archer... did you do all this?”

“Yeah, sorry about the mess. It’s kind of crazy, how much stuff you have, that humans have too. Except you don’t have anywhere near the right ingredients to make any decent kind of meal. There wasn’t even any salt, for Pete’s sake!”

Dash giggled.

“What?”

“Heh... You want salt on your food? Dude, do you have any idea how weird that sounds?”

“Do you have any idea how weird it is to me that Equestrians mostly eat hay and grasses? It sounds totally normal to you, but where I come from, all that stuff is good for is Easter decoration and... horse food.”

The three Equestrians glared at him.

“Sorry, I forgot who I was talking to.”

“We haven’t been properly introduced, Archer. I’m Twilight Sparkle, and-”

“Pffft”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, I’m just not used to Equestrian names. Continue.”

“I’m Twilight, and this,” She gestured to her orange-coated compatriot, “is Applejack.”

Archer stifled another laugh. Applejack gave him the stare of doom, and he stopped.

“This,” Twilight gestured to the light-blue mare on her other side, “is-”

“No, no, wait. Let me guess.”

Archer stood up from the table, looking the multicolored pony over.

“Let’s see... six-colored mane... wings... lightning bolt mark... ‘Rainbow Sherbet?’”

Apparently, he was close, otherwise Twilight and Applejack wouldn’t be laughing so hard.

“Actually... it’s Rainbow Dash. We’ve met.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. How’s the nose?”

“Not broken, thankfully eno- Wait a minute!” Archer approached Dash in a rather unfriendly fashion. “You’re the one who got me into this mess? You’re the reason I’m stuck in this library for the-crown-only-knows how long?”

“Took you this long to find out?”

“I’ve half a mind to clip those wings of yours, you little-” By this point, Archer had been desperately grabbing at his knife’s empty scabbard for a few seconds, and only realized now that it wasn’t there. His blood pressure returned to normal, as did the color in his face.

“Or I would, if someone hadn’t made off with my knife. Miss... Twilight, was it?”

“Yes?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about what happened to it, would you?”

Twilight sighed, rubbing her forehead with one hoof.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I have it right here.”

The offending article levitated into view. Archer kept his gaze fixed on it.

“Are you going to return what belongs to me, or is there some stupid Fae riddle I have to solve first?”

“No, you just need to answer a few questions I have about it.”

“Oh, well, in that case, I’ll finish my bread.” And with that, he returned to the table as if nothing happened.

Twilight gave a shrug to her friends. “I guess you guys don’t have to stick around...”

“Nothing doin’, sugarcube. I wanna see what’s up with our two-legged friend here.”

“Yeah, no. I’m gonna go check on Spike,” said Rainbow Dash. “Give me the abridged version later.” She flapped her wings once, then flew out of the room.

Archer took a bite out of the stale loaf as the two remaining Equestrians took a seat opposite him.

“So...” nom “...What would you like to know?”

“First,” said Twilight, “I’d like you to tell me what this spell is on these gems. None of my friends have been able to figure it out.”

“Well, that’s to be expected. It’s a specially-made Human enchantment. We call it tenebraes depellendam, and it’s made specifically so Fae creatures can’t make heads or tails of it...”

***

Far away from everywhere this story has been so far, up in the mountains of Equestria, was a very grandiose city. In a funny coincidence, it was named “Canterlot,” a seeming pun on a very similarly-named human city, which, ironically, was only about a week’s travel away as the crow (or pegasus, or hot air balloon, as the case may be) flew.

In that city lived a princess. Well, more like two princesses. Okay, mostly like a magical sorceress of darkness and what basically amounted to the God-Queen of Equestria, who both went by “Princess.” That was a more apt description.

In the throne room of Canterlot, said God-Queen Princess held court, every day. All day. As a matter of fact, the day was her responsibility in the realm of Equestria. It began at her leisure, and she held court throughout. Usually, she would approve some project or another, sit on her throne, and look pretty for all the guards who, at this point, might as well have not even been there.

Today started no differently.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty.”

A messenger, carrying a rather official-looking note.

“A notice from the mayor of Ponyville.”

Oh? That was odd. Normally, the only letters from Ponyville were sent in by Twilight. What could have caused such a ruckus that it needed to be sent by official snail-mail? She floated the letter out of the messenger’s grip, nodding him out of the room. She unfolded it, and began to read.

As she scanned through the letter in its entirety, her expression changed. This was not weird in and of itself, save for the fact that any expression on Princess Celestia other than condescending happiness was cause for attention.

Especially when that expression was silent annoyance, followed by angry exasperation.

“Everypony leave the room. I wish to be alone.”

The guards quickly vacated the room.

The princess levitated a trio of mirrors off of the far wall, arranging them in front of her. She tapped the very center of one, sending its surface rippling like a pool of mercury. When the waves smoothed, a robed figure was visible in the reflection.

“Welcome to the Interroyal Mirror System,” it said in a pleasant female voice. “May I ask who is calling?”

“Princess Celestia, from the Equestrian Mirrors.”

The figure looked at something out of its frame for a moment, then back at the princess.

“Good afternoon, Your Majesty. Who would you like to contact?”

“King Jove the Fifth, of the Human Kingdom of Vorlan.”

Another pause.

“..With out-of-realm rates, conversion to native currency, and our standard charge, the message will cost one hundred fifty bits for the first five minutes, plus twenty bits for every minute afterward. Will you accept the charges?”

“Yes.”

“Please hold while your party is reached.”

The figure’s image faded, and the mirrors emitted what would have been a pleasant tune, had Celestia not heard it repeat ad infinitum on several occasions. Finally, the music stopped, and another image faded into view. It depicted a sitting human, bedecked in a rich green-and-tan robe. He balanced an impressively large sword on his knee, as if he were constantly expecting assassins or other such trouble.

And, from what Celestia had heard of human affairs, that's precisely what he was expecting, constantly.

Without a doubt, this man was of the line of Jove. She had known, and spoken to, every man he could name as his ancestor, not to mention every member of the royal line the Joves had supplanted three hundred years ago.

“Greetings, Your Highness,” said the Equestrian.

“Greetings to you, Your Majesty,” said the human. “To what do I owe this rare honor?”

“Nothing pleasant, I am afraid. I bring ill tidings. Despite the magical barrier established between our kingdoms nearly two thousand years ago...”

She held up the letter from the mayor, which contained a sketch of a lean, unkempt human, bow in hand.

“...We seem to have caught another one of these. Care to explain?”
> Royal Correspondence
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Tenebraes depellendam? I’ve never heard of that enchantment before.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have. Trade secret, and all.”

“So... what does it do?”

“Hand it here, and I’ll show you.”

The two Equestrians opposite him sported unimpressed looks.

“I’m not going to attack you with it, I promise. I’ll even stay on this side of the table.”

Hesitantly, Twilight floated the knife over to Archer, dropping it on the table where it landed noisily.

“Alright,” said Archer, picking up the knife and examining the gems in its hilt, “You seem to have taken pretty good care of it. Now,” he stood up and pressed back against the wall. “You can do magic, right?”

Twilight nodded uncertainly.

“Ok. Shoot a lightning bolt at the wall, over there.” Archer pointed at a spot about a yard from his head.

“Well, I can’t do lightning bolts, but-”

“Just shoot the wall.”

Twilight closed her eyes and focused. A point of light grew on the tip of her horn, lancing out and scoring an ugly black burn mark on the wallpaper. Nothing out of the ordinary happened.

“Well, that was informative,” noted Applejack. “You gonna make her burn down the library next?”

“Ah, no. Next, I’m going to ask her to shoot at me.”

“What?” asked both of the ponies.

“Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

“If that were true, y’all wouldn’t even be here right now.”

“Just shoot at me already!”

Twilight obliged, snapping her eyes shut again and firing another bolt, this time aimed center-mass at Archer. When she opened her eyes, Archer was a foot to the right, the gems on the knife were glowing brightly, and a small sizzling dot on the wall marked where he had been a second before.

“Pretty neat, huh?”

“What happened?”

Archer waved the knife, scattering the gems’ foggy glow through the air.

“Tenebraes depellendam. A ‘dispel darkness’ enchantment. If the wielder is attacked by magic, that magic is siphoned by the gems, and burnt off. It comes standard issue to every scout, and I’m told it’s constructed so it’s impossible to-”

“Whoa, whoa, hoooold on there, hayseed. We wanted to know what it does, not why it’s so fantastic to own one. If’n you wanted to impress people, I’d say you already did just by showin’ up.”

Archer, rather deflated, sat down without a word.

“And anyway, I think me and Twilight agree that it’s high time we impressed you with all a’ the fancy stuff we have here in Ponyville. Right, Twilight?”

“Well... I guess. But we need to set a few rules, first.”

Archer sighed through his sourdough. “Fine. Hit me.”

“Number one, that knife has to stay put away. If you lose your temper like you did with Rainbow Dash just then, you’ll be put in the bedroom with Spike guarding the door.”

He made a show of trying to swallow a particularly stubborn chunk of bread.

“Oh, stop it. You’ll be fine." She waited for him to slide the knife into its scabbard, safely away. "Number two, you have to at least try to get along with all of the other ponies in Ponyville. That’s why we're keeping you here.”

“Ok, two questions, before you go on.”

“Alright?”

“Inkwell told me this place was called Eqshana-” 

Or at least, Eqshana was the shape his mouth made. He ended up saying “Ponyville.”

“...Which I guess is the translation for this place’s name. My second question was this. That’s why you imprisoned me? So you could teach me some manners?”

“That’s Innocence by Ignorace. You stop being ignorant about how to act and behave toward Equestrians, and we let you go.”

“Huh. Well, that doesn’t sound so bad. How long does a lesson like that normally take?”

“Well, Ponyville’s never had to keep a human before. If I had to guess, though, I’d say... two or three years?”

Archer immediately spat out the rest of his bread, choking momentarily before beginning to shout in English and cough at the same time.

To Applejack and Twilight Sparkle, who had never heard someone speak in the comparatively deep human tongue, it looked and sounded like Archer had suddenly come down with an acute case of demonic possession.

“Archer? Are you alright?”

“NO!” He stood up, still hacking. “WHERE’S THE WATER?”

Applejack helpfully filled a small glass from the tap. Archer snatched it from her, draining it and immediately going back to the faucet for a second, then a third cupful. After that display, he finished with a few deep breaths and a shudder.

Unfortunately, there was no competition nearby for dramatic breakdowns, and thus no judges to give him a perfect 10 for such a performance.

“Please tell me you didn’t just say three years.”

“I said three years. Sorry.”

“B-but- but that’s just- I can’t- three years?”

“Give or take.”

“No, no-no-no, I-I-I have a mother a-and two sisters! I can’t stay here for three whole years, what’ll happen to them!?”

Archer had a point, Twilight admitted. A point she hadn’t even considered. She would likely have taken it similarly, had she been told she couldn’t return to Ponyville for even half that long.

“I... I’m sorry, Archer. But it’s Equestrian law. It was put down by the Princess herself. I can’t change it, no matter how unfair you say it is.”

“Uh,” began Applejack, “I’m startin’ to feel a mite uncomfortable in this room. Tell you what, sugarcube, I’m... gonna go... help Rainbow check on Spike. Oksoundsalrightbye.”

And then Archer and Twilight were alone.

“If it helps, I sort of understand what it’s like. Once, I nearly lost my friends-”

“Obviously, you didn’t,” Archer groused. “They’re right there. You still have them. And everyone’s lost friends on occasion, that’s just how it works. You can always make more.”

He sighed, standing up.

“The things is, my family is the only one I have. If I don’t return from my scouting mission, they might get my insurance from the crown, but that’s it! What happens when the money runs out? Should my mother go back to working as a seamstress eighteen hours a day? Should my sisters sign away their dignity working the tables at a bar somewhere?”

“I’m sorry, Archer, but we can’t just-”

“Yes, I know. You’re sorry.”

The room was distressingly silent for a while afterward.

“You said the law was laid down by the Princess?”

“Yes.”

“The Princess you write letters to?”

“How’d you know that?”

“You were talking about it with Inkwell.”

“Oh... you heard that?”

“You don’t get a job like mine without a knack for paying attention.”

“Alright, fair enough. What about it?”

“I think I’ve found a way out of this mess,” Archer said, heading for the door. “I need a quill.”

***

“...Well, because he’s a menace! You should know, Princess, you do not want a human scout to become an Equestrian’s first meeting with a member of the human race. You just don’t.”

“Refresh my memory, would you?”

“Well, let me count the ways.”

The conversation between thrones had grown visibly more relaxed. Celestia figured she’d already spent well over five hundred bits on this single call, but darn it, this was important. And she was planning on calling collect next time anyway.

“First off, we train them to be quick with a bow. Given that we only generally pick rather hair-trigger individuals to become scouts, it’s a wonder no one was hurt.”

She knew better. But a thousand years of experience imparted a phenomenal amount of tact.

“...Second off, a scout’s job is to get into and out of places like Equestria as fast as he bloody can. He’s liable to have a panic attack once he realizes how long your little ponies plan on keeping him. Matter of fact, he’s probably having one right now!”

She resisted the urge to point out how thick that highlandic brogue of his got when he was making a point. It wasn’t easy.

“And third off, no human likes to be stuck in one place, no matter how short the sentence or how nice the furnishings. That’s why our worst punishment is banishment to the front lines. At least there, they’ll be useful, eh?”

“I think that is positively barbaric.”

“Ah, to each their own.”

Before she could get well and truly angry at such an attitude, a small piece of parchment materialized in a puff of smoke in front of her, slowly floating to rest at her feet.

“I didn’t know you lot had dragon’s breath.”

“Not quite. We’ve just got the dragons.”

“Ohhh, see. Now you’re just taunting me.”

***

“So, wait. You use Spike to send messages to the Princess?”

“Yep.”

“Neat. We use dragon’s breath, too, but we make it using a... well, a more direct approach.”

“Which is?”

“Well... killing the dragon. Then taking out the firey bits.”

Though he would never tell the human this, Spike would never look at Archer quite the same way again.

***

“Who’s it from?”

“It would seem... my guest of honor.”

“Oh, that’s rich. Wonder how he managed that, in a town full of Equestrians?”

“I have a student there. She likely aided him.”

“Well, enough about that, what’s it say?”

***

To Princess Celestia:

You probably haven’t heard of me. I’m a member of a species called “human”. I have a name, though it’s impossible to transcribe in Equestrian characters. Instead, your subjects have taken to calling me “Archer.”

Early today, I was unjustly convicted by the citizens of the town of “Ponyville” for making the honest mistake of thinking an Equestrian was an ordinary horse. Now, I am told that my stay in captivity will last roughly three years. Forgive my brashness, your majesty, but that simply won’t do.

I have a family back in the human realm. They rely on me to keep them fed and cared for. I absolutely cannot stay in Equestria for three years. From what I hear, you are the supreme ruler of this land, and so I am compelled to make a request of you, however vain this attempt may be. I would humbly ask you to overturn my sentence, and let me return to my own world. Should you do this, I swear on the honor of my king that I will never return.

Your unwitting prisoner,
Archer.

***

The laughing in both throne rooms could accurately be described as “uproarous.”

“Do- do you think you should let him go?” asked Jove, very nearly shedding tears.

“Ohh, I don’t know. He certainly doesn’t sound like he’s- he’s learned his-”

Any further comment was obscured by more laughter, as Celestia rolled the letter up and set it beside her.

“Ahhhh, I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time.”

By now, Celestia had regained her composure enough to speak again.

“I think your scout may have missed his calling. He would have made a fine ambassador.”

“Aye, maybe. Well, what do you think we should do with him? I mean, I know you take your laws and decrees and all seriously, but the man sent you a polite letter! You can’t keep him locked up after that!”

“Maybe not, but we do have standards,” Celestia countered. “It would set a bad precedent. Convict ponies would send letters to me constantly, looking for a quick parole, and I get enough mail already.”

“You’ve got me there.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any ideas, Jove?”

“Hmm. Well, there’s one trick we humans use. It usually works.”

“What is it?”

“Lying to our subjects.”

Celestia stared back at him for a good minute.

“I was right, you are a barbarian.”

“No, look, I’ve already got a plan. Or at least, I’ve got the beginnings of one. This is all we need to do...”

***

In the time between sending the letter to the Princess and actually getting a reply, there was little to do but wait in the library and read. The reading was fascinating. The waiting, not so much.

Finally, a cloud of smoke drifted into the room, resolved into a single rolled-up scroll, and deposited itself on the library’s kitchen table.

Archer immediately tore it open.

***

Dear Mr. Archer:

I understand your worry. However, Equestrian law is absolute. Until you have proven that you are able to coexist with Equestrians, you will not be allowed to leave.

But I am not heartless. Nor am I ignorant of how human society operates. I will see to it, personally if necessary, that your family does not starve while your sentence is carried out.

And who knows? You just might learn something.

Sincerely,
Her Royal Majesty, Princess Celestia

***

Well, he felt a little better. At least he wouldn’t feel like he had totally abandoned his loved ones. He’d tried, at least.

But merely trying failed to satisfy him. He’d wanted to succeed. And failing, to him, was almost as bad as if he knew his family would never get another penny from him.

Several sullen, book-filled minutes later, a thick package emerged from the ether, landing on the table with a solid THUD. 

It had a letter affixed, with the kingdom’s royal seal printed on the envelope.

His kingdom’s royal seal, over an English address.

If anything, he opened this one even faster. 

***

To “Archer”

We’ve heard of your unfavorable position. Rest assured, we don’t plan on leaving you to hang. The Equestrians are not to be crossed, mind you. You are to obey their laws for the time being, and gather as much information as you can. Enclosed is a unique item of field equipment to aid you in this endeavor.

If they let you go, that’s all well and good. But if you happen to leave earlier than that, rest assured that it is no skin off our nose. Your family will be placed under the protection of the crown until you return. We wish you luck in this endeavor.

HRM King Jove V

P.S. Swearing on our honor? Not much of a swear, is it? Think up something stronger next time.

***

Inside the package was a tall glass bottle. English words on the front declared the cloudy black liquid inside to be “LIQUID NERVE: For Strength of Mind & Steadiness of Hand”, of a vintage well over a hundred years ago.

Old King Jove was playing for keeps this time, Archer could tell.

The Liquid Nerve went on a high shelf in the library’s pantry. If anyone got suspicious, he would tell them it was just a favored drink of his, sent in a care package from home. After that, Archer felt much more confident that he’d get home, eventually.

After all, it wasn’t like anyone in this town could read English, right?

Right?
> Extreme Makeover
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m still convinced that this ‘mystery plan’ of yours can’t end well.”

“You know what, Archer? Y’all worry too much.”

“Well, thank goodness you told me! I might never have known that about myself.”

Twilight merely sighed. Applejack and Archer had been sniping at each other like this ever since they left the library. At this rate, Rainbow Dash would need to find a new “best friend” before the week was out.

“Y’all must not have a lotta human friends, if’n this how you treat other people all the time.”

“I get along with other humans quite well, I’ll have you know. It’s all you Fae folk I can’t stand.”

“There you go, using that word again! I told ya once, I told you a million times, we ain’t-”

“We’re here!” yelled Twilight, eager to end the hostilities before Applejack and Archer ended up confessing their undying love to each other, or something equally embarrassing.

“Here” happened to be a circular building a good distance from downtown, painted bright white and sporting a sign reading “Carousel Boutique”. Something about the building woke a nameless fear within Archer’s being.


***

The bell on the door jingled as the three walked in. 

“Cooomiiiiing~,” sang a voice from upstairs, quickly followed by footsteps (hoofsteps?) descending the staircase.

“Welcome to Carousel Boutique! Where every outfit is chic, unique, and magnifi- OH MY GOODNESS.”

In the space of five seconds, a white unicorn had cantered down the stairs, started a canned welcome speech, stopped, and began staring at Archer with a sorrowful gaze one normally reserves for orphans of war. She slowly approached him.

“Oh.... my. You... you poor man!”

“What?”

“This outfit... it is absolutely dreadful! Who put you in this gorilla suit? I demand to know!” She had shifted from doleful to indignant in less than two seconds.

“Uh, actually-”

“No excuses! There is absolutely no excuse for an ensemble like this!” She trotted up to him, examining his scouting attire with an eye much more critical than any it had ever been subjected to. 

“The seams are shoddy, the material has been treated so poorly I could swear a five-year-old did it... And what on earth is this made out of? What are we trying to say here? ‘Cannibal’? No!”

She maneuvered herself behind him and gave him a push. “Alright, longshanks, you’re coming with me.”

“Twilight? Help!”

“Sorry, Archer, her fashion sense has a mind of its own. Try not to break him, Rarity!”

“Oh, don’t worry, Twilight. I plan on doing quite the opposite.”

***

“Hold... still!”

“Please, this is getting really uncomfortable-”

“I’d be finished by now, if you’d just - stop - squirming!”

Rarity had been trying to get Archer’s measurements for the past five minutes. As you might have guessed, it was pretty slow going.

“Let’s see, four and a half there and- oh, quit it. Three-quarters around here... There! Now, remove your boots. I need to get your foot measured.”

“I’m a size ten.”

“No, no, no. I need the specifics! Boots. Off. Now.”

“Listen, miss. These boots have been through hundreds of miles and two weeks of forest. Not once during that time have I taken them off. If I remove them now, the smell might kill you.”

Rarity weighed her options. On the one hoof, she simply had to get this man’s shoe size. On the other hoof, she had no doubt that feet marinated for two weeks in boots like that would carry a quite lethal scent. Erring on the side of caution never hurt.

“Fine. But come back here the minute you’ve gotten a bath. I’m not even sure what a ‘size ten’ means for a... what did you say you were?”

“A human.”

“Well! I’ve never made anything for one of those before.  I suppose this will be a learning experience for both of us, hmm?”

***

“...And by the way, the gorilla suit? It wasn’t cheap.”

“Oh, please, darling! Anything that sacrifices that much form for function is not worth wearing. I’m surprised your kingdom had the gall to ask you to put it on!”

A few minutes later, Rarity was hard at work. Archer, having nothing better to do, struck up conversation with her as to what she did, who she was, and most of the other things people in general liked to know about each other. It drifted, as these types of conversations normally do, towards defending their races’ decisions from each other, despite neither of them having actually met a member of the other’s species until today.

“You would be surprised. You really would. It takes quite a lot of effort to turn a perfectly serviceable collection of leathers into something that passes as camouflage.”

“Camouflage? As what, a carcass? No, dear. Whoever stitched that outfit obviously had no idea of how to blend style and aesthetics with utility. An amateur job, if I do say so myself.”

“Well, gee, thanks. Glad to know giving up the family tradition when I did was a good move.”

Rarity took a moment to process this information.

“You... you mean, you...?”

“...Sewed this mess of a suit together? Yes indeed. Though ‘blending style with utility’ is apparently not something you can learn just by being a seamstress’s kid.”

“Oh,” said Rarity, rather flustered. “I... I’m terribly sorry, I had no idea that... that th-this was your work....”

“It’s alright. I hated the thing, anyway. And I’m quite eager to see you back up all that smacktalk with some authentic Equestrian hunting gear.”

Rarity remained silent.

“Oh, don’t tell me you can’t do it.”

“No! No, it’s just-” She gave a small chuckle. “I wasn’t planning on making hunting gear, per se.”

“You were going to dress me up like one of your fancy French ladies.”

“Well...” Rarity pawed at the floor. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, I was.”

“Something a little more rugged, if you please.”

Rarrty harrumphed, turned, and renewed her clothesmaking efforts.

“You want rugged? I’ll give you rugged.”

***

Twenty minutes later, Archer stood in front of a mirror in a green, brown, and tan uniform, with steel plating stitched into the limbs.

“Not quite that rugged. I need to have a little freedom of movement.”

Rarity sighed, tore the breastplate/shirt off of him, and tried again.

Twenty minutes after that, he was wearing a thin outfit consisting entirely of a wispy tunic and some shorts that were, in his opinion, entirely too short. It was chilly, even in the warm spring afternoon.

“Too much freedom of movement. I think I can feel a draft...”

“Ick!”

Rarity threw a blanket over him and tried yet again.

Twenty minutes after that, Archer sported a finely-crafted brown ensemble, which sported a proper bowman’s handguard, a built-in quiver, and so many neat little pockets, the tinker in him would never be unsatisfied again.

“I think I can work with this one.”

A sigh of relief, followed by the soft plumph of a body falling onto a nearby couch, were the only response from Rarity.

***

“It looks... neat.”

“I really... like the... color?”

Faint praise couldn’t dampen Archer’s spirits today. Certainly not now, when he actually looked like he knew what he was doing.

“You know, Twilight, I have to hand it to your friend. She knows her way around a needle and thread.”

“Well, I should hope so. She’s only been doing that her entire life!”

“Really?”

“You bet your britches,” said Appplejack. “Rarity’s probably the fanciest filly you’ll find in Ponyville.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I was having to hold my breath the entire time as it was!”

“Yeah, she likes her frou-frou perfumes, n’ such, don’t she?”

“You’re telling me. Last time I can remember a place smelling like that, I was in...”

“*GAAAAASP*!”

“...Castle Town?”

Another Equestrian was peeking out at them from behind the door of a bright pink building. Of course, Archer hadn’t noticed her at first, seeing as she herself was pink.

No, you don’t grasp just how pink this Equestrian mare was. She was pink. She was super-dee-duper pink. She was a bright violent magenta that spoke of oversugared children, diabetic comas, and ADHD. Archer, of course, had never heard nor could conceive of any of these things, and so had to settle for a deep-seated unease.

And in the time it took for you, the readers, to contemplate this description, she had pounced on him.

Pinkie Pie, after all, scoffed at such petty limitations as the “laws of physics.”

“OOOOH, Twilight! Who’s this? I’ve never seen him before! Applejack, have you seen him before?”

“Uh-”

“Oh, he looks like a dragon! But he’s taller than Spike. And he has hands like a monkey! And a face like an orangutan! OH! OH! And feet like a chimpanzee gorilla thing!”

“Pinkie, maybe you should-”

“NO WAIT! I’ve seen him before! He isn’t just a monkey man! He’s the monkey man who tried to eat Big Macintosh this morning! Haha, silly-billy! You can’t eat ponies! They don’t taste good! I know, I’ve tried! Here, look.”

Pinkie began to furiously nibble on her own backside like a dog with a particularly tenacious itch. Archer, unprepared for such a disconnected set of words, actions, and all-around randomness, attempted to back away before she could remember he was here.

But, as any of you could have guessed, it wasn’t long before she was violating his personal space yet again.

“See? BLEGH! I taste awful! So why’d you want to eat Big Mac, huh? I don’t think he’d taste much better than me, and he’s got WAY less sugar in him than I do!”

“Couldn’t tell,” Archer muttered.

“So, what’s your name, mister? Huh? Oh, let me guess. ‘Monkey Penny!’ No, wait. ‘Ape Lincoln?’ No, wait. Oh, I know! ‘OOK Skywa-’”

“ALRIGHT, THAT’S ENOUGH!”

Archer’s outburst startled everyone, including himself. But there was only so much a man could take before breaking down.

“Listen, Missus... Pinkie?”

“Yep! Pinkamena Diane Pie, though everyone calls me Pinkie Pie!”

“Right, well, Miss Pinkamena...”

“Pfft, heehee-”

“...I really appreciate your enthusiasm. But as you can see, your friends were taking me... somewhere.” He turned to Applejack and Twilight. “Where were we going?”

“Here, as a matter of fact.”

Archer sighed and turn to Pinkie, who was sporting a grin the size of a gnome and jittering like a goat on espresso.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Pinkamena... would you like to show me around your home?”

“YAAAAAAAYYYY!”

Somehow, despite having no hands, she grabbed his arm and yanked him inside.

“Welcome to Sugarcube Corner! This place is owned by Mr. Cake and Ms. Cake, but they let me stay here and I get to make candy and throw parties here and EVERYTHING!”

“Well, this explains a lot-” He was interrupted by another yank transporting him from the front to the back of the counter.

“This is the cash register! I get to work here when the Cakes are on vacation... which is kinda often, come to think of it!”

“Gee, I wonder whyOOMPH”

Pinkie pulled him yet again from the counter to the room immediately behind it.

“This is the kitchen! This is where the magic happens. We’ve got sweet ingredients of all kinds here!”

“Um.”

“No, look! It’s right back here!”

Pinkie zipped over to a nearby closet and began flinging containers out of it, naming the contents as she did so.

“We’ve got flour, baking soda, icing, frosting, rock candy, rock salt, Rocky Road ice cream, rocks, more icing, more frosting, sugar, more sugar, fake sugar, sugar substitute, real sugar, birthday cake, birthday candles, birthday punch, birthday presents, birthday cards, anniversary cards, ‘just because’ cards, business cards, party decorations, party accessories, party hats, party presents, cupcakes, muffins, corncakes, cornbread, and last but not least, NOISEMAKERS!”

She took out the last article and blew a single, happy note on it. That note faded when she realized that she had thrown everything out of the closet, and directly at Archer.

An ice cream cone had implanted itself on his forehead, dripping Rocky Road down the bridge of his nose. Flour covered his face, obscuring the pained grimace he wore due to rock-based facial injury. His brand new outfit was soaked with punch and covered in baking soda, sugar, and all the sugar substitutes known to mankind. Candles stuck to the doughy mixture like blowdarts. A box covered in gaudy wrapping paper lay broken open at his feet, spilling the confetti inside across the pile of cards that lay there.

“...Oops.”

“Alright. I've had enough."

Archer slowly wiped his face off, shook out the sugar and candles, and pulled the rapidly melting dairy treat from his hair.

“This has been fun. But I’ve really...”

“WAIT!”

Pinkie had zipped up again, grabbing hold of his arm with two hooves that had no fingers. How did that work?

“I still haven’t shown you everything!”

“Miss Pie, no offense, but I don’t think I can take any more of this ‘showing’ you’ve got planned.”

“No, no! Just one more room! Pleeeeease?”

Archer sighed, wiping the last dribbles of ice cream off his face. “Fine. What is it?”

“It’s the party room.”

“The what?”

“It’s in the basement! It’s where I keep all my party-throwing gadgets!”

“Well that’s all well and good, but... Wait. Did you say ‘gadgets’?”

Pinkie merely nodded.

“Gadgets, as in, 'Magimechanical Devices-'”

“'-and Techmaturgical Equipment!'”

Both Archer and Pinkie’s eyes widened. Archer opened his tinker’s kit, producing the traditional flatwrench used by every tinker known to man, Fae, and presumably Equestrian. Pinkie reached into nothing and pulled out the exact same wrench with her teeth.

“Archer?”

“Yes, Pinkie Pie?”

“Did we just become best friends?”

“Yep.”

Archer’s age was uncertain. He may have been 20, or possibly as old as 35. But suddenly, he was all of six years old. There was nothing a tinker liked more, after all, than seeing another tinker’s work.

***

“Ta-daaaa!”

The room underneath Sugarcube Corner was packed, wall-to-wall, with techmaturgical wonders of all kinds, every single on of them painted bright pink. For all his skepticism, all his misgivings, and all of his discomfort at Equestria so far, Archer was forced to concede that any race that produced such a prodigy in the art of tinkering could not have been all bad.

Pinkie led him over to a crate filled with explosives of all shapes and sizes.

“Here’s the fireworks. I kinda went overboard making this last batch.”

“Well, the tinkers over in my kingdom have a saying. ‘If you want an invention that isn’t supposed to explode, you have to make a few that are first.”

“Wow, do they really say that?”

“No, I just made it up. If you blow something up back home you get a week in the penitentiary.”

Not wanting to dwell on that fact any longer, Pinkie led him to another corner of the room.

“This is the gyrocopter! One of the first machines I ever got off the ground.”

“Uncanny.”

The gangly mess of tubing with bike pedals and a propeller seemingly tacked on would not have seemed airworthy to the untrained eye. However, any good tinker knew what it needed to fly, not only true, but quite fast.

“It’s got a sub-etheric capacitor in between the pedals, right?”

“Yeah. You won’t believe how much those things cost!”

Archer’s gaze was drawn to a large object covered by a sheet near another corner of the room.

“Oh! What’s this one?”

Pinkie bounded over. “This is...” She whipped the tarp off. “The party cannon!”

The cannon was polished to a mirror shine, painted just as gaudily as everything else in the room. Archer, for his part, was taken in when she used the word “cannon.”

“Ooooh.”

“Yeah, ‘ooooh’! It shoots party decorations!”

“What, you mean it disintegrates them?”

“Noooo! It doesn’t shoot at the decorations, it shoots the decorations! Here, watch!”

Pinkie pressed a button at the back. Nothing happened. She pressed it again, to no effect.

“Hehe... one moment.”

She pried open a hatch and set to work, muttering to herself about crossed wires and missing batteries.

While Pinkie worked on the cannon, Archer allowed his gaze to wander across the rest of the room. “Laboratory” would be a better word for it. Weird and wonderful machinery filled the space, some finished, some not. One was labelled “INSTANT CAKERIZER (DO NOT TOUCH)”. 

Another sported the ominous label of “deactivated by royal order”. Whatever it was, it looked big, bulky, and Archer had little doubt it could detonate catastrophically if given half a chance. Because... it was a tinker’s invention. That’s what happened when you kept one of those around.

“Aaaand... DONE! Merry Christmas, everypony!”

“What-” THOOOOOM

The last thing Archer remembered was being impacted with a concussive force that hit like the fist of an angry Ursa Major. He flew several dozen feet before impacting the opposite wall, landing in a tangled heap with a festive tablecloth draped over him and a balloon tied to his left foot.

When he could think again, he took the cloth off to reveal Pinkie standing in front of him, looking quite embarrassed.

“Hehe... Sorry, Archer.”

Her giggling tried to be infectious, but merely inflicted a good-natured smile on the recent cannonee.

“That’s okay.” He spat out a mouthful of confetti. “Accidents happen.”
> A Dangerous Game
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Archer?”

Twilight made her way down the rickety basement stairs. She was only here because Archer had been missing for two straight hours. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't have come down here. Weird things happened here. What Pinkie called “Science!” happened here. Occasionally, explosions happened here. She could be forgiven for a little trepidation.

“Pinkie? You down here?”

The sounds of clattering metal and a whispering pony were her only answer.

“Pinkie, answer me, or I’m coming down there!”

Something buzzed in a manner most “Science!”-y. Never a good sign.

“Pinke! Archer! One of you answer me right now!”

“Um... Hey, Twilight! We’re down here.”

The junk made navigating the basement harder than it should have been. When she finally found the two, they were tinkering away at a very large, very ominous, very supposed-to-be-turned-off-forever device.

“Pinkie Pie, come here please.”

The sugared-up pony bounced off the top of the contraption and stuck the landing directly in front of Twilight.

“Hi!”

“Pinkie, turn around and tell me what you see.”

She did so. Her frizzy mane deflated a tad when she realized what was about to happen.

“Oops.”

“Yeah, ‘oops’. I cannot believe you! Archer is apparently first new gadgeteer to come into Ponyville in years, and definitely the only human to come into Ponyville... well, ever, and you’ve shanghaied him into helping you complete the Thermonuclear Party Popper? The one that Princess Celestia personally told you never to finish?”

“It was his idea!”

Pinkie pointed an incriminating hoof at the human, who was currently welding something on top of the massive festive explosive. The bright, noisy sparks spraying out from whatever he was working on left him oblivious to the conversation about him below.

“Does he even know what this is?”

“Well....” Pinkie shrunk a bit. “No. No, he doesn’t.”

Twilight disappeared in a flash of light without another word.

***

Archer was vaguely aware of a burning sensation in his ears. Either someone was talking about him, or he had spent far too much time slaving over this bundle of wiring.

The magic purple unicorn that had just materialized in front of him could be evidence either way, really.

“Archer, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stop what you’re doing.”

He looked up. So she was real, and he wasn’t delusional from the heat of the welding pins. Yet. Wait, did she say to stop? Why?

“Why?”

“You’re constructing, however unwittingly, a Weapon of Mass Distraction, all of which were ordered to be dismantled four hundred years ago at the Geneighva Convention. Since then, anyone found working on one must immediately disable it. If you don’t... well, no offense, Archer, but you’re in pretty deep manure already.”

Archer sighed, pocketing the pins and leaning over the side of the massive tube.

“Pinkie!”

“Yes?” answered the ant-sized pink shape below.

“I don’t think ‘it’s a surprise’ is going to cut it anymore. What does it do, really?”

“Well.... It’s supposed to spread sugary goodness everywhere! Set it off, and everyone in a half-mile radius gets the best sugar high EVER!” She bounced on that last word.

“...Right before dying in the most horrific manner possible,” finished Twilight. “Ponies can’t handle exposure to the fallout for more than a couple of seconds,” she explained to Archer. “Even a few minutes would be fatal to anything more mortal than Princess Celestia herself.”

She leaned over with Archer to yell at Pinkie some more.

“...And you should know this, seeing as how I’ve stopped you working on this no fewer than seven times, I’ve had to take parts out of it myself no fewer than five, and I’m pretty sure at one point I had to lie to the Princesses about it even being here!”

With every emphasized word, Pinkie shrank more and more into herself, like she was trying to disappear. Why she didn’t do just that (for Archer had seen her disappear before, several times in fact) was unclear.

“I’m sorry... I just...”

Twilight flashed again, taking Archer with her to the ground floor. Pinkie appeared to have been deflated, like someone had let the air out of her and her originally-quite-poofy mane.

“No more excuses, Pinkie. I’m through letting you slide, however good a friend you might be. This is a dangerous piece of techmaturgy and I will be banished before I let you add a single bolt more to it!”

“Twilight, I don’t think-”

“Please, Archer. This doesn’t concern you.” Twilight turned back to Pinkie. “I’m sorry, Pinkie, but if I catch you trying to complete a WMD in your basement one more time, I’m going to have to report you to the Royal Guard. Come on, Archer. We need to go.”

Wordlessly, Archer followed Twilight upstairs and out of Sugarcube Corner, with Pinkie silently trailing behind. Twilight left, muttered something about being right back, leaving the two tinkers alone outside the sweet shop’s door.

“I’m... I’m really sorry about nearly turning you into a war criminal, Archer.”

“Well...” Archer brushed a small stain of Rocky Road and axle grease out of his collar. “No harm, no foul, I suppose. At least I know to ask next time.”

Pinkie’s ears perked up. “Next time?”

“Sure. We’re still on for making that hovercart on Wednesday, right?”

In an instant, the color returned to Pinkie’s face, her mane reinflated,  and Archer could swear he smelled a hint of cotton candy in the air. He could also swear he was being bear-hugged by a bright pink horse, but that was a little more obvious.

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAY! You’re the best best friend EVER! I thought you would be so mad and you’d never wanna see me or play with me or talk to me ever again!”

“Begging your pardon, Pinkie, but-” He gagged. “-if you don’t let go, I might not talk to anyone ever again.”

“Oh, sorry.”

As soon as Pinkie released him, he sprang away, gasping for air - beautiful, oxygenated, not-cotton-candy-flavored air. In the presence of anyone else, it would have appeared overly dramatic, even cartoonish. To Pinkie and the various Equestrians going about their business nearby, it was just a normal day around Sugarcube Corner.

***

Far, far away from Ponyville, past the Everfree forest and over the Vorlanian mountain range, as far removed from our previous scene as possible both in location and spirit, was a town.

It was a filthy little town. In it were filthy little streets. On one of those streets was a filthy little house, in which a filthy little woman raised her two daughters. All they had to live on was a filthy little paycheck her son sent home every month doing his filthy little job scouring the borders of the kingdom for new and interesting ways to die.

Until today.

A heavy fist pounded on the door. The woman stumbled to the door, yelled something about what time it was, and how dare they disturb her and her family, and so on. She immediately fell silent on seeing the royal colors on her visitors’ uniforms.

“Are you the mother of this man?”

The officer held up a piece of parchment, depicting an unruly, dirty-faced man.

“Hmm, let’s see. Ugly, hairy, hasn’t shaved in at least a week... Yep, that’s my son if I’ve ever seen him.”

“I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news.”

She sighed, more resigned than grief-stricken.

“He’s dead, isn’t he.”

“No, ma’am. We’ve merely lost contact with him.”

“I knew it. He’s dead.”

The officer sighed, and drew out a small bag that jingled enticingly as it shook.

“The kingdom regrets the possible loss of your son. We hope you will accept our compensation in the form of a pension, to be provided on a weekly basis unless and until your son is found alive.”

The officer handed the pouch over, and left without so much as a “good day”. 

Upon opening the bag, the woman stifled a scream. She looked around, begging nothing in particular not to have let anyone hear her, and slammed the door shut as she hid inside the house. Inside the coin purse was something she hadn’t seen in a long time.

Golden sterlings.

The highest denomination of coin in the kingdom, and she held thirty of them in her hands. The last time she had seen a gold sterling was twelve years ago, when a duke tipped her for giving him directions to King Jove’s castle.

And now she had more of them than she knew what to do with.

“Girls!” she yelled, to the two siblings upstairs. “For all our sakes, you better pray he's dead this time!”

***

“You got my bow and arrows back?”

It was a surprise, Twilight had said. And Archer certainly was surprised.

“Yep. I figure there’s a tiny chance you might need it, considering where we’re headed....”

Archer stopped walking. “Where we’re headed?”

“Oh, stop it. We’re just visiting another friend’s house, and she lives pretty close to the woods.”

“Oh.” He started walking again. “But why give me my kit back? I thought I was a ‘dangerous criminal’.”

“I convinced the Mayor to give it back because I want you to stop thinking that. However long you have to stay here, you’re a guest at my house, and... well....”

“You want me to be your friend.”

“Yes.”

He chuckled. “You must have really poor judgement, if you’re coming to me.”

“...What?”

This time it was Twilight who stopped. She stared at him with a confused expression.

“I mean I’m not exactly the most decent human being you could meet, Miss Sparkle. You caught me wandering as far away as possible from the rest of my kind for a reason.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, let me see. I was too brusque to run a tailor shop, too lazy for the blacksmith to apprentice me, I slept in too late for a farm to hire me, my manners were far too crass to grace the servant halls of even the most easygoing nobleman...” He paused to inhale. “..My swordplay is dodgy, I can’t handle artillery duty well, and discipline in general never worked out for me, so that’s every branch of the military, gone. In the end, I shot stuff for a living because that's all I'm good at.”

“So... why do you want to go back so much? It sounds like you hate it there.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I love the kingdom. I just can’t stand some of the people.”

Twilight laughed. “Believe me, I feel the exact same way sometimes.”

***

“This is a house?”

“We have a library just like it.”

“Fair enough.”

It was a tree. It had all the hallmarks of a house seemingly pasted onto it, but it looked like a tree. Archer couldn’t shake the feeling that if he opened the door, he’d somehow end up with bark embedded in his face.

Whoever lived here had done their best to make the path to the tree a pleasant walk. Flowers festooned the sides of the road, with tiny animals scurrying to and fro just beyond the fence separating the walkway from the imposing forest nearby. It was idyllic.

Last time Archer visited a Fairy’s house, he’d received a crash course on the dangers of “idyllic.”

An airy, wordless song floated through the air. It had all the hallmarks of Fae music - light, cheerful, and with a simple melody that had a tendency to lodge in one’s brain. Whether it was intended to charm him or not, Archer couldn’t tell. He’d done his best to block out the sound as soon as he realized it was there. Magic music was dangerous business.

At the door, Twilight knocked. The singing stopped. A faint noise sounded inside the tree/house.

“It’s me, Twilight. I wanted to show you something!”

The noise came again, a little louder.

“Yes, I remembered.”

The door creaked open a tad, not enough for Archer to see through, and he heard the noise again. Was the tree talking to her?

“Yes, I promise. Now come on out! I brought a visitor!”

The door opened further, and a yellow, pink-haired Equestrian peeked its head out It muttered something in a maddeningly soft voice. That explained the noise, at least.

“He’s right over there.”

It looked at him, squeaked, and slammed the door.

“Well, that was informative,” Archer deadpanned.

“She’s just a little scared. I’ll be right back.”

Twilight nudged her way into the house with the implicit promise of being right back. Five minutes later, she still hadn’t emerged, and Archer’s brain was beginning to cry foul.

“Okay, Archer, you can come in now.”

Archer entered. inside was a snug and warm, if rather cramped, living room. On the couch was Twilight, flanked by a quivering pile of blankets. He took a seat on an expertly-crafted loveseat across from them.

“Come on out, he’s not going to hurt you,” Twilight said to the mound of fabric. It emitted a very faint sound in response. “Well, because I’m here, silly! Now come out. You’re being rude.”

The yellow Equestrian’s head peeked out from the covers. She said something unintelligible.

“Um... Hello. I’m Archer. What’s your name?”

She muttered again. Either she was mute, or she spoke outside normal human hearing range. And remember, Fae were weird. He wouldn’t put it past her to be either of those things.

“Speak up, I can’t understand you.”

She shrank. “My name’s Fluttershy.”

“I’m sorry?

She shrank some more. “Fluttershy.”

“You’re muttering.”

“I said my name is Fluttershy.”

“Come on, lady!”

She inhaled. “MY NAME IS FLUTTERSHY!!”

If Archer didn’t know better, he could swear his ears had just touched.

“Um. Alright. Fluttershy. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, um, I’m so sorry. It’s just... I’ve never met you before, and I'm just so very uncomfortable when I meet new people...”

“Hadn’t noticed,” Archer said, now attempting to recover from noise-induced shell shock.

“Fluttershy, Archer is going to be staying in Ponyville for a while. I thought it would be nice if you two met. He works with animals, too!”

Fluttershy gasped, and her eyes lit up. “You do!?”

Archer shifted in his seat. “Well, yes. I’m a scout, after all. We have to be well-versed in wildlife to survive.”

She ran up to him. “Ooooh, tell me more!”

He’d hit a goldmine, apparently.

“Well, let’s see. I know how to drive off a bear, how to handle a rampaging moose, what to do in case of Ursa attack, Canis attack, Wyvern attack, Gryphon attack... well, being attacked by anything, mostly. Anything, apparently, except multicolored Pegasi...” He noticed Fluttershy’s eyes losing their shimmer. “What?”

“B-but I thought you worked with animals.”

He gave a harsh laugh, mostly to himself. “I think your friend misspoke. I know how to handle animals. It’s not like it’s my job or anything.”

The utterly dejected look on her face almost made him regret saying it. He felt the urge to jump up and say, “No, just kidding, I love feeding and petting animals more than anything in the world. Can we do that now?” But he had an inkling this particular Equestrian was more Fae than horse.

Obnoxiously wide range of speaking volumes? Insane mood swings over a single subject? Ability to induce sympathy in humans? Oh, she was a Fae, alright. Possibly even a Fairy-Equestrian hybrid, though Archer immediately expunged any thought on the logistics thereof from his brain.

She wasn’t going to get to him. His mind was set. He wasn’t going to apologize for being human, and he certainly wasn’t going to go native, which this lemon-drop-flavored Fairy horse was obviously trying to open him up to.

By the time he had finished resolving this in his brain, Fluttershy had muttered, “Okay,” and slowly made her way back to the couch, sitting with her head hanging. Twilight glared at him, either because she thought he was a horrible, insensitive jerk or because he had ruined their ingenious plot to turn him.

“Um... Mister Archer?”

“Yes, Fluttershy?” He had almost called her “foul temptress,” but he sure as heck wasn’t going to tell them that.

“I was just wondering... um, if it’s not rude to ask, or anything... but... what are those boots made out of? The texture seems... very odd.”

Archer looked down. Those boots were the last of his original hunting garb. Having evaded the Dread Seamstress Rarity’s grasp, they were the only human-made (and possibly, the only unenchanted) pieces of clothing he was currently wearing. This gave him an idea. An awful idea. He got a wonderful, awful idea.

“Oh, these? They’re horsehide.”

Twilight and Fluttershy’s jaws dropped. Archer waited just long enough for them to consider the possibility that he might be serious. Then he broke out laughing.

“I’m kidding! Calm down!” He laughed as Twilight rolled her eyes and Fluttershy tried to remember how to breathe.

“It’s really deerskin.”

Gasp.

“Lined with rabbit fur.”

GASP!

Fluttershy looked, if anything, even worse than she did after the crack about horsehide. Despite the impossibility of such a thing happening, her face turned a hot pink, then a nauseous green. She bolted out the door, sobbing.

“Archer, I don't believe this!”

“What?”

“You knew she loves animals, and you... you brag about how your clothes are made from... from... from pieces of forest creatures!”

“Oh, you think that’s bad? You haven’t even seen the worst of it. The bowstring is made out of catgut.”

Twilight nearly joined her friend then and there. A quick glance out the window found said friend currently emptying the contents of her stomach into the nearby river.

“Huh. That’s weird.”

“What.”

“Where I come from, horses can’t throw up.”

“We’re not horses, we’re ponies.”

“Well, it’s the same th-” BONK “Ow!”

He rounded on Twilight, ready to yell at her for hoofing the back of his head. However, she was still seated on the other side of the room, with an unimpressed look on her face. On the floor was a carrot that hadn’t been there two seconds ago.

Another carrot soared at him from the direction of the kitchen, striking him directly between the eyes. As he cleared his vision, a tiny white bunny stood in front of him. It stared at him. 

Its gaze held a contempt for his actions. It spoke of anger, hatred, and vengeful wrath. It was the gaze of a bunny whose loving caretaker had been emotionally upset. It was the gaze of someone who did not enjoy the comedic value of their kind’s skin being sewn into boot lining.

It was the gaze, ironically enough, of a bunny called “Angel.”

“This isn’t going to be pleasant, is it?”

Those were the last coherent words out of Archer’s mouth before his world transformed into a whirlwind of pain, agony, and the piercing sensation of bunny teeth on human flesh.

Some days, it just didn’t pay to leave the tinker’s shop.
> Robot Pony Attack
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hold still, I almost-”

“Ow!”

“Mister Archer, please. If you don’t stop flinching, I’m never going to get these stitches in.”

“Your demon rabbit is the only reason I need these in the first place!”

“Well, maybe, if you hadn’t joked about rabbit fur, he wouldn’t have bit you at all. I mean... if... if you don’t mind me saying so...”

“Gah! Stop it!”

“Sorry!”

Several minutes after Angel decided not to tolerate any more of Archer’s horseradish, Fluttershy had returned to a scene of utter lapine carnage. It took a few seconds of shouting to get the rabid rabbit to calm down, and a few more after that to convince Archer not to immediately stab, butcher, and eat him in revenge.

“It’s just a rabbit!” Archer had said. “I ate three just like him this week alone!” Fluttershy countered by promising not to give him an ounce of first aid if he so much as laid a finger on Angel. And that was the end of it.

...Or so she had thought. Archer had some very pointed words about the lack of anesthetic to go with the stitches, and every splash of alcohol had him screaming in that nigh-demonic human language, the name of which she could barely pronounce. Equestrian grammar simply wasn’t built to say the same stuff humans did.

After a good half hour of stinging, burning alcohol, agonized screaming, and desperate apologies that did nothing to dull the pain, the ordeal was finally over. Fluttershy came within a hair’s width of a nervous breakdown, and Archer’s face looked like a refurbished saddlebag. That is to say, otherwise whole, but covered in stitching and boasting a few more puncture marks than he would have liked.

***

“We are never going there again.”

“She sewed your face back together! After you made her physically ill! How can you be mad at her after that?”

“I’m not mad at her, I’m mad at that tiny beast she keeps as a pet.”

Today had not been a good day for Human-Equestrian relations. Twilight and Archer bickered as they made their way back into town, leaving Fluttershy to (all too happily) clean up the mess the rabbit attack had left behind.

“You’re being too hard on Angel. He just thought you were being mean to Fluttershy... which you really were, come to think of it.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t have to tear half of my face off! What kind of pet owner names a monstrosity like that ‘Angel,’ anyway?”

“The kind that can see the good in anyone. That’s probably why she agreed to sew that half of your face back on, despite you treating her like that.”

“Oh, don’t try to make it out like I’m the bad guy here-”

“You are!”

Twilight rounded on him angrily, a faint aura surrounding her horn.

“You were rude, cruel, and downright gryphonlike to the nicest pony I know! I honestly can’t blame Angel for reacting the way he did!”

“Hey, I thought you were trying to be my friend,” Archer noted sarcastically. “You’re not acting very friendly.”

“Oh, aren’t I?”

“No.”

“Well, let me tell you something, friend. I happen to be Equestria’s leading expert on friendship. It’s my job, as a matter of fact. And you were not being a good friend.”

“That’s a job here?”

“It’s an official royal duty,” Twilight informed him, rather haughtily. “And I’ve become quite good at it.”

“So... wait.” Archer thought for a minute. He finally came up with a suitably witty response. “What were you before the princess decreed you to be this... ‘professional friend’?”

Twilight cringed a bit. “I was... a student. And a bookworm.”

“Ah-ha. The princess goaded you into it. I know how it works! You were all set to grow up into an archmage, and rather than let you beome someone who could challenge her, the princess decided to turn you into someone who actually had a life.”

There was a brief silence.

“What’s an archmage?”

“Think of something like a human unicorn with a robe, a god complex, and absolutely no social skills and you’re halfway there.”

“Ouch.”

“My point is, you’re not suddenly the Doctor Philemon of platonic relationships just because you’ve got a fancy commission and a cushy royal allowance.”

“I don’t get either of those, and I don’t even know who Dr. Philemon is!”

“You certainly act like him!”

“LISTEN TO ME!” Twilight’s magic flared a little bit brighter, and her voice gained a good amount of volume. “Fluttershy is my friend. I am trying to make you my friend. Friends don’t let friends escape the consequences of their actions, especially if said friend was acting like a complete jackanape to deserve those consequences. Understand?”

“Y-yes ma’am.”

“Good. Now come on. We’re going home.”

***

Night suddenly and very abruptly fell before Archer and Twilight returned to Ponyville. Upon a panicked and worried query about “what in the heck that was,” Twilight simply replied that it was the doing of Princess Luna, and neglected to elaborate further.

Once in the town, Archer regarded the nearly-empty streets with a veiled fascination. Did the setting of the sun dictate a natural curfew that all Equestrians obeyed? And if so, did his eventual escape just become that much more likely?

Both interesting thoughts, but for now, he was intent on obtaining only one thing.

Dinner.

***

Much later that night, a certain library window opened silently, letting a gentle evening breeze in.

Wordlessly, noiselessly, Archer slipped through the portal, and into the night.

***

It was easily midnight by the time he escaped. Or it would have been, had “midnight” existed in Equestria. Here, it was simply another hour the moon refused to budge in the night sky.

The paths through the town were bare. The marketplace was now just an unoccupied lot in the middle of town. The only features distinguishing it from the streets leading to it were the piles of litter that accumulated on the ground, the likes of which occurred in all such places.

Every light in every house was out. There were no guards patrolling the streets, no late-night revelers celebrating nothing in particular, and best of all, no witnesses. Either Equestrians desperately needed sunlight to remain active, or every last pony in Ponyville had had a day just as bad as Archer's.

As he would later learn, it was a little of column A, a little more of B, and a phenomenal rash of good luck. Equestrians did not shun the night by any stretch, but for whatever reason, Archer couldn’t find a single soul wandering the streets as he made his “daring” escape.

First he simply stopped sneaking about and walked like a normal person. Then, feeling he had not tempted fate enough that evening, he began to whistle nonchalantly. Fate, being a fickle and ingenious force of nature, had foreseen this affront and planned accordingly.

For you see, not everyone in Ponyville kept such a regular sleep schedule.

Footsteps (no, they were hoofsteps, hoofsteps) sounded on the cobble road. A distinctly Equestrian figure appeared, its form silhouetted with bright multicolored lights. As it crossed the intersection before him, it released a cloud of steam from where he had heretofore assumed its mouth was.

With a chill that had nothing to do with the frosty night air, Archer realized exactly what he was looking at. The Equestrians didn’t need guards, after all, if this thing wandered the night streets.

It was, without a doubt, a steam golem, and he was in terrible danger.

It turned its head and saw him.

He bolted.

The chase was on.

***

Twenty minutes later, Archer was beginning to consider giving up. The golem had chased him non-stop, silent save for its hooves clattering on the road. 

He had made the rather foolish decision to try to lose it by taking a roundabout path and doubling back through the downtown streets. He failed in this endeavor for two main reasons. Firstly, a custom-made golem would obviously be built to patrol the town, so of course it would know every available route. Secondly, Ponyville was not large town by any definition. He’d exhausted his options within a few minutes.

Every time he thought the guardian had given up the chase, it would reappear in front of him, a dark equine shape highlighted with bright blue, yellow, and green lights. Regardless of how elaborate and confusing his evasive maneuvers were, it would lock on to him again within a few minutes. It never made a a squeak of unlubricated joints or a hiss of poorly-maintained valves, implying a manufacture by a master tinker.

Pinkie, of course. She’d obviously be the one who designed anything techmaturgical for the village, steam golems being no exception. He could see her handiwork, even without being able to make out most of the machine’s features. She’d given it her hairstyle, for one.

Evading the sentry was steadily becoming less and less of an option. During one of the infrequent moments it was not steadily pursuing him, Archer took stock of the few ways he could conceivably disable it.

He had both arrows and a good, human-made bow to shoot them with, but they were all just so much dead weight when only the most expertly placed shot to the internal battery could “kill” a steam golem. He had no doubt he was capable of such a feat, but it was quite unlikely under the current circumstances. 

And then there was the fact that the ensuing macroetheric detonation would possibly kill him, and would definitely kill any slumbering Equestrians in the adjacent buildings. Even if he survived, the sleepy town of Ponyville wouldn’t sleep for very long after an explosion of that magnitude. Those things were loud. Archer pushed that plan to the “emergencies only” bin with “DO NOT USE” stamped on every available slot.

His knife wasn’t a very good alternative. In the time it would take him to close range and find a suitably vulnerable cable to sever, the golem would realize its quarry was actively attacking it, and would respond in kind. Unless he was extremely lucky and Pinkie gone the extra mile to design it for nonlethal apprehension only (not very far-fetched, come to think of it), most or all of his bones would be powderized before he could cause any meaningful damage. And even if he did get it right the first time, he ran the risk of cutting a grounding cable or something equally volatile. It would definitely kneecap the golem to do so, but it would electrocute him, probably to death, if it didn’t explode outright.

The only tool he had left was his tinker’s kit. While dismantling the thing piece by piece was no doubt a very nice preemptive measure, the bone-powdering argument still held if he tried it tonight.

So he couldn’t destroy it.

No, wait.

He couldn’t destroy it here.

A clatter of hooves on rock told him that it was time to start thinking on his feet.

As he ran, he considered his remaining options. The robot wasn’t going to tire out soon, but he was. He couldn’t attack it, as any method available to him would either fail or succeed in such a way as to put him even worse off than he was right now.

So he had to change the circumstances. He needed to lead the golem where its destruction wouldn’t cause more trouble than it was worth. He needed to go somewhere safe. Somewhere secluded. Somewhere where noise was no issue, and a shockwave would be dampened.

Somewhere like... Pinkie’s lab. How ironic! The myriad devices down there would definitely help... provided they didn’t take the form of another golem or three.

He would say he was “following a complex and highly tactical retreating path” to Sugarcube Corner. In reality, he was running for his life and simply ended up at the sweet shop ahead of his pursuer, as he had done so many things tonight, through sheer dumb luck.

He entered silently, much like he had left the library earlier. The golem was no doubt hot on his tail. He hurried through the nondescript basement door and down the now-dreadfully-underlit stairway, into a massive basement illuminated only by a single overhead lamp. As he reached the bottom floor, he heard the golem barge inside, with much less regard for whoever happened to be sleeping upstairs at the time.

He had at most a few minutes to plan his attack. Ambush from on top of the Thermonuclear Party Popper? No, much too dangerous. He could use the Party Cannon to down it outright, or disorient it at the very least. He had a better-than-even chance of carting the wireframe gyrocopter outside and making good an escape from the air. 

But that just opened a new can of worms.

That was Pinkie’s gyrocopter. She'd spent a lot of time, effort, and money putting it together, and it was the first airmobile she had ever built besides. Was he really going to steal it? Could he even bring himself to consider it? 

She was just a Fae! Why did he care? Was it because he was her friend? Did he want to be her friend? Could Fae and humans even be friends?

Was that the explosives bin he just passed?

A wicked grin crossed Archer’s face, all thoughts of larceny and betrayal forgotten for the moment. If this bin was filled elbow-deep with what he thought it was, any and all problems he was having with robotic ponies would cease to be an issue very shortly.

He plucked out a nice, round paper bomb, painted a gaudy pink and labeled clearly in Equestrian which tag you pulled to set it off, and which you pulled to turn it into a dud, in case of accidents. He ignored that second one.

As he knelt behind the bomb bin, he briefly contemplated what his next action would be. That was a scout for you, always a step ahead. Or trying to be, at least. If the golem wasn’t too damaged from the grenade, he could easily rewire it and ride it out of town before daybreak. Even in the worst case scenario, he could always pocket a few of its gears to add a little kick to his bow later.

He went mentally silent as hooves sounded on tile only a few yards away.

Just a little closer...

Now!

He ripped the tassel off the end of the explosive, immediately producing a gratifying spray of sparks. He took aim and rolled it so it stopped directly between the automaton’s front legs, where it would do the most damage to its logic center and hopefully leave the rest for repurposing as an escape vehicle.

The sentry looked down at the bomb. It tilted its head quizzically. Then it bent down and picked it up using a mouth Archer thought it didn’t have. At this angle, the sparks were lighting something up on the golem’s skin... something akin to... fur?

With a forceful BANG and a flash of light and color, Archer got the first good look he’d had of his assailant all night.

Pink fur, pinker mane. Not in any way a steam golem.

She fell to the ground with an ugly, fleshy thud.

“Pinkie?”

He stood up, uncertainly. She didn’t move.

“Pinkie!”

She still didn’t move.

He bolted upright, running faster than he had all night, coming to a stop at her side. She wasn’t disfigured by the blast, but her fur was singed, she was unconscious, and she most likely had a concussion, not to mention a headache the likes of which mortals have never seen.

He grabbed curly handfuls of her mane and began to shake as hard as he could.

“Pinkie! Say something! Pinkie Pie! Answer me!"

“Mff...”

“Come on! Wake up! I’m sorry, Pinkie! I didn’t...!”

“Archer.”

“Yes?”

Something bopped him on the nose.

“TAG! I WIN!”

There lay Pinkie Pie, uninjured and covered in soot, giggling like she’d just told the world’s funniest joke.

Archer began laughing too. Not because he’d just been pranked within an inch of his life, and not because he was tired, frazzled, and unhinged, although those were definitely contributing factors.

He laughed like he hadn’t in so very long, because he’d been afraid he had killed his only friend, but now she was okay. He laughed for a long time.

***

“So... what were you doing out this late?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

The two had gotten over their laughing fit and had gone upstairs. If anything, Archer now knew he could survive in Equestria, so long as he was within reach of one of their sweet, succulent, baked pastries. The apple danishes were simply to die for.

“I was out for a walk.”

Lies. Necessary lies, but it still stung.

“...Hmm. Really? ‘Cause I thought you looked more like you were jogging. Or running! Or maybe you were scampering? It looked a lot like a scamper from where I was.”

“Well, I was only running because I thought you were a steam golem.”

“A what?”

“A guard robot.”

Pinkie snorted into her cupcake and began laughing again.

“That’s ridiculous! I don’t know the first thing about making pony-bots! If you want to make one, though, ask Twilight. She’s probably got a book on it somewhere.”

“I figured as much.”

A minute passed, as they ate sugary delicious food in silence.

“So what was with the lights?”

“Hmm?”

“You were all glowy when I saw you. What’s the deal with that?”

“Oh, I was taking one of my inventions out for a test run.”

Pinkie produced a small plastic tube from nowhere. She bent it in half, producing a crispy snap, and shook it. It glowed bright blue.

“I call ‘em glowsticks! I’d just made a bunch of ‘em, and I decided to stick ‘em all over my coat to see which ones glowed brightest!”

“Really.”

“Yup!”

“And you weren’t worried that someone would come along and think you were an alien, or something?”

“Oh, you worry too much. I’ve lived here for years! Everyone’s used to me by now.”

“Uh huh.... so what was with the steam?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You breathed steam.”

“It was cold!”

Archer’s brain took a short break to simulate a train wreck in chastisement for overlooking this simple fact. It was early spring. It was cold. People’s breath fogged when it was cold. Duh.

“I... see. So why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought we were playing a game! Also, I didn’t wanna wake anyone up.”

Also simple, also obvious.

“Alright, one more thing. How did you survive the explosion?”

“Pfft, that? That was just a party popper! I’ve had worse stuff than that go off strapped to my back!”

“And immediately afterward, you let me think you were dead.”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna get you any other way. You’re pretty fast for a guy with only two legs!”

He chuckled, and returned to his danish.

It was official. He was best friends with a Fae creature, and in the most technical terms, a traitor to the crown.

He was too tired to care.

***

After he left Sugarcube Corner, he headed directly back to the library. His little adventure had completely drained him. If he tried to leave now, despite no one stopping him, he’d be dead by the time he reached the forest’s edge.

He climbed back up the old tree and into the bedroom. He closed and relatched the window noiselessly, and staggered back to his bunk. He flopped down and slept the sleep of the dead.

***

“Scout Archer, for your crimes... I pronounce you GUILTY!”

He was in a cramped courtroom, surrounded on all sides by a jury and judge who would like nothing more to hang him.

“Why!?”

He honestly didn’t know. He’d just gotten here.

The judge, who was of course King Jove himself, snapped his fingers. “Jury! The terms!”

One of the jurors, that little snotnose from eighth grade, sprang up with a scroll in hand.

“Ahem... ‘For being captured in a manner unbefitting a royal subject, for allowing himself to be savaged by a harmless white rabbit, for deliberately and with full awareness assaulting an innocent woman-’”

“Hey, hang on!”

“‘-For befriending a Fae, in clear violation of his orders, and for adopting her species in clear defiance and renunciation of his race, we find the defendant Scout Archer...’”

“GUILTY!” rang through the room, like the many-faceted voice of an angry god.

One thing didn’t add up.

“What do you mean 'I adopted her race?' I’m human!”

Laughter. Mocking, incessant laughter.

He looked down at himself. He was covered in fur, a bright rosy red in color. He held his hands in front of his face, only to be greeted with hooves. He felt his face replaced by an ugly equine snout, and his last little bit of composure melted away. He screamed as hard as he could.

“With this verdict, we, the jury, move that the guilty be butchered into meat and leather, and his hooves be rendered into adhesive for the tinkers.”

“Agreed,” boomed the king.

With a single massive hand, archer was plucked from his defendant’s booth and held over a massive expanse of nothing. Carelessly and without ceremony, he was dropped.

He fell and fell, and found his end rushing up to meet him. A massive metal tank lay waiting like a great gaping mouth, filled with sewing needles, carving knives, and a bubbling, writhing mass of pasty, disgusting glue.

He fell, hooves flailing uselessly, to his doom...

***

...And landed with a thump on the hard wooden floor.

He got up, disentangling himself from his bedsheets. The sun burnt bright in the sky, in its eternal noontime position.

Archer had slept less than four hours all told, and he was neither ready, willing, nor physically able to face the day ahead. He climbed back into bed, desperately wishing he was home.

He did not get his wish.

The sun beat down through the window, and the day went nowhere. Archer assumed this was Celestia’s petty revenge for his pathetic escape attempt last night.

And in a way, he was right.
> Dignity Has Nothing To Do With It
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Archer?”

He made a bestial growling noise, in defiance of his otherwise human physiology. Extreme fatigue did that to people.

“Um, just so you know... It’s 10 A.M. Twilight wanted me to make sure you got up.”

He exposed a single bloodshot eye to the outside world. He saw that little dragon, just standing there. Waiting.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, lizard man.”

“What?”

“I’m not leaving this bed until King Jove sends for me with a golden wagon filled with French fancies and sympathy cards.”

“Uh...”

“And a danish. I could really use a danish right now. And some coffee. Criminy, coffee sounds good right now.”

“They have those at Sugarcube Corner.”

“Is Pinkie still there?”

“...She lives there.”

Archer immediately stood up, still draped in the comforter he had been wrapped in all night. He strode forward with a renewed purpose. His new mission was to procure another delicious Equestrian pastry or two, and preferably some hot water mixed with ground-up caffeine beans.

But first, he had to forget he was on a balcony, walk straight off the edge, and land in a painful knot of limbs, tangled bedsheets, and an ego so bruised it was beginning to resemble a rotten pear

So he did.

***

The Equestrians wandering the streets made way for him, like they were scared to approach him. Understandable. He was tired, ugly, and occasionally made deep rumbling noises that could indicate either bloodlust or extreme hunger. Or both. There was an ogre living back home who made the exact same spectacle every time he went down to the slaughterhouse to buy dinner.

He threw open the door to the sweet shop, thoroughly spooking the bystanders inside.

“Mzarughmaphm, n’ coffee.”

Pinkie, being the confoundingly helpful person that she was, immediately appeared beside him with a tray containing exactly that.

“Murmble gurmble.”

“You’re welcome!”

***

“What I mean is, he’s just-”

“Hard to get along with?”

“Yeah.”

The sauna was supposed to be the place one could go to relax and escape life’s worries. And for Rarity, it was. For Twilight, it was just somewhere to be tormented by the possibility of failing her self-imposed assignment.

“Mm, I had the same impression. He’s the stubborn type. It takes a steady hand and a constant push to get through to ponies like him.”

“But that’s the thing! He’s not a pony at all! He’s this weird creature from Celestia-knows-where and I don’t know if I’m getting through to him, or- or if I’m just making him angry or depressing him or making him feel some human emotion we don’t even have a name for, or-”

“Twilight.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re rambling.”

“Sorry.”

Rarity took in a lungful of humidified air. She let a cloud of it back out, but still had no good answer.

“You can’t rush these things, you know. Just be a good friend, and he’ll trust you eventually.”

“Yeah, or he’ll turn out to be a complete paranoid psychopath and never trust anyone! It’s happened before!”

“Twilight, allow me to explain, once again, why you’re worrying about nothing.”

***

“It’s like watching a train wreck.”

“Yeah... a delicious train wreck.”

Quoth the Equestrian colts Snips and Snails, upon witnessing Archer consume his thirty-second baked good that morning.

The human’s inexplicably voracious appetite had rapidly attained legendary status among the denizens of Ponyville, and had drawn a proportionate crowd. Some were sickened, some were amazed, and all were riveted on the strange creature currently making an absolute pig of himself at a near-overloaded table in Sugarcube Corner.

“Oy! Lizard Eyes!” he yelled, pointing at a wall-eyed pegasus hovering near the checkout counter.

“What? Me?”

“Yeah, throw me another!”

“B-but you’ve already had-”

“YOUR PASTRIES ARE TOO TINY! ARCHER DEMANDS MORE!”

With a frightened squeak, the unnamed spectator scooped up a muffin from a nearby tray and pitched it into the rapidly-accumulating pile of empty plates and cupcake papers. It was instantly consumed and drowned in a swig of coffee.

“Why are we feeding him, again?”

“Because he’s hungry,” was the obvious answer from Pinkie Pie.

“What’s he going to pay for this with?”

“...I’m not gonna ask for his money. You can. I mean, if you really want to.”

***

“Angel, I really think you should consider apologizing to Archer for yesterday.”

Angel shook his head.

“Now, really. You weren’t very polite, and it took me fifteen whole minutes to stitch his face back together!”

Angel tilted his head inquisitively and raised a single bunny eyebrow.

“Well, because he was hurt, is why! You know better than anyone, I can’t leave somepony injured like that. And I certainly can’t leave somepony injured by one of my animals. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The rabbit inched away furtively.

“So. Are you going to go apologize?”

Angel thought for a minute. He then shook his head.

“Oh. Okay.”

***

“GO! GO! GO! GO!”

Archer had climbed to ninety-nine. The delicious train wreck was running out of steam.

“Pinkie, I don’t think I can-”

“Come on! Let’s make it a hundred! ONE MORE!”

The chant of “ONE MORE” was taken up by every Equestrian in the store. Archer slowly vanished the last cream puff from its plate, and shot his fists into the air as the crowd went wild.

Pinkie then appeared next to him with a microphone, with no logical reason as usual.

“Mister Archer! Mister Archer! You’ve just broken the previous Sugarcube Corner Sweet Eater record by a whole half of a sweet! What are you going to do next?!”

Archer leaned over in a vaguely conspiratorial fashion.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“What?”

“No, seriously, I’m gonna be sick. I need a seltzer or something.”

“A what?”

Archer realized, far too late, that he had made a horrible mistake.

***

“...And besides, if he were really too antisocial to become friends with anypony, he’d probably have tried to escape by force before now, don’t you think?”

“I guess that’s true....”

The sauna had done its job, more or less. Twilight was no longer strung out worse than a blankflank on prom night, and the two had finally managed to relax.

And then Pinkie Pie showed up.

“GUYS!”

“What?” asked Twilight, after she picked herself up from an embarrassingly over-the-top scream and tumble off of her chair.

“I think something’s wrong with Archer!”

“What!?”

“Yeah, he’s throwing up out behind Sugarcube Corner, and he needs a ‘saltsing,’ or something.”

Stunned, silent disbelief hung in the air alongside the steam for a brief moment.

“Rarity, the spa’s off.”

“But-!”

It was too late to say anything else, for Twilight was gone.

***

To attempt to describe the scene about to unfold would be to do a disservice to the sheer unpleasantness of it, and to offend the sensibilities of most or all of the people currently reading. About three things need to be noted so the story can progress unimpeded.

First, Archer was behind the building that housed Sugarcube Corner. Second, no one save Twilight dared to find out what he was doing, nor why he had been in such a hurry to get there. And third, he was unconditionally and irrevocably sick as a dog.

“Archer? Are you okay?”

“Whyyyyy~”

“I’m coming back there, Archer. I need to make sure you’re- Ew!”

By this point Twilight had discovered precisely why Archer had been hiding from the rest of existence.

“Help meeee...”

“What happened to you!?”

“Too much junk food. Need an antacid, or some seltzer water, or- hurk!”

What happened next will not be described, no matter how much you ask.

“Oh... kay. I think we need to take you to Fluttershy’s.”

“No. M’never setting foot in there again.”

“Not to be mean, Archer...” He felt himself hoisted up by an unseen force and laid flat across the unicorn’s back. “...but you don’t really have a say in the matter.”

“Please, dear Father above, make it stop...”

“You need to stop moaning, too.”

“I’m going to throw up on you. I swear.”

“You do and you’re going to be crawling home.”

***

“Will you apologize for... a maple-glazed carrot?”

Angel considered again. He shook his head, again.

“Will you apologize for two maple-glazed carrots?”

He twitched one ear and looked at Fluttershy with an amused expression.

“I’m not going over three, Angel.”

He kept the look up.

“Fine. Will you do it for-”

Someone knocked at the front door.

“Hello?”

“Fluttershy, it’s me, Twilight. We’ve got a medical emergency.”

***

“Um, I might be wrong, but, uhh.... I thought he never wanted my help again.”

“Please, Miss Shy, have mercy-”

“Hush. Fluttershy, I’m really sorry about all this. I wouldn’t even have to bother you, but someone-” Twilight gestured accusingly at Archer’s prone form. “-thought it would be a good idea to try and break the Sweet Eating record at Sugarcube Corner.”

“Wait, you mean...!”

“...He ate exactly one hundred pastries, baked goods, and sugary confections in a single sitting. I don’t even think he paid for them!”

“Oh believe me, lady, I am definitely paying for them.” Archer groaned and rolled onto his side.

“...He said he needed some salter, or an acid?”

“I said ‘seltzer or antacid.’”

“Oh!” Fluttershy’s expression brightened. “I know just the thing! I’ll be right back!”

***

“Now, sit down here and drink this.”

“This isn’t poison is it.”

“You don’t have any room to complain. Drink it.”

Archer downed the glass of fizzing water, grimacing as he did so.

“Well, it tastes like medicine, which is a good sign. So, is this some hocus-pocus Fae cure, or is it supposed to-” He immediately interrupted himself with one of the louder belches he had produced in his lifetime. After it was over, Twilight appeared on the verge of fainting, Fluttershy was holding her nose but otherwise happy, and Angel had been KO’d outright. “I guess that answers that question.”

“Now, Archer, do you have anything to say to Fluttershy?”

“Mm, thanks. I guess.”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear that.”

“I said 'thank you, Miss Fluttershy,' for being the only Equestrian in Ponyville who knows how to cure nausea. I’d be in a lot of trouble if it weren’t for you.”

Fluttershy beamed. “Oh, it was nothing. I’m just happy I could help.”

“Well, glad we got that cleared up. I’m gonna go back to Sugarcube Corner and finish my coffee.”

“What? No!” Fluttershy pinned him to the chair. “You simply have to stay here and rest! I can’t let you leave until I’m sure you’re well!”

Archer aimed a pleading gaze at Twilight. “Come on, this is ridiculous!”

“You know what else is ridiculous? You eating yourself sick with a month’s supply of pastries. So you’ll just have to learn to live with it! Bye, Fluttershy. Take good care of him.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Twilight. It can’t be that much different from taking care of animals.”

“Hey!” yelled Archer, offended.

“Have fun, you two.”
> Tales of Awesome
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Twang-

THUNK!

“And that’s about it.”

“Oooh.”

An hour or so after the Great Ponyville Nausea Crisis, Fluttershy had given Archer a delayed clean bill of health, pending some rest and another round of indigestion tablets. In the mean time, Archer was trying to make amends with the not-very-evil-at-all mare he had at first taken for an villainous enchantress. As it so happened, she had somehow found an interest in what humans did for sport. So here she was, watching him shoot trees. 

And nothing else, sadly.

“It’s really not that hard to nail a stationary target, but seeing as how we don’t have any pigeons...”

“Archer, no!”

“Kidding, just kidding. Sheesh.”

What he had said in jest, Fluttershy had taken literally, and she’d reacted with all the positivity and cheerfulness of a recently petless child. He spent the next fifteen or so minutes assuring her he wasn’t intending to kill anything she knew personally. Which apparently meant everything, because she ostensibly communed with nature and all its creatures.

He wasn’t going to be eating meat any time in the foreseeable future.

He hated Fae realms.

“Um.... so, ah, just hypothetically speaking...”

“Yeeees?”

“...What, exactly, could you, uh... ‘bring down’ with a bow like that?”

“Oh, this thing?”

He examined his namesake, as if eyeing it for the first time. It was once the standard scout’s compound bow, built from only the sturdiest Vorlan oak. Its pulleys were also wooden, once upon a time, and the bowstrings were the most banal form of woven catgut imaginable.

Now, though, the wood limbs were run through with tempered iron, the pulleys had been supplanted by precisely-calibrated brass gearwork, and it was strung with Canis-hair cord, as tight as Archer could weave it.

He knew each and every modification made to it, because he’d made them all himself.

“It’s, ah... it’s quite nice.”

“Really? I thought a bleeding heart like you would shun anything of this sort.”

“Well, I’d never plan on using it, of course... I just think the wooden and metal parts go nice together.”

“I see. Well, to answer your question.... The biggest thing I’ve ever faced would definitely be a Canis Major. A little one,” he added, seeing the look on her face. “Not one the size of a house, like I know they can get to.”

“Wow... How did you do it?”

“You’re serious?”

Fluttershy nodded.

“You really want me to tell about the time I hunted and killed a Canis Major.”

She nodded again.

“Well, alright. It was out near the borders between my kingdom and the territory of the Hurpa Ogres. It was the dead of winter, and I suppose you, of all people, would know how Canis packs tend to be in winter...”

***

thumpthumpthumpthump

“Twilight!”

thumpthumpthumpthump

“Twilight, open up!”

The library door cracked open.

“Yes, Pinkie Pie. What is it?”

“Well I really need to ask Archer some things and I can’t ask him if he’s dead so I thought I’d come here and see if he was here and if he wasn’t here I’d ask you were he was so-”

“He’s fine,” Twilight interjected. “Fluttershy’s looking after him.”

“Oh. Thanks! Bye!”

She disappeared in a cloud of kicked-up dust and unbelievably high sugar content. Twilight sighed and returned to doing whatever it was that royal proteges did on their off-hours.

***

“...but then, three more just like it appeared from the shadows!”

Fluttershy’s reaction so far was somewhere between horror and wonderment, by way of absolute fascination.

“I had to think fast, of course. After a few seconds, I remembered how the first Canis had chased me though the tree’s branches, right?” Fluttershy nodded. “I looked up, and sure enough, one of the limbs, a really big, bulky one, was just barely hanging on by a few inches of wood. So, instead of trying and failing to fight them three-to-one, I took aim at the limb above, and...” Fluttershy’s eyes went wide as he pantomimed drawing a bow. “Zap!”

Gasp!

“The branch came down on them like a dropped millstone. Scratch three more Canes Minor.”

Fluttershy was becoming increasingly hard to gauge. She was either scared out of her wits, about to yell at him for admitting to killing a living being, or he was just that good at telling exciting stories.

It was probably one of the first two, come to think of it.

Thankfully, there was another individual very close by with a much clearer opinion on the tale.

“Whoa. That was totally awesome!”

A tiny bundle of orange fur came galumphing up to the log they were seated on.

“Ohmygosh, that was so cool, mister! Hey, Miss Fluttershy, who’s your friend?”

“Well, he’s-”

“That story was awesome, and that bow looks sooo cool!” 

“Um-”

“-You gotta tell me more, I wanna know how you beat the Canis Major, did you ever-”

As the diminutive puffball kept rambling on, Archer tried to make sense of what, exactly, it was. Its constant motion made this endeavor harder than it should have been. Before it could disorient him enough to pounce on him and tear out his organs (“Be Prepared,” kids), he lunged for it and hoisted it up by the forelimbs. It squeaked like a chew toy.

It was a tiny Equestrian. Probably no bigger than a housecat. That was the first thing that confused him. The grown ones were the size of... well, horses. Not very big ones, but they looked saddle-worthy, at least. This thing didn’t look like it could carry a rhesus monkey. And then there was-

“Hiya, mister.”

“Hi. What’s that buzzing?”

“What?”

“That buzzing noise. Is there a beehive around here?”

“Oh, no. That’s me.”

The buzzing stopped. A pair of wings, which had been beating too fast for Archer to notice until now, appeared on the young Equestrian’s back. Archer noticed the tyke seemed to weigh more without them flapping incessantly.

“So... tan fur, purple mane... your name is... ‘Peanut Butter’?”

The foal snorted.

“Noooo. I’m Scootaloo! What’s your name?”

“Archer. What are you doing here? Are you Fluttershy’s...?”

“NO!” was the immediate response from them both.

“I see. So whose is he?”

“He? I’m a girl!”

Archer set Scootaloo down with a huff. “You and everyone else, apparently. I don’t think I’ve met a single male Equestrian since I came here. Tell me, have I fallen into the girl’s club?”

“No!” shouted Scootaloo a second time. “There’s Spike!”

“He’s a dragon.”

“Oh. Umm...” The filly thought for a minute. “Oh! There’s Mr. Cake!”

“Never met him.”

“Big Mac?”

“I don’t even know who that is.”

“Oh, how about Doctor.... um... Fluttershy, what was his name? Doctor...?”

Fluttershy gave it some thought. “Hooves?”

“No, that wasn’t it. It was Doctor Something.”

“Actually, I think I have heard of that one.”

“Really? You’ve met him?”

“Yeah, but that’s a story for later. Much, much, later-” But at the word “story,” Scootaloo was off again.

“Oh! Right! The story! Come on, tell me how you beat the Canis Major!”

“Well, first-”

“Pleeeeeaaaaase?” That one word was punctuated by a pair of eyes swelling to diabetes-inducing size.

“Does she do this all the time?” Archer ask Fluttershy, still seated unperturbed on the log.

“Only when she’s really excited about something.”

“Alright,” Archer sighed, seating himself. “But I expect you to tell me where you were hiding until five minutes ago.”

“Oh, that’s nothing. I was in the chicken coop.”

Fluttershy gasped. “Scootaloo! I told you-”

“Calm down, Miss Shy. She was just fooling around.”

“Come on, come ooooon, tell me the rest of the story!”

“Fine, fine. Where was I? Oh, right." Archer reseated himself. "So, the Canes were all out for the count. And who should show up after all that commotion, but the den mother herself - the Canis Major! Monstrous, star-spangled, tall as I am and half again, and with teeth the size of tent stakes!”

“Ooooh,” was the reply, this time from two spellbound Equestrians instead of one.

***

A year ago, a brave and daring scout, who would one day be called “Archer” by a herd of talking horses, was having one of the worst days of his life so far. He was returning from a failed spying attempt on the Hurpa Ogres. Every so-called “partner” sent with him had either abandoned him or died, leaving him to return home alone, cold, and empty-handed.

And that, of course, was when then the wolves attacked.

Canes Minor, judging from the sparkling coats. Hopefully, there was no Major leading the pack, or his mission was about to get much shorter.

Odd. Earlier, from his vantage point in a nearby evergreen, he had counted four, but now there were only... Three.

With a crack and a hissing snarl, the unaccounted Canis made its position known.

He hadn’t known Canes could climb trees before that day. And to be perfectly honest, from that point on, he wasn’t liable to forget.

His compound bow was worse than useless in such a cramped space. All he had was a knife imbued with a dud charm and a stubborn unwillingness to die that the Canes unfortunately shared.

The fight was messy, brutal, and short. It ended with the two falling from the tree into the soft snow twenty feet below. He made it out with a broken rib and no feeling in the fist he’d punched the Canis in the face with. The Canis made it out with a knife so deep in its chest cavity that it technically counted as a heart implant.

Which unfortunately left our hero with no short-ranged weapon and three of his victim’s packmates to contend with.

They surrounded him. The tree’s trunk was at his back, and three angry, starry-coated dog monsters were at his front. If there was any time to pray, this was it...

...And as if in immediate answer, a branch, broken from the earlier scuffle, snapped its last bonds to the tree proper and came plummeting down like a dropped millstone. It landed sharp-end-down on the foremost Canis’s back, and stuck the landing with the resounding snap of a broken spine.

Their leader crumpled. Archer stood a little taller, making a noise he hoped would made him sound imposing.

The remaining two slunk away, their eyes never leaving him. He kept growling at them, desperately trying to keep the facade up before he succumbed to the blinding pain in his side. Eventually, he realized that he was no longer growling, but the noise had not stopped.

Behind him, beyond the tree’s cover, stood a Canis.

But this was no ordinary Canis. It stood half again as tall as he did. Its teeth were the size of tent stakes, if not bigger. Its fur was deep black, dappled with twinkling red stars.

It was a Canis Major, and our hero had exactly no time for it.

Before it could come within range of pouncing, he drilled it between the eyes with a single, expertly-placed arrow.

If only the Monster-Slayers' Guild could see him now.

***

“...And then I fletched arrowheads from its teeth and wove this from its hackles.”

Archer plucked at his bowstring, producing a mellow twang.

Somewhere along the line, Fluttershy had stopped finding the story fascinating and had started to find it frightening. Scootaloo, on the other hand, was enraptured the whole way through.

“Whoa.... Fluttershy, this guy is awesome!”

“You’ve already said that once today.”

“Yeah, but you’re almost, like, half as cool as Rainbow Dash, and she tells those kinds of stories all the time!”

Well, that’s a spirit-breaker.

“Does she now.”

“Yeah! There was this one time, she fought and beat a dragon-”

“Unlikely.”

“-And there was this other time when she did a Sonic Rainboom-”

“A sonic what?”

“-TWICE!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The excitable young Equestrian looked up at him with a grin almost too wide for her head.

“Y’know, Mister Archer, I think it’s time for me to tell you a few stories.”

In the midst of all this impending literary suspense, Fluttershy had quickly and quietly fled the scene. Neither participant in the imminent Rainbow Dash Tall-Taleathon paid her any attention.

***

thumpthumpthumpthump

“Fluttershy!”

thumpthumpthumpthump

“Fluttershyyyyy!”

squeak

“Um, hello, Pinkie Pie. Do you need something?”

“Hey, there you are! Where’s Archer? I really need to ask him something!”

“Oh, he and Scootaloo are out back. I think they’re arguing about the Wonderbolts.”

“...What.”

***

“It’s Spitfire! It’s totally Spitfire! How can you not see that?”

“And how can you not see that Fleetfoot  is, and will always be, the best Wonderbolt? I mean, look!”

Somehow, over the course of a few hours, Scootaloo had run out of amazing anecdotes of awesomeness from Rainbow Dash. Instead, she had begun telling him about her hero’s heroes, and hers by extension, the Equestrian Royal Air Force. They also went by “The Wonderbolts”.

Archer shoved one of the trading cards Scootaloo had so thoughtfully provided back in her face.

“See? ‘Top Speed: Mach Four’! Spitfire can barely pull one and a half!”

“It’s not just about speed, you know! Look at Fleetfoot’s agility! A turn of three g's is almost too much for her. Spitfire can go up to twelve!”

“Guys?”

“Well, I don’t see how a load of twisting and turning helps so much if you can fly more than twice as fast as the other guy, at heights where the only thing you have to look out for is the occasional mountain.”

“There’s more to it than that!”

“Guys...”

“Oh really? Care to share with the rest of the class?”

“Yeah! The Wonderbolts aren’t just about flying fast, even though they do that a lot. Being a Wonderbolt is about flying with style! Fearlessly! Something old Fleetfoot still can’t manage, after ten years on the team.”

“You little-!”

“Guys!”

“What!?” came the reply from them both.

“I have something for the both of you~!” Pinkie Pie sang, cheerful beyond reason. 

She handed them both slips of paper the size of index cards. On them were sketched crude likenesses a group of Equestrians, surrounding one of Archer, dressed in gaudy colors and smiling (both worth noting for how rarely he did either). On the opposite side were words printed in Equestrian:

“DON’T BE SHY! WELCOME OUR NEWEST FRIEND TO PONYVILLE!”

It detailed a time, location, and where to go for details.

“Pinkie... what is this?”

“It’s why I’ve been looking for you all day, silly! Now,” her face suddenly turned dead serious, “I need you to tell me, in excruciating detail...”

“...Yes?”

“...How, exactly, humans throw parties.”
> The Best-Laid Plans...
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Let’s see.... There’s... music?”

“Of course!”

Pinkie Pie, Archer, and their recently inducted co-conspirator, Scootaloo, were currently seated at the nicest table they could find in Sugarcube Corner. At this extremely nice table, Pinkie Pie was mercilessly grilling Archer about every possible angle of traditional Vorlanian (that is to say, human) celebrations.

“It has to be live music, too. No gramophones. Preferably piano or strings.”

“Oh! Hang on!”

In two shakes of a filly’s tail (literally, Scootaloo only had time for two), Pinkie had zipped upstairs and down again, bringing with her a stringed instrument. 

“You mean like this?”

Its body was a large oblong, somewhere between a viola’s and a cello’s. Which made sense, seeing as Equestrians were quite bigger than humans. But...

“How do you play that with no hands?”

“Hehe! Like this, silly!”

In defiance of physics, of logic, and of common sense, Pinkamena Diane Pie stood erect on her rear legs, produced a bow, and played the violin like she owned fingers of her own. It sounded very nice.

“Alright, that’s pretty good. But my original question still stands.”

“She’s Pinkie Pie,” Scootaloo explained. “It’s better if you don’t think about it.”

“I’ve noticed a lot of stuff like that lately.”

***

It said, simply:

“Archer is staying in the library with Twilight Sparkle.

In the kitchen cupboard, he has concealed items of great value to both him and you.

Retrieve them. You will know what to do when you find them.

-P”

Inkwell studied the note carefully. The handwriting was completely unremarkable, which, given her talent for analyzing all things linguistic, was saying quite a lot.

And then there was the fact that the note was written in English, rather than Equestrian. English was nonexistent among ponies, save for her. She only knew of one human, and even then, she’d only stayed with him as long as it took to teach him a whole language and give him a roof over his head. And this definitely didn’t look like a prank.

So who was “P”? Moreover, why did they think she and Archer were connected in any way? What was hiding in the library’s cupboard, and how would she “know what to do” upon seeing it?

Well, she knew where to go to answer one of those questions.

“To the library!”

***

“Oh, and food. There has to be food. Lots of food. Potatoes, chicken, beef stew... I’m hungry, actually, do you have any donuts or something?”

Pinkie rolled her eyes. “Yeah Archer, we’ve got plenty of donuts. They’re all on the ground behind  the building.”

“What?” Archer forgot, momentarily, why he’d been trapped in a tree-shaped cottage all day. Then he remembered. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Mr. and Ms. Cake were pretty mad. They say you gotta pay off your tab before you’re allowed to order anything else.”

Niggling worry, followed by dread. “How much is it, exactly?”

“Two hundred ninety four bits.”

Archer considered it a small blessing that he had no idea how much a “bit” was worth. He didn’t even know how the Cakes expected him to make any money at all, short of taking up larceny. But that was neither here nor there.

“Alright,” said Scootaloo, going over a poorly-hoofwritten bucket list. “Next up is... ‘accommodations’. Miss Pinkie, what are ‘accommodations’?”

“That means we need to figure out where we’re throwing the party! I don’t know how big human parties get. Archer, how big do human parties get?”

“Well, keep in mind, I’m not exactly an expert on the subject of having a good time. But the few parties I have attended were all massive.” Pinkie grinned at this. “Most of them were celebrating the defeat of a great evil monster nearby, and drew in everyone from the nearby towns. Now, call me cynical, but I sincerely doubt Ponyville will be even half as thrilled as that to greet a complete stranger.”

“Aww, lighten up! You don’t give us pony folk enough credit. I remember when I threw Twilight’s ‘Welcome to Ponyville’ party a year or so ago, and everyone came then!”

“Yeah, but at least she was an Equestrian. I don’t exactly have that luxury.”

Pinkie’s expression shifted to thoughtfulness, then sudden inspiration. She smiled that Cheshire grin people of all species seem to get when they’re about to do something devilishly clever.

And then everything changed.

The lighting shifted imperceptibly. Pinkie Pie began bouncing up and down. 

Was that...

Music?

“Weeeeelll~” she began, only to be rudely interrupted.

“NO!”

THUMP

“Mmph?”

Scootaloo had, with a single well-placed muffin, changed the lights back to normal, stopped the music, and (judging from her expression) kept Pinkie from bringing about the end times.

“Pinkie, you promised you wouldn’t sing around me, remember?”

Pinkie’s hair deflated a tad. She nodded.

“Wait, I don’t get it. What happens when she sings?”

“Trust me, it’s best if you don’t know.”

“You’re going to have to start explaining this stuff to me eventually!”

“Calm down. I think Pinkie Pie’s trying to say you need to give the ponies in Ponyville a chance. Who knows? They might surprise you. Right, Pinkie?”

“Mmm-hmm,” said the almost-singer, her mouth still crammed with blueberries and short bread.

“Well... Fine. It’s got to be roomy.”

Pinkie Pie swallowed and said, “Oh! Oh! I know a roomy place!”

“Please continue.”

“The farm down at Sweet Apple Acres has barns! Huge ones! We can clean one out and it’ll hold everypony, easy!”

“We’ll have to check it out first, but it sounds promising. Scootaloo, next item!”

“Next item... layout!”

“Now, this I know perfectly. Pinkie, fetch me a pen and paper. It’s high time I introduced you ponies to the mead hall.”

***

“He just asked me to get something for him. It’ll only take a minute, I promise.”

“Okay, Inkwell... but I think you might want to get some rest after this. You look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Twilight recoiled slightly at Inkwell’s uncharacteristically snippish comeback. She definitely needed some sleep, the librarian decided. Or a date. Or both, in that order.

Heedless of Twilight’s unspoken judgement on her personal life, Inkwell pressed on into the kitchen. There was nothing out here, save a couple of odd burns on the wall and a discarded quill on the table, next to an emptied specimen of her namesake.

Thank goodness she wasn’t looking for anything out here, then.

The cupboard was cluttered far beyond its apparent capacity. There was probably more food stuffed in here than any of the original architects could have imagined, magicked into being and charmed into place by the prodigious Twilight Sparkle, for no other reason than because it was possible.

Inkwell searched high and low. She didn’t know what she was looking for. She didn’t care. All she wanted was to solved that danged letter’s riddle so she could stop feeling so bloody irritable.

A sweep of telekinesis rattled something on a high shelf. Something wrapped in vellum paper.

She knew the sound of vellum. It was what her correspondence with a Gryphon linguist had been printed on, shortly before she discovered that it was made from animal skin. Since then, she’d sworn it off forever. Why would more of it would turn up now, in the royal protege’s home, of all places?

She pulled it down gingerly, as if the woodland creature sacrificed in the paper’s manufacture would return to haunt her if she didn’t show it the proper respect. Wrapped in the vellum was a bottle. On that bottle were written words in English.

English!

What was it with that stupid language cropping up so much? Couldn’t anything weird or headache-inducing be printed in French? Or what about Dutch, or Russian? She liked Russian! The rest of the linguistic spectrum couldn’t hold up to Russian, in terms of sheer - Wait a second, how had her mind wandered this far? What was she doing, again?

Oh, right, the bottle. The English bottle. With English words. What were those English words?

“LIQUID NERVE: For Strength of Mind and Steadiness of Hand”

The vintage was... well, she didn’t have a clue how long ago the human date was.

“Put down the bottle now, miss.”

What the...?

“You can’t control me, Higgs! I know what you do, what crimes you commit every day. The kingdom is rotten to the core, and I’m stuck in a flat with living proof!”

Who was saying these things? Rather, who’d said these things?

“Good lord... how much of this stuff have you drunk tonight? You’re nuts!”

“I’m more sane than I’ve ever been, Higgs. I’m leaving.”

She floated the Liquid Nerve to eye level, popping the cork. A suspiciously familiar aroma of berry and alchemical fumes filled the air.

“Tell me where you’re headed, at least, so I can come get you once you’ve regained your sense.”

“I’ll let you know just as soon as I find out! Ta-ta!”

Her hooves were shaking.

If what she knew about this drink was correct, then a little swig couldn’t hurt. Could it?

That was the thing, though, about one little swig of anything under duress. Soon enough, it turned into two. Then three. By the time she stalked out of the cupboard, Inkwell’s mind was indeed strong, and her hooves were indeed steady.

Such a shame, then, that she was no longer quite herself.

***

“Item seventeen: alcohol!”

“Alcohol?”

“Alcohol.”

The topic had wandered, as you might have already guessed, to alcohol.

“Are you sure, Archer? Nopony in Ponyville drinks that much except Berry Punch. And, well...” Pinkie shuddered. “We all saw how she turned out.”

“I’m not saying everyone has to get zonked off their gourd, Pinkie. I am saying, though, that these kinds of drinks are traditional in human parties. And you do want to have a human party, riiiiight?”

“Yes! Yes! O-of course. But... alcohol? Really? I’ve been to drinking parties before, and they’re no fun at all.”

“Mister Archer? What’s this alka-seltzer stuff you’re talking about?”

“It’s nothing. Go back to drawing the banner.”

“Okay.”

“Alright, so your appley friend makes cider, right?”

“Applejack? Yeah.”

“Just get one tankard of that each for everyone attending, and swap it for straight apple juice after. I honestly can’t tell the difference.”

“Well, why can’t we just have the apple juice to start with?”

“Because then someone’ll spike it, and then we’ll have an absolute mess instead of a party.”

“So, you’re trying to prevent someone from spiking the juice...”

“...By serving everyone pre-spiked cider. Yes.”

Pinkie sat with what had to be the first incredulous look she’d worn in years. These human parties made no sense at all, and yet...

“Alright. One glass of cider each. What’s next?”

“Item eighteen: party games.”

“YAAAAAAY!”

***

“You’re sure you’re not leaving?”

“Yes. Archer said he’d meet me here.”

“But you said-”

“I misspoke.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Do you need anything?”

“Some peace and quiet would be nice.”

Sheesh. Who inked in your coffee, lady?

“Well, I guess I’ll be going, then. I’ll make sure to tell Archer you’re here, if I see him."

“Please do.”

***

“What do you mean he isn’t here anymore!?”

“Um... well, see, Pinkie came over to invite him and Scootaloo to something, and...”

“To what!?”

“I, uh, I think it was... maybe... a welcoming party. For Archer, since he got here yesterday.”

“So where are they now?”

“I think they went to Sugarcube Corner to plan it. I’m not sure.”

Twilight gave her trademark, frustrated, ragged, “I can’t believe I’m back at square one what is wrong with the world” sigh.

“Thanks, Fluttershy. Next time I ask you to keep someone here, though, just use the Stare if they try to get out.”

“Umm... I’m not sure if that’s how it works...”

“Goodbye, Fluttershy.”

“Bye, Twilight.”

***

“Woo, woo, woo, woo, woo, woo, woo, WOO!”

Pinkie had very recently discovered the joys of a particular human parlour game. They called it “Blind Man’s Bluff”.

“Oh-oh-oh-kay, guys, I’m dizzy!” She giggled. “What now?”

“Now you have to catch us!”

The sound of a door opening and closing told Pinkie she had a definite winner.

***

Twilight Sparkle, true to her reputation, was a master of logical deduction. What follows is as near a literal transcription we can manage of her thought processes as she saw a most unusual sight in the Ponyville marketplace.

Fact: Archer and Scootaloo are running through the market, laughing.

Fact: Pinkie Pie is trailing behind them, staggering drunkenly and bumping into things.

Fact: Pinkie Pie is blindfolded.

Thus: Archer, Scootaloo, and Pinkie Pie are engaged in “shenanigans” of a possibly mischievous nature, with probable levels of guilt in that order, from greatest to least.

Fact: Pinkie Pie can and has caused major accidents when blindfolded before.

Fact: If Princess Celestia finds out I let someone get hurt in such a potentially catastrophic way, I will probably be banished from Ponyville and sent back to Magic Preschool.

Therefore: The shenanigans must end now.

***

Twilight Sparkle was not having a good day. She could tell it would never be a good day when Archer got out of control like this. She told the three stooges as much, immediately after stopping their rampage of hilarity.

Scootaloo was frightened. Pinkie Pie was downcast. Archer was unimpressed.

She told the first to go home, and come back tomorrow when the party planning wasn’t so rambunctious. She told the second to calm down and maybe go play with her pet alligator. She told the third that she wouldn’t tolerate much more of this, and that he had someone waiting for him back at the library, so would he please go there now.

To their credit, they all listened. So that was something.

***

“Hello, Archer.”

The unannounced blue mare, staring steely-eyed at him from the kitchen, was sadly the least surprising thing to happen to him so far today.

“Hello there, missus... Inkwell?”

“Come have a seat, Archer. I need to talk to you.”

He had sat in this exact same seat yesterday afternoon. He didn’t remember it being so uncomfortable.

“Can you tell me, exactly, what this was doing here?”

She floated up the bottle. That bottle. The gift from the king. It was missing quite a bit.

“Saints alive, woman, how much of that did you drink?”

“Enough.”

“Why are you asking me about this?”

“Because it came with a very nicely-worded letter.” She levitated said letter into view. “And it just so happens that both the bottle’s label and this letter are printed in a language that only you and I know how to speak. Uncanny, wouldn’t you agree?”

This was bull, and Archer knew it.

“So you’ve got it all figured out, eh?”

“Let me see. You’re spying on the Equestrians until you can get an opening to escape. You plan on using this,” she shook the bottle, “a highly potent nerves-of-steel potion, to aid in said escape. You hid this, and the letter instructing you to do all this, in the kitchen cupboard, figuring correctly that no one would look for them, and could not read them even if they did. How’s that?”

“I’d say that about covers it,” Archer said, sighing heavily. “What’s your price?”

“My price?”

“Yeah. Money, favors, what?”

Inkwell was at first confused. Then she realized what Archer was insinuating. Then she laughed.

“My dear boy, you have me figured all wrong. You think I’m going to tell on you to the princess?”

He nodded.

“No, no, no. I am not planning on betraying you, Archer.”

She leaned forward on the table.

“I’m planning on coming with you.”
> ...Of Ponies and Men...
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“...Archer? Come back, man, I think I lost you.”

Archer let go of a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in. He sounded like an old pair of bellows. He snatched the Liquid Nerve out of the air, and took a good, long draw of it.

“I am trying very hard not to have an episode, Miss Inkwell. I want you to tell me, slowly.... In English, because I just know someone will walk in on us if we use Equestrian....”

“Fair enough,” was the human-tongued reply.

“Now, from the top. Why are you, a mild-mannered bookkeeper pony-” Inkwell snorted, “-offering to accompany me, an incredibly dangerous agent of espionage, possibly even sabotage-”

“Ok, first off, you are giving yourself way too much credit. Espionage? Seriously? Let’s not mince words here, buddy. You fell flank-backwards into Equestrian territory. The only reason you’re even alive right now is because Equestrians have this inborn capacity to forgive, to the point of utter stupidity.”

Archer slumped an inch or so lower in his chair.

“You are not the same lady I met yesterday morning.”

Inkwell made a noise somewhere between a groan and a resigned sigh. 

“I’m beginning to doubt I ever was. Something’s... changed. Something about me is different, and it’s going to drive me insane if I don’t figure out what’s wrong.”

“So... what does this have to do with escaping?”

“It has everything to do with escaping!  I was told to come here and find you by a letter - written in English. I divined your ‘malicious intent’ from the bottle’s label and the message from your king - both in English. Wouldn’t you know it, I have no idea how I learned this language in the first place!”

“So... what? You think your memory’s been altered?”

“I definitely think something is being hidden from me, and it’s horsefeathers of the highest order.”

“You still haven’t told me why you want to come with me.”

“I want to come with you because you’re the key to all of this! This potion you’ve been hiding-” she magicked it up from the table, “-is the kind notorious for inducing mental clarity and knocking loose memory charms. Someone told me to come here because they knew that, and pretty sure it’s no coincidence your king sent it here, either.” She huffed. “Man, I’m not normally this long-winded.”

“That’s a relief.”

Inkwell stared at him. Then she chuckled.

“Now, see, any other time, I would have gotten mad at that.”

Silence was all that passed between them for a while.

“This might sound weird, but I could really use some coffee. Do you...?

“Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

***

“Oh, by the way, you’re buying. The Cakes cut me off.”

“Gosh, I wonder why. You’re such a well-mannered and self-disciplined individual.”

“Look, I hadn’t had a good breakfast in months. I can be forgiven for going a little crazy.”

Archer and Inkwell drew a few odd looks. It wasn’t every day, after all, that a pony and a weird two-legged thing walked down the road, chatting amicably in a seemingly demonic tongue.

“Archer, you ate so much you set a new Equestrian world record. ‘A little crazy’ doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“Well, try spending weeks at a time eating only what animals you can sneak up on and what plants you can remember from a wilderness survival course, and we’ll see how you do when you finally find civilization.”

“I imagine I would eat like a horse.”

“Yeah, you’d...” Archer stopped, replaying that last sentence in his head. “...Wait a minute, was that a pun?”

“I don’t know, was it?” Inkwell shot back, still walking.

“You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are, Inkwell. Not by half.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. This makes, what, twice today I’ve managed to completely blindside you?”

Archer sputtered.

“Ha! Make that three!”

Inkwell laughed and trotted away. The surrounding Equestrians had no idea what was being said between the two, but it didn’t take a philosopher to suss out that the human had gotten the short end of the conversation.

“...Not by half,” muttered Archer, as he finally remembered to start walking again.

***

“Ohh, no. I’m sorry, dearie, but I can’t sell anything else to that lunatic until he’s-”

“He has a name, Ms. Cake. And you’re not selling the coffee to him, you’re selling it to Inkwell, and she’s the least loony pony I know!”

“You know, Pinkie, we’re right here.”

Archer’s repeat appearance at Sugarcube Corner hadn’t gone over well at all with Mister and Missus Cake. The sight of the human struck a deep fear in them both for their bottom line. Mr. Cake, being the spindly thing he was, had fainted, leaving his better half to politely yet pointedly stonewall any attempts by Archer to glean a single drop of the life-giving beverage he sought.

And then Pinkie showed up, and now it was just a mess.

Finally, with much silliness, arguments, and a sum of money well over three times the normal cost of a Sugarcube XXL Espresso™, Pinkie and Inkwell convinced Ms. Cake to fork over a tray of cups full of the greatest addiction ever.

“So,” said Archer, as they sat down at a table by the window. “Now that we’ve got our drinks...” He switched to English. “Do you fancy talking about our secret escape plan out in the open, where everyone can hear us?”

Inkwell very briefly considered spit-taking on the spot. Then she remembered how much she’d paid, and the urge disappeared.

“Are you nuts?”

“Nope, just speaking code.”

Silence. Then a slightly unhinged laugh.

“You’d think I, of all ponies, would know when someone switched languages on me. I suppose that makes it Inkwell 3, Archer 1.”

“I’ll catch up eventually.”

“...So, what is the plan?”

“Leave at night, get to the forest, and walk in a straight line for two weeks.”

This time she really did spit out her coffee.

***

The conversation pulled itself back together after Archer and Inkwell finished being kicked out of Sugarcube Corner by a baker’s wife so indignant, not even Pinkie Pie could pacify her. They decided to take refuge on a bench next to a fountain, which served as a rather ostentatious centerpiece for the town square.

“Now, run that by me again. We’re going into the Everfree Forest at night? On purpose?”

“Well, I’d think it’s pretty simple. I walked out of the forest right before Rice Pudding-”

“Rainbow Dash.”

“Yeah, right after Rainbow Sherbet stomped the snot out of me.”

“Your point?”

“I came out of the Everfree Forest, and into Equestria. Now, I don’t know what lies on the other side of it, by Equestrian reckoning...”

“A mountain range, for future reference.”

“...But where I come from, it’s called Grogham’s Wood, and it goes right up to the walls of our newest city. By our reckoning, it extends all the way to the coast, and from there it’s nothing but ocean.”

“Well, someone has to be wrong, don’t you think? Last time I checked, the Swayback mountains didn’t have a chunk torn out of them to make way for a township. And I’m pretty sure Ponyville isn’t twenty feet underwater.”

“You’d think. But I’ve seen the beaches. I’ve fought Merfolk on them. So does someone have to be wrong?”

Inkwell pondered this.

“...No?”

“Is that your answer, or are you guessing?”

“I don’t know! Until today, I didn’t even remember there was a world outside Equestria to begin with!”

“Well, the answer is, they’re both right. In their own way, of course. It all depends on which route you take.” Seeing Inkwell’s confused expression, he felt the need to elaborate. “Look at it this way. If I stuck to the outskirts of Grogham’s Wood, I’d wind up at the beach. Get it?” She nodded uncertainly. “But apparently, if I take the short route, through the forest’s center, I wind up in the Everfree and eventually here. Which only makes sense.”

“How does that make sense? That makes the exact opposite of sense!”

“Well, that's assuming the journey and the destination are independent of each other, which is simply not the case.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Well, you can’t remember ever living outside of your nice, comfy, horse-filled bubble. All the roads here meet in ways mortals can understand, because mortals put them there. ...Equestrians are mortal, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, the world, by and large, wasn’t made by mortals. It twists and connects into itself in ways beyond our tiny comprehension. I don’t even think the dragons ever really figured it out, and their elders were flying the skies before humans or Equestrians had really gotten the hang of fire.”

“Our princess controls the sun. Try us.”

“Fair enough. What I’m trying to say is, geography is a chaotic and inexact science. That’s what makes my job so vital, and why defending or even defining a kingdom’s borders is such a nightmare. It’s also why we have to go through the Everfree Forest if we’re to stand any chance of escaping.”

Inkwell tapped a hoof to her chin, weighing her options. Side A of her brain proposed she forget about this whole dangerous mess, keep out of the forest, and shun anything human-related for the rest of forever. Side B insisted she indulge her curiosity and accompany Archer into the great unknown, in hopes of discovering her true past, and perhaps the identity of this “Higgs” fellow she remembered talking to.

As you might have guessed, B won in a landslide.

“Alright. I’ll start packing provisions. Are we leaving tonight?”

“Uhh.” Archer suddenly looked rather uncomfortable. “I wasn’t planning on leaving, like, right now.”

“Why not?”

“I, uh...”

“Archer, come on. You trust me enough to tell me exactly how you’re going to escape. The least you could do is tell me this.”

“Alright,” Archer sighed. “I don’t want to leave yet because... I promised Pinkie Pie we’d... work on her hovercart, tomorrow.”

Inkwell stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Pinkie Pie? As in, Pinkamena Diane Pie?” Archer nodded. “Did she make you Pinkie-swear?”

“Well, no...”

“Then you’re off the hook. She only really cares when people break those. She’ll probably be sad for five minutes, then forget you ever existed.”

“I’m not sure, Inkwell. I mean, I promised.”

“I swear, you loyal types.... Look,” she said, hopping down from the bench. “I’m shoving off for the human world. Tonight. You can either come with me and disappoint a total madpony that you’ll never see again, or you can stay in Ponyville and tinker with your toys while I blaze a trail through the Everfree by myself.” She started walking away. “I’ll come by the library tonight. If you don’t come down and meet me... well, I guess I’ll know your answer.”

She turned a corner and was gone, leaving Archer alone with his thoughts in the square.

***

"Hey. Dragon."

Spike woke up very slowly and very grumpily. But that was par for the course.

"Whuzzuh."

"Can you send this for me?"

"Sure, whurzit need't go."

"King Jove the Fifth."

"Arright."

FWOSH

"G'night."

***

Addressed to His Royal Majesty, King Jove V:
On The Subject Of Egression

I will be making an attempt at escaping Eqshana tonight.

I know I have not had much time to gather information on the Equestrians, but in its stead I bring something better. Accompanying me is a turncoat. They are well educated on all outstanding facets of Equestrian culture, and quite versed indeed in its language.

We will make haste for the portal between the kingdoms tonight. I fully expect we will emerge from Grogham’s Wood in no less than two weeks’ time. I shall send you my next letter upon our arrival in Ghomshire.

Your loyal subject,
“Archer”

***

The king sighed heavily, going over the letter again to ensure he hadn’t horribly misinterpreted its intent. Finding his initial appraisal of the situation to be correct, he turned to the mirror hanging in his private room.

“This could be a problem.”

The Equestrian princess in the mirror nodded.

“We shall take care of it. Personally, if need be.”

“Any idea who this ‘turncoat’ could be?”

“The one called Inkwell, no doubt. A mere linguist. She poses no threat, despite her abnormal origin.”

“And my man? What ‘threat’ does he pose?”

“None whatsoever. We’ve seen your race. Nocturnal, they’re not.”

“Don’t go thinking the darkness will dull him in any way. The night can make a marauder and thief out of anyone.”

The princess laughed. It was deep, wicked, and shadowy, quite unlike her sister. The King would never tell them this, but he much preferred Celestia’s company to hers.

“Thou speakest as if we could be even be touched by a mortal such as this. Hast thou such unfaith?”

“I’m just looking out for a friend of a friend. If you got hurt cleaning up after one of my messes, I don’t think Celestia would forgive me.”

Luna snorted.

“Since time immemorial, thy race’s kings hath judged me the lesser. I see a thousand years hath failed to impart any insight on the subject.”

“Luna, if I really thought Celestia could do it better, I’d have waited until morning. I know you’ll stop them quick, without any off-the-cuff reasoning or coercion like I know your sister’s prone to.”

“This is... not an inaccurate summation.”

“And I know you’ll do it right, without injuring either of them. Purposefully or otherwise.”

Luna glared at Jove through her side of the mirror.

“Dost thou presume to instruct us, like one of thine own subjects?”

“Not at all, Your Highness. Just remember what we agreed on.”

Luna huffed, and leaned back on her throne.

“The human and his cohort shall be recovered unharmed. The methods thereof are to be at our discretion. Dost thou dispute this?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Very well. If your scout mentions anything pertaining to the moon, play along. End call!”

Luna’s image shimmered, rippled, and disappeared. Jove sighed.

“...Crazy bint.”

***

That night, a very familiar scene played out.

Two figures slipped out of the library’s doorway, making about as much noise as the Equestrian had made going in. That is to say, very little at all.

They made their way through the streets with little trouble. Anyone still out and about was assured Inkwell was up to nothing more than “showing Archer around”. In no time at all, they had left the town behind, moving quick over empty land illuminated only by the light of the moon.

Archer turned his gaze to the body in question, which hung, motionless, in the sky. He got the impression of a single monolithic eye, staring down at him and marking his every step.

He had no idea, as he ventured into the unknowable nocturnal danger of the Everfree, just how accurate that impression was.
> ...Go Oft Awry
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Here we are.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep. This is where I came out.”

There was no doubt about it. Even under the dim moonlight, the hillocks just beyond Ponyville’s outskirts were unmistakable. Archer and Inkwell now stood on the very spot a certain blue pegasus had landed, ready to deliver the mule-kick of a lifetime directly to the forehead.

“So... did you pack provisions?”

“We’ve got a couple dozen muffins, some donuts, and enough coffee powder to outlast a siege.”

“Let’s focus on outlasting the forest first.”

Without another word, Archer sallied forth into the forbidding gloom of the forest. Inkwell took one last look at the home she was leaving behind, and followed. It was surprisingly easy going for a while. The ground was fairly level, the trees let a bare smidgen of moonlight in, and nothing was jumping out at them trying to murder them and consume their livers.

Idle conversation, then, was the name of the game.

“So.”

“So?”

“Do you know magic?”

“Me? No. Nooo, no. If I could do magic... I would definitely not be doing this. I’d be home, turning dirt into gold.”

“Humans can do that?”

“If the penny dreadfuls are to be believed, then yes.”

“What on earth is a ‘penny dreadful’?”

“It’s sort of like a really cheap, tiny newspaper that publishes nothing but complete codswallop.”

“So... you can’t change dirt into gold.”

“Well, I’ll be darned if I wouldn’t try, at least. My family’s got far too little of the second and far, far too much of the first.”

“Is that why you became a scout?”

“Well, there’s only three reasons  for someone to sign up for a job like this. Either you’re stupid and you have no idea what you’re doing, you’re clever and you know all too well what you’re doing, or you’re desperate and you have no idea what you’re doing but get good at it anyway, because there just aren’t any other options. Take a wild guess which one I am.”

It was a dark fact of life, but it was good for a laugh. The two refugees continued making their way deeper into the Everfree and away from Ponyville in silence. Until, of course, silence got boring, so Archer decided to start talking again.

“I guess I could ask you the same thing.”

“Hmm?”

“You know, what magic can you do?”

“Mostly stuff related to books and such. You see that mark on my flank?” She gestured to the crossed quill and pen.

“Yeah?”

“It represents the special talent I have for language and the written word. Every Equestrian gets one of their own by a certain-”

“It is at this point that I cease to care.”

“What?”

“I was asking you about magic, not funky fairy hip tattoos. What exactly can you do with yours? The magic, I mean, not the tattoo.”

“Well, I can learn new languages pretty fast. I can create books on any subject I know, then turn around and use them to teach other people. That’s how I got the job at the language room, and it’s pretty much the only reason you know Equestrian now.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. I-”

“...But don’t you have anything useful?”

“Pardon?”

“You know, combat magic? Survival magic?”

“Well... No. No, I don’t.”

“Anything? You can’t shoot lightning or fire, or turn people inside out?”

“Ew, no! Why would a bookkeeper need to do any of that?”

“I’m just throwing out some possibilities, woman. Think.” He flicked the inert horn jutting out of Inkwell’s hair, eliciting a stray spark. “Any destructive spells? At all?”

“Well... there is one thing. A Burn-To-Nothing spell.”

“You now have my full attention.”

“I only use it for trash disposal, though. It only works on paper. So unless we run into a nest of murderous Book Worms, we’re out of luck.”

Archer sighed dramatically.

“You let me down, Inkwell. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to turn in your horn at the office.”

“Sure thing, Sarge. Let me know when we get there.”

The Everfree was cold, damp, and far too dim for Archer’s tastes. But he much preferred it over being cold, damp, and totally alone.

***

“They approach the boundary far too quickly. We will be unable to complete our illusion before they reach it. Hast thou any preemptive measure?”

The amulet crackled with the white noise made by magic stretched across realms. Out of the static came the voice of a very irate King.

“Bleedin’ blimey, Luna, do you have any idea what time it is?”

“It is precisely one hour, three minutes, and thirty-four seconds past midnight. So, yes, I do.”

“Then explain this horseradish.”

“My goodness, Jove! Language!”

“You’ve gotten me up at a very bad hour, Moon Pie. I have an excuse.”

“I concede the point. However, the scout and his accomplice are nearing the outer edge of my influence. If they are not sufficiently stalled, I fear I will not be able to prevent their escape.”

“What makes you think I can do anything of the sort?”

“You are a king. One does not keep the throne as long as you have without any sort of magical edge.”

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line.

“Alright. There is one thing I could try. But Vorlan has to be in control of the territory for me to pull it off.”

A simple unspoken order was made, directed to no one in particular.

“Done. The Everfree is yours until sunrise.”

“I can buy you an hour. No more.”

“Any particular reason?”

“If I try to get any more out of this charm, I’m liable to kill the man. I don’t think either of us wants that.”

“Fair enough. Good luck.”

As the amulet went silent, Luna turned to the partially-illusioned arch of trees behind her. She could, conceivably, have done without all the smoke and mirrors, but she figured if one was going for intimidation, one should aim high.

***

“...And that’s how I met your mother.”

“Yeah, neat... wait a minute. What?”

“Hah! Just making sure you were paying attention.”

The dynamic duo had made quite a bit of progress in two hours. The forest had thickened, as forests are wont to do, until the light had reached levels normally reserved for caves miles below the ground. The only illumination was the glow from Inkwell’s horn.

Which was fine, because they’d both been trying to find something for her to do besides carrying the food.

They had agreed to make as much headway into the forest as they could before camping. The less likely it was for any hypothetical Equestrian search parties to find them in the morning, the better.

So, to keep the mood up and each other awake, Archer and Inkwell had resorted to telling each other humorous and progressively cruder stories of life in their respective hometowns.

“...And then Pinkie Pie looked at me and Ditzy and said, ‘Oatmeal? Are you crazy?’”

The ensuing bout of laughter forced Archer to the side for a moment, leaning on a nearby tree to keep himself upright. For some reason, his laughter died out much faster than hers.

“Archer?” asked Inkwell, rubbing the tears out of her eyes. “You alright, buddy?”

Archer’s expression was grim. He was pressing hi ear to the tree trunk, as if it were whispering some dark secret to him.

“What is it?”

“Shh.”

“Why are you-”

“SHH!”

They stood like that, in utter silence, for a good minute. Then Archer pushed himself away from the tree and unslung his bow.

“We’re being followed.”

“What?! By who?”

“Quadrepeds. Fast ones. Six, maybe seven.”

“Do you think Ponyville found out we’re missing?”

“I don’t know, maybe!” Archer turned, revealing a half-deranged expression. “The dragon’s a narcoleptic and Twilight sleeps like a rock, so it couldn’t have been them. The only other person who knew about this was you!”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Heavens, noooo. All I’m saying is that somebody must have let something slip, and you’re the only other member of the club.”

“Are you calling me a traitor?”

“I ain’t calling you for dinner!”

They were interrupted by a piercing noise. A howl, decidedly lupine in origin, sounded in the distance, soon answered by several like-minded calls throughout the forest.

“But they are.”

“Huh.” Archer swallowed hard. “I guess those are our six quadrupeds. Sorry for snapping at you, Inkwell.”

“Apology accepted. Now, RUN!”

***

Leader smells food. Leader runs.

The pack is six. Leader, Sprinter, Jumper, Killer, Tracker, and Runt.

Names are what you are good at. Tracker is Tracker because he is good at smelling. Killer is Killer because he is good at biting. Runt is Runt because he is good at being small.

Big Voice told Leader there was food. Voice was right.

Leader says track. Tracker says this way.

Big Voice says the food is two. One with two legs and angry sticks, one with four legs and magic.

Leader says the food is helpless, because the pack is nothing but angry sticks and magic.

Big Voice says we’ll see.

***

The wolves were closer. The constant howling had taken on that odd quality in which it seemed to come from every direction at once, including the listener’s own head. The two escapees couldn’t even be sure whether they were running from or to their pursuers any more.

So they stopped running, just to be sure.

Archer stood with an arrow drawn, his back to one of the Everfree’s many, many trees. Inkwell was fidgeting nervously by his side, ready to telekinesize the everloving dickens out of anything that looked at her funny.

“So, what do you think they are?”

“Dunno. Wolf monsters come in all flavors.”

“Name me some. I can prune the list for you.”

“They might be Devil Dogs.”

“Nah. We’d see the fire at this distance.”

“Huckleberries?”

“Could be, though I can’t smell anything.”

“Canes Minor?”

“I thought those were winter beasts.”

“It was only winter two weeks ago. They might be having one last go at it before hibernating.”

“Wonderful timing,” she muttered.

The howling stopped. A pair of glowing eyes shone out from the trees directly in front of the two, not more than ten yards away.

“Well, it’s not a Huckleberry, that’s for sure.”
Archer, on a whim, loosed the arrow into the gap, pegging the monster directly in the eye. It made no noise. Instead, it lumbered out of the shadow to leer at Archer with its one good eye.

It was definitely wolf-shaped. As wolf-shaped things go, it was pretty big, standing nearly as tall as an Equestrian. Its skin was completely covered with - or, likely, entirely composed of - dead-looking bark. One eye glowed a dingy mustard yellow. The other’s socket was currently chewing up and swallowing the arrow Archer had nailed it with a few seconds ago.

“Timberwolves,” Archer grumbled, as the wooden canine advanced on him, growling. “Well, I guess that’s not so bad.”

“Well, you’re the hunting expert,” Inkwell muttered nervously. “How do we kill it?”

“Let me see,” he said, fumbling to nock another arrow as the Timberwolf advanced on them. “It’s basically a golem made out of dead tree parts. We could, ah... set it on fire. Burn it to nothing, even.”

“That spell only works on paper. Remember?”

“Well, what’s paper made out of?”

There was a pause.

“Dried pulp?”

“Earlier than that.”

“Sawdust?”

“Earlier!”

The Timberwolf was nearly within poncing range.

“Wood?”

“Ding!” Archer swiveled the arrow down to Inkwell’s eye level. “Light me.”

“I really don’t think-”

“LIGHT ME, FOR THE LOVE OF PETE!”

Inkwell tapped her horn to the arrowhead. It immediately burst into a bright blue flame. As Archer swung the bow back up, he noticed that the Timberwolf had indeed pounced and was heading at him quite fast.

Unlike most other heroes in stories of this nature, Archer did not experience a slowing of time. He did not snap a witty one-liner before doing the deed.

One moment, the arrow had not yet been shot, and the Timberwolf was pouncing and not on fire.

In a snap of adrenaline-soaked reflex , the exact inverse was true.

Upon impact, the arrow embedded itself in the Timberwolf’s hide. It shattered, causing the Burn-To-Nothing spell to detonate like a firebomb. The Timberwolf was instantly consumed, the force of the spell knocking it back and into the grass. There, it flopped and floundered, the arcane flames incinerating it from the inside out as it wailed.

Then, within seconds, there was little left but a rapidly-dissipating cloud of ash. There was a reason it was called Burn-To-Nothing.

Archer exhaled slowly, hesitant to move for fear of the ashes somehow coming back to life and, I don’t know, suffocating him. Once it became clear the Timberwolf was completely and utterly dead, he chuckled and patted Inkwell on the back.

“Stick with me, kid. We’ll go places.”

***

Magic set the angry stick on fire.

Killer is gone.

Leader says Big Voice never told them about fire. Voice says they didn’t ask.

Leader says they are leaving.

Voice puts Jumper to sleep. Jumper is gone.

Voice says to chase for a while longer, or he will do that to the others.

***

The four Timberwolves were blocking them. This was now the third time tonight this sullen quartet had shown up, angry at nothing in particular and refusing to let them pass.

“Archer, I think they’re trying to tell us something.”

“This is seriously starting to get on my plums.”

Inkwell sputtered mirthfully. “Your what?”

“I just want to be able to shoot an animal without all his mates getting uppity at me. Just once! I don’t even care, if I could get one free bag and tag without all this hassle. First it was the horses, and now these guys.”

The wolf to the far left growled at him.

“Oh, cry me a river, Pixie Sticks. Like you never had to suffer this either.”

***

“It is finished.”

“Finally. I was about to lose the wolves.”

“Call your attack dogs off. I now have the situation well in hoof.”

“Done. Never call me up this early again.”

“Good night, ‘Your Highness’,” Luna sighed, shutting off the amulet.

Showtime.

***

“You don’t think it’s weird that they just ran off like that?”

“Nah, they’re Fae creatures. They do weird stuff like that all the time. Probably some crazy Timberwolf thing where they never hold up people for more than so long, or else they all start to fall asleep or turn to stone or something stupid like that.”

“I actually know a few monsters that do that kind of stuff.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, there was a Ghoti infestation down at the river a few months ago. Thing is, Ghoti need to beach themselves every other weekday, or else they - oh my.”

“Oh my” was right.

The clearing was broad, if nothing else. The dewy grass undulated and twinkled under a velvet-indigo sky. The whole scene was illuminated by the light of a full moon, staring down at the world like the eye of a god.

Opposite the grassy expanse was a pair of trees, which curved into each other and formed a natural archway. In that archway sat a single equine figure, pure black in color. Its wings were outstretched, the very tips connecting with the trunks on either side. It was, rather obviously, guarding something.

As if to drive the point home, it spoke. Its voice was deep and rumbling, carrying the weight of very old magic behind it.

“You shall not pass.”

Silence reigned for a good two minutes. When it was finally broken, it was Archer, unsurprisingly, who spoke first.

“Hmm, let’s see. It’s night. The moon is suddenly full, not to mention twice as big. There’s a wet, warm summer breeze, despite it barely being the start of spring. And you’re jet-black.”

“Your point?”

Archer smiled, and made a mock-bow.

“Nightmare Moon, I presume. Allow me to be the first to welcome you back to Equestria.”
> Shooting for the Moon
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Big Voice says the pack is free. No more hunting.

Leader says they will not hunt for the voice again. Voice says fine. It didn't want to come back anyway.

Leader asks why. The Voice says they cannot understand.

It asks one thing before leaving. Where do the walking mountains sleep?

Runt says under the other mountains, in the caves. Everyone knows that.

Leader tells Big Voice to promise not to burn the mountains, too.

It promises, and leaves.

***

“Excuse me?”

“Don't try to play coy, your highness. I've read all about you.”

The tension in the air had a physical presence. The breeze seemed to hitch on it. The grass withered in it. It managed to spook Inkwell stiff, akin a deer caught in a bright light.

Archer, as could be expected by this point, was completely oblivious to it.

“Have you, now? And what is written of the great Nightmare Moon?”

“Just that you were the worst threat to the peace and order of Equestria since the reign of Discord, whoever or whatever he was...” Nightmare Moon twitched noticeably. “...and that a thousand years from the day of your banishment, the stars would break your prison in the moon and release you into the world once again.”

“This is true.”

“And so, I wanted to congratulate you on your recent escape. The nearest town...” He pointed behind him. “...is about thirty miles that way. Feel free to raze it at your leisure.”

“Archer, this isn't-”

“Inkwell,” Archer muttered, turning to her. “Relax. We're dealing with a Fae supervillain on the rebound. I've worked with her type before.”

“But she's-”

“On the contrary,” Nightmare interrupted. "I am certainly not 'on the rebound,' as you so delicately put it.”

“Oh?”

“Archer!” Inkwell hissed.

“Silence!” the dark sorceress thundered at her. ”You are not permitted to speak.”

Sheer volume caused Inkwell to recoil, shocked once again into silence. Nightmare turned back to Archer.

“I have been free for quite some time, human. You are hardly the first to 'welcome me back' to Equestria. Half the kingdom, you see, is already mine.”

“Ah. A civil war?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Then surely we two, ah, outsiders should get out of your way,” Archer chuckled, casually strolling to the wing-filled gap between her and the edge of the tree arch. “I'll put in a good word with the King. Who knows, we may even get a few special agents in for you.”

“I have no need for the favor of King Jove.”

Archer froze. So she knew his king's name. What else did she know?

“Are you sure? We've got some of the best pyromancers around.”

“And what could they amount to against my sister, the Queen of the Sun?”

“Point taken. Ice mages, then?”

“If I require a steam bath, I'll call you up.”

Ow. Nightmare Moon knew how to cut pretty deep. No wonder they got rid of her.

“Well, I'm sure we can find something to repay you for your - heh - generous hospitality. So if we could just-” At this point, Archer brushed against one of the feathers on Nightmare's wing.

The impact sent him flying, crashing one of the trees around the clearing, directly opposite the arch. Upon connecting, he bent nearly in half around the trunk and promptly crumpled to the ground.

“I believe I told you once already. You shall not pass.”

“Okay,” groaned Archer, thankfully suffering no injuries worse than getting the wind knocked out of him. “You can forget about those reinforcements, lady.”

“You speak as though I need any.”

***

Keeping up such an intricate facade for one so ignorant, while his quite well-informed companion stood dumbstruck not twenty feet away, was akin to beating up a blindfolded colt who was spinning plates - almost insultingly easy, but a decent challenge to keep something from slipping.

Telling him nothing but the truth while she did it was like beating the colt up while still inside the china shop.

Now, admittedly, the thing about the civil war was a horrendous exaggeration, as was most of the rest of her act. But Luna was having far too much fun to stop now.

“If you want my advice, you should turn back now, before someone gets hurt.”

She was being nothing but honest. She really didn't want to have to hurt him, or else she'd never hear the end of it from Jove. Her tone, though, made her sound like the sort of tyrant who could not only crush him for the slightest offense, but would also enjoy every moment of it.

“Sorry, your highness, but that isn’t exactly an option,” Archer grumbled, struggling to his feet. “I have to get home. And I intend to bring Miss Inkwell with me. Right, Inkwell?”

The unicorn didn’t answer. She was still dead silent, probably for fear that the dreaded Princess of the Night would send her to the moon if she said something out of turn.

“It would seem she’s rethinking her position on the matter.”

“No, look. We need to leave, ASAP. Why, exactly, are you so adamant about keeping us here?”

“Why, exactly, are you so adamant about leaving? My kingdom isn’t such a horrible place, once you get used to it.”

Definitely a lie of omission. Technically, it was “hers,” in that she was a ruler of it. There was her sister, of course.

“Well, I'm an escaped fugitive, for one. I've probably got a mob of Equestrian lawmen chasing me down, ready to drag me back to Ponyville.”

“You give yourself far too much credit.”

Oh, snap. She still had it.

“You're not the first pony to tell me that today, surprisingly enough.”

Luna made a halfhearted attempt at looking annoyed. “I tire of this banter. My decision is unchanged. You shall not pass into the realm beyond the Everfree while I still safeguard it.”

“Well, you have to sleep sometime. It wouldn't be much of a challenge to wait you out.”

“Archer, that is really not a good-”

“Hush!”

“The passage only opens by starlight or moonlight, the very lights which outline the kingdom I command. The second you near your escape, I will be there once more to turn you away. Checkmate, human.”

Upon hearing these words, something changed in Archer's expression. He was no longer that amicable fellow, desperately hoping to secure passage home. Instead, he wore the grim scowl of an aged professional, about to undertake an unpleasant task.

And make no mistake, what Archer planned on doing next could not be called “pleasant” by any definition.

“I see. You're set on making yourself an obstacle to me.”

“Yes.”

He sighed.

“There's a saying from the kingdom across that threshold, Nightmare.”

“Do tell.”

“'An obstacle's no obstacle...'” A drawn arrow came up, level with his face. “'...if it bleeds long enough.'”

“You assume you can make me bleed.”

“There's a first time for everything.”

“You risk much, threatening me.”

“I risk nothing that can't be bought back with the head of Equestria's greatest enemy.”

“You are no-”

“HOLD ON!”

Inkwell's scream distracted them both for a brief moment. In that time, reflex kicked in, and the part of Archer's brain that ran on three years of experience in killing magic things decided now was an excellent time to take advantage of a distracted target.

The arrow flew.

***

Farther inland, in the slumbering town of Ponyville, there was another Equestrian who had decided that sleep was a big, fat waste of her time. That Equestrian was currently hanging upside down from the branches of the Ponyville library, wearing a black jumpsuit and a set of trifocal goggles, trying desperately to open one of the windows and climb in before she fell two stories for the third time that day.

That Equestrian, unsurprisingly, was Pinkie Pie.

With a bit of fiddling, she finally jiggled the inside latch loose, and coaxed the window open with the tiniest squeak of the hinges. She slithered inside, trying her darndest not to rustle a leaf or step on a creaky floorboard. Who knows, maybe Twilight sudddenly decided to become a light sleeper.

“Hey, Archer,” she whispered to the windowside bed, poking it as she did so. “I was thinking. You know how we were gonna work on the hovercart on Wednesday? Well, it's technically Wednesday now, so...” The bed gave no response. “Archer? Helloooo?”

She pulled the sheets down. The bed was empty. This confused Pinkie. Archer was supposed to be here, right? Maybe he was asleep in a different bed. So, she trotted across the library, looking on the couch, the chairs - heck, under the couch and the chairs, you never know - the kitchen, the basement, and even outside on the park bench. Archer was nowhere to be found.

Only one logical course of action.

“Twilight? Twi-liiiiight....”

“Mff.”

“Twilight! Wake up! I need to ask you something.”

The slumbering unicorn leaned slowly out of bed. She turned her head to the brightly-colored intruder into her slumbering hours.

“Pinkie Pie?”

“Yep.”

“You have exactly ten seconds to improve my mood.”

“Hehe, yeah, well...”

“Seven seconds.”

“Ican'tfindArcherandIwantedtoknowwhereheisI'msorry.”

“What?”

Pinkie repeated herself, slowly.

“He's in his bed by the window.”

“Nuh-uh. Checked there.”

“Oh. I guess he fell asleep reading downstairs.”

“Nope. Checked there too.”

“The kitchen?”

“Checked.”

“The basement?”

“Checked.”

“The attic?” Twilight asked, a hint of worry creeping into her voice. “The pantry? The secret compartment?”

“Checked, checked, checked-a-roo. He isn't here.”

Twilight proceeded to have one of those quaint spasms in which an otherwise rational individual panics, realizes there isn't any point in panicking, attempts to panic again, then finally averages out into a jittery on-edge sensation.

“I need to look at something,” Twilight muttered, hauling herself clumsily out of bed.

She crossed the library, over to Archer's vacant bed. Passing over it, she took note of the window, propped open by a stick Pinkie left when she came in. Twilight removed the stick and watched as the window closed itself without so much as a sound.

This awoke a nameless fear in Twilight's heart.

She shoved the window open. “Oh no.” She let it swing shut. “Oh no.” She reapeated this process a few more times, every time not making so much as a creak. She had oiled these hinges far too well for that. “Oh no, oh no, oh nooooo...”

An image arose, unbidden, in her mind - Archer, silent as a hunting cave spider, climbing out of the disastrously un-squeaky window and to the ground below, before breaking for the edge of town, headed for... where?

“He's made a run for it.”

“What?”

“Archer! He's escaped!”

“But... he promised he'd be here tomorrow.”

“Really?” Pinkie nodded. “Well, from what I can tell, he's pretty fond of you. I don't think he'd break a promise to you without a really good reason.”

This observation was, all at once, true in ways Pinkie wanted  it to be, untrue in ways Twilight feared it was, and connotative of things neither of them were in the proper state of mind to consider.

At the moment, Pinkie chose to focus on the true parts and go from there.

“Well, we've got to find him!”

“Oh? And where do we start?” asked Twilight irritably. “There's only a million different places he could be right now!”

At that moment, the night sky lit up with an explosion. A vast column of white light shot up into the air from a point far in the distance, over the Everfree Forest. A muffled shockwave washed over Ponyville, shaking leaves from the trees and loosening the cobblework in the streets.

“Well,” said Pinkie Pie in her infuriatingly casual manner, “I'd say that's a good place to look as any.”

***

The arrow had shattered on contact with the princess's onyx-black skin, not leaving so much as a scrape where it had hit. The three in the clearing stared mutely at the fragments left behind, which smoked as the magic which disintegrated the projectile leeched out of its remains.

The princess watched as a wisp of the arcane runoff floated in front of her before dissipating in the frigid night air. Then she did something no one was expecting.

She started laughing.

“You- you shot at me!” she managed to choke out, in a voice that held no trace of malicious intent or magically-enchanced volume. “I can't believe it!”

Archer gaped at her, as she nearly doubled over chortling at a joke which, apparently, only she got.

“Uh. Yes. It would appear that way.”

“Do... do you know-” she managed to suppress the giggles for a minute. “Do you know how long it's been since someone managed to work up the gall to take a shot at me?”

“Well, seeing as how the royal forehead is apparently indestructible, I can imagine why anyone would be leery of the prospect.”

Luna chuckled again.

“Well, go on, Miss Inkwell. I believe it's time the house of cards came down on our friend.”

Archer turned to her. “Inkwell? Please tell me you aren't in with her.”

“Wh- no! No, I'm not! I-I've been trying to tell you this whole time, th-that isn't-”

“Isn't what?”

“That's not Nightmare Moon!” Inkwell exclaimed, finally belting out the words she'd been trying to get out since she laid eyes on the princess.

“What.”

“That's Princess Luna! The Elements of Harmony purged Nightmare Moon, like, a day after she was freed! Now she's just one of the princesses again.”

“Wait a minute.” Archer turned to Luna. “You said-”

“I said nothing, human Archer. You made assumptions and went from there. That is a road to ruin, I think you'll find. For instance, a few minutes ago, when you - how did you say it - tried to take 'the head of Equestria's greatest enemy'...”

“...You were really making an attempt at regicide,” Inkwell finished soberly.

Archer found it quite hard to say anything immediately after. In fact, he found it quite hard to hold onto his bow, stand up, or breathe. He somehow managed the latter two.

“Your highness,” he croaked. “I can explain...”

“I think you've explained quite enough for one night, Archer,” Luna said with a wry grin. “Besides. Don't you know it's time for people like you to be asleep?”

Without another word, a vast pillar of white moonlight engulfed the three. Archer, though he swore he'd never do so again, blacked out on the spot.

***

He awoke in a vast white expanse, face-down in what passed for dirt in vast white expanses. As he pushed himself up, he heard the distinct report of hooves on tile.

Approaching him was an Equestrian, bright red in color. Its flank was adorned with a picture of an arrow piercing a Canis skull.

That was where the dissimilarities ended.

It had a pony's version of his own unkempt rag of hair. It had his eyes. It even shared the wiry build he and most other scouts had earned through years of hunting their own food.

“Hi there,” it said, in his voice.
> Dream Weaver
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The smaller animals called them the walking mountains. They called themselves the two bears.

Since winter’s advent, they slumbered under the mountain. Now spring was here, but they could sleep a little longer.

A voice came to the younger.

“Are you the walking mountains?”

“Yes,” it said, half-asleep.

“I bring a warning. The small ones, the village-builders, do you know of them?”

“Yes.”

“There is a new one among them, a hunter. Soon, you will awake, and he will pose a dread threat to you and your mother. He stands tall on two legs, and throws fire and smoke. Beware him.”

“He will not best me. I am Young Bear, undefeated among the forest’s creatures.”

“I do not doubt you are best in the wood. But the hunter is from beyond both the wood and the village, and he is dangerous.”

“I will watch for him. But right now, I’m trying to sleep. Goodbye.”

The voice departed.

***

“Um. Hi?”

“Yes, I believe I said that already.”

“Where are we? And who are you?”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? We’re in an abstract representation of your mind, also called the blank void, the manifestation of the subconscious, etcedera. And as for who I am, I’d say that’s a rather philosophical question, eh?”

“What?”

“I’m you, genius. Sort of.”

Archer stammered. The red Equestrian parroted his stammering back to him in a mocking tone.

“‘Uh, uh, uhhhh.’ Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a journey into the mind before. Oh wait! You must have, because I know what that is, and I’m you.”

“I’m not convinced. You act nothing like me.”

“That’s because I’m a different version of you.”

“You just said-”

“Alright, look.” The Equestrian Archer slouched back in his chair, at a table that they both were suddenly sitting at, for no reason. Dream logic, he supposed. “I’m a dream messenger. Luna sent me into your brain to tell you something very important, and I have to adopt your personality until I’m permitted to leave because, powerful as I am, I just don't have any of my own. Get it?”

“Uh... I think so.”

“Exactly. You think. You are the waking mind. The id. You’re what people talk to when they address ’Archer.’”

“Okay, I understand.”

“Correct!”

“Shut up. I mean, I know what’s going on now, and who everyone is, but... why are we here? What purpose does this serve?”

“Well, it’s quite simple,” said the Equestrian, as he pulled a blackboard into view in a decidedly Pinkie-Pie-like fashion. “Princess Luna, the Duchess of Dreams-” He sketched a crude drawing of said princess on the board. “-has instructed me-” He drew himself, with a small arrow pointing to him labelled awesome, “-to tell you-” A drawing of Archer, wearing a dunce cap. “-what I’ve known for years and what you’ve suspected ever since Fluttershy saved you from a near-terminal case of gluttony.” He added a beer belly to Archer’s depiction.

“Which is?”

“That you habitually treat innocent Fae people like dirt because you heard a few unfounded horror stories.”

“Oh, that’s hardly news.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never considered how much of a jackanape it makes you.”

Archer threw his hands up. “Like I care what Fae people think?”

“You should. Fae people are feeding you, sheltering you, and right now, covering for you in front of a protege to the goddess of the daytime sky.”

“...What?”

“BEHOLD! The waking world!”

With a flourish, the Equestrian, who Archer really needed to name at some point, swiveled the blackboard to its opposite side, revealing a window to somewhere very dim.

“That’s the waking world?”

“Well, we’re not awake. That complicates things.”

“Then how are you-”

“SHH! Listen.”

***

“Princess... Luna?”

“Good evening, Twilight Sparkle. What brings you here at this hour?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Between the princess and her two subjects, the clearing was empty, save for the two slumbering figures off to the side. 

“Princess, what happened here?”

“Oh...” Luna gave an amused glance to the two would-be escapees. “...A couple of misguided souls lost their way. I put them back on the right path.”

“Was that the explosion we saw earlier?”

She cringed. “That may have had something to do with it.”

By now, Pinkie Pie was at the napping duo, poking and prodding as she was wont to do.

“What I wanna know is how they slept through something like that! I mean, didja see it? It was all - FWOOSH - and then the noise was like - BOOOOM - and then...”

Luna chuckled.

“She never stops, does she?”

“I don’t think she even knows what stopping is.”

“Twilight, could I impose on you to take these two back to Ponyville?”

“Alright, but... if it’s okay to ask, princess, what were they really doing all the way out here?”

“Oh, you know. Royal business. Very hush-hush.” She winked.

Twilight’s eyes widened. “Oh. Ohhhh. I see.” She winked back. “My lips are sealed, Your Highness.”

***

The blackboard flipped again, and the viewport into the real world was gone.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d she do that? I shot her!”

“You shot at her. Big difference.”

“Why is she being so nice to me? Why is anyone being so nice to me?! This is a Fae realm, they’re supposed to be cooking me up for stew by now!”

“See, that’s our problem. You’re being a massive racist.”

“They’re horses!”

“We prefer ’ponies’.”

“I don’t give a good got-dang what they prefer!”

“Their ruler just stuck out her neck for you, which you really didn’t deserve. It wouldn’t kill you to show a little decorum.”

“I know,” Archer sighed.  “I’d just like to be told why anyone around here is giving me the time of day at all.”

The Equestrian-dream-him-thing, who still needed a name, huffed. “Maybe it’s because they’re decent people? You know, unlike you? You, who took all of their generosity and kindness and took a massive dump all over it with two consecutive escape attempts, insults, all-around rudeness, and probably worst of all, atrocious table manners?”

During the tirade, the pony-Archer leaned on the table with his two front hooves, bending ever closer to human-Archer until they were nose-to-nose.

”Umm, not to interrupt, or anything, but... Are you sure you’re not just Pinkie Pie with a dye job?”

The equine leaned back, chuckling.

“You’re a lot more like her than you’d like to admit. Let’s see, you’re both smart, funny, awesome tinkers, not prone to having your ego stroked in the slightest...”

“If my subconscious has started showering praise on a pink fairy horse, just shoot me now.”

“I’m just saying, she’s a good friend. A much better one than you’ve been, if tonight is any indication.”

“Ouch,” Archer muttered.

“I wouldn’t be saying it if some part of you didn’t believe it,” said the Equestrian him, who he still needed to- Argh.

“Look, man, this is going to drive me crazy. Do you have a name?”

“No.”

“Can we find you one?”

“I’d rather you not, but fine.”

“Rag Mop?”

“Ew.”

“Ginger Ale.”

“No! And shut up.”

“Hmm. Arrowhead?”

He sighed.

“Fine. But only because I know that’s the best you can come up with.”

“Hey!”

“You know, you’d think talking to yourself would go a lot smoother than this.”

“You are not me.”

“Yeah, probably not.”

***

“Hey, Twilight?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think the princess was doing that ended with a giant explosion and Archer and Inkwell falling asleep?”

“She said it was a secret, Pinkie.”

“Yeah, but don’t you wonder? I mean, there’s bound to be intrigue and mystery behind why she wouldn’t tell anyone what-”

“It was magic.”

“Oh, pfft. Never mind then.”

***

“Look, just try,” Arrowhead said. “That’s all I’m asking. Just try for once in your life not to be a complete monster.”

“I’m not!

“Yes, you are. If only because no one but a complete monster would act like you have.”

“I’m on the king’s orders!”

“Oh, right. The king. The one a million miles away, who’s done nothing but send you vague letters and a bottle of turn-pony-crazy potion. A true hero, and an inspiration to us all,” he finished, his voice thick like sarcastic marmite.

There was a twanging sound, like a ball bearing hitting a piano string. It was the sound of a nerve being struck.

“Take that back.”

“No.”

“I said take it back! The king is a great man! His line has protected Vorlan for hundreds of years-”

“Just as well as the Mercaniad line did for a thousand years before it, right up until they were expunged from existence by Jove the First.”

“You’re fast approaching blasphemy, horse man.”

“Am I now? You’re getting mad at me bad-mouthing your king?” Archer nodded. “Well, take heart, my boy. At least I’m not shooting him in the face.”

This threw Archer for a loop.

“What!?”

“Well, that’s what you did, essentially. No, wait, that’s exactly what you did. You shot the Equestrians’ queen in the face. You should be dead. But you’re not. Instead, you get a nice nap and a sit-down with yours truly.”

“So now I’m under torture only horrible enough to make me wish I was dead.”

“Har har. I could actually do just that.”

“Eh, what.”

“Torture you. Drive you crazy. But I’m not doing that, because I’m the nice one, and you... well, to be perfectly frank, you stand to gain nothing from it. It’d be fun, sure. But there’s no point.”

“Are you some kind of sociopath? Weighing the pros and cons of forcing me into a mental breakdown, like it’s some kind of investment scheme?”

“No worse than you planning hours in advance how you were going to blow Pinkie up with a hand grenade.”

Plonk went another nerve being struck in the distance.

“Tell me, Arrowhead. Are you intentionally trying to go down in legend as an expert ruffler of feathers,  or does it just come naturally?”

“A little of both.”

***

Archer’s body hit the floor of the library with a THUD. Inkwell THUDded right beside him a second later.

“What do you think we should do with ‘em, Twilight?”

“Mufuhgrblepurblm.”

“What?”

“Tired. Going to bed. Good night.”

“What about Archer and Inkwell?”

“Let ‘em sleep there tonight. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in the morning.”

Pinkie looked at the two napping on the floor, then up to the balcony with the guest bed.

“Hmm.”

The bed was only built to hold one pony. But Archer was in no way a pony. He was a human, and was in no way restricted by pony-per-bed limits. So, it only made sense (Pinkie sense) that one human and one pony could fit in a one-pony bed.

Right?

***

“...And really, using her as a packmule was a low blow,” Arrowhead groused.

“She agreed to it! And she did the thing with the fire arrow, too. You saw it! That was neat!”

“Yes, it was. So, we can agree that Fae aren’t terrible by default.”

“No, she gets a pass because she’s different. She’s lived with humans, by the sounds of things, and that nerve potion woke her up from whatever haze she’s been living in for lord knows how long.”

“Mkay, first off. That ‘haze’ is what’s known as the standard pony mindset. She was happy. Then you showed up, and now she’s a dissident, malcontent firebrand who makes incredibly bad decisions such as joining a criminal on a forest hike. Not to mention she'll probably continue to do so. So who’s worse?”

“Them, for brainwashing her in the first place.”

“Have you considered that, maybe, it was her idea? Maybe she saw or did something she wanted to forget, and it backfired because she ended up wanting to find out again?”

There was a long pause as a sneaking suspicion sneaked suspiciously into Archer’s mind.

“Arrowhead... do you know something I don’t?”

“WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO KNOW!”

Arrowhead began cackling madly, tipping backwards in his chair.

“You know, you’re a part of my head now. I’m pretty sure I can just, you know, mentally throttle you and steal whatever you’re hiding.”

If anything, this made Arrowhead laugh even harder.

“Boy, I’ve existed in some form or another for a few thousand years. You’ve been around for, what? Thirty? If that? I am much better at that sort of thing than you’ll ever be.”

“I seem to recall you saying you were essentially me, earlier.”

“I lied. Or maybe I just told a half-truth. Hard to tell. This is a dream, you know. Inconsistency is part and parcel.”

“So’s waking up, but we sadly never got around to that.”

“Oh, you want to wake up?”

“Yes, please.”

“Really and truly?”

“Yes,” Archer grumbled.

“Are you suuuure?”

“Quit it, Arrowhead.”

“Fine! But just be sure you’re ready to face whatever’s waiting for you on the other side...”

As Arrowhead slowly sauntered away, Archer digested his departing statement.

“Like...?” he asked, cautiously.

“Oh...” Arrowhead turned around and smiled at him. “...Take a wild guess. The answer, I think you’ll find, is staring you in the face.”

For every minute it took Archer to puzzle out the latest whopper from Arrowhead’s mouth, the bigger the infernal pony’s grin seemed to get.

Then it clicked.

“No.”

“Yeeeesss,” Arrowhead said, doing his best impression of a dastardly top-hatted villain.

“No!”

“Yeeeeees!”

“She didn’t!”

“She may have! I don’t know, what are we talking about!?”

“We’re talking about the possibility of Luna having turned me into you!”

“What?” Arrowhead’s manic kinetic energy petered out suddenly. “No! Man, that’s exactly what I’m trying to stop from happening!”

“Okay, now it’s my turn to be confused.”

“Look, just wake up. Alright? Wake up. I’ll explain everything later.”

“Alright, how do you propose I do that?”

Arrowhead punched him in the face.

***

He woke up.

It was dawn. Probably. The sun was already at its eternal noontime position, which made guessing the hour pointless.

For some reason, he was in bed. And for some other reason, that bed was unusually warm.

He looked to his left. Someone had crammed him into the library's guest bed alongside Inkwell, who put out quite a few more degrees in body heat than he was used to.

“Oh, my. Breaking news, everypony! Stop the presses!”

That voice.

“‘Man Sleeps Next To Horse, Authorities Baffled.’ That sounds about right.”

That voice.

Archer brought himself upright. Sitting at the foot of the bed was a bright red pony who, until now, he was sure didn’t exist. Arrowhead waved.

“Haaaaaaaay!”

Archer sprang out of the bed, screaming like a snake had bitten him on the hindquarters. He landed heavily on the floor, before scrambling into a vaguely upright position and running full-tilt away from the demon who plagued his dreams.

The fact that running full-tilt away from Arrowhead meant diving into and through the balcony window wasn’t exactly a major point of concern at the moment.

The supposedly imaginary pony watched as Archer crashed through the glass and plummeted out of sight.

“And he calls me crazy? Sheesh.”
> The Morning After
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

If he’d had time to plan, Archer would probably have jumped off the indoor balcony instead. Or perhaps he would have used the ladder. Unfortunately, by the time he finished contemplating this, he was twenty feet above the ground, five feet from the window, and about half a second too late to achange his mind.

He fell.

A parachute would be nice. A repulsion plate on his groundward side would be simply smashing. Heck, he’d settle for a sailcloth to hang on to, so he could at least leave a presentable corpse.

Instead, after twenty feet down and another five feet forward, he had none of things. Instead, he had no wind in his lungs, a severe ache across his body, and a rather soft object underneath him explaining why he wasn’t dead.

The object, which coincidentally was a bypassing Equestrian, coughed, shoved him off, and stood up.

“Watch where you’re going next time, eh?”

“Next time I won’t be jumping out of a window,” Archer grumbled, muffled by the dirt he was currently face-down in. “But thanks for the tip.”

The fading sound of hooves on dirt told him he was talking to no one.

***

She was roused from her slumber by a scream and a crash of shattering glass. “The best part of waking up,” her eye.

That was probably Higgs. No, scratch that. That was definitely Higgs. It never failed. Every Wednesday morning since the 21st Infantry Brigade had quartered that blasted pikeman in her flat, she’d have a new crisis to put up with. The regularity of it was unnerving.

With a sigh, Innis reached for her glasses and prepared to start the day...

...And then her hoof knocked against the wall.

Wait.

Innis did not have hooves. Her bedroom wall was not on that side. Her bed was bigger than this. 

Inconsistencies.

Panic alert!

With a sudden, violent motion, she sat up. This wasn’t her flat. She was actually pretty sure this wasn’t in Vorlan at all. So where was she? What was she?

She flopped out of bed, barely managing to keep herself standing. Whatever had changed her wasn’t very keen on letting her stay off of all fours. With a sizable collection of missteps, she somehow managed to adjust.

She made great progress, up until she reached the edge of the balcony. From there, she faced a whole new, completely ridiculous obstacle- a ladder.

“Oh, you’ve got to be joking.”

***

The bell rang as someone entered Sugarcube Corner.

“Good morning!” sang Ms. Cake from behind the counter. “And how can we help you tod-”

She froze. The new arrival was no pony. It wasn’t even a nice not-pony. It was Archer, the Bane of Baked Goods. The Destroyer of Danishes. The Mutilator of Muffins.

There’s a picture being painted here. Can you see it?

He trundled up to the counter.

“Give me an espresso.”

“Y-you’re not welcome here.”

Archer laid a hand heavily on her shoulder, fixing on Ms. Cake with a distant, haunting stare.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me. Give me an espresso, now.”

“And what if I don’t want to?” she asked, offended.

Archer leaned in, as if he was sharing some incredible secret.

“Then I will kill everyone.”

***

“Yeah. Okay. I got this. Here we- GNNNNH. No. Wait. Wait. Wait. Okay, now we- GAH.”

FLOMP.

As one could gather, Innis was not having an easy time of descending the balcony ladder. In fact, she had just fallen off, achieving her long-term goal of getting downstairs, but failing to do so without causing bodily injury to herself.

Thankfully, she was still able to stand up and continue on. She was going to make some sense out of what had happened if it killed her.

...Bad choice of words.

She was in a library of some sort. She liked libraries. Nice, quiet, always ready to welcome the curious or the knowledge-hungry...

Hungry. Breakfast. Now.

Was that a kitchen? Oh boy oh boy oh boy.

***

“It’s stuff like this, man.”

Archer looked up from the cappuccino he was nursing, unsurprised to once again find Arrowhead sitting across a table from him.

“I don’t recall asking your opinion.”

“That’s the great thing about me. You never have to ask, I just out and say it.”

“So let me guess. I’m still in the dream. And this delicious caffeinated beverage I just threatened genocide over isn’t real.”

“Oh, no. You really are wide awake, and you really did scare the pants off of Ms. Cake in the totally unjustified pursuit of a latte.”

“Then explain yourself.”

“Well, here’s the deal. I’m an enigmatic spirit-being thing, sworn to aid and serve Princess Luna in all matters dream- and mind-related. I basically follow no rules, and thus defy explanation of any sort. So your request, reasonable though it may be, is much harder to grant than it sounds.”

“Well, let’s start small, then. You’re a dream. I’m awake. Why haven’t you gone away yet?

“Did you hear the part about mind-related matters? I’m not just a nightmare, though I serve delightfully well in that role...”

“Knew that already.”

“...However,” Arrowhead continued, “I am also a wonderful inside man when I want to be. So that’s what I am right now. An inside man.”

“Inside my head, that is.”

“Ding! Got it in one.”

“And Luna saw fit to torment me like this, because...?”

Arrowhead sighed dramatically.

“I told you already. I’m here to get you to straighten up. That stunt you pulled with Ms. Cake? That’s gotta stop.”

“And how, exactly, do you plan on enacting this ‘straightening,’ as you put it? You’re a dream. You can’t really make me do anything.”

Arrowhead smiled.

It was the sort of smile that told a man he had just made the worst kind of mistake.

“Uh oh.”

***

The closet was stocked with hay and flowers.

Why?

Was salted ham too much to ask for around here? What, was she supposed to put the flowers in between the bread and eat that?

Sure, why not. It probably tasted like grass and she’d spit it out and go looking for HOLY BLOOMING BLIMEY THAT IS THE BEST SANDWICH EVER. WHERE HAVE THESE BEEN THIS WHOLE TIME.

Two full loaves of bread. The whole satchel of blue flowers. A sandwich to put the Boar’s Head Deli to shame. It was delicious. There was no reason for it to be, but there it was.

The ensuing display was, quite frankly, embarrassing. She wasn’t starving. She hadn’t stumbled onto some desert oasis. But these flower sandwiches were just so good. Why stop?

“Inkwell?”

That’s why.

The intruder was purple-furred. Also, eerily familiar.

“Why are you eating a quadruple-decker Poison Joke sandwich?”

Poison?

“I was hungry?”

No you bloody well weren’t. Now beg the nice lady for some antivenom before your eyes fall out.

Wait, hang on.

“What did you call me?”

“Inkwell. That’s your name.”

“No, it’s-”

Suddenly, a flash of recognition.

“-Wait, right. Sorry, Twilight. My brain just, you know, fizzled for a minute there.”

“....Right. Why were you eating Poison Joke, again?”

“Oh, I just thought these were... uh... Bellblooms. Right.”

“Inkwell, Bellblooms look nothing like that.”

“Don’t judge me!”

“What!?”

“Nevermind. Just...” Her stomach grumbled noisily. “Where can I find some of the antidote? I think my small intestine’s about to knit itself into a balloon animal.”

“Back hall, second drawer to the left. It’s in the puce bottle. You can’t miss it.”

Innis, that is, Inkwell, muttered a quick “Thanks” and fled the kitchen with a swift clatter of hooves on wood.

Twilight sighed.

“I really hope Luna didn’t drive you crazy, Inkwell. You’d make, I think, the third pony this year.”

“Don’t worry!” was the assurance from somewhere deeper in the library. “I’m sane! Ninety-five percent sure I am!”

“Ninety-five? And the other five percent?”

“I’ve gone absolutely snooker loopy and haven’t realized it yet.”

“...Well, that’s a lot better than we usually do.”

***

“OHHHH, I’M HEN-A-RY THE EIGHTH, I AM! HEN-A-RY THE EIGHTH, I AM, I AM~!”

“MOTHER OF MERCY, SHUT UP!”

“Not until you go back and apologize to Ms. Cake.”

“Why!?”

“I GOT MARRIED TO THE WIDOW NEXT DOOR, SHE’D BEEN MARRIED SEVEN TIMES BEFORE-”

Archer collapsed. He’d had the presence of mind to flee the store before making a scene, but thirty-eight consecutive verses of “Henry the Eighth” had taken their toll. 

And now he was in the fetal position in Vomitorium Alley behind a fairy Starbucks, with an imaginary red horse singing his sanity away. Three days in Equestria will do that to a man.

“I’M HER EIGHTH OLD MAN NAMED HEN-A-RY, HEN-A-RY THE EEIIIIGHTH I-”

“Hey!”

“AAAAAM- Wait what.”

There, in the alley, stood Pinkie Pie.

She looked very cross.

“I heard singing! Bad singing! So who was it?”

Arrowhead looked at Archer. Archer hazarded a cautious glance back at him.

“She shouldn’t be able to hear me.”

“Who said that!”

Archer chuckled. “She’s Pinkie. She shouldn’t be able to do a lot of things.”

“Yeah!” Pinkie proclaimed, suddenly a great deal more chipper. “Wait, Archer? What are you doing back here?”

“Being tortured by an insane imaginary pony.”

Pinkie’s left ear twitched.

“Do you mean...” She pointed. “That insane imaginary pony?”

“Well, yes. But he’s a few degrees to the left.”

Pinkie swiveled. Arrowhead paled under her gaze. She grinned evilly.

“Well, I’ve got the perfect remedy for insane imaginary ponies!”

“You do?” asked Archer and Arrowhead, simultaneously.

“Yep! It’s my very own... Anti-Insane-Imaginary-Pony spray!”

She pulled out a small spray can, colored in bright yellow and green. Arrowhead stared at it.

“There is no way that’s a real thing.”

“Exactly,” Pinkie said, approaching Arrowhead slowly. “But neither are you!”

He paled even more, if that was even possible.

“You mean-”

“COME TO PINKIE!”

She hit a nozzle on top of the can, releasing a noxious green cloud of billowing gas at Arrowhead, quickly enveloping him and driving him into a coughing fit. He fled the alleyway, screaming something about being foiled, and how he’d be back, and something else about blasting off again.

The fog cleared, leaving Archer sitting dumbfounded in the corner and Pinkie Pie giggling to herself.

“How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You ran him off.”

“Oh, did I? I thought we were going to keep playing for a while.”

“Playing?”

“Yeah! You know, imaginary friends, anti-pony spray. We were just having fun!”

Archer stood up, brushing the dirt off of his trousers. “Okay, first off, Arrowhead is not my ‘friend’ by any stretch.”

“Really?” Pinkie seemed genuinely surprised. “Why’d you make him up, then?”

“I didn’t!” He paused for thought. “At least, I sincerely hope I didn’t.”

“So who did?”

“Princess Luna. That is, if he’s not been lying through his teeth this entire time.”

Pinkie’s expression shifted to that of dramatic realization. At the same time, her eyes suffered a worryingly severe increase in size. 

“So that’s what happened last night!”

Oops.

***

The antidote was in the puce bottle.

What in the world kind of color was puce, though? Was it orange? Was it green or brown? Was it orange, green, and brown, like the expulsory substance it very nearly shared a name with?

Did it denote texture? Was it shiny? Did it-

Oh, that’s puce. That makes sense. It sure tasted like puce.

But at least now her horn wasn’t going to fall off, or sprout spikes, or turn into an “innie.” She’d heard of Poison Joke doing all three... thankfully not all at once.

Now that her brief, admittedly pointless crisis was over, Innis... that is, Inkwell, debated her next course of action. For reasons unknown, she was in possession of conflicting sets of memories.

Wait, hang on, they didn’t conflict at all. In fact, they made perfect sense. There was a linear progression somewhere, from Vorlan to the frontier to Grogham’s Wood to Ponyville to now. So what happened? Why had she not remembered anything until after Twilight showed up?

No, wait a minute.

Luna.

Doy. Princess of the Moon and all that. She’d have no problem screwing around with memories. So why poor, innocent Inkwell? Well, there was the matter of aiding and abetting a prisoner. The princess would probably deem it necessary to teach her a lesson for that one.

So what was she being “taught” by a jumbling of memories like this? What was the point? Was the princess being - heaven forbid! - petty? Lord knows she wasn’t above such things.

By this time, Inkwell, deep in thought, had wandered back into the library proper and sat herself down on a bench, unresponsive to any stimuli from the outside world.

She remembered things from her past like she remembered stories she’d read. Had she really run out on Higgs, whoever he was? Had she really come to Grogham’s Wood and found Equestria?

...Did she really deserve the Equestrians' hospitality, after what she’d done last night?

Oof. Lesson learned, Princess.

So, Princess Luna was trying to impress on her the hypocrisy of her actions, apparently. All these wonderful years in Ponyville, and Inkwell would throw it away for some “dashing rogue” in jungle camo? And make no mistake, Archer was certainly-

“Archer!”

She jolted herself out of her reverie with the realization that, yes, Archer had been hit with the same spell she had. Who knew what Luna had done to him! He might be wandering the streets right now, alone, thinking he was a monkey or something.

Oh no.

That’s probably exactly what he was doing oh no oh no oh no.

“Don’t worry, Archer! I’ll save you!”

With that sudden non sequitur, Inkwell bolted out of the library.

Twilight, at this point, had stopped questioning it.

***

Archer was currently prone underneath a hovercart chassis, using two golden pins to induce etherflame hot enough to weld repulsor plates to its undercarriage. He was holding a very loud conversation with his partner-in-crime over the sparks, while she worked on getting the actual cart airworthy.

And all was right with the world.

“Heeeeeey, buddy.”

Now it wasn’t.

Archer removed his welding goggles to see Arrowhead laying beside him under the cart, covered in soot and sporting goggles of his own.

“I bet you thought you got rid of me.”

“Eh, I sort of hoped.”

“You know, I never finished the thirty-ninth verse of Henry the Eighth.”

“Tough toenails,” Archer muttered, replacing his goggles and returning to the induction pins.

“Weeeeell, I’m Hen-a-ry the Eighth-”

Archer silenced him with an evil stare that welding goggles did surprisingly little to diminish.

“You know what I found out today, Arrowhead?”

“What.”

“The best way to get rid of imaginary pests...” click-hiss “...is with imaginary repellent.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Before you mace me, let me get this straight. Pinkie Pie’s anti-imaginary-pony spray is, itself, imaginary?”

“Right. And so are you. So, before anyone else manages to work the word 'imaginary' into this conversation...”

"Too late."

FWWWWWSSSSHHH

“NOT THE GAS! AAAAGH, OH, IT’S IN MY EYES! IT’S IN MY EYES! AAAUUUUGH!”

The fumes drove Arrowhead away again, his frantic hoofsteps and disturbingly sick coughs fading into the depths of Pinkie’s lab.

And all was right with the world.
> Dragon Tale
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“And so the foreman said, ‘Pine Bel? That township’s full of nothing but surly drunks!’ And I said, ‘Yes, exactly! I feel quite at home there.’ So, he said-”

Archer pulled himself away from the control panel he was wiring and stood in an exaggerated standoffish pose.

“-‘You don’t stand a chance, boy. No Pine Beller ever amounted to anything in the history of Vorlan!’”  He slouched again. “And I told him, ‘Just you wait. By this time next year, the Monster Hunters’ Guild will have a new trophy hanging on the mantle, and I’m going to be the one to bag it!”

The recent basement intruder and singular audience member, Scootaloo, oohed and ahhed appropriately.

“So, did you?” she asked.

“Did I what?”

“Did you get, like, the biggest, meanest, nastiest monster you could find and have your Guild guys hang it up?”

“Well, yes. I was a few months late of ‘this time next year,’ but I managed.”

“Woooow! What was the trophy?”

“Why, the Canis Major’s head, of course.”

The filly’s eyes did that thing again. You know, the thing where they suddenly magnified themselves until they became two giant black pools of innocence and wonderment? That thing.

“Whoa.”

Archer chuckled, bending back down to the tangle of wiring he was currently tasked with soldering. “I think I’ve got my first fan, Pinkie.”

Pinkie giggled from somewhere behind the mess of machinery that composed the hovercart-in-progress.

“Well, here’s hoping you get plenty more! Toss me the sonic screwdriver, wouldja?”

The device in question was pitched over the side, and soon enough began buzzing merrily away at whatever bolts needed adjusting, or whichever plates of the chassis weren’t fastened in just right.

“Hey, Archer, do you have any more stories?”

He looked back at the tiny filly currently drenching him with attention. He smiled.

“Yes. But you know I’m going to run out eventually, right?”

“Oh, that’s no problem! We can always make more!”

Dear lord, another adventure? Here? He’d been in Equestria for three days, and he’d already had more adventure than he could stomach. And how on earth could this little Fae girl, no bigger than a Dachshund, conceive of killing anything uglier or more threatening than a horsefly? These thoughts and various sundry others passed thankfully unspoken as he turned back to his work.

“Alright. How about I tell you the story of my first big hunt?”

“Yes! Yes, please!”

“Alright, let me see. It was just a little after the Summer Solstice, and we’d gotten a call out from a township called, of all things, South Long...”

One can rest assured, the ensuing tall tale was hyperbolic to the extreme, and not necessarily 100% true. In fact, several facts were made up on the spot so as not to disappoint his eager audience of one.

But, in the interest of clarity, we will print here the events contained therein - as they really happened.

***

South Long.

What in the sam hill kind of a name for a town was South Long? He’d seen the map. The town wasn’t really long-shaped, and it was definitely farther north than some other human settlements he’d seen. He chalked the “South” half up to some isolated podunk villagers being misinformed about their position in Vorlan’s nether regions. The “Long” half likely referred to the time it took anyone to get to the dang place.

“Oy! New Kid! Quit daydreamin’ and get yer fat carcass over ‘ere!”

Thus spake Billock, the guild lieutenant, Highlandic terror, and generally unpleasant individual who’d been picked to head up the Salamander hunt in the middle of scenic Nowhere.

The New Kid was called that because he was both new and far younger than either of the two grizzled bears of men he’d had to haul luggage for. Every mile was a new ache in his arms from the absurd amount of gear he bore in the two oversized kit bags.

On his back were his bow and quiver, dismissed by the terrible two as a “needle flinger” and a “pincushion,” respectively. He had packed light, ironically enough.

“You know,” muttered the kid, after an hour or so, “You still haven’t told me why we couldn’t ride. A cart, or even horseback, would be just delightful...”

“Actually I did tell yer already,” rumbled Hobrig, a veritable brick outhouse with skin rounding out the trio. “Horses ain’t nothin’ but trouble ‘round salamanders. Method of attack’s just as important as angle, and horseback ain’t no way to be when there’s fire about.”

“Besides,” chuckled Billock, “We gotta put some muscles in those wee little arms o’ yours, or that toy on yer back ain’t gonna do us much good, aye?”

“Wait, so you’re actually going to let me help?”

“Did I say that? Nooo, I got a hankerin’ for rabbit stew. That’s your job!”

The two giants shared a laugh at the boy’s expense. Surprisingly, it was only the third that day. Usually, they were much worse.

“So,” the boy huffed as they clambered up another of the shoreward hills, “Who exactly thought it was a good idea - oof - to send for the Guild to come and clean up some salamanders all the way down here? I mean, honestly...!”

“If’n yeh spent as much time walkin’ as yeh did flappin’ yer gob, we’d be there already!”

“Maybe if you’d let me take point, like I wanted, and give someone with carrying muscles the job of carrying, I could-”

“Shut up! Cripes, son, do you ever stop complaining?”

It's a mystery as to how, but this led to the two getting into a petty argument over some meaningless Guild-related drivel. Hobrig shook his head and kept climbing.

And then he reached the top and stopped.

Well then, this merited some attention.

“Fellas?”

“-Just a little pack-rat! All you do is mess with your toys and plink your little arrows around, and-”

“Guys?”

“And all you do is make big ugly grunting noises as you wave that sword around! It’s disgusting!”

CLAP CLAP

“OI! EYES OVER ‘ERE!”

Meaningless quibble momentarily forgotten, the two followed Hobrig to the summit. After a few minutes of speechless gaping, one of them finally found his voice.

“These must be some really angry salamanders.”

They’d found South Long. Or what used to be South Long, at any rate.

The entire village was thoroughly burnt to the ground. Little was left of the buildings save broken skeletons of charcoal, the roads between them stained black with soot and ash. The stench of smoke lingered - whatever had done this had done it not too long ago. A closer inspection revealed one last, rather crucial detail: There were no bodies.

“Doesn’t add up,” muttered Billock. “Salamanders ain’t normally meat-eaters. An’ even if they were mutants, we’d be seein’ bones, organs... other bits n’ bobs.... So where’s it all bloody gone?”

The ground shook. A nearby tree rattled and lost a few of its leaves. Something heavy inside one of the more intact houses fell over and broke.

Billock’s last words were “Did either of you guys hear that?”

Actually, no. Billock’s last last word was an uncharacteristically feminine shriek as the brown dragon underneath him burst from the ground and plastered him with what could only be described as a loogie made out of molten rock.

Hobrig and the kid, to their credit, wasted no time in making themselves scarce. Which is not to say the dragon was a slouch in its half of hide and seek.

The two reconvened behind the last upright wall of one of the charred houses.

“Poor Billock.”

“Aye. A moment of silence.”

…

“Tell me you brought the flail.”

“Tell me you didn’t drop the bow.”

They both produced their respective weapons and grinned.

“I’ll distract ‘im.”

“I’ll snipe.”

“Plan S?”

“S for ‘Super Effective’ or S for ‘We Screwed Up?’”

The dragon hawked another glob of magma over their cover, catching a nearby tree and reducing it to embers.

“Take a wild guess.”

“Right.”

Hobrig ran out, dodging one flaming mass and deflecting another with the flail’s spiked head.

“Oy! That man you just charbroiled owed me money! ...Ya fat, turd-scented lizard!”

The brown drake, easily the size of two alligators standing end-to-end, snorted and swiped a clawed wing at the not-unsizable man currently swinging a large metal spikeball around and shouting himself hoarse. It would have been funny, had it not been so terrifying.

Hobrig said something quite unkind about the dragon’s ancestry, causing it to rear up and prepare another of its magmatic projectiles...

...Only for a single well-placed (or lucky, not much difference this early on) arrow to come screaming in from far to the north of them both. Said arrow lodged itself in the soft flesh of the dragon’s throat, causing it to choke and preventing said magma from completing its exit.

With no other way out, the magma boiled over and ate through the thin skin of the immature lizard’s insides, burning it to death from the inside out. And so the deaths of Billock and the remote, pointless town of South Long were avenged.

Much later, Hobrig patted the kid on the back and chuckled.

“Son, I hope yeh don’ mind if an ol’ man buys you a few rounds once we get home.”

“I’m not even eighteen yet.”

“Bah, s’never too early to start.”

***

“COOL!”

This time, a chorus of three young voices were praising his story instead of one.

Wait a minute.

Archer turned from the panel. Now, alongside Scootaloo, there were two other young Equestrian fillies, one red-maned and yellow, the other a purple-maned and white unicorn.

“Alright, before anyone says anything, let me see.” He pointed at the yellow one. “Peach Cobbler?”

“Nope.”

“Alright...” He looked at the white one. “...French Vanilla.”

She giggled. “No!”

“Alright, I give up.”

The yellow one stood up.

“Mah name’s Apple Bloom. This here’s Sweetie Belle. And Ah reckon y’all already met Scootaloo.”

“Well, yes.” He shifted his glance uncomfortably between the three. “What’s going on? What do you want?”

“We’re the Cutie Mark Crusaders!” shouted Scootaloo, demonstrating once again her incredibly narrow vocal range. “We search far and wide, looking for the special talents we know we possess!”

“Very inspiring. But what do you want?”

“Well...” Apple Bloom shifted and smiled. “...We wanted to see if you could help us find our Cutie Marks.”

The incredibly adorable name for whatever that was shorted out Archer’s higher logic centers for a minute. His initial response was to smile saccharinely and go “awwww.” Then he snapped out of it and went “Wait, what?”

“What in the world is... whatever you’re talking about?”

“Oh! Oh! Let me tell him!” shouted the white one. Sweetie Belle, right.

“I’m listening.”

“A Cutie Mark’s a picture that appears on your flank when you find out what your unique special talent is!”

He’d seen these around. It was kind of weird, but at least there was a reason for them now.

“Do you know anybody sporting one of these?”

“W-well, my big sister Rarity-”

“I’ve met her.”

“...She got hers when she found out she was good at finding and using gems for her fashion line!”

Archer remembered her. Three diamonds, if he had been paying attention.

He also remembered offhandedly that he needed to take a bath if she was ever going to make those new boots for him.

“And my sis, Applejack!” interrupted Apple Bloom. “She got hers when she decided to stay an’ help the farm instead of movin’ to the city!”

“Well, that’s nice, but-”

“And Twilight got hers after hatchin’ a dragon egg and becomin’ the Princess’s student!”

She did what?

“She did what?”

“OH! OH! And Rainbow Dash got hers after she made a Sonic Rainboom in front of everypony in Cloudsdale!”

“A Sonic Rain-what?”

Where had Pinkie Pie gone? Archer felt very unsafe suddenly.

“Say, Mister Archer?”

“Yes...?”

“Do you have a Cutie Mark?”

He laughed and shook his head.

“Humans don’t get those.” Thankfully. “Buuut, if I had to guess what it was...” 

An image of Arrowhead arose, unbidden, in his head. Oh, wait, that was just Arrowhead waving at him from the stairwell, out of spraying distance. Clever.

“...It would be an arrow. Driven through a Canis skull.”

Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo oohed and ahhed again. Apple Bloom merely smiled and pushed past them.

“Anyway, we came down in th’ first place here because we wanted your help!”

“My help.”

“Uh-huh!”

“With what, exactly?”

“Well, we see you’re working on this here whatchamacallit...” Apple Bloom poked at the floor of the hovercart uncertainly. “...And we wanted to help you.”

“You want me to help you by letting you help me?”

“Yeah! We might get Cutie Marks for, uh... What do you call this?”

“Tinkering.”

The three fillies inhaled and shouted in unision:

“CUTIE MARK CRUSADER TINKERERS, YAAAAY!”

Archer tried to banish the ringing from his ears with vigorous application of his pinky finger. Somewhere in the process, he may have muttered something akin to “okay fine.” He neglected to consider the immediate consequences of his acquiescence.

He had just admitted three untrained, unlicensed, underaged Fae children access to the inner workings of a flying machine.

And nothing could possibly go wrong.

***

The cart cleared the basement ceiling with little difficulty. It broke through the first- and second- story boundaries with, if anything, even less resistance. It careened into the sky, more a manned rocket than anything resembling a piloted vehicle - because to call it “piloted” would imply that anyone inside it had any control over where it was going.

Archer eventually realized he had stopped screaming, and his mouth had just stuck that way.

He inhaled, finally, the air buffeting him going down his throat and sprouting icy spikes in his lungs.

And with that first breath of cold stratospheric air, he spoke.

“SCOOTALOO THIS IS THE WORST IDEA ANYONE HAS EVER HAD HOW DID I LET YOU TALK ME INTO THIS”

The wide-eyed pegasus filly simply smiled.

“Ohh, this’ll get me a flying Cutie Mark for sure!”

The cart’s rear repulsors gave out after a good fifteen seconds of full burn. Its upward momentum gone, the cart gently crested its parabolic trajectory and began to plummet.

It was just going to be another one of those days.
> Closer to Earth
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

They say that when you’re near death, your life flashes before your eyes.

Of course, “they” have never been in any situation where “their” life is in any remote danger. Anyone who works in any suitably dangerous field (say, for instance, scouting) knows that the whole life-flashy thing is absolute hogwash.

The only things Archer saw flashing before his eyes as he and the hovercart dove towards oblivion were the clouds.

Suddenly, the cart’s downward motion ceased. The inertia of the sudden stop lurched Archer and his three young troublemaking copassengers forward in their seats.

“What the-”

A blue, rainbow-topped head peeked above the vehicle’s front bumper.

“Hey,” Archer muttered, still shocked by the stop. “It’s... that one!”

“RAINBOW DASH!”

And Scootaloo still had no volume control.

“Monkeyman? What are you doing up here? And for that matter, what are they doing up here?”

“IT WAS THEM!” Archer scooted to his side of the cart, pointing at the all-too-innocent Crusaders in the back. “IT WAS THEIR IDEA THEY DID IT!”

“What are you-”

She was interrupted by Archer shoving the three fillies into her arms - well, front legs.

“Women and children first!”

“What are you talking about!?”

“ABANDON SHIP!”

Archer threw himself off of the front of the craft, landing heavily on Rainbow Dash’s back. The impact caused her to lose her grip on the cart, which resumed its rapid downward course.

“You drill bit! I was trying to save that!”

“I was not going to spend another second in that deathtrap. Your little...” He gestured furtively toward the crusaders Rainbow was holding under her, “...gremlins saw to that.”

“Hey!” yelled Apple Bloom. “We ain’t gremlins, we’re ponies!”

“You are pure evil and I will be tarred and feathered before I let you near anything of mine ever again!”

Archer huffed, crossed his arms, and pointedly refused to continue looking at the front half of his unwitting getaway mare. 

With a trace of forlorn regret, the four Equestrians and one human watched the hovercart scream to the ground. It landed with a flash of fire and a plume of smoke, scoring a crater a good ten meters wide in an empty field.

A whole morning’s work, gone.

“Aww, ponyfeathers,” murmured Apple Bloom. “Applejack ain’t gonna be happy when she finds that thing stickin’ outta the potato fields.”

“Should have thought of that before you set the repulsors to eleven,” Archer snapped. “I didn’t even know they went to eleven!”

Scootaloo laughed at this.

“They didn’t! We made them go to eleven!”

Archer was briefly impressed. If that was true, then these three did indeed have the makings of great tinkers in them. Just so long as they didn’t blow themselves up first.

Or as long as they didn’t blow him up, at least.

***

Pinkie had slipped out of Sugarcube Corner unnoticed to pick up another capacitor. She’d spotted a flaw in the wiring that would turn the hovercart into a meteoric death sentence for anyone stupid enough to turn the thing on.

Thankfully, the only licensed tinker in the lab at the moment was Archer, and he wasn’t nearly stupid enough to actually- FWOARNCH -turn it on and aim it straight up and out of the sweet shop.

Sure enough, Sugarcube Corner was now missing a sizable section of roof, and the cart was shooting up into the air like the world’s biggest, least pleasant-looking firecracker.

Her tail twitched.

If previous similar incidents were any indication, that meant the runaway aircraft wasn’t going to stay airborne for that much longer.

***

“Hey, Rainbow Dash?”

“Yeah?”

“I weigh about 170, 180 pounds.”

“And you’re telling me this, because...?”

“Because you’ve been carrying me and the Three Stooges over there for a good minute and a half.”

“Eh, it fits, it ships.”

“...What?”

“Pegasi can carry pretty much anything smaller than they are. Natural magic makes everything better!”

Archer gave this some thought. A wild grin appeared.

“Reeeallly, now...?”

“Uh, yeah. Why do you ask?”

“I just had the weirdest idea,” he muttered, shifting to a sitting position on Rainbow’s back. She merely looked at him, worried.

“What are you doing?”

“This.” He grabbed a fistful of her hair, whipping it and digging his heels into her side. “HYAH!”

And for the second time in ten minutes, Archer received a very sudden, very unexpected shift in velocity.

***

Pinkie saw and heard the impromptu missile land somewhere far off. In an optimal situation, that would mean she could get up and move again without fear of being brained by falling objects. Unfortunately, the subtle mental cue that indicated her previous tail-twitching prognostication had come to pass had not triggered.

Something else was about to fall.

So she waited.

And fall it did.

A tangle of blue feathers, multicolored fur, and one really out-of-sorts human fell to earth with a series of fleshy thumps and a considerable number of instances of the word “OW”.

Archer stood up shakily, sporting a weirdly drunk-looking grin. He shot his arms into the air.

“Behold, mortals! I am Archer, pegasus rider!”

“‘Rider,’ nothing, you drove me into the ground!” Rainbow Dash sputtered, rising wearily.

“Fine then. ‘Pegasus driver’ sounds cooler, anyway.”

“Oh!” yelled Sweetie Belle, scrambling out of Dash’s grip. “Maybe one of us got a death-defying Cutie Mark!”

All three fillies simultaneously checked their rear ends, and all three simultaneously gave a disappointed sigh.

“Nope.”

“Eh, don’t worry,” Archer said. “There’s always next time. I’m sure there’s something to be made out of - oh, I don’t know - monster slaying!”

Rainbow Dash scoffed and flew off. Archer watched her, confused.

“What’s with her? I was being serious.”

***

“Hey, Big Mac?”

“Eeyup?”

“I don’t wanna get yer hopes up or nothin’, but I think we mighta just adopted a superbaby.”

And to be fair, that was a reasonable conclusion to draw from the scene. A strange metal machine had fallen from the sky and landed in one of Sweet Apple Acres’ produce fields, turning a good dozen square meters of unearthed potatoes into dirty french fries.

Applejack circled the contraption warily. Who knew, after all? Maybe it was an explosive, like one of those eye-see-bee-ems that spaz unicorn from the next town over kept churning out.

Then it toppled forward, revealing a single familiar decal on the underside, depicting a trio of balloons.

“Oh. False alarm, Mac. It’s one o’ Pinkie’s.”

With what Applejack could swear was a sigh of resignation, Big Macintosh turned and left the crash site.

“Don’t worry. If it ever turns out to actually be a superbaby one o’ these days, you still have dibs on naming it.”

***

“Pinkie Pie, I really don’t think-”

“Oh, hush! We need to see if there’s anything we can get back from the wreck! Don’t tell me humans never salvage a failed invention!”

“Not to worry you or anything, but when a human invention fails, there’s usually nothing to salvage.”

After managing to ditch the Cutie Mark Crusaders through judicious (and opportunistic) use of a passing flock of interesting-looking birds, Pinkie had somehow managed to shanghai Archer into checking on what was left of their massive shared mistake - Archer’s in allowing the crusaders onboard, and Pinkie’s for leaving the three unattended with that poor, unknowing crash test dummy...  I mean Archer.

“Are you sure Applejack isn’t going to be mad?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’m sure! This sorta stuff happens to AJ all the time.”

“Really, now.”

“Yeah-huh. Why, just the other day - oh, before you came along, of course - this craaaazy unicorn had been building this things... what did he call them? Oh! He called them ‘icybeams’, and he was shooting them all-”

Archer’s suddenly suffered a considerable deficit of attention (a borderline disorder, one they really should get around to naming one of these days) and allowed his gaze to wander. He would rather it not have wandered onto Arrowhead, who had decided to randomly sprout pegasus wings and float upside-down above them for the rest of the trip. But that’s just the way these things go sometimes.

“You know,” said Arrowhead, bobbing along on the breeze with not a care in the world, “you’ve racked up quite the tab over at Sugarcube Corner.”

“Yeah, so?” Archer muttered.

“I’m just saying, you’re headed to a farm.”

“And?”

“And a farm is just the sort of place one goes to make a sterling or two when they don’t know of anywhere else. Not to mention the havoc that holding a steady job will play on anyone’s plans to prove you’re still trying to escape.”

“I’m not, thanks to you. And who thinks I am?”

“Inkwell, for one. Didn’t exactly get around to telling her about the change in plans, did you?

“Well, no. Are you trying to get me to turn around?”

“Perish the thought, my boy! I’m rather certain she’ll come to you first.”

Archer shrugged. “Alright," he muttered. "Whatever works.”

Arrowhead looked down at him with a strange mixture of worry and smugness.

“Man, if I had known near-death experiences mellowed you out this much, I would have thrown you out of a window a lot earlier.”

“Technically speaking, that’s the first thing you ever did. You can’t go much earlier than that.”

“Here’s the thing. You can argue with yourself all day, or you can pretend to listen to Pinkie Pie as she finishes rambling. I’ll let you decide.”

“What?”

“-And then is it went BANG! ZOOM! And it landed right in Carrot Top’s cornrows!”

Archer shook his head, clearing his throat and returning to the land of the living.

“Cornrows, you say?”

“Yeah! It took her, like, a whole day to fix the damage! But if you ask me, that hairstyle did not flatter her at all. It was probably for the best.”

Archer could swear he heard Arrowhead snickering above him. He did his best to ignore it.

***

The newly-christened Cutie Mark Crusader Ornithologists (Archer gave them the name, saying it had something to do with birds) were so far not living up to their recently-changed name. Apple Bloom blamed Scootaloo for being too loud and scaring the birds off. Scootaloo blamed Sweetie Belle for not being able to catch any of them in time. And Sweetie Belle was bored of bird-catching already and wanted to move onto something else.

The half-crazed unicorn who came barreling up and chased the rest of the flock away was as good an excuse as any.

“Girls! Please tell me you’ve seen Archer somewhere around here!”

“Oh, hey, Miss Inkwell. I think Archer went somewhere with Pinkie.”

“Which way?”

The three fillies each thought for a moment. Three different hooves pointed Inkwell in three different directions. She sighed, picked one, and took off.

“So, what do we do now?”

…

“Cutie Mark Crusader Crazy Pony Watchers?”

“They have those?”

“Sure, why not!”

***

“Well, it’s a lot better than I normally do.”

The hovercart was battered, broken, and upside-down. But it was more or less in one piece, which far outstripped the condition of the last tinkering project Archer had lost his hold on.

“How good is ‘what you normally do’?” Pinkie asked, peering over the side opposite him.

“Well, there was this one time, at scout training. I accidentally sent a model gyrodyne into our instructing sergeant’s teapot. He didn’t notice until he took a sip and got a mouthful of lubricant and rotor parts.”

“That actually sounds pretty good,” she remarked, giggling.

“Yeah, it was... at least until he lined us all up and had us run ten miles because nobody would rat me out.”

“Ten whole miles?.”

“Yeah, he must have been in a good mood that day.”

“I knew a guy like that once! He runs a bakery.”

“He sounds like either the most repressed individual on earth, or the most hilarious case of missed calling I’ve ever heard of.”

“Ehh, there’s a little of both in there. Toss me that wrench.”

He chucked the tool over the vehicular carcass, leaving Pinkie to mine away for reusable parts.

As she worked, he stared across the empty fields of Sweet Apple Acres. It was fittingly named, if only because of its reference to the farm’s size. From out here on the very edge of the property, he could barely make out a homestead and a couple of barns, and that was only on a stunningly clear day like today.

His thoughts wandered back to the advice given to him by Arrowhead - who was now lounging somewhere above him on a cloud, the lazy sod. 

A bit of innocent farm work certainly couldn’t hurt. He wasn’t exactly the up-at-sunrise, “let’s haul rocks from one side of the field to the other for fun” type of person who, you know, did farming. But it would make money, it would pay off his tab at the Corner, and most importantly, it would keep the Equestrians from making any real effort to keep him from escaping... not that sheer rotten luck wasn’t doing a marvelous job of that already.

Yes, it seemed more and more likely that Sweet Apple Acres could serve as the perfect means to burn up his considerable free time. And it’s not like it was a dirty, smelly, nasty farm either. It was nice, as farms go. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the crisp scent of fresh fruit and vegetables hung in the air, Pinkie was clanking on something underneath the- Wait, hang on.

“Pinkie?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just - hrrgh - trying to unfasten this capacitor coupling.”

“The capacitor coupling shouldn’t be making that noise,” he observed, walking around the wreck to where she was.

“Yeah, well, it’s busted. Broken parts do all sorts of weird stuff.”

“Still, couplings can’t exactly make that noise under most-” He finally rounded the cart, espying the part in question. “...Pinkie, that’s not a capacitor coupling.”

“Well, what is it, then?”

“It’s-” WRNCH.... fwwsssssst! “-the fuel line.”

And once again, there was an explosion in the potato fields down at Sweet Apple Acres.
> Mac Gets Shot
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Archer’s face was buried an inch into the dirt and his ears were ringing. That didn’t stop Arrowhead’s voice from sounding loud and clear in his head, though.

“You know this is, like, the third time you’ve nearly died this morning, right? I mean, it works wonders for your personality, but I’d rather you cut down. Too much adrenaline is bad for you.”

“Bite me,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Sorry, you’re not my type.”

“Are we one hundred percent sure I’m not dead?”

“Yep.”

“Are we sure that this entire experience since the night in the forest clearing hasn’t been some kind of divine-mandated purgatory for killing all those woodland creatures?”

“Hmm.... yeah, pretty sure.”

“Well, alright. It is on these and only these conditions that I’m sitting back up.”

“Go for it, chief.”

Somehow, the cart had managed to explode. Again. 

Pinkie was covered in black soot, though that was likely the worst of her injuries. If she survived a grenade going off in her mouth, she could survive a borked fuel line. Thanks to being directly behind and to the left of her, Archer got off with a splitting headache and the taste of dirt.

Unsurprisingly, his native human enthusiasm for seeing things blow up was rapidly dwindling.

“Pinkie? Are you okay?”

Slowly, the black, pony-shaped mass opened one eye. Then the other. It coughed.

“Wow,” she sputtered. “I’m never doing that again!”

“You promise?”

“Pinkie Pie Swear, I’m never doing that again!”

“What.”

She stood up, shaking off her ashy covering. “Cross my heart, hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye,” she said, accompanying the chant with appropriate hand (hoof) movements. “I’m never going to mistake a fuel line for anything else.”

“That...” He stopped. What was one supposed to say to a display like that? “Alright,” he muttered, shrugging. “Glad we got that cleared up.”

“Whoa, nelly! You two okay?”

Oh, look. It was... Apple Juice? Apple Cider? He could swear her name was some kind of apple drink.

“C’mon, you two, speak to me.”

“Yeah, we’re fine. I’m just a little wonky in the head, and Pinkie is...” Archer turned to the bubble-gum-flavored pony, who was currently trying to pull out the cart’s actual capacitor coupling with her teeth. “...Well, she’s Pinkie.”

“Uh huh. So, I take it y’all got everything under control?”

“Actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Well, fire away. I’m all ears.”

“You see, Miss...”

“Applejack,” Arrowhead whispered in his ear.

“...Applejack. I know me and, uh...”

“Big Macintosh.”

“...Mister Macintosh didn’t exactly get off on the right foot. Err, hoof.”

Applejack snorted. “Yer darn tootin’. I don’t think Ah’ve ever seen big Mac so spooked as when he came runnin’ home, saying a 'demon' was after ‘im.”

“He thought I was a demon?”

“Or somethin’ to that effect. Mind you, we don’t get a whole lotta non-ponyfolk around here. N’ Big Mac... Well, he’s not the stoutest soul on Celestia’s green earth, I can tell ya that much.”

“Really?”

“That surprises you?”

“Well, you know, I saw him. He’s so...” How could he put this?

“Big?”

“Yeah, let’s go with that.”

“Well, he ain’t called ‘Big Mac’ for nothin’.”

“Then how is he so scared of, you know, little old me?”

“You nearly speared 'im and roasted 'im for breakfast.”

“Right, right. About that. I wanted to-”

“-Admit you were bein’ a presumptuous jackanape who shoots first, worries later, and thinks with his stomach?”

My ego is skewered quite thoroughly enough, thank you.

“Not in so many words, but yes. Also, I would like to inquire about a job.”

“...A what now?”

“A job. I need to earn some ‘bits’ as you people call them, and I figured I’d start here as, you know, a gesture of goodwill.”

Applejack was not a very expressive pony. Fortunately for her, Archer was unable to appreciate the utter rarity of the rapid shift her face took from confusion to amusement to uncertainty and then back to neutrality.

“Well, alright,” she said, “But you’re gonna have to take it up with Mac. He’s haulin’ barrels over by the barn.”

“Alright, glad that’s settled.” He turned. “Pinkie, are you going to need my help for anything?”

Pinkie unburied her head from the blasted wreck’s innards. “What? Oh, sure, I’m fine. Go do your... whatever.” And with that, she dove withers-deep into the metal ruin, hunting for parts.

“Come on,” said Applejack, chuckling. “I’ll show you where he is.”

***

“C’mon, Big Mac! At least talk to ‘im!”

“Nnnnope!”

Applejack had been arguing with the barn door for over half an hour since her (very) big brother had caught sight of Archer and barricaded himself behind it.

“Ah promise he ain’t gonna try n’ eat you!”

“Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.”

She turned to Archer. “Sorry ‘bout this. He’s not normally this... ah, ornery.” She turned back to the door. “Mac, you open this door right now!”

The fact that she managed to squeeze five syllables out of those last two words could only mean she meant business. Unfortunately, Big Mac wasn’t buying it.

Only one thing for it.

Archer carefully approached the door, knocking sharply.

“Mister Macintosh, I need a job.”

“Nope, nope, n- hang on, what?” A pair of eyes looked through an opened slat in the door. “Come again?”

“I’m flat broke, and at any rate, I’d rather eat Sugarcube Corner fare than you. You  probably don’t even taste that good.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed. “I don’ trust ‘im, AJ.”

“Mac, it’s fine. He’s spent a good two or three days here, and he hasn’t tried to eat anyone else. Give him a chance!”

“Course he hasn’t eaten anyone else. He only has eyes for me.”

The ridiculousness of this statement, combined with the utter seriousness of its delivery, sent Archer into a fit of hysterics. Faster than normal, it segued into amused introspection. 

For the first time in his life, Archer decided put himself in a Fae’s shoes. Err, horseshoes.

If a Fae had tried to eat him, would he have given it the time of day afterward? Would he come out of the barn, hand offered, and give it a job? No! So, obviously, a measure of diplomacy was required.

“I’ll leave my bow and arrows here.”

They both looked at him. 

“Really?”

“Yep. And my knife.”

The door opened slightly. “AJ, yer sure he don’t have any hidden claws or nothin’?”

“Sure as sugar!”

“An’ he don’t have no evil magic on ‘im?”

“Buddy, if I could do magic, I definitely wouldn’t be here.”

“Fair enough.”

“So what do you say? Will you take me on?”

Macintosh’s head slowly eased out from behind the door.

“Fine.”

As the great red horse lumbered out from the relative safety of the barn, Archer came to an observation that would be remembered by all parties involved for years to come.

“...Man, you look a lot smaller when I’m not hungry.”

Applejack laughed. Archer chuckled a little at his own joke. Macintosh spooked himself and ran just a little faster than normal to retrieve his “work” yoke (to replace his “on break” yoke, which was made from particleboard instead of wood). Applejack sighed and looked over to Archer with a look of mock worry.

“Wuzzat serious?”

“Yeah, actually. You need to understand, I hadn’t had a good, meaty breakfast in well over a week when I took that shot. I was ready to wrestle a manticore over a carcass if I thought I could get away with it.”

Applejack chuckled again. “I’d pay good money to see that.”

“Well, keep in mind I’d never actually do it if I actually had even one arrow to my name,” he said, waving his bow in front of him. “I’m not called ‘Archer’ for nothing, after all.”

“Well, not to bust yer bubble or anything, but we don’t do a lot of shootin’ around these parts.”

“It could be a useful talent. You don’t know.”

“Yeah? An’ what could an apple farm use a reasonably good shot for?”

Archer pondered this.

“...Security?” he offered, holding up an arrow for emphasis.

“There ain’t a single bandit for two towns either way, and the one three towns over is related to us.”

“Monster insurance?”

“Monsters don’t come out here, Archer,” she said, in a voice that suggested he should have known this already.

“Um... pest control?”

“If’n you can shoot the caterpillar off an apple, you’re better off in show biz than farmin’ work.”

Archer pondered more, wandering into the apple grove as he did. Applejack followed him, a little too eager to shoot down whatever his next suggestion was.

He could always help harvest, he mused, though he was more the foresty, foragey type and not the farmy, walk up and pick applesy type. Still, it was a skill - one of the few he could legitimately lay claim to other than shooting things in a professional and efficient fashion.

There was introspection to be had here, but Archer would have none of it.

“Hey,” said Arrowhead, suddenly behind him for no reason. “Look at this.”

Archer turned behind him. There was nothing, except for an imaginary definitely-not-friend and Applejack, who took Archer’s refocused attention to mean he was about to do something impressive.

“What?”

“The apples, dummy! Look!”

Arrowhead pointed at a cluster of three apple trees which had no specific outstanding qualities.

“I don’t get it.”

“You know this better than I do, man. Arrows. Trajectories. Projectiles. Focus.”

Archer focused. His mind settled on three red dots suspended in the leaves - apples, defining a rather neat ballistic arc.

“You're nuts.”

“Doooo iiiit.”

“There’s no way-”

“Come on! This is your chance to impress the boss! Do you want to eat at Sugarcube Corner again or not!?”

Convincing a man in the King’s employ to do something outwardly nonsensical usually requires an appeal to his better nature. Arrowhead, having no better nature to appeal to, had settled for pastry. It worked well enough.

Archer dropped to one knee, nocking his bow as he did so. He judged the necessary force and vector for the arrow’s path. The wind... well, the wind wasn’t an issue, what with all the trees, but it was a necessary consideration. The apples were lined up almost too perfectly... but he wasn’t about to question it.

He drew and released, sending the arrow into and through the tree boughs and producing a trio of satisfying squelches as it pierced and carried along each apple in sequence. It whistled through the air for a short bit later, before there was a fourth splat, a short yelp of shock, and a heavy thump.

“...Big Mac?”

***

...

Yep, he'd been spooked again.

He swore he wouldn’t let the human get the drop on him a second time, but here he was - spooked. And with apple juice running down his nose, no less. He was seriously considering screaming, but his nerves were so shot, it was an iffy proposition of him ever stopping.

Archer and Applejack took in the scene as they rounded one of the trees.

Big Mac was sitting, still as a statue. The arrow had struck him square on the forehead, though the impact was thankfully cushioned by the third apple, which the projectile had failed to fully penetrate. Said apple was now all over his face, which was another matter entirely.

Mac’s expression was one Archer had seen before. It had been on the face of a man rejected as a dinner prospect by an Orc hunting party for being too ugly - massively relieved he wasn’t dead right now, but mortified that he was in this situation to begin with.

Archer giggled a little. Then, admitting to himself that this was indeed a humorous occasion, he laughed some more. And then some more upon seeing Macintosh attempt to glare at him through a face covered in apple pulp.

“I- ha! - I got you! It... it took me three whole days, but I finally got you!”

Applejack concurred with Archer’s observation, and made her opinion known by breaking out into similar peals of laughter, muttering something between breaths about how “he got you good.”

Macintosh dabbed at the applesauce running down his cheek. On a whim, he tasted it. 

“Huh. You know what, it’s actually not that bad.”

This set Applejack and Archer off again, the two leaning on each other for support by this point. Mac chuckled.

Okay, so it was sort of funny. He supposed.

***

Meanwhile, on the clouds, unseen by most and unnoticed by the only one who knew of his existence, an imaginary burgundy pegasus fiddled with the cloud under his hooves and smiled to himself.

Everything was going according to plan.
> Archer, the Day Laborer
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

From the look on Applejack’s face when he began scaling one of the apple trees to start picking, Archer concluded that he must have been doing something very, very wrong.

“I take it this isn’t how you pick apples down here.”

“Who’s picking apples? You’re climbin’ around like a dad-blamed chimpanzee.”

“Well, then,” he said, dismounting the tree, “How would you do it?”

“Watch n’ learn, monkeyboy.”

Archer backed out of the way as Applejack took a position in front of the tree, her rear half facing the trunk.. She made some minute adjustments to her stance and position, then reared back and mule-kicked the tree as hard as she could.

“What, so you knock the tree down and get apples that way? I’m sure I could teach you a few more efficient ways of-”

“Hush, you. Look.”

The still-upright tree began to quiver. A shockwave passed up the trunk and into the limbs and branches. Then, something quite mind-boggling happened. The apples began to rain from the tree canopy, evoking the bizarre image of a hailstorm. A delicious hailstorm, and quite aromatic to boot.

“That is... absolutely ridiculous.”

“Naw, it’s absolutely ‘applebucking.’ If you’re gonna work here, you need to learn the lingo.”

Archer looked at the tree, still upright despite Applejack's efforts. He looked at Applejack, smiling at the rather clever joke she'd just played on him and physics in general. Or perhaps physics was in on it, the clever blighter, and the natural unnaturalness that pervaded Fae Realms had conspired to reduce him to the gaping incomprehension he now found himself swamped in.

Or maybe he was just paranoid and physics was not a thinking entity which could choose to extend or rescind its laws when it was deemed amusing to do so.

Then again, there was the whole Pinkie Pie business. Where did physics factor into all that?

Archer, figuring there was nothing else for it, and deciding that physics really only mattered to him when he had an arrow in the air anyway, took a running start toward a tree he had selected at random. He intended to slam into it with both feet and perhaps learn the secrets of this mysterious “applebucking” technique.

Seconds later, he was on the ground with a sprained ankle. Physics, which apparently did have a sense of humour after all, rewarded him for his effort by dropping a single apple on his head, giving him spots in his vision to match the stars left over from his unceremonious flop onto the ground.

He was vaguely aware of Applejack laughing at him, but that didn’t really seem to matter much now.

“Applejack?”

“Heh... yeah, Archer?”

“Please tell me you have doctors here.”

“Aww, come off it. You'll live.”

It occurred to him that perhaps he had made a wrong decision somewhere in his life. Several, come to think of it.

***

Inkwell didn’t really expect there to be a hole in the floor of Sugarcube Corner. In retrospect, though, she wasn’t sure how there could not have been. It was just too obvious. Of course there had to be one inside to match the one on the roof. That only made sense, right?

She contemplated the sheer amount of sense it made from the bottom of said hole in the floor, which she had fallen through in a bout of unbridled ignorance and disregard for basic logic. I mean, really. A hole in the roof obviously equated to a hole in the floor, right? Right. Ha ha ha. And the existence of a hole implied there was someone who had to make that hole, that someone being, of course, Archer. He had to be down here.

Slowly, Inkwell pulled herself off the basement floor.

“Archer? Are you down here?”

The wall on the far side of the room echoed back “...‘down here?’”

“Yes!” she said, to the voice that was obviously Archer because no one else would be in the basement, and voices didn’t just spring out of thin air. “Sorry for dropping in. I needed to come check and see if Luna hadn’t turned you crazy. Because, you know, that's a thing she does, is turn people crazy.”

“...‘crazy.’”

“What!? I’ll have you know, you - you ruffian - I am the sane one in this relationship! You are the one who’s gone loony!”

“...‘gone loony!’”

“Oh, that is it! Come on out, beanstalk! I’m going to make you eat those words, and I am definitely not crazy!”

“...‘crazy!’”

Growling in frustration, Inkwell pressed into the abandoned depths of Pinkie’s laboratory. No confuddled echo was going to get the better of her. Not today. No sir, not - 

She tripped on a fallen crowbar and emitted a sound not unlike a cow suffering indigestion.

Okay, so maybe an echo was going to get the best of her. But certainly not again. Fool me once, and all that. 

With a grunt, she hauled herself upright and continued walking, farther into the depths of the complex than any other pony had dared to tread.

A pointless accomplishment, as she soon enough proved to the satisfaction of herself and anyone else watching that she was absolutely and totally alone in Sugarcube Corner’s basement. Imagine her surprise, then, when Mr. Cake came down and accused her of creating the hole she fell down.

He backed off in a very panicked manner when she pointed out that no one in the store had seen her descend the stairs, and swiftly counter-accused him of insinuating she was fat enough to cause the hole in the first place, taking a page out of Rarity's book and turning on the crocodile tears. Not that she needed any extra incentive to burst into frustrated hysterics.

The lesson being, girls, that if you want someone to leave you alone, play the weight card. It works every time.

You know what? Let’s go back to Archer. That sounds nice.

***

THUNK

“Aagghhh-oww.”

“Look, Archer, maybe you’re not cut out for this.”

Archer made an incoherent series of gargling noises, attempting to convey to his skeptical would-be employer that yes, he was. He then tried to rugby-tackle an apple tree, causing it to drop two very overripe apples and negating his argument completely.

Applejack began trying to pry him away from the tree, with which he was currently trapped in a bear hug.

“Look, it’s almost time for lunch. Why don’tcha head on up to the house and we’ll work it out later, alright?”

“Grrraaagh,” he said, unable to vocalize anything more than pure frustration at this point.

“Glad ta hear it. Now git. Ah got an orchard to clear.”

As he stumbled away, he heard the telltale THUNK and ensuing appley cascade of a professional applebuck.

He made a truly heroic attempt not to let it, or the subsequent chuckle from Applejack, annoy him too much. He failed.

***

“I’m just saying-” THUNK “-it’s not really fair to expect-” THUNK “-someone with legs like mine to even-” THUNK “...phew, hang on for a minute.”

Archer put down the axe. After a few minutes of not trying to stomp the snot out of trees, he had found a task he was actually capable of doing: splitting logs. Not exactly the most dignified of jobs, but it sure beat what passed for actual work around here.

“So,” he said, wiping at his forehead but only managing to smear the grime that had built up there. “This is usually your job, am I right?”

“Eyup,” was the reply from Big Mac, ever-laconic and monitoring Archer from a safe distance away on the nearby wood shed’s stoop.

“How do you use this thing without hands?”

“With my mouth, o’course.”

This gave Archer a momentary pause mid-swing, which he shrugged off, chalking it up to just more Fae weirdness. Honestly, he could fill a book with the things in this place that made no sense. Or even the things that just made less sense than they should. There were far too many of those.

“So-” THUNK “-what do you really do-” THUNK “-besides sit there and say-” THUNNGNG- “Ow. Besides sit there and say ‘Yup’ all the time?”

“Well, fer starters, I actually split the logs when I hit ‘em.”

Archer shot a glare over his shoulder at him. “That was uncalled for.”

“Not my fault you got such scrawny lil’ arms.”

“I’m not trained for this, alright? If I could-” THUNK “-could shoot these things in half, I would.”

“Ah’d like to see that.”

“Yeah, well-” THUNK “-actually, now that I think about it-” THUNK “-If I had access to enough materials, which I do-” THUNK “-and if I had, say, a couple hundred, uh, ‘bits’ for a grant, which I don’t-” THUNK “-I could probably build you something that can split wood about ten times faster.”

“Faster’n what? You? Heck, Ah figure Granny can split logs faster’n you can. Plus, we ain’t got two hundred bits to just throw away.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can-”

“Especially not on somethin’ as frilly as an automatic wood chopper. Ah can take care o’ the logs just fine.”

“Yeah.” THUNK “You’re a brick outhouse on four legs.” THUNK “You’ve lived your entire life essentially being better than me at this sort of stuff.” THUNK

“Yeah. You know what, gimme the axe.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause we don’t got the whole day to split one log.”

Archer looked down at his handiwork. The single unfortunate log had suffered a multitude of ugly gashes and scars, looking more like an abstract art project than any sane, rational attempt at producing firewood. He chose to focus on the fact that he had, at some point, chopped more than halfway through to the bottom.

“Here,” Mac said, taking the axe handle with his teeth. “Gff g’t annufher lhhg.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Archer, assuming the obvious, left to get another log to be cut up and split. He pulled a good one (well, a log, he had no idea if it was good or not) our of the wood shed and hoisted it over his shoulder. It was quite heavy, he noticed. The end was rather hoof-shaped. 

He stopped.

All he would need to do was saw off the excess length and.... why, yes, this could work.

CHOP

“Alright, Archer. Hand me another.” Nothing happened. “Archer?”

When Big Mac looked up, Archer was nowhere to be found.

“Humph. Figures.”

***

With a satisfying thud and another avalanche of falling fruit, Applejack proved for the fifty-ninth time that day her superiority in all things appley. A superiority which would be challenged, quite soon, by a particular human.

“Applejack?” asked the human in question. “I need your assessment on something.”

“Hmm?”

Applejack turned to find Archer staring contemplatively at a nearby tree.

“Say someone were to buck this tree. Where would they do it?”

She half-sighed, half chuckled to herself. He was tenacious, she had to give him that.

“Oh, I dunno,” she said as she trotted over, feigning severe disinterest. “I suppose, if’n I had to guess... there.” She struck the trunk at a spot Archer couldn’t even begin to distinguish from the rest. As if to punctuate just how freaking awesome she was at this sort of thing, a single apple fell from the branches for no reason and narrowly missed beaning Archer again.

He marked a small “X” on the spot with his knife, eliciting a pained wince from Applejack.

“Y’know, I coulda just-”

“Wait right there,” Archer said. “This’ll only take a second.”

Applejack stared blankly after him as he walked off. He bent over to pick up something rather heavy behind a tree a few dozen yards away. He turned to her.

“You’ll want to get out of the way!”

In one motion, he hoisted up something long and cylindrical and began running at the tree as fast as he could. Applejack leaped out of the way just in time for Archer to slam his newest toy into the tree’s trunk with a solid-sounding THUNK.

Applejack took a second to catch her breath before she began the anger in earnest.

“What in the hay are you tryin’ to-”

thump

Applejack looked up. An apple had fallen from the tree and landed in her hat. As she craned to get a better view of whatever had dropped the offending fruit into her headwear, another apple fell and clocked her in the snout. And then another came down on her. And another. And soon quite a few more starting pelting down all around for the sheer fun of it.

When Applejack dared to look back up, the tree’s branches were bare.

“You-”

“Eeeeeyup,” Archer drawled, doing his best Big Mac impression.

“You bucked it?”

“Sure did.”

“But how...?”

Archer held aloft a largish length of log, which had had ropes tied near the ends into rudimentary handles. It looked like a rather crude, rather tiny battering ram.

“You used that thing to buck this here tree?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, shoot!” she said, standing back up. “See, I wouldn’t even have thought of that. You’re more clever n’ I gave ya credit for.”

“Thanks,” he said, unsure of whether to feel complemented or slightly insulted.

“C’mon,” Applejack said, motioning to another section of orchard. “Let’s see if you can keep this job as easily as you got it.”

“So I’m hired?”

“You start now. Now let’s get a move on. I only got only a half hour ‘til my lunch break, which I sure as sugar ain’t gonna spend out here!”

***

“Dash!”

A few hundred feet above sea level, on a fluffy cumulus the size of a loveseat, a light blue pegasus stirred.

“Mff. Don’t wanna go to flight school, Ma, don’t make me-”

“DASH!”

Rainbow Dash jerked her head off the cloudy pillow-substitute, suddenly returned to the land of the living. “Whuzzat, wahappen” she half-muttered, half-shouted, displaying her wonderful grasp of the Equestrian language. She leaned over the side of her improvised sleeping bag, trying to figure out who had so rudely awakened her.

Oh. It was Inkwell. What a surprise.

“Look, Inkie, if this is about the humidity again, I’m-”

“No, no, no, the humidity’s fine!”

“That’s a first,” the winged mare muttered under her breath.

“What!?”

“I said, uh, 'I feel worse!' Yeah, worse than when I went to sleep. I’m weird like that.”

“Just come down here!”

Groggily, Rainbow Dash flapped and performed the aerial equivalent to a drunk stumble to the ground, where she landed ungracefully and came eye-to-half-lidded-eye with a rather on-edge bookkeeper.

“Rainbow Dash-”

“Urgh.”

“-I need you you to think for a moment-”

“Urrrrrrgh.”

“-and tell me if you’ve seen Archer anywhere.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’ve seen him.”

“WHERE.” Inkwell was now pressing her face uncomfortably close to Rainbow’s.

“Uhh, in midair.”

“What.”

“The middle of the air. That’s what ‘midair’ means.”

“What?”

“He was up in the sky. What else do you want me to say?”

“No, I mean... What was he doing up there?!”

“Flying, apparently.”

“HOW?”

“Some giant mass of metal I don’t want to think about right now.”

“What!?”

“You’re saying ‘what’ a lot.”

“What happened next?”

“He threw the Cutie Mark Crusaders at me and jumped on my back. Then the metal thing fell and exploded.”

“Wha-” Inkwell began, before being silenced.

“Say ‘what’ one more Celestia-forsaken time and I’m going back to sleep.”

“Alright, then. What’d he do next?”

“He flew me into the ground in front of Sugarcube Corner and started yelling. Then I flew off because I had a headache and then I fell asleep. And then you showed up and my day has coincidentally taken a sharp downward turn.”

“Alright...” Inkwell scratched at her chin for a moment. “Did you see where the metal thing landed?”

“Sweet Apple Acres.”

“Is Archer there?”

“Hay if I know.”

“Alright. Thanks. Bye!”

Inkwell promptly vanished in a cloud of dust. Rainbow snorted and fluttered back up to her cloud. 

“Yeah, whatever.”

***

Inkwell, to her credit, nearly made it into Sweet Apple Acres before she ran over someone.

“P-Pinkie!?” she sputtered, pulling herself off of the pink pony.

“That’s me!” exclaimed said pony, bouncing up from the crash like she was made of rubber. “What’s eating you, Inkwell? You look kinda ragged.”

“Ohh, I’ve just spent my entire morning looking all over Ponyville for Archer, who I think Princess Luna may have driven insane! I'm fine! Absolutely peachy!” She gave a half-deranged laugh before looking Pinkie dead in the eyes. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“Oh, sure I have!” Pinkie picked up one of the metal bits she had spilled in the pony-to-pony collision. “He’s over in the orchards, hitting trees with giant logs.”

“That.... I... You... WHAT!?”

“Yeah, he just invented applebucking for humans! You should go see him, it’s pretty neat!”

With that, Pinkie bounced away, humming delightfully, salvage in tow. Inkwell stood motionless, mouth agape, for quite a while after. 

Her morning was consistently filling up with more and more bullcrap. Bullcrap of a scale and magnitude that she had never had to deal with before. It had started, literally and figuratively, at midnight. First the Princess had knocked her unconscious. Then the weird dreams. Then the conflicting memories. Now that she was up and about, she was running herself ragged trying to make sure this human - who she didn’t even like that much anymore - was sane and alright. And now here was Pinkie walking along and telling her he was hitting trees with other trees, effectively confirming her worst fears.

Like I said, bullcrap of the highest order.

She fell face-forward into the ground, groaning.

“I give up.”
> Close Encounters
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“No, wait! It gets even better! When the villagers woke up, the dragon horns had gone missing, and the hunter was never heard from again!”

The lunch table broke into a round of laughter at the conclusion of yet another tall tale from beyond the Everfree. This one included larceny.

“Hehe... whew. Anyway, that’s how I got fired from the Monster Hunters’ Guild.”

Applejack and Granny Smith continued laughing, despite a worried glance from Macintosh.

“So enough about me, Miss Smith. Tell me, what’s the history about this place?”

The old green mare (who wasn’t what she used to be) at the end of the table chuckled.

“Yeh can call me Granny, son. Everypony does.”

“Fine, ‘Miss Granny,’” Archer drawled, eliciting a stifled chuckle from Applejack. “I think it’s your turn to tell a story.”

“Well, lemme see,” began the pony-shaped collection of wrinkles at the end of the table. “Well, I betcha didn’t know that the Apples are pretty much the reason Ponyville exists in the first place!”

“Oh, this I have to hear.”

Now, obviously, since you are reading this, you are either already familiar with that story or you are in a position to become so soon. So, for the sake of pacing and not wasting anyone’s time, we’ll just skip straight to the end.

“...An’ now the Zap Apples keep our business afloat during the off-season!”

“Fascinating.”

In truth, the fact that the Apple family had kept such a steady flow of various apple-related foods to the table was more “fascinating” to Archer than any long-winded dissertation on Equestrian history.

“So, do you have any of these ‘Zapples’ on hand? I might like to see one.”

“Well, now thatcha mention it, we may have one or two preserved,” Appljack said, returning into the room with a tray filled with more mouth-wateringly delicious food. “They’re a lot better fresh, but it’s fine if you just wanna take a look.”

After being assured that, yes, an old Zap Apple was fine, Applejack brought one up from the cellar. Upon seeing it, Archer began to laugh again. No, scratch that. He started to giggle. At the sight of this rainbow-colored apple, he giggled like somebody not entirely possessed of their mental faculties.

“It’s- heh - it’s a storm fruit!”

“A what now?”

“Oh, I never thought I’d see one of these again.”

“Granny, what’s he on about?”

“I know a guy who used to grow these!” Archer said, examining the Zap Apple more closely. “Only his looked a lot more like pears.”

“Oh, I’ve heard tell o’ those,” Granny Smith said with a knowing grin. “Amp Pears. They ain’t got a leg to stand on ‘gainst a fresh Zap Apple, though.”

“Oh, no doubt. No one bought them for the taste, anyway. It was always the static electricity they had in them. It gave it an aftertaste that was quite... I don’t know the word for it.”

“Lightning-y?” offered Mac.

“That’s it, ‘lightning-y.’ Gave it a bit of zest. Of course,” Archer continued, setting the Zap Apple down, “most people supported the business just because they wanted to watch him perform this bizarre series of rituals he thought he had to take before they were ready.”

“Oh,” chuckled Applejack, “if bizarre rituals are your thing, we gotcha covered.”

“Really? Do you paint your kitchen in polka-dots, too?”

“Eeeyup.”

“Oh... kay,” Archer muttered, bewildered. “Do you... talk to the pollen bees?”

“Yessiree-bob. Learnt all their names, too.”

“Do you dress up like a drill sergeant to inspect the jam jars?”

“She’s the meanest jam-jar inspector this side o’ Trottingham.”

Archer, now quite taken aback, shifted in his seat.

“Well, I’m fairly certain you don’t that thing where-”

“That thing where we dress up in bunny outfits, hop over water cans, and sing the alphabet song?”

Any lingering suspicions that he had escaped crazytown were immediately dispelled. No doubt about it, these ponies were all insane.

“Yes, the thing where you do that.” Archer stood up. “I’m going somewhere where things still make a little sense.”

As he left the room, he could almost swear he heard Granny Smith chuckle and say “Good luck.”

***

Inkwell had been laying on the ground in a miserable pile of defeat and all-around “Why Me, Celestia”-ness for a solid five minutes before someone interrupted her.

“Uhh, Miss Inkwell?”

She looked up. It was that white filly. What was her name? Sweeney Todd or something.

“Whuzzit.”

“Well, we were trying to see if we could get Cutie Marks for watching crazy ponies-”

“Gee, thanks.”

“-but you haven’t really been doing anything for a while. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Really.”

“‘Cause when you yelled and fell over like that, we thought y’all might been hurt.” That was another of the terrible trio. Apple...? Apple Blossom. That’s it, it was Apple Blossom.

“I am one hundred percent okay, you guys. Now please leave me-” grrrgh “Oh, my.”

One of the fillies giggled. “I think somepony’s hungry.”

“I had a triple-decker sandwich for breakfast, I don’t think I’m...” grrarhgh “...You know what,” she said, standing up, “Now that you mention it, lunch sounds pretty good.”

“C’mon,” Apple Blossom said, still chuckling. “Ah think they’re putting the vittles on up at the house, if you wanna stop over.”

“Lovely.”

***

There was one thing Inkwell had to admit about Apple Family Brand Apples. You could tell they were made with love. She vocalized her feelings on the matter as she bit into a scoop of Apple Brown Betty, emitting a rather vulgar-sounding moan as her brain was overtaken by a wave of crumbly, appley deliciousness.

Granny Smith just nodded sagely, as if Inkwell were pointing out a profound fact about the universe. Which, come to think of it, she sort of was.

“Golly, Miss Inkwell. You sure you weren’t that hungry?”

“Cphrnm tphk, bphhm mmphm.”

“What.”

“Granny Smith, you’re good at speaking ‘mouth-full-ese’,” said Scootaloo. “What’d she say?”

“Ah think she said, ‘Can’t talk, too busy... breedin’?’” Her first clue that she had gotten it wrong was Inkwell half-guffawing, half-choking on a bite of Brown Betty. “No, ‘eatin’.’ She said ‘eatin’.”

Inkwell gave an irked nod as the three fillies burst into giggles at her abject misfortune. Such was the way of the young, innocent, adorable, and inestimably cruel. She swallowed carefully before speaking again.

“Actually, I’m not here for the food, although it is delicious. I was actually wondering if you’d seen Archer around? I hear he’s hitting trees with other trees. He’s obviously gone completely bonkers and needs to be sectioned away immediately.”

“Archer? You mean, ‘Sweet Apple Acre’s newest part-time employee’ Archer?”

“What?!”

“Y’all should see him buck apples,” called Big Mac from the next room, currently slaving over a sink filled with soiled dishes. “It’s really quite ingenious.”

Inkwell’s eye twitched involuntarily.

***

After thinking it over, Archer had decided that Physics was really quite a nice individual once you got to know it better. If it allowed him to collect an entire half-acre of apples in half an hour, it certainly couldn’t be all bad. Right?

“ARCHER!”

BOMF

On second thought, Physics sucked. Screw you, Physics.

“Ow.”

“You’re okay!” exclaimed Inkwell.

“Well, I was,” he said, sounding much worse off than he probably was.“But then you tackled me like that, and now I’m thinking I may have cracked a rib. Oh, and the bruises. Can’t forget the bruises.”

“No, no,” Inkwell growled, getting up. “I mean, you’re not... you know, crazy.”

“Begging your pardon, miss, but my sanity was never the one in question.”

“Oh, and what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You just ran me over,” he pointed out.“That’s not behavior typically associated with mentally wholesome individuals.”

“I am not insane!”

“See, that’s just the kind of thing an insane person would say.”

Inkwell made a rather unnecessary show of being offended and sauntering away from Archer, who had still made no move to get up.

“Inkwell, seriously. I’m kind of messed up here. Could you...?”

“Oh, sorry! Sorry!”

She quickly came back and lifted him back up, throwing his spine back into alignment with a snap that was undoubtedly less painful than his anguished screaming made it sound.

“Ow.”

“And here we are, back where this conversation started.”

“Now, please, before anything else horrible happens to either of us, what did you come all the way out here to tell me?”

“...I have... well, I needed to tell you a few things.”

“Do go on,” he said, arms crossed.

“Well... I used to...”

“Drink?”

“No!”

“Smoke?”

“Okay, that was only the one time.”

“Out with it, then!”

“Ithinkiusedtobehumanpleasedon’thateme.”

Archer blinked.

“Care to run that by me again?”

“I think I was human once. Like you. Then... then I came here for - for some reason, I can’t remember - and I was turned into an Equestrian.”

At the present moment, Archer could have easily been confused for a witness to the famous Chanhassen Death Ray Array’s famous “First and Last Try.”

“That’s it,” he said simply, dropping his log beside him. “You really are nuts. I’m taking you to the asylum.”

“No, listen!” Inkwell shouted, scooting backward a few feet. “I’m from Baileyton! Remember? That town’s still around, right?”

Archer now just looked confused again.

“...Inkwell, Bailyton was wiped off the map twenty years ago. There are plenty of humans who haven’t heard of that place, let alone...!” A sudden flash of realization. “Sweet mother of - You’re telling the truth!?”

“Yes! Why would I not be!?”

“Because if you’re telling the truth, I’m in even more danger than I thought I was in to begin with!”

“Oh? How’s that?”

“It’s a Fisher Kingdom, isn’t it? Lures you in and gets its hooks in you?” Archer began pacing frantically around the small clearing. “Oh, this is not good. This is not good.”

“Archer, quit having a conniption and listen to me.”

“What!?” He turned to her, nearly as crazed as she had feared him to be coming in.

“I wasn’t transfigured by whatever you think I was. I didn’t just wake up a pony one day.”

“Oh, really? Then explain...” He gestured furtively to her. “...all of this!”

“I chose ‘this!’ I wanted to be an Equestrian, okay? They offered me the spell and I said, ‘Sure! I love this place! I wanna stay here forever!’ Little did I know that one of our stupid scouts would come wandering by and remind me how stupid I am for breaking one of Vorlan’s most dire, most stupid laws!”

Archer nodded. Vorlan had a very large list of “Thou Shalt Not’s” in the halls of the castle’s courtrooms.

Thou Shalt Not murder, steal, blaspheme...

But Thou definitely Shalt Not abandon thy race.

And apparently, Inkwell had thrown caution (and common sense) to the wind and screamed, “WATCH ME!” That was the sort of thing that required a King’s pardon to get out of, and given Jove V’s apparent history with this bunch, that was just terribly unlikely.

At least, from where these two stood.

“Why did you tell me this?” Archer asked, finally.

“Because it was driving me nuts,” she said. “And I had to tell someone, once I remembered.”

“That’s another thing. How did you only remember this now, of all times?”

“I may be able to shed some light on that,” Arrowhead called from somewhere very high up.

“Who’s that?” Inkwell asked.

“You can hear him?”

“I can see him,” Inkwell said, pointing to a rather cartoonish-looking imaginary cloud. “Who is that?”

“Sort of an expert on missing thoughts, love,” Arrowhead called back, looking down over the cloud’s edge. “Name’s Arrowhead, for now. Nice to meet you.”

“‘Arrowhead’? Archer, is this a friend of yours?”

“He wishes.”

Arrowhead recoiled dramatically. “Oh, I’m wounded, my good fellow! We’re not friends, after all I’ve helped you with today?”

“You sang thirty-odd verses of Henry the Eighth until I begged for mercy, then nearly caused me to shoot my only prospect of employment. What do you think?”

“He sounds nice,” Inkwell muttered.

“Oh, but I am, Inkwell darling.” Arrowhead began circling her in a manner most creepy. “I’m a dream spirit, you see. And under orders from the source of your confuddlement, Princess Luna herself, I can help you sort out your... predicament.”

“First things first, Arrowhead. How can she see you?”

“Oh, don’t think you’re special. I get to hop around the heads of anyone Her Majesty Luna has deemed appropriate, which right now is you and Inkie over here.”

“Inkwell.”

“Whatever! My point is, I’m graciously offering you the chance at undoing fifty years of inborn forgetfulness and the revelation of your true past, in all its juicy detail.” He walked behind her, emerging on the other side as her identical image.

“Doesn’t that sound fun?” he, now she, said in Inkwell’s voice.

“Well, I might be-”

“Wonderful!” she said. She poked the side of Inkwell’s head, which somehow caused her to collapse like a poorly-constructed block tower.

“Arrowhead,” Archer began, “I really don’t think -”

“You know what? Screw what you think! I don’t have to hang around in your weird-shaped head anymore! You’re not my real dad!”

“What?”

“Peace out.” And with that, Arrowhead disappeared.

“Well, now I have to carry her! Thanks a lot, man. This is why we can’t be friends.”

Inkwell turned over and muttered something in her sleep. Somehow, that seemed to be response enough.

“I suppose I’m going to have to drag you home?” She proceeded to continue lying there, unconscious. Archer sighed. “Right.”

***

knock knock knock knock knock knock-

“Hold yer horseshoes, I’m comin’!”

Applejack opened the door. In a shocking twist that really didn’t shock anyone, it was Archer, pulling a slumbering Inkwell up to the door by her front legs.

“Oh, Ah can’t wait to hear this one.”

“It’s a long story. Can I just...?”

“Guest bedroom’s upstairs.”

“Thank you.”

Archer dragged the somnambulant sandbag of a pony up the stairs, not really caring that her back hooves made quite the racket knocking against the top of every other stair.

“Aww. Are you mad, Archer?”

There, on his shoulder, was a very tiny Arrowhead.

“You look mad.”

“Well, I’d really rather not be doing this at the present moment.”

“Come on, smile! Turn that frown upside-down!”

“Ok, Pinkie. Why should I?”

“Because your head is no fun to live in when you’re angry.”

“I thought you were in Inkwell’s head!”

“I am. Or most of me is. Lucky son of a gun’s running around, being free. Meanwhile, I, the bit of personality most closely bonded to you, have to stick around here.”

“Am I never going to get rid of you!?”

“I dunno! Maybe? Is it really that bad?”

“Yes!”

“Archer!” That was Applejack, downstairs. “You alright? Who’re you talkin’ to?”

“An insane pony who lives in my head.”

There was silence, save for the repeated knocking of an unconscious Equestrian’s legs on the wood steps.

“...Well, alright then.”

“Hey, at least he’s honest, folks!”

“You shut up.”

“What!?”

“Not you, Applejack.”

***

“Look, maybe you’re not angling it right...?”

“I didn’t want to beat my head against this tree, Arrowhead, but so help me, I will if there’s the slimmest chance I can get rid of you before-!”

“Okay, okay. Jeez.”

Archer attempted to buck the tree once more. Nothing happened.

“Before what?”

“Are you always this talkative?!”

“If your head had more things to look through, maybe I wouldn’t be so bored.”

“Sorry. If I had known I would have to-” THUMP “-entertain guests, I would have tidied up the place.”

“Regardless, you humans are pretty boring. Was shooting arrows all you did before coming here?”

“Hey, get out of there! Can’t you bugger around in my imagination or something?”

“Oh, that’s not a good idea. You’d wind up seeing whatever I conjured up, and I can conjure up some screwed-up stuff.”

“Try me.”

“I’d rather not. Besides, if you knew you were hallucinating, you’d never think that thing that’s about to happen was real!”

“What thing?”

“This thing.”

And then a multichromatic wrecking ball plummeted from the sky and drove Archer into the ground.

***

“Hey! Monkeyman! You okay?”

Contrary to popular belief, Archer had not blacked out, though the prospect of doing so was quite attractive at the moment.

“Danebow Rash, is that you.”

“Yeah. Sorry, I’m still working on the landing on that one.”

“Aren’t you always working on a landing?”

“Huh?”

“No, I mean...” He pushed himself up and away from the second Equestrian mare to bowl him to the ground that hour. “You crash, like, every time I see you. Why do you even bother using the ground if it hates you so much?”

Somewhere, a very tiny Arrowhead was fastidiously taking the minutes. This was pure gold.

“Excuse me? I happen to land just fine most of the time!”

“Most?”

“Okay, reasonably often.”

“What are you even doing here?”

“I wanted to ask you about Inkwell. She looked kind of frazzled last time I saw her, and...”

“She got possessed by an insane figment of my imagination, and now she’s sleeping in Applejack’s guest bedroom while said insane figment sorts out her long-lost memories.”

“...Seriously?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“You’ve got me there.”

“So...?”

“You know, the last time I crashed, it was your fault.”

Archer blinked.

“Well, that certainly came out of nowhere,” he observed, picking his log back up.

“I mean it! You drove me into the ground.”

“‘Archer, Pegasus Driver’!”

“I heard you the first time, funny man.”

“Yeah, well don’t worry. I’m never flying you again.”

“Thank goodness. I...” Wait a second. “Hang on a minute, why not?”

“Did you see that landing?” he asked in a snide tone, slamming into the tree again with a THUMP. “I wouldn’t ride a hay wagon that kind of steering!”

“I have good steering!”

“No, you can go fast. As a certain orange filly informed me the other day, there’s a significant difference.”

“...What did Scoots say now?”

“Something about Fleetfoot bring-” THUMP “-the worst Wonderbolt because she can’t pull turns more than three g’s.”

“Oh, that’s stupid! Fleetfoot can go up to Mach Four!”

“That’s what I said! She was mostly mad at me for talking about-” THUMP “-Spitfire, though.”

“Say what?”

“She can barely pull Mach One and a Half! Come on, you can’t tell me she’s-”

There was another THUMP. This time it was of Rainbow pressing her face against Archer’s.

“Nopony talks smack about Spitfire.”

“Oh?”

A very small voice, which may have been Arrowhead’s Mini-Me floating inside Archer’s head, screamed “PUSH IT” as loud as it could.

“And I suppose you can make me stop.”

“Darn right I can.”

“Oh, come on. Seriously, a crap flyer like you could hardly be expected to-”

His next words, which upon reflection did not exactly sound like his at all, were drowned out by a sudden snap of displaced air. Rainbow was gone.

“...Sorry?”

A very loud boom sounded over the orchard. That would be the sound barrier, appropriately enough. Straining to see beyond the sun, Archer made out a very tiny rainbow streak doing very complex, very impressive aerial aerobatics at roughly a whole lot above sea level.

It was quite stunning, really.

Then, quick as she left, Dash landed back down in front of Archer with a smug grin.

“Still think I’m a crap flyer?”

“Oh,” he sighed, leaning nonchalantly on his log, “I’m really quite unconvinced. Is that all you have?”

Rainbow was not a stupid mare. She knew that this was an obvious barb, intended to humiliate her.

But the gauntlet had been thrown, and she was going to throw it right back.

“The Buccaneer Blaze!” she declared, after leaving a line of prismatic fire 20 yards long.

“Yawn-a-rama.”

“The Super Speed Strut!” that consisted of a moonwalk that would make Luna herself cheer.

“Boring.”

“The Fantastic Filly Flash?”

“Sorry, I blinked. Can you do it again?”

“The Three-Legged Beggar!”

“Begging for attention, apparently.”

“OKAY, FINE!”

She landed again, exhausted, angry, and quite unfavorably disposed towards Our Hero at the present moment.

“You obviously aren’t impressed by some of the most involving and fantastic air stunts this side of Griffindom. What’s gonna make you happy, huh?”

“Well...” He sighed depressingly. “It all lacks a certain... punch. Pretty lights will win over an Equestrian crowd, but where’s the danger? Where are the death-defying feats I was promised?”

Rainbow’s eyes narrowed. “You want danger?”

“She can be taught!”

“You want death-defying?”

“Yes, please, ma'am.”

“Then hang onto your socks, because I’m bringing down the thunder.”

Without another word, she flew up, up, and away into the sky. For a good minute, nothing happened.

“Did she leave?” he asked, to no one in particular.

His answer was another sonic boom, this time from very high up. Directly above his position, a pale blue dot in the sky was growing quite rapidly. As it neared, the roar of air being buffeted out of the way became ever louder and ever higher-pitched.

As she came within two thousand feet of the ground and a splattery, untimely death, Rainbow’s body became surrounded by a locus of electric charge. As she dove faster and faster and faster, the bubble coalesced into a sharp, voltaic cone.

And with a snap, she broke a barrier that was once thought impenetrable, and the Equestrian Air Speed record besides.

An explosion of color radiated outward, the shockwave rattling windows and knocking over innocent flower pots for miles around. Archer’s applebucking quota was filled for the next week, for all the trees unfortunate enough to be caught in the wake.

However, he was about to face a much bigger problem than a work order.

Fact: A Sonic Rainboom is a massive detonation of prismatic, uncontrolled magical energy.

Fact: Archer’s buck knife, which had not seen much of its intended use this week aside from one really unlucky hare who fortunately totally had it coming, had a gem in its hilt enchanted with a dispelling charm.

Fact: Tenebraes Depellendam had a long and storied history of being driven just a little crazy by undirected magic.

Fact: Having a knife strapped to one’s leg overflow with magical energy and explode does not exactly tickle.

***

“Arrowhead?”

“That’s my name.”

“Where are we?”

“Unconscious.”

“Why?”

“Long story, which I’m sure you’ll hear plenty of later.”

It wasn’t a white void this time. Actually, it was a very quaint smoking room, one Archer remembered from a very long time ago. Arrowhead was seated at the table, chewing thoughtfully on the end of a pipe, which ruined the desired effect by emitting bubbles.

“Sorry about that, by the way.”

“About what?”

“Well... You remember what you said about me trying to find a way to entertain myself?”

“Yes...?” This conversation was aimed in a very bad direction.

“I kinda sorta found your personality, and... well, I kinda sorta went overboard.”

“Wait... you’re the reason I said all that to Rainbow Dash?”

“Kinda. Sorta.”

Archer stood up, mortified. He stalked over to where Arrowhead was seated, and regarded him with one of those looks that, if looks could kill, would murder, embalm, and bury Arrowhead six feet below the ground.

“You sir...”

Arrowhead winced.

“...are an absolute pillock.”

And that’s when the floor collapsed.
> A Night to Remember
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a terrible ghastly noise, followed by a long, arduous fall into nothing. There was another loud crash, then silence.

Buried underneath the rubble of an old memory, Archer coughed.

His head hurt. His chest hurt. His everything hurt.

Normally, he would have blacked out from the pain, but seeing as how he was already unconscious, that was simply not an option. So, he had to sit there. Painfully.

“Hey!” called a voice from somewhere high above.

Arrowhead.

“Don’t worry, I’m gonna come get you!”

“Oh, good. The Bungler Brigade to the rescue. Haven’t you helped me enough already today?”

“No, look, I can fix this! Can you see where you are now?”

“No. It’s dark. Does that help?”

“Immeasurably.. I can definitely say you’ve fallen deeper into the subconscious.”

“Which means?”

“It means I’m going to have to enact a Scene Break in order to find you again! Hang on.”

“What’s a scene break?”

“Oh, who knows. Just keep calm until everything settles back down, and wait for me to find you. You got it?”

“You make no sense at all.”

“Good! Scene break now.”

Something happened that could only be described by three asterisks in quick succession.

***

“Wait for me to find you.”

Who had said that?

How long ago had it been? Days? Weeks?

Where was he? What had happened to him? And why did his head hurt so much?

Were those chains on his arms?

He tried to open his eyes. He succeeded only marginally. Wherever he was was dark, dank, and smelled vaguely of syrup. None of which bode particularly well.

He considered yelling “HELLO” out into the blackness, but that was never a good idea. That either told your torturers that you were awake or it told your prison guards that you needed to be shut up.

Why, yes, he had been in this situation before. Why do you ask?

He heard footsteps nearby, growing closer and closer. Probably an orc, judging from the way they stomped so heavily. Or possibly an ogre.

Then someone sang, and he didn’t know what to think.

“Su-gar-drop, su-gar-drop,
Come and see, come and see,
In my store of sweets galore,
I’ve got dreams a-plen-ty.”

A fairy, then. Or a Fair Folk, a harpy, or a siren that had completely stopped giving a care. Whatever she was, he was in serious trouble.

Where was his knife!?

“Can-dy-cane, can-dy-cane,
Come and stay, come and stay,
In this place, out of the rain,
For you belong to me.”

Candy? Rain? Who was this crazy lady, and why did she chain him up in a dungeon? And why the dickens was she singing?

“Gum-drop! Gum-drop!
Run away! Run away!
These fears of yours have come this way,
Open your eyes and see!”

She was close, whoever it was. Her voice was maddeningly familiar, but it was considerably deeper than any he could attach a name to.

“I said, ‘open your eyes.’”

He did so. A half-deranged visage leered back at him, draped with dark pink fur and even darker pink hair.

“Hi there!”

“Pinkie!?”

He was wide awake now. He didn’t know where he was, he didn’t know why he was here, and he certainly didn’t know what these chains shackling him to the wall were for, but he knew who he was looking at.

She looked wrong.

“It took you long enough to wake up.”

“What... what’s the meaning of this!? Where am I?”

“The basement, silly!” That sounded wrong, too. “I’ve just been dying to get you down here... and pretty soon, you’ll be dying down here, too!”

She broke into a fit of giggles. They sounded familiar. But they were so very, very wrong.

Nothing was as it should be here, he could tell. He remembered a world of oversaturated color - of an eternal noonday sun - of serenity so total and complete and so obviously unnatural that he had immediately assumed the worst.

And now, his fears were being confirmed. He remembered thinking that he had to be in danger, regardless of how peaceful his surroundings looked. It was too nice. It was a masquerade. It had to be. Fae races were evil. They drew you in with unassuming looks, then they flayed you alive and ate your heart.

And judging from the wall of knives across the room, that’s exactly what was about to happen.

“Tell, me Archer,” said the pink Equestrian, as she pulled down one of the blades - a meat cleaver. “Do you like cupcakes?”

***

“You call that breaking my spine!? You Orc pansies wouldn’t know how to break a spine if you - OH GOD, MY SPINE!”

Arrowhead tumbled out of the most recent memory he’d visited, slamming the door shut behind him and bolting it closed for good measure.

He trotted shakily down the hall that was supposedly Archer’s long term memory, silently swearing never to visit again. Some things just weren’t meant for Equestrian eyes.

Out of long term, then. He wanted no part of it. Out, out into... short term memory. Well, that worked well enough.

“What the-?”

One of the doors was sealed shut. A heavy iron chain wrapped around the frame, glowing a faint purple.

Arrowhead knew what this was. He knew what it meant. And by association, he knew exactly why the dreamfloor had caved in underneath him and Archer.

He was in serious trouble. Only one thing to do at a time like this!

He immediately galloped out of the hall, and eventually out of Archer’s mind entirely.

“LUUUUNAAAAAA!”

***

If there was any worse situation a scout could be in, Archer could not think of one.

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Why hadn’t he seen this coming!? Was he really that dim? Did this kingdom have a drug in the air? He couldn’t fathom it. He was usually so careful.

“Now, then, which one... which one...?”

Pinkie the Betrayer stood, carefully eyeing a row of dissection tools on the far wall.

“That one’ll never cut deep enough... that one’ll cause too much bleeding... Ugh, decisions.”

“You could sing some more.”

She turned to him, rather taken aback.

“What?”

“That’s what you like to do, isn’t it? Sing.”

“I’m not in a singing mood. And you’ll be quiet, or I’ll just take the cleaver and be done with it.”

That wasn’t Pinkie. But he didn’t know why.

He still didn’t know a lot of things.

***

“Ohh, this is bad. This is so bad. Dear Celestia, this is bad bad bad-”

“Enough!”

The shadowy figure that was a fragment of Princess Luna stepped onto the balcony that represented the entryway into the mind.

“Thou callest us at a most inopportune moment, shade. Why?”

“It’s Archer. The human. he’s about to-”

“I am acquainted with him. He is merely having a nightmare, is he not? There is nothing to fear.”

“That’s just it! He’s not having ‘a’ nightmare!” His expression was one of pure, desperate panic. “He’s having the Nightmare!”

Luna hesitated.

“Thou meanest-?”

“Yes!”

“She is-?”

“Yes!”

“Now?”

“Now!”

Without further ado, Luna burst into Archer’s mind, nearly trampling Arrowhead in the process.

“With haste!”

“Sure thing, princess. Just let me try to get the feeling back in my legs.”

“HASTE!”

“Fine.” He stood up. “Ow.” He began walking. “Ow. Ow. Ow.”

***

“...Ow.” 

The murderous magenta misanthrope had apparently found her wall of slashing implements lacking, and had promptly left Archer here to rot while she searched for something more suited to her tastes that evening. Now he was testing the strength of his chains, to see if a conveniently weak link could be strained to the breaking point.

As it stood, the only things he’d strained so far were his wrists.

He tried to turn himself around and press off the wall, figuring that the inevitable tumble and fall when something gave was preferable to being murdered. That fall was averted, however, when the combination of panicked sweat and unidentified fluids on his arm formed a solution akin to grease and his wrist slid neatly out of the manacle with a very unappetizing sucking noise.

And with a very unsubtle rattling noise, Archer’s weight caused the now-empty cuff to be pulled through the fastening loop thing (which he was sure had a name, but really didn’t think it prudent to try and remember what) and catch, leaving him with roughly double the leg room he had previously. Of course, now he had too much slack to pull the other cuff off using the same method.

Baby steps, Archer. Baby steps.

The wall-o-cutlery was much closer to him now, though still maddeningly out of reach. A shame, too. There was a hacksaw, stained with something he didn’t want to contemplate, not three feet from his hand.

Hmm. Three feet.

Three feet.

Feet?

Of course.

He stretched in a rather balletic and thoroughly humiliating pose, now attempting to carry the saw off of its hook with the toe of his boot.

Once again, preferable to being murdered.

The saw fell off the rack, making an awful din as it clattered onto the stone floor. Really, if the Clockwork Pink hadn’t heard him by now, she was probably deaf. Or maybe she was letting him go so she could murder him after he’d gotten his hopes up-

He decided to just stop thinking. It would all work out better that way.

He started sawing. Hopefully, the chain would give out before his nerves did.

***

“This is indubitably the work of the Nightmare.”

“Glad you think so, Your Highness.. Now what?”

The Short Term Memory section of Archer’s brain had been positively festooned with the iron chains that were the trademark representation of memory suppression spells.

“Now,” said the monarch, approaching the nearest one, “We undo as many of these forsaken things as we can and hope we can find the thread that unravels her plot.”

“And what if we don’t find it in time?”

“Then we’re going to have a demon on the loose. So start unlocking.”

***

Chink!

Free.

He was free gotta run fast gotta run fast what was that it looked pink he was falling ohhh no.

He was face-down on the stone floor again. He could hear more chains.

“Oh, where are you going?” asked the thing that was not supposed to be Pinkie, feigning hurt. “You were supposed to wait here for the party!”

Even that sounded wrong. Everything was wrong. Why!?

***

Another spell unchained yet another door.

“What’s in that one?”

“It is...” Arrowhead brought out a small slip of paper. “...a party invitation. Huh.”

“Why would she lock up a party invitation?”

“She’s crazy?” he offered. “Just throwing it out there.” Luna’s look of apparent disapproval made him cringe. Then she sighed.

“You’re probably right. Keep looking.”

***

“But the party isn’t until Friday night.”

This stopped the Pink Menace in her tracks, and Archer behind her, being dragged back to the wall.

“What did you say?”

“You were throwing me a celebration. But a real one! Friday at Sweet Apple Acres! Remember?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Archer did not think himself a good judge of veracity, but he could tell she wasn’t lying.

Something was up.

***

“And in this one..?”

A muffled explosion and a spray of confetti were her answer.

“That would be the Party Cannon,” Arrowhead said, attempting to retain his composure while he had a snout full of streamers.

“May I ask why?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

***

“And this isn’t your basement, either.”

Non-Pinkie sported a visible look of shock.

“And what makes you say that?”

“Well, the basement is much bigger, for starters. And I don’t think there’s a single sharp implement in the place, save for the wire cutters. There was even a bomb. I don’t see a bomb in here. Do you see a bomb?”

Some small part of his brain pointed out that this was a remarkably cavalier attitude to be taking with one’s imminent torturer, executioner, and butcher. The larger four-fifths of his mind ignored it.

“Also, the lighting in here is absolute crap. I remember being able to see.”

“S-shut up,” the almost-but-not-quite Pinkie said, trying just a little too hard to look threatening. The knife in her hoof helped a bit.

“And what’s with this ‘shut up’ nonsense? I thought you loved talking.”

“Shut up!”

***

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Luna growled, stepping out of an avalanche of baked goods. “Why are all of these suppressed memories so... trivial?”

“Perhaps they are, and perhaps not, Your Highness.”

“Explain.”

“All of these memories have a single thread in common. If she’s blanking out who I think she is, I think we’ve found our mystery pony.”

“And who, pray tell, is that?”

“Oh, just Archer’s only genuine friend in Equestria and one of the Elements of Harmony besides.”

***

“...Pinkie Pie!”

“What! What is it now!?”

“Not you. She’s not you. She can’t be.”

“I am so Pinkie Pie. Look! Is my mane not curly?” the doppelganger asked, tugging at one outlying strand. “Am I not pink and sugary-sweet enough to be Pinkie Pie?”

“Curly? Yes. Pink? Definitely. But you, my dear, are quite sour.”

“Well, fine,” she said, voice dropping an octave or two. “So I’m not Pinkie. I’m still going to cut you open.”

“Oh, I don’t think you are.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, for one, Real Pinkie is standing right behind you.”

“Wha-”

Not Pinkie swiveled and saw Real Pinkie standing behind her, practically nose-to-nose and smiling the world’s most terrifying smile.

“How did-”

“Say cheese!”

BOOM

...Went the Party Cannon. Not Pinkie was sent flying into the wall, covered in festively colored paper bits.

“Hey, Archer. Sorry I’m late.”

“Pinkie, what are you-”

“Shh! Don’t think about it. If you think about it, the parasprites win.”

“....What?”

“Exactly!”

“I don’t know how you re-emerged, construct,” boomed a very deep, very unpleasant voice. “But rest assured, I will not merely hide you away this time.”

Not Pinkie shakily rose to her feet, shaking off the decorations... as well as her skin. Underneath the fading pink was a very dark black.

“I’ll simply have to expunge you from this mind completely. Such a shame, too - I prefer working with intact dreamscapes.”

“Pinkie, what’s she on about?”

“Beats me.”

“What I am ‘on about,’ you insolent ape, is the impending consumption of your mortal mind for my ends.”

“Then what was with the whole basement schtick? Couldn’t you have just eaten my brain and be done with it?”

Once again, the very tiny part of Archer that was trying to signal him to activate his brain/mouth filter went ignored.

“It’s a bit more involved than that,” Not Pinkie hissed, slowly growing larger, blacker, and even less easy on the eyes. “But no matter. Soon your memories will be dealt with and I can begin feeding once more.”

“Yeah, um... do I get a say in this?”

“SILENCE!”

“...I take that as a no?”

The dark creature that was most unquestionably not Pinkie had grown to a size Archer would otherwise have associated with an adolescent dragon.

“You truly are an incorrigible individual, Archer of Vorlan. I question my counterpart’s wisdom in not vaporizing you the first chance she had.”

“Pinkie,” Archer muttered, “please tell me you have a plan.”

“Oh, none whatsoever.”

“What!?”

“I don’t need one!”

“But I shall gladly perform the task, and claim your body in the process. Prepare to die.”

“NOT SO FAST!”

In the doorway was another pony, striking a dramatic pose.

“And who would you be?”

“Oh, no one,” Arrowhead said, dropping back to all fours. “Just the distraction.”

And then the ceiling caved in. In Archer’s opinion, the place was in desperate need of a skylight, anyway. Sending a giant black pegasus unicorn to pile-drive a giant black Pinkie Pie wasn’t how he would have done it, mind, but hey. Whatever works.

“So, what am I looking at?” he asked Arrowhead, who had decided to stand beside Archer and Pinkie to watch the show.

“You are looking at Princess Luna, or the mental projection thereof, beating the snot out of the Nightmare.”

“Neat. Pass the popcorn.” He took a handful, then thought of another question. “Who’s the Nightmare?”

“Eh, she’s basically just like me. Except, you know, evil. And an accident.”

“So I’m looking at a millenium of mommy issues coming out?”

“Pretty much, though I would have phrased that differently.”

“Shh!” shushed “Real” Pinkie. “You two are drowning out all the name-calling!”

“JEZEBEL!”

“PARASITE!”

“WENCH!”

“SHREW!”

“You know, you’re right,” observed Arrowhead. “The name-calling is exquisite.”

“For once, Arrowhead, we are in complete agreement.” A few more minutes passed on in (partial) silence, before anyone in the audience decided to speak up again.

“You know, I thought I would take the whole ‘figuring out I’m in a dream’ thing a lot harder than this.”

“Oh, you’ll probably freak out when you wake up. Until then... care for a jelly baby?”

“Pass. You know, I feel kind of guilty just letting Luna do all the work. Shouldn’t I...?”

“Nah, just sit tight. She’s had a lot more experience than you at this thing.”

“Yeah, but this is my mind.”

“True, but that,” Arrowhead said, pointing a hoof towards the downed Nightmare, “Is her monster.”

“Mad science?”

“Runaway emotions, actually.”

“Ah.”

“You have been bested, foul beast!” declared Luna, standing atop a very unhappy dream-eating monstrosity. “Yield, and I shall consider showing a sliver of mercy.”

“Oh, just kill her! She was going to eat me!”

This time, all eyes in the room were on Archer.

“I take it, human, that thou dost not much care for appearances.”

“Lady, I got over ‘appearances’ when I was being used as a living dress-up doll two days ago. Right now, I’d just like this whole dream ordeal to be over so we can move on with our lives.”

“Quite right. I...”

The Nightmare was gone.

“...should really stop falling for that.”

A cascade of evil laughter sounded through the room.

“All it takes is a second to give me the advantage, Luna.”

She growled, searching for the missing combatant.

“I know that full well.”

“Um... Princess? Not that I don’t have full faith in your abilities, but... where is she now?”

“She’s likely retreated into the dark recesses of your subconscious mind. It could take days, if not weeks to find her, and that’s provided she’s not... ssstanding right behind you OH GOD LOOK OUT!”

Archer had been stabbed before. He had been beaten, whipped, and generally mistreated by Fae before. He had even gone to a human dentist, which beat out most other mortal agonies by several orders of magnitude.

Nothing could quite compare to having an nightmare monster’s horn, which was apparently cooled to subzero temperature, stab itself into the back of your head and attempt to take over your consciousness from the inside.

He flailed. He caught something behind him. He pulled.

Now Nightmare was facing him, and her horn was embedded in his forehead.

It was a lateral move at best.

Join me, it said.

Bugger you, he said back.

We could be so powerful together. You could escape this wretched realm and return to your home - your family - your precious king. Imagine what you could be capable of.

Slowly, the Nightmare’s once-feminine voice was taking on a more masculine tone. It was shifting to match his own.

Not interested. Now get out of my head.

You can’t comprehend what you’re throwing away!

Get out, get out, get out, get out, GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUT

Archer had grabbed the monster by the throat at some point and was throttling said airway for all he was worth. He pushed, and slowly, their two consciousnesses ceased to overlap.

“You are not welcome here, you unnatural-” CRUNCH “-Fae-” THUD “-freak.”

With a strength he certainly did not possess in the waking world, Archer hoisted the limp body of the Nightmare and hurled it into the wall of knives.

She impacted with the sharp steel and vanished into smoke.

Silence.

Arrowhead started clapping. Luna was not the sort of pony who clapped, and Pinkie was more inclined to jump at someone and hug them, so he stopped rather soon.

“Where is she?” he asked, surprisingly calm.

“Out,” was Luna’s simple answer. “I doubt she will return to you. Your hatred for her intrusion was most... intense.”

“I don’t like Fae.”

“You have made that much clear.”

“What did she want?”

“Your body, to twist to her own ends. Since my redemption, she has sought out those of weak will to overtake and consume. She mistook you for easy prey.”

“Scratch what I said earlier. I despise Fae.”

“I hope you don’t intend to include us in that statement.”

There was Arrowhead and Real Dream Pinkie, standing beside him.

“Because, you know, we helped a whole bunch.”

“Yes, Arrowhead, you were a marvelous distraction.”

“Thank you, good sir,” said the dream pony, bowing as if he’d just been paid an enormous compliment.

“And what about me, huh?” asked Dream Real Pinkie. “I helped too!”

“Yes, Pinkie. You certainly did.”

“So can you promise to not be secretly paranoid about every Equestrian you meet from now on?”

“I... what-”

“Hello? Dream construct! I know what you think. And what you think makes me sad. You don’t want me to be sad, do you?”

Against Not Pinkie, he had just jabbered away. Versus Real Pinkie, he was at a complete loss for words.

That probably meant she was legit.

“I... guess not.”

“Great!” She hugged him again. “You promise to play nice, right?”

“Yes, Pinkie,” he said, exasperatedly.

“Alrighty! Luna, I think he can wake up now.”

He would have said something else, but then Luna punched him in the jaw.

***

***

***

The hospital room was silent, except for the omnipresent heart monitor.

Rainbow Dash was seated at the bedside chair, poring through a book that prominently featured a behatted pegasus on the cover. Every so often, she’d glance up at the unconscious form prone on the bed.

Sometime around midnight, Archer stirred.

Then he stopped stirring and sat bolt upright, eyes wider than they had any right to be at this hour.

Rainbow was at his side in moments.

“Archer! You’re awake!”

“...Yeah. Yeah I am.”

“Are you alright? You don’t sound that good.”

He looked down at her. He smiled.

“You promise to play nice, right?”

“It’s nothing, Rainbow. Just a nightmare.”





End-Of-Chapter Extra:

Appendix A: The Jove Line
> Thursday Morning
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

After waking up the previous night, Inkwell had emptied several mugs of Whinness dry stout. She even managed to drink some of it. But she still remembered everything the morning after.

She looked at her hooves again. Nope, still no fingers. That was probably for the best.

Yep, still had that horn. Tail was a check. Oh, thank heavens, she was still an Equestrian.

What a relief.

...

And at the same time, what a shame.

She pried herself out of bed and trotted downstairs.

There was a mare sitting at the kitchen table.

“Now really, dearie,” she said, in a sickeningly familiar voice. “Hard alcohol? I thought I raised you better than that.”

“My mother was not a pony, Arrowhead.”

“Well, of course she wasn’t. That’s not the point.”

“Can you only do ponies or something?”

“Granted that the one who created me is a pony...”

“Yeah, you’ve got me there.”

“Maybe if I hadn't been born before we met you people, I could sprout hands like you seem to want me to. But until then...”

“Quit that.”

“What?”

“Being sarcastic with my mom’s voice. It’s creepy.”

“Fine. Watch me wave my magic wand and - LOOK AT THAT!”

“What!?”

Inkwell turned around, expecting... well, a robber or something. It was the mailmare opening her door to send her a letter instead. She smiled sheepishly and shut the door.

“Why’d you have me look at Ditzy delivering the mail?”

“Because,” said her voice. “I can’t do this with ponies watching.”

Inkwell faced Arrowhead, now seeing a perfect replica of herself sporting a snarky grin.

“Do what?”

“Transformation sequence. I’m not powerful enough for the necessary special effects, so I have to hide it or it breaks people’s brains.”

“Really.”

“You should see the last guy it happened to.” The Inkwell-duplicate laughed to herself. “He thought he’d turned into Starswirl the Bearded. Then he tried to jump off a roof and fly. I don’t know where he got the idea to do that, actually.”

“Please tell me you at least got in trouble for this,” the real Inkwell muttered, now debating whether to brave the untold depths of her icebox.

“Oh, loads. I was even demoted for a few months.”

“Demoted? To what?”

“‘Bad dream’. It was an embarrassing six weeks.”

“But... demoted compared to who?”

“You don’t really think I’m the only dream pony around, do you?”

“I was kind of hoping,” Inkwell answered, now neck-deep in the icebox.

“No, there’s a bunch. Maybe I’ll introduce you to a few some time...”

“NO! No, that’s alright. You’re more than enough.”

Arrowhead only giggled at that.

“Anyway,” she said, clutching a package of frozen waffles in her mouth, “what are you still doing here?”

“Oh, I’m just killing time until Archer comes around. Then I’ll go back to him and stop being a girl, which is really starting to freak me out.”

Inkwell merely raised an eyebrow as she plugged in the toaster.

“‘Freaks you out,’ eh?”

“Yes. I prefer to be male.”

There wasn’t a word that adequately described the stare she gave him. Well, the stare she gave her. The stare Inkwell gave to Arrowhead-Inkwell. You know what I mean.

“You prefer...”

“...To be male.”

“That sounds really weird.”

“Look, I’ve mostly worked with stallions. It turned into a preference.”

“So you don’t prefer to be male, you just prefer males in general?”

She-Arrowhead opened her mouth to respond. Then she closed it when she realized what was being insinuated. Then she opened it and shut it again when she came up with a witty retort, but realized that no, it wasn’t all that good.

“If there was a Cutie Mark for wit,” the dreampony said, finally, “You would have it.”

“Thanks. Now can I please eat my waffles?”

“Sure.”

She disappeared.

***

“...The dickens are you trying to feed me?”

“It’s hay soup, sir. The hospital menu clearly says-”

Archer bent forward, trying to figure out what exactly the nurse was trying to trick him into eating. “I don’t really care what the menu says, I can’t eat...” He picked at the dry grass sticking out of the broth. “...this.”

“Well, it’s this or nothing, sir.”

“There has to be something in this hospital that-” tong tong tong “What was that?”

Tong tong tong, again. It was coming from the window.

“Hey, open up! My legs are getting tired!”

The nurse, now confused beyond reason - for this was a second-story room - slowly approached the window.

“Hello?”

“Hi! Let me in, please!”

She opened the window, and who should come flying in at roughly sixty miles an hour but Pinkamena Diane Pie.

“Hello, Miss Pie,” the nurse deadpanned. “Once again, Ponyville General Hospital wishes to remind you that our front doors remain fully functional, as always.”

“Are you ever going to quit saying that to me every time I come in?”

“We would, if you ever used the door, like a normal pony.”

“You see?” said Archer from the bed. “‘Normal pony’. It’s a lost cause.”

The nurse’s reply came in the form of a glare, followed shortly by a long-suffering sigh as she exited the room.

“So how’d you get up here?”

“Gyrocopter.”

“Ah.”

A short silence.

“...Where is it now?”

“Oh, Toola-Roola said she’d catch it for me.”

There was a loud crashing noise outside, followed by a very loud groan and at least one Equestrian screaming “PINKIIIIIIE”.

“I think that might have been her.”

Pinkie poked her head out of the window and yelled, “Thanks, Toola!”

“You owe me five bits! And liability insurance!”

“Oh, you know I’ve got that covered! Don’t drop it!”

“MY BACK!”

Pinkie slammed the window shut.

“So, how’s the leg?”

“Sort of like the last Orc I met.”

“How’s that?”

“Nasty, swollen, in pain, and filled with metal.”

“Eww.”

“Good news is, I can get out today if I promise to use a crutch. Apparently medical magic is a lot more advanced here?”

“Yeah! Have I told you about that time Twilight got hit with a falling piano? She survived. Crazy, right?”

“Perhaps. What I want to know is what the piano was doing falling in the first place.”

***

It was usually quite sunny in Ponyville. The abundance of plant life in and around the town, coupled with the vast acres of apple trees that were its prime export, meant that lots and lots of sunshine was needed.

Of course, that also meant that when it was scheduled to rain, it tended to come down hard.

So Inkwell could be forgiven for being in a bit of a rush.

Of course Twilight had only dropped by to tell her where Archer was five minutes before the bottom was due to fall out. Of course she had to run like a scared little filly if she didn’t want to end up drenched. Of course the storm started earlier than scheduled.

Of course it couldn’t be easy.

***

“Ma’am, you’re soaking wet!”

“Gee, thanks. I might never have figured that out.”

Inkwell slowly trotted inside, sopping wet from head to hoof.

“Because I was wondering why I was so cold, but the fact that I could get wet in the rain never entered my mind. I’m so glad you cleared that up.”

The clerk sighed and returned to her newspaper.

“Okay, I’m sorry. Can you tell me where Archer is?”

“Room 216. You can’t miss it.”

Inkwell shook herself off and picked a hallway at random, not wanting to ruminate on what exactly she “couldn’t miss” about a hospital room.

***

“Pass me the tweezers.”

Archer had apparently abandoned the idea of using the hospital bed for its intended purpose long ago. He was now storing an inordinately large amount of metal parts on top of it, out of which he was inexplicably constructing something that looked like a leg with no flesh and all its bones on the outside.

The doctors had been avoiding Room 216 for a good hour by now.

“What in the name of Celestia’s shiny left flank is going on in here?”

Archer looked up. The source of that incredibly creative epithet was a very soggy Inkwell. Or perhaps the very dry, unperturbed Inkwell that was standing right beside the first.

“Hello there, Inkwell, Arrowhead. I’d appreciate it if you knocked next time.”

“Hi, Inkie!” called Pinkie around a mouthful of cupcake. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, this is...” she did a double-take. “Wait, you can see her?”

“Unfortunately,” Arrowhead groused.

“How?”

“She’s Pinkie Pie,” Arrowhead and Archer said simultaneously.

She sighed. “Of course she is. Now what’s all this?” she asked, gesturing to the bed overflowing with scrap metal.

“Leg brace. It’s a work-in-progress.”

“You couldn’t use a crutch like a normal pony?”

Archer gave her a look that suggested she had said something rather unintelligent.

“I’m barely taller than eye-level with most of you. The crutch your doctors gave me would have left me crippled within a few days.”

“So you’re making a whole new leg?”

“I’m making a brace so I don’t have to mess with this crutch business at all. You’re free to help, if you want.”

She cautiously made her way over, half-expecting something to jump out of the pile of components and bite her.

“I think Pinkie’s logic is starting to rub off on you, Archer.”

“How’s that.”

“‘Oh, I don’t want to use a crutch. Let’s build a robot leg!’”

“Interesting argument,” he said, not looking up from his work. “Pinkie, your rebuttal?”

“That’s silly and you should feel silly for thinking that.”

Inkwell’s response was a hoof to her now aching head.

“Surprisingly sound logic.”

Wait, she didn’t say that.

Standing on the ceiling like she owned the place was Inkwell-Arrowhead, smiling down (up?) at the scene below her.

“So, I take it you survived, Archer?”

“Sure did. Shame, isn’t it.” He looked up. “You know, Arrowhead, you look different. Did you get a dye job while I was out, or...”

“Har har.”

Suddenly another pony appeared, hanging from the ceiling-dweller’s hair. Hopefully he, too, was a dreampony, because “normal” Equestrians were not supposed to be able to shrink to hair-hanging size.

“Hi mom!” he said.

“We’ve been over this before, me. I’m not your mom.”

“Well, you sort of gave birth to me.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

Inkwell, Pinkie, and Archer looked away from the “familial” argument and back down at one another.

“Ladies,” he began, “I believe our lives have become entirely too weird.”

Inkwell nodded solemnly. Pinkie just giggled.

***

“Well, it’s done.”

“Does it work?”

“I have no idea.”

Archer had unceremoniously dumped the collection of parts from the bed, leaving only the ostensibly-completed leg brace for his audience to ogle at.

“How does it work?”

“Well, I just slip it on my leg and it should keep my weight from injuring the muscle too much.”

“Have you ever done this before?”

“Well, not on myself, obviously.” He looked at it more closely. “Huh. You know, I might have to put this on under my trousers if I want this to fit.”

Inkwell-Arrowhead and Arrowhead Classic immediately ran screaming from the room.

“What’s wrong with them?” asked Pinkie, genuinely confused.

Inkwell whispered something in her ear. Her pupils shrank to comically small points.

Within a few seconds, she joined the two Arrowheads in fleeing for her sanity. Inkwell followed her at a more leisurely pace, making sure to put up the “Do Not Disturb” sign on her way out.

“...Entirely too weird.”

***

With a hiss of compressed air and a wince, Archer stepped out of the room. Thankfully, his trousers were back on.

Arrowhead was by his side in moments.

“So, ‘professor,’ how’s it feel?”

This would be a wonderful time to make a witty one-liner, he realized. Surely he could think of something.

“...Itchy.”

I suppose they can’t all be winners.

“It works, I take it?”

“Well, yeah. Otherwise I’d be doing this.”

Archer proceeded to affect a limp, emitting a very awful noise that sounded like a cube of gelatin being put through a garbage disposal. A passable impression of a zombie, in other words..

While hilarious, this unfortunately made it look and sound to every doctor within earshot that he was walking without assistance and was in intense pain. 

The next few minutes were a blur of very fast movement, panicked voices, and a whirlwind of every anaesthetic known to Ponykind.

***

Archer woke up three hours later on a cot in a bedroom that was entirely too pink.

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear this one.”

“Well, it’s really quite simple.”

He turned. “Arrowhead?”

“Hi.”

“Why are you plaid pink?”

The defaced hallucination looked down at himself glumly, and sighed.

“Painkillers, man. They mess you up.”

That would have to suffice as an explanation. It made about as much sense as anything else today had, tinkering notwithstanding. That, and his head hurt too much to even consider pressing the issue.

“I’m starving,” he realized.

“Yeah, well, that’s what you get for refusing to eat your hay soup like a spoiled little colt. That stuff’s good for you!”

“It’s grass.”

“So’s hemp, but that didn’t stop you from-”

“You will leave my University years out of this, thank you very much.”

“I’m just saying. All those years, and you still can’t escape The Munchies.”

“Don’t you have a female counterpart that you could be harassing?”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. But remember,” Arrowhead said, gesturing dramatically. “The Munchies cannot be denied. You will-”

“Shut up and go away.”

“Fine.”

He vanished.

***

“Missus Cake, I hope I’m not going to have to threaten murder again today, because I am really not feeling up to-”

“Inkwell already paid for everything, Mister Archer. Just... in the corner. Over there. And please try not to break the roof any more.”

“I’ll do my best.”

That entirely-too-pink room had turned out to be Pinkie’s, which had then turned out to be positioned directly above Sugarcube Corner, which itself had turned out to be very good at recovering from hovercart-based roof demolition.

Archer had a feeling that his tab had skyrocketed in the past 24 hours.

There was Inkwell, in the corner. Sitting right next to her was Inkwell, who may or may not have been Arrowhead’s clone/other self. Across from that Inkwell was Arrowhead version 1.0, the Pink Plaid Pontificatory Pony.

“Well, I see the gang’s all here. Where’s the food?”

“It’s coming,” said one of the Inkwells. “What’s your hurry?”

Arrowhead leaned over conspiratorially. “It’s the Munchiiiiiies,” he hissed.

“...What?”

“He’s being an idiot,” Archer muttered. “Ignore him.”

“I’m doing my best.”

“You are the real Inkwell, right?”

“I should hope so.”

“Hard to keep track of, isn’t it?” joked the unicorn’s duplicate. “I don’t know how you fleshy types do it.”

“Speaking of fleshy types, Inkwell...”

“Hmm?”

“You never got around to revealing the myriad secrets behind your arrival to Ponyville.”

“Oh, you mean the secrets that necessitated that...” she gestured to Hallucination Inkwell, “thing’s creation?”

“I resent that.”

“Yes, those,” Archer said, trying to prevent a migraine from spontaneously appearing behind his eyes.

“Well, where do I start? Until about thirty years ago, I-”

“Hi!”

From nowhere as usual appeared Pinkie Pie, this time with a tray full of embarrassingly sugary things on one hoof and an odd gray bottle in the other.

“Hello, Pinkie. Inkwell was just about to spill her secrets to the world. Care to join us?”

“Sure thing. But you have to drink this.”

She immediately plopped herself into another chair, shoving the bottle into Archer’s hands.

“What is it?”

“Tonic from the doctor’s. He says it’ll help you meta-something the metal in your leg faster.”

“‘Metabolize.’”

“Gesundheit.”

“Right.”

A danish and a swig of foul-tasting “get well soon” potion constituted breakfast. He’d eaten worse.

“So, Inkwell. You were saying?”

“Well, I was about to say, thirty years ago I lived in a town called-”

“Hey, Monkeyman!”

Rainbow Dash exploded through the front doors, with as little regard for property values as she could be expected to keep. She shook the rainwater off of herself in a quite messy fashion as she trotted over to the corner table.

“Nopony told me you were out of the hospital! I was worried for a minute.”

“Oh, only a minute? I must be losing my edge. Last time I recall you people worrying over me, it lasted for far longer than that.”

“Yeah, but you had to choke down a hundred baked pastries to do it. I’d say we’re all better off.”

“She has you there,” pointed out Arrowhead.

“Shut up, you.”

“What!?”

“Not you, Dash, him. The pink plaid one.”

She stared at him blankly.

“...The one who, now that I think about it, only you cannot see. Odd.”

Dash was less than convinced. “Is he...?”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Inkwell. “Totally sane. It’s just the circumstances that make him seem like a nut.”

“Pinkie, they’re not really-?”

“I see ‘em, too. But I see a lot of things, so I don’t really know what to tell you.”

“Alright, now I’m totally lost.”

“We were just about to sit and listen to Inkwell expound upon her past life as a human. Care to join?”

“Oh, I didn’t know she was one of those!”

“One of what?”

“A transmogrification case. I mean, I know a pegasus who used to be an ogre. She’s really mellowed out since then, but you can still sort of tell.”

This was just all kinds of worrying. Archer decided, for the sake of choking his migraine to death, not to dwell on it.

“So, Inkwell, we’ve got two ambulatory figments of our imagination, a psychotic sugar addict, and an adrenaline junkie who puts innocent people in the hospital. Would you like to start your story now, or wait for more weirdoes to show up?”

“Now, please. I’d really rather not risk it.”

“Then, by all means.”

The four ponies and one human all leaned in, as if listening to a ghost story told by a campfire. Inkwell sighed, checking to make sure no one else was coming in.

“Alright. Until about thirty years ago, I lived in a small town called Baileyton. I was not a unicorn. In fact, I knew no magic at all. I was a human, named Innis, and my life was very, very weird...”
> Spilling the Ink
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Until about thirty years ago, I lived in a small town called Baileyton. I was not a unicorn. In fact, I knew no magic at all. I was a human, named Innis, and my life was very, very weird.

I worked the counter at a bookstore. And I don’t care to brag, but I could name every volume we had. Though, that was mostly because we got such rotten business I could afford to read in my massive amounts of spare time. You know how frontier villages are. No respect for literature.

Baileyton was essentially a bunch of buildings that had sprung up around a lumber mill. We cut, we shaped, we made wood trinkets and goods for the good of the kingdom at large, and we shipped them out by the caravan-full. Anything besides that was secondary. It was quite dreary.

And then who should show up but the Elves?

What?

Oh, you probably don’t call them “Elves” anymore. What do you call Elves nowadays? Woodsies? The Fair Folk? Yeah, the Fair Folk. I always thought that was too close to “Fairy.” But anyway, whatever you called them, they showed up one fine December evening and beheaded a lumberjack for improperly felling a tree.

Oh, yes, they were Elves, alright.

So the Elven ambassador - no, I’m not going to call them “Fair Folk,” Archer, stop asking. So the ambassador comes along and says they won’t kill anyone else - that is, if we follow the rules. Then he tore out a man’s tongue for having the gall to ask what the rules were, and that’s how we knew it was war.

Yes, Pinkie, his tongue. All the way out. I don’t know if you’ve picked up on this yet, but someone who comes into Equestria for transmogrification is usually not a good representative of the rest of their species. Not like Snowflake, you can pretty much tell he used to be an ogre.

What? Oh, right. Sorry, Archer. I’ll get to transmogrification in a minute.

So, the town council unanimously voted that we were all way in over our heads, what with the Elves setting up shop not five miles away. That was just barely over the horizon in the Baileyton area, and it scared the bejabbers out of us.

...No, Pinkie, I don’t know what bejabbers are.

Anyway, we sent an urgent S.O.S. to good old Castle Town, saying that our collective rear end was in serious need of covering, and could our kind and handsome, not to mention generous King Jove the Fourth send in a battalion or two because that would really make us feel better, please and thank you, sincerely, Baileyton.

Not in those exact words, obviously.

In marched the 21st Vorlanian infantry. It would go on to be nicknamed “The Woodsy-Bait Brigade” after the Baileyton fiasco, though we had no way of knowing that at the time.

Of course, the town didn’t have any spare barracks on hand, so we had to quarter the troops in our own homes. My brother got a very fetching swordswoman, who he was going out with inside of a week. I got Higgs.

Higgs was a pikeman. But he was also sort of nuts.

He’d tell you he was a party animal, but everyone who knew him would tell you he was just a druggie. When he wasn’t at his post on the walls, or even when he was, sometimes, he had a jug of moonshine in one hand and a cup of speedball in the other.

No, Rainbow, speedball doesn’t make you faster. Quite the opposite.

...

No, I will not tell you how to make it. Shut up.

So it was my job to look after this mess of a human being for a year plus change, while pretty much everyone except him in the 21st actually defended Baileyton from falling victim to Elven legislation. It can make a girl feel bitter.

Eventually, the sheer volume of hassle that came from having to cover Higgs’s shenanigans drove me to drink. No, not alcohol. That proved to be a little too tame. I ended up with the expensive addiction - Liquid Nerve potion. For sound mind and steady hands, there’s nothing better. It certainly made babysitting the oaf easier for a month or so.

But you know, the thing about Liquid Nerve is, every so often, you get a bad batch. And if, Celestia forbid, you end up drinking a bad dose of Liquid Nerve, things can get... ugly.

The night I fled Baileyton, I was stoned off my gourd on overfermented Liquid Nerve. I’d become convinced that the entire setup - elves, troops, Higgs and all - was some overly complex conspiracy to drive me to insanity. And while that was certainly not the case, I had been driven insane. Temporarily, that is.

I’m getting out before you end up murdering me as well, I remember saying. As it turned out, I was indeed avoiding an untimely death by leaving when I did. The very next morning, an Elven demolisher track drove a boulder straight through the Baileyton gate, and the defense effort and Baileyton as a whole were pretty much over.

I spent the next few days wandering through the countryside, dazed and confused. From what I understand, I stumbled into and through several Fae realms, surviving either because the Fair Folk have no laws against public intoxication or because I am, in fact, a very mean drunk.

Eventually I emerged on top of Mount Swayback in Equestria, which was weird because everything leading up to that was so much flat prairie. I clambered down, only to find the nearest village to be Hoofington, which is of course populated exclusively by pastel-colored ponies.

I took this better than you’d think, since I figured I was still hallucinating. It was only after the third week at the Equestrian halfway house that I cottoned onto the fact that something wasn’t quite right.

I was gradually reintroduced to my generous hosts, the Equestrians. It was quite a bit of culture shock, as you can imagine. A Fae race that didn’t want to skewer me alive and eat me? What a novel concept!

No, Pinkie, I’m not trying to be gross. That’s just how things work where I’m from.

So, eventually, I warmed up to them. Who wouldn’t? Besides Archer, I mean. Hah. I got the toxins out of my system and was kindly and generously kicked out on my behind in the middle of Hoofington with half the number of legs as everyone else, a very tenuous grasp of the local language, and a measly 10 bits to my name. What was a girl to do?

Well, naturally, I went back to counterwork at a bookstore.

It was easy enough to set up - by the time I got out I’d figured out the words for “book,” “work,” “pay,” and all the various other nouns and verbs needed to negotiate an employment contract.

Why, yes, the stares got old after a while. Why do you ask?

I spent a good year at that job, making friends among the populace. I never gave much thought to heading home, mostly because I’d gotten here on what amounted to a wild bender and had no barking idea how to get back. And just winging it wasn’t an option, seeing as I could easily land myself in Orc lands, or worse. I was far from home, but going back was far, far more trouble than it was worth.

Near Hearth’s Warming, I was approached by a noble from Canterlot. I’d apparently attracted the attention of the Princess herself, and was being summoned for an audience in Canterlot.

Seeing as this was the first time I had ever heard of the Princess, Canterlot, or Equestrian nobility of any kind, it was quite the effort for the poor stallion to try and communicate all this to me.

But communicate it he did, and it was off to Canterlot for me.

Interesting fact: Celestia can speak any language she bloody well likes. Ever. At all. It made the rest of that week a lot easier.

I was informed of a process by which any being could be inducted into the Equestrian race - a process known to them as “transmogrification”. I knew it was a grave crime to abandon the human form, though why Vorlan puts such stock in that particular law, I have no idea.

I figured I was never going back. I was never going to see another human again, and even if I did, my family was so much Fair Folk food at that point. I didn’t even want to go back. I took the leap.

I was turned into a pretty blue unicorn who had a magical affinity for literature. I regret nothing.

Over the next several years, I was on royal assignment in Ponyville, writing a translation dictionary between English and Equestrian. Inkwell’s English-Equestrian Concordance was published about twelve years ago. I’ve been the Ponyville bookkeeper ever since.

And then you showed up, and now there’s an imaginary copy of me tormenting my waking moments, there was apparently a plot to confine me to Ponyville for the brief time I was bent on leaving, and now here I am, relating my life story to a couple of living legends, a figment of my imagination, and an interloper on Equestrian soil, along with a figment of his imagination.

And to be perfectly frank, I just don’t know what I’m going to do with myself.

So, that’s my story. Happy?
> Advanced Music Theory
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“...So, that’s my story. Happy?”

The faces around the table were a rather steady gradient between the two definitions of “nonplussed” - On one side were Inkwell-Arrowhead and Rainbow Dash, who really seemed to be taking the whole “previously not-a-pony” thing better than they should have been.

Then there were Pinkie and Normal Arrowhead, who looked a little concerned. Just a little. And then there was Archer, who appeared to be on the verge of fleeing and hiding in a basement somewhere until everyone involved was safely sectioned away in the nearest mental asylum. Or maybe that was severe internal conflict. Or perhaps he was just suffering more acutely from the awkward silence than anyone else.

“Okay,” he said, trying to inject some sound into the oppressive bubble of silence. “But there’s one thing I don’t get. Why the memory thing?”

“I’m sorry?”

“There’s no reason anything I heard would have caused you to lose your memory.”

This gave Inkwell pause.

“That’s a good point.”

“Well, it’s not like that’s something she’d want to remember, right?”

Archer glanced back at Pinkie. “I’m sorry?”

“Well, if something’s really, really scary or sad, why would anypony want to remember it?”

“...Because they have no other choice?”

“No, silly! Inkwell just up and forgot so she’d be happier here! Mystery solved.”

Archer spared the rest of the table a perturbed glance. “And this is normal?”

“Sure! I can’t even remember what year my mother’s thirty-first birthday was. It must have been awful.”

Archer turned back to Inkwell. “And you’re happy, not knowing who you are? Being a criminal, essentially?”

“Hey, don’t knock the Equestrian life until you’ve tried it. I have a nice job, I live in a decent neighborhood, and best of all, no Higgs.” She leaned forward in her chair, resting her head on her hooves. “Compared to Baileyton, Ponyville is practically paradise.”

“Is alliteration like a side effect or something? I’ve been seeing it crop up everywhere.”

“No, it just happens. Soon enough, you’ll start doing it too, and on that day you will most likely lose your mind.”

“So, you don’t mind the fact that you’ll be arrested on sight if you ever go home?”

“You say that like I’d ever want to. I figure I am home, and I was having a wonderful time of it... until you showed up, that is.”

Zap. Right in the guilt.

He sighed, slouching in his seat. “Arrowhead? I need a second opinion on all this ‘transmogrification’ malarkey.” Said dreampony was not at the table presently. “Arrowhead?”

“What!?” called two voices behind Sugarcube Corner’s counter. From the wood facade emerged He-Arrowhead and She-Arrowhead. Their manes were disheveled in equal amounts. Had they just been...?

“Were you two just-?”

“Attempting to merge back into one consciousness and consolidate our power? Why yes. Now if you would be so kind as to curb your voyeuristic impulses, we would like to get back to that.”

“Right,” said Archer, burying his face in his hands. “By all means.”

The two vanished again.

“Hey!” called Rainbow, much more chipper than usual. “The rain’s stopped!”

“Oh thank the Father,” Archer sighed. “Any excuse to get out of this... I mean, uh, that’s neat.”

The metal-gray cloud cover had broken up outside, letting the infuriatingly bright spring sun in. Equestria was once again cheerful and pastel, if a little soggier than it had been that morning. Without much ado, or very much warning at all, Pinkie sped out the sweet-shop’s front doors and vanished around a corner.

“Okay. I should probably be worried that I’m getting used to her doing that.”

“She’s Pinkie. Eventually...”

“Yeah, I know.”

With just as much preamble as she made leaving, Pinkie zipped back in, grabbed Archer by the arm, and zipped back out. The Corner was silent save for the sound of a two-way door flapping in and out with the breeze the peppy pink pony left in her wake.

A single Arrowhead peeked his head over the counter.

“Okay, we’re done! Now I can- Hey, where’d he go?”

“No clue. Does this mean I’m stuck with you until he gets back?”

“Afraid so.”

“Curses.”

***

When the world ceased to be an indistinct blur and Archer could breathe again, Pinkie had dumped him face-down on the dirt and was chatting excitedly with someone out of sight.

He made sure he was alive first, then decided to listen.

“....Vinyl, are you serious!?” she shrieked. “How can Diamond Pick catch Feather Flu twice in two weeks?”

“Well, he always loved those storms of his so much,” offered a smooth, deep, but still female voice. “I guess he got soaked once too often.”

“And really, it’s no problem,” offered another new voice, this one reserved and with an odd accent. Northern? Mid-eastern? He could swear he’d heard something like it before. “We can always play with the three of us-”

“No, it was supposed to be the string trio plus drums! We can’t have a string duo plus drums, that just wouldn’t make sense!”

He decided that this was a good time to pull his head out of the ditch it had formed  - when Pinkie lets go of you and momentum holds on, that sort of thing tended to happen.

He had been deposited on the outskirts of Ponyville, somewhere between Sweet Apple Acres and the road to Canterlot. Pinkie was gesticulating wildly in front of a pair of unfamiliar Equestrians - both much more reasonably colored than she. Mostly. The accented one was a steel gray earth pony, hoisting a very large viol case over her side, probably containing a double bass. Nothing else he could think of in that shape was that large.

The other was a white unicorn - scratch that, a very light cream-colored unicorn. Instead of a normal mane, like her counterpart, she had a shock of electric blue hair, which went nicely with her completely ridiculous and completely unnecessary pair of goggles. She was carting a drum set behind her in a trailer.

“...The devil are you all on about?”

They all turned to face him.

“Music,” Pinkie said. “What else would we be talking about?”

“I honestly have no idea.”

“Oh! Silly filly, where are my manners?” Pinkie gestured with a sweeping hoof to the other two ponies. “Archer, I’d like you to meet Vinyl and Octavia! Me and these two are three-fourths of the musical entertainment tomorrow night!”

“Who’s the last one?”

“A pegasus named Diamond Pick was supposed to be on the guitar. But he’s out sick.”

“Well,” he muttered, picking himself up and glancing disdainfully at the massive dust stains his clothes had accumulated, “So much for that. I guess the music can wait until next week, or-”

“NO! No, you said human parties had to have live music! So here it is!”

“But you just said the band was understaffed.”

What followed was the most intense bout of hoof-to-chin contemplative thought Pinkie had ever undertaken. In short order, an incandescent light bulb appeared and disappeared above her head.

“I’ve got it!”

“Oh no,” muttered Archer, Octavia, and Vinyl in unison.

“Archer, do humans play music?”

“...Yeah.”

“How?”

“With our hands, obviously.”

Her grin stretched to ominous proportions. She disappeared. An awkward silence ensued.

“So, you two...” he began.

“We’re old friends.”

“Does she ever slow down? Like, ever?”

“Not if she can help it,” Vinyl said, shrugging. “And if she can’t help it, that means something very bad is happening.”

Pinkie reappeared with another stringed instrument in her hands.

“Here!”

“What is it?”

“Diamond Pick’s guitar!” She handed it to him. He did not immediately take it. “What’s wrong?”

“I, uh... I don’t know how to play the guitar.”

This innocuous statement somehow elicited from the three present Equestrians the most flabbergasted looks of incomprehension Archer had ever seen on a living being.

“...Archer, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why not? I’ve never been taught how to play any musical instrument in my life.”

Vinyl chuckled nervously. “What do you mean, ‘taught’?”

“I mean, my education has not extended to include the production or theory behind music. How do you expect me to play this?”

“You just... play it. I don’t see what the problem is.”

“So I randomly start hacking at the strings and you expect beautiful music to come out?”

“That’s not how it works,” Octavia insisted.

“Then how does it? Because obviously you and I have different opinions on how something as simple as a guitar functions.”

“Stop being a wet blanket and just play the thing, sheesh!”

“Fine,” he said reluctantly, seating himself on a nearby rock. “But don’t expect a symphony.” He put his fingers to a random set of frets and plucked a few notes.

Wait a minute, that actually sounded pretty good.

***

He continued playing, mildly taken aback at the fact that it did not, as he had previously assumed, sound like crap. The tune sounded folksy, like a hike through the forest or perhaps like a late night at the tavern.

It was Vorlanian music. It sounded like home.

We’d like to take this opportunity to remind everyone that Archer did not, in fact, know how to play the guitar.

His wrist jerked as he unconsciously switched notes, then a few more times as the tune went down, then back, then up, then sideways a bit before coming back.

He heard a steady bassline come in under him. At some point, Octavia had unloaded her instrument - it was a double bass, as it turns out - and had started playing a competent accompaniment. But she’d been playing all her life. He had no excuse.

The double bass’s mellow tone made the song feel sleepy, almost like a lullaby.

For a moment, the music stopped. He stopped plucking at the strings for a brief second, and the bass kept the tune for another, as if playing the echo to something very quiet, but very forceful.

Then he began playing, just as involuntarily as before. This time, another set of strings and drums were backing him and Octavia. He turned to find Pinkie on her violin and Vinyl set up with her kit, both with their own spotlights like Octavia had-

Wait.

He was under a spotlight. They all were. Surrounding them was an indistinct veil of darkness, through which only the three musicians plus one could be seen. What in blazes was going on?

The hi-hat and ragamuffin drums gave the piece yet another feel - one of jazziness, of activity. The music was describing something happening, something starting, rather than ending. What exactly that was was anyone’s guess. The ominous shadow cast by the string section did nothing to ease his misgivings.

He tried once more to fathom what exactly was going on, and why it was happening. Then the song ended.

And just like that, it was over.

***

The spotlights went out, the scenery of Outer Ponyville returned to replace the darkness, and Archer’s continued attempts at making a joyful noise petered out under his renewed inexperience at all things harmonious.

“Well, that was quite the experience. What was that?”

“It’s called a ‘musical number’,” Pinkie replied, bouncing enthusiastically (as if there were any other way to bounce). “They happen a lot around here.”

“So, is this a rare thing, or am I going to find myself dragged into more of these?”

“They come and go at random,” Vinyl offered, re-hitching her mysteriously not-unpacked drum trailer and making for Ponyville. “My advice? Just roll with it. Who knows, you might end up having fun if you don’t spend the whole time trying to figure out how it works.”

“Yeah, man, you get way too suspicious sometimes,” interjected Pinkie. “Half the time, you looked like that guitar was about to jump up and bite you!”

“Well, considering it had commandeered the motor functions of my arms, I think that was a valid fear.”

“Come on,” Pinkie sighed. “You’d like it here if you didn’t keep checking for monsters under every bed you came across.”

“And believe me, I’m trying to work on th-” He paused. “Ohhh.”

“What?”

“Hand muscles,” he said, clutching his right arm. “On fire. Inside out. With broken glass. And hornets.” He hissed. “Angry, angry hornets.”

“Oh dear,” muttered Octavia. “Sounds like first-timers’ cramps. You tell me you’ve never played a musical instrument before?”

“Nooooo.”

“That’s it, then. Your hands weren’t used to playing the instrument, and after the number was over, nature took its course.”

“Ow. Ow, ow, ow. Ow. Ow.”

“Pinkie, can you get him to a doctor?”

“I’m on it.”

“OWWWW. And again, I say! Ow! Freaking ow! My hand!”

“Oh, suck it up, you big baby.”

***

There was a rumbling in the Everfree forest.

Something very large moved, and with it moved several thousand pounds of soil, flora, and fauna unlucky enough to be caught in its wake.

The bear shook itself from slumber and pushed its way out of its half-buried hibernation spot, bleary-eyed and irritable. It had been awoken prematurely by a voice that it did not particularly like, and now it was hungry. Also, it was aware of someone on two legs that was really in its best interest to kill if it ever saw him.

The Ursa Minor let out a yawn that could rock buildings to their foundation, and went hunting.

The forest had just gotten that much more dangerous.
> Prelude to a Fast-Forward
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The doors to the hospital swung open, releasing Pinkie and a very bandage-handed Archer back into the world.

“I could have done without the frequent customer card,” Archer muttered, staring irritably at the tiny pink slip of paper as he made his way down the steps.

“It’s a joke! It’s supposed to be funny!”

“It’s insulting.”

“Where’s your sense of humor?”

“Inside the bundle of clenched muscles and pain that used to be my right hand. I’ll let you know when it gets out.”

She giggled, which did little to improve his mood. From some ostensibly bottomless secret compartment inside her mane, she produced a rather long list, which as mood-improvement went, arguably performed even worse.

“So, we’ve gotten you out of the hospital, had breakfast, checked in with the musical entertainment-”

“Crippled my hand...” he muttered.

“Right, right. Next on the list is... venue!”

“Which means?”

“Sweet Apple Acres, silly!” Pinkie exclaimed, rolling the list up and sticking it back into the mess of hair from whence it came. “We need to go check with Applejack!”

“I’m technically supposed to be working there.”

“We’ll figure that out once we get there,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hoof. “Don’t even worry.”

“I worry. That’s the problem,” he noted with a chuckle, starting down the cobblestone road. “I worry about everything.”

***

First rule of scouting: Never take the roads. They’re too obvious.

If someone had told Archer a mere five days ago that not only would he be trotting down a main road in a Fae Realm, but he would be doing it with a local bouncing right alongside him, he would have laughed in that hypothetical person’s face.

Yet here he was. It wouldn’t be that far-fetched to say his mood still hadn't improved, even in light of this revelation.

Pinkie was bouncing, as she was wont to do. Up, down. Up, down. There was no stopping her. Now if only there was a way to harness that excess power and put it towards something useful... like powering a city.

With a start, he realized he had been staring at a fellow life form and getting... tinker-y. Speaking from experience, that never boded well for anyone. That was how Mad Science started. In a desperate bid to re-rail his train of thought, he asked the first question that came to mind.

“So, she forgot on purpose?”

“I’m sorry?” Pinkie’s elastic stride hitched for a half-second.

“Inkwell. She just up and decided to not remember who she was? Where she came from?”

“Oh, no. She didn’t decide to, silly! It just sorta... happened.”

Archer’s very inelastic stride took much longer to start back up.

“What.”

“It’s sort of like anti-sad shields for the pony brain! Like, if something makes me real sad or real angry, I usually find myself not even remembering it after a week or so.”

This was troubling, to say the least. But she didn’t seem bothered by it at all. Perpetual Motion Pinkie Pie could not be stopped.

“So this is all completely hypothetical...”

“Uh-huh?”

“Keep in mind, I’d never actually do this...”

“Yeah?”

“But... let’s say...” He let the word drag out, trying to find the most innocuous ones he could to follow it. “...Thaaaaat I went on a murder spree and killed mostly everyone. You’re telling me that I would effectively erase myself from existence from the viewpoint of anyone left?”

“Yep!”

Now he was more than unnerved. She just... kept... bouncing....

He didn’t see the sign in front of him until it was too late.

WHUMP

***

Egregious head injury.

Do not pass GO.

Do not collect two hundred bits.

Archer awoke to the familiar sight of the Hospital ceiling.

Again.

“Pinkie, if you’re trying to fill out that frequent customer card, I will end you.”

“I promise this is the last time, alright?” called Pinkie from somewhere out of the sight range of his neck brace. Speaking of which...

“Am I going to have to wear this thing all day, too?”

“Nope! The doctor said you’re fine. All we have to do is sign you out and we can get right back to-”

“The death of a thousand ‘accidents’?”

“Noooo,” she said, emerging into view with that omnipresent smile. “To getting ready for the party!”

“Oh, of course. It’s not like grievous bodily injury is any concern. ‘Sure, let’s go traipsing through the woods, to who knows where! It’ll be fun!’” He let out a huff. “I’d rather not test my luck again, thank you.”

“Come on! Pleeeease? It’ll be-”

“No.”

“But-”

“No.”

“You didn’t even-”

“No.”

“I promise I’ll be more careful this time!”

“Talk is cheap.”

“Do you really want to spend the rest of the day in this hospital?”

There was no immediate answer. Archer pondered this for a minute.

“...So, you promise?”

“Pinkie Promise! Cross my heart, hope to-”

“Alright, alright,” he snapped, hoisting himself out of the bed with one hand and unhooking the neck brace with the other. “Just so long as you promise not to almost get me killed again. If a meteor or something hits me, I’m probably just going to go live in your basement for the rest of my life.”

“Sounds like a plan to me!”

His only thought as he strode out of the room was That pony is way too cheerful. 

He imagined his jimmies would be more rustled if she was anyone else, but... you know Fae people. You could never ask them to make sense, and the fact that Pinkie was the sponge for all the weirdness around here just made it all easier to keep track of.

***

“Okay,” Archer muttered, walking down Ponyville’s main street. “We’re out of the hospital. No immediate danger. No threats of bodily injury.”

“Right!” Pinkie chirped, trotting briskly alongside him.

“And we’re sure about this?”

“Yep!”

“No meteors?”

“No meteors!”

....

And then they got hit by a meteor.

Nah, I’m just fooling.

There was, in fact, no ballistic death rock about to ruin Archer’s day for the third time in a row. He was going to be just fine the whole way to Sweet Apple Acres. With that established, we can safely overlook the 48-item list of things he thought could conceivably assail them en route, including but not limited to a bear.

Ok, so we can’t overlook the bear, but that’s for much, much later.

Moving on!

***

“You’re late.”

Say what you wanted about Applejack, but she started as she meant to go on.

“Late?”

“For your job.” she enunciated, pointing a hoof at the applebucking log leaning against the nearby barn. “You know, the one y’all made such a fuss over yesterday? And then had to take a day off from because Rainbow blew ya up?”

“It was an accident!”

“Accident or not, you’re not gettin’ paid ‘til you’ve worked at least one day. And you can forget about paid vacation.”

“Hey!” interjected Pinkie, sliding between the two. “We weren’t here about work! We were here about play!”

“Play?” they both asked.

“Yeah! You know, ‘all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’? Now, I don’t know Jack, but I really don’t want a repeat of what happened to him. Do you, Applejack?” Said farmpony would have answered, were it not for Pinkie’s immediate gasp of realization. “Waaaiiit a second. You’re named Apple-jack! And you work a lot!”

“Uhh-”

“Ohmigosh, ohmigosh, did you work too much, Applejack? Are you dull now!?”’

“Hey!” Applejack spared a pleading glance to Archer, but he was too busy stifling a laugh to be of any help.

“We need to throw an un-dulling party, stat! Ohh, we need balloons, and streamers, and sugar! You can tell you haven’t had much sugar, because back me up here, Archer, you could bounce a marble off that, couldn’t you?”

“Pinkie!" Applejack yelled, half-infuriated, half-humiliated.

“I have no comment,” Archer said, in one of the smartest statements he’d made since arriving in Ponyville three days prior.

“This is serious! We have a party emergency here, if Applejack’s gone dull! Archer, stop standing around laughing, we’ve got to- mff!”

“I think what my associate is trying to say,” interrupted Archer, his hand over Pinkie’s mouth, “is that we’re here regarding my ‘welcoming celebration’ to be held on Friday, in one of your vacant barns.”

Applejack relaxed a bit. “Shoot, is that all? The way she was going on, I thought I was about t’ be dunked in whipped cream or somethin’.”

Archer gave a wry smirk. “Don’t count out the possibility until she’s gone,” he intoned, grimly.

He should have been more scared than he was at Pinkie Pie rubbing off on him. Somehow, he found the prospect less worrisome than most sane human beings would have.

***

The door creaked open with a squeal of long-unoiled hinges.

“This is it,” said Applejack, using her hat to shield her airway from the dust native to the inner-barn atmosphere. “The exact barn you asked for, Pinkie.”

The inside of the barn, which had once been used to store lumber in Ponyville’s frontier days, was wide and extremely long. The far wall was almost invisible through the sawdust fog. Any other pony - heck, any other living being - would have looked at this big, empty, derelict structure and seen a giant waste of space, only kept erect because the land it occupied couldn’t be used for anything important.

Pinkie looked at it and say nothing but opportunities.

“It’s perfect,” she said with a smile.

“So,” asked Archer, strolling inside, “How in blazes are we going to get tables long enough to fill this place out? And, uh...” He coughed. “What’s going to be done about the dust?”

Pinkie patted him on the back, patronizing expression firmly glued into place.

“Just leave it to your Aunt Pinkie. I can fix this place up in...”

“Wait, hang on a second. ‘Aunt’?”

“Yeah.”

“Pinkie, I’m almost twice your age.”

“Pfeh, details! Now look, here’s what we have to do...”

***

The weird thing was, the to-do list was now nearly three times as long coming out of Sweet Apple Acres as it was going in. Only now it was filled with such things as “Invent Dustbuster”, followed shortly by “Use Dustbuster on barn”.

Pinkie was not a very practical pony.

As if to shame him for thinking such hurtful (yet true) things, one of his legs suddenly refused to function with an oddly metallic snap. He went down with a yelp.

“Archer?” asked Pinkie, turning around. “You okay?”

“Mmmmph.”

“Didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said,” he said, pulling his face out of its face-shaped niche in the dirt, “My leg brace just broke. Help me up.”

She allowed him to loop one arm over her neck, hoisting him up.

“It’s that femoral support,” he muttered. “Knew I should have made it thicker.”

“So, to the lab?”

He pulled himself onto her back. “Hi ho, Silver.”

“I’m Pinkie.”

“Fine, then! Hi ho, Pinkie, AWAY!”

***

“...Archer?”

He pried himself out of the indentation in Sugarcube Corner’s outside wall.

“No. We are not going to the hospital again. I am fine.”

“But-”

“No buts. I am going to the basement with a bottle of painkillers and a mission, and that is that.”

“But what about the party?”

“What about it?” he asked, shoving the Corner’s front doors open. “You’re a reality-warping Fae horse with infinite capacity for flouting logic and the bounds of physical possibility. What’s stopping you from doing everything on that list yourself?”

That smile of hers would have given any sane man pause. But Archer wasn’t on the best of terms with reality at the moment.

“...What, indeed!” she remarked, rubbing her front hooves together sinisterly. “Be right back! I have to go flout logic and the bounds of physical possibility!”

“Glad to hear it,” Archer muttered, descending the basement stairs. “You know where to find me.”

***

At that present moment, it was roughly five P.M., Thursday afternoon.

And of course, it would be a tall order for the events between then and the party the next day to be as... ahem, action-packed as they would have to be to warrant writing out in their entirety. So, allow us to summarize the next 24 hours, in the interest of expediency.

Archer went downstairs and fixed his leg brace. He then piddled around tinkering with things for the rest of the day, very few of which exploded.

Inkwell got fed up with Arrowhead’s constant shenanigans and eventually found Archer in the basement, passing off the mental gremlin with quite the fuss from both of them.

Pinkie gallivanted off, doing Celestia-knows-what in preparation for the welcoming celebration that pretty much everyone involved save her was convinced wouldn’t need half the space she had reserved for it.

And thankfully, nobody else had to be hospitalized.

The following morning and early afternoon were shockingly uneventful, given the relative insanity of the past week. The closest it got to actual excitement was Archer experiencing a brief yet intense crisis over whether he really wanted to spend the foreseeable future knocking apples out of trees to make a living.

And all this while, unknown to our heroes, there was a giant bear named after a constellation who had recently woken up and was wandering around the Everfree forest. It was cranky, very hungry, and informed by an anonymous source that it needed to kill something nearby that walked on two legs.

We shall resume our narrative on Friday night, 6 P.M., as Archer approached the old barn-turned-mead hall....
> Party Hard
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Wow."

The barn had been scrubbed clean from top to bottom. Three mammoth oak tables lay parallel along the earthen floor, reaching from one end of the massive chamber to the other. Banners depicting pastoral scenes of Equestrian countryside were strung across the ceiling. On the far end lay a comparatively modest stage, with more than enough room for Octavia, Vinyl, and Pinkie. And Archer, if he couldn't talk his way out of it.

Flanking the stage were two massive kegs containing, Archer assumed, the farm's best apple cider. It was from one of these immense urns of inebriation that a very self-satisfied Pinkie was taking an early draft.

No living being should have been able to accomplish alone what Pinkie had in a mere day. Hence Archer's amazed utterance upon setting his eyes on it for the first time.

"You like it?" she asked, before taking a swig of the frothy beverage. "I think I did pretty good."

"Like it?" he parroted. "It's perfect! How did you get all of this done?"

She smirked. "I have my methods."

He paced the outer edge of the room, nodding at the attention to detail the tapestries held. It would have taken a human seamstress months to weave one of these, and Pinkie made seven in a single afternoon? Those must have been some impressive methods.

"So  how many are we expecting?"

"Well," Pinkie said, taking another, rather thoughtful hit of cider, "I've invited everypony in Ponyville. But I'm pretty sure not everypony's going to be able to make it. You see, Mayor Mare and her board of directors are busy gearing up for their corporate retreat in Shoeshire, Filthy Rich is taking his family out to dinner at Gusteau's..."

"Wait, wait."

"Hmm?"

"There's a pony named 'Filthy Rich?'"

"Yep!"

He took a seat, rubbing his temples.

"This place is insane."

"Yep!"

"Could we just skip to the part where you tell me how many people are going to show up?"

"Well, no people..."

"What!?" He sat bolt upright.

"But a couple hundred ponies, sure!"

"Oh." He sighed, abandoning his chair for the warm, appley company of the cider barrels. "It's going to be a long night."

That last statement would turn out to be more true than he realized.

***

"Pinkie," Archer slurred, grammar obfuscated by far, far too much cider, "I really don't fink anyone's comin'."

"No, no, I - HIC! - 'm sure sompony'll - HIC! - walk right through that door!" Pinkie proclaimed, apparently unaware of her eyes not pointing in the same direction. "You'll seeee - HIC! - eeeeeee."

Archer laid his head back down on the soft, cushy hardwood table.

"Worst party ever."

"Only if you keep up that attitude, mister - HIC! - Mister Negative."

They'd made a game out of waiting. For every five minutes past the party's planned opening time that no one showed up, they would chug another pint. 

They were up to fourteen. If he were capable of doing so, Archer would have thanked the Father above that neither he nor Pinkie were particularly angry drunks.

He was about to drain Mug Number Fifteen when he heard the barn door open.

Standing there, thoroughly nonplussed, were Vinyl Scratch and Octavia.

"Oh, excuse me," the gray one muttered, backing out of the doorway. "Are we late?"

"Late?" Archer cried, standing up wobblingly. "Late!? You n' everyone else were s'pposed to get here..." He turned to the table littered with wooden mugs. "One, two..." He multiplied in his head. "...an hour 'n fifteen minutes ago! What kept you!?"

"Really?" Vinyl asked, tugging her drums over the threshold. "Because our cards said everyone was getting here at nine o'clock sharp, and thought we were arriving early..."

"Pinkie, the card."

"Huh?" The pink party pony pulled her head from its resting place on a pillow fashioned from empty cider mugs. "Whuzzat?"

"You know, th-the... the invitation. Whuzz't say?"

"Oh, hang on." She plunged a hoof into her cumulonimbic mane, rummaging around inside. The noises produced sounded more like a toolbox being rattled than anything else. "Here we go!" She produced a small invitation card, festooned with an old piece of chewing gum and an unidentifiable brown crust.

"’Archer's Welcome-to-Ponyville Extr-r-r-ravaganza,'" she read, making sure to roll the 'r' with as obnoxious an accent as she could perform. "'featuring live music, cider, and traditional human party games and foods. Bring as many ponies as you can, and be sure to get here by...' Ah."

"What?"

"It says nine P.M. here. I don't... Oh, wait! I remember what happened!"

"What!?"

"I was going to schedule the party at twenty-'til eight, but then I remembered Vinyl takes two hours to get ready for a gig."

"So?"

"Well, that and she normally sleeps until six."

Archer could only raise a single disbelieving eyebrow at the drummer/DJ in question, currently unloading her kit onto the stage. 

"Guilty," she said with a shrug.

"Alright," he said, uncertainly. "So the party isn't ruined. Good to know. What do we do now?"

"Now," said Pinkie, palming something the size and weight of a gold sterling into his hand, "You take this."

He looked at it. It was a rather large pill, colored bright white and red. "What is it?"

"The Chaser."

***

Alcohol now thoroughly purged from his system, Archer watched with a silent grin as the makeshift mead hall filled with ponies. Ponies of every kind and color, all of which Pinkie introduced by name and pointed out as they entered.

"That one there is Golden Harvest, though most ponies call her Carrot Top."

"I can't imagine why."

"Oh, and that one she's sitting down next to is Lyra Heartstrings! They're bestest best friends!"

"The minty one is giving me a weird look."

"Yeah, she has a.... thing about dragons and other things with hands. She thinks it's a secret that she wants a pair of her own, but really, everypony knows."

A rather odd-looking beige stallion chose this moment to walk in, quickly joining the growing throng of partygoers.

"Who's that one?"

"Uhh.... Oh, that's Time Turner. He makes clocks."

"He looks very familiar."

"I should hope so," his own voice snapped back at him. "He's the one you fell on the other day."

Arrowhead hovered next to him, head adorned with a festively-colored paper cone. "Didja miss me?"

"Oh, immensely," Archer drawled, rubbing at his eyes in the hope that this unwelcome vision was a mere aftereffect of his copious cider consumption earlier that night. "I was almost at my wit's end, looking for something to despise."

"Well," Arrowhead replied, shrinking down to shoulder-angel size for emphasis, "between you and me, I'm not going to hang around for much longer."

"Oh?" the more human of the two asked, interest piqued.

"Indeed. After tonight, Luna has graciously decreed that my presence in your noggin is no longer required, and that I am to vacate the premises forthwith."

"Hallelujah."

"Don't go praising your maker just yet, boy," the tiny tormentor taunted, tapping a miniscule hoof against Archer's head. "You have to make it through the night first."

"So I attend a party and then go to sleep. Big whoop."

"Not so! You see, my friend, you are being tasked with a mission."

"To do what?"

"That's not important."

"Well, who's it from?"

"That isn't important, either."

"Well, for Pete's sake, man, give me something! You can't just say I've got a job to do and then not tell me what it is or why!"

"Oh, but I can," remarked Arrowhead, grinning as he faded from view. "And I have. See you later."

"Arrowhead, get back here!"

Archer's screams, directed at no one, drew at least one pair of eyes from the milling crowd down the hall from him. When it became clear that an infuriatingly vague "you'll see" was all the advance warning he was being given, Archer immediately turned to his tried-and-true method for venting frustration.

He drank some more.

***

Pinkie was onstage, yelling something to the crowd about how nice it was to have them all there, and how awesome the next few hours were going to be, and so on.

Archer had a mug in hand, he was less hammered than he had been half an hour ago, and no Arrowhead annoying him presently. He was happy.

"Heckuva shindig you got here, Hayseed."

He glanced to his left. Apropos of nothing,  Applejack had decided to drop in, accompanied by... that white one. Who was she? Scarcity? Hard-to-find....ity? Something ending in -ity. He'd remember eventually. Maybe it had something to do with the cartoon diamonds on her rear end.

"Quite attractive, I must admit," said The Mare with Bedazzled Buttocks. "Sort of has that old-world charm."

"Are you two here for any particular reason, or do you just like appraising the aesthetic sensibilities of other species?"

"Both!" Gemflank said with a wry smile. "As it just so happens, I decided a welcoming present was in order for this sort of occasion." She produced a length of red fabric from a cleverly-concealed saddlebag that hadn't really been concealed all that much. "Voila!"

It was long. It was red. It looked perfect for chilly winter-spring nights like tonight. It was...

"Is this a scarf cape?"

"Made from the finest Las Pegasus cotton!" The white mare beamed.

"It's nice. Thank you. What was your name again?"

"What?" she asked, caught off-guard. Applejack chuckled behind her.

"In my excitement, I seem to have completely forgotten your name. Remind me, please?"

"Rarity!"

"Ah, Rarity. Right." He stood, wrapping the scarf around his neck. "It's lovely."

"You... you forgot my name?"

He glanced back at her. She seemed distraught. Heartbroken, almost.

"I've..." He hesitated, searching for the right word. "I've had a really busy week. Busy breaking in that outfit you made me, and everything." She nodded absently, which he took as a cue to continue. "It's served me well, I'll have you know. Quality craftsmanship... err, craftsponyship. Superior, even. Well done."

From Applejack's amused expression, he could tell he was laying it on thick. Good thing, then, that Rarity ate it up and practically begged for seconds.

"Well," she said, grinning at the showers of undiluted praise, "one cannot excel in the world of fashion without commitment to quality."

He nodded. The words meant precisely nothing, but it was polite to pretend they didn't.

"Enjoy the party," he said, for lack of anything more meaningful. "I know I will."

***

Pinkie was yelling at him. Or about him. He didn't know. He just knew that his name was coming up quite often, which was to be expected since this was his party.

Really, he would have been fine taking home one of the cider barrels. That would have been more than enough party for him.

"Come on, Archer! Get up here!"

"What?" he asked, directing his voice to the room around him rather than the pink pony of unknown location.

"You were going to do a speech, remember?"

"No I bloody well wasn't! Now leave me alone so I can drink some more."

"Come ooooon!"

"No."

"You know you want to! Come on, everypony!" She yelled to the crowd. "Speech! Speech! Speech!"

The horde of crayon-colored merrymakers took up the chant.

"Speech!"

"I don't..."

"Speech!"

"Are you seriously...?"

"Speech!"

"Alright, fine!"

He endured the thundering stampede of applause that was Ponyville's trademark as he ascended to the stage. Pinkie, grinning like the madmare she was, handed the microphone off to him.

"Good luck!"

"Go jump in a lake."

"Oooh, that sounds fun! But right now I have to sit down there and listen to your speech."

He gave a dry smile. "Don't ever change, Pinkie."

He took center stage and gazed out over the hall, packed to the brim with ponies, most of whom were milling about, chattering to each other.

"Well I can't very well give a speech if you're all talking," he said, voice amplified a few dozen times out of the sound system Vinyl had erected on either side of the stage. "Now can I?"

The crowd's roaring chatter faded to a dull murmur.

"I suppose apologies are in order," he said, leaning against the mic stand. The crowd muttered to itself in confusion. "For the whole reason I'm here in the first place, of course. I only ended up staying here because I tried to shoot and eat Big Macintosh. Remember that?"

The unsettled noises a few ponies made assured him that yes, they did.

"That seems like so long ago, doesn't it? Now I'm working for the guy's sister, helping them make a living. Talk about irony." 

Sporadic laughter. He could do better.

"The thing is," he continued, "I've only been here a week. Doesn't seem like it, does it? But I have been here for a single week, and let me tell you - I do not plan on trying to eat a single one of you ever again. That's a heck of an impression you've left. By show of hands - err, hooves - who here knew what humans were before monday?"

Two ponies - Inkwell and that Lyra one - raised their hooves.

"Wow. Then I must also apologize for that, because I'm probably the worst crash course you could get."

More laughter, louder this time. He felt vaguely insulted.

"No, seriously, I'm a scout. I used to be a monster hunter..." he paused to let the obligatory oohs and ahhs die down. "...which is far less glamorous than it sounds. You'll see why I brought this up in a minute. Now, we had a head hunter - that is, a guy who was at the head of the hunters, not a guy who hunted heads, that would be stupid. This head guy had a name, but sadly, it turns out Equestrians cannot pronounce it. So we'll call him 'Blowhard.' Is that alright with everyone?"

Wow, that was his best joke so far. That was both encouraging and discouraging in near-equal amounts.

"So I was out on an expedition with Blowhard and we get attacked. Did we get attacked by the Fair Folk, like we were prepared for? No we were not. Were we attacked by Orcs? Not them, either. We were attacked by - get this - sentient moss." This time, he laughed along with the audience. "I kid you not. Giant masses of the stuff just dived on us like living tidal waves. Now, anyway, after we finished burning the forest down..." He paused for effect. "...he told me something very important, which I'd like to share with you all. 

"He said, 'Now you're going to be going off without me soon enough, boy, and you've got to remember: Never let your guard down. Fae creatures-' That's our name for anything that's not us, by the way. 'Fae creatures are unpredictable. They'll surprise you in the weirdest of ways. Never assume that they'll be more like what you know than not.' And wouldn't you know it, he's still right?

"I freely admit that I was scared out of my gourd when I first came here. I thought you were all going to kill me. Or eat me. Or turn me into clothing. Or all three, hopefully in that order. But you haven't tried to kill me once! On purpose, anyway," he said, casting a meaningful look at Rainbow Dash in the rafters, who smiled sheepishly and cringed.

"My point being, I should thank you - all of you - for bucking the trend so hard that it broke me of a very dangerous if otherwise reliable prejudice. I no longer believe that all Fae are absolutely, one-hundred-percent evil. Just most of them." 

Pinkie clambered up the front of the stage as laughter and applause capped off Archer's monologue. She grinned at him, patting him on the back.

"That was awesome!"

"Can I go back down and drink now?"

"No!"

"Fiddlesticks."

They jabbered onstage for another few minutes as the crowd calmed itself. Finally, Archer brought the microphone back up.

"Pardon me, fillies and gentlecolts. My exuberant friend has a question for everyone here."

Pinkie grabbed the mic stand from him, practically giddy with anticipation. "Good evening, Ponyville! Are you ready to rock?!"

***

He was the only one sitting, he noticed.

Archer had taken a seat, all the better to support Diamond Pick's rather large guitar. The Equestrian three-fourths of the band all elected to stand, either through preference or instrumental necessity.

He was proud to note that, now that he was prepared for it, he could easily detect the presence of a Musical Number, whatever it was.

The air had a different flavor to it, if that made any sense. It was charged with electricity. It had the qualities of that infamous pause between a bolt of lightning and the thunderclap it spawned.

The world was on the edge of its seat, waiting for someone to play a song.

Archer was just glad he wasn't really the one playing.

The guitar played out crisply and clearly as the lights dimmed. A single spotlight fixed on him as he strummed a solo that flowed like a cold alpine river. Occasionally, it slowed. Then it would start tumbling down itself like a boulder cast down a mountainside. A single note punctuated the section, leading into another much like it, cool, flowing, and cascading, ending on a similar sharp point.

And on that point, Octavia took over.

She had taken the microphone, standing to his left and awaiting her cue. As the song's intro ended, her own spotlight beamed brightly and illuminated her, double bass at the ready.

As he played a quiet background, she began to sing.

Her voice was haunting. With only a tiny guitar to distract anyone listening, the words echoed through the hall and back, frigid and isolating in their cavernous acoustics.

As soon as she stopped singing, the guitar grabbed his hands again and made him play it for all he was worth. If the earlier solo had been water and earth, this one was air and fire - angry, livid, and alive. Pinkie was the next to be illuminated in the hot spotlights, playing more or less in unison with him on the violin. Dull thumping drums gave the tune a menacing feel, and if that wasn't enough, the bass coming in reminded him of an invading army - or perhaps a foul warlock, ready to summon demons or what have you.

Never mind the fact that there were no such things as warlocks.

The instrumental teetered on the brink of a precipice, and with a wail of the violin, tipped over. The drums came into their own, pushing the song into its first verse.

Vinyl, for no apparent reason, began singing backup for the chorus. Funny. Most present were under the impression that the drummer was refused a mic as a matter of principle.

And back down again, into the firey, wonderful, active refrain. Pinkie flashed him a wink as they played opposite ends of the tune. He rolled his eyes. As if to follow their moves, their respective parts went in opposite directions. The guitar went down, aiding the bass in underlying the violin, which went up and up into a crescendo to mark the beginning of the next verse.

Wait. Fingers?

And back to the chorus.

As he played, Archer silently wracked his brain. Fingers? Why would an Equestrian song have lyrics mentioning fingers running through hair? Wouldn't they use the word 'mane'? Unless...

With a grin, he realized: He was not playing Equestrian music. He was playing a near-perfect rendition of a Vorlanian classic, one that was composed in praise of the first Jove ascending to kinghood. It was said that to secure his place on the throne, he had to wrestle a hurricane - the Storm that the song referred to. As the chorus ended, he threw himself into the refrain with renewed gusto.

The refrain detoured unexpectedly into a new solo, one played by violin, bass, and guitar alike. It was just as firey and hot and everything before it, and ended on another crescendo, dipping down with a squeal of the violin's strings.

Back into the guitar solo Archer went. He couldn't tell if his attitude was affecting the Musical Number, or if his playing was affecting his attitude, but whatever was happening, he was definitely playing fancier. As his hands slammed the strings with all their might, the melody bounced and curved and danced in the most show-offy manner imaginable.

It was safe to say Archer was enjoying himself.

The chorus broke back in, giving his hands some much-needed rest. Then, just as quickly as it began, it ended, snapping the song's momentum out from under it. With some more fancy fretwork, the guitar guided the rest of the instruments to a stop. The fire went out of the piece, now all cool water once again. With a subdued farewell and an echo to the song's beginning notes, the guitar, too, faded out.

The song ended.

The lights came back on.

And the crowd went wild.

***

Archer felt a weight on his shoulder. He looked back, noting that it was his scarf, flopping onto his back after apparently being suspended in the air.

Wait, had there been a dramatic wind?

Had he just been illuminated by a spotlight, scarf/cape billowing in the wind, in front of a crowd of three-hundred-odd ponies? What's more, had he missed any chance to take a look at himself before he started looking normal again? 

Fiddlesticks!

He felt a familiar pang of annoyance, even as he descended the stage steps to mingle with his "adoring fans."

That pang had a name.

It was Arrowhead.

The imaginary pegasus peeked between the heads of two oblivious partiers, face-splitting grin firmly in place. He was wearing a shirt in a hideous shade of bright yellow, embazoned with the words "Archer and the Archettes".

Archer ignored him as hard as he could. Who knew, maybe that had an effect on dream beings like him.

"You like it?" the sadly unaffected dream being asked him. "I made it myself. I was thinking those other three could be the Archettes. Or maybe we could get some Archettes and they could just walk around backstage and carry your stuff."

That was really not funny at all.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Archer asked, in between shaking hooves with Ponyville's quite well-staffed welcome wagon.

"Actually, yes," Arrowhead replied, unusually somber. "This is goodbye. So long, friend, it was nice being here. But old Uncle Arrowhead has greener pastures to plow. More unwary minds to torture. And so on."

"I suppose you wouldn't think any less of me if I wished the next dream you found yourself in would be one where you get eaten."

"By now, I've come to expect it. See you later," Arrowhead called, floating out the hall's broad entrance doors. "And by the way, your mission starts now!"

Archer suppressed a scowl as the mental construct of a pony vanished from his life, hopefully for good.

If he couldn't even be bothered to explain what this elusive "mission" was, then how important could it be? Honestly, the lack of common courtesy brain invaders had today. Disgraceful.

Archer was roused from his ruminations on rudeness by a sudden tremor in the ground around him. The numerous cider mugs clinked and clattered on their tables, and the congregation of well-wishers was silenced for a brief moment.

That silence was broken by the creaking, squeaking, squealing noise of breaking wood. The back corner of the roof caved in, then ripped itself away, leaving it open to the chilly night air.

The Ponyvillians may not have been familiar with the roar from outside that followed, nor the particular flash of bright star-spangled blue that flashed by the cavity in the roof for a split-second.

Therefore, it was entirely prudent and logical for Archer, who was not normally given to hysterics, to point and scream as loud as he could.

"URSA ATTACK! EVERYBODY RUN!"
> A Minor Problem
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Several sounds could be heard inside the barn-turned-mead-hall-turned-madhouse, all of them loud.

The first was the roaring of the Ursa Minor currently rampaging through the rearmost eighth of the building, which was pretty much exactly what you'd expect a giant star bear to sound like: deep, angry, and terrifying. 

The second was the feedback of Vinyl Scratch's sound system, squealing as the Ursa flattened one of the speakers and crushed the microphone underfoot, along with the rest of the stage. Vinyl's curse-filled screaming at this affront, while truly something to behold, was inaudible. 

And last but certainly not least, there was the screaming of the hundreds of ponies vacating the premises as fast as they could, all of whom were saying some variation of “aaaaaaah.” Except louder.

Thank goodness the entryway doors were on the opposite side to the Ursa, otherwise the entire crowd would have been rendered into so many panicky sardines crammed into a single tragic wooden tin. There, with the pull-tab for that tin in the form of a strong arm and a loud voice, was Archer.

“Go! Go! Go! Come on! Single-file!” He continued waving the torrent of equine bodies out of the hall, peering inside over the outgoing flood to make sure nothing like a falling support had trapped someone inside. Satisfied that such was not the case, he shut the door behind the last fleeing pony - a shambling purple mare who apparently loved cider more than he ever did.

After a moment’s thought, he set the deadbolt as well. Every bit counts.

***

The town square had become a scene of pure pony pandemonium, of crushing, clip-clopping chaos, of horrendous, horsey havoc.

It was disorganized and there were a lot of hoofed things about, is my point.

The Mayor/Mare of Ponyville continually and desperately tried to calm down the populace, but she was, without fail, drowned out by some pony or other shouting things like “Where’s my mommy,” or “Has anyone seen so-and-so,” or “I don’t know why we’re all yelling.”

Rule Four Hundred, Twenty-Seven of the Monster Hunters’ Field Guide: A panicking crowd is a bigger threat than the thing it’s panicking about. It was with this knowledge that Archer climbed up to the town hall’s roof via its gutter pipe, and proceeded to deafen everyone in a fifty-meter radius.

“QUIIIIEEEEEEET!”

A pin dropped.

“Now,” he said, “I promised Vinyl I’d give her her megaphone back ‘soon,’ so I want to keep this brief. Running around like a bunch of beheaded poultry is not going to solve any of our problems.”

“But it’s worked so well for us in the past!” one pony objected.

“Regardless, that’s now how we’re going to do it this time. We need to be smart to get rid of something that dumb, as odd as that sounds. Now, I know this is sort of a tall order, but I need to know if anyone has had experience repelling monsters of this size before.”

“Oh! Oh!” Rainbow Dash flew up to him, grinning. “Twilight does! She got rid of one just like this all by herself once!”

“Right,” Archer said, scanning the multichromatic crowd. The telltale shade of eggplant purple failed to appear. “But, uh... she’s not here.”

“That’s a serious problem.”

“No kidding.” He raised the megaphone back up. “Has anybody seen Twilight Sparkle?”

***

Meanwhile, halfway across town, Twilight Sparkle was performing her best impression of a chainsaw.

An exact duplicate of her stood over her unconscious form, levitating a piece of parchment and an ink quill.

“‘Eliminate the only possible cop-out...’ Check! My, my, Arrowhead, you have outdone yourself this time. Now, item five: ‘Find a good seat and watch the fireworks.’”

Arrowhead glanced around, realized he was on a balcony, and smartly sat down.

“...Check!”

***

The uncertain response from the crowd did little to reassure him.

“Okay,” he said, “So we’re going to have to assume Twilight’s missing in action until proven otherwise. Anyone else?”

The general consensus on the subject was “No.”

“Alright, so I have to drive this thing off by myself. Fantastic. But as of right now, you’re all honorary members of the Monster Hunters Reserve. If I need your help, you’re going to have to give it, to the best of your ability. Alright?”

The crowd’s response was a little more enthusiastic this time.

“Our first order of business is to find a shelter. We need somewhere secluded that the Ursa can’t easily get to, or wouldn’t find. Any ideas?”

“Oh! Me! Pick me!” A pink hoof shot up from among the mass of gathered ponies.

“Yes, Pinkie, what is it?”

“The lab!” she exclaimed, bouncing up between two other bystanders. “We can hide everypony there! It’s underground, and the walls are sixteen inches of solid concrete!”

There was a brief silence.

“Well, then. We’ll reconvene there. Mayor, I trust you can...?”

“I’m on it. This way, everypony!”

The crowd, happy for some coherent direction, turned as one to follow her.

“Hang on!”

And then they turned back around.

“What?”

Archer looked down and shuffled uncomfortably.

“I need help getting down.”

***

Archer paced back and forth in the spacious confines of Pinkie’s basement, as he was wont to do in times of pondering.

“Alright,” he said, to the ponies assembled in front of him. “We’re all in agreement that the Ursa needs to be driven off, correct?”

“Yeah,” said Rainbow Dash, hovering somewhere above and to the left of him. “But how are we going to do that? I don’t see you pulling any magic out of that fancy scarf of yours.”

“No, no magic,” he sighed, pulling a small cart out from under one of the larger shelves lining the wall. “But what I do have is a plan.”

He flicked a small tab on the device mounted atop the cart, causing it to sputter to life and beam an inflated picture onto the wall.

“This, as you know,” he said, uncapping an ink marker, “is Ponyville. This,” he marked on the lower part of the map, “is Sweet Apple Acres. And here is the Ursa’s last known location. Before we can focus on repelling it, however, we have to ensure that no civilians are caught in the collateral damage. To that end, we must evacuate.

“Everyone in this area,” which he marked in a bold outline, “is at the most immediate risk. Should the Ursa approach from this direction, they will be the ones most likely to suffer damage. Mayor Mare?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll need you to organize the evacuation. Find the fastest ponies you can, and get them into the southwestern quadrant of the town. Evacuate from the outskirts in, understand?”

“Oh! Oh!” Rainbow waved from above. “I’m fast! I can help!”

“Please do,” he deadpanned. “And for all our sakes, don’t blow anything up this time.”

By this time, the Mayor had drifted into the crowd, calling names and ordering them to specific streets.

“While she does that,” Archer said, “Vinyl Scratch!”

A white head poked out from the crowd. “What?”

“Do you have a spare sound system we can borrow?”

“After what happened to the last one? Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Meh, okay. It’s in the shed behind my house.”

“Great. Big Mac, get some stallions and help her cart it,” he marked an empty spot on the map, “here, to Market Square. You reckon you can do that?”

“Eeyup.”

“The rest of you...!” he called, before drawing a blank as to what to say next. He gestured furtively. “...Mingle! I’ll be back if I need you. Pinkie, if you’d be so kind, I need a pair of binoculars.” He paused for thought. “And a ladder.”

***

“See anything?”

“No, take me up a little higher!”

Pinkie grunted, leaning back on her rear hooves. “How about now?”

“That’s good! Keep it there!”

Archer balanced on top of the ladder, one hand holding the binoculars (oversized for him, just like everything else around here), the other maintaining his treacherous balance.

“Do you see the Ursa? Where is it?”

“In... the same place. Huh.”

“What’s it doing?”

“I don’t know. It looks like it’s eating something. Hang on.”

“Could we hurry it up, please? My legs are getting wobbly!”

“As I seem to recall,” Archer said, looking down, “It was your idea to have take the ladder onto the roof with us. So don’t complain to me if it’s not working out.”

“But it’s really, really not working out!” she cried, teetering on one leg. “Pick up the pace!”

“Alright, alright.” He brought the binoculars back up. “Ok, it seems to be... appears... to be...”

“To be what!?” she yelled, rocking the ladder back and forth. “What is it!?”

“It’s drinking the cider!”

Pinkie’s flailing stopped for a moment. “What?”

“It’s drinking those two giant barrels of apple cider! That... actually makes sense, come to think of it. I could have sworn....”

“Ok, so it’s not coming into town just yet. Great!” she said, tearing up. “Fantastic, even! Can you please come down now?!”

“Alright, fine,” he sighed, climbing down. “Next time, we’re just using the roof.”

As he jumped down, Pinkie dropped the ladder with a loud sigh and an even louder clatter. “Worst idea ever,” she said to herself. “Ever.”

“Standing on top of a ladder being carried by a talking pony,” Archer muttered, watching her fall onto her front and rub at her aching forelegs. “Seems safe enough.”

***

The basement looked marginally more crowded than it did when he left. So that was a good sign.

He pressed back towards the dormant projector, arresting the attention of everypony present with a flash.

“Okay, status update! Mayor, evacuations?”

“We’ve cleared out the outermost two blocks. We’re working on the third, but...”

“Good enough. I need you to make sure there’s no one on the route from Sweet Apple Acres to Market Square.” He marked said route on the projection. “Because that’s exactly where the bear’s going to come through.”

“And how are you so sure it’s going to do that?”

“Because,” he said, adding an appropriate doodle to an empty corner, “we’ve got bait.” That last word was repeated by the onlooking Equestrians with varying levels of confusion and incredulity. “Yes, bait. Tell me, did anyone taste honey in that Sweet Apple Acres cider?”

A wave of comprehension passed over the crowd, followed shortly by a wave of grins.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking, and no, we can’t simply lure the Ursa away from town. From what I hear, anyone strong enough to carry one of the cider barrels would tire out before they could get far enough away.”

“Then what are we...!?”

“What we are going to do, Rainbow Dash, is lure the Ursa into Ponyville.” He was answered with a deafening round of absolute silence. “What?”

The endless sea of happy faces was gone. Now everyone was looking at him like he’d just recited eight verses of Henry the Eighth backwards.

Rainbow Dash fluttered in behind him. “Heh heh, sorry folks, looks like Archer’s just a little out of it.” She began pushing at him. “One too many hits of the cider, I tell ya—”

“Rainbow Dash, let go of me.”

“I’m getting you out of here before you start a riot,” Rainbow hissed. “Start walking!”

“Let go of me and let me explain, or a riot’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

“Fine,” she said, floating backwards a few feet. “But you’ve got one shot.”

“Okay,” he said, addressing the crowd. “Now, I know what you’re thinking. And no, I’m not insane. In, fact, I—”

“HE’S GOING TO KILL US ALL!”

With that proclamation, the throng descended into sheer mindless panic. Screaming ponies picked a random direction and set off at full gallop, turning Pinkie’s lab into a self-contained stampede-stroke-blender. In their blind rush to go somewhere other than right where they were a second ago, the crowd knocked over things, trampled things, and generally made a big mess. 

“Now hang on a—” said Archer, immediately before being bowled over by a speeding Equestrian. The impact took the projector with it, shattering its glass and causing the bulb underneath to flicker and die.

Pandemonium reigned for another twenty seconds...

“HEY!”

...then swiftly and with much cowardice vacated its seat of power, for Pinkie Pie had come into possession of a megaphone. Every pony present skidded to a halt.

“Rose, what did I tell you about randomly screaming in terror?”

The mare in question smiled sheepishly and backed behind one of the still-upright lab cabinets.

“Honestly, everypony! You’re giving Archer less of a chance than Rainbow Dash is!”

“Hey!”

“Don’tcha think that if he didn’t want to help us, he wouldn’t be here right now? And if you can’t—”

“Yes, thank you, Pinkie,” Archer said, nudging the megaphone away from her face. “Who started this? Miss Rose?” he asked, addressing the crowd. The pale mare peeked from behind her hiding spot. “You’re fired. Go sit in the corner. As for the rest of you, here’s the plan. The real plan.” He set the projector upright and stretched the transparency over the bare bulb. 

“One of the pegasi will sneak past the Ursa Minor and acquire a barrel of cider, and will proceed to wave it in the Ursa’s face and get it to follow. The bait-carrier will follow a path I have prescribed, ensuring the shortest travel time and least amount of collateral damage. He will set the barrel here—” He marked the center of Market Square. “—and proceed to make himself scarce. Once the Ursa is in position, Miss Vinyl will hopefully have her sound system at the ready. On my signal, we will produce the loudest wave of noise we can muster, which will hopefully spook it badly enough to send it running straight back into the Everfree.”

“Hopefully?” asked one of the ponies present.

“Yes.”

“And what if hope doesn’t do anything?”

Archer sighed, looking over the crowd. He pointed. “You see that?”

They turned. “That” was the Thermonuclear Party Popper, in all its metallic, unfinished glory.

“Yeah?”

“That is a bomb,” he said, causing another ripple of shock to grip the crowd. “It is also our plan of last resort.”

“You’d destroy Ponyville?” the Mayor asked, half outraged, half scared out of her wits.

“Madame Mayor, we’re trying to get rid of a natural disaster in bear form. I’d rather be rid of the Ursa and the town than lose the town and have the Ursa still on the warpath. If we fail tonight, Ponyville is doomed regardless.”

“Then we will not fail,” she said, with a simple, defiant confidence.

Archer grinned. “That’s the kind of attitude I want to see.”

***

Ditzy Doo peered down at Sweet Apple Acres from the safety of a nearby thunderhead.

Scratch that, she was both peering down at Sweet Apple Acres and simultaneously glancing down and to the right at a random line of apple trees. But she was at least peering down, and that was a victory.

The Ursa was chewing up the floorboards of the now thoroughly ruined mead hall. From the smell, Ditzy imagined the wood had been soaked with spilled cider. Once all that was gone, though, the bear would almost certainly make for Ponyville and continue its rampage in search of things to chew on.

It did not enter Ditzy's mind how odd it was that the plan to get rid of the Ursa involved leading it directly into Ponyville first. She was just glad they had a plan at all.

She dove while the Ursa's back was turned. The Apple family homestead was miraculously untouched - thank Celestia for small favors - but unless she worked quick, that wouldn't stay true for long. She threw the door to the house's cellar open, disappearing into the dank storeroom beyond. She reemerged with a barrel in hoof, prying off the top to ensure that, yes, it held a full thirty gallons of Sweet Apple Acres grade-A twenty-proof honey apple cider.

Perfect.

She toted the keg above the Ursa, which was busily gnawing  on a soaked piece of tapestry. She tipped it ever so slightly - just enough to spill a few drops on its very sensitive (if large) ursine nose.

The Ursa's head jerked up at the first splash of honey-scented goodness. It liked that smell. It loved that smell. And the weird grey thing floating far, far up was holding something that positively reeked of that smell.

It had to have more. It needed more.

“Yoo hoo! Mister Bear!” called Ditzy, waving the barrel back and forth. “Fresh delicious, right here!”

It did what any giant constellation monster in its situation would do.

It jumped for all it was worth.

Ditzy let the air being rapidly displaced by its grabbing claws push her away from being clapped to oblivion. It landed and examined its inexplicably empty claws. Only when Ditzy started hooting and making catcalls from the direction of the townward road did it get off its massive star-spangled rump and give chase.

***

“So, this is it?”

The “spare” sound system easily matched the old in size.  Its two massive stereo towers flanked either side of a microphone stand and sound board that looked comically tiny in comparison.

“Yep,” Vinyl said, leaning against the tower with a hint of pride in her voice. “If this baby doesn't send the Ursa running with its tail between its legs, nothing will.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Archer muttered, scanning the road he'd told Ditzy to come in on. He'd had his doubts about accepting the cockeyed pegasus's volunteer offer, but for some reason Rainbow Dash seemed unusually eager to have her doing this instead of helping set up the speakers.

There may have been a very good reason for that, in retrospect.

“Rainbow!” he called. Said pegasus was hovering above the square on lookout. “Any sign of her yet?”

“Nope,” she answered, perching on a nearby roof. “She's been gone for almost half an hour. Do you think she... Wait!”

“What?”

“Here she comes!”

Ditzy announced her presence by flying headlong into a window far down the road. She reappeared with the bait barrel locked in a vice grip, making a beeline for Market Square. She happened to be screaming.

While that would be worrying in any other situation, she earned a pass here because she was being chased by a giant bear. Screaming was a totally normal reaction.

The bear in question galumphed down the road from Sweet Apple Acres, skidding into a loose turn that left it crumpling side-first into the building Ditzy Doo had been in moments before.

Archer directed Ditzy to drop the bait in the middle of Market Square, an order with which she all too happily complied. She released the keg like a bomb, not stopping until the barrel was half-cracked open on impact and she was as far from the bear as possible.

The assembled Equestrians plus one human gave the Ursa a wide berth as it entered the Square. It sauntered, almost lazily, towards where Ditzy had dropped the cider keg. With a flick of its wrist, it tossed the barrel up in the air and devoured it in a single saliva-spraying bite. 

It then happened to glance to its left and notice the two massive stereo towers which, in its defense, barely reached up to its elbows.

“Miss Vinyl,” the tiny thing on two legs said to his associate, “If you please?”

“Righto. Big Mac, hit it!”

Something bulky, red, and less tiny than the rest of its friends stepped up to a podium. It then yelled as hard as it could.

Big Mac was normally taciturn to a fault. His reserved demeanor and monosyllabic vocabulary lent him the image of the “gentle giant”. But anyone who knew him could assure you that when he got mad, he got loud.

The ensuing bellow cracked windows, caused the cobblestone streets to vibrate and resettle in strange and unusual ways, and probably made every pony (plus human) very glad they had brought ear protection.

The Ursa blinked.

It then brought down a two-ton paw on one of the stereo towers, crushing it like a tin can.

Vinyl fixed Archer with an angered glare. He shrugged helplessly.

“I don’t get it. That should have worked.”

“Well it didn’t, and now I’m out another sound system.”

“Really, the only reason the Ursa wouldn’t respond to a loud roar exactly like that would be if it was rabid...”

The Ursa proceeded to roar right back at them.

Along with saliva and stench of long-digested meals, its breath carried the telltale stink of alcohol.

“...or drunk,” Archer finished, holding his nose.

“Glad we got that sorted out.”

“Right. Now then. RUN AWAY!”
> Plan B
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ponies running for their lives were an uncommon though not unheard-of sight in and around Ponyville. For that matter, they had been sighted pretty much anywhere Ponyvillians went. And places Ponyvillians knew about, or had business dealings with, and so on.

So it was no great surprise that the assembled Equestrians watched Archer, Pinkie, Vinyl, and the rest of the “Yelling at Bears” band avalanche their way down the basement stairs, slam the door behind them, and proceed to seal it with every type of locking mechanism known to ponykind. Archer swiveled to meet the displeased stare of the Mayor, as well as those of the hundreds of ponies behind her.

He winced.

“Plan B it is.”

***

Away from the other newfound inhabitants of the basement, Pinkie was once again rummaging through her massive stockpiles of unused machine-based detritus. The fact that she had amassed such a wealth of mechanical parts, scrap metal, and other technological bits and bobs was a testament either to her insatiable inventiveness or to a burgeoning case of Mad Scientist Syndrome.

Those who knew her, when confronted with such a prospect, would merely express confusion at the notion that she didn’t qualify as a “Mad Scientist” already.

Archer had said something on the way down about fire, and she knew of no better fire-related gizmo than the one she was searching for. She was so sure she had left it somewhere under here, if she could just dig deep enough...

Ah! There it was.

It was roughly the size of a cart, though considerably lighter with no fuel. The two oblong incendiary tanks were connected to a rough, rectangular-ish body, which in turn extruded a rough, rectangular-ish neck. A small aperture at the end was blackened with slag and grime, evidence of long and frequent use before welding pins came into use.

And right at the end of that neck was the reason for all that soot: arguably the most important part on the device. And rightfully so, for without it, the whole thing would be useless.

It was missing.

The whole thing was useless.

Uh oh.

***

“Okay,” Archer began, in front of the reassembled and now rather peeved Ponyvillians. “Making a loud noise didn’t work. But we know why, and rest assured, we’re going to make sure the giant town-destroying monster is sober next time.”

“Won’t be a next time until you pay for my replacement sound system!” called Vinyl, whose surly attitude had gotten her banished to the crowd.

“Duly noted,” he replied, to his credit only flinching a little bit. “But there is another weakness native to the ursine kingdom. A weakness we can exploit using equipment from this very room.”

“Which is?”

“Fire.”

The crowd collectively winced in a brief flash of primal fear. Understandable, of course; horses were never big fans of fire.

“So,” the Mayor sighed, after regaining her composure, “not content with simply luring the Ursa to where it can do the most damage, you also plan to burn Ponyville to the ground around it?”

The crowd was suddenly very cross with him, and made their crossness known rather loudly and emphatically. “As a matter of fact,” he called over the ensuing din, “I have a much better plan than that. And it does not involve burning anything you would not like to see burned. As we speak, Pinkie Pie is...” he waved a hand in the general direction of the more workshop-like sections of the lab “...rummaging, I guess, for a very specific piece of equipment known as an Arc Torch. On the box, it’s labelled for welding work, but someone who knows what they’re doing can easily modify it into an impromptu anti-personnel weapon.”

“And I take it you know what you’re doing?” asked the Mayor, unconvinced.

“Absolutely! In fact,” he gestured to  his left, grinning, “here’s Pinkie right now, here to tell me where it is so I can start—”

“It’s busted,” Pinkie said.

Archer’s expression did not change.

“What.”

“The igniter’s missing, and I have no idea where it is. The Arc Torch won’t work until we find a new one.”

He looked at the crowd. He looked back at Pinkie, Destroyer of Plans. Then back at the crowd.

“One moment,” he said, dragging Pinkie “offstage” and up the basement stairs.

***

“Missing!?”

“That’s what I said.” 

Sugarcube Corner’s kitchen was an ideal place to yell at someone without being noticed, day or night. Archer was taking full advantage of that fact and apparently banking on the theory that high volumes somehow made Pinkie a better finder of things.

Pinkie, for her part, didn’t like this theory at all.

“Ack- I- I don’t even...! Why!?”

She shrugged apologetically. “I guess a few years of being forgotten under a pile of junk will do that.”

“Well, this is just great!” he cried, turning and pacing further into the kitchen. “My only other plan and it keels over in the stable thanks to one missing part! What else could go wrong tonight?"

And right on cue, an angry pony stormed in to give him a piece of his mind.

No, not that one. The other one.

“What is all the yelling about!?”

There, standing in the doorway, was Inkwell. Her mane was holding more than twice the number of curlers it was supposed to be physically capable of supporting, a sleeping mask hung askew from her horn, and a half-thrown-on bathrobe was draping itself over her back.

Archer was rather taken aback. He didn’t think people actually dressed like that.

“Nice getup.”

“Don’t ‘nice getup’ me, mister!” she yelled, intruding facefirst into his personal space. “What’s with all the noise!? I’m trying to sleep and suddenly the entire town hears Big Macintosh yelling like he’s stubbed a hoof!”

“Yes, well, that would be because he was trying to scare off the Ursa Minor.”

Inkwell’s expression shifted from anger to sheer bewilderment. This had the unintended side-effect of exaggerating the bags under her eyes.“Huh?”

Archer took a deep breath before replying.

“You remember that party we were throwing tonight well we went and we had a lot of fun but then a bear appeared suddenly and we tried to chase it off with loud noises but it was drunk so it didn’t run away and now we’re trying to kill it or chase it off with fire but our Arc Torch is broken because the igniter’s missing and now I don’t know what to do.”

He exhaled sharply, bending over and clutching at his side. Pinkie patted him softly on the back.

“I’ve trained you well.”

“What’s an Arc Torch?” Inkwell asked, caught in a sort of mental whiplash from the verbal barrage.

“Welding tool,” Archer said between breaths. “Takes matter with significant energy content and alters its oxidation point. Shoots that substance through a flame produced by the igniter, usually making a stream of plasma hot enough to melt steel. Or, with the right modifications, a gout of flame so hot as to rival dragon’s breath.”

“And without this igniter?”

He sighed. “Might as well be spraying it with water, for all the good it’ll do.”

She nodded pensively, trotting around him and levitating a cookbook off the shelf.

“What are you doing?”

“How big a flame are we talking about?” she asked, ignoring his question.

He shrugged. “No more than a spark, I don’t think. Phlogiston is one of the most flammable substances in existence.” 

She nodded. A second later, she ripped a page out of the cookbook and tapped it to her horn, causing it to go up in a flash of blue fire.

“Hey!” Pinkie yelled. “That’s Sugarcube Corner property!”

“Oh, come off it,” Inkwell said, rolling her eyes. “It was a page from the notes section. Nopony uses those.”

“A valid point,” Archer commented, inserting himself between the two mares, “but that still begs the question of why you felt it had to be incinerated.”

She smiled wryly, loudly tearing another page from the book.

“I’ve got your ‘spark’ right here,” she said, furling the paper into a thin roll and sparking a small cloud of blue-purple embers off the end. “Now let’s go get rid of that bear so I can go back to bed.” She trotted out of the room, leaving the other two rather impressed, if a little nonplussed.

“Well,” said Archer. “She seems... eager.”

***

Back in the basement, the crowd had defaulted to headless-chicken panic mode.

Archer pressed through the chaos, recovering the megaphone from beside the fallen projector.

“Land’s sakes, people, have a little faith! We fixed it!”

The crowd halted.

“You did?” asked one pony, clearly perplexed.

“I admit it took us a while, but I swear you act like we didn’t have a plan in the first place!”

“To be fair, you really didn’t until just now,” another piped up, far behind the first.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Granted. But we do now, and it’s ninety-five percent guaranteed to work.”

“Ninety-five?” asked the Mayor. Archer nodded. “And the other five percent?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I blow up.” The crowd gave a collective gasp. “B-but just a little! Look, a ninety-five is still an A.”

Rainbow Dash poked her head out from her napping spot on top of one of the rafters.

“He’s got a point, you know.”

“Aww,” he said. “You’re sticking up for me? How nice.”

“No it’s just that every time I’ve had to save the day, it’s been a million-to-one shot. Ninety-five percent’s a nice change of pace.”

He sighed, looking back down at the crowd, who unlike him all seemed to have heard Rainbow say something inspiring and insightful.

“Heartwarming. Now,” he said, bringing the megaphone back up and addressing the many ponies present, “If we’ve all worked the running and screaming out of our systems, I would ask that everyone present remain calm. If nothing too terrible happens, the Ursa situation will be resolved within the-”

“Archer!” Pinkie hissed, just out of sight from the audience.

“...within the hour,” he continued, pointedly ignoring her worried tone. “And, if any of you are into that sort of thing, I can introduce you to the wonders of Bear Bacon.”

“Archer!” she whispered again, frantically. He deigned to walk over to where she was frantically waving her hooves. Were this any other mare, the nearby ponies would likely be worried or even concerned. But this was Pinkie Pie. She did things like that.

“What,” he muttered, low enough to remain out of earshot of the now happily mingling Ponyvillians. “I ended with Bear Bacon. Don’t ruin the moment.”

“That’s just it! There’s not going to be any Bear Bacon Barbecue because we’re out of lighter fluid!”

“What,” he said, rather redundantly.  “What do you mean?”

“No phlog,” she said. “We’re fresh out.”

He paused for thought. Phlogiston was fuel. The fuel. No phlog, no fire, and with no fire there was a big, mean, unstoppable bear on the loose, intent on devouring all of civilization. Or at least this part of it.

So, by the transitive property of association, running out of fuel leads to horrible agonizing bear death. Keep your basements stocked, folks.

“So?” Pinkie asked. “Are we as doomed as I think we are?”

“Possibl-” Archer began, before interrupting himself. “No! No we’re not.” He turned to her with a mad grin. “And you know why that is?” She shrugged. Quite a feat for a creature with no arms. “Because phlogiston isn’t the only fuel source in the world. Get Inkwell and follow me to the storeroom,” he said, making a dash for the stairwell.

“I’ve got an idea.”

***

“This is the worst idea ever,” Inkwell groused, straining under the weight of one of the (former) phlogiston tanks. The rounded plate-glass container was filled with a pink sloshing substance with the consistency of recently-swished gelatin dessert.

Archer, torch under one arm and megaphone in hand, grit his teeth and ignored her. The chilly night air in the evacuated Market District of Ponyville made this rather difficult, as there was nothing else in it to listen to other than the nearby Ursa ransacking another empty stand.

“I don’t see what’s so bad about it,” Pinkie replied, bouncing as if the tank on her back weighed nothing. “I mean, not only do we get to beat an Ursa with fire, we get to beat it with fire made from icing!” She looked at her two compatriots, beaming just a little too much with eyes just a little too wide. “I didn’t even know you could set icing on fire before today!”

Inkwell sighed, turning back to her suddenly taciturn leader. “You’ve doomed us all.”

“Yes, well,” he replied stiffly, “it was the only thing on hand with high enough caloric content to be a suitable stand-in for phlogiston. Hopefully I can salvage things before the night’s out.” He peered around a corner, drawing back slowly and motioning to the two of them. “Hook me up.”

Pink and Ink drew thick rubber hoses from spools on their tanks, connecting them both to sockets on the not-business end of the torch. Archer noted with a grim mental chuckle that the receiving port could take up to eight of such hoses.

As he boldly marched into the square, he assured himself that nothing could ever need that much fire. 

“Inkwell,” he said, as the Ursa turned to ponder its new guests, “light me.”

***

A gout of bright pinkish fire WHOOSHed from the end of the Arc Torch, startling the Ursa and causing it to stumble and crush the cart underneath it.

“Behold, bear!” cried Archer through the megaphone, as much for intimidation as for his own confidence. “I, Man, have made fire!” He waved the massive tongue of combustion back and forth, cowing the monster as it shrank from the heat. Alcohol or no, fire was the one thing any non-fire-related monster could be relied upon to fear. “Gaze upon my opposable thumbs and tremble!” He chuckled. “They hate it when you mention the thumbs.”

“Focus!” cried his two tank-bearing mares in unison.

“Right, right.”

He made an awful bellowing noise, herding the Ursa back and away with continued blasts of flame. It made a pass at attacking the small trio -- it was drunk, after all -- but immediately recoiled when its paw passed through the flame and lost most of its starry fur, and a good bit of skin besides.

For the first time that night, the Ursa fled.

“Come on!” Archer called, dashing after it. “We’ve got it on the run! We can’t let up now!”

Pinkie took up the cheer, bouncing after him. Inkwell, on the other hand, was tired. She had been up all night bookkeeper-ing, had slept for two hours before being awoken by a raging bear, and had just sprinted a few hundred meters.

It was no surprise, then, that all four of her legs made a pact then and there to betray her and the citizenry of Equestria in the name of not moving.

She collapsed. The hose on her tank unravelled as far as it could go before decoupling from the receiving end of the Arc Torch with a clank. The frosting still in-transit to fiery, combustible glory spilled out of the unattached head, never to realize its true destiny.

Sometimes life was just unbearably tragic.

***

The Ursa had made it three blocks out of Ponyville before stopping and sniffing at one of the nearby homes. Judging from the way it was clawing at the streetward wall, inside held either a lot of honey, a lot of alcohol, or someone who had just insulted its parentage.

We can safely assume it was not the latter.

“Go on!” megaphoned Archer, startling the Ursa into flinching backwards and scooting another few hundred yards. “Go on, get! Get out of here!”

The Ursa nearly complied before remembering itself and growling at them.

Archer turned his head back. “Inkwell, light me!” Inkwell, as you know, was nowhere to be found. “Inkwell?”

He looked in front of him again, into the Ursa's severely displeased visage. He clenched the torch’s trigger again, out of reflex more than anything. A tiny spark emitted out of what had once been the igniter. A thin blob of icing extruded out, smoldering and blackened on top.

He gulped.

“Well,” he said, hefting the inert length of the torch in front of him. “I can still smack you around with this.”

With a roar, the Ursa swung a massive paw at him, wrenching the torch out of his hands and sending it hurtling end-over-spark-emitting-end into the ruined house front.

On its way in, it shattered something that apparently contained a very highly-flammable substance. There was a muffled explosion as said substance ignited, shattering several other objects within.

...All of which appeared to hold equally flammable liquids.

It drove the Ursa a few blocks away, of course, but now one of the buildings was on fire. Somewhere, Archer recalled specifically saying that something like this wasn’t going to happen. And now he felt rather embarrassed.

“You know,” Pinkie said, sliding up beside him and being absolutely no help whatsoever, “In hindsight, maybe we shouldn’t have picked Berry Punch’s house to shoot fire in front of."

He exhaled sharply, attempting to rid himself of the stench of burning wine.

“Thank you, Pinkie, for the advice,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Is there any insight you’d like to share with regards as to what we’re supposed to do next?”

She pondered, stroking her chin with one hoof. “Nope!” she said, smiling gaily even as Archer slipped further into abject despair and self-loathing.

“Come on,” he said, turning away from the flaming facade and trudging back the way he came. “Let’s find Inkwell. And let’s also hope we’re not going to get hanged for this.”
“You worry too much!” she said, bouncing along behind him.

“It’s a valid strategy.”