Fizzy Glitch has opened the Book of All Stories, and that means anything can happen in any story! A collection of my submissions to the PVCF app, with a few bonus chapters that failed moderation!
Uh oh, Fizzy Glitch has opened the Book of All Stories! Now you have to help decide how the stories end—but choose wisely. Will you pick the hero ending, the chaos ending, or the villain ending? Your choice can change the outcome of the con!
Well, no it won't, not any more.
For those who prefer, the stories are also still up on the app, which can be found HERE. There's a list of codewords in the first comment on the story for all my submissions.
Some would say that Equestria is a fantastic, magical place, and they’re not wrong. It’s a society of magical ponies—the three tribes, of course, and other creatures who live with them. Now that Princess Twilight Sparkle’s School of Friendship has really gotten going, there are more of those other creatures who call Equestria their home.
The Equestrian Tourism Board uses that to their advantage.
In reality, ponies and other creatures exist beyond the pictures and paintings featured in glossy brochures. There are the tourists who bring in their currency (converted to bits) and spend it locally . . . behind that are the locals, the ones who make everything go. Some of them are there to serve, directly or indirectly, and others are just doing the jobs that need doing, practically unnoticed in the hustle and bustle of society.
You’ve never really given much thought to decorative fountains. They’re pretty, but also sort of a background feature. Sometimes they’re all artificial, and the bottoms of their pool are littered with coins, soggy donations to charity. Other times fountains are added to a natural water feature; improving a pond by making some of its water shoot skyward and then rain back down again.
Usually, they just work. Sometimes they don’t.
A pond with an inoperative fountain is just a pond; an artificial pool could have its own aesthetics as well, although a “Fountain Out Of Order” sign doesn’t really help you appreciate them. Point is you’ve seen fountains and you’ve seen broken fountains, but you’ve never seen a fountain in the process of being repaired, as this one is.
Turns out fountain maintenance is its own draw; you’re not the only one watching as a brown-furred unicorn works on its mechanism.
She’s standing fetlock-deep in the coin-littered water, her muzzle deep in an access panel. Besides the obligatory sign indicating that the fountain is currently out of order, there’s a wagon parked besides the water. Silver Spanner Plumbing is written on the side in decorative gilt letters, framed in with delicate pinstripes.
On the front, the tongue lies slack on the ground; on the rear, the tailboard is also down, revealing lengths of iron and copper pipe in various diameters. Wooden toolboxes are slung under the wagon, their doors also open. All the tools are neatly arranged on pegs.
You watch as her horn lights and a silvery-white aura surrounds a pipe wrench. A moment later, it flies out of the toolbox and across the stilled fountain, and then it vanishes inside the deep recesses of the fountain access hatch.
An ear-pinning screech of protesting metal arises, and then settles down into a reluctant squeal which tapers off to near silence. A moment later a rusty iron coupling finds itself floated across the placid waters and into the bed of the wagon.
She shifts around, and you can see her aura reaching out as it grabs a similar new fitting.
You can’t see what she’s doing, but she’s clearly a pro, she’s clearly done this before.
The wrench comes back, and at the same time a short length of pipe lifts off the wagon, bound for the dark hole she’s got her head stuck in. It collides with the wrench in the air, knocking it into the fountain.
The pipe wrench makes less of a splash than you’d have imagined as it joins all the low-value coins scattered around. The ripples spread out, making it waver where it landed.
You know where it should go; you saw her pick it out of its appointed spot, and you could reach it without even wading into the fountain.
CHOICE
Should you pick up the wrench or put something in its place? >pick up the wrench and put it where it belongs (Hero) >put something else where the wrench should be (Chaos) >steal the wrench, you can use it (Villain)
[ENDING A: HERO]
You didn’t see her ears turn; she probably has no idea her wrench has fallen. You can already imagine her reaching with her horn to gather it again, and not finding it. You’ve been there before, feeling around for something that you know where it should be and finding nothing.
There’s still a moment of hesitation as you reach into the placid waters of the fountain; what if a cop were to come by and think you were trying to steal bits out of the water?
Being helpful, even if unknown and unseen, wins out. You reach into the water and grab out the wrench. It’s heavier than you expected.
You shake off as much water as you can and then hang it back on its hook.
A moment later, her magic reaches out again, surrounding the wrench, and it flies back to her.
[ENDING B: CHAOS]
You’ve seen unicorns at work and you know how their fields ‘feel’ things. That used pipe that she just dropped in the wagon looks like it’s about the same weight as her pipe wrench.
Is it mean to mess with a mare at work? Probably. But it’ll be funny.
You reach into her wagon and grab the short length of used pipe, then slide it over the peg. It’s a little too long, and the peg droops down as it accepts the weight. You shove it into the backboard then step back—just in time; you see her aura light up the pegboard, reaching for where the wrench’s handle should be, then move up until it surrounds the used pipe.
You watch with amusement as it crosses the now-stilled water and vanishes into the darkness behind the access hatch.
A moment later: “What the hay?”
There’s a very distinct clatter as she drops the pipe and then pulls her head out of the hole, looking for her lost wrench.
She probably can’t see it through the water.
[ENDING C: VILLAIN]
She’s got her attention focused on the plumbing, and while you weren’t planning on stealing her wrench, you just do. It’s a nice wrench, it’s got a nice heft to it. The kind of thing that costs a pretty penny at the hardware store, the kind of thing which would look right at home on your pegboard.
Sure, you might feel a few moments of guilt when you use it, but after a while you’ll just get used to it. How much could she care for her wrench if she let it fall in the water, if she didn’t keep her eyes on it?
Your opportunistic theft would have gone off better if the wrench could slip neatly in your pocket. Unseen, unknown—but you keep it close to your side, and just casually walk off. Nothing to see here.
By the time you round the corner, you realize that you’ve committed the perfect crime. Ponies are such rubes, leaving tools and stuff out where anybody could take them. You’re not to blame at all, if you hadn’t taken her wrench somebody else would have.
You’re caught by surprise—you’d come to the park to relax and read a book, not join in foal’s games. You’re about to rebuff her as the memories come back, memories of playing hide and seek years ago. Of being young and having fun, just playing in the park, unsaddled with responsibilities.
You set your book down. “Who’s playing, Noi?”
She raises a hoof and points out ponies in turn. “Me ‘n Dinky ‘n Pinchy ‘n Cotton Cloudy . . . ‘n you if you wanna play.”
“It’s been years, I don’t know how good I’ll be.” It’s easier for a foal to hide; they’re smaller.
They’re not smarter, though.
“We’ll go easy on you.”
“You don’t have to.” You get up and join the huddle. “Who’s seeking?”
Cotton Cloudy raises a hoof.
“You can’t fly and you can’t use magic to hide,” Noi says. “That’s to keep it fair for everypony.”
“Can’t hide outside the park, either,” Pinchy adds. “And this table is safe, if you get found you can gallop here and you’ll be safe.”
You look around the park, seeing it in a new light. It’s a nice place to relax, it’s quiet and the benches are comfortable. In terms of hiding spots, though, it’s not great. In terms of nature, there are the usual bushes and rocks and trees; ponies added benches and trash cans, a pavilion and a playground, and that’s it. To your eye that’s not much—to the eyes of a foal, those provide nearly infinite possibilities, and the park seems much larger than it actually is.
Even if there aren’t that many places to hide, you can still gallop for safety if you do get spotted. They might have the boundless energy of youth, but you’ve got a much longer stride than any of them.
“You ready?” Noi asks.
“Yeah.”
“One hundred,” Cotton Cloudy closes her eyes and begins counting. “Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. . . “
The group scatters; for a moment you and Noi are headed for the same juniper bush—you could outpace her and take it, but then it occurs to you that with the advantage of a good stride, a more distant hiding spot is preferable.
You can see Pinchy’s hiding spot, and it turns out Cotton Cloudy is faster than she is. Even grounded, wings are an advantage.
•••
A few easy wins later, you’ve gotten too smug. You thought that Dinky saw you, but then she headed off in a different direction; you didn’t expect her to wait until she’d passed then turn back and sneak up.
Clever girl.
By the time you realize she’s right behind you, it’s too late. Yeah, you might get the lead if you went through the thorn bushes, but that’s a cost you’re not willing to pay.
“Got you!” Dinky says proudly.
“You did.”
The group forms up at the bench again, and this time you’re the seeker.
You close your eyes and begin counting.
CHOICE
When you reach zero, should you >seek fairly; you were young once (hero) >just leave; they’ll figure it out eventually. (villain)
[ENDING A: HERO]
“Here I come, ready or not!” You say it before you open your eyes and look around the park.
When they first scattered, there was too much galloping to focus on, but as they found their spots you could hear one loner crossing a cobbled path. There’s only one of those in the park, and if she crossed it, her options for hiding are limited.
Well, assuming she hasn’t cheated and left the park.
That having been said, you can also see Cotton Cloudy’s tail peeking around the edge of a trash can.
A moment later, it disappears—you’re feeling benevolent, you’ll give her this. She’s been caught more than anypony else anyway.
You slowly make your way across the park, ready for any sudden burst of movement. You’re gonna catch whoever decided the furthest spot was the safest.
[ENDING B: VILLAIN]
“Here I come, ready or not!” Maybe one of them is watching you, but probably not. Fillies aren’t all that smart and would have picked hiding spots where they can’t see you. After all, if they can’t see you, you can’t see them.
Instead of seeking, you walk over to the bench where your book sits, sad and forlorn. You pick it up as you pass, then you just keep walking. There’s a nice foal-free park near the creek where you can read in peace.
Sooner or later they’ll figure out you’re gone, and when they do, they’ll have learned a valuable friendship lesson.
Your ears perk as you hear a familiar whistle in the distance—a freight train is coming.
Some ponies don’t like trains; some ponies think that they’re big and loud and smoky and smelly and blow their whistles way too much, and all those things are true. Some ponies think that they are taking jobs away from livery ponies and canal ponies and maybe they are, but they’re still cool. They’re big and loud and breathe smoke and steam; they shake the ground as they pass by, and they’re crewed by friendly ponies who will return a wave as they pass by.
The tracks aren’t far, and you know a short bridge which is a prime viewing point. Some ponies would know who the engineer was by how she quilled the whistle, would know which locomotive it was by the tone of the whistle. You’re not that into trains.
Not yet, anyway.
It’s a good thing it’s a freight; if it were a passenger train, it’d be gone before you got to the bridge. Freights move slower; as long as the freight gets where it’s going that’s good enough. Besides, a train’s still faster than a canal boat or a livery wagon.
You trot through town and then turn down a familiar side street, your mind already imagining what you’re going to see when you arrive. If it’s a slow freight, you’ll be there in plenty of time to see the locomotive approach. You might be able to scramble up the loose-packed ballast and get a view right alongside the tracks, close enough to really feel the blast of exhaust as the locomotive passes by, to feel the thud of the drivers on the steel rails.
Or if not, you’ll get a picturesque view of it crossing the spindly iron truss bridge, to see it thundering overhead in a shroud of smoke and a shower of sparks.
There’s always that moment of apprehension as you turn the last corner to the nearly-straight road which leads to the overpass. Until then you don’t know if you’ve beaten it, and even as you round the corner you can’t be entirely sure. Maybe it was a really short train and it’s already gone by—as crazy as it was, you’d once seen a train that consisted of the locomotive, a lone box car, and two cabooses on the rear. Cabeese?
What is the plural of caboose, anyway?
And of course there’d been a time or two you’d gotten there late and missed the locomotive; you’d just gotten to see a string of freight cars passing by.
That was still cool, but not as cool as watching the locomotive emerge from the trees like some prehistoric beast, like a mechanical monster of iron and steam.
Usually, you’ve been alone in your quest, but not today. Today there’s a dull pink pegasus standing up on the embankment, peeking her head around a screen of trees. A fellow trainspotter? You don’t recognize her.
That she’s still watching down the tracks is a sure sign you haven’t missed the train. You could slow your pace . . . but a short, nearby whistle spurs you on. Somepony too close to the tracks, or maybe just a friendly salute to somepony the engineer knows.
The train’s still further away than you anticipated. A very slow freight, long and heavy, its own parade as it comes by.
Either side of the embankment is a decent enough place to train-watch, but you might as well have company. She might know train facts you don’t—or you might know train facts she doesn’t.
There’s a special art to walking on the roadbed, something that the brakemares have mastered and you haven’t. The ballast rocks are oversized and piled looser than they look, always providing the opportunity to slide gracelessly down on your belly or to turn a canon joint. They’re smoothish, but still sharp enough to poke a frog or maybe hook a horseshoe.
This time you make it up easily. She turns an ear and then her head as you scramble beside her and then peer around the trees to see the distant headlight shimmering between the tracks.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” She looks you up and down, making a quick judgment. “I was here first, I get first dibs.”
First dibs? First dibs at what? It’s a train, anypony can watch it go by.
She must see the confusion on your face. “Unless . . . this your first time?”
Some ponies think it’s weird to like trains, to watch them whenever you get a chance. Since she’s here, she must be doing the same, right?
“I’ve watched plenty of trains before, thank you very much.”
“Oh.” Her ears droop and then perk back up. “I thought you were planning on riding it.”
“Riding it?”
“Yeah, you know, jump on a car when it passes and ride along?”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
She shrugs. “Brakemares do it all the time.”
“You’re not a brakemare, are you?”
“Hobo.” She offers a hoof. “Sweetsong, professional vagabond.”
You lean out to see how close the train is. “I’m—” Before you can finish, she holds out a leg and pushes you back.
“If they see you, they think you’re trying to get aboard.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Yes, but I don’t want them to know or else they’ll kick me off.” She eyes you up and down. “Haven’t you ever wanted to hop a freight before?”
That idea has crossed your mind. You’ve always been curious about where the trains are going, and what better way to find out than to hop on one and see for yourself?
“Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Not if you don’t fall off.”
“And illegal?”
Sweetsong shrugs her wings. “What’s the point of living if you’re not gonna live dangerously?”
Pegasus philosophy in a nutshell.
“Well. . . .”
The locomotive thunders by as you’re pondering. As soon as it hits the bridge—rattling off dust and rust—Sweetsong turns her attention to the passing freight cars. “A boxcar with the door open is the best, but you can’t always hope for that. Anything that’s got some cover can work, and if the bulls spot you, you can always fly or gallop off.”
She’s not really paying attention to you; she’s got her eyes on the procession of cars. Her focus locks on a boxcar a few cars down: it’s got an open door.
“There’s my ride.” She looks back at you. “You coming?”
CHOICE
Should you hop the freight? >Yes. YOLO (chaos) >No, you should report her to the authorities. (villain)
[ENDING A: CHAOS]
There are moments in life where an unexpected opportunity presents itself, a chance to do something that you’d never anticipated doing. You know enough about trains to respect their danger, and you know enough about the law to know this is illegal. You’re pragmatic enough to recognize that even if you’re spotted, the railroad isn’t going to invest a lot of resources or time into catching you.
The idea of hopping a train has crossed your mind before, along with the understanding that you don’t know what you’re doing. She does, and you know in your heart you’ll be safe as long as you’re with her.
“Yeah, I’m coming.”
“It’s moving slow, that’ll make it easy,” she says. “I can boost you.”
“I don’t need a boost.”
“You do. Everypony does.” She looks at you and then back at the train. “Brace, and when the stirrup step passes, aim for the leading edge of the door. It’s moving slow, but it’ll deceive you. It’s faster than you think and higher than you think, and the ballast underhoof’s lousy.”
“Yeah, I know.” You bend your knees and watch as the box car approaches. It seems like it’s taking forever, and then it’s suddenly upon you. No more time for second thoughts; it’s now or never as you jump. You feel her pushing at your rump and even at that you think you might not make it. You scrabble against the rough wooden floor and then you’re in. A moment later she joins you, landing with far more grace.
The two of you watch the diagonal beams of the bridge flash by. You’ve seen plenty of trains pass over it, you’ve never seen the view from the train.
[ENDING B: VILLAIN]
“No,” you say. “It’s dangerous and illegal.”
Sweetsong waves a hoof dismissively. “Whatever, you just don’t appreciate the freedom that riding the rails brings.” She turns her attention back to the oncoming boxcar.
It’s upon you faster than you expected. She crouches and takes a short flight; you watch as her tail vanishes inside, and then a moment later her head pokes out, watching the scenery pass by as the train crosses over the bridge.
It’s a long train, and even if they’re looking back from the locomotive they might not spot her.
Sometimes the police give rewards for turning in a criminal. Maybe the railroad does, too. You can’t gallop fast enough to reach the locomotive, but you can make it to the freight house and tell the stationmare, and she can telegraph the message down the line.
A brief twinge of longing crosses your mind, and then it’s gone. There are rules, and if ponies don’t obey them they should suffer the consequences.
It’s almost lunchtime, something you’ve been looking forward to for a while. Work has been paced completely wrong, giving you plenty of time to watch the clock and count down the minutes rather than be focused on a task.
It’s strange how you don’t feel as hungry on a busy day until it’s suddenly break time, but when it’s slow you get hungry earlier. You’re not giving your brain enough stimulus, so it’s finding other things to focus on.
You look out the window, and that’s at least a brief diversion, then your stomach grumbles again.
If you packed in lunch, you could sneak a few bites, maybe cut down on the hunger. Some ponies keep snack food tucked away and you could too, but it just feels wrong to turn your workspace into an impromptu meal space.
Another look out the window, hoping for something to alleviate your boredom, to speed along the clock. There’s not much; a pair of ponies in harness are arguing with each other, quickly resolved with a nuzzle and the wagons move on.
What would it be like to tow a wagon for a living? Being outside would be nice, at least most days. Maybe not when it’s rainy; you’ve watched ponies towing wagons with their heads down to keep as much rain out of their faces as possible, you’ve seen the mud splattered on their legs. It’s uncomfortable to wear saddlebags when it’s raining, you can’t imagine how all the straps of a harness would feel.
The bell above the door jingles, and your counterpart returns from her lunch break.
“Hey, did I miss anything?”
You shake your head. A half hour of holding down the fort, of considering alleviating the boredom by counting staples or squaring up paper and deciding to do neither.
Running out the door is gauche, so you hold yourself back. Only just—it’s tempting.
Hayburgers is just down the street, and a greasy sack of food eaten on a park bench is just the thing to fortify you for the second half of work. Taking the second lunch break is kind of a blessing in disguise; by the time you come back more than half the workday will be gone.
It also lets you avoid the bulk of the lunch crowd. Usually it’s a quick in and out, order the usual, make some smalltalk with the cashier while waiting for your food.
Usually.
There’s a wrench in your plan, in the form of a blue mare with frazzled gray hair. Screwy. She’s been in and out of the hospital and a group home for various mental issues, and is the subject of much gossip around town.
She’s often in the company of a Nurse Snowheart, but today she’s on her own. She’s got her hooves up on the counter and is studying the menu intently.
The cashier isn’t the usual; it’s a sullen-looking teenage stallion.
You get in line behind her and watch as she points to the menu board then barks once. The cashier rolls his eyes and then gives you a long-suffering glance, before turning back to her. “Are you gonna order food or not? ‘Cause there’s other customers in line behind you.”
Her ears drop and she turns to look at you, before pointing back at the menu and tapping her hoof on the counter.
CHOICE:
>Help her (hero) >Just push her aside and order your food, this isn’t your problem. (villain)
[CHOICE A: Hero] You give the cashier a withering glance, then tap Screwy on the shoulder. “Are you trying to buy lunch?”
She nods, and then barks happily.
“What do you want, a hayburger?”
Screwy shakes her head. You’re about to namethe next menu item when you realize it will take you forever to list off everything on the menu. Instead, you ask: “Do you want something to eat?”
She shakes her head.
“Drink?”
She nods and then barks once.
“Juice? Soda? A milkshake?”
She nods at the last, and then barks at you again. You’re starting to get the hang of this.
“Okay, so there’s a lot of options—I’ll read them off and you can bark when you know which one you want, okay?”
She nods and barks at you.
“Okay, so there’s—”
“Look, you’re just encouraging her,” the cashier says. “If she can’t order like a normal pony, she shouldn’t be in here.”
You narrow your eyes. “Why don’t you just shut your muzzle before I give you something to complain about.” You turn back to Screwy and start listing off smoothies, until she gives a happy bark and starts wagging her tail.
“That’s one bit and two tenths,” you tell her.
Screwy taps her bit purse with a hoof and then grabs it in her mouth and taps coins out onto the counter. She studies them and starts pushing bits towards the cashier, who looks on in disgust.
A hoof to the muzzle would fix his attitude. ‘You heard the lady, punch in her order.” You turn back to her. “Do you need help counting out your bits?”
She shakes her head and pushes the correct number of coins towards the cashier.
“I’ll have the same,” you say, reaching for your own coin purse, then you turn back to Screwy. “You want company for lunch?”
Screwy looks around the restaurant, at some of the customers who are staring at her and then back at you, and she nods her head.
You were going to eat lunch in the park, but you could eat it with her—she doesn’t have a lot of friends in town, which is a shame.
[CHOICE B: Villain] Hayburger etiquette is to order your food fast and get it fast. You’re on the clock, the minutes are ticking by. You push her aside and take her place. “Double hayburger combo,” you tell the cashier, and slide your bits across the counter. Screwy looks at you and growls, but who cares. She’s crazy anyway.
She’s usually got her nurse with her—maybe she got out of her padded cell. She points at you and then back at the menu, then she points in the direction of a customer who’s dining in, sipping on a milkshake.
You ignore her and step down the counter to wait for your food.
If you’ve got time when you’re done with lunch, you might report her to the authorities. She shouldn’t be allowed out in public if she can’t behave like a normal pony.
You usually stay down around Seaquestria. It’s dangerous near the surface, and there’s everything that you could want under the sea. Food, friends, frivolity—your home is down there.
Sometimes you do swim up into shallower water, to where you can clearly see the color of the sun and feel the oscillations from the undersides of waves. Sunrises and sunsets paint the ocean with reds and oranges, and the moon gives a harsh light, while sunlight is bluer and more appealing.
You know that you were once a creature of the air, before everygriff fled the Storm King, and you understand why your parents sometimes wistfully looked to the sky, sometimes even sticking their heads up above the water. It holds no real interest for you; there’s no reward for the risk.
A mountain that could be soared around? You can do the same underwater.
Maybe the Storm King isn’t real. Maybe hippogriffs never lived above the sea, maybe it’s just a legend, a fairy-tale for children.
Unlike your belief in Santa Claws, the magical red crab that offers Midwinter presents, time would prove that hippogriffs did once live above the ocean and could again. Some took to the skies when the opportunity was offered, re-settling old towns on Mount Aris, while others remained behind, either because they enjoyed the aquatic life, or because it was all that they knew.
You’d flopped out on land, you’d felt the weight of the air pushing you down onto the sandy soil, and decided you wanted nothing to do with it. You’d seen a few hippogriffs transform and try to walk or fly again—or for the first time.
And you weren’t alone in that. The city had gotten smaller, but there was still a strong contingent sticking to the old ways.
Change came all the same; the threat of the Storm King had passed, but now you had bigger boats passing overhead, ones powered with screws instead of sails. Their vibrations would travel all the way down to the bottom.
You’d swum up to the surface once, just to investigate the noise. The dark shadow of a hull crept over the surface, rocking you with currents as its bow passed over.
By the time the stern arrived, the noise was almost unbearable. The screw sent confused currents in every direction, with a strong jet of water behind it. It wasn’t anything like the sailing ships that glided by overhead every so often.
There wasn’t really anything you could do about it, though, short of giving up and going to live on land, and that was something you just weren’t ready to do.
•••
One day, you watched as Princess Skystar headed out of the palace, a teenage seapony following along. Sea Poppy—you were classmates in school, and of course you’ve seen her around Seaquestria.
Curious, you follow along. You can hear another approaching boat, its screw and engines already making an unpleasant throbbing in the water. It’s to the north, which is the direction they’re heading.
Part of Seaquestria’s economy has been trading with the air-breathers, but they don’t have anything with them to trade. You stroke your tail faster, gaining on them.
As you close in, Sea Poppy finally notices your approach. The boat is getting closer and it’s getting hard to hear—as bad as it is on the bottom, it’s ten times worse near the surface. Fish are scattering, all but the minnows who are really stupid.
“Where are you going?”
Princess Skystar answers. “We’re going to the boat.”
“Why?”
“To break its rudder.”
“What would that accomplish?”
Sea Poppy answers. “Maybe if we break enough they won’t want to sail over here anymore.”
“You want to learn how? I’ve been teaching everyone,” Skystar says.
[CHOICE]
Help break the rudder (chaos) Use diplomacy instead (hero)
[CHOICE A: Chaos]
You nod. They are annoying, and discouraging them would make things a lot more peaceful.
“You have to be really careful of the screw,” Princess Skystar explains. “If it catches you, it’ll cut you up, and it can suck you in if you’re in front of it. If you stay off to the side, though, it’s pretty safe.”
“All you really need is a couple pieces of rope,” Sea Poppy adds. “One of them goes around the bottom gudgeon and you toss the loose end into the screw, and once it’s pulled that out, you wrap a piece around the rudder and throw that into the screw.”
“We’ll show you.” They’re almost shouting now; the noise of the boat is nearly unbearable. The three of you get pushed down by the bow wave and watch as the hull passes overhead, blotting out the sun.
The two of them have practiced their technique; Sea Poppy loops the bottom rope a couple times around the rudder stanchion and then swims forward, letting the free end of the rope drop into the screw.
The rope tangles into the blades and you watch in fascination as the bottom of the rudder buckles and then pulls free of its bracket.
Princess Skystar has the second rope, which she uses to lasso the broad, flat surface of the rudder. It, too, gets tossed into the screw, which starts pulling the rudder over as the rope tightens. Without its bottom support, the rudder starts to bend over at an angle; at the same time, you can feel and hear the screw slowing down as the ship tears its own rudder off.
It doesn’t break all the way; once it’s bent over far enough, the rope finally sides off the bottom and wraps the rest of the way around the shaft.
“Easy,” Princess Skystar says. “Let’s head home before somepony gets in the water and tries to figure out what’s happened.”
As the three of you start swimming back to Seaquestria, you take one last look at the ship. By now, they’ve stopped the engine.
“If the rope’s really strong,” Sea Poppy says, “Or the boat’s really weak, you can pull the screw off, too.”
[CHOICE B: Hero]
“Isn’t there a less destructive way to stop the ships?” you ask. “I don’t like them either, but that’s no reason to try and break them.”
“They’re invading Seaquestria,” Sea Poppy says. “And we have to defend it.”
“”The ocean is really big.” You don’t know how big, you’ve never been all the way to the edges of it. “They could sail somewhere else if they knew we were down below them.”
“Mom always said that we’d have to defend ourselves from surface invaders,” Princess Skystar tells you. “She’s who taught me how to tear off rudders—it’s even easier on ships with engines, because they tear off their own rudders.”
“We’re not at war with the surface ponies,” you remind her. “Not any more. We could just tell some of the hippogriffs who went to live on land, and they could get the ships to stop sailing overhead.”
Princess Skystar and Sea Poppy exchange a look. Clearly, this idea had never occurred to them.
“Okay, fine, we’ll try that. I can talk to Mom—don’t tell her I was telling other seaponies to break ships.”
There’s an undeniable allure to fresh paint. Maybe it’s the wet glossiness of it, maybe it’s the smell of it, maybe it’s the cleanliness of it. Seeing something that wasn’t painted with a new, fresh coat of paint changes it.
It changes the whole setting. The house, which was once dull and peeling, is now new and vibrant, standing out from its neighbors. Nothing else has been changed; the thatched roof still needs to be renewed, and there’s still a broken window pane in one of the dormers.
At the same time, some of the character of the house has been lost. The scuffs and scrapes that show its age, the battle scars it’s gotten over the years. One of them was from your own hoof. You’d been playing around and scraped down the wall—that had broken up the gathering quick. Everypony had galloped home, worried about getting caught, but nothing ever came of it. Nopony cared.
You cross the street to get a closer look. Someponies elect to paint their own homes; this one’s being done by a professional. She’s already done the street side and now she’s moved on to the side. Before you even get all the way to the corner, you can see the painter, a gamboge unicorn. She’s got a cap on to protect her mane, and an apron to protect her belly—she’s still got paint stains on her coat.
The brush is held in her aura, painting a line of fresh paint on the wall before returning to the paint bucket. It’s a mesmerizing process to watch—she’s working her way down the wall, lost in her own little world of painting, and for a while, you are too. She works from right to left, slowly backing her way down the ladder as the wall gets covered in a fresh coat.
Down at the other end of the alley, you can see the tail of her cart. Seeing tradesmares’ carts isn’t that unusual. Sometimes they fade into the background; if a pony’s working inside, you can’t see them.
Her ladder is blocking the alleyway and it’s bad luck to walk under a ladder, so you go around the house.
She’s left her cart leaning on its shafts, a simple harness hung over the front. Inside are the tools of her trade: cans of paint, paint brushes, a couple of paint-stained drop cloths, and a lunch box.
You look up and down the alley—nopony’s there but you. Then you look back in her wagon
CHOICE:
Steal her lunch, you’re hungry (villain) Use some paint to vandalize a nearby wall (chaos)
[CHOICE A: Villain] Your stomach growls, and before there’s time for a second thought, you grab her lunch and then gallop down the alleyway. Free food is the best food, after all. Painters surely make lots of money, she can afford to buy more food if she gets hungry. At the rate she’s painting, she’ll be done with the house before she gets hungry, anyway.
Once you’re a few blocks away, you slip down another alleyway—a shortcut to a road hardly anypony takes, and a bridge over the stream that cuts through town. You don’t go on the bridge; instead you slide down the embankment and settle in under the arch. It’s one of your favorite hiding places in town.
You unlatch her paint-splattered lunch box and peek inside. You’ve hit the mother lode; two sandwiches, a bag of chips, and a bottle of apple juice.
When you’re done eating, you push her lunch box into the stream and watch it slowly fill with water and sink—the perfect crime.
[CHOICE B: Chaos] From your vantage point, you can see her reflected in the window of the house across the alley. She’s about halfway down the ladder, completely focused on the wall she’s painting.
You peer into her cart and grab out a bucket of bright pink paint. You know it’s pink because there’s a streak of paint across the lid.
You also snatch a small brush and a paint-stained screwdriver. Prying off the lid of the paint can isn’t easy, but you get it open.
When it comes to painting, you’re no Marechangelo, but a big smiley face isn’t that hard to paint. Sure, there are some streaks in it where you put too much paint on the brush and the top of the face is kind of squished since you couldn’t quite reach high enough to make a better circle, but overall it looks pretty good.
For a moment, you consider putting the paint can back, but what’s the point? It’ll be pretty obvious what happened here.
Instead, you leave the paint can and brush in front of the house, and trot across the alley, taking one look back at your masterpiece before you depart.
Peachy Sweet yawned, stretched, pushed the covers back, and then slid out of bed.
Red continued snoring.
She stretched her legs, arched her back, and swished her tail, getting the worst of the night-tangles out.
Red slept on.
Today was a special day. Today was their anniversary. Five years since they’d tied the knot. Peachy looked back at the bed and her somnambulant husband. Did Red remember?
Probably not. Stallions never remembered stuff like that.
Whatever. Five years, a sapphire anniversary if you asked a unicorn; a daisy anniversary if you asked an earth pony. A . . . . She frowned. What did pegasi celebrate with?
She didn’t have any sapphires, but she did have daisies, fresh from the market. Breakfast was usually a simple affair, oatmeal and black coffee. Today she was going to put some extra effort in—but first her coat needed attention, her mane needed attention, her tail needed attention. Her tail needed lots of attention, it gathered tangles in the night like the south field gathered rocks.
Peachy happily hummed The Magic Inside as she brushed her coat. The coffee percolator was percolating, filling the house with its scent—she was already perking up, and from the bedroom she heard Red shifting around in bed.
•••
“Oatmeal and daisies?” Red sniffed at the oatmeal. “Are you trying to butter me up? Convince me that you need a new dress that Miss Rarity has for sale?”
“Nope,” Peachy said, and nuzzled his cheek. “Daisy had ‘em on sale, and it’s a nice change from just plain oatmeal.”
Red narrowed his eyes, and then turned his attention back to the oatmeal. A small frown crossed Peachy’s lips before she tucked in to her own oatmeal. A dress? She hardly ever wore them. Was that a hint? Were they going to go somewhere special for dinner?
She pushed aside the daisies as she ate—she’d never liked their taste.
•••
After Red had cleared the table, the two of them went out to the barn. Peachy helped Red strap on his harness—special day or no, the weeds weren’t going to take a day off. As much as she wished for it, the field wouldn’t cultivate itself. Every day of inattention was another day for weeds to grow, for pests to nibble on leaves, for rot to spread on stalks. Any days that the field couldn’t be worked were maintenance days—all their equipment always wanted attention, and it seemed that the more they worked, the longer the list grew.
Once he was harnessed, Red backed up to the cultivator. Peachy attached the shafts and tugs to his harness, did a quick once-over to make sure that everything was in place, and then strapped on her own panniers. The south field especially grew an abundant crop of rocks.
•••
By lunchtime, the rock pile by the border fence had grown a few hooves taller. On a day when it wasn’t raining and there was nothing else to to, or when Red could work by himself, she’d stack more rocks on the wall. Just like the crops, it grew every season, but the wall never needed to be harvested.
The two of them sat in the shade of an oak tree for their lunch break.
Some days they just grazed for food. They didn’t work the very edges of their land, but on a few rainy days in the spring, Peachy scattered seeds. Alfalfa, clover, oats, rye, all cheap, low-maintenance, and all good to snack on. It grew where it liked the soil, clumps here and there interspersed with the feral plants—some which were good in their own right. Wild raspberries grew along the fence rows, and they’d discovered that the edge of the north field was prime ground for grapevines.
Today she’d made them sandwiches. Red took a bite then lifted the top bread to examine the sandwich. “Chrysanthemum?”
“And daisy,” Peachy added. “And the bread’s made from that herb flour that the miller makes, I bought a loaf yesterday.”
“You don’t even like daisies,” Red observed.
“Sure I do.”
“To sniff, to look at, not to eat.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You’re up to something.”
“No I’m not.”
“I heard you singing a Countess Coloratura song earlier—were you going to ask me to go to a concert?”
“I wasn’t.”
“She’s got one coming up.” He grinned as she took another bite of her sandwich and scrunched her muzzle. “You want me to eat your daisies?”
Peachy nodded and opened her sandwich so Red coud pick them off.
•••
The afternoon was a repeat of the morning. Red towed the cultivator and Peachy walked behind, using her scuffle hoe on the weeds it couldn’t get, and putting the turned-up rocks in her pannier. When it got full, she trotted off to the fenceline and dumped them in a rock pile, then returned to her place.
By the end of the day, both of them were covered in dirt and sweat. Red got hosed down first while still in his tack, then she helped him strip it off and hang it up on a peg. It wasn’t as good as properly washing the harness, but good enough.
They had a shower beside the barn, and Red had spent a few afternoons last fall arranging pipes on the barn roof into a solar water heater. She’d thought that was dumb, a waste of time and money, until the first time she’d used it. Farmponies who swore by rinsing off in cold water didn’t know what they were missing.
The path back to the house was flagstones, gravel, and mud—like so many things on the farm, the path was a work in progress. Five years sometimes felt like a long time, and sometimes felt like it had passed in the blink of an eye.
What would the next five years bring? That was a complicated question, difficult for her to imagine. The past went by in a flash, the future approached a day at a time. Tomorrow it was supposed to rain; the crops needed it. They’d gotten a head start on the weeds and tomorrow they could sleep in; tomorrow Red would be in the barn maintaining their equipment, laying a few more flagstones on the path—maybe it’d be done by their tenth anniversary.
It was supposed to clear in the afternoon. The fields would be too muddy to work, but she and Red could re-thatch the roof of the chicken coop. That was almost ready to go, they’d have chickens by next moon. Eggs to eat, eggs to sell or trade, very little effort for a big reward.
•••
What would the next five years bring? What would the evening bring? Red hauled in some split wood—their pile was getting low. If she had some time in the morning she could split some more. She wasn’t as good at it as Ginger Gold, but it was good enough to put in the stove.
Peachy danced around the kitchen, the counterspace a mess of bowls and pots and pans. A proper work in progress, just like the fancy restaurants in Manehattan. A salad to knock the edge of hunger off, and then a casserole, hot and bubbling. For dessert, a peach cobbler. Enough to fill their bellies and plenty of leftovers for later in the week.
“You’re too good to me,” Red said as he finished the last bite of peach cobbler. “And don’t think I haven’t been seeing that little glint in your eyes all day long, you’ve got something on your mind, what is it?”
CHOICE:
>Today’s our anniversary! Did you forget? (chaos) >Oh, it’s nothing. (hero)
[CHOICE A: Chaos] “Today’s our anniversary! Did you forget?”
A flurry of expressions crossed Red’s face in an instant. “No, of course I didn’t. I got you something special . . . some flowers and stuff.” He glanced out the window and looked back at her. “Still in town, I was gonna go right after dinner and—”
Peachy grinned. “Go on, then, I’ll be here.”
Red nuzzled her cheek and quickly trotted out the door. Peachy got up to close it, watching as he broke into a gallop halfway down their front walkway.
It was anypony’s guess what he’d be able to find last-minute. A hastily-picked bouquet of flowers, perhaps. Some treats from Sugarcube Corner if they had any left. A card from Cards, Candles, and Curios.
She snorted and turned her attention to the kitchen. Stallions were silly and stupid.
[CHOICE B: Hero] “Oh, it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” Red booped her nose. “Today’s our five-year anniversary, and maybe we don’t have enough bits to go to Las Pegasus or Vanhoofer, but you deserve something nice. Close your eyes.”
Peachy closed her eyes and listened as Red walked off. Not far, he only went to his little stallion cave—which was half his and half hers and one day would be a nursery and then a foal’s bedroom.
She kept her eyes closed as he returned, as he leaned over and nibbled on her ears. “It ain’t much, but the unicorns swear by sapphires for five years, and I reckon you’ve put up with me for this long.”
He held up a hoof mirror and she gasped at her reflection. Sapphire earrings, set in fine silver filigree, a beautiful compliment to her coat.
“And since it’s gonna rain tomorrow, I figured instead of spending time on the farm, you could spend the day getting fitted for a dress to match instead,” he said. “I already talked to Miss Rarity and made you an appointment for the morning, you can—”
He never finished his sentence; Peachy wrapped him in a tight hug. “How’d you afford it?”
“Well, I admit I kind of lied to you. Those days I said I was going to the pub with the boys, I was actually working odd jobs to earn a few bits.” He grinned and nuzzled her mane. “That herb flour that made our lunchtime bread? I carried those sacks to the bakery.”
Way back when you were younger, you’d been assigned to write a paper about yourself, and one of the questions that had stuck with you was ‘where do you see yourself in the future?’
You can’t remember how you’d answered the question, but you do know that ‘low-wage Taco Bell employee’ wasn’t in your imagination back then.
Nor should it have been; young kids—as you yourself once were—should have the benefit of imagination before the crushing reality of late-stage capitalism does its work. Your time on the job has taught you that if you have time to lean you have time to clean, and that nepotism and the Peter Principle are alive and well. Despite some of your managers, the store still generally functions well enough to provide speedy sacks of tacos and other Tex-Mex food to lines of customers, from breakfast to Fourthmeal.
Right now is a slack time, after the lunch rush and before the dinner rush. There are a couple of cars queued in the drive through but they aren’t your problem. Your station is the cash register and, of course, whatever other tasks can be squeezed out of you during your lulls.
Aside from the ever-seeing eyes of the cameras, nobody’s in view, so you check the time, then look out over the lobby/dining area. All is well.
A good day? The calm before the storm?
You don’t know. There’s no way of knowing; the future brings what it will. You check the time once again. A proper analog clock has a second hand to sweep along, always marking the passage of time. A digital clock only does minutes, and updates them when it does. Can it be trusted?
Can anything computerized be trusted? You zone out for a moment, and then the minute has refreshed; freedom is closer than it was before.
And then your training kicks in, as it often does. Cups need to be restocked, and you’re not selling tacos at the moment, you’re a drain on the balance sheets.
Work didn’t instill the satisfaction of unwrapping a tube of new cups, of shoving them into the spring-loaded cup holder—dozens of rounds of ammo for the soft drink gun, ready and waiting to be filled with Pepsi or Mountain Dew or Baja Blast.
Cups are only the beginning. Napkin supplies are dwindling, and then there’s sauces to consider. The self-serve station has been picked over; today there’s been a run on Fire sauce. You wouldn’t have guessed it by the customers you’d served.
And then the door swings open. You dump the last packets of sauce into their bucket and even as you mind is processing this new customer you’re switching from stocker to cashier mode, ready to push the buttons on the cash register, ready to recite—on demand—every menu item and variation thereof.
Sometimes fate throws a wrench in the works. Sometimes there’s a bus, loaded with zombie-like customers who need their Taco Bell fix.
Sometimes there’s a weirdo.
Sometimes there’s a pony.
You watch as she pushes the door open with a forehoof and steps into the lobby. She’s a lavender pegasus with a pompadour and a big gauze bandage around a foreleg.
Her attention goes first to the ordering kiosk, and then to the front counter, where you’ve just slotted yourself back into position behind the POS system.
She locks eyes on you and then the menu board behind you as she purposefully clops to the counter.
As customers go, she knows the routine. No hemming and hawing, when she steps up she knows what she wants. “I want a bean burrito and a crunchwrap supreme with no meat, please. To go.”
[CHOICE]
>pony wants a taco, sell the pony a taco (hero) >no shirt, no shoes, no service (villain)
[CHOICE A: Hero] You nod and push the appropriate virtual buttons on the screen. “Would you like anything else with that?”
“You don’t still have Choco Tacos, do you?”
You shake your head. Regrettably, they’re gone. Maybe, like the Mexican pizza, they’ll return one day. Maybe not.
As she’s reaching for her credit card (you’d wondered how she was going to pay), you finally make the connection. There’s been an air of familiarity ever since you’d seen her walk through the door. “You’re one of the tornado ponies, aren’t you?”
She nods. “Velvet Light.”
“I’ve seen you on YouTube. Is there—” You’d watched more than one video of them fighting tornados, both from the pegasi’s GoPro perspective, and from ground-based news crews. Occasional interviews as well; you remember she’d been interviewed before—you’d seen her name on the chyron.
She’d been wearing bandages then, too. Weather work was dangerous.
“Maybe. Human weather is uncontrolled and hard to predict, but there’s systems forming up near here that could make tornadoes.” She gestures at the bandages on her leg. “If you hear sirens or other warnings, take them seriously, there’s a front that’s likely to make severe thunderstorms and hail and maybe tornadoes.”
“Oh wow.” You can’t help but look out the window. The sky’s clear . . . but it looks like stormclouds are building on the horizon.
You turn around and grab her food, put it in a sack, and pass it across the counter. Velvet makes a brief stop at the sauce kiosk, grabbing a few sachets of fire sauce before leaving the restaurant.
You watch as she takes flight, the Taco Bell sack held in her mouth.
There’s a good chance the next time you see her is going to be on the news.
[CHOICE B: Villain] Your manager has instilled many things into you, including the inflexibility of The Rules. Said rules are posted on the door for all to see: No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service. She’s already failed the rules.
Maybe she has shoes on and maybe she doesn’t, you’re not going to ask her to lift a hoof to check. She certainly doesn’t have a shirt—or pants, but the rules don’t speak of that.
And if that wasn’t enough, another sign prohibits animals, except for service animals. There are some who push that rule, who bring dogs that clearly aren’t trained to perform medically necessary service. Sometimes those customers get kicked out and sometimes they don’t, depending on the manager on duty.
You’re not a monster, and you do recognize that she’s one of the ponies who’s been tasked with studying and maybe stopping tornadoes—there are dozens if not hundreds of videos on YouTube starring her and the rest of her team. If Taco Bell had a celebrity exception—
And maybe it does, but that’s above your pay grade. You’re just following orders as you tell her that she can’t be in the restaurant without a shirt or shoes or proof that she’s a service animal and not some ordinary pony out of her pasture.
Her ears fall, and she turns and walks back out of the restaurant, her head down. You feel a brief twinge of remorse, but rules are rules and on the chance that your manager is watching the security cameras or happens to step out of her sanctuary in the next couple of minutes, you’d rather not be on the pointy end of her wrath. You take one last look at the retreating pony, then return to your make-work duty of stocking sachets of sauce.
For whatever reason, you’d never thought of ponies playing sports. Not foal games, and not quite professional athletes—collegiate level, maybe?
At least, you can tell yourself that, based on how thoroughly they trounced you. The rules for Buckball were simple enough, and you’d thought you and your team had a chance. You were sorely mistaken. Your co-workers might be genial enough at work, but on the field they were out for blood.
Summer Breeze . . . her name was wrong, you decided. She could use her wing to hook a buckball at near supersonic speeds. You’d never known what being hit with a meteor felt like, not until you blocked one of her shots.
With your face.
At least they’d been kind enough to give you time to recover before restarting the game. What was that old saying? You miss half the shots you don’t take? Does it count if you’re seeing double?
“You did good,” Aloha says. She was the opposing team’s unicorn, and the one who had convinced you to play the stupid game in the first place. “Especially for a newbie.”
“Easy for you to say.” You rub your muzzle with a hoof. “Is it possible to lose your sense of smell from a hit? Because I think I have.”
“It’ll come back,” she assures you. “You think that’s bad, you’ve never been on the receiving end of one of Yuma Spurs’ kicks.”
“Kicking a ball, or—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Yuma chimed in.
“She strikes like lightning, but twice as fast.”
Well, you knew that to be true when it came to the buckball field, at least. It’d be interesting to see if Summer Breeze could throw faster, or if Yuma Spurs could kick faster. From an academic standpoint, pure scientific interest.
When it came to picking teams, well, there had been a bit of unfairness, that’s the only logical explanation. They hadn’t just beaten you, they’d eviscerated you. Normal, ordinary ponies, at least to your encounters with them so far. Of the trio, Yuma Spurs is the most notable, since she likes to wear a dressy shirt with long sleeves for her forelegs. And a cowpony hat, to and from work—she’s even got a personal hook to hang it up on.
The other two rarely dress fancy. Summer Breeze keeps her mane up in a bun which not only lasts the workday, but also a full game of Buckball. Her styling regime might include glue. Aloha’s always got a beaded scrunchie around the base of her tail, and mane that skirts the line between messy and deliberate.
“Say,” Aloha says, jerking you out of your thoughts. “We were gonna go to the spa later on, after we all get rinsed off. You wanna join?”
[CHOICE]
>Sure, bonding with friends is important even after they wiped the playing field with you (Hero) >Are you kidding? You’re gonna see if you can find some ringers for the next pickup game (Chaos)
[CHOICE A: Hero] “Maybe,” you say. “Which spa?”
“The thermopolium. We’ve got a tub reserved.”
“Do you.”
Aloha nods. “Always do; it’s a good way to relax after the game.”
“And to bond,” Yuma adds. “We don’t always play on the same team.”
You nod. “Next time somepony suggests a pickup game of Buckball, I’m getting one of you on my team.”
“That’s fair,” Aloha says. “You need all the help you can get.”
You stick your tongue out at her.
“And . . . you’ve been a good sport,” she adds.
Yuma Spurs and Summer Breeze nod.
“Well, I have learned a thing or two,” you admit. Said lessons were 1: you were hopelessly outclassed by them, and 2: don’t block a ball with your face. “So why not?”
“I knew you’d like the idea.” Aloha grins.
[CHOICE B: Chaos] “That’s a kind offer, but I have other plans.” For now, those plans are vague and nebulous, but you know some ponies, and they know some ponies.
You could spend a lot of your free time practicing and training, and you might get better, but the fact is that you’d still probably get smoked by those three. You’re not ashamed to admit it, there’s no sense in lying to yourself.
Especially since you have an option B. You might not be all that good at Buckball, and you might not be able to get good during a quick training montage, but you know some ponies who are good. Good enough, in fact, that either of them by themselves could mop the floor with the other team. Or if they’re still not good enough, you could see if Michael Jordan wanted an Equestrian vacation.
Aloha and her friends might have won this round of Buckball, but for the next? They won’t know what hit them.
You glance down at the message on your phone. It’s Cloudy Kicks—while you’re not officially a couple yet, you’re really close.
Yeah, I just have to finish up here. You tap the send button and don’t even bother setting the phone down—you can already see the little ellipses indicating she’s writing.
Better hurry, the show starts in fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes is enough time. You grab your backpack and swing your locker shut, jiggling the latch so it falls into place—like everything here, it’s a little beyond its prime.
You fast-walk out the doors and into the parking lot. Your car is there, waiting for you. It’s not much, but it’s a decent enough first car. Reliable, only minor dents and scrapes, and it’s got a good radio.
The horn chirps and the lights flash as you hit the button, and a moment later, you’re speeding out of the parking lot.
Not too fast. Fifteen minutes is plenty of time to get to her house, and it’s not worth taking risks to get there quicker. Not major risks, anyway—you cut diagonally towards the exit and don’t come to a complete stop as you turn onto the street, but you do use your turn signal.
While waiting for a traffic light, you have time to type out a quick message. On my way, be there soon.
South of town, things open up. It’s always struck you as strange how quickly the land turns from urban to rural—one side of the road has housing developments, and the other has fields of corn and wheat.
It’s several miles to your next turn, and there’s not much traffic at all. Sometimes in the morning and afternoon, it’s busy, but later in the evening not many people use it.
Besides the road sign, a neon-yellow posterboard advertises a barn sale further down the road. How many drivers are enticed by those? It can’t be none, or nobody would do it.
Your phone chirps as you turn, and you glance over just long enough to see it’s a message from Cloudy. It’s not safe to open the app and read it while you’re driving, and your car doesn't have a fancy enough radio to interface with your cell phone.
That’s okay, your next message to her is going to be ‘I’ve arrived’ anyway.
You check the clock out of habit. Five more minutes to get to her house and park, and then you can forget all the stresses of the day, just sit on the couch in the rec room, watch TV and eat popcorn. Snuggle.
Up ahead, you see something in the road. Roadkill—common enough around here, and nobody bothers to pick it up. Near the center of your lane, you won’t have to swerve to avoid it.
Something small. As you get closer, you can see it’s an opossum.
And you also see it move.
Just a trick of the light. There are trees lining the road, and the sunlight dapples the road as it shines through the leaves; add in some clouds and maybe a gust of wind.
You pass over it and look back in your rearview mirror. You know what you saw. It moved. It’s obviously hurt, but it’s not dead.
You glance at the clock, back at your mirror, and bring the car to a stop, only remembering at the last second that you should stop on the shoulder, not the middle of the road.
The steering wheel jerks as the car drops off the pavement, and the cloud of dust overtakes you, briefly shrouding the car.
It’s a wild animal, even if it’s not dead now it will be soon, and what can I do about it anyway? Run it over with my car to end its suffering? That’s a terrible idea.
Cloudy Kicks is expecting you, she’s probably already started the popcorn, and you’re at the point in your relationship where you can’t afford to screw up. You said you’d be there and you aim to be.
[CHOICE]
>go back, pick it up, and take it to the vet. (hero) >continue on to Cloudy’s house and don’t mention it (villain)
[CHOICE A: Hero] You can’t just leave it there. You pick up your cell phone and tap out a quick message. Hey, what’s the name of that vet you use?
You turn on your hazard lights and back along the shoulder, your mind already going a hundred miles an hour. There’s some empty boxes in the trunk that you’d never cleaned out after the last shopping trip, and you can sacrifice your gym shirt if it’s bleeding—which you think it was.
Doctor Fauna, why?
Hurt possum a couple miles up from your house.
Got it—guard it, I’ll be right there.
Guard it—you can do that.
You hit the brakes as one wheel starts to slip into the drainage ditch. Backing up using your mirrors isn’t all that easy, and there’s a good chance you’d run it over by mistake if you backed all the way up. A three-point turn, which turns into a ten-point turn, gets your car facing the other way and back on the shoulder.
You don’t really want to get a close look at an injured possum, but you’ve made your choice and have to follow through. You pull up alongside, open your trunk, grab out a cardboard box, and walk across the road.
It’s very much still alive; it lifts its head and hisses at you, and you can see it struggling to get to its feet. There’s some blood but not a lot—it must have just gotten glanced by whatever hit it.
You’re still trying to figure out the best way to lift up an injured opossum when you hear the crunch of tires on gravel, and a familiar looking farm truck comes to a stop behind your car. Cloudy Kicks hops out and comes running over to you.
“Poor little guy,” she says. “You got a box, that’s good Grab a handful of straw out of the back of the truck, we’ll put that down.”
“I’ve got an old t-shirt, too.”
“Good.”
•••
The two of you ride together to Dr. Fauna’s. You’re riding shotgun, the box (and possum) in your lap. You can feel it moving around inside, which is hopefully a good sign.
Both of you are in good hands—you’re still not entirely confident in your driving abilities, but Cloudy Kicks is driving the farm truck like a F1 driver, banging through the gears like an old pro. She told you she’d been driving farm equipment since she was tall enough to reach the pedals.
You were expecting a hospital or some modern brick building; instead, she pulls into a country driveway. Feral cats watch you, and dogs start barking.
Cloudy Kicks leads; she’s been here before. A sign on a side door says ‘Clinic Entrance,’ and you push it open. Inside is a typical-looking waiting area. The magazines are animal-themed, the TV’s playing a nature show, and it smells like every doctor’s office you’ve ever been in along with a serious undertone of dog.
You set the box down on the front counter and the receptionist takes one look inside, then scurres back to get the doctor, who assures you that there’s a good prognosis. The injuries don’t look too serious, although it certainly would have starved to death or been eaten by a predator if you’d just left it out in the wild.
On your way out the door, Cloudy Kicks takes you hand.
“Sorry we missed the movie,” you tell her.
“It’s fine.” She leans over and kisses you on the cheek.
[CHOICE B: Villain] With one last look in the mirror, you shift your car back into gear and pull up off the shoulder. It’s not too long before it disappears behind you, although it doesn’t leave your mind.
You slow and turn into her driveway, park your car next to the big diesel farm truck she usually drives—it’s thirty years old, covered in dents and mud and rust and yet somehow suits her perfectly.
I’m here, you tap into your phone, although it really isn’t necessary. You can hear her dog barking inside and she opens the door before you have time to knock.
The dog sniffs at you suspiciously, then remembers that he knows you and licks your hand.
“Come on in,” she says. “Go on and make yourself comfortable, I’ll grab the popcorn and root beer and be right down.”
•••
It should have been a great evening, but you kept thinking of that opossum. Is it still in the road? Did it make it back into the woods?
On your way back home, you slow down as you pass by where it was. It’s gone.
Having a unicorn for a housemate is weird, and not at all what you’d expected. First off, her name—it wasn’t mysterious or mystical, it was Sweet Biscuit. And then there was everything else: you’d anticipated rainbows and sunshine and amazing magical abilities, but that’s not what you got.
Sure, she enjoyed rainbows and sunshine. Some days she’d be stretched out on the floor like a cat, catching a sunbeam. She’d move her giant pillow—which was NOT a dog bed, despite what the tag said—to follow it along until she bumped up against the wall and could go no further.
Some days she’d sit out in the backyard.
And she’d dragged you out into the front yard the first time there was a rainbow in the sky.
As for the magic, well . . . it was a lot more utilitarian than you’d anticipated. Sometimes it acted as an extra hand, holding a mane brush or a cup of coffee or a hot baking sheet; sometimes it acted as a flashlight. You’d never seen her do anything really magical with it—a couple of weeks back, she’d scraped her side on a branch, and when her horn lit, you were expecting her flesh to suddenly knit back together in front of your eyes.
Instead, she summoned a Band-Aid, peeled it, and stuck it to herself.
•••
“Hey, you wanna give me a hoof—hand here?”
There were some materials her magic couldn’t interact with. Such as the kitchen faucet handle, which she was bumping with a baking tray in an attempt to turn the water on.
You hate to see her struggle, so you get up and walk over to the sink. “Careful of the tray, it’s still hot.”
And that is an advantage to her magic; she can pick up hot things without getting burned.
The baking sheet hisses as the water hits it. You seem to remember it’s bad to put hot pans and stuff in cold water because they could warp, but then you’re not exactly a professional chef, and she is.
Maybe, you’re not sure how cutie marks work. She’s good at cooking and she’s got cookies as a cutie mark and she bakes fantastic cookies.
It’s not what you expected, but it’s nice.
•••
She’s neater than some roommates you’ve had, but less tidy than others. While Sweet Biscuit’s not OCD about dusting and vacuuming—in fact, she’s nervous around the vacuum—she always washes all her dishes after she’s done baking, and she doesn’t leave her clothes around in piles here and there.
Granted, she hardly has any. A hoodie for chilly mornings, a green vest with cream trim that’s her Buckball uniform, and a fancy dress for fancy occasions.
She also has a set of boots she wears sometimes. They’re the strangest things—shaped for hooves, obviously, but Nike branded. ‘Air Secretariats,’ available online or by mail order. Some ponies don’t trust the internet, and you can hardly blame them for that.
•••
Ponies do weird things, or maybe it’s just Sweet Biscuit. You’ve got a sample size of one, and that’s not enough to draw any firm conclusions.
She likes being outdoors during the day, visiting parks or walking the trails around town. Like many cities, yours has been adding opportunities for easily-accessible outdoor recreation. You’d gone with her a couple of times, but nature really isn’t your thing.
There’s one not too far from your house that’s got a couple trails, the obligatory grassy pitch, and a pond. It’s one of her favorites for quick nature rejuvenation.
Sometimes she trots around, or gallops around and returns lathered. Today—
Sweet Biscuit has a key. She doesn't have to carry it with her. Unicorns aren’t limited by hiding it under a mat or a rock. She did have to get a keychain she could interact with, since the key itself was immune to her magic.
Usually, she’d come in through the front door, drink a glass of water, and sometimes she’d take a shower upon her return. This time she opened the back door and poked her muzzle in. “Hey, can you give me a hoof . . . hand?”
You pause the video you were watching and go to the back door. “What’s—oh.” She’s covered in mud. Some of it has dried, and some hasn’t. “What happened, did you fall into the pond?”
“No, and yes.” She stuck out her tongue. “Can’t get a proper mud bath at any spa here, and I thought I’d improvise. And it turns out that I can’t work your hose.” She lifts it with her magic and you see her field sort of wavering around the nozzle. “Don’t want to track mud through the house.”
[CHOICE]
>help her rinse off (hero) >”That sounds like a you problem.” (villain) >the nozzle has both a spray and a stream function. . . (chaos)
[CHOICE A: Hero] “Oh, yeah. Hold on a moment.” You pat your pocket, where your cell phone lives. It’s been a while since you’d sprayed anyone with a hose, but you remember there being splashback. Your phone claims to be waterproof, but maybe it isn’t, and there’s no point in risking it.
You set it aside, and then step out in the backyard and twist the faucet on. “The water’s going to be cold.”
“I know.” She looks down at the ground, making sure she’s standing on a grassy spot. “Okay, I’m ready.”
You check the nozzle and make sure that the dial’s turned to spray—wouldn’t want to blast her with a jet of water by mistake. And you also aim at the ground as you squeeze the trigger, as a final check.
Having a unicorn for a housemate was weird. Never in a million years had you anticipated giving your roommate a bath in the backyard, and yet here you were, playing the hose over her, watching as the mud dropped off and left her coat wet and glossy.
At first, the two of you were working at cross purposes; you were moving the nozzle and she was moving to get the spray where she wanted it, and then it clicks for both of you. She lets you rinse down one side, then turns so you can get the other.
Sweet Biscuit even holds up her hooves, one at a time, so you can blast the mud off the bottoms.
Once you’re done, she shakes off and then walks into the house, as you follow behind. “I’m gonna take a proper shower and then bake cookies.”
[CHOICE B: Villain] You turn back to the screen, then back to her. “That sounds like a you problem. You got yourself dirty, you can get yourself clean. I’m not your maid.”
“Ugh, fine.”
She can work the faucet with her mouth or hoof—you’ve seen her use the sink faucet that way. You’d heard people saying how stuck up unicorns were, how they sometimes acted like royalty. Sweet Biscuit normally didn’t, but asking you to wash her off? How entitled was that? If she knew she couldn’t do it herself, why would she get herself dirty?
You heard the water start running, and then what sounded a lot like a curse. It wasn’t in English, so you couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like the kind of thing a pony might say if the hose got away from them.
You look back at the screen as second thoughts start coming to the fore. Why were you wasting time watching a screen while you could be recording her struggles to later upload to TikTok or YouTube or whatever?
You had a potential viral hit on your hands, and now was the time to capitalize on it—you make it to the kitchen window and get your camera up just in time to catch the hose escaping her, spraying her right in the face. She steps back, trips over a coil of hose, and then falls to her rump as the hose goes wild.
That’s comedy gold right there.
[CHOICE C: Chaos] Sometimes a plan comes to you after the fact, and sometimes it falls into place in an instant. “Sure,” you say. “Glad to help.” You pull your phone out of your pocket and set it on the desk—it claims to be waterproof, but there’s no sense in taking a chance.
The hose nozzle is one of those fancy ones that has a plastic ring to put different sprayers in front ot the water. Everything from a gentle mist to a stream.
You turn on the faucet and feel the hose flex under your hand. Sweet Biscuit has picked a prime spot of lawn, and at the instant she’s looking down at the ground underhoof you make your move, twisting the dial. “Ready?”
She nods, and you squeeze the trigger.
•••
Once, when you were a kid, you were having a friendly squirt gun fight with some friends and had used the hose—that both ended the fight and one friendship. Sweet Biscuit apparently didn’t know that the nozzle could shoot multiple patterns and was totally unprepared as the merciless blast catches her in the side. You see chunks of mud flying off as she jerks back.
You keep your hand on the trigger as she turns in surprise, her instincts failing her; she faces the spray and gets a blast of cold hose-water right on her muzzle. Her horn lights uselessly, and then she holds a hoof up to block the water.
You lift your eyebrow as a familiar spring green pegasus flops down into the seat across from you. He pulls off his helmet and sets it on the table, nudges it with his hoof until it’s sitting just right, and then lets out a sigh.
“Long day?”
“Yeah. Training.”
“I thought you were trained.” Thunder Flap has been one of the Queen’s guards for as long as you’ve known him. “This isn’t because of the Queen’s crown, is it?”
“How do you know about that?” He lowers his voice and leans forward, looking around to make sure nopony’s listening.
“Ponies talk,” you say. “The palace walls whisper secrets.”
“They’re not supposed to,” he mutters, and then slides his helmet over as the waitress approaches. In the past, she’d have walked to your table; now she flitters down from overhead and lands at the end of the table.
“You ordering, hon?”
Thunder nods. “Fish and chips, and a glass of barley water.” She jots it down with a pen, and then he adds, “Can I get a mineral block as well?”
“Yeah.” She turns to you. “Wanna wait on your food until your friend gets his?”
“Sure.”
The two of you watch as she flies off, swerving to avoid another patron who’s discovered the joys of indoor flying.
“Flight training,” he says. “Now that we can fly, we’ve got to practice flying in formation and aerial defenses and stuff, and it’s extra hard because we’re figuring it out as we go. Zipp found some old books from back before we lost our magic, which have at least some instructions but they’re not really clear and so we’ve got to experiment. Sometimes I regret getting flight—it was so much simpler when nopony could fly.”
“Except the Royals,” you say. That’s a reflexive reply which has stuck with you.
Thunder rolls his eyes.
Being able to fly was cool. It took some getting used to and you weren’t very good at it. Your first flight had been a short mix of panic and enthusiasm, and you weren’t alone in that. Some ponies your age and older weren’t even trying, or would do little more than short hops here and there, while the younger ponies were taking full advantage of their wings.
“Extra PT, extra training, extra considerations around the palace—windows on upper levels didn’t used to need to be secured but now they do.”
“You’re a big, strong stallion,” you tell him. “You can do it.”
Some of the weariness falls away, and he gets a strange look in his eyes. “Of course I can. It’s kind of cool to practice sparring in the air with Zoom. She’s really taken this change to heart. I hadn’t really appreciated her . . . dedication before.”
You furrow your brow as you suddenly realize what that look means.
“I’ve been thinking—”
You hold up a hoof, your mind whirling. You already know what he’s going to say, you can complete that thought for him, but he hasn’t said it yet.
The truth was, you were interested in Thunder, but you hadn’t yet worked up the courage to ask him out. For now, just hanging out with him when you were off-duty was a decent substitute. It was sort of like dating.
He gives you a quizzical look while you’re still trying to get your thoughts in order. You’re saved by the waitress—she’s figured out how to fly and keep a tray of food balanced on her back, which is quite the skill. The first and only time you’d tried to fly with a book on your back, it had promptly hit you in the back of the head and then hit a wing, only to be yeeted against the wall a moment later.
You watch as Thunder tears into his food. He normally has better table manners; he must be starving.
In contrast, you’ve always been a more delicate eater and today’s no exception. Especially since you’ve lost your appetite. Zoom! Thunder’s complained more than once about her seriousness and overconfidence, and you’d never considered that he’d think of her as a potential romantic partner.
You did know he was into strong, confident ponies, that he had a crush on Zipp—putting him at odds with the bulk of pegasi. He was smart enough to know that he had no chance with the princess, though.
Thunder trusts you, and you’re confident that you can squash this new interest before it’s too late, but should you?
He looks at you, at the salad you’re slowly picking your way through, and then looks back down at his plate. “Hey, you want some of my chips? I wasn’t gonna eat all of them.”
Your heart flutters—he always offers you some of his chips.
“Maybe not today,” you say.
“You sure?” He narrows his eyes. “You look—hmm? Did something happen at work today? Or do you have a stomach ache?”
“I’m fine,” you say. “Just not all that hungry.” This was true. “One of the girls brought in cookies, and I ate too many.” This was not.
“Oh, okay.” He grabs a chip and chews on it. “Oh, as I was saying earlier, I’ve been thinking of asking Zoom out, what do you think?”
[CHOICE]
>You haven’t asked him, don’t know if he’s interested, and want him to be happy (hero) >Sabotage the budding relationship quick. If you can’t have him, nopony can (villain)
[CHOICE A: Hero] You feel like you’re talking outside of yourself, like your emotions and your voice have completely disconnected. “That sounds great.”
“I don’t know if she’d be interested,” he admits. “She doesn’t always have the best opinion of me.”
“You’ve got nothing to lose by trying,” you assure him. You’ve reached a decision—if nothing else, you want Thunder to be happy, and you’re still his friend, so you’re going to help him. “I think if you show up to all the training and work your hardest, she’ll see that and appreciate that. And maybe bring her something nice—does she like flowers?”
“To eat or to look at and sniff?”
“Both, I guess.”
“Hmm, she likes yellow flowers.”
“Yellow flowers.”
“Yeah, you know, the yellow ones with petals?”
“Oh, those. Dude, that’s like literally every flower.”
He sighs. “I know . . . I’ll know them when I see them, I just don’t know what they’re called.”
“Get her flowers,” you say, “and see where that goes.”
[CHOICE B: Villain] Now’s your chance to nip this in the bud. “I don’t want to rain on your parade, but it’s a terrible idea. Workplace romances never work out—she’s your supervisor, after all.”
His ears droop. “Yeah.”
“I know it seems like a good idea,” you tell him. “But you know better. Just like when you were pining for Pipp, all she was going to do was give you heartache in the end.”
“Well, she’s a princess. Zoom’s a guard, like me.”
“That’s another thing, you don’t want to date someone who has the same job as you. Literally the same job, there could be all sorts of complications at work. If you were really serious, you’d probably have to quit your job.”
“I don’t want to do that,” Thunder says. “I like my job.”
You nod. “There’s no way it would work out, and it would end with your heart broken and maybe Zoom being mean to you, making you work harder—you’ve complained about that a lot, you know.”
“I know.” He lowers his head and pokes at one of his remaining chips. It’s soggy now.
“I hate being ‘that pony,’ you tell him, “but trust me, you need to know before you do something you can’t take back.” You lean over the table. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll buy you an ice cream sundae, that’ll help get her off your mind, won’t it?”
His ears perk up and then droop again.
You hate to see him sad, but it’s for his own good.
Every year, beginning in the early spring, you start saving all your chores money and odd jobs money for a trip in the summer. Right after Winter Wrap-Up, you dig out your bit bank and start putting coins in it.
You’ve had it for years. It’s a clever clockwork and iron marvel that takes the coins one at a time and automatically drops them into its reservoir. Early in the year, each coin sounds hollow as it clangs to the bottom of the bank; later on they make a softer clunk as they land.
Shortly after you start saving money, you head down to the train station for a current timetable. Every year they expand the tracks further and the trains serve more exotic destinations. Last year, you’d gone all the way to Los Pegasus, and the year before that, Trottingham.
That trip hadn’t been entirely by train, since Trottingham was on an island.
It’s fun to look through the timetables, to get an idea where you could go, and then you can go to the library and research the location.
Judging by the rate at which tracks are being laid, it won’t be too long before the timetable is too large to understand. WIthout even comparing to last year’s options, there are entire new branches of the railroad that didn’t exist last Winter Wrap-Up.
One name keeps coming to mind—Mount Aris.
SIlverstream is cool, and every time she describes her homeland it sounds amazing, and completely different than anyplace a pony would live. Unlike Los Pegasus and Trottingham, which were different but also kind of the same.
The library doesn’t have much information. There are some sketches in an old book which predates the Storm King. You know enough Equestrian history to remember that Queen Novo used the Pearl of Transformation to turn all the hippogriffs into seaponies, and after the Storm King had been defeated, some of them had moved to land while others continued to live in the sea.
There’s no reason to look for another destination; now it’s just a matter of saving up your bits until the summer.
•••
You’ve packed a couple of books for the train ride—the first part of the journey is familiar, and not really worth watching the scenery. Not until the train starts heading south from Horseshoe Bay—at that point you’re in new territory. Plains, woodlands, a jungle, and then a long stretch of desert, the longest you’ve ever traveled through.
You watch the sun set over the distant dunes, and as the moon rises the temperature drops to more bearable levels.
Morning finds you still in the desert, but now it’s not as barren—there are scrub brushes and even occasional stunted trees poking up above the sand. As you continue southbound, the plants reestablish themselves as you creep up into a mountain pass.
The train finally finds itself along a rocky outcropping, the ocean to your west. You know you’re getting close as the train starts island-hopping. Mount Aris is technically an island, but there are enough shallow, rocky waters near it that a railroad bridge could be constructed.
•••
By the time you arrive at Mount Aris, what had been an almost exclusively pony train is now mostly hippogriffs—they’d boarded at previous stops.
You clear the station platform before you start gawking around at the mountain, at the architecture, and most of all at a village of hippogriffs. You can already see changes that have been made for visitors—a couple buildings have stairs leading up to an entrance several floors up. There’d be no reason to build them otherwise.
“Hey!”
You turn your head to see a white hippogriff with a cyan and turquoise mane. He’s wearing a familiar-looking necklace.
“I’m Terramar—Silverstream said you were coming.”
“She did?” She hadn’t said anything to you.
He nodded. “Wrote me a postcard and told me to show you around.”
Huh. That was an opportunity you hadn’t expected. You usually went around on your own, or sometimes booked a tour with a local group. “She never mentioned anything to me about that.”
Your senses are on high alert. Some cities, unfortunately, have scammers who prey on tourists. While you’ve got some street sense, you certainly can’t blend in to a city filled with hippogriffs. Sure, you do actually know Silverstream, but that could be a lucky guess on his part. How many hippogriffs are there in Equestria proper, anyway?
Still, she’s the kind of girl to get enthusiastic about somepony visiting her homeland, and to tell her brother about it (if he really is her brother). Train service isn’t frequent, you had told her when you were intending to leave, so it’s not impossible that he’d be there waiting for you.
You decide to stay wary until he proves himself one way or another.
“Do you have a room? Do you want something to eat?”
“Yes and yes.” Train food wasn’t the best, although you had to give them credit where it was due: preparing a proper meal in the confines of a moving railcar couldn’t be easy.
“Do you want to drop off your luggage, or—”
“I think there are restaurants and food stalls on the way to the hotel, aren’t there?”
Terramar nodded. “Maybe nothing that you would like, though. Silverstream says that ponies don’t like seafood.”
“It’s not something I’m used to,” you admit. “But the point of travel is to try new things. As long as it isn’t spicy.”
“I don’t think we have any spicy foods,” Terramar says.
“That’s a relief.” Los Pegasus did and not all the stores warned a pony what was in their food. They did at the hotel, but some of the smaller restaurants took the attitude of ‘if you don’t like hot food you shouldn’t eat here.’
Terramar leads you to a small food stand not that far away from the train station. It’s got some seats and tables scattered around outside, many of them made from improvised or scavenged materials—smooth rocks, tables using bleached driftwood for legs.
“Fish is an acquired taste,” Terramar tells you. “Or so Silverstream has told me. They sell noodle soup here.” He points to the menu. “Any of those would be good.”
You study the menu. The prices are reasonable, you do love noodles and soup. “What’s a Fatali pepper?”
“It’s a little red pepper,” he says. “There’s a lot of them in the noodles, they’ve got a really nice color and flavor.” He nods to the cook, who opens the lid on a pot and lets you look at the soup.
They are colorful, and the soup smells fantastic, even if it makes your nose tingly. That’s surely from the steam. “I’ll try that.”
The cook ladles out two bowls for you, and you take your place on a rock. You’re still a little skeptical of this Terramar character, but he seems like he can be trusted.
“You’re sure it’s not spicy?” Your nose is still tingling.
He shrugs and takes a spoonful, swallows it down like it’s nothing.
You do the same, and the soup is as delicious as promised, but just as you reach for your second spoonful, a burning sensation starts on your tongue and then rapidly works its way down to your throat.
You can feel your skin flushing and too late realize that this is the spiciest thing you’ve ever eaten. As your eyes blur with tears, you see Terramar looking at you intently.
[CHOICE]
>You were wrong to trust him (chaos) >He made an innocent mistake (hero)
[CHOICE A: Chaos] “I knew it!” You can barely talk through the burning. You swipe the noodle soup off the table, covering him with it.
You grab for your bags and start galloping for the hotel. You already know the glass of water you left on the table won’t provide any relief and no matter what you don’t want to be around him when you’re vulnerable.
“I didn’t know,” he protests, licking his beak clean. A moment later, he’s flying alongside you. “It’s just soup, it’s not too hot and it’s not spicy at all, Silverstream said ponies liked noodles and soup. Let me help.”
“No!” Tears are already streaming down your face and it’s getting harder to breathe. You know this will pass, but you’re going to be in pain for a while. “Go away! I never want to see you again!”
You push your way into the lobby and slam the doors shut in his face.
[CHOICE B: Hero] “Milk,” you stammer out. “Or something.” You paw at your tongue and slam back the glass of water you have—it won’t do much, but it at least gives you a moment of relief.
Terramar takes flight, and you see him vanish inside a restaurant just down the block.
As the burning comes back, you take his glass and down it, too. Slowly, stretching out the minimal relief it provides as long as you can.
The chef comes out from around his counter with another glass of water and sets it down in front of you. “Are you okay?”
“Hot,” you say. You can feel sweat pouring down your forehead. “Spicy.”
He takes your spoon, samples your soup. “Tastes fine, everygriff likes it.”
Just then, Terramar lands and sets a milkshake on the table in front of you. You greedily suck at the straw, letting the cool relief of the ice cream and the magical properties of the milk do their work.
You should have remembered that birds can’t taste spice.
So far, it’s been an unusually boring night. Some have said that the city sleeps at night, but in your experience, that’s not true at all. It slumbers, perhaps, and it’s a fitful slumber at that.
It’s certainly a different place at night. Especially tonight—the rain started around sundown, a spectacular thunderstorm followed by a steady rain. Maybe that’s why it’s calm, maybe the usual suspects have all crawled back into their holes to wait out the night.
It’s not just that you aren’t getting calls, nobody is. You tap the radio, which has largely remained silent during the shift. It crackles once—distant thunder, or a response to the touch? You don’t know.
It’s tempting to pick up the mic and call dispatch to make sure they’re still there. But you don’t; quiet shifts are to be enjoyed. You’ve got a Styrofoam cup of coffee that’s still lukewarm and the crossword puzzle that still needs solving, and if things get too boring you can cruise through some of the usual haunts and watch the seedy underbelly of society hide itself in the shadows.
That’s too much effort, so you take a sip of your coffee and watch out the windshield as the city blurs in raindrops, then comes back into focus as the wiper sweep across.
Calm nights are good nights and should be treasured.
Radio twenty-seven, proceed to Miller’s Tool and Die for 10-76.
Ten-four.
The radio falls silent again. You take another sip of your coffee and shift around on your seat.
Just idling is boring. You empty the coffee cup and toss it out the window, then shift into gear and move out into the street, your ear tuned to the radio.
Traffic is light, and pedestrian traffic is nearly non-existent. A few hardy souls haunt the sidewalks, shift workers hurrying home and the last call stragglers from bars. All too busy avoiding the rain to be causing trouble. You keep an eye out for familiar faces.
Twenty-seven is 10-23. You turn your attention to the radio, picking up a mental map of the city. You know where Miller’s Tool and Die is, and at the next block make the turn, goosing the throttle on your Dodge Diplomat. It doesn't sound like the kind of call where you’ll be needed, but there’s nothing else going on.
The yellow flashing lights of idle traffic signals glimmer in the rain, reflecting on the rain-slicked pavement.
Twenty-seven to radio.
Go ahead.
10-52 to my location, and, uh, you got a sarge that isn’t busy?
You’re already reaching for the mic as your unit number crackles over the airwaves.
“Fifteen, radio—enroute, 10-17 to Miller’s Tool and Die.” You let go of the transmit button long enough for a reply, but none is forthcoming.
Twenty-seven to fifteen, code two please—what’s your 26?
You flip the rotator on and key the mic. “Ten minutes.”
•••
You make it in eight and nose in behind unit 27. Everything looks calm enough. The patrol officer is standing by his car, dragging on a cigarette. He drops it as you open your door and grinds it under his toe.
“What’s the story?” You keep your voice low. This place has been hit before and it should have been a routine call, but then he called for a supervisor.
“Metal thieves, security got one.”
“Got one.” That leaves a lot open to interpretation. “You called for an ambulance.”
“He’s unconscious.”
“Security?”
“She says. Saw him on the cameras, wasn’t moving much. Didn’t want to check without backup.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Nervous?”
“Not of him, I could recognize him on the screen, even if he was moving around I could deal with him.”
“Security’s a she?”
“Yeah.” He reached for his packet of smokes and pulled another one out. “One of them equines, but not like you’ve ever seen. Didn’t get a good look at her.”
“Why not?”
“She . . . you’ll figure it out.” He took a drag on his cigarette and tilted his head towards the storage lot. “Go on, I’ll direct the EMTs when they arrive.”
You frown. The city’s famously a melting pot, now for more than just humans. Ponies don’t tend to be troublemakers, and they mostly go to ground at night. Cute, pastel, the exact opposite of what you’d consider if you wanted to hire an overnight guard.
•••
The guard shack is only illuminated by the faint glow of television screens. Even the wall-mounted luminaire is dark.
The door is open and you step in.
You’ve seen a lot of stuff on the job, but you still take a step back at the shadow-shape silhouetted in the phosphor glow. Pony-sized, from what you can see. Tufted ears, dark grey fur, and you catch a glimpse of wings and a claw as she turns to face you.
There’s a glint of light off her teeth and you can clearly see the glint of fangs. She’s an anti-pony if ever there was one.
Her eyes glow in the darklight, and the rotating beacons from your car and car 27 paint her in an ever-changing red light, fooling you for a moment into believing she’s covered in blood.
You reach around for the light switch and then you find it. With a satisfying click, everything comes into focus, all the dark shadows vanish—and she covers her eyes with a foreleg. “TURN IT OFF,” she shouts.
Without even thinking, you snap the switch back down.
“Stupid light-lovers,” she mutters.
You’ve lost all your night vision, but the televisions are bright enough to see her as she slides out of her chair and moves in your direction. Unbidden, your hand slides down to your holster, unsnaps the strap above your revolver. “Stay where you are,” you caution.
“Or what.” She reaches out a hoof and you watch in wonder as she snags a Del Monte can off the counter, brings it up to her mouth, and pierces the lid with a fang. “I already told your buddy what happened.”
You cross your arms. “And now you’ll tell me. First off, what’s your name?”
“Darknight Moonwing,” she says. “I’m a batpony, and nighttime security.”
“So what happened, Miss Moonwing?”
She tips the can back and drinks some of the nectar. “I was watching the monitors like I always do, and I saw somebody park alongside the back fence, near where the aluminum’s stored. Figured he might try and steal some, he was kind of twitchy.
“I stayed at my post until I saw him climbing the fence, and then I left the guard shed and watched him. As soon as he picked up an ingot, I dove at him.”
“Dove at him?”
“Yeah, from the top of one of the buildings.’
“So, how come he’s knocked out?”
Darknight Moonwing lifts up a hoof and wags it. “‘Cause I hit him.”
“Hey, Chief?” The patrol officer sticks his head around the corner of the building. “Can I have a word real quick?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Stay there,” you instruct the security guard.
The two of you quickly get each other up to speed on what she said, and how much it comported with what the patrol officer had seen. Then you lean back into the office.
Darknight has peeled back the lid of the can and is spearing mango slices with a folding knife.
“So here’s what’s gonna happen,” you begin.
[CHOICE]
>“We can’t have you just KOing anybody in the lot, so you’re going to be charged with aggravated assault.” (Villain) >”That scumbag has a rap sheet a mile long and outstanding warrants. Keep up the good work.” (Chaos)
[CHOICE A: Villain] “Did he attack you or threaten you in any way before you knocked him out?”
“No, he was stealing ingots.”
“Why wasn’t there one next to him? Or in his truck?”
“I put them back where they belong,” she said.
You sigh, already knowing you’re going to have to do a lot of paperwork. “You can’t just go around KOing anybody,” you explain. “Maybe that’s how it’s done back in Ponyland, I don’t know, but over here we have a process. Dive-bombing trespassers isn’t in that process. I’m taking you in for aggravated assault.”
[CHOICE: Chaos] “Have you seen that guy before?”
She shook her head. “Seen plenty like him, though. I was going to drag him back to his truck but he was too heavy to carry over the fence, that’s why I called you.”
“He’s got a long rap sheet . . . Mr. Durkin is well-known to us.” You eye her up and down; she doesn’t look like much of an opponent, but she’d clearly cold-cocked the suspect. One massive lump in the back of his skull and it was lights out.
You’re not sure about whether or not she’s supposed to be confronting small-time thieves; most night watchmen just call for the cops and a unit shows up when there are no other pressing matters.
“What would you have done if he had a weapon?”
“He never even knew I was there,” she says. “And he did.” She points to the knife she was using to eat her mangos. “I took it from him.”
You nod. “Keep up the good work.” You pull the door to the guard shed shut and get back in your patrol car.
You’d always wanted to be a mechanic—when you were a kid, you’d dreamed of building your own hot rod. You’d read magazines and looked at pictures and haunted forums on the internet, and you’d gotten a job just out of high school as a mechanic, a stepping stone to your goal.
That hadn’t turned out like you’d hoped; you got to sweep the floors and take out trash and do oil changes and tires, and you got to watch the real mechanics at work. Occasionally, they’d drop you a pearl of wisdom.
You also spent too much on the tool truck—low low payments for a long long time . . . you’d quit after a year but the tool payments hadn’t. At least you were well-equipped to fix your Kia.
Since your experience was in the automotive field, a lateral shift to a parts supplier was a logical step, and that did give you a leg up on your co-workers. Some of them had just gone into the job with no relevant experience, which gave you a clear advantage, and you’d quickly made it to the top of sales, until Kat Korat got promoted from the warehouse.
You can only assume she was a diversity hire. Bob, who sits one desk to your left, doesn’t know how to change his own oil. He takes his car to the speedy lube whenever the dashboard tells him he needs an oil change, but at least he grew up around cars.
Miss Korat—real name Sunbeam—didn’t. She’s an Equestrian unicorn, and from what you’ve learned, grew up in a world where riding a stagecoach was the pinnacle of personal transportation.
It wouldn’t bother you so much, except her clients seem to love her. They don’t know she’s not human, they don’t know that she’d never gotten grease under her fingernails until she started working here—bad analogy, she doesn't have fingernails.
If she had to struggle to fit in the human world, you might have felt pangs of sympathy. But she doesn’t; her horn guarantees that. She can use it like a hand or two . . . or three or more, you have no idea what the limit is. Watching her sit at her desk with a phone to her ear and the keyboard clacking away and a coffee cup moving in while her rapid-fire keyboard inputs don’t slow . . . and then to add insult to injury, she picks up a sales flier and starts flipping through it. “You didn’t get a copy of the latest flier? I’ll send it out with our driver, there’s a big sale on filters especially if you order by the case, and you can get entered in a raffle to win a branded cooler.” She hovers the catalog in front of her face. “Just FRAM filters, any other brand doesn’t count, but we do have a sale on Hastings if you like them better.” She chuckles. “No, you can’t win a cooler with Hastings filters.”
Like she even knows where an oil filter goes, or could change one. Well, she probably could; her magic field is strong. She came up from the warehouse and sometimes covers when they’re short-staffed, and you’ve watched her trot along with a stack of brake rotors wavering in her field. Dangerous stuff.
Complaints to management have gone nowhere; they’re all beguiled by her.
The phone rings and you snatch it up before she gets the chance. “Tonawanda Auto and Truck, this is—no, Kat’s on another line right now. I can take your order.”
“I’ll hold,” the voice on the other end says. You grit your teeth and hit the button on the telephone.
“Call on line three, Kat.”
She nods and sets the flier back down. “Hey, gotta go, got another incoming call.” A pause, and then, “Okay, thanks, I appreciate it.” She taps at her keyboard again, then shifts her focus to the new call. “Tonawanda Auto and Truck, this is Kat. How—Ray! How are you doing! What have you got for me today? Is it some classic that’s gonna make me work hard?”
You’re the voiceless interface between shops and their parts, the few who remain to answer the phone when the internet catalog isn’t good enough and one day you’re going to be replaced by AI and a robotic parts-picker and maybe a drone for delivery—nobody is safe.
Your phone rings.
“Tonawanda Auto and Truck, this is—”
“Kat, please.” The voice on the other end of the line is gruff, and you’ve just about reached your breaking point.
[CHOICE]
>put him on hold (hero) >hang up (chaos) >tell him Kat’s real name. (villain)
[CHOICE A:Hero] “She’s on the other line,” you say.
“This is Franco’s, we’ve got a pizza for her.”
“One sec.” You don’t even hit the hold button, just hold your hand over the mouthpiece. “Hey, Kat, your pizza’s here.”
“Ooh, could you get that for me?” She turns her attention back to the phone. “Hey, Ray, hold on a sec, I have to sort out my lunch.” Kat taps the mute button on her phone. “And grab yourself a slice or two, I can’t eat the whole thing myself.”
They say that pizza’s a unifying food. She doesn't have to share. You slide your chair back. Since she’s started, call volumes have gone up, sales targets have been hit month after month, and pizzas have just been rolling in. She’s always friendly and happy and cheers you up on the worst days.
It is kind of insulting that she’s become the defacto voice of the business, but it’s working. And she’s not some prima donna, huddling at her desk. It’s easy to think the worst of her, but she’s a hard worker and gives her all every day.
She’s a fast learner and thinks of new ways to get customers the part they want—and that’s benefitted you, too; whether it’s naming parts you didn’t know you stocked, or suggesting another way to get the customer the part they need.
You grab a slice of pizza and take a bite, then set the rest of the pizza on her desk, wondering where your thoughts from before had come from anyway. You’d just been hangry, and like the commercial said, you’re not you when you’re hangry.
[CHOICE B: Chaos] “Yeah, hold on.” You don’t hit the hold button, you just replace the handset in the cradle. They’ll call back if it’s important.
A new line lights up instantly—you pick it back up. “Tonawanda Auto and Truck, how can I help?”
“This is Mark from 3M auto, looking for an alternator for a Buick Lucerne.”
You jot down the info, hesitating as another incoming call arrives. “Hold on one sec.” You tap the button. “Tonawanda Auto and Truck.” You glance over at Kat, who’s still busy with her call. It’s the same number that called before.
You pick up the handset and just replace it in the cradle, cutting off the call. If they want to talk to Kat, they can—when she’s off the line. You’re not her receptionist.
You disconnect the call and switch back to Mark’s line. He’s a good customer who prefers you to Kat, doesn’t like waiting, and buys a lot of stuff.
[CHOICE C: Villain]
She got hired under a fake name, since she knew nobody would take her seriously if they knew she was a unicorn. Most of the dealers and repair shops who call don’t know . . . “Kat?”
“Yeah, Kat.”
“You mean Sunbeam?” Your voice is harsh. “Sunbeam the unicorn?”
“I don’t want a unicorn, I want Kat. Kat Korat.”
You feel positively giddy. “They’re one and the same. She’s lying to you, and her name is a clever pun—look it up. She’s a unicorn with hooves and a horn and a tail and a mane.”
You can feel the tonal shift. “What kind of woke operation are you running over there?”
“Hiring her wasn’t my idea,” you say. “You know how it is. Now, what can I help you find?”
There’s no better way to spend a summer evening than at a pool party. A chance to swim, to sunbathe, to socialize, or to eat snacks. Most people have made their decisions, yourself included—you’ve got a perfect spot on a chaise lounge, half a bottle of soda and a few chips left over.
You might or might not go in the pool later—you haven’t decided just yet. Right now it’s mostly full of boys, roughhousing and being unruly. A couple of girls are clustered up against the side, and Rainbow Dash’s out there with the rest of the boys.
As you’d expect.
Sonata walks by and sits down next to you. She’s got a sack of tacos—takeout. How the hey does she keep her figure when she eats so many tacos?
“You want one?”
You pull your sunglasses down. The question wasn’t addressed to you; Aria reaches over and grabs one out of the paper sack. “Where’s you get these?”
“Taco truck down the street.”
“Really? We didn’t pass it on the way in.”
“No, it just arrived a few minutes ago.” She bites down on a taco.
“I swear, you can smell those things from a mile away.” Aria starts picking taco filling out and eating it.
Sonata shrugs and turns her attention back to her taco.
It smells delicious, and you’re considering the advantages of heading down the street to get a taco or two for yourself. Junk food’s good, but not really filling at all.
“What’s up with those two?” Aria says around a mouthful of taco.
You follow her pointing finger. Snips and Snails are over in a corner, talking. Snails has a swimsuit on but you haven’t seen him in the pool yet. Snips doesn’t, he’s wearing shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.
“I dunno.” Sonata is more interested in her taco.
“Looks like a pair of total losers. Who invited them anyway?”
You frown. They might be total losers, but there wouldn’t be a pool party without Snips—it’s his house.
Well, technically his parents’, but the point still stands.
“Ought to throw the fat one in the pool.”
“You do that.”
Aria stands up, takes a couple steps, and notices that Sonata isn’t making any move to join her. “Well?”
“I’ve got tacos.”
Aria looks at you.
You sigh. She’s one of the cool girls, and part of the reason for accepting the invitation in the first place was to hang out with the cool people.
Not everyone was invited by Snips or Snails, you’re sure of that. Things had spiraled, as they often did; friends of friends, people who heard about the party and just crashed it.
You, at least, had been invited. You’re not so sure about those two.
[CHOICE]
>No way, it’s his house. Do you even have an invitation? (Hero) >Sure, it’ll be hilarious. (Chaos)
[CHOICE A: Hero] “Why?”
Aria frowns and looks at you. “Why?”
“Why throw Snips in the pool? What’s in it for you?”
“It’s funny—he needs to lighten up, play with the rest of the boys.” She jerks her thumb towards the pool. “Not just stuff his face.”
Ironic, given that she just finished eating a taco. “It’s his house and his party, he can do what he wants.”
“You are such a loser.” Aria crosses her arms and glares at you. You respond by pushing your shades back up. “Fine, I’ll do it myself.”
“Not a good idea,” you warn her. “He’s stronger than he looks.”
“Pfft,whatever.”
One Minute Later
You watched with interest as Aria lured Snips away from his corner and towards the pool, and then when she’d decided he was close enough, grabbed at him in an attempt to drag him into the pool.
You knew something that Aria clearly didn’t: Snips had lettered in wrestling twice—Varsity and J.V. Aria didn’t stand a chance; her attempt to pull him into the pool was doomed to failure from the start. He dropped his stance, twisted out of her hold, and rolled her off his back straight into the water.
He strutted back to his corner with a ‘heroes never look back’ swagger, and then settled in against the wall, resuming his conversation with Snails as if he’d never been interrupted.
[CHOICE B: Chaos]
Still, Snips and Snails are kinda losers. Last you knew they were both simping for Trixie—who you’re sure was invited, but didn’t show up.
You might not be invited to the next one . . . whatever, you’ll be doing cool stuff with the cool girls. “What’s the plan?”
“We each grab a side, toss him in. Easy peasy.”
“Sneaky?”
“Why bother, he’ll never see it coming.”
“We could pretend we were getting more snacks,” you point to the table. “And then strike.”
“I like it.” Aria grabbed her plate and you grabbed yours and the two of you made your way over to the snack table.
He was so engrossed in his conversation with Snips he never saw you coming. He was heavy, but being blindsided worked to your advantage, and you had him to the edge of the pool before he realized what was about to happen.
Your toss wasn’t exactly coordinated, and he grabbed out—Aria twisted away but he got you and dragged you in with him. Whatever, you were wearing a swimsuit.
And then it all went wrong. Snips reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone, water pouring out of it. He slammed it on the pool deck and came out of the water like an angry bull. You thought he was going to grab Aria and toss her in; instead, he cold-cocked her. She dropped like a sack of bricks.
After that, things went downhill fast—Sonata got flung into the pool and then the brawl started in earnest.
On a sunny afternoon, Ponyville’s outdoor market is the place to be. Not just for buying the freshest foods, but for meeting old friends and making new ones. Everypony crowded around, checking out the booths and what they have to offer, or gathering in little clusters outside the most highly-trafficked areas in order to catch up with an old friend or to gossip.
You’re with a cluster of your friends when you spot a pony you’ve never seen before. Well, not exactly a pony; she’s a kirin, standing a full head taller than everypony else.
She’s not the first kirin you’ve seen, but she’s the biggest. And as she turns her head in your general direction, you see the sunlight glint off her tiara. She’s not just any kirin, she’s their leader. Queen Rain Shine.
What she’s doing in Ponyville is beyond your understanding, but that doesn’t really matter. She’s famous! You need to meet her, and what better place than an outdoor market?
You glance back at your friends and debate whether or not you should mention spotting her. They haven’t, not yet.
But they will, and who knows, maybe one of them has an in with her. You know Applejack and Fluttershy are good friends with Autumn Blaze. What if you just hung out near the Sweet Apple Acres booth? Rain Shine might make her way over there.
But first. “Guys, that’s Rain Shine.”
“What?”
“Where?”
“Who?”
“Rain Shine, queen of the kirin,” you say, pointing a hoof in her direction. “Here in Ponyville!”
“Are you sure?”
“Her mane isn’t blowing in a nonexistant breeze, can she really be a queen?”
“She’s tall.”
“Might just be Prench.”
“Or Saddle Arabian.”
“Oh for Celestia’s sake.” Your friends are weird. “I wanna go meet her.”
“Go ahead, I’ve got to get back to shopping anyway. These saddlebags won’t fill themselves.”
You say your goodbyes—for now—and split up, stepping back into the hustle and bustle of the market. Your saddlebags won’t fill themselves, either, but right now you’ve got other priorities. What’s the fastest way across the market which will get you from here to where she will be by the time you get there? And when you do, what are you going to say?
“Hey.”
You snap your head around to spot a familiar face. Hayseed Turnip Truck, one of Applejack’s distant cousins. He’s wearing a dirty green bill cap and a stained t-shirt, sitting at a booth piled high with fat turnips. “You wanna buy some turnips?”
He’s not from Ponyville, he’s an outsider who sometimes comes to market. You vaguely remember him being from Seven Top or something like that, a little village up the rail line a ways. Famous for turnips and not much else.
You’ve stood rooted in spot for long enough that he turns his attention to another pony who’s passing by, and she comes over and starts studying his wares.
For a moment, you spot Rain Shine across the green, and then she’s lost again in a cluster of nearby ponies.
“You okay?”
You turn your head back around. Hayseed’s completed his transaction, his customer departing with a cloth bag full of turnips held in her mouth.
“You look lost. First time at market?”
He’s got scraggly, buck teeth—he needs to clean up, get a dentist to give him a proper floating and maybe braces to straighten them out, too. Not really presentable. Maybe market day isn’t a reason to get dressed in finery, but it certainly is an occasion where one should be well-groomed.
You plaster a pleasant smile on your face and answer his question.
CHOICE
>I could ask you the same. Do you know what a bath is? (villain) >Sorry, I was distracted by Rain Shine, Queen of the Kirin. Tell me about your turnips (hero)
[CHOICE A: Villain] “I could ask you the same,” you reply. “Do—” and then you stop, because that last part is just a little too cruel.
“Couple of times a year,” he says, genial enough. He might be an ugly stallion, but he’s a polite one. “Turnips make good eating, you know. Soup especially. And they keep just about forever, so you don’t have to worry about them wilting or spoiling in a week or two, or losing their flavor. They’re loaded with magnesium, phosphorus, and potassium.”
“I hate them,” you tell him. “They don’t have any flavor and they’re too chewy.”
“Well, maybe you ain’t cooking them right.” He reaches under his stand and pulls out a notebook. “I sell a turnip cookbook.”
He puts it on the counter and opens it. It’s not professionally printed at all; in fact, it’s all mouthwriting. Not very good mouthwriting, either. With teeth like those, it’s no wonder.
“Absolutely not.”
“Alright.” He grabs the notebook in his mouth and puts it back under the stand. “Well, thank you for stopping by. Have a good day at market.”
“You too,” you say absently and head off in the direction where you last spotted Rain Shine.
•••
An hour later, and you’re beginning to wonder if she left the market, or if you’d somehow imagined seeing her. You’ve made two circuits of the market already and haven’t seen her in at least a half hour, maybe longer.
And then, just as you’re passing near Hayseed’s booth, the crowd parts and you spot her again—she’s sitting behind Hayseed’s counter, and the two of them are chatting like old friends.
[CHOICE B: Hero]
Hayseed’s not the most presentable of ponies, but his turnips are fantastic. He certainly puts more attention into them than he does his own personal grooming, and you can respect that. Plus he’s a kind, polite, earnest pony.
“Sorry, I was distracted by Rain Shine, Queen of the kirin.”
His ears perk up. “She’s here?”
“Coming from the direction of the train station,” you say.
“‘Scuse me.” He plants one forehoof on his stand, sticks a hoof to his mouth, and lets out an ear-pinning whistle. “Sorry,” he says as he drops back down. “Just she don’t know where my booth is.”
“You know her?”
“Oh, sure do. Last year the two of us walked all the way from Seven Top to Ponyville when she got off at the wrong station.’ He chuckled. “I didn’t know she was royalty right then, just a pony in need.”
“Really?” This market day just got a lot more interesting.
“Yeah, even saved my life when we got attacked by timberwolves. Thought I was a goner for sure.”
“Pardon me.” You hear a gentle, regal feminine voice right behind you and above you and instinctively step back and to the side. Queen Rain Shine is standing right next to you.
“Am I interrupting your business?” she asks, looking down at you.
You don’t reply; for the moment you’ve forgotten how to form words.
“Oh, no, we was just chatting,” Hayseed says. “I was talking about how you saved me from them timberwolves.”
“You would have done the same,” she says, picking up a turnip with her magic and then biting into it like an apple.
“I can’t burst into flames.” Hayseed looks over at you, and you plunk a bit coin down on the counter, pick up a turnip, and take a bite. “So there we was,” he begins. “Snow up to here, trudging along the path, and out of the woods. . .”
•••
An hour later, you’re still at the booth, the three of you chatting like long-lost friends. It is now officially the most interesting market day ever.
The public job board was located near the rotunda—Cherry Jumble had been around long enough to remember when it was only for public notices. Mayor Mare had decided that asking for day laborers was a public notice, plus it drew more ponies to the board to read the meeting minutes and missives from on high.
Indeed, she skimmed the board as she searched for a spot to hang her flier. There were no new town rules Cherry Jumble needed to concern herself with, and the ratio of ponies looking for temporary work and ponies needing temporary work was well-balanced.
Cherry Jumble decided to tack her flier over Tealove’s Tea Appreciation Tea Party notice—that party had been last week, and she hadn’t bothered to remove her flier. Some ponies didn’t.
That complicated things for everypony else. Cherry Jumble always made sure to remove hers when the job was fulfilled.
She took one last look at the board and then trotted back home. It was kind of stressful not knowing if somepony would read the ad and want to come and work, or if she’d be working alone.
•••
The entire kitchen and dining room—and living room—were filled with supplies; jars and lids and every pot she owned or could borrow. A large part of her yearly profits would be made over the next few days, and assistance was welcome.
Cherry Jumble couldn’t sit around and wait for somepony to arrive, she needed to start making preserves right away, when the cherry harvest was at its best. She started loading logs into her work stove, a cast iron monstrosity she’d bought cheap from the hospital when they upgraded to a newer one. She tossed a few logs in and set the dampers, then started arranging pots on it.
Most of the year, this stove served as extra counter space. It was too much to just cook for herself.
And that left her with her other stove to start making the jam.
She started putting the ingredients for her first batch together and then frowned as she noticed a familiar shadow crossing in front of her living room window. Sam, Ponyville’s resident monster, was walking down her street.
She’s usually at the miller’s, Cherry thought, and then an awful realization hit. Sam was looking for a job.
Cherry viewed herself as a progressive mare. Unlike some, she hadn’t freaked out when Twilight arrived, bringing a baby dragon with her. She’d never feared Zecora like some ponies had, and she’d thought that as long as Sam stayed in the Everfree forest—and later, Ginger’s woodlot—there was nothing to worry about. Now she lived in a house on the other side of town and that was probably okay, although a lot of ponies grumbled about it. Sometimes she went to market with Teff and Einkorn, a pair of stallions who also worked part-time for the miller.
She was a progressive mare, she wasn’t going to scream and gallop off when she saw Sam on the street, but as she heard a knock on her door, she frantically tried to decide what to do.
CHOICE
>hire her, everypony says she’s a good worker (hero) >tell her you’re not inviting a monster into your house (villain) >pretend not to be home until she leaves. (chaos)
[CHOICE A: Hero]
It was an unexpected situation, but Sam came looking for work and there was plenty of work. You’d heard talk from ponies who’d hired her before or knew somepony who had, and they all said she was a hard worker, a fast learner, and had very dexterous paws.
If she wasn’t a good worker, nopony would hire her a second time.
Cherry slid the pot to the very edge of the stove, just to make sure that it wouldn’t overheat and burn as she answered the door, then she trotted through the living room and the little foyer—really, more of a nook—and opened the front door.
“Hi, I’m Cherry Jumble,” she said. “And you’re Sam.”
Sam nodded.
“Have you ever made or canned cherry preserves before?”
“Not cherry specifically, but when I was a kid I helped my grandma set down preserves.”
Cherry Jumble grinned. A lot of ponies had never done it and had to be taught; having someone with experience helping would make the job go a lot faster.
“Come on in and I’ll show you what you need to do.”
[CHOICE B: Villain] Maybe if it was an outside job, it would be okay. Something not delicate, something like chopping wood like Sam did for Ginger Gold.
Plus, she couldn’t invite just anypony into your house. Especially somepony who was maybe a monster and stuck up as well—Sam wore clothes everywhere, like some sort of Canterlot unicorn with noble airs.
She slid the pot to the edge of her stove, to make sure it wouldn’t burn, then went through her living room and pulled open the door.
“Hi, I’m Sam,” she said, sticking out a paw.
“I know,” Cherry Jumble replied bluntly. “I’ve seen you around town, working in the woodlot and at the miller’s. I—” she hesitated, trying to think about the best way to say what was on her mind. “This isn’t really the kind of task you’d be good at, it’s not exactly a physical labor job.”
“Your ad said making preserves.”
“Yeah, exactly, and I wanted help more in the cooking and less in the carrying around jars and pans.”
“But I can—”
“I’m sorry, i should have been more specific in my ad, but you’re just not who I want helping.” Cherry wrinkled her muzzle. “You could try Honey Dipper, she’s always looking for somepony to help her.”
Cherry pushed the door shut before Sam could offer another protest and trotted back to the kitchen, where her first batch was starting to burn.
She sighed. Some days were not good days.
[CHOICE C: Chaos] There was no way that she could let Sam into her house, let her touch her work. That was the kind of thing earth ponies were good at, and only earth ponies. Unicorns would curdle the preserves with their magic, pegasi and stoves didn’t mix at all and who knew what a monster might do?
But she was a progressive mare who didn’t hate Sam and didn’t begrudge her trying to make a living working odd jobs and it was rude to tell a pony directly that you didn’t want them to help you when they came around and offered.
The solution was obvious—just pretend she wasn’t home until Sam gave up and left.
Cherry Jumble gritted her teeth as the knocking resumed. “Hello? Is anybody home? I saw your ad.”
She kept quiet, and left her post for a minute to close the curtains in the kitchen. Slowly, so the movement wouldn’t attract attention.
Just in time; she heard Sam speak again, practically outside the kitchen window. “Hey, excuse me, is this Cherry Jumble’s house?”
“Yes, why?” That was Tealove.
“She was advertising for help to set down preserves, but she’s not answering her door.”
“Huh, that’s weird. She’s usually home for days when she’s making preserves.”
Cherry Jumble’s ears turned as the voices moved to the edge of her property.
“Maybe she had to trot out and get more supplies,” Tealove suggested. “Tell you what, why don’t you sit on my front porch and have a nice cup of tea while you wait for her to come back.”
Every morning, you wait by the window, your gaze mostly on the road but occasionally on the clock.
Cornflower has told you that in Manehattan, ponies go to school on trams which are powered by leylines and magical fields and stuff, and that would be really convenient. Out here in Dodge Junction, you’ve got to hoof it every morning.
Which is why you’re waiting: there have been a few days where she’s been delayed and arrived at school late, but for the most part she goes by regular as clockwork, and the two of you can chat and catch up on your way to school.
You spot her approaching, and you slip on your backpack and go out the front door, meeting her at the road.
The two of you nuzzle, and then fall into step together.
“How’s your essay coming along?” you ask her.
She shrugs. “Almost done, I think I’ll have it nailed by the end of the week. How about you?”
“The same.” That’s not entirely true; it’s hardly begun, but you’ve always done your best work under pressure. At least you have a general idea where you’re going to go, and ‘fake it until you make it’ hasn’t failed you yet.
“I’ll be glad when it’s done,” Cornflower says. “Last one of the year, isn’t it?”
You nod. “Unless Miss Frost decides to assign another one.”
“She wouldn’t, would she?” Cornflower frowns. “I hate mouthwriting, it’s so dumb. I wish we had a typewriter.”
“We’ve got one, and you’re welcome to come over and use it,” you tell her.
“Really?”
“Yeah, Mom needs it for work but she does most of her work during the day, so it’d be okay.”
“You’re the best.” Cornflower nuzzles your cheek. “Hey, you ask anypony to prom yet?”
“Well . . . not exactly. I’ve been dropping a few pointed hints, sort of dipping my hoof in the water and seeing who’s interested. There’s a couple of mares who might be.”
“Raspberry isn’t one of them.”
You turn and look at her. “Really?”
She nods. “She said . . . well, never mind, I wasn’t supposed to overhear, she knows we’re friends. It wasn’t very nice.”
“Fine.” You snort. “See if I send her a birthday card next year. What about you?”
“Well . . . it’s the weirdest thing. Just on a whim, I asked Slate and he said yes.”
You stop in your tracks. “Slate?”
“Yeah.” Cornflower stops and turns.
“Doesn’t he have a marefriend?”
“Well, yeah.” Cornflower pauses as well, and turns to face you. “But he said she wasn’t going, wasn’t interested in it. I didn’t really mean to ask him specifically, it was sort of a friendly question. You know. ‘Hey, what are your plans for prom?’ And he told me that Toffee didn’t want to go but didn’t mind if somepony else went with him.”
[CHOICE]
>Tell Cornflower she’s being dumb (hero) >Wait for the fallout (chaos)
[CHOICE A: Hero] “Are you stupid?”
Cornflower’s eyes go wide.
“How many times have you complained about your stallionfriend doing something stupid?”
Cornflower shrugs.
“A lot. ‘Cause stallions are stupid and we both know if you’re vague with your wording at all, they take it in the worst way possible. You got a crush on Slate?”
“Well, he is cute.”
“You want to fight Toffee for him?”
“She said—”
“He said she said.” You stomp your hoof. “She probably said something like ‘I’m not going to prom and you can do whatever,’ and she meant hang out with the boys or something. Or else she’ll change her mind when she finds a dress she likes. She didn’t mean invite some other mare to prom. Maybe that’s what he thought she said, but that isn’t what she said.”
“I can’t tell him no, I already found a dress.”
“You can tell him no. Come stag.”
“I’m not coming stag; even if I don’t have a stallionfriend right now that feels desperate.”
“It’s prom, nopony will care.”
Cornflower rolls her eyes. “As if.”
“Fine.” You lean down and snatch a wildflower off its stem. “Come with me.”
“You?”
You nod.
“We’re friends, not—”
“We’re friends,” you insist, tossing the flower at her. “So I’m not gonna let you get into a kicking match with Toffee. Especially not at prom, where we’re all supposed to be having a fun time, not starting drama for no good reason.”
“Slate is kind of cute,” she protests.
“So am I, and I clean up real nice.”
“Ponies might get the wrong idea.”
“They might,” you admit. “But at least you won’t be going home with shoe bruises under your dress.”
[CHOICE B: Chaos] “Huh.” You’re friends, and even though you have a good idea this is going to turn out . . . interesting, you owe her one more chance to back out before the fun starts. “Never really pegged Toffee for the open relationships type.”
“Neither did I,” Cornflower says. “Always thought she was jealous and clingy, that’s why I was caught by surprise.”
“Yeah.”
“I am having second thoughts, though. Do you think she really meant it?”
No. “Well, she wouldn’t have said it otherwise, would she?”
“That’s a good point.”
“Stallions are dumb,” you remind her. “You’ve told me that more than once. Remember how . . . what’s his name, the last one you were dating—”
“He’s not worth remembering.” Cornflower sighs. “Only another moon and we’ll all be graduated and won’t have to see each other every day. You’re right—I get to go to prom and I have a dance partner . . . you’re gonna be there, too, right?”
For most ponies, spring and fall are the busiest times of the year. Crops need to be planted or harvested, and even if your own crops don’t need attention, somepony else’s do.
Planting and harvest seasons are times of camaraderie, ponies lending each other equipment or getting in harness in somepony else’s field. The first day is always the worst; ponies bump into each other or get harnesses tangled or trip on turns.
So far you’ve done all right. A few bumps here and there, but you’ve managed to stay on your hooves for the entire day.
You reek of mud and sweat and corn. A quick rinse off in the farm pond wasn’t enough to really do the job, but you’re too tired to care.
You had a few snacks with everypony else and then said your goodbyes, already anticipating walking back home alone.
Lavender Fritter also called an early night. She did go down once, and still has some mud caked on her belly and in her tail. She didn’t spend long enough in the pond.
“I’m beat.” She sticks out her tongue.
“Spend too much time lazing about in the summer?”
“I wish. No, Rosemary wasn’t pulling as hard as she usually does and I had to do extra work.”
You frown. It might be true, but most ponies do their best when they’re working the fields. Nopony benefits from slackers. You’ve never seen Rosmary slack off at a task; she jumps into things with all four hooves.
“Don’t blame her, she just got out of the hospital a couple days ago.”
“Really?” Your ears twitch. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Colic,” Lavender says. “That’s what Apple Leaves says anyway.”
“Probably shouldn’t have been in the field.”
“Yeah.” There’s a perception that when there’s work to be done, it should be done, no excuse. You know more than a few ponies who have worked when they shouldn’t—you’ve been guilty of it yourself.
“Would have been short-hooved if she wasn’t.”
Which would have put you behind on Sunglow’s cornfield, and that delay would have spilled over to Spring Snow’s field, and before too long some ponies would be petitioning the pegasi for a pause in the weather so they had more time to harvest.
Meanwhile, ponies whose crops hadn’t matured yet would complain if the rain didn’t come on schedule.
It was a dilemma every year. Sick ponies, injured ponies, broken equipment. You can’t help but notice that Apple Honey has her lanterns lit and her front door open; as you walk by her shop you see her bent over a corn binder, working on the chain.
Lavender noticed, too. “If she doesn’t get that fixed by tomorrow—”
“Yeah.” Every corn binder in Ponyville is currently in constant usage.
“Coming through!”
The two of you step to the side on pure instinct, getting out of the way of a farm wagon piled high with corn, enroute to the train station. It’s followed by a market wagon pulled by a colt, also loaded with corn.
“One more week.” Lavender sighs. “And then we’ll have a little bit of downtime before another cutting in the hayfields.”
“At least corn isn’t itchy.” The two of you stay off the road in case more wagons come by. “Did Cherry Berry and Comet Tail ever get their hay rake fixed?”
“I think so, I think they used it for first cut.”
“Oh yeah.” You remember seeing them out in the field with it.
The two of you arrive at an intersection in town and hesitate. Here’s where you part ways; Lavender’s farm is off to the left, while you’ll keep going straight.
You nuzzle, and then you watch as Lavender turns and starts to walk down the street. Only then do you notice that her gait’s off. Tiredness, or something else?
Probably tiredness. You’re not steady on your hooves, either. But you should say something.
“Lavender?”
She stops and turns her head back.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just . . . I lost a nail.”
“Let me see.”
“It’s fine, I lose them all the time.”
You’re already moving in her direction, and she stands in place until you get up next to her.
“Which hoof?” You can tell by the way she’s walking, but you want to make sure.
“Left hind.” She cocks her leg and you lean down to look.
You were tired, and her hooves were still muddy, but you still should have noticed. She’s lost two nails and her shoe’s loose. Even in the dim lamplight you can see that.
“I don’t have very good hooves,” she says. “Not the first time one’s come loose.”
“You’ll be lucky to still have it in the morning,” you say. “Really ought to stop by Shoeshine’s and have her fix it.”
“It’s late, and she’s been working her tail off getting ready for harvest season,” Lavender protests. “I’m not too worried about it.”
[CHOICE]
>Insist she goes to Shoeshine and gets it fixed now before it’s a big problem (hero) >Lavender knows her own hooves, it’s none of your business (chaos)
[CHOICE A: Hero] “You should be,” you tell her. “It’s loose now, you might lose it on the way home, and then what?”
“I’ve worked with a missing shoe before.”
You shake your head. “The way that thing looks, you’re gonna catch your toe on something and rip it the rest of the way out. Come on, we’re not far from Shoeshine’s and I bet she’s still up.”
“She’ll tell me that I need to take it easy for a couple of days.”
You nod. “She might. I bet Nurse Redheart told Rosemary to take it easy for a couple of days, too, and she was out in harness before she was ready. So instead of losing her completely for one or two days, we might have a week where she’s not pulling as well as she could.”
“All the more reason to see Shoeshine now.” You point a hoof down the road—it’s only a couple of blocks. “Don’t make me drag you down there by your tail.”
“You wouldn't dare.”
She sees the serious expression on your face. “Okay, fine.” She flicks her tail a couple times and then turns and starts to walk in the direction of Shoeshine’s shop, with you following along to make sure she doesn’t change her mind.
A few minutes later, the two of you are in her shop. Lavender’s got a hoof up on the stand, while Shoeshine examines it. She finally reaches a verdict, and grabs her bucket of tools and brings them over. “You came in just in time,” she says. “You’d have lost that shoe before you got home, and odds are it would have torn some of your hoof out with it. Right now, I can fix it easy, and you’ll be ready to work tomorrow—if you’d have lost it . . . with the hooves you’ve got, you’d be out for a full moon.”
[CHOICE B: Chaos] Everypony’s hooves are different, and you trust that Lavender knows her body better than you. If she says she’ll be fine, she will be—she wouldn’t lie about something like that. Especially not around harvest time, when everypony needs to be at a hundred percent all day long.
“I just thought I’d mention it,” you say. “Have a good night.”
“You, too.”
You watch her till the end of the block, then shake your head and go on your way. Tomorrow’s another busy day, and you need your rest. It’s not worth wasting breath arguing.
•••
“Where’s Lavender Fritter?” You look around the assembled ponies. It’s not like her to be late.
“Lost a shoe,” Rosemary said. “Heard it from Pinkie Pie this morning. Didn’t even make it all the way home last night, poor thing. Had to hobble back to town on three legs—she tore up her hoof pretty good.”
“That stupid, stubborn mule,” you mutter. “I told her to go see Shoeshine.”
“Shoulda dragged her by her tail,” Rosemary said.
“Figured she’d know best.”
“You figured wrong. And now I’ve gotta try and pull this corn binder all by myself.”
“You’re not in any shape to do it,” you remind her. “Lavender told me you just got out of the hospital for colic.”
“Corn isn’t gonna harvest itself,” she mutters and backs up to the corn binder, first to the near side and then she remembers she’s flying solo and shifts over to the center.
Huckleberry circled over town, searching for his friend. This time of day, she’s sometimes hanging out around Sugarcube Corner . . . or she might still be back at school.
The thought of going back to school when he didn’t have to grated at him. He didn’t have classes right now and no homework that urgently needed to be done, so there was no reason to be cooped up in a building when he could be out and free. Going back to the school would be a reminder of the shackles that bound him, the teachers that clip his wings.
And then he spotted her, walking away from Sugarcube Corner, a giant cinnamon roll floating in her field. Citrine Spark’s yellow coat and blue mane really stand out.
He caught a wing on a thermal and twisted, losing altitude, arcing around until he was lined up in front of her. Her ears went up and her eyes followed as he came in for a landing, skidding to a stop on the road.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Huckleberry replied back. “Dinner?”
“Just a snack.” She took a bite and held it out to her. “Want some?”
“Well. . . .”
“It’s more than I can eat.” Citrine floated it in front of his muzzle.
Huckleberry nibbled on an unbitten edge. It was delicious—he’d expect nothing less from Sugarcube Corner. Everything there was made with love.
And lots of sugar and butter.
He fluffed his wings as Citrine Spark took another bite. “Hey, you like blueberries, don’t you?”
“Yeah, who doesn’t?” She looked him over. “Why?’
“Well.” He moved closer, ready to impart a great secret. She hovered the cinnamon roll near his muzzle and he couldn’t help but take another bite before speaking. “I was flying around and I found a great patch of wild blueberries just outside town.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “Ripe and juicy.”
“How far out of town?”
•••
The two of them turned as they passed the train station. “It’s not a direct path,” he explained, “but I was following the railroad tracks when I saw them, so if we follow them we’ll get there.”
Citrine gave the tracks a dubious look and then turned back to the pegasus. “It’s not safe to walk on the tracks, a train could come along and squish us.”
“We'd hear it coming,” he said. “And then engineer would blow the whistle. Besides, we're not walking on the tracks, we’re walking next to them.” He gestured with a hoof. “It’s open along the side, and we’ll be clear of any trains.”
“Hmm.” She looked at him, back at the station, and then down the tracks, studying where the rails converged down the line. It’s a weird illusion from being on the ground—they don’t look like that in the air. “Okay.”
“Good choice,” he said. “All we’ve got to do is keep the tracks on our right, and we’ll get there.”
•••
He could fly ahead, but he didn’t. The two talked about schoolword and teachers and classmates and then life in general. Citrine was a very chatty pony, which was more noticeable after leaving Ponyville behind. Even on the ground, Huckleberry was used to being alone when he was out in the wilds. Still, it was nice to have company; the mostly one-sided conversation made the trek go faster.
There are places where there was practically a road alongside the tracks, and other times where it narrowed down. Walking on the sloping ballast wasn’t any fun; the rocks seemed solid but the shifted underhoof. The second time they got to a narrow spot, they checked in both directions for oncoming trains, and when they didn’t see any, they walked between the rails, adjusting their gait to match the spacing of the crossties.
An hour in, the modified gait is second nature.
“Are we close?”
Huckleberry wasn’t sure. If he was up in the air, he’d know. “Hold on, let me check.”
“‘Cause I don’t want to be out after dark.”
He took flight and climbed above the trees, orienting himself. He was still close enough to Ponyville to see some buildings, although they were hazy with the distance. Up ahead, he could clearly see the twisting path of the river—the blueberries are just on the other side of that, in a forest glade.
As he came down for a landing, he noticed how his perspective changed from a progressively lower altitude. Something he rarely thought about, since he didn’t often land on railroad tracks in a forest.
“Well?”
“Yeah, we’re really close. They’re just the other side of the river.”
“Good thing I wore my saddlebags.” She floated teh cinnamon roll out of them and nibbled on it, then offered Huckleberry a bite. “Alright, let’s go.”
The ground near the river was soft and wet—the land dropped away and the railroad stayed level, first on an embankment and then a wooden trestle.
Without even thinking, the two of them scrambled up the weed-choked embankment until they were on the tracks again; in a few minutes more they were on the trestle.
Huckleberry’s mind was focused on wild blueberries—he’d already caught a whiff of them, a tantalizing scent that wasn’t quite masked by the river and the soggy ground and the stink of the crossties. He couldn’t see them just yet, but he could see where the trees thinned out.
His hoof slipped and dropped between a pair of ties, and he jerked it back, refocusing his attention down to the ties, then he looked back to see how she was doing. Citrine was a few ponylengths behind, her head down, concentrating on her footing. What had been natural pace on the ballasted track now felt awkward when there was only air between the crossties.
Just then, Huckleberry felt the trestle start to tremble.
The curve leading up to the trestle was subtle, unremarkable—but it masked a train from view for longer than either of them had anticipated. The Friendship Express comes into view and a second later you hear the first warning whistle.
For Huckleberry, it was a no-brainer: he snapped out his wings and leapt off the side of the bridge. He looked back, expecting Citrine Spark to be right on his tail, but she wasn’t.
Of course she wasn’t. She had a horn, not wings.
She snapped her head back, estimating the train’s speed, the distance to the water, and the distance to the opposite bank.
Huckleberry did the same. He didn’t like the answers he was coming up with.
She burst into a gallop, trying to outrun the train, her hooves flying over the perilous footing. One slip, and that would be it.
[CHOICE]
>Fly in and save her; you got her into this mess (hero) >She’s got this, she’s faster than she looks (chaos)
[CHOICE A: Hero]
Pure instinct kicked in. Huckleberry snapped around in the air, rolling to gain speed. He locked eyes on where her path and his would intersect, and it’s going to be uncomfortably close to locomotive, but what choice did he have? He’d invited her out for blueberries, enticed her to cross the bridge, and he’d never be able to live with himself if something happened to her.
The locomotive whistle was screaming in his ears and the train’s brakes were shrieking and he tuned that out as he flexed his primaries and altered his course ever so slightly. He had one chance to make this work.
He slammed into her, wrapping his forehooves around her barrel as he pulled up and back. The train roared by, bathing them in a blast of steam, followed by a rain of cinders. You hear the engineer shouting at you but can’t tell what he’s saying over all the noise.
It’s probably for the best.
Citrine is heavy for a unicorn and Huckleberry had never been going at carrying a pony, but adrenaline did strange things. He glided across the river and landed on the bank, the two of them skidding to a stop in the mud.
Both ponies watched wide-eyed as the train disappeared in the forest.
Citrine Spark got to her hooves first, and shook off what mud she could. She looked at the trestle, and then back at Huckleberry. “Let’s not do that again.”
[CHOICE B: Chaos]
Huckleberry was completely frozen and could only watch as she sped up, flying across the crossties with a mechanical monster hot on her tail. It was catching up fast—but not fast enough. With one final leap, she cleared the tracks and skidded to a halt on the soggy ground. The train roared past, its whistle shouting out one last note of displeasure.
“Whoo, what a run!” She looked back at the railroad tracks.
“I’m so sorry,” Huckleberry said, fluttering to a landing beside her. “This is gonna sound so dumb, but I forgot you couldn’t fly.”
“Oh.” She regarded him thoughtfully, a strange glint in her eyes. “But I did fly, faster than a train. Stars, that was invigorating.” She leaned over and gave him a nuzzle. “I wonder how long I could keep ahead of a train?”
It’s got its highlights and lowlights. Like the bus—it was an old, repurposed school bus, no longer safe to transport students to and from school, but just fine for summer camp. There were fun activities, and you got to hang out with some old friends and also meet some new ones. Some of the counselors were as stiff and stodgy as school teachers, while others were young and cool.
The food was so-so, the pond was great, they had a ropes course . . . and they had bullies.
“Come on, everybody’s doing it,” Hoops says.
“Yeah.” Dumb-Bell crosses his arms over his faded “Ponez in the Hood” t-shirt.
“You some kind of a coward?” Score asks.
“No,” you say, your voice shaky. “But Mom says it’s dangerous to play around trains—”
“Mom.”
“Mommy’s boy.” Hoops slaps you in the chest. “You do everything Mommy tells you?”
“Does she do your homework for you?”
“Does she style your hair?”
“She must, that cut’s so out of style.” Score blows his bangs back.
As if their hair style is anything special. Bangs that cover their eyes most of the time, just because Ponez in the Hood looks like that—they’ll jump on any trend the moment it starts to get traction and pretend they’ve always been like that, while you’re constant, doing your own thing and trying to stay out of the way of everyone else.
And you’d been doing okay, not coming to the attention of the jocks—the bullies—thus far at camp.
Thus far.
Hoops opens his palm to reveal a faded penny. “It’s just a penny or two, what’s gonna happen?” He flips the coin in the air, catches it, and then closes his fist around it.
Dumb-Bell puffs his chest out and moves in, tightening the circle. “Guys, don’t be rude, that’s his snack money.”
The three crack up at the joke. The camp does have a commissary where you can spend cash, but so far you haven’t availed yourself of it.
You look them over. They’re jocks and jerks, but they’re also the three coolest teens at camp. Big and strong, agile—Hoops aced the ropes course yesterday, and Score almost set the record for sprints. He wasn’t more than a few seconds behind the current record-holder.
You're not so good. You didn’t grow up with some of the opportunities they had to try out climbing courses and you were never into exercise for exercise’s sake. Give you something to run from and you’d give it your all, but running for fun . . .wasn’t.
You could fight them, and that would earn you some camp cred. But it was three on one, and the last one who’d tried had spent a week with all her privileges taken away. Three on one factored in when explaining the situation to the camp counselors; three identical stories versus one differing one, who were they going to believe?
“Listen,” Score says. He cups a hand to his ear. “I can hear a train coming. Over there.”
“It’s still miles away,” Hoops adds. “So you’re not gonna get squished.”
“Not if you’re quick,” Dumb-Bell adds. “Quicker than when you raced yesterday—you can do it.”
You feel the weight of change jingling in your pocket. “Whatever.” You wave your hand at them and turn back to your camp cubby. Not everything is fun and games; there are some classes at camp and you’re supposed to be prepared for them: the camp advertises itself as being educational, after all.
Book classes aren’t as much fun as the outdoors stuff, but at least you don’t struggle with them. You’re not sure that Dumb-Bell even knows how to read; it’s hard to judge his expression under his eye-covering bangs, but every time he cracks a book, it’s like seeing a dog watching a magic trick.
“Do it,” Hoops says. “We’ve all done it.”
“Real men do it,” Score adds. “Go on, put some coins on the railroad tracks.”
He nudges Dumb-Bell, who adds his two cents like a broken jukebox that needs to be jostled to play a track. “Everybody’s doing it.”
Nobody’s doing it; you haven’t seen a single camper run past the warning signs to place some coins on the track and then run back to watch them get run over. And now that you think about it, how many friends do these two even have? Besides each other? Still, the counselors seem to respect them, as do the younger campers—if you did put some coins on the railroad tracks, would you become part of their group? Would Hoops teach you the secrets of the ropes course? The trick to not falling off a Jacob’s Ladder?
Would Score give you some tips for fast running? There’s a blue girl at camp with rainbow hair who’s kind of a loser and kind of braggy and kind of cute and maybe—
[CHOICE]
>Do it, you coward, and then you’ll be cool too (Chaos) >Stand your ground, don’t be bullied (Hero)
[CHOICE A: Chaos] “Fine, what’s the worst that can happen?” You look towards the railroad tracks and then reach into your pockets, clutching a handful of change.
It is your spending money, or some of it. You were going to buy a candy bar—that can be risked to be cool at camp. It’ll be worth it to get in with the bullies.
You jog across the field, beelining towards the railroad tracks. Even though you know the train’s still a way off, it makes you nervous as you crunch across the ballast. Mom said to never play near the tracks.
And never put anything on them.
You lay out the coins in a neat row and are back on the far side of the field well before the train hits them.
You weren’t expecting much; coins are small and soft while trains are big and heavy. You thought it would squish them.
Instead, the locomotive rides over the coins and then jumps off the tracks, all the cars behind it piling up in a mass of splinters and smoke and squealing metal.
You watch in fascinated horror as the crew evacuates the locomotive, running towards safety. Just in time; the locomotive explodes in a cloud of steam and smoke, shrapnel whizzing by. The three bullies are watching wide-eyed, until finally Hoops looks over at you. “Dude. That was awesome.”
“I can’t believe you did it,” Score adds.
Dumb-Bell nods. “Best train wreck ever.”
[CHOICE B: Hero] You grab your book and shove your backpack back into its cubby. “I don’t need you,” you tell them. “So go find somebody else to annoy. You think you’re hot stuff now, bullying everybody you can, but wait until you’re older and you can’t find a job. I know your kind, you think you’re better than everybody else and years from now you’ll be the same jerks you’ve always been, working a dead-end job as assistant to the fryer manager and bragging about your title even though it means nothing.
“If you want coins squished on the tracks, go and do it yourselves.” You reach into your pocket and grab your change. “Here.” You toss it at them. “In case any of you are broke. Go on, what are you afraid of? Detention? They gonna take away your pudding at dinner? This camp means nothing in the grand scheme of things, we’re here to make friends and give our parents a couple weeks of vacation.” You look over to Dumb-Bell. “You might want to ask to be re-upped, I think your parents could do with a month.
“You’re bigger and faster than me, but you’re not smarter . . .one day I might be your boss, and you’d do well to remember that.”
“Big words for a little boy,” Hoops scoffs. He shoves you, knocking you off-balance. “Whatever, you aren’t worth our time. Go on, dream of sitting at a desk and ordering us around if it makes you feel better.”
Your resolve falters, and then comes back. Rainbow doesn’t take any guff from the bullies, and if you want to impress her, you shouldn't either.
It had been a long day, but it was finally over. While you were cleaning up the supply room, Sky Sweeper and Brian pushed the helicopter back into its hangar—or its nest, as Sky Sweeper called it.
She trotted into the ready room and helped put away the last few supplies, then stood up on her hind hooves so you could reach the zipper on her flight suit.
Before hanging her suit in her locker, she tapped her hoof on the PARAMEDIC patch on the back—Sky Sweeper had recently been upgraded. She still had some limitations in what she was allowed to do, since most of the equipment on the helicopter wasn’t meant to be used by a pony.
She took a box of Cheez-Its out of her locker and dumped a few into her mouth, then offered the box to you.
“No thanks,” you said. Cheez-Its were too artificial and too salty.
“Today went good,” Sky Sweeper decided, as she started putting on her flight gear. She had a second set for when she was in airplane mode: a high-viz vest, a flashing beacon, and now she also had a set of navigation lights that clipped to her wings.
“I can give you a ride,” you offer.
“Thanks, but I’d rather fly.”
“It’s going to rain.” And then you mentally facepalm, of course she’d know that.
“I’ll beat it,” she says confidently. “See you tomorrow.” She gives you a nuzzle and walks out the front door, lifting her radio as she crosses the threshold. “Pegasus FALX to Teeside tower, ready for departure from Great North Air Ambulance. Request low-level clearance to Saltburn-On-The-Sea.”
“Clearance granted.”
She’s still in the parking lot when she takes flight. As you unlock your car, you can see her flashing beacon disappearing to the East.
•••
Your car drives faster than she can fly, but she can take a direct route. You look for her whenever you get a chance, since your routes parallel more or less. You’ve got a flat in Nunthorpe, a short walk and a few train stations away from James Cook Hospital.
Traffic is light, not unusual for a late summer evening. You cover a yawn, even though there’s nobody in the car with you to see. One last coffee for the road would have helped you stay alert, but make it more difficult to fall asleep when you get home.
A couple of boring sections of the A67 offer you a chance to look for Sky Sweeper, but you don’t see her. She’s too far ahead, or else too far south, and you need to focus on driving, not searching the night sky for a lone pegasus.
Past the Tesco, over the Northern Rail tracks, and you take a moment at the Yarm Road intersection to scan the skies. No sign of her.
•••
By the time you get onto A174, your chances of pegasus-spotting are gone. There’s too much traffic to risk it. It’s not the M1, but it stays busy at all hours.
You’ve seen it plenty of times from the helicopter, flying east towards the coast or flying in to James Cook. You’ve seen it a few times from an accident scene, too.
As you cross by Bluebell Corner, you think of a wreck you worked there. If people saw what you saw, they’d drive a lot more sanely. Would leaving twisted automobiles by the side of the road slow down drivers? Probably not.
You’d seen plenty of wrecks, but you’d never seen one happen in front of you until now. You’d been gaining on a lorry and changed lanes to pass it, when it suddenly veered off to the right. You slam on the brakes, your heart already beating a million miles a minute, and you watch in what seems like slow motion as it crashes through the guardrail and skids into the median—
As it tears through the second barrier, you’re already having flashbacks to another similar accident you’d been called to, a nasty head-on collision.
The back of the lorry bounces, and you see headlight beams slash through the dust and tire smoke, spinning clockwise. There’s a cacophony of hollow metallic thuds, and screeching tires. When it finally dies down, you can hear leaves and twigs falling–the lorry wound up crashed into a tree–and a hiss of escaping coolant.
You’re working on pure autopilot as you bring your car to a stop on the hard shoulder, just abreast the sundered guardrail. You yank the door open and pop the rear hatch release, then grab your cell phone and punch in 999.
There’s a paramedic bag in the boot. Limited supplies but they’ll make a difference. Prompt action saves lives.
“999, what’s your emergency?”
“A174 west of Bluebell Corner, HGV crossed the median, multiple vehicles involved, injuries unknown at this time. I’m a paramedic.” You give her your name and then hang up, mentally triaging the initial scene. The lorry looks largely intact, one car got run over, another got spun around but its occupants are probably okay for now. You’ll be flying solo until ambulances and Fire-Rescue arrives.
Flying solo. You cast your eyes to the sky, a broad sweep—she can’t be all that far away, and the shiny new paramedic patch on her helicopter flight suit came with a paramedic radio. You know she has it on her, you saw her strap it to the leg opposite her airplane radio.
You could call her. She might beat a ground ambulance to the scene, and any help you can get would be appreciated.
[CHOICE]
>Call her, it’s a matter of life and death (hero) >She’s off-duty and deserves her rest (chaos)
[CHOICE A: Hero] Your radio tones out, and as soon as the dispatch call has finished, you click the mic, acknowledge that you’re on scene in a civilian vehicle, and then call for Sky Sweeper.
“On it,” is her terse reply.
Whatever tech she uses to switch between radios fails her, and you hear her call to Teeside. “Pegasus FALX requesting emergency diversion to Bluebell Corner.”
“Granted.”
“Where’s Bluebell Corner?”
It takes you a second to realize she’s talking to you. Think like a pegasus, an aerial view. “Northeast of Hemlington Lake.”
“Roger, be there quick.”
You don’t have time to wait. You check the spun-out car first; as you suspected, the driver is shaken but otherwise okay. You advise him to wait in his car, or else walk well clear of the road. Until the police establish a cordon, there’s a chance somebody who’s not paying attention will cause a secondary accident.
Other people are already stopping, more assistance. In a minute you might be shouting orders.
You start jogging to the Vauxhall, your heart sinking. The headlights of stopped cars are giving you a better look at it than you wanted.
The entire bonnet of the Vauxhall is crushed, and it’s got contact damage down the length of the driver’s side. Airbags are blown—you normally arrive after Fire-Rescue, and haven’t had to deal with those before.
The driver’s trapped but conscious. Lower limb injuries are certain. The front seat passenger wasn’t wearing a seat belt and has a nasty contusion on his head, he’s unconscious. Two women in the back seat, the one on the left side appears uninjured and the one on the right is responsive, neck and back pain—you tell her to stay put as you mentally catalog injuries and try and reassure them.
You’re reaching into your duffel bag when Sky Sweeper lands beside you, all of her navigation lights still lit. She lifts up her airplane radio: “Pegasus FALX has landed” then her paramedic radio: “Paramedic Sky Sweeper on scene.” Then she looks at you. “What do you need me to do?”
“Is that a pony?” one of the girls in the backseat asks.
“Yes, she works with me.” You turn to Sky Sweeper. “Check on the lorry driver, I haven’t yet.”
“On it.”
You hear her hooves clipping across the macadam as she trots to the truck.
Her radio discipline reminds you that you’ve been lax. You key your mic and radio your current assessment of the situation.
A moment later, Sky Sweeper adds her discovery. “Driver unresponsive, no pulse detected, starting CPR.”
You’d thought he’d fallen asleep or the truck had had a mechanical failure. You glance over to the lorry and then turn your attention back to your patients as the distant high/low warble of an emergency siren splits the still night air.
•••
An hour later, the two of you watch as a heavy wrecker starts pulling the wrecked lorry off the motorway. “They say the HGV driver’s going to make it,” you tell her. “In case you didn’t know.” So was everybody in your car. The driver had a long road ahead of him. “Sorry for calling you on your way home.”
“I’m glad you did.” She nuzzles your side, then looks up to the sky as the rain starts.
“I wasn’t going to check on him, I figured he’d be okay.”
“That’s an important thing to remember,” Sky Sweeper said. “You can’t always tell from the wreckage who’s gonna make it and who’s not.”
“I’m not used to being first on scene and alone.”
“Me, either.” She snort-laughed. “I kept waiting for somepony to come with the paddles.”
“Yeah.”
“Feels weird to not be getting into the helicopter.” Sky Sweeper lifts her hoof and then lowers it again. “So, if you’re still up to giving me a ride home, I’d take it.”
“Wore yourself out giving CPR? Or don’t want to fly in the rain?”
She nods. “Wore myself out. And I forgot to turn off my navigation lights and the batteries died.”
[CHOICE B: Chaos] Sky Sweeper has got medical training but no equipment, and the hospital’s only five kilometers away. It won’t take long before there are fully-equipped ambulances on scene. Your own equipment is limited as well; you’ve got a first aid kit that would make preppers proud, but it’s still a fraction of what you normally have access to. You can take a quick assessment, maybe get some help from good samaritans who have stopped.
Already, two dazed people are staggering from the spun-out car. You give a quick assessment—they’re upright and you don’t see any obvious serious injuries; they’re probably both okay.
The occupants of the Vauxhall are a different matter. The side-curtain airbags are blown, preventing you from getting a look inside. You’ve got a small knife and hack at the airbags until you’re in.
“I’m a paramedic,” you announce as you take a quick assessment of the car. The driver’s pinned for sure; leg injuries are a certainly. Passenger was unbelted and is unconscious, a nasty contusion on his forehead. In the back seat, the right-side passenger is moaning and semi-conscious; she would have hit the side of the car hard. The left-side passenger is on the phone to emergency services and is understandably panicked.
It’s obvious where your attention needs to be directed.
With limited supplies, you’ve got limited options available to you. You turn to the backseat passenger who’s on the phone. “What’s your name, love?”
“Belinda . . . are we going to be okay?”
“You’ll be fine,” you assure her.
After introductions, you start to offer reassuring platitudes while assessing the driver. No major bleeding that you can see. Mentally, he’s in a bad way, which is completely understandable. He’d have had no warning, just headlights coming across the median, and bam. Life changed in an instant.
Odds were that the lorry driver fell asleep. You haven’t seen him yet; he’s probably still sitting in his lorry, wondering what had happened.
Wouldn’t be a bad idea to check on him, but you have your hands full right now. He’ll wait.
•••
The distant high/low sirens are a welcome relief. It feels like it took forever for them to arrive, but when you check your watch it’s only been ten minutes.
You breathe a sigh of relief as the paramedics move in; now you’ve got access to more supplies and more hands. Fire-rescue starts setting up for extractions—neck injuries are a real possibility for the front-seat passenger, and you’d pressed Belinda into head-support duty.
•••
Usually, you’re off-scene before cleanup, but after you’ve given your witness report, you hang around and chat with the police.
The lorry driver didn’t make it. Heart attack, they think. CPR and a defibrillator were tried to no avail.
You turn away when the cop says that. You pick up your duffel bag and in a voice that seems far away bid them a good night.
Could you have saved him if you’d checked the lorry?
She supposed she wasn’t alone in that; lots of fillies surely dreamed of being princesses. Why wouldn’t they? The power to raise the sun or the moon, wings and a horn, a giant glittering castle filled with ponies to serve you and let you have a second dessert if you wanted it.
Princesses didn’t have to do homework. Princesses had hoofmaidens to do their homework for them.
It was just a dream, and she knew it. Everypony knew that there were only two princesses and there would only ever be two.
Except one night she overheard her parents saying that there used to be only one princess—the other one had been banished to the moon and then she’d come back ,which was bad or maybe it was good. She wasn’t sure, and she didn’t know if she should ask. Sometimes she overheard stuff she wasn’t supposed to—last year she’d had to act surprised on her birthday when she opened her presents, because she’d overheard her Mom talking about buying her a Bisou Fruite doll and one of her presents was doll-sized.
It was weird to know what she was unwrapping before she did—she wanted it, but some of the luster was lost since she already knew what it was.
Were princesses ever surprised?
Did they get presents on their birthday?
Both Princess Celestia and Princess Luna were hundreds and hundreds of years old, what if they’d already received every present a pony could get?
She still wanted to be a princess. Her parents still liked getting presents on their birthdays and on Hearth’s Warming and they enjoyed them.
Sometimes she’d dress up her dolls in colored-paper tiaras and hoof boots and yokes and pretend they were princesses. She’d make cardboard and flour-sack additions to their dollhouse and a little crayon-drawn sun and moon for them to raise and lower while all the other ponies watched on.
Other times, she’d arrange all the dolls to watch her as she lifted up a paper sun or moon like a proper princess. And then they’d have tea, because that’s what princesses did. They raised the sun and the moon and they didn’t have to do homework, they drank tea instead.
She didn’t really like tea all that much, but when it was imaginary she could like it. Maybe when she was older she would. There were a lot things her parents said she’d understand when she was older.
•••
Could princesses do whatever they wanted? She was in the kitchen, helping her Mom make dinner.
Princesses had hoofmaidens and waiters and cooks and guards and a whole panoply of ponies at their service and didn’t have to lift a hoof, but what if they wanted to? What if they enjoyed the simple task of making soup? Or toasting bread and only dropping one slice on the floor by mistake?
Did they like jam? She liked jam, especially cherry jam which was currently her favorite. Last week strawberry jam had been her favorite.
Both of them stained her muzzle red and Mom scrubbed her muzzle with a washcloth after she was done eating.
•••
Did princesses ever go to market? She and her Dad walked the tables, and he let her put the produce in his saddlebags. If it was something small, he’d put it in hers—and the two of them stopped by Bon Bon’s booth and he lowered his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “One chocolate for you, but don’t tell Mom.”
She nodded and looked over the selection, finally picking a cherry cordial.
There were so many choices! Princesses could eat all the chocolate they wanted.
•••
Most days she walked to school herself. It wasn’t very far, and she always got there on time, even if she was distracted by something shiny along the way.
Such as a lamp, carelessly discarded in the weeds.
She stuck her muzzle into the undergrowth and grabbed it with her mouth. It was a dull brass, tarnished but otherwise okay.
Her grandmare had a couple lamps like it, and she knew how they worked. The lid came off to put oil in, and a flame came from the spout. On the other end was a mouth-grip so you could carry it wherever you wanted without singing your fur.
She rubbed at the tarnish with the edge of her hoof, and all of a sudden a weird ghostly pony-shape popped out.
It was blue, a lighter blue than Luna. Almost sky blue. It had a weird face with a scraggly fang, mismatched antlers, and mismatched forelegs.
“I am the genie of the lamp,” it said. “And you have freed me—in return, I will grant you one wish.”
“Really?”
It nodded.
[Choice]
>I wish I had another cherry cordial, the last one was really good. (hero) >I wanna be a princess (chaos) >I’ve got bigger plans in mind (villain)
[CHOICE A: Hero] “A couplea days ago at market Dad bought me a cherry cordial from Bon Bon and it was really good, I’d like to have another one but I don’t know when we’ll get back to market and I don’t have enough bits to buy one of my own.”
“A cherry cordial?”
She nodded.
“I could give you a lot of bits,” the genie said.
She thought that over. “Nah, I don’t even know how I’d carry them.”
“A mountain of cherry cordials.”
“More than one spoils my appetite.”
“I could make you a princess. You want to be a princess, right?”
She frowned, and then looked at the genie earnestly. “I like pretending to be a princess, but I don’t want to actually be one. I bet princesses don’t get to play in the sandbox.”
“Well—”
“Or use the swings. Dinky said that Sparkler can’t use the swings anymore ‘cause she’s too big.” She glared at him. “Are you gonna give me a wish or not?”
The genie crossed his arms and sighed. “Fine.”
He snapped his fingers and a cherry cordial appeared in front of her.
She ate it eagerly, and licked her lips. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome?” He scratched his temple with a claw. “Are you sure you don’t want anything else?”
“No, not really.”
[CHOICE B: Chaos] “I wanna be a princess.”
“Done.” He snapped his finger and a moment later her entire body was suffused with light as she lifted off the path. She felt a strange relieving pressure/pain, like when her milk teeth fell out, and then she landed back on the ground.
He hadn’t provided her with a mirror, but she didn’t need one. She could see the new horn on her forehead and feel wings against her barrel—just down the road was a small park with a reflecting pond where she could get a look at her new form.
She didn’t get any finery—her hooves were still un-booted, no tiara graced her crown, and her shoulders weren’t weighed down with a golden yoke. Still, she was a princess.
“Cool.” How long would it last? Who knew? Magic out of a lamp was chaotic at best—she might as well enjoy it while she could.
•••
Several hours later, after her class had calmed down in regards to the sudden change in her status and appearance, a familiar stressed out lavender unicorn appeared in the very center of class.
Along with everypony else, she pointed and laughed. Twilight Sparkle would never be a princess, but she was.
All hail Princess Erroria.
[CHOICE C: Villain] She scrunched up her muzzle. “Anything I want?”
Discord sighed. “Can’t kill anypony, can’t bring anything back from the dead, can’t make anypony fall in love, can’t wish for more wishes, and there’s a chance that your wish will come with unintended consequences. The standard stuff.”
“Yeah yeah.” She nodded and then looked him in the eye. “So Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon are really mean to me and to everypony else in class and I’m sick and tired of it. If I were a princess, I could banish them to the moon, but I’m not a princess so I can’t.”
“Banish them to the moon? How mean are they?”
“No, no.” She shook her head. “I don’t want them banished to the moon, I just want them turned into donkeys.”
“Huh.” Discord rubbed a talon across his chin, and then nodded. “Alright, that sounds like fun.” He snapped his fingers and nothing that either of them could see happened.
Until a moment later, when off in the distance a very dismayed braying could be heard.
Tealove’s Tea Room is an unassuming building on a quiet side street in Canterlot. Well, unassuming by pony standards; it’s a sturdy brick building with an English drawing room vibe inside.
Besides her shingle, there’s a sign out front that says “Tealove’s Tea Appreciation Tea Party.” That’s what you’re here for. Although, truth be told, you’re not actually here for the tea. Rumor has it that Tealove is a secret agent, passing on coded messages at her tea parties.
She’s an attractive pony and a gracious host. While she does have tables, today they’ve been pushed aside and the chairs arranged in a circle. The center is the focus—a simple kitchen cart, covered with a homely checkered tablecloth, the space on the top occupied with tea fixin’s: sugar, milk, cream, and so on. There’s an empty spot in the center, but soon there will be a teapot there.
It’s your first tea tasting . . . tea appreciation tea party. But you know the format. She’ll bring out a pot of unusual tea to share around, everybody will sample it, discuss it. Sort of like a wine tasting, really.
Such an event tends to draw a snobby crowd. It’s not rude to think that, that’s just the way it is. And yet, here in Equestria, commoners rub withers with the wealthy and noble. Her tea appreciation tea party isn’t some by-invitation-only event, nor is there an eye-watering cover charge just to get in: it’s open to anyone until the seats run out.
There’s already quite a crowd of ponies. Some of them you know, or know of. Bon Bon, resident of Ponyville, a candymaker who traveled all the way to Canterlot to sample new varieties of tea. Does she sell tea-flavored chocolates, or is she here for another reason?
And there’s Fancy Pants and Fleur, social butterflies in Canterlot and beyond. A well-respected lawyer and a fashion icon, and yet not above anybody in the crowd. The two of them carve a path through class and social norms. They can talk to anypony and it won’t be remarked upon—is that how they are, or a brilliant cover?
A griffon, looking out of place on his seat. It wasn’t built for griffons. Why is he here?
And those aren’t the only guests; those are just the ones you take immediate note of. The other seats are filled in with what you would consider an average slice of Canterlot; a few rich ponies showing off their wealth, a few really rich ponies dressing down, and some commoners and laborers who really enjoy tea or their chance to mingle.
•••
The tea party starts when the last seat’s taken, or when Tealove decides that nobody else will arrive. The first pot is always something only semi-exotic, maybe a new twist on an old idea or a new teamaker. You scan the crowd as she explains it, as she discusses the fragrance notes that make it up and the origins of the flavors. She’s got the almost undivided attention of the crowd; the griffon is filing his talons. You don’t know the message coded in, but you can watch who’s paying attention, or who’s making a point of not paying attention.
“This tea is Imported from Abyssinia by Captain Celaeno, and the final blending takes place in the commercial district under the supervision of Capper.”
She lifts the cozy off the teapot and the smell wafts through the tearoom, filling your nostrils with its scents. You can smell the jasmine and rosehips and the subtler scent of saffron, and you’ve also noticed how the griffon perked up when she mentioned Capper.
Bon Bon had an ear-flicker; nobody else reacted at all.
You make a mental note of that as you accept your teacup. It’s hoof-friendly, as you’d expect, which makes it a little weird to hold.
Wouldn’t it be a great joke if she decided to drug the tea? Or poison it?
That takes your mind down a rabbit hole as you sniff your tea, to all appearances just sampling the smell. If she was using a poison, it’d be masked by the flavor, wouldn’t it? She’d know how, she’d know what covered or blended with what.
There are trick teapots that can pour out of two or more compartments . . . just because it seems everyone got the same thing, that’s not necessarily true.
It’s fantastic, the smell only hinting at the flavor bomb that explodes on your taste buds. The saffron hides and then comes in late, adding one final twist of complexity to the flavor, something you might not have been able to identify if she hadn’t told you it was there.
Does any of the tea come from where she says it does?
You’ve visited her tea shop other times, and you know her menu. Restaurants you’re used to serve drinks off a standard menu, but she’s also got a mix your own option where you can pick flavors.
The first round is done, and glasses of water are passed around to cleanse the palate. You swish the water around and then drink it—if it was a wine tasting, you’d spit it back in the glass, but that’s gauche.
You’ve got some of the pieces in place. Bon Bon and the griffon are suspect . . . but then the griffon’s too obvious. Isn’t he? Or is that his cover?
You don’t know. If you did know, you wouldn’t be here. The layers are stacked up just like the flavors in her tea.
A new blend, this one bitter. A mysterious green, deeper than her coat. She pours it into clear teacups so everyone can appreciate the color, and you watch the crowd. The circle is your friend, it gives you a great vantage point. A working pony with a short-cropped tail and harness scars in her coat is the first to drop a cube of sugar in her drink, does that mean anything? Is that a cue to someone else?
How deep does the rabbit hole go?
Fleur frowns as she sips it, Fancy takes it in stride. The griffon opts for milk, and Bon Bon sets her teacup down without tasting it—one sniff and she was out.
Your attention is suddenly drawn to a dusky green stallion who’s focused on Bon Bon. Is he an admirer or something else?
You take a deep breath. This isn’t your first rodeo—tea party—and you can’t be suspicious of everything and everpony. Most of it is what it seems.
Most of it.
The griffon stirs his sugarcube in with a freshly-filed talon; is that a warning?
If so, for whom?
You scan the crowd. You’ve got some of the puzzle pieces in place, but there are still some you don’t know. Tealove’s dropping code words in her tea descriptions, the entire thing appearing safe and normal since it’s open to the public. Bon Bon’s a secret agent of some sort, but she might not be the one you’re interested in.
The griffon seems out of place, like he’s trying to both be subtle and also send messages. He has much of his attention focused on Fancy and Fleur, which means that either they’re secret agents or else they aren’t but he thinks they are.
It’s enough to make your head whirl. Agents and double agents, who watches who? Where are you in this, anyway?
Does it matter? You’ve got a job to do, and even if you haven’t wrapped up everyone, you’ve got probable IDs on four.
Without even thinking about it, your hand slips into your pocket, to the badge you carry there. You’ve got enough to make a move . . . don’t you?
[CHOICE]
>call out what you know (villain) >let things play out (chaos)
[CHOICE A: Villain] Tealove’s got her code, but you do too. You make what anybody could interpret as an innocent gesture with your hand—twice, just to make sure. Across from you, a unicorn’s horn lights briefly, barely enough to notice, especially as he follows up by dropping another sugarcube into his drink.
Message sent, message received—you give it another minute to let your allies get into position, and to also make sure that nobody remembers him lighting his horn. The casual conversation continues unabated; Tealove turns to get another pot. Out of respect, you wait just a little longer, until she returns, and then you make your move, effortlessly slipping your badge out of your pocket.
“Tealove, you are under arrest for being a spy.”
Eyes around the room go wide.
“We’re professionals here.” You flash your badge at her. “Don’t try anything funny.”
“I’m not a spy,” she says. “Just a pony who loves tea.”
“Yeah, yeah.” You hear the crash as the special operations team kicks down the front door. “Tell that to the judge.”
You take your eyes off her for a moment, and turn to Bon Bon. “You, too. I know you’re up to something.”
She snorts. “What, you think I’m a mare from S.M.I.L.E.? Tea not agreeing with you?”
It’s unnecessary to mention that all eyes in the room are on you. Some in confusion, some who know exactly what’s going on.
“I know what I saw,” you say. “Keep your hooves where I can see them.”
[CHOICE B: Chaos]
You’ve got an idea, but you don’t know for sure. You sit back and let Tealove take your glass, let her bring out another pot of tea. She’s in it deep, she’s the code talker. Bon Bon’s listening, and so is the griffon. You’ve got your suspicions of Fleur and Fancy, and the mare with the harness scars in her coat’s sus, too.
You watch as Tealove pours the tea, twisting her head as the pot gets low.
That should have been a clue, but you were one level too deep in the conspiracy and miss it. Fleur’s got an apprehensive look, while Fancy’s got his eyes locked on the griffon and they both have your attention as Tealove very carefully distributes the glasses.
Very carefully,
It’s only after the first sip of tea that you realize that Tealove’s a step ahead of you. She knows what you are, and she knows that you know she’s sending hidden messages with her tea.
She’s said something as she poured your tea, something you’d ignored as a pleasantry, but it had been a message. And if only Fleur had caught it, things would have gone very differently—but she wasn't the only one who noticed; the griffon perked up right away, and while you missed the kickoff, you weren’t completely oblivious.
Agents and double agents and counter-espionage and you all collide in a good old-fashioned standoff, everyone threatening everyone else.
Tealove looks at the collected catastrophe and reaches under the table, drawing out a blunderbuss.
There are plenty of food options in Manehattan. Thermopoliums and Hayburgers, sit-down restaurants and food carts, catering to practically every taste. Maybe every taste; you’ve been by a few restaurants and food carts where the food is something you’ve never heard of, where the spices and scents aren’t appealing at all—and some of them have lines of ponies or other creatures waiting for food.
Like the Gemmery, a strange (to you) restaurant which—judging by the clientele—serves upper-class dragons and upper-class unicorns. They have a menu out front which you skim; unsurprisingly by the name, everything is gems or is dusted with gems. Even their Unicorn Frappe, which promises two full diamonds in every cup.
The prices reflect that, and even if they didn’t—the maître d' is wearing a tuxedo, and when you catch her eye, she just shakes her head.
She knows just as well as you do that you don’t belong.
Further down the street, the Hayburger is welcome to all, cheap and greasy and a decent value for your bits. Uninspired, yes, but the same experience every time.
The restaurants are a true microcosm of the city in general, where cultures and wealth rub withers on every block, where working-class ponies and businessmares crowd the sidewalks and fast food joints together. Back in the day, you could meet anypony in the omnibus—and now you’ve got the same opportunity in the new trolleys that ply the streets.
You turn your head as one goes by, ringing its bell as a warning. In theory, its tracks make it predictable, but in traffic that’s a disadvantage. Taxi ponies can dodge an obstruction, the trolley has no choice but to wait until it clears, the bell getting angrier by the minute.
Some days you like a familiar meal, often eaten in the company of familiar faces. Other times, you want to try something new.
This is new. It calls itself an “Automat,” and while restaurants and food carts follow a formula, this has big glass windows like a retail store, and a harsh, almost antiseptic interior. Tile floors, linoleum-coated walls, and no waitstaff to take your order or touch your food: everything is encased in glass towers, pre-made and perched on platters which turn at the push of a button.
Salads, pies, sandwiches—they all pass by at the push of a button. Each one with a little card saying what it is.
You’ve got mixed feelings about the place. There’s something to be said about an interaction, however brief, with an employee.
At the same time, there’s something to be said about choosing your food and getting it instantly. No more lies from menus, from attractive pictures of food which are anything but when it’s unceremoniously slid across the counter in a brown paper sack.
You watch a pony in front of you make her choice, spamming the button until a sandwich she likes spins into view. Coins go in the slot and then the door unlocks; she pulls it open and gets her prize.
She’s elected to take her meal to go—they have a couple kiosks set up with condiments and utensils for those who use them, napkins and paper sacks for customers in a hurry. She’s a unicorn and is unfettered by paper sacks; she heads out the door with her sandwich hovering beside her head and joins the mingle of pedestrians outside.
The prices are competitive. Quality is, as yet, undetermined. Ten blocks over and a little to the south there’s a grizzled old stallion selling hash out of his cart, it doesn't look like much but he’s had decades to perfect his craft. There’s no modern tech, just a good old-fashioned stockpot and a ladle he holds in his mouth, portioning out his food two bits at a time.
A favorite of ponies in harness, who usually don’t go far to eat—every muzzle-level surface near his food cart becomes a temporary table.
You step up to the carousel and start pushing the button, studying the food as it revolves by. Some of the trays are empty; that food has been taken. Do the cubbies get restocked during the day, or is the food put out every morning? You don’t know.
Choosing between a daisy sandwich or a bowl of greens holds your attention longer than it should. You know which you want, and you know which your doctor recommends. Getting old sucks.
The elderly mare at the food tower next to you is also struggling; she’s got her muzzle pressed right up against the glass, and she’s slamming the button with more force than it requires. “Condarn these darn fool machines.”
You can feel the line building behind you, the unseen eyes on your back. Salad it is; today’s a day to do the doctor proud. You slide your bit coin into the receiving slot, the door unlatches, and claim your prize, then you move aside and turn your attention to the elderly mare poking at the button.
Her eyes light up. “Sonny.”
You grit your teeth; your weird aunt always called you that.
“Trying to get me a sandwich and this darn fool machine is near impossible to use.” She hoofs the button again and a new sandwich revolves into place. “Won’t talk, and I can’t smell it through the glass—you wanna give Goldie Delicious some help?”
“I guess.”
“I just want something plain . . . and not spicy, that plays hob on my insides.” She hits the button again. “All I want is a nice chrysanthemum sandwich.”
“There are menu cards,” you observe.
“I done forgot my reading glasses,” she says, then points a hoof up at a sandwich. “What’s that? Is that chrysanthemum?”
You read the card—it is a chrysanthemum sandwich, complete with peppers. ‘For the pony who likes spice,” it says.
[CHOICE]
>help her find a chrysanthemum sandwich without hot peppers >tell her this is what she wants because it’ll be hilarious
[CHOICE A: Hero] “That’s a spicy one,” you say. “You don’t want that.”
A couple of the customers are grumbling—the automat is for ponies on the go. Ponies who don’t deliberate their food too much . . . One day, they’ll be old, too. Elders should be respected.
You scan up and down the tower, finally discovering an unspiced chrysanthemum sandwich. “Turn it three times,” you instruct her.
Goldie taps the button with more care, her goal rotating with each push. “Okay,” you instruct. “Now you have to put coins in the slot.”
“This reminds me of Los Pegasus,” she mutters. “Pull the lever . . . round and round she goes, where she stops nopony knows.”
There’s a soft click as the final coin goes in, and the door unlatches. Goldie pulls it open and slides out her sandwich.
A smile lights up her wrinkled face. “Are you dining alone?”
“Yeah,” you admit.
“Come sit with me,” she offers, “and I’ll tell you all the secrets of the horseshoe toss.”
[CHOICE B: Villain] “That is a chrysanthemum sandwich,” you tell her. It’s not a lie.
“Thank heavens.” She starts feeding coins into the machine. “I don’t understand why they have to make things so complicated these days.”
“It’s the march of progress,” you say.
“March of foolishness if you ask me.” She stomps off towards her table, and you also move aside to let the queue advance—they move in fits and starts just like the machine.
Now you’ve got another dilemma. Stick around and wait for the fun to start, or get out before she realizes what kind of sandwich she just bought. You figure she’ll know by the first or second bite, and what then? She can’t get in a fight with the machine . . . or maybe she will.
When it comes to reformed villains, Starlight Glimmer tops the list. Former mayor of a small town, stealer of cutie marks, lover of kites, and a powerful mage in her own right.
Fizzlepop Berrytwist, AKA Tempest Shadow should have been at the top of the list, but that’s just your opinion. Who knows what she’s doing these days? The last time she was seen, she was sipping coffee in a cafe.
Reformed changelings are just weird, and the almost-reformed Cozy Glow is now a statue commemorating ‘whoops, we shouldn’t have let her out of Tartarus so quick.’
Starlight Glimmer can be found in Ponyville, or so you’ve been told. There’s regular train service if you don’t want to hoof it, and you don’t.
Lots of things can be found in Ponyville, if you’re being honest. The bearers of the Elements of Harmony, Equestria’s youngest Princess and second-newest alicorn; and regularly-scheduled monster attacks.
It’s also got the small-town vibe going; while there is a Hayburgers, most of the restaurants are family-owned; while it has a Barnyard Bargains, most trade is still done at an open-air market.
Canterlot might be the seat of the empire, but it seems that practically every important pony winds up in Ponyville, one way or another.
The train’s slow and superannuated, and you’re sitting beside an enthusiastic pegasus mare who has an unhealthy obsession with Siput slugs, whatever those are. Despite an hours-long journey learning more slug facts than you ever cared to know, you’re still not sure what makes them special.
Unless Ponyville is scheduled to be attacked by giant slugs, that’d be an interesting—if slow-moving—disaster.
She leaves you at the Ponyville platform, opting to take a direct flight into the town center.
There’s a taxi stand, and a note on it says “on a run, back in twenty minutes.” Off in the distance you can see a town clock. You have no way of knowing when the taxi left, but you can watch the sweep of the minute hand and once it’s hit the twenty minute mark . . . the taxi would be late, and what are you gonna do, complain to the train station manager? Ponyville’s a small town, it’s not that far to just walk.
You do ask the stationmaster for directions to Starlight. In a big city, she’d be no help; in a small town like Ponyville, an older mare like herself is sure to know everypony. She informs you that Starlight lives at the embassy which is near the statue of the mare with the ball and if you cross the stream a second time you’ve gone too far.
Nice, vague small-town directions.
It only takes a little bit of back-tracking and you do find the embassy. As proof of the uniqueness of the place, you see a not-quite minotaur out front, as well as a brace of guards in their shiny golden armor. One’s got his attention on the almost-a-minotaur, while the other focuses on you.
On the one hoof, you can’t just go asking to meet a celebrity, that’s not how it works. On another hoof, what have you got to lose by trying?
You’ve never brushed muzzles with celebrities before; maybe turning around and shouting into the Embassy is the way it’s done.
A moment later, a pink mare comes to the door.
While you’ve never met Starlight Glimmer—that’s the whole reason behind this little weekend trip—you do know that this isn’t her. Starlight’s more lavender than pink; Starlight’s got a not-easily-described cutie mark, and most importantly, Starlight’s a unicorn.
She isn’t.
“Sorry, I was looking for Starlight,” you say.
“I am Star Light,” she says.
[CHOICE]
>Maybe so, but you’re not the one I was hoping for. (villain) >Oh, really? Since when? (chaos)
[CHOICE A: Villain] “Really, ‘cause I heard that Starlight is a unicorn.”
“Her.” The mare wrinkles her muzzle. “She’s at the palace doing unicorn stuff or hanging with her bestie, Trixie. A Johnny-come-lately, a stealer of a name.” She steps forward, anger flashing in her eyes. “Some ponies decided I ought to be re-named Lucky Star, did you know that? Just to ‘avoid confusion.’” She makes air-quotes with a forehoof. “I get up every morning and cook breakfast for everypony in the embassy, and lunch, and dinner, and half the ponies I meet call me ‘wrong Starlight.’ You’re looking for the kite-loving mare, ain’t ya?”
“Yes,” you admit.
“Castle.” She points a hoof to the towering edifice on the other side of town, then slams the door in your face.
“I guess a letter of recommendation is out, then.”
The guard pokes you with the blunt end of his spear.
[CHOICE B: Chaos] “One of those name things, isn’t it?”
She snorts. “You know it. If it wasn’t for Princess Bookworm letting her and her marefriend live in the castle, I’d have the guards here sort her out, run her out of town.”
“Doesn’t that seem a little extreme?”
“How would you feel if you’d lived in a town your whole life, worked your way up, got a moment of recognition—really started to be somepony—and then a reformed villain who uses her first name as a nickname comes and takes yours, so everypony starts calling you something else? If she was called ‘Glimmer,’ I wouldn’t hate her as much.” Star Light spits on the road right at your feet. “And the few who do remember I’m the original Star Light and direct somepony to me, well, they’re just looking for her.
“Ought to have changed my name to Unlucky Star.”
“Well . . . “ You don’t really have a suggestion that would cheer her up.
“Listen, if you’re going to the castle to find her, tell her that she stole my name and I want it back.”
“I can’t—”
“Do it.” Star Light nods, and the two guards fall in line beside you. “Tell her I’ll fight her for it,” she says as they start marching you off.
You don’t see the ear turn in your direction, but you know it did. The TV clicks off, Bo-Katan Kryze’s voice cutting off mid-sentence. A second later, the sound of four cloven hooves hitting the floor, and then Cinder Glow trots into the foyer.
In some ways, her prompt response to things she finds fun or interesting reminds you of an enthusiastic dog ready for a walk.
She’s soft and fluffy, too, and never requires a bath. Well, mostly soft and fluffy; the scales on her back are serpent-like. You scratch at them and she bumps her head against your hip, then tilts her head and lights the door handle with her magic. She’s ready to go shopping.
As for not requiring a bath? Sometimes when she wants to clean herself, she goes out to the fire ring in the backyard and bursts into flames. It’s very effective.
She unlocks her car door before you can push the button on the fob—she’s learned to interact with most human things either by magic or by hoof. You don’t know why she chooses one or the other. It might be the horn takes more energy to manage; you’ve seen her furrow her brow and stick out her tongue sometimes when she’s really working her magic.
Cinder still waits for you to click the unlock button; she’s learned that the alarm will go off if she doesn’t.
As soon as the car gives its welcoming chirp, Cinder lights her horn again and opens the door, then hops into her seat. The first time, she reached out and manipulated everything she could; now it’s familiar and she settles into her seat, pulling the seat belt across her chest. You hadn’t told her to do that; she’d just learned to mirror you.
How effective a seat belt would be for a kirin is debatable. How much of a factor her magic might play in the event of a collision is unanswerable.
•••
The drive to the grocery store is uneventful. Long before Cinder Glow became your roommate, you’d figured out the ebbs and flows of traffic, and found the best times to get places. Rush hour was out, during special events was out; times when there weren’t too many cars on the road or people in the grocery store were the best.
The parking lot isn’t crowded. One day, it’ll be so uncrowded that you get a prime spot in the front. Today is not that day, and you park by a cart corral. Cinder hops out as soon as the car is stopped and examines the carts, hooking her hock over the handle on each and tugging it back and forth to check for wheel rolliness.
Three carts in, she finds one that meets her approval and pulls it out, then pushes the rest back in. Unlike some humans, Cinder Glow knows how to live in a society.
She can push them herself but it just looks weird so you take the reins—metaphorically. Cinder falls in next to you.
Before you leave the car, you lock it and then do a quick personal check to make sure you’ve got everything. Keys, wallet, purse, cell phone, check. Cinder doesn’t have anything—her life is much simpler.
You’d always been in the habit of gesturing at the doors to get them to open, and Cinder picked up on that; her horn lights and she tilts her head as you approach. The doors, nonplused by your ritual, open on their own time.
The first stop is produce, conveniently by the entrance. A sea of rainbow colored fruits and vegetables to draw you in, to get you in the mood for shopping. Cinder is a vegetarian and you aren’t, but you now eat a lot more vegetables than you used to. A side benefit of a kirin roommate is an improved diet. Although you draw the line at pasture grasses; they smell nice and a few small nibbles here and there aren’t harmful, but you know you won’t get much nutrition out of a bowl of timothy grass.
Cinder knows her way around produce. Everything is lifted in her magic and scrutinized before being placed gently in the cart, or returned to the shelf for somebody else to buy.
After that it’s frozen foods. Both of you like the taste and convenience of frozen pizza once a week. By mutual agreement, one pesto and tomato pizza finds its place in the cart.
You work your way through the store, most of the items staples but every now and then Cinder throws you a curve ball and wants something different than what you normally get. You’re not sure why; she’ll just stop and point or else bring it down herself and lift it in front of your face for approval.
Sometimes she’ll even make a credit-card swiping motion with her hoof, as if to say ‘can we buy this?’
Today she suddenly decides that Pocky Sticks should be added to the cart. She trots down the aisle and stops in front of a shelf, then lifts two boxes—one red and one pink. Chocolate and strawberry. The white one, you note, isn’t vanilla. Cinder tilts her head left and right, and each one lifts in turn—she wants Pocky Sticks, but you can choose the flavor.
You settle on strawberry, and she sets it in the cart and then you move on.
•••
She runs ahead in the cereal aisle, too, which is unusual. Every time you’ve been shopping so far, you get Corn Flakes. This time she’s got a different idea, levitating a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch for your approval.
[CHOICE]
>Sure, it’s delicious! (Hero) >That’s too much sugar for the morning (Villain)
[CHOICE A: Hero] “Cinnamon Toast Crunch, huh?” You look at the box and the weird, kind of creepy cinnamon toasts on it. Some foods try and remove themselves from their source; steaks don’t come with a picture of a cow on the package. Others really reach for it. “You like cinnamon?”
Cinder nods
“And toast?”
She nods again. You know she likes toast; she makes it for breakfast three times a week.
“How about crunch?”
Cinder raises an eyebrow and tilts her head. Sometimes it takes her a moment to figure out that you’re being silly. She brings the package closer to her muzzle and examines it before frowning.
“It’s okay, two out of three ain’t bad. Meatloaf said so.” You point to the cart, and Cinder obliges, placing the cereal into the cart. “Now, you know that this cereal is full of sugar, right?”
She picks a new box off the shelf and scans over the nutrition label, then nods.
“So you’re gonna have to do some extra work to burn off all that energy.”
Cinder nods, then the briefest hint of flame licks at her horn.
“Cheater.”
She sticks out her tongue, and then the two of you continue on with your weekly shopping.
[CHOICE B:Villain] You’re on board with some of her experimentations, some of the novel foods she selects. And the fruits and vegetables—that’s been a big life change for you, but a good one. You’re still not ready to go full vegetarian, but you are nearly there at home and only cheat for lunch a couple of times a week.
There was a time when every morning started with a bowl of super-sugared goodness, ‘part of this complete breakfast,’ as the ads always said. Part of that complete breakfast that should be removed and never thought of again.
Sometimes you struggle with what should be her own free choices and where you should step in. Immediate danger is a given; something in the far future? That’s a little more open to debate.
But then you remember the old you, the one who ate Honey Smacks and Lucky Charms and Coco Puffs for breakfast and you just can’t let her fall into that trap. Before too long the cart will be loaded with nothing but junk food, empty calories that demand more sugary sweets to follow.
You shake your head and pluck the box out of her magical aura. It wavers for a moment as she holds on then releases. “Too sweet for breakfast . . . Pocky Sticks are okay as a dessert, but that’s it.”
Cinder stomps her hoof and a flame flickers across her. You step back, already bracing for a kirin temper tantrum.
But the flame quickly vanishes in a puff of smoke. She’s not one to stay angry for long. With one last reluctant look at the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, she moves down the aisle and grabs a box of Corn Flakes and drops it in the cart.
“I’m just looking out for your best interests,” you say.
The rest of the shopping trip goes normally, until you go to pay and discover your wallet is missing.
You look over at the kirin, who gives you a sly grin. She’d teleported your wallet away. You cross your arms and give her a stern look, then sigh. “You’re not giving it back until you get your Cinnamon Toast Crunch, are you?”
“And then we do a wing roll and the two of us will have enough speed to glide all the way over Hope Hollow, and we can pull up by the windmill.”
“Maybe.” Barley looked down from the cloud the two of them were perched on. “I dunno, it’s a long way.”
“Rainbow Dash could do it.”
“She’s bigger than us. And has had more practice.”
Pickle huffed out a breath, a half-snort. “We gotta do something to bring the color back.”
“I’m not saying we shouldn’t.” Barley rolled on her back, fluffing her wings against the cloud. “But let’s not be too ambitious. I don’t think I can glide that far.”
“That’s why we’ve got to practice. We know all her moves.”
“And we can’t do them.”
“Not yet,” Pickle said. “But we can almost do them, and maybe almost is gonna be good enough to bring the colors back.” He surveyed the gray landscape and slumped down on the cloud. “Do you think that everywhere has lost its color?”
“It must have.” She sighed. “Remember sunsets?” She rolled on her stomach and stood up, puffing out her chest. “You’re right, we’ve got to do it. We’ve go to try. All the adult ponies are constantly grumbling and not doing anything about it. I just don’t know if the routine’s going to be good enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Rainbow did her first sonic rainboom at flight camp when she was about our size and that made a rainbow across the whole sky. Rainbows have all the colors in them, so that’s obviously what it’s going to take to fix things. But she’s fast–maybe it’s not about how intricate the pattern is, but how fast you fly.”
“Rainbow was flying an obstacle course,” Pickle reminded her. “So it would have been intricate.”
“But then she did her second rescuing some of the Wonderbolts and Rarity,” Barley said, “And she was flying almost straight down.”
Pickle nodded. “We could do that. Find a high cloud, lots higher than this one. As high as we can fly. And then go straight down and pull out when we get to the bottom.” He looked in the direction of Hope Hollow. “Straight down Main Street, we’ll Rainboom the whole town. That’ll bring the colors back.”
•••
The twins sat on the edge of a cloud, the highest one they could find. Pickle paced around, stretching out his wings, while Barley calculated the necessary angles. The wind was slowly pushing their cloud along, adding to the challenge.
“Just needs to drift a little further, and then it should be in line. If we target the windmill, fly straight to it, and then pull out when we’re at the sails, we should go right over main street with a Sonic Rainboom right behind us.”
“Yeah,” Barley looked over the edge of the cloud one last time, lining up her angles. “You think we should practice before we try it for real?”
[CHOICE]
>Yes, practicing it is a good idea (Hero) >No, it’s flying straight down and then turning, what could go wrong? (Villain) >We should do stunts, too. (Chaos)
[CHOICE A: Hero] “Yeah, of course we should. We’re going to be doing it for real at the Rainbow Festival, remember? This is just a trial run.”
“Oh yeah.” Barley looked over at her brother. “Tell you what, let’s fly away from town.”
“You worried something might go wrong?”
She was, but didn’t want to admit it. “No, just . . . we don’t want to show our routine before we’re got it perfected.”
“That’s smart thinking.” Pickle over to the other side of the cloud, and looked down for once. “Wow, we’re a long way up. How fast do you think we’ll get going?”
“I don’t know. Fast.” Barley fluffed her wings and then stretched them out. “Lets pull up quicker, and work our way down–we can pull out, end in a big loop and get most of our momentum back to fly up to the cloud again.”
“On three, then.”
The pair galloped to the edge of the cloud in unison, then leapt off. Angling straight down went against both their instincts–that was something birds did to dive for fish, not something a pegasus should do.
But it was fast and getting faster. As they beat their wings, they could feel the air sart to push back against them.
They both shifted their hooves around and tucked their heads down, trying to find the best position, and then sooner than they would have imagined, they were passing the lowest layer of clouds.
“I can feel something!”
“I think it’s working!”
“We’re getting low!”
“Pull up!”
Pulling out of the dive was agonizingly slow; Pickle brushed his belly against the crown of a pine tree as he finally bottomed out and started climbing again.
The pair fought their way back to the cloud and landed, wings sore but hearts full of inspiration. They hadn’t done it yet, but they were on the right path. A few more practice runs, and then they’d do a Sonic Rainboom and bring the colors back to Hope Hollow.
[CHOICE 2: Villain] “Practice? We spent most of our energy getting up here,” Pickle objected. “We’re flying straight down and then turning, that’s simple.”
“You’re right.”
“Last one down’s a rotten egg,” he taunted as he jumped off the top of the cloud.
“As if it’ll be you.” Barley followed, nosing over and beating her wings furiously.
Both of them were neck-and-neck as they powered towards the ground, the windmill getting larger and larger as they rushed towards it.
Making the turn required at the bottom was beyond their abilities. As they’d agreed, the windmill was the target to pull out of the dive. At their speed, that had no chance of working; both of them split formation as they worked out the lowest ground or softest place to land.
Barley, more the realist set her eyes on a boggy depression. She cratered into the swamp sending cattails and frogs flying in every direction, painting the trout pony in mud and bogwater.
Pickle, meanwhile, theorized that the springs on the cabbage wagon he aimed for would absorb some of the impact and he was correct: they did absorb some of the impact, and then the wagon bounced free of its drop chain and started rolling in the direction of Hope Hollow.
It didn’t make it very far; the tongue caught and spun the wagon sideways. It tipped over, launching Pickle and the entire load of cabbages down the road.
He struggled back to his hooves and then looked around for Pickle. He spotted her coming out of the swamp just as an anguished stallion yelled out “My cabbages!”
[CHOICE: Chaos] “It took most of our energy to get up here,” Pickle observed. “I don’t think I could fly back up for a second attempt. Besides, it’s easy enough. Just fall off a cloud, basically.”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Too easy. It’ll never make a Rainboom. We need to punch it up.”
Barley wrinkled her muzzle. “Punch it up? How? Do stunts, too?”
“Yes, that’s it! Do stunts on the way down. Just like we’ve practiced.”
“We’ve never really done them right.”
“We’ve never flown so high or so fast. It’s going to be epic.” Pickle looked over the edge of the cloud. “On three: one, two—”
•••
It was epic. The two ponies shot out of the sky like a meteor, twisting in a fairly decent recreation of the Wonderbolts as they plummeted to Earth. Ponies in town started looking up at the sky, especially as the sparks and crackles began, as the mach cone tightened around the two fliers.
They suddenly got in sync, as if possessed by Harmony—and a previously undemonstrated flying ability. With an audible crack, they actually did produce a Sonic Rainboom.
“It’s working!” Pickle shouted.
“I know it’s working! Pull up!”
The pair was dangerously close to the ground as they pulled out of their dive, rippling the grass as they skimmed the Earth . . . and then their wingtips touched.
The Rainboom split as Pickle went right and Barley went left. For a moment, the bifurcated bow continued along the main street, but then the filly crossed the worn fence and slammed into Moody Root’s apricot orchard, tearing through trees and fruits alike until she finally slid to a stop against the side of his house.
Pickle wasn’t so lucky as his sister; he slammed into the side of the inn, smashing through the wall and pinballing his way through the interior before he came out the other side, scraped and bruised.
The inn collapsed behind him.
For a moment, the rainbow lingered on, painting the town with colors long forgotten, and then it faded, leaving behind nothing but monochrome destruction.
In terms of a low-effort job, it doesn’t come much easier than working at the car wash. You’re a supervisor, but all you’re supervising is the machines and the customers—who every now and then find a creative way to misuse the car wash.
There are very few instructions and very few buttons which need to be pushed, it’s almost impossible to screw it up—but you’ve learned that people are idiots. A week ago, you were watching a Tom Scott video about bear-proof trash cans for national parks, and the guy who was in charge of testing them out admitted that there was significant overlap between the dumbest humans and smartest bears—he is speaking truth.
That’s why your little attendant's stand (the only other thing you supervise) includes a big red ‘STOP’ button, an intercom, and a bevy of cameras monitoring every single nook and cranny of the car wash.
You’ve got one earbud in, jamming to your music while your eye scans the soap levels and air blast pressure and brush brushiness—okay, there isn’t a gauge for that—and the steady flow of cars going through the tunnel and emerging out the other side, clean and glistening.
As days go, it’s about perfect. The car wash is busy but not overwhelming, you’ve had plenty of time to make sure that all the machines are in good order, and so far nobody’s done anything dumb.
So far.
A noise on the intercom gets your attention. You click to the kiosk cam. There’s a Chevy Sonic sitting there, a couple cars queued up behind it. The driver of the car has their hand out the window, pressing the ‘attendant’ button but not saying anything into the box.
You frown. You’ve gotten used to seeing people as blurs through the windshield and maybe an arm out the window, and it’s given you a surprising ability to take the measure of a person just by what you can see of their arm. This one is short—the car’s pulled up close to the kiosk—and low. Probably an old lady who doesn’t know how the car wash works.
You could tell her to talk into the box, or you could walk outside and see what’s going on.
Before you can decide, you hear a strange buzz in the speaker, and then a woman’s voice. “Hello, I’d like to get a car wash please.”
“Pick your wash choice and slide your credit card,” you say automatically.
“I only have cash.”
This happens sometimes. You can take cash—you can punch in an override code and let her through. “Please pull aside to let traffic behind you go through; I’ll be out in a moment.”
You watch in the camera as the car awkwardly pulls away from the order kiosk. Some drivers have trouble if there aren’t lines to guide them.
You’ve got a cash box but it’s a pain to carry. You grab a fistful of dollars out of it—all your prices are in even dollar amounts, which is very convenient. And then you head out back. The voice sounded young and had an exotic accent.
The Sonic is pulled off to the side as you instructed. You’re almost up to the car when you catch a reflection in the side mirror—an animal head. You brain automatically assumes it’s a dog. Plenty of people cruise around with their dogs, and some of those dogs like sitting on the driver’s lap. You’re not sure that’s safe.
Another part of your brain is wondering why the dog is mulberry colored.
As you get closer, one question is answered. The head in question pops out, and it’s not a dog at all. It’s a mulberry-colored unicorn. “Hello, I’m Cinnamon Breeze.”
And there’s the exotic accent. You didn’t really need her name, this isn’t Starbucks. You falter for a second, unsure how to proceed. There are a lot of questions suddenly on your mind. You’d seen ponies around before—there’s a nearby Taco Bell that they visit—but you’d never seen one driving a car.
Does she even have a driver’s license?
Instead, you ask: “So you don’t have a card, Cinnamon, or it doesn’t work in the machine?”
“I don’t have one. I’m so used to Harper driving through the car wash, I just forgot which one I should bring. Never paid that much attention to her putting the money in, just which buttons she pushed.”
“Harper?”
“My girlfriend. It’s her car. I thought that there was a money slot like at the spray-it-yourself booth.”
“We used to have one.” That had been fraught with problems—a card swiper was simpler.
You look at the car. For what it is, it’s surprisingly clean. Some people really do like taking care of their cars, and you’ve seen a few tricked-out Sonics around town.
This one is as plain-Jane as they come, a hand-me-down car for a college student or a first car for a young employee taking on the world.
It’s clean, but it’s not straight. There are a few dents in it, a scrape down the side. Minor body damage on a cheap car doesn’t fit the profile of the vehicles that usually go through the wash, unless they’re really dirty.
Not that it should make any difference to you; your job is to attend the car wash, not gatekeep which kinds of vehicles get in and which ones don’t.
Well, that’s not entirely true; if it’s something that won’t fit in the car wash or is likely to damage the car wash, you’re permitted to turn it away.
No frat boys in an open Jeep, either.
[CHOICE]
>Something’s fishy, turn her away. (villain) >Her car will fit and she sounds like a regular (hero)
[CHOICE A: Villain] Something just seems off about this. “Does Harper know you’re driving her car?”
“She’s out of town,” Cinnamon admits. “I just wanted to . . . well, I really like the car wash. It’s a lot of fun to drive through, and since she’s been gone, I haven’t had a chance.”
That was weird, but not the weirdest thing you’d ever heard.
Then your earlier question resurfaces. “Do you even have a driver’s license?”
She narrows her eyes. “What are you, a cop?”
More and more questions are piling up. You’ve looked inside the car and it’s unmodified—you’ve seen lots of cars with accessible controls before, but this one doesn’t have them. How is she even driving it?
“No, I’m not a cop,” you tell her. “But I’d like you to leave before I have to call them. You present a safety risk to the car wash, and if you really don’t have a driver’s license, a liability risk as well.”
[CHOICE B: Hero] Her car will fit and she sounds like she’s been here before, so she probably knows the drill. “Where’d you learn to drive?”
“Oh, I just watched what Harper did, and then we practiced a little in the mall parking lot after hours. It’s not as complicated as figuring out a Pitco TB-SRTG14 Rethermalizer.”
“A what?”
“Exactly.” She reaches down and produces her cash. You’d expected her to have some kind of purse or maybe a mini saddlebag, possibly a bifold wallet. You’d never expected her to be a Ridge Wallet type.
She slides a twenty off the clip and holds it out for you. “I’d like the Ultimate, please.”
“That’s sixteen,” you say, and hand her four ones. “If you don’t mind me asking, your car—Harper’s car—looks clean, why are you washing it?”
“I just like going through the car wash,” Cinnamon admits. “It’s fun to ride inside.”
You completely understand—one of the perks of being an employee is you can run your car through in the guise of testing the system. “Did you know that we have a membership?”
“You do?”
“Yeah, I’ll get a card. You can go to our website and fill out the form. You can get The Ultimate for only $30 a month—two car washes and it pays for itself.” As you’re speaking, you suddenly realize that if she does get a membership, you might be seeing this car daily.
Silver Glow got up from the table and trotted over to the window, taking a short flight to get herself on hind legs. She looked out over the ocean, a broad expanse of blue-green that was like the sky but also not like the sky. It was dangerous and she was not allowed to fly over it or swim in it unless Mom was watching.
“Finish your breakfast, please.” Mom was spoon-feeding Spindrift, her little sister.
“I’m not hungry any more.”
“Two more bites.”
“I don’t like alfalfa.”
“It’s good for you.”
“Fine,” Silver huffed and then sat back down at the table. Spindrift burbled happily, her muzzle stained green with mashed peas. ‘Can I go flying after?”
Mom nodded absently, and concentrated on trying to get most of a spoonful of peas into Spindrift’s mouth rather than on her muzzle.
Silver leaned down and took two more bites of her alfalfa—rules were rules—and then pushed her plate aside. “Okay, I did it.”
“Thank you. Stay close to the house, okay? And where other pegasi can see you.”
“I will.” Silver nuzzled her Mom in the withers and then picked up her plush albatross. It showed all the signs of a filly’s love—some of the plush was worn down, and one eye had been lost, replaced with a gentle dab of paint. “Come on, Albie, let’s go flying.”
Albatrosses were the best birds, they could fly forever. Even over the ocean, they could just soar and soar. All the other birds had to land sometimes to rest their wings.
She had to land sometimes to rest her wings. She’d graduated from being towed by Mom to free flight, and she was getting good at it, but didn’t have the endurance older ponies did.
One day she would; one day she’d fly with the weather patrols and ship patrols. One day she’d be big enough to fly over the ocean or all the way to Baltimare or maybe even Canterlot.
She hop-flew out the front door and looked around to see where other ponies were. She and Mom used to spend more time together, before Spindrift came. Silver had mixed feelings on her little sister—she demanded a lot of attention, but she was cute and nuzzly and the two of them often took afternoon naps together.
Silver picked a cloud that wasn’t too far away, a feral one that had drifted in between the cloudhomes. Maybe a leftover from the morning fog that had coalesced. She knew to be careful on feral clouds: they didn’t always support a pegasus like a proper cloud would.
She crouched down and then hopped off her cloud, flapping her wings furiously as she dropped then stabilized, her focus locked on her target.
There were lots of things she was still figuring out. Straight and level flight wasn’t always the best, sometimes it was easier to fly high and glide down, and other times it was better to dive and then climb up, getting the momentum early and letting it do some of the work for her.
Dropping down had its disadvantages, though. If she couldn’t make it back up, she’d have to circle to the ground and wait for one of the older pegasi to rescue her.
She gently banked to the left and glided—her target cloud was sinking. Or maybe it was dissipating. Mom had a cloud book for foals which she’d outgrown, and several cloud books for adults which she sometimes puzzled her way through.
The cloud was soft and squishy underhoof, and she had to keep flapping her wings for balance. It wasn’t much of a cloud; if she looked down, she could see a hazed-out Chonamare through it.
Silver Glow turned around and stuck her head all the way in the cloud, looking in the direction of the ocean. It was also hazy and fuzzy, just like seeing it through fog.
She pulled her head back up and shook off the cloud-fluff that was sticking to her mane, then she picked up Albie and nuzzled her. “One day we’re gonna fly over the whole ocean,” she said.
Her cloud perch was getting more and more insubstantial by the minute—her hooves had started to sink in. She looked off to the west and found a new cloud.
As launches went, it left a lot to be desired. The feral cloud provided no pushback, in fact it tried to grab her and pull her down. Silver Glow wobbled over the edge, Albie held tightly in her mouth, and struggled to get back on a good course.
It was too early in the day to get a good thermal to help push her back up. She flapped furiously and started gaining altitude, finally making it up to a neighboring cloudhouse.
After a brief landing to catch her breath, she took off again, this time to the north. There was a longer gap between houses, but that was a good thing, that would help her build strength.
She alighted on the cloud and sat on her belly, then picked up Albie with a forehoof. Could she actually fly?
[CHOICE]
>No, of course not, she’s just a plushie (hero) >Maybe, anything’s possible (chaos)
[CHOICE A: Hero] Maybe if she somehow got magic powers. Silver had a picture book where a stuffed bunny came to life and protected the mare who loved her, but that was just a book. That couldn’t really happen.
Especially not with a bunny, they were silly little things. Hopping around and darting away when she flew overhead.
She nuzzled Albie just the same, and then picked her back up with her mouth as she regarded a nearby cloud. While they didn’t have parks like Chonamare did with swingsets and see-saws and trees and grass, they had clouds where foals could play and a bunch of her friends were over there, enjoying the day.
A couple of adults were setting up an obstacle course, shaping cloud tufts into rings and towers.
Silver Glow tensed her legs and then lept off her cloud perch, dropping and gliding until she was close, then circling around a couple times as she picked up altitude under the watchful eye of Sky Flower.
A moment later, she landed, dropping into the fluff. She set Albie aside in a safe spot near the edge of the cloud—she could watch—and then she trotted over to the cluster of fillies and colts, giving Sweet Bolt a nuzzle first.
[CHOICE B:Chaos] Silver picked her up and walked to the edge of the cloud and threw Albie, then leapt off to follow her.
Except Albie couldn’t fly; she dropped down to the Earth instead.
Silver watched in horror as Albie fell into the treetops and then vanished from sight. She circled around and landed back on the cloud, waiting for Albie to fly back up, but of course she didn’t.
Tears started welling in her eyes—what would she do without Albie? And then a sense of determination overtook her. Crying wouldn’t bring Albie back; she’d have to rescue her herself.
Silver Glow knew that clouds drifted, and knew that by the time she flew back home and got Mom the cloud she was standing on would have moved on, and if it did, they’d never find Albie. Most of the trees looked the same from above.
She’d already lost sight of the tree that Albie fell into, but knew about where it was. Without a second thought, she jumped off the cloud and started to dive, focusing back to what she’d learned in her short time flying.
Trees weren’t soft like clouds; nor did the top branches support a pegasus—not even a filly. She landed, sort of, and tumbled down into thicker branches. That was a minor setback; she looked around the tree but didn’t see Albie. It wasn’t the right tree.
She worked her ways through the branches, until a short flight landed her on the ground. Flying up and telling Mom what had happened was still an option, but she knew how to do searches over the ocean. She’d overheard pegasi at the tavern discussing it.
The copse of woods wasn’t that big. Silver scraped an X in the dirt beneath the tree she’d landed in, and then started walking patterns, keeping her eyes up.
After she’d walked the entire area, she took a break, nibbling on some wild timothy grass, then she used the clearing to her advantage, taking flight and circling the perimeter of the woods. Albie wasn’t near the edge, not unless she’d bounced off several trees.
But it was smart to define a search area. Once she was above the trees, she found a distinct one. She knew it was the wrong one, but it was a good marker, a good centerpoint of increasing circles.
•••
It took her three flights to find Albie. Her albatross had fallen through the crown, landing several feet down. She’d caught it with her eye on a previous orbit, but kept her discipline in her search circles, not flying into the tree until she was sure.
Her landing knocked Albie further down. She kept her eye on the plushie, crashing through the branches until she fetched up on the same branch Albie had.
Silver hugged the plush to her, then dropped through the branches to the ground—something she’d gotten good at.
Her wings were aching and she still had to fly back home.
Or she could walk to Chonamare and maybe somepony would be willing to fly her back.
She looked at Albie and then up at the clouds. She’d made it this far, and she’d make it back home with her own wingpower. Silver Glow hopped up and aimed for the nearest cloudhouse, riding a gentle thermal for as much altitude as she could get.
It felt like forever, but she finally landed in front of a cloudhouse. Not her own, but she could see it.
After one more cloud hop, she trotted around the edge, only to be suddenly face-to-face with Mom.
“Where have you been? I was so worried!”
Silver Glow wrapped her Mom in a big hug. “I dropped Albie and flew down to get her.”
“You should have gotten me—everypony’s been looking for you. I called you for lunch but you weren’t there.”
Ponies can control weather and influence crop growth, but they can’t control mud. They can’t—or won’t—pave the roads in Ponyville, and in the springtime that can be a problem.
Hooves damage the sod and ponies quickly learn to avoid the soggy spots. Wagon wheels dig in deeper and do more damage, sometimes squelching through town after a heavy rain. It’s not unusual to see a few ponies pressed into service towing the snow roller through town in an attempt to level off the roads. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
The really bad spots get demarcated with barriers, and a few farmers who are good with grass tend to them. One near the Rotunda stayed blocked off until Summer Sun—for reasons beyond your ken, it took that long to restore it to a walkable surface.
Ponies learn where the bad places are and avoid them.
Mostly.
Sometimes mistakes are made, shortcuts taken, and sometimes it’s just a new discovery. Nopony’s discovered that boggy patch yet, and woe betide the mare who tries to haul a heavy wagon through there.
Fields can be the same way, although most farmers know their fields well enough to not get wagons stuck. Winter and spring are stone-boat season, basically sleds with wooden runners. Not fun to pull, but they’ll make it over snow and soft ground where wheels fail a pony.
You were on your way to Apple Honey’s shop in search of a new shovel—your old one had somehow gone missing. She’s Ponyville’s resident farm supply and repair mare, and if that wasn’t enough, she also writes the Ponyville Express, a newspaper that trades spelling and grammar for enthusiasm.
A pair of tradesmares is coming towards you, both towing wagons. You know both of them—in a small town it’s hard not to know everypony. Ambrosia is hauling a light market cart, while Silver Spanner has a two-axle wagon in harness.
Plumbing supplies are heavy.
Ambrosia finds the soft spot first, but her wagon’s light enough to make it through. Silver Spanner sees the obstruction and you can see her brace her hooves, realize that she’s not going to be able to stop, and then dig in her hooves in an attempt to pull through.
You’d have done the same in her shoes. And like as not, you’d’ve been stuck as well as she got—you watched as the front wheels sunk, then the rear wheels followed; you watched her hooves dig into the squishy ground, kicking mud up on her wagon and her barrel, and then she ground to a stop, her tail dragging in the mud. The wagon was sunk halfway to the axles—at first glance it doesn't look that bad, but you know that looks can be deceiving. It’s not coming out easily.
Silver Spanner realizes that. She mutters something not fit to print under hear breath, and then starts unbuckling herself from her wagon.
Ambrosia has stopped as well; she also unhitches and the two examine the wagon.
You’ve seen your share of wagons getting stuck, and there’s a whole gamut of reactions to it. These two are professionals, they’ve moved past denial and straight into problem-solving mode. They have a quick palaver, discussing the options. Can two mares pull it loose? The footing isn’t good. Ambrosia has some rope on her market cart; they could feed it through the rings on the equalizer and tie it to their singletrees.
Silver Spanner has a few choice words for the road maintenance ponies and the weather ponies who could avoid making wet spots if they so chose. And then the discussion resumes; the wagon could be made lighter by offloading cargo, but that was a lot of work.
Plumbing supplies are heavy.
One of the strange dualities of a small town like Ponyville is that everypony is both fiercely independent and everypony also helps their neighbors. You haven’t been asked just yet, but you know that they know you’re there.
[CHOICE]
>help them, it’s the neighborly thing to do (hero) >they got stuck, they can get unstuck (villain)
[CHOICE: Hero] Before either of them can ask, you cross the street. There’s layers of unwritten rules in offering help—for instance, you can’t just start making suggestions right from the get-go. You have to ask what their plan is and then let things unfold from there.
And you need to offer at least one inane question to get the ball rolling. “Stuck?”
Ambrosia nods.
“If both of us pull and you push,” Silver Spanner begins. The inane question, the ask for assistance, and the basic plan are all out of the way.
“It’s still gonna be too heavy,” Ambrosia says. “Look how deep it’s stuck.”
“Maybe if the footing was good,” you add, guiding the plan to the ‘unload the wagon first’ conclusion.
“Shoulda been marked.” Silver Spanner knows she should have been watching Ambrosia’s wagon better and she might have turned and not gotten stuck. “Everypony knows it’s a low spot waiting for a wagon.” She was also coming around to the unloading the wagon plan.
Here was where the conversation could take a turn, where it could veer off into a list of general frustrations. But the two mares are pros; Ambrosia has already circled the wagon once and gotten a look at all four wheels.
Somepony’s got to get the ball rolling, so to speak. Silver Spanner looks on the cusp of fulminating, and that’s no good, she’ll need her energy to pull the wagon loose. There’s a pail near the tailboard and you grab it off, setting it in the middle of the street.
Ambroisa pulls the pins out and drops the tailboard, then reached up and grabs a length of iron pipe. She’s got it halfway off the wagon before Silver Spanner finally gets with the program and starts helping, her magic making the tasks easier. She’s no Twilight Sparkle; she hasn’t got the field strength to just lift everything up and set it on the ground, but long sections of pile are less unwieldy when assisted by a unicorn.
Other passers-by join in, and before too long the wagon is empty. A stack of tools, pipes, and pipe accessories are neatly stacked in the middle of the road.
A few of the unicorns don’t want to get their hooves muddy pushing or pulling, but they can offer their own assistance; by the time Silver Spanner and Ambrosia are in harness together, there are two unicorns ready to lighten the load, three pegasi, and you and another earth pony to help push.
With the wagon empty, it moves easily enough, riding out of the mud and back onto terra firmer. There are plenty of volunteers to re-load it, and although you see Silver Spanner frown every time an enthusiastic pony set something in the wrong place, she keeps her muzzle shut.
A few more minutes, and it’s loaded up again. Both mares hitch back to their wagons and trot off, while you continue your own trek to Apple Honey’s shop in search of a shovel.
[CHOICE B:Villain] You could volunteer to help, but that’s a lot of work, and you might get muddy.
In a small town, everybody’s furiously independant anyway—they’re not going to ask you. They’ll accept help if it’s offered, but won’t go out of their way to ask a stranger to help push.
It’s going to take more than pushing, you think.
They think otherwise; the rope through the equalizer option is taken. Since Silver got it stuck, she’s the one who gets to rig the rope. And since she’s a unicorn, she can cheat—she doesn’t have to wade in, she leads the free end of the rope through the eyebolts and then ties it off to their singletrees.
With the benefit of good footing they still have no chance; the rope stretches and they strain against it to no avail. The wagon is still as stuck as it was before.
Ambrosia grabs some scrap lumber off her wagon and wades in, jamming boards in front of the wheels, making temporary ramps. You doubt that will work, and even it does, the wagon will fall off the other end and be stuck again.
Once they’re in place, the two ponies hitch back up, and this time you see Silver Spanner’s magic lighting around the wheels for a little extra boost.
It almost works; the wagon pulls forward and you see the boards take the load; three of them do while the fourth slips and the rear end of the wagon tilts over.
Silver Spanner refocuses her magic, but it’s no good. The mud yanks it off-course, and now the rear axle is stuck again.
You figure that at least one of Ambrosia’s boards is lost, but then Silver Spanner plucks it out of its muddy prison.
Another quick discussion, and now Ambrosia trots off to get help while Silver Spanner starts unloading her wagon.
You could help, but you’re content to watch.
•••
Silver Spanner has her wagon half-unloaded when a gaggle of volunteers finally shows up. Heather Rose and Pepperstep and, unfortunately, Apple Honey and her apprentice, True Blue. Odds of you getting a shovel from Apple Honey just dropped. She’ll be ‘sold out,’ or else the price will have gone up.
Whatever, Barnyard Bargains sells shovels, too. In a few weeks Apple Honey will forget that you didn’t help.
Probably.
Many hooves make light work of the task; before too long there’s a pile of plumbing supplies on the road, and the wagon is light enough that Ambrosia and Silver Spanner pulling—while Heather Rose, Pepperstep, Apple Honey, and True Blue all push the back—is all it takes to pop it free.
When it’s back on solid ground, the mares start reloading it. You take your leave and start to walk towards Barnyard Bargains.
For most ponies, spring and fall are the busiest times of the year. Crops need to be planted or harvested, and even if your own crops don’t need attention, somepony else’s do.
Planting and harvest seasons are times of camaraderie, ponies lending each other equipment or getting in harness in somepony else’s field. The first day is always the worst; ponies bump into each other or get harnesses tangled or trip on turns.
So far you’ve done all right. A few bumps here and there, but you’ve managed to stay on your hooves for the entire day.
You reek of mud and sweat and corn. A quick rinse off in the farm pond wasn’t enough to really do the job, but you’re too tired to care.
You had a few snacks with everypony else and then said your goodbyes, already anticipating walking back home alone.
Lavender Fritter also called an early night. She did go down once, and still has some mud caked on her belly and in her tail. She didn’t spend long enough in the pond.
“I’m beat.” She sticks out her tongue.
“Spend too much time lazing about in the summer?”
“I wish. No, Rosemary wasn’t pulling as hard as she usually does and I had to do extra work.”
You frown. It might be true, but most ponies do their best when they’re working the fields. Nopony benefits from slackers. You’ve never seen Rosmary slack off at a task; she jumps into things with all four hooves.
“Don’t blame her, she just got out of the hospital a couple days ago.”
“Really?” Your ears twitch. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Colic,” Lavender says. “That’s what Apple Leaves says anyway.”
“Probably shouldn’t have been in the field.”
“Yeah.” There’s a perception that when there’s work to be done, it should be done, no excuse. You know more than a few ponies who have worked when they shouldn’t—you’ve been guilty of it yourself.
“Would have been short-hooved if she wasn’t.”
Which would have put you behind on Sunglow’s cornfield, and that delay would have spilled over to Spring Snow’s field, and before too long some ponies would be petitioning the pegasi for a pause in the weather so they had more time to harvest.
Meanwhile, ponies whose crops hadn’t matured yet would complain if the rain didn’t come on schedule.
It was a dilemma every year. Sick ponies, injured ponies, broken equipment. You can’t help but notice that Apple Honey has her lanterns lit and her front door open; as you walk by her shop you see her bent over a corn binder, working on the chain.
Lavender noticed, too. “If she doesn’t get that fixed by tomorrow—”
“Yeah.” Every corn binder in Ponyville is currently in constant usage.
“Coming through!”
The two of you step to the side on pure instinct, getting out of the way of a farm wagon piled high with corn, enroute to the train station. It’s followed by a market wagon pulled by a colt, also loaded with corn.
“One more week.” Lavender sighs. “And then we’ll have a little bit of downtime before another cutting in the hayfields.”
“At least corn isn’t itchy.” The two of you stay off the road in case more wagons come by. “Did Cherry Berry and Comet Tail ever get their hay rake fixed?”
“I think so, I think they used it for first cut.”
“Oh yeah.” You remember seeing them out in the field with it.
The two of you arrive at an intersection in town and hesitate. Here’s where you part ways; Lavender’s farm is off to the left, while you’ll keep going straight.
You nuzzle, and then you watch as Lavender turns and starts to walk down the street. Only then do you notice that her gait’s off. Tiredness, or something else?
Probably tiredness. You’re not steady on your hooves, either. But you should say something.
“Lavender?”
She stops and turns her head back.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just . . . I lost a nail.”
“Let me see.”
“It’s fine, I lose them all the time.”
You’re already moving in her direction, and she stands in place until you get up next to her.
“Which hoof?” You can tell by the way she’s walking, but you want to make sure.
“Left hind.” She cocks her leg and you lean down to look.
You were tired, and her hooves were still muddy, but you still should have noticed. She’s lost two nails and her shoe’s loose. Even in the dim lamplight you can see that.
“I don’t have very good hooves,” she says. “Not the first time one’s come loose.”
“You’ll be lucky to still have it in the morning,” you say. “Really ought to stop by Shoeshine’s and have her fix it.”
“It’s late, and she’s been working her tail off getting ready for harvest season,” Lavender protests. “I’m not too worried about it.”
[CHOICE]
>Insist she goes to Shoeshine and gets it fixed now before it’s a big problem (hero) >Lavender knows her own hooves, it’s none of your business (chaos)
[CHOICE A: Hero] “You should be,” you tell her. “It’s loose now, you might lose it on the way home, and then what?”
“I’ve worked with a missing shoe before.”
You shake your head. “The way that thing looks, you’re gonna catch your toe on something and rip it the rest of the way out. Come on, we’re not far from Shoeshine’s and I bet she’s still up.”
“She’ll tell me that I need to take it easy for a couple of days.”
You nod. “She might. I bet Nurse Redheart told Rosemary to take it easy for a couple of days, too, and she was out in harness before she was ready. So instead of losing her completely for one or two days, we might have a week where she’s not pulling as well as she could.”
“All the more reason to see Shoeshine now.” You point a hoof down the road—it’s only a couple of blocks. “Don’t make me drag you down there by your tail.”
“You wouldn't dare.”
She sees the serious expression on your face. “Okay, fine.” She flicks her tail a couple times and then turns and starts to walk in the direction of Shoeshine’s shop, with you following along to make sure she doesn’t change her mind.
A few minutes later, the two of you are in her shop. Lavender’s got a hoof up on the stand, while Shoeshine examines it. She finally reaches a verdict, and grabs her bucket of tools and brings them over. “You came in just in time,” she says. “You’d have lost that shoe before you got home, and odds are it would have torn some of your hoof out with it. Right now, I can fix it easy, and you’ll be ready to work tomorrow—if you’d have lost it . . . with the hooves you’ve got, you’d be out for a full moon.”
[CHOICE B: Chaos] Everypony’s hooves are different, and you trust that Lavender knows her body better than you. If she says she’ll be fine, she will be—she wouldn’t lie about something like that. Especially not around harvest time, when everypony needs to be at a hundred percent all day long.
“I just thought I’d mention it,” you say. “Have a good night.”
“You, too.”
You watch her till the end of the block, then shake your head and go on your way. Tomorrow’s another busy day, and you need your rest. It’s not worth wasting breath arguing.
•••
“Where’s Lavender Fritter?” You look around the assembled ponies. It’s not like her to be late.
“Lost a shoe,” Rosemary said. “Heard it from Pinkie Pie this morning. Didn’t even make it all the way home last night, poor thing. Had to hobble back to town on three legs—she tore up her hoof pretty good.”
“That stupid, stubborn mule,” you mutter. “I told her to go see Shoeshine.”
“Shoulda dragged her by her tail,” Rosemary said.
“Figured she’d know best.”
“You figured wrong. And now I’ve gotta try and pull this corn binder all by myself.”
“You’re not in any shape to do it,” you remind her. “Lavender told me you just got out of the hospital for colic.”
“Corn isn’t gonna harvest itself,” she mutters and backs up to the corn binder, first to the near side and then she remembers she’s flying solo and shifts over to the center.
“Yeah.” Dumb-Bell flutters up, crossing his forelegs.
“You some kind of coward?” Score adds.
“No,” you say, your voice shaky. “But Mom says it’s dangerous to play around trains—”
“Mom.”
“Mommy’s boy.” Hoops slaps you with a hoof. “You do everything your Mommy tells you?”
“Does she do your homework for you?’
“Does she style your mane?”
“She must, that cut’s so out of style.” Score blows his forelock back.
“It’s just a penny or two, what’s gonna happen?”
Hoops puffs his chest out. “Guys, don’t be rude, that’s his lunch money.”
The three of them are the coolest ponies at flight camp, everypony knows that. Big and strong, good fliers. Hoops aced the obstacle course yesterday, and Score almost set the record on the race. He wasn’t more than ten seconds slower than the current record-holder.
You’re not so good at flying. You didn’t grow up in a cloudhouse and your opportunities to really practice were limited. Maybe you’re making good progress at flight camp, maybe you’re not—some days it feels good and other days it doesn’t.
“You work the fields like some mudpony to get your bits?” Hoops asks. “I bet your Mom’s a mudpony.”
“She’s not,” you mutter. Not that it matters to them, you can’t win a battle of wits with them.
You could fight them; that might earn you some cred at camp. But that’s been tried already, and the hapless colt who did got detention, while they got off scot free.
“You’re a terrible flier,” Dumb-Bell says. “I could fly the obstacle course with my eyes closed and do it faster than you.”
Prove it, you think. But he won’t, and it won’t matter anyway.
“I can see a train coming,” Score says. “Over there.” He points down the tracks, rather unnecessarily. Locomotives bellow out smoke which is always visible from the air; even if you can’t see the tracks, you know where they are.
“It’s miles away,” Hoops says. “So you’re not gonna get squished.”
“Not if you’re quick,” Dumb-Bell adds. “Maybe you’re not so quick, it’s a long way down and back up.”
“Whatever.” You wave a hoof at them and turn your attention back to your locker. Flying classes are fun, book classes aren’t as much fun. You’ve got both—and so do they. As snarky as they are, they struggle in the book classes. You’re not sure that Dumb-Bell even knows how to read; whenever the flight instructor writes something on the board he just watches with a vacant stare.
“Do it,” Hoops says. “We’ve all done it.”
“Real ponies do it,” Score adds. “Go on, put some coins on the railroad tracks.”
“Everypony’s doing it.”
Nopony’s doing it; you haven’t seen a single pegasus fly down, put some coins on the track, and then fly back up to watch the train run them over. And now that you think about it, how many friends do those three even have? Besides each other? Still, the counselor seem to respect them, as do the younger pegasi—if you did put some coins on the railroad tracks, would you become part of their group? Would Hoops teach you the secrets of the obstacle course? The trick to not smashing through a cloud ring?
Would Score give you some tips on fast flying? There’s a blue mare at camp who’s kind of a loser and kind of braggy and kind of cute and maybe—
[CHOICE]
>Do it, you coward (chaos) >Stand your ground (hero)
[CHOICE A: Chaos] “Fine, what’s the worst that could happen?” You check the progress of the smoke cloud again; the train’s still a ways off.
Those bits are your lunch money, but a few of the smaller-denomination coins can be risked without real consequence. No dessert for a day, it’d be worth it to get in with the in-crowd.
You rocket down, beelining towards the railroad tracks. Even though you know the train’s a ways off, it still makes you nervous. Mom said to never play near the tracks.
And never put anything on them.
You lay out the coins in a neat row and are back on your cloud before the train hits them.
You weren’t expecting much; coins are small and soft when you bite them; trains are big and heavy. You thought it would squish them, instead the locomotive rides over the coins and then falls off the track, all the cars behind it piling up into a mass of splinters and smoke.
You watch as the crew evacuates the locomotive, running towards safety. Just in time; the locomotive explodes in a cloud of steam and sparks. The three bullies are watching wide-eyed, until finally Hoops looks over at you. “Dude. That was awesome.”
“I can’t believe you did it,” Score adds.
“Best train wreck ever.”
[CHOICE B: Hero] You slam your locker shut. “I don’t need you,” you tell them. “So go find somepony else to annoy. You think you’re hot stuff now, bullying everypony you can, but wait until you’re older and you can’t find a job. I know your kind, you think you’re better than everypony else and years from now you’ll still be the same jerks you’ve always been, working a dead-end job as assistant to the cloud wrangler.
“If you want coins squished on the tracks, fly down and do it yourselves. Go on, what are you afraid of?” You look at each of the trio in turn. “Detention? They gonna take away your pudding at dinner? This camp means nothing in the grand scheme of things. You’re bigger and faster than me but you’re not smarter . . . one day I’m gonna be your boss and you’d do well to remember that.”
“Big words for a little pony.” Hoops rump-checks you knocking you off balance. “Whatever, you aren’t worth our time. Go on, dream of sitting at a desk and ordering proper pegasi around.”
Your resolve falters, and then comes back. Rainbow doesn’t take any guff from the bullies, and if you want to impress her, you shouldn’t either.
Everypony knows Princess Celestia loves tea. You’re trying to learn to love it, too.
Ponyville’s resident tea-appreciator is Tealove, an earth pony with a lime green coat, a cerulean blue mane, and brilliant blue eyes. She’s—in someponies’ opinions—the second-most attractive pony in Ponyville (others think it’s Fluttershy).
Once a moon, she hosts a Tea Appreciation Tea Party. Usually its held in her back garden, but in the winter she lets everypony sample teas in her house.
And what a selection of teas she has! You’re no tea connoisseur, but the few times you’ve attended before, you’ve sampled flavors of tea you’d never heard of. You’ve learned things about teas you never knew before, and in some ways it’s a tour of Equestria and the lands beyond in the form of warm beverages.
Also, she’s fun to hang around with.
Unfortunately, your job means you usually can’t attend her tea appreciation parties, but this time you can. You’ve cleared your schedule, and not only will you have plenty of time to get to her tea party, you’ll also have time to groom your coat, brush your mane and tail, and polish your hooves.
•••
The afternoon is bright and clear, and there’s a spring in your step as you walk to Tealove’s house. She lives right next to Cherry Jumble, who makes delicious preserves.
There’s no need to knock or ask permission to enter her backyard; she’s got a mouth-printed sign that says “Tealove’s Tea Appreciation Tea Party,” along with a sketch of her cutie mark: a teacup with a heart of steam above it.
There’s already a crowd gathered in her backyard: Cloud Chaser and Tree Hugger, Tempeh, Flax and Paisley—you pick a chair between the two groups and settle in.
Tealove’s got a teapot out already, its aroma filling the afternoon air. Fragrant, floral and fruity—you can smell citrus and blackberry, along with a familiar flower.
As the town clock chimes, Tealove steps into the center of the circle and picks up the teapot. “This is Celestial Seasonings,” she says. “Flavored with oranges, rosehips, blackberry leaves, and hibiscus. Those are all flavors that Princess Celestia Herself loves.”
She pours each of you a mug of tea, and you take a moment to savor the aroma before taking a sip.It’s delicious and refreshing. You look around you at the other ponies—Tealove has a dreamy expression on her face, while Cloud Chaser frowns and then takes another sip. It might not be to her taste.
After you’ve had time to sample the first tea, Tealove goes back into her house to bring out the second variety.
You can already smell it, even with the unfinished tea next to you. It’s got a strange, bitter smell—moreso than most teas.
Tealove returns to her house, and comes back with sugar and cream. “I don’t normally support adding anything to tea,” she explains. “This tea, however, is very bitter and not for everypony. I would recommend only a small sip to understand the flavor profile, and then add cream and sugar to your taste.
“It’s wormwood tea, and it has some medicinal properties.”
“That’s not all it does,” you hear Tree Hugger mutter. Flitter holds up a hoof to shush her.
Meanwhile, Tempeh, Flax, and Paisley are engaged in a whispered discussion about the tea.
You watch intently as Tealove pours it into teacups. The tea is an intense green, darker than her coat. Now that it’s in front of you, the smell is even more intense, and it’s very much not a pleasant smell. Earthy, medicinal, and bitter
While you’ve been surprised by flavors before, you don’t expect to be surprised by this one. Not if she brought out cream and sugar.
Still, you gamely take a sip. It’s very very bitter. Cream and sugar help, but you still have a bitter aftertaste once you’ve finished the mug.
Also, curiously, you’re starting to see little flashes of light in the corners of your vision.
“Far out.” You look over at Tree Hugger—she’s got an aura around her now. How long has that been there?
And in fact, everypony you look at has an aura. Very faint, but it’s there.
Tealove clears away the wormwood tea and brings out a new pot. “To continue the theme, our next tea is made from flowers which only grow in the Mountains of Madness.”
[CHOICE]
>Stick around and see where this goes (chaos) >Get out while you can (villain)
[CHOICE A: Chaos] Everypony watches intently as she pours the first mug. It’s a reddish-orange tea with iridescent shimmers that twist around in it, seemingly in defiance of fluid dynamics. The scent of it builds, starting familiar and floral, then the burnt undertones start to come through, along with a hint of sulfur and something else you can’t quite place.
The teacup seems to be shifting as well, changing form to something else, and then it quickly changes back to a teacup when you focus on it.
“Are we ready?”
Everypony nods, and everpony takes their first sip simultaneously. It starts out hot, but then turns intensely cold in your stomach. Weirdly, you’re sweating just the same.
And you’re not the only one who’s having a reaction to it; Tree Hugger slides out of her chair and looks up at the sky in a daze, while Cloud Chaser is pawing at her mouth, trying to get the taste out.
Tempah spits his tea back into his cup. “What kind of flowers were they, Tealove?”
She steps back nervously as he starts advancing on her. “What kind of flowers?”
[CHOICE B: Villain] You’ve heard of the Mountains of Madness and they’re aptly named. Of all the wild plants growing there, poison joke is about the mildest. Everything there is a threat in one way or another, and you want nothing to do with that.
Just leaving is rude, but the town clock chiming gives you an excuse. “I’m so sorry, but I have to leave, I have an appointment.”
“Oh.” Tealove’s ears fall and then perk back up. “Well, thanks for stopping by! Come back next time.”
“You can be sure I’ll be back,” you say with a grin.
You could warn everypony, but where’s the fun in that? Instead, you go home and make yourself a big bowl of popcorn, then you make your way back to Tealove’s house.
Turns out the tea worked faster than you would have anticipated—most of the Mane 6 and the town guard are already at Tealove’s house, along with the fire department.
You spotted the pony in the cereal aisle of the grocery store. She—you assume, most ponies seem to be female—is studying the neatly-faced ranks of bright-colored cereal boxes. You know that companies pay extra to get the right shelf space, and for breakfast cereal it’s often kid-height. Bright boxes, appealing mascots . . . she tilts her head one way and then the other, her attention focused on a box of Lucky Charms before she decides against it.
She’s got a basket beside her filled with the food she’s already selected. A box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch joins it and then her magic twines around the handle and she lifts it onto her back.
You’re not sure what she is. She’s got an equine form and can use magic, but after that the differences quickly outweigh the similarities. Her coat’s a boring brown, she’s got scales on her back, cloven hooves; she’s got a leonine tail and mane, and her horn is more like an antler, instead of the neat spiral of a unicorn horn.
Whatever she is, she’s adorable and you just want to pet her.
Ponies love being petted, or being scritched behind the ears.
“Cinder?”
Her ears perk, and her head turns. A college-age girl with a cart’s at the end of the aisle, behind you. The pony—Cinder, apparently—picks up her basket in her mouth and trots towards her.
“Cinnamon Toast Crunch?”
She nods, and starts transferring her selections to the cart. The box of cereal, a value pack of Nature Valley Granola bars, a baggie of Atomic Fireballs.
“You want to get dairy products next?” The girl shows the pony the list; she skims over it and nods, then trots down the aisle towards the dairy section.
The girl turns her attention to the variety packs of instant oats as you head towards the dairy section.
•••
Cinder’s deep in concentration at a cooler door, studying the variety of milk. Skim, two percent, vitamin D, and the brands don’t color-code consistently.
You abandon your cart and step up beside her and reach your hand out, intending to run your hand down her back just to see what it feels like. Ponies love that—you don’t have any personal experience, but other people have told you that they’re very touchy.
[CHOICE]
>pet her (chaos) >ask her first, then pet her anyway (villain)
[CHOICE A: Chaos] As she opens the cooler door and lifts up a gallon of milk, you make your move.
You come up right behind her, and she’s so lost in concentration she doesn’t realize at all. Your hands settle on her back and it is scales, kind of like a snake but warmer. Out of the corner of your eye you spot her ears pinning back, and you feel her muscles tense as you close in on her tail.
She kicks so fast you have no idea what’s happened; you feel a searing pain in your midsection as you’re suddenly launched back into an endcap, sending dozens of jars of Planters peanuts to the floor.
The gallon of milk drops to the ground, splitting open as it hits.
You’re sliding down the endcap as she turns, flames licking at the corners of her eye and around her horn; she pulls her lips back and reveals fangs.
You’ve been lied to; ponies aren’t cute and cuddly at all—ponies are dangerous.
[CHOICE B: VIllain] “Hey.”
Her ears swivel, and she turns her head to face you.
“Can I pet you?”
She looks at you and then shakes her head.
“Are you sure?”
She nods, then turns her attention back to the milk.
“I’ve got very soft hands,” you promise.
That’s answered with a quiet growl, and for a second you spot a flicker of light on her horn that’s not the same as when she picked up the cereal. In hindsight, a clear warning you shouldn’t have ignored.
She might have said no, but she obviously didn’t need it. She’s tense, and an ear-scritch would relax her, so you reach out and touch a velvety ear, trace your fingers down to the base and that’s when things go sideways.
There’s no warning at all, just a sudden wash of heat and now you’re not touching a pony, you’re touching a fire—you’re arm deep in a fire.
“So tomorrow’s the Fourth of July,” you say. “Which is a traditional American holiday, it’s when we celebrate our independence from England.”
A gaggle of pegasi is watching you with interest. They have a book titled So You Want To Go To Earth, which they frequently reference; you’d discovered on St. Patrick’s day that their book didn’t include most human holidays.
If you were an anthropologist you might wonder why they were omitted. Did ponies not have holidays? Or weren’t they considered important enough to include in the book? There was a lot of culture clash between humans and ponies.
“We celebrate by having cookouts and parades and fireworks and not working,” you continue. “Unless there’s an emergency, of course.”
Locket raises a hoof and you nod. “Is there going to be excessive drinking?”
“Yes.”
“So we’re gonna be doing a mission.”
“We might be, that’s in the hands of fate.”
“Or the bottom of a can of beer,” Splish Splash mutters.
“Several cans of beer,” Dainty Dove adds. “People do dumb stuff when they’re drunk.”
“There’ll be a picnic and a barbeque, we’ll have veggies for you ponies. No training or anything tomorrow.”
“If it’s a quiet day, I’ll go on a night flight,” Splish Splash says. “Haven’t done that in a while.”
“Why not?” you ask.
“Because you make us get up at six am for training.”
Well, that was an honest answer.
As you start walking down the hall, you remember that you were supposed to warn them about fireworks.
Choice
>turn around and tell them (hero) >there’ll be time to remind them tomorrow (chaos)
