> Our girl Scootaloo 1 of 3
>  by Cozy Mark IV
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Ch 1. Why is there a time portal in the back yard?
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV & Jan. McNeville


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release


Chapter One: Why is There a Time Portal in the Backyard?

"Well, I have the first chapter done," the lavender alicorn pony sighed. "I'm still not sure why you picked me to write this, Scoot."

"You're the best writer I know, you're good at research and you're unbiased. I trust you to tell people the real story, not the sugar-sweet censored-up thing everyone in two different worlds expects." The orange pegasus smiled. "Also, you write faster than anyone else I know and the advance from the publishing company is enough to live on while you wait for your fellowship to start. Even guest professors need to publish something."

"Publish or perish, yes. It's partly what left Starswirl the Bearded to languish in obscurity for so many years. If he had just thought to hire a proofreader…"

"And that's what my Papa and Melissa and David will help you with. They were all there at different times and can double-check the research, plus they're good at punctuation and explaining human stuff. You also have the cell-phone with everyone's numbers, so if you need to know what happened when I wasn't around for something, you can just call people. Daddy even made you a copy of my digital baby book."

"Yeah, about that…" Twilight Sparkle, Ph.D and Guest Professor of Equestrian Studies at a major American university raised an eyebrow at her friend. "Who keeps footage of protests and sequenced DNA research in a baby book? Your Dad makes Rainbow Dash's father look like a casual Wonderbolts fan."

"Dad is an engineer. They like records. And petabyte hard-drives are cheap these days. He started with just a little three-terabyte job that cost a hundred bucks back then."

"You do know that everything Starswirl the Bearded ever did fit into less than that?"

"Did Starswirl have parents with cameras?"

"Good point."

"And you're a great writer, plus we've established that books about famous Equestrians sell really well in the human world. I mean, Pinkie Pie's Party Cookbook has topped the New York Times bestseller list for weeks, and her bartending guide broke J.K. Rowling's pre-sale record on Amazon. People are camped out for it as we speak."

"Speaking of horrifying pony media, what IS the deal with 'Rarity: The Musical'?"

"…Between six-year-old girls and the kind of gay men who love musicals, how would there not be a musical in planing about Rarity by now? The costumes alone are probably going to be nominated for a Tony Award, and you know she's enjoying every second of it."

"That's what worries me," Twilight groused. "That night you explained what a gay icon was, her eyes just lit up with an unholy fire. It was like the time we took Fluttershy to the National Zoo, but worse. Even Trixie didn't look like such a bad case of ambition poisoning."

"Uh…Rarity is Rarity. Wanting to be a gay icon for her is like wanting to be orange for me," Scootaloo grinned. "And somebody has to record Christmas albums, appear in parades and wear outrageous outfits now that Bette Midler's retired. Plus, think of all those nice backup dancers who will have good steady jobs thanks to her. The sequin industry alone…"

"I also don't understand Rainbow Dash and Gatorade. Shouldn't Pinkie and Gummy be handling that?"

"It's…it's a sports thing," Scootaloo knew trying to explain Human marketing to a two-legged academic was hard enough. Explaining it to Twilight…why even try? "And the prospects for Applejack's cider franchise are looking good."

"I thought she was going to knock those two…what were they called?"

"Venture capitalists?"

"Yeah, I thought that after the Flim-Flam brothers, she'd rear up and buck them silly. I'm glad your accountant friend was able to explain they weren't trying to put one over on her."

"It'll have the best quality-control of any cider in North America, and the new hard ciders are wonderful. Did she send you a bottle of the Special Reserve?"

"She did. I haven't opened it yet."

"Well…save that for a night when you don't have to go anywhere…or the next day, either. A.J. seems to have farm-girl toughness all the way down to her liver." Scootaloo winced at the memory. "And just set the coffee-maker up to start automatically the next morning. Trust me."

"I do appreciate the automatic one you and David gave me for Hearth's Warming –Christmas…whichever we celebrate."

"The coffee maker was for Christmas. The eight little mugs and saucers to go with it were for Hanukkah. And the Coffee-of-the-Month subscription, that was Hearth's Warming Eve."

"Yeah, the Human and Equestrian calendars' combining was not good for Pinkie Pie."

"She's happy as I've ever seen her."

"Okay, maybe I meant the worlds around Pinkie Pie."

"Fair point." Scootaloo looked at the page open on Twilight Sparkle's computer. "So, may I read the first chapter?"

"Sure. You aren't in it for several pages, but I've tried to get across what your Dad and Papa told me about how it was."

"Worst-case scenario, just put in excerpts from Dad's diary."

"…I already have."

"Then it can't possibly be that bad. I bet you're doing a super job." Scootaloo sat down in the specially-designed ergonomic office chair for Equestrians and adjusted the height. Twilight, nervous as to whether the book was really going to be any good at all, backed away.

"I'm…I'm going to check on Spike."

"Mmkay," Scootaloo mumbled, already engrossed in the official biography of herself. It wasn't ego that made her keep reading, but nostalgia, remembering how it had all been so long ago…





Our story begins with an unlikely couple.

David Jayne Martin had grown up in a God-fearing family, attended church and even at a young age, wanted to know all about how things worked. When he worked on machines and computers things worked out well, and at a young age he earned the reputation as the go to kid for any and all computer problems. When he asked questions about how other things worked though, things like where animals came from, how creation worked, why do we hate those two men down the street, or why do the altar boys and their families keep leaving the church, then people said he was a troublemaker, or that he was asking 'bad questions.'

When he was 12, his parents shipped David, (Jayne to his friends,) off to a suitable boarding school. He made good grades and excelled in the sciences, but as he grew older it became clear he wasn't like the other boys. It wasn't easy coming of age as a gay teen in a religious boarding school, but the internet provided dissenting opinion, and while he toed the line in public, privately he worked to understand what it meant to be gay.

As years past he found the school’s unyielding dogma on homosexuality, repeated as gospel within the school walls, was decried as hate speech in many circles on the internet. Learning to tell the difference led to a true study of religion, faith, and origins that fundamentally changed his outlook on the world. It took several years and much study of religion, science and the origins of Christianity, and though it caused him pain, by the time he graduated, he found he had found he could no longer hold the same religious convictions as his family. He knew them well enough though to keep his views to himself though. While he still considered himself a good Christian, his new understanding of his faith was one of the many denominations that his parents had thought would burn in hell for disagreeing with the southern fundamentalist orthodoxy. 

He soon earned admission to the state college on an engineering track, and though his parents did grumble about the 'godless institution,' with some work he managed to keep the peace. The freedom of college life was amazing after the rigidity of boarding school, and while he studied math, physics and science, he also explored who he was.

There were countless crushes that first year, but ultimately no long-term commitments and as the course schedule got harder in the second and third year, Jayne nearly gave up dating to focus on his studies.

It was just after the holidays during his junior year he met Kevin Wilkes, a senior working on Fashion Design and Marketing with aspirations of becoming a well-known designer. They met at the school cafeteria and wound up sharing a table with mutual friends Mary and Stephanie, whom they hit it off with immediately. They were dating inside of a week and things rapidly became serious as they fell for each other.

Kevin had been kicked out of his home at age fifteen, and had spent the last years of high school with his adoptive foster parents, Mary Claire Bridget Scott and Ibrahim ben-Salim Ayhan-Scott, who generally went by ‘Claire and Ben.’ The couple had fostered many children over the years, and they welcomed Kevin with open arms. The Irish-Catholic/Turkish-Muslim family1 had earned a sterling reputation of patience and understanding among the social workers and after his previous home life, Kevin soon gratefully accepted them as his parents and they as one of their many sons and daughters, the ‘foster’ being a prefix that tended to just sort of fall off along the way.

This sounded improbable, until anyone met the Scotts and realized that these were hyper-tolerant Unitarian Universalist hippies whose loyalty to the traditions and values of Tolkien ranked higher than their original religious or ethnic affiliations. They cared more about whether a new kid appreciated the Beatles than his or her sexual orientation, past record or any of what social workers called ‘problems’ and took  great pride in having gotten no less than nine ‘difficult’ kids not only through their teenage years, but the higher education that suited them and well on their way to a happy life. Somewhere between their immigrant parents, liberal-arts educations and the successful small business they’d founded in the Eighties, the Scotts had developed an almost Confucian blend of ‘chill’ and ‘discipline-by-example’ that made them  uniquely suited to dealing with young people. That, and they also had a classic-rock cover band, so it was nice to have foster-kids around in case there was  a need for a bass player.

Kevin had always been a hard worker, and the trauma of being thrown out of his home gave him plenty of incentive to dive into his school work so he had less time to think about the past, though Claire and Ben did encourage him to participate in activities. By the time he was a senior in high school, he was spending four days a week at the community college taking any classes he could. When Jayne met him nearly four years later, Kevin had grown strong, smart and confident, and though the loss of his family still pained him, it no longer kept him awake at night.

Kevin was gregarious, brimming with interesting stories, and he found Jayne's quiet, thoughtful personality and snide wit to be a welcome change. Jayne was glad to have finally found someone willing to learn new things, and as Kevin rapidly expanded Jayne's circle of friends on campus, Jayne taught Kevin how to work on his car, fix broken appliances, and helped him learn all about engineering and science. 

Soon they had developed an easy, natural rapport, where the simplest of ideas, like ‘I’m running out of shelf space again. Do you think we could find cheap bookshelves somewhere?’ would lead first Jayne to suggest building them, then Kevin to co-design them, then ergonomics, then collapsibility, then next thing you knew their respective dorm rooms had beautiful, unique sets of mortise-and-tenon custom bookshelves that packed flat for moving, cost only $50 apiece and the happy couple was busily drawing plans for their next project. Jayne was good at substance, efficiency and making something function well. Kevin was good at beauty, getting the most from very simple, often recycled materials and making the function harmonious with the design of a given piece. Together, every day was a whirl of on-the-cheap creativity, and anything from ‘what shall we have for lunch?’ to ‘are those jeans torn?’ went from problems to wonderful opportunities for adventure, just because they were together.

That spring they both spent as much time together as they possibly could, touring each other’s campus, seeing favorite restaurants and bars, and meeting mutual friends. Between school, work and love, the days flew by in a blissful haze, and more than one of their friends kidded them about becoming 'that couple'– the snuggly, adorable pair who were always holding hands, always at each other’s side; the couple everyone else envies.

One of the side effects of pairing a designer and an engineer was that terminology and ideas from their respective disciplines began to bleed across from one to the other. Kevin referred to the Scotts as his superior ‘aftermarket’ parents and thought of his old ones as crummy ‘OEM’ ones that ‘the manufacturer should have recalled,’ while Jayne once managed to impress the CEO of a company where he interned during undergrad by comparing one of their products to the Bauhaus design school and commenting that the simplicity of form was really quite timeless and attractive in addition to being more efficient and ergonomic than the competitor’s. (The item was, incidentally, a lug wrench.) Designers and engineers make for an adorable but occasionally downright strange pairing.

The end of the school year came all too soon, and neither was sure where they were going, or what they would be doing. Over only a few short months, they had developed strong feelings for each other, but if Kevin found work across the country, how would they cope?

On the day of graduation, Jayne got to meet Kevin's ‘aftermarket’ parents2 for the first time, but the cloud of uncertainty hung over the two of them despite the festive atmosphere of the event. As Kevin walked the stage, Jayne sat with his parents and two of their children in the audience and cheered with the rest of them, but his expression betrayed him.

"Don't look so worried, Jayne." Claire admonished him with a warm smile, "From what I can see, our boy really loves you. You may have to write each other letters for a while, but don't lose hope. If you love him too, this will work out."

She was right, of course. That summer was long and hard for both of them; for Kevin it meant endless job hunting and frustration, while for Jayne, summer meant a return to his parents, and the daily struggle to fit in while concealing his true thoughts and identity. Most evenings they would lay in bed, chatting on their computers, and fall asleep thinking of each other.

In the tiny town he was from, Kevin found it nearly impossible to find even service jobs, and his degree was beginning to look like a very expensive mistake as one company after another turned him down. With the beginning of the fall term Kevin and Jayne made the arrangements and moved in together to a run-down apartment not far from campus where Kevin could find temporary work while he job-hunted online in the evenings.

Despite the continued gloom on the job front, that fall was one of happiest times either of them could remember. After a hard day of work or study they would come home to each other, and once a week, they got to enjoy the warmest, most peaceful time of all. Every Saturday morning they slept in, woke up to an easy breakfast of scrambled eggs (the only thing Jayne could cook besides baking mixes or frozen pizza,) or Kevin’s delicious French toast (made from scratch, Mama Claire’s recipe,) and watched 'My Little Pony:, Friendship is Magic' together.

A friend had turned them on to the show, and it soon became their special place -, a place where discrimination, hate and violence were rare, and made manageable, even comical by the serene landscape of Equestria. The ponies had their problems, but they always looked out and cared for each other.

The school year passed once more in a flurry of tests and papers, Christmas came, and for the first time, Jayne made his excuses and got to spend it with someone who loved him unconditionally. As winter warmed into spring, they talked it over, and decided they were ready.

The ceremony was a modest affair, with only a handful of friends and Kevin’s parents able to make the long drive with them to a state where the marriage was even possible, but it was worth it to stand at the altar with the one they loved. Also, given that the Martins were no longer speaking to Jayne and Kevin hadn’t heard from ‘his OEM family’ in nearly a decade, they decided to take advantage of the name-change option on marriage licenses and, with the proud permission of Claire and Ben, changed their last name to Scott.

{excerpt from Jayne's memoirs}

I am fortunate, in the place and the time I live, I am blessed to have the life I have, to have a husband who loves me, a job to pay down the student loans, the car loan, the home loan… Every day for the last five years when I wake up and feel him laying beside me, his arms holding me close, I feel so safe and loved.

Of course none of this matter to my parents. Kevin had suggested we not tell them, but they were my parents, and I could hardly keep the news of my own wedding from them. I still remember the sting in my cheek where my mother slapped me after I told them. The yelling and the rage "No son of mine is marrying another man! I won't have it! Get out, both of you! And don't you dare come back! GET OUT YOU FILTHY FAGGOT AND DON'T YOU DARE SHOW YOUR FACE HERE AGAIN!"

We continued to live out of our run-down apartment as I finished my degree, but despite his diligent job searching, Kevin found that without 'knowing people', a degree in fashion design and marketing was worth only slightly more than the paper it was printed on. Kevin continued to work his job in a retail store, and another in a call center to make ends meet. He would come home late to find me working through some math or engineering textbook and say "Put that away, dear, we have a new one tonight." My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. It became our safe place, a place of simple happiness where no families separated or disowned their foals.

In time I graduated as well. As I walked the stage, I looked up into the stands of proud parents, knowing I wouldn't see my own. But Kevin was; his boss gave him hell but he made it to my graduation anyway and was there cheering me on.

When I found a job in my field we both rejoiced; even in this economy there was still a need for engineers. Our friends helped us pack the moving van and we said our tearful goodbyes and promised to keep in touch.

Our new place was small but without the leaking pipes and sagging floors of our old apartment. I dove into my work, but the town was tiny and Kevin had a hard time finding any job that paid better than minimum wage, and even when he bit the bullet and took a crummy retail job at a store that treated its’ workers horribly, they kept his hours very low to avoid paying benefits. This was only made worse as many people took a dim view of us and we soon learned not to hold hands in public. I came home in tears one evening after someone vandalized our old Civic with spray paint and rocks. "It's okay, Jayne," he said as I sobbed in his arms "You're safe with me. If this town doesn't want us here, well, we're only renting."

We cut our spending down to next to nothing by eating ramen and spending Christmas with the kind and accepting teenage staff of a fast-food place, saving us enough to put a down payment on a small house out in the woods between my work and a larger city where Kevin could find employment.

With no neighbors for a half mile down our little dirt road we had no one to bother us, but it made for a lonely life. By now, several years after graduation, most of our friends from school had children of their own, and their lives revolved around the new additions to the family. They posted adorable pictures and heartwarming stories of the little ones playing, learning, growing. We both wanted children so, but due to state law, it just wasn't possible.

Kevin took up gardening in an ever-expanding patch of the backyard, and I kept the two old cars running as best I could – he liked to kid me that I looked good with a bit of engine grease. I enjoyed my office job, but it wasn't easy being the only one who didn't watch football and NASCAR, the odd one out on any team. Our student debt and home loan meant we had very little left over each week, but through it all we would come home every night and watch the ponies in their world without hate, without debt and dream; if only.

...

A nervous sense of anticipation I could not explain woke me in the wee hours of morning. Slipping out of bed I glanced out the window overlooking the dead end road – nothing to see at first but… why was the car casting two shadows? The moon was full tonight, but we didn't have any lights on…

I pulled on slippers and my bathrobe over my pajamas (a silly habit I learned in boarding school) and grabbed the bat we keep by the bedroom door. Stepping out onto the porch I could see the light was coming from the backyard, and it seemed to have gotten ever so slightly brighter. I looked around the corner and nearly shrieked when Kevin put a hand on my shoulder. "I heard you get up and the bat was gone" he whispered "what is it?"

I gestured at the dim glow around the corner and we cautiously made our way around the house to the fence separating the garden from the surrounding woods. There was an ill-defined area of dimly glowing light several feet around and about 6 feet off the ground out in the woods a few paces past the fence. No one else was around.

I stepped closer for a better look when Kevin grabbed my hand.

"Jayne, weren't those trees the same height as the rest of the woods yesterday?"

I followed his gaze to the forest – it looked like a normal enough sight, but now that I was looking for it I saw it too. "The trees around the light are shorter!" Then looking down and closer to us – "and look, the fence we put in is gone!"

The fence that separated the garden had a six-foot section missing, the bare wires hanging limp on either side, and the grass in a circle around the light got progressively shorter as it got closer to the light, with a patch of bare dirt directly underneath the light that seemed to have gotten bigger in the several minutes we had been watching.

"Jayne, what the hell is going on?"

I stared blankly at the dim light; it almost looked like storm clouds in the very center, like someone had taken a flash photo of a hurricane and…

"Find me a stone," I said. He gave me a confused look but brought me an egg size rock which I tossed as close to the light as I could. The stone arced up, but as it got closer to the light it flew slower and slower until it almost hovered in mid-air, hitting the ground several minutes later.

"What the hell? How can it…" And then it clicked. "Wait here," he said. "I have my old spade in the shed.” It was silly of him, but even though the garden tool was past use, he’d hung onto it when we moved because it’d been a present from Claire and Ben when he first came to live with them. He came back moments later with the rusty shovel and with a glance at me threw it at the dimly-lit circle. The shovel spun slower and slower as it got deeper in, but it also changed. As we watched, the rust faded away, the old bend from being run over by a car un-bent, and in an hour the shiny new spade seemed to pass though the circle and disappear.

"Okay. We have a time portal in our back yard." The silence stretched on. "Jayne, why do we have a time portal in our backyard?"

I gave him a 'who me?' look; "I have no idea."

More minutes passed.

"But I think I will worry about it in the morning when I am properly awake"

He looked at me like I was nuts. "But we can't just…" and trailed off as he worked it out.

"Exactly. Who would we call? Who in their right mind would even believe us?" I thought for a moment "That camera we have can record for several hours right? Let's set it up out here and leave it running overnight. We can check the results in the morning."

The next morning I woke to see Kevin sitting on the edge of the bed fawning over something wrapped in a blanket. He turned and showed me the sleeping form of an orange and fuchsia Pegasus who squirmed in her sleep and yawned adorably. I had no idea what was going on, but my heart just melted in my chest.

"I setup the camera last night, but when I came back to check on it a few hours later, this little girl was coming out of the light. It took an hour, but I caught her before she fell, and she's been asleep ever since."

"Kevin. That is a foal-sized Scootaloo. From the cartoon. How…?"

"I don't know either, but the light thing started to shrink right after she came through and was gone before sunrise. Aside from a hole in the fence and trees, there's no sign it was ever there."

"Then…" I reached out and stroked her mane and she snuggled deeper into the blanket. I couldn't help it, my heart melted again.

"She is ours," he said, with tears in his eyes, "our little one to take care of, just like we wanted for so long."

I couldn't help it, I was crying too. "Okay," I sniffed, "I can live with that."

The next few days were a wonderful whirlwind blur as we got to know each other. Scootaloo, as we named her, was momentarily worried by her strange surroundings, but seemed to be too young to talk or care for long. She was soon bounding about the house, getting into everything and looking for things to play with. I drove out to the larger city and bought tools to child-proof the house, vegetables and horse feed, as well as a bag of kids' toys, including an adorable stuffed lion from ‘The Wizard of Oz’ that looked at least as old as I was, but still in good shape, and a child-size bed from the Goodwill.  

Amy, a clerk with Down’s syndrome who knew us well since we shopped there a lot was there when I came up to the register with the ticket for the large items in back and the bag of toys I’d picked out for Scootaloo. She looked very happy as she rung me up.

“Are you and your sweetheart going to be Daddies now?” she asked. 

It was so strange, but of all the places and people in town, sweet girls like Amy and places like Goodwill were the most understanding. Still, if word got around that we had a child staying at our place, alone with two gay men, well… people would not only ask questions, but it’d attract a lot of attention we really did not want.

“Oh, no, erm –my, my niece is coming to visit for the week with her parents, and we need an extra spare-room bed and some toys for her,” I improvised a lie.

“That’s wonderful!” Amy smiled broadly. “You picked perfect toys for a little girl! You and Kevin must be the best uncles ever!” She reached beside the counter and brought up a shoebox of children’s books, specifically ‘Charlotte’s Web,’ ‘The Mouse and the Motorcycle’ and several others by authors like Lloyd Alexander and Roald Dahl. “These books are a quarter each, do you think she would like some of them?” Amy asked. 

I looked at the gently-worn secondhand books, and did a little math in my head. Three-fifty for the lot.

“These are perfect, Amy!” I praised the cashier. “I’ll take them all!”

“Wonderful!” Amy cried, clapping her hands and carefully counting the books, then punching the quantity into the register. “These are the ones I’ve read. I pick out the best books and I read them when there are no customers.”

“Oh, no! I can’t take your books, Amy!”

“No, you should! I have read these books many times and have them at home. My work friends got me a Kindle for Christmas and whenever I find a book I want to read again, I ask my friend Sarah to help me put it on my Kindle so I have it forever.  Then I try new books from stock, and when I find someone who needs a good book, I suggest they try some of these.” She pointed to the side of the shoebox, which was marked ‘Staff Recommendations: Amy’ in what looked like Sharpie marker.  “All my work friends read books from stock and put the ones they like into boxes now for good customers. I have books you and Kevin might like, too!” 

And with that, she took a box marked ‘Staff Recommendations: Adam’ from the same shelf by the register. “Adam is your age and really smart. He is working here while he gets used to his special arm.” I remembered a young man with a prosthetic and a half-grown-out military haircut, patiently training a coworker with Down’s on the register. “You’re smart like him, so you might like the same books as him.”

Couldn’t fault that logic! I picked out a cool-looking sci-fi one for myself and one of the medieval fantasy kind that Kevin enjoyed. At a quarter apiece, there was no better deal in town, and it was nice to have someone think of me as not only smart, but the social equal of a combat veteran.

As I paid the shockingly modest sum Amy totaled up for me, she smiled again. “You and Kevin will be great Daddies someday soon.”

And with that ringing endorsement in my ears, I thanked Amy and headed to the store’s loading dock to get Scootaloo’s new bed. 

Funny, but somehow the opinion of a lady like Amy, who still loved ‘Charlotte’s Web’ in her early thirties and was the nicest and most thoughtful cashier in town despite the Down’s, meant more to me and gave me more hope than anything else our friends and Kevin’s foster-parents had ever said about us starting a family. Who better than a children’s book expert to know what good Daddies should be like?

The twin-size mattress and simple bed fit surprisingly easily into our eight-year-old Toyota minivan. We'd bought it only two weeks before as a $1700 Craigslist bargain in an attempt to have something Kevin and I could use for larger items and Home Depot runs. We’d worried that it might be too much car for us, but our old Civic was aging badly since the vandalism and a van would let us make bigger junkyard runs to keep it and whatever would ultimately replace it going for less money, to say nothing of how much we’d save on pickup-truck rentals now that we were homeowners and sometimes needed to bring home bulky supplies for our humble fixer-upper abode. Now, with a little girl of our own at home, it looked like one of the best investments I’d ever made. 

Kevin called just as I was heading from the Goodwill to the farm-supply store and added fence wire for the backyard and pet doors to the list. 

"She went right in the houseplant! Let’s just hope she can learn to go outside, I don't think they make diapers in her size," he explained. I laughed and told him I loved him, then went to see what could be had for a tiny pony. 

Again, I had to tell a white lie to an inquisitive retail worker, but as white lies go, ‘I’m looking after a pony for my friend Kevin,’ really …wasn’t that untruthful. Kevin is my best friend as well as my husband, and we were definitely looking after a pony. It was really more of a need-to-know-basis gloss-over than a lie. And the associate, whose name I don’t think I ever caught, took the unspoken implication that I’d never looked after so much as a Pekingese in my life (maybe it was my business-casual work attire?) and proceeded to tell me just about everything I’d need to know about babysitting a wee pony. And what she couldn’t tell me herself, she gave me a website address for, helpfully jotting down some of her favorite resources and forums for ponies, fillies and especially new horse-owners on a length of receipt paper.

Come to think of it, she reminded me a lot of Applejack from the TV show.

I hesitated at first to bring up  the need for fencing, but the human-Applejack associate quickly made her own assumptions. “Oh, is your friend re-doin’ his enclosures and barn, then, and that’s why y’all watchin’ the little filly? I hear that! We’ve had a ton of people come in needing temp’rary fencing while they fix up their horses’ homes. Something about a big recall.” See what I mean? She was seriously a human version of Applejack. “But don’t you worry none, our store doesn’t carry the messed-up stuff. I think I can help you find exactly what your little filly needs, let’s just go take a look in Fencing!”

And so she did! It even fit in that dear old Toyota van.

Scootaloo soon made her favorite foods clear when she got out into the garden we fenced for her.  Who knew someone so small could eat so much? And human-Applejack had been completely right when it came to feed suggestions, especially Peppermint Horse Treats. We experimented a little and found out that Scoot loved everything peppermint, but after she and I pretty much split a whole bag of Starlight Mints from the dollar store one happy afternoon while reading, Kevin did insist we buy her a toothbrush. They made a cute kids’ one with Pinkie Pie on it, so I bought that and chalked it up as fulfilling the ‘it is important for adoptive parents to recognize and celebrate their child’s native culture’ requirement in the parenting advice book.

We soon settled into a routine – Kevin cut his hours back to just a few on the weekends when I was home, and together we raised our little one, playing with her and trying to teach her to speak. There was no doubt she was smart, and in a few weeks she was already making fumbling attempts at words and gesturing enough to make her wants and needs clear to us.

Kevin brought up our mutual hope and worry one evening after we tucked her into bed. "I think she's going to grow up able to speak and think. We can't hide her forever… how will we introduce her to the world?"

We had talked about this, and there was good reason to worry – beyond the risk that social services might try to take her, she could also wind up in a laboratory or worse. But if she were to grow up like a normal child we had to find her friends to play with, a school to go to, medical care for when she got sick…

"I've been talking with Mary and Stephanie from our college days – Mary's working on her residency at a hospital across state lines not far from here, and Stephanie got her degree and works in a vet's office within driving distance. We have to tell someone, and they have two kids of their own already. I think if we asked them to, they would help us."

So we took the risk. We asked them to visit with their little ones, and said simply that we needed their help. While Kevin watched the little ones playing in the backyard, I sat down with Mary and Stephanie and caught up on old times. Eventually they asked what we needed help with, and I told them we had adopted, through circumstances outside our control, and that we needed their help medically for when our little one got sick.

"You have a child? Congratulations!" Mary said as she hugged me. "I'm so happy for you! But I thought this state didn't allow… Oh." She finished as the realization sunk in. "But they'll come and take her if you stay here!"

I couldn't help a rueful smile "I'm afraid it's not what you think. Why don't you come meet her."

I lead them around to the back yard where their son and daughter were romping and playing with our Scootaloo as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Kevin looked up and waved as our two guests stood slack jawed trying to process what they were seeing.

"You painted a pony to look like a cartoon character?" Mary finally managed.

"That's no breed of pony I ever saw…" Stephanie replied.

Scootaloo had seen us by now and ran up, stopped right in front of the two mothers and said the new word she had just mastered: "Hi!" before turning around and running back to the children.

After another minute of astonished silence I lamely added "So you see now why our daughter needs your help." Mary looked ready to faint, but it was Stephanie who finally broke the silence.

"Ok Jayne, what the fuck? Seriously, whatthefuck!? How can this…?"

I handed them each a sheet of paper "It's a lot to take in, so we made a pamphlet. Read that and you will know as much as we do."

They looked down at the papers, then back up at me with blank stares.

"What's important is that she is our daughter and we need your help."

It took most of the afternoon, but the moms were eventually able to accept what their children had without question. Kevin and I had a baby cartoon pony, were raising her as our own, and needed their help to gather medical data so when her story inevitably got out, all the data anyone wanted would already be available, and no one would have any reason to try to steal her away.

This soon set the pattern for the next year. Mary and Stephanie would bring their children by to play from time to time, and once a month we made a "Hosifal trip" as Scootaloo soon termed our late-night off the books visits to the city hospital. We would try to tire Scootaloo out during the day, and usually brought her in sleeping or half asleep. Each month we took blood and other samples, and held her in our arms as we rode through the hospital's MRI scanner. She didn't like the needles, but both Kevin and I got stuck too, so she learned to think of it as a boring family thing that we all had to put up with. We sent off her DNA for sequencing mixed in with legitimate hospital lab work, and when the results came back months latter, Mary added them into a file from a zoo, labeled the file 'Pegasus', and sent the data for analysis to see what the experts made of it.

We weren't sure how old Scootaloo was, so we settled on her finding day as her birthday and celebrated her first birthday with a party. Carrot cake, party hats, lots of vegetables; Mary and Stephanie brought their kids and everyone had a good time. The guests rode their bicycles with training wheels up and down the back yard while our Scootaloo raced them on her own four hooves.

Scootaloo had learned to talk by now. In fact, that was one of the things she picked up the quickest. Her first word was ‘Da?” followed by ‘Pa?” and we quickly adapted, referring to me as Daddy and Kevin as Papa. She was calling us by these names within the day, learned her own name shortly afterward and by the end of the week, she was managing small sentences, like “Papa drink?” when Kevin, whose turn it was to mow the lawn, paused outside and opened a cold can of Diet Coke. We tended to watch him through the kitchen window, for entirely different reasons. Scootaloo found the mower fascinating. I…well…we’re married.

“Yes, Papa is having a drink!” I agreed with her. “That’s exactly right, Scootaloo!”

“Scoo’loo drink?”

“Oh, you want a drink, too? I can get you some juice.”

“…Scoo’loo drink,” she explained, pointing a little hoof at Kevin and the cold can of pop.

“..No, sweetie. Scootaloo may not have that drink. It is Papa’s drink and caffeine is not good for baby ponies.”

“Scoo’loo no drink?”

“That’s right. Scootaloo may not have that specific drink. Scootaloo may have juice, or water, or milk…” I looked around the fridge for an appropriate substitute beverage. “How about…I could make you Kool-Aid! It’s the nice kind that turns green in the pitcher.”

She clopped over on her little hooves and put her nose into the cold box of Diet Coke Kevin kept in the fridge.

“Scoo’loo get drink,” she explained, her head well into the soda box.

“No, Scootaloo.” I took the box off her head, but not before tilting the box so the very last can tipped onto the fridge door’s shelf, well above her eye level. “See? All gone.”

“Gone?” She peered into the box again.

“All gone. But I can get you a different drink.”

She stared sadly at the now-empty box.

“…No drink. Scoo’loo no drink.” And with the saddest, most piteous expression I had ever seen, Scootaloo clopped pathetically back to the window and watched Kevin resume mowing the lawn. And then she let out a little sigh.

It was unbearable.

“Scootaloo, you cannot have Diet Coke,” I explained. “It has caffeine.”

“Caffeine.”

“Yes.”

“What caffeine?”

“It…it’s a currently licit drug in the stimulant family.” Blank pony stare. “It…it makes you jiggle and run around.”

“Scoo’loo like caffeine?” she asked hopefully.

“No, Scootaloo, you may not have caffeine. We don’t know if it might make you sick, or if it might make it so you can’t get to sleep at bedtime.”

“Papa like caffeine!”

“Papa does like caffeine, because Papa is a horrible influence,” I trailed off under my breath. “Papa is also a grownup. When you are a grownup, then you may have caffeine.”

“When Scoo’loo grown up?” she asked, gesturing at my height with her hoof.

“Yes. When Scootaloo is grown up, then she may have caffeine.”

“Mm’kay,” the little filly replied, before going off to play with her dolls. 

She seemed busy, so I opened my laptop and got a bit of work done on a CAD drawing for work a few feet away from her. It’s not my favorite program for layout design and takes a lot of concentration, because I didn’t even realize she had wandered back into the kitchen until I heard some soft ‘clop’ sounds and giggling. New parent or not, I knew that giggling meant ‘run!’ so I raced to the kitchen, just as I heard the outside door open as Kevin came in from the lawn.

“Hey, sweetie –what the-!” Kevin’s greeting was cut short. We both flinched in horror at the baby pony perched happily, with two dolls, on the kitchen counter. 

“Scoo’loo grown up now. Scoo’loo drink!”

And, to be fair, her head was technically level with ours.

I went out and got a small package of Diet Caffeine-Free Coke as well as more regular Diet Coke for Kevin, figuring that determination and cleverness, if nothing else, should be rewarded. We decided that if Scootaloo was a very good pony and put away all her toys, she might be allowed a little straw-topped sippy cup of decaf Coke with her dinner. Root beer, my own preferred soda, was also okay, it being naturally decaffeinated. That experiment went well, except that she absolutely had to have the can visible at all times, otherwise it was clearly not the same wonderful beverage that Papa and Daddy enjoyed, and she objected strenuously to the sippy cup until we finally just gave up and started drinking our Cokes out of sippy cups with straws also, at which point the sippy cup was okay.

“I think she is trying to copy us,” Kevin remarked one day as Scootaloo happily ‘poured’ from the empty decaf Coke can held carefully in her teeth for her dolls. She was, at the time, wearing a sock of mine and one of Kevin’s, and had somehow found and put on a hideous, stretched-out old t-shirt of mine from college.

“…You think?”

“Well, my Miss Manners book says that this is a big part of how children learn. They imitate adults.”

Just then, Scootaloo let out a rumbling, resounding belch which actually knocked one of the dollies down.

“…I think you may want some more books on manners, then,” I observed, reddening.

“Or you can stop drinking the root beer before it’s even cold!”

“It’s good at room-temperature!” 

“You once burped the entire alphabet with it despite being the designated-driver. Is that ladylike pony behavior for our daughter?”

“…Well, if she grows up to play for Rainbow Dash’s team…”

“Jayne! Regardless of whether she grows up to date human boys, pony girls or a one-legged transgender kangaroo, burping like a field hand is not proper etiquette!”

“Eck-et?” Scootaloo asked suddenly. 

“Yes, sweetie, etiquette. You and I are going to teach your Daddy etiquette. That means we all can have tea parties!”

And with that, Kevin, never one to miss an opportunity to instill a life lesson, sat me right down next to Scootaloo, the dollies and a little plastic tea set, and damned if we didn’t have a lovely and elegant tea party, complete with flawless Emily Post manners. 

And I only burped the once.

Soon, Kevin and I were teaching her reading and writing too. She picked up reading faster than any child I ever heard of, but writing was much more difficult. Without hands she couldn't grip a pencil or use a keyboard effectively, and trying to work with something in her mouth was an exercise in frustration.

"I can't do it daddy, I want to write, but it's so hard!" She wailed in frustration after Kevin tried again with the mouth pen. "Its not fair, writing is so easy for you, but all I have are these!" she stomped her hooves on the floor in frustration, tears forming in her eyes. We both held her close while she sniffled, and I said I would figure something out.

In a week I had found and ordered a speech recognition program for her computer, and an Emotiv EPOC headset to go with a hobbyist robotic arm.

Scootaloo loved the speech recognition tool, and soon caught up on her writing practice, learning spelling along the way, but it was the headset and arm she really liked. I used the software on the headset to drive the high-end toy robotic arm through a cheap laptop, and Kevin sewed together a saddle bag to hold the battery and laptop on her left side, and the arm on her right. The whole thing buckled on and, after a few halting attempts, she was able to move the arm! Inside of a week she was wearing her new prosthetic arm everywhere (getting into places she never did before!) and having a blast being able to manipulate smaller toys like Legos for the first time.

Her newfound ability to work human controls soon had her using the computer for educational games, music and video. She was learning fast, so we took the next step and found a few local families with young children who were home schooled. After vetting them and rejecting a few, we had four local families who learned our little orange secret and came by for play dates and lessons. After the initial shock it worked out well. I enjoyed teaching math and science, and the other parents and Kevin filled in each other's academic weak spots. As the kids and our Scootaloo got older, some of them did ask the obvious questions, but we only let in families with kids under 12 so, if they did talk, who would have believed them?

Even as our Scootaloo had her second birthday, our world, which had been made so much brighter by her presence, began to change again. The DNA data in the zoo samples had been analyzed and the results were attracting attention.

A lot of attention.

At first they had thought the Pegasus file was some kind of prank, but it soon became obvious the file was too well put together, and too huge to be a prank – a forgery of this magnitude couldn't have been accomplished without years of work by hundreds of the best PhD's in the field, and if it couldn't be a fake…

Inquires were being made around the country and around the world – had anyone ever seen anything like this? The hospital Mary worked at was turned upside down looking for the source. Mary told us about all this in a visit late one evening after we had tucked Scootaloo in for the night.

"I don't understand, so she has new DNA, doesn't every animal have different DNA?"

"You guys don't understand; normal DNA is evolved, it changes slowly and randomly from generation to generation, but any change that doesn't kill the animal gets passed on to the next generation. There is no larger plan, just 'did it kill the animal?' yes/no If no then it’s in the offspring." She took a breath and looked around conspiratorially. "This DNA is designed!" she hissed. "We are only beginning to understand it, but there is definitely equine and human DNA in there, and its assembled in a coherent, thought out way. There are several extra chromosomes and big sections of code we have never seen in any other plant or animal. We even found something that looks like a goddamn 'read me' file!"

Kevin and I shared a worried look. "Okay, what did it say?"

"We don't know! We can tell its text of some kind but it not in any known language! This is big guys, this would be like someone in 1890 opening the hood of one of the first automobiles and finding the hybrid electric drive train from a 2014 Toyota. We can only write a few lines of basic DNA, and even then it takes enormous effort to make man made code function properly. This isn't a few lines, this is fucking ‘War and Peace,’ it's the Windows 7 operating system of DNA!"

There was silence as we looked at each other. "So…?"

She looked miffed that we didn't understand "So we have to come forward with the truth. Someone will soon find the records of blood and other samples, the MRI images, and it would be better to go public now and make all this available to everyone. This information is incredibly valuable – scientist will be able to reverse engineer all kinds of useful tools and cures from what they have, but we have to let them know the whole story."

We agreed we had to come forward, but worried about how this would affect our daughter. After she left we looked in on Scootaloo sleeping peacefully in her room, her prosthetic arm in a pile by the foot of the bed… I couldn't help it, I cried; For what we had and for the uncertain future to come, and Kevin held me close as he shut the door.

"It'll be okay, we won't let anyone hurt her."

I hugged him tightly as I replied. "No, no we won't!"

> Ch 2: A Slimy Ghost 
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo

by Cozy Mark IV

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release


Chapter Two: A Slimy Ghost

I got a job across state lines in the big city, and we moved into modest house on the opposite side of the city. In this state we could adopt a child, and we soon had the paperwork filled for our adopted daughter Scootaloo. 

When I brought home the completed paperwork and the approval letter Kevin prepared a feast and a cake to celebrate. Our little one insisted on candles, so we put some on and let her have the fun of blowing them out. 

“So I’m officially part of the family now? That is so cool! Does this mean I won’t have to hide anymore?” She asked pleadingly.

“It won’t be much longer now, Scootaloo.” 


On one of last trips to the hospital before the big day Mary showed us something strange on the MRI image from last time. 

“These spots on the top of her brain, isn’t that where the contacts for her prosthetic are?”

I looked at Kevin, mortified. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine as far as I can tell, but these spots look almost like RFID tags or tiny antennas…” She frowned “Is it possible her body is adapting, trying to improve the sensitivity of the connection?”

Scootaloo looked puzzled. “Does that mean I’m some kind of Borg pony?”

Stephanie raised an eyebrow. “You let her watch Star Trek?” 

I smiled as Kevin got down on his knees and made a show of looking Scootaloo over before pronouncing “Nope, you 100% pony. Know how I know?” She shrugged her right arm “Because Borg ponies aren’t TICKLISH!” 

They rolled on the floor laughing as he tickled her ribs under the saddle bag and the rest of us watched and smiled.

After the usual samples were taken and cataloged Mary made sure the MRI room was empty and I unbuckled her prosthetic arm, but as Scootaloo got closer to the scanner she started to fidget with her wings. 

“Daddy, my wings feel funny” Her face took on a confused look “and kind of ouchy.” Stephanie was already at her side and looking her over. 

“Does it hurt when I do this? This?” She put both wings through the full range of motion with no ill effects. Scootaloo was quite a trooper, and didn’t complain easily, and more than once she had come in with a skinned knee or scrapped flank without letting us know because “You make such a fuss! I’m fine!”

“Are you okay to finish up the scan? It might tell us if something is wrong with your wings.”

“Our little foal squared her shoulders and looked determined “I can take it. Its not that bad.” And with a sidelong glance at me “I’m not a little foal anymore” she pouted “I’m a big girl now.”

We had to tell not to squirm because it would ruin the image, and she set her jaw, tucked her nose under my chin and nodded. Every time the MRI started up I could feel her tense up and shiver a bit, but she stuck with it, and we soon finished and left Mary and Stephanie to look over the image. Moments after stepping out the door of the MRI room she seemed to perk up.

“Hey, it doesn’t hurt anymore!” We gave each other relived looks and hugged her close as she squirmed “You guys! It was just a little ouchy, I’m fine.”

We opened the door to the MRI room and went back in to tell Mary had Stephanie, but Scootaloo walked slower and slower as she entered the room.

“Hey ow! Now my wings hurt again.”

Mary came out from behind the computer console “I’ll bet they do, now out with you, all of you! Shoo!”

We scurried back to the waiting room with Mary in tow, and again Scootaloo perked right up within a few steps. “Hey, I feel better again!”

Kevin and I looked at each other, then Mary. 

“I think I know what’s happening” She said pulling up the MRI image on the computer terminal in the corner. “See these shadowy blurs around her mid section? Those distortions in the image follow the outline of her wings. The only thing that can cause distortions like this is metal of some kind.”

We all looked at Scootaloo who fluffed out her wings and examined them carefully before looking back at us with a confused expression. “I have metal in my wings? And metal hurts?”

Stephanie joined us and pulled the door closed “I looks like you are growing some kind of pattern with metal parts in there.” She said as she knelt and stroked a wing. “And metal can heat up in an MRI scanner – its because of the magnets. It doesn’t look like an illness, the pattern is the same in both wings, but until we figure out what is going on I think you and your Daddy get to skip the monthly MRI.”

That seemed to satisfy her “Yay! The MRI is sooo boorring! And I have to hold still for soooo long!” She hopped and pranced a bit before a thought hit her “Does this mean I am a Borg pony all full of impants and natobots and stuffs?”

“No sweetie,” Stephanie chimed in. “I don’t know what this is, but it doesn’t look like a disease – it’s the same pattern on both sides, so apparently you’re supposed to grow up like this.” Then to us: “We’ll keep an eye on this, but it doesn’t look threatening yet. We will just have to use the ultrasound next time.”

Scootaloo gave us a sharp look “An ultra what? Am I going to have to hold still again for this?”

“No sweety, you can move around if you need to, and its usually faster, but it does involve goo.”

“Goo?” She asked.

An hour and one full body ultrasound later found us herding our little one into the hospital shower. “OOOHHHH! I am a slimy ghooooost!” she wailed as she slid into the shower and I helped her set the water temperature. Kevin waited outside while I wondered about the wisdom of letter her watch Ghostbusters. A passing janitor mopping the floor looked up at Kevin as an enthusiastic rendition of ‘sponge bob’ rang loudly from the shower. 

“Aren’t they just adorable at this age?”   


With pressure mounting from Mary, we made some discreet inquires into the only news outlet we felt could safely release the news of our little one to the world – NPR radio. They had already run a few small pieces on the mysterious DNA sample no one could explain that was revolutionizing medical science, and when we called and identified ourselves as the source they were skeptical, but agreed to send a Ms Neighmond out to meet us.

We had Scootaloo wait in her room while we sat with Patti and went over the full file; the time portal, the medical records, photos of her growing up, everything we knew. When we were finished she was silent for a moment.

“This has got to be the most elaborate hoax I have ever seen. You have obviously spent a lot of time on this, but why would you concoct this ridiculous story?” 

“Scootaloo,” I called down the hall “please come say hello to our guest.”

The only sound was the clop of her hooves as she trotted down the hall, right up to Patti and held out a crayon drawing with her prosthetic right arm “Hi Ms Patti! I drew this picture of you reporting on a health policys.”


Thank goodness for smelling salts.


Patti had to bring several people from the editor’s desk before they finally ran the story on the radio, and as we requested, they made the entire file and all the information available online except the pictures, only a few of which went up. This had the desired effect of spreading the impact over a couple of weeks as the world gradually got wind of the ‘fact’ that NPR had collectively lost their minds.

As various people with knowledge of science sifted through the records, the consensus soon developed that this was somehow real, even as the pundits continued to slam NPR. At the three-week mark Scootaloo, Kevin and myself made our first appearance on a major network and introduced our family to the world. Into the astonished silence we all asked the same thing, but Scootaloo summed it up best: 

“I don’t know where I came from or how I got here, but I have friends to play with, teachers who care, a good home and two daddies who love me. Please don’t take that away from me.” 

As the world looked into her big purple eyes there wasn’t a dry eye to be had in the house. 

...
As the furor gradually built, our friends and fellow home school parents were a great help. When not traveling, we had been having almost nightly sleepovers since it all started to deal with the people and crazies who inevitably showed up. 
We were very fortunate to find one of our home-school dads was a member of Bikers Against Child Abuse (BACA), and his help and support was invaluable. It was one thing for a group of parents have to stay up all night trying to put on a brave front as one crazy after another would drive by to yell obscenities and threats. When those same nutters drove up to threaten our daughter and were met instead by four or five huge bikers in full leathers, their Harrlies rumbling in the driveway, the result was very different.   

Then next month was a roller coaster ride of publicity, stress and interviews. The days were stress and travel, and one amazed person after another as we traveled to the major television studios on the east and west coasts. In the evenings we spent at the hotels, we tried to keep up some sense of normalcy. 

Keven and I had always been fans of Judy Garlin, and our daughter had grown up around her work, the Wizard of Oz being her favorite movie. She was still little enough to be scared of the flying monkeys, so we fast forwarded through those parts, just aw we did some scary parts in other films, but she had the main song memorized, and the cowardly lion was her very favorite character. Most evenings after a long day of travel we would all wind down to one of her favorite movies; she would hold still so we could un-strap her prosthetic, remover her pickup hat, and then she would climb into her bed for the night with her cowardly lion stuffed animal clutched in her mouth.

The stuffed lion had come home in that original batch of toys on our first day together, and she had latched onto it and immediately to the point that she couldn't get to sleep without it anymore. She had carried it with her everywhere at first, and the poor toy had needed repair after repair, until Kevin had finally given in and begun replacing torn fabric with duck canvas under the new orange fux fur. Despite all the abuse it took from her teeth, she dearly loved the little lion, and no matter what happened, we always put the wind up music box back in. 
Like most things done with hands, the music box was beyond her abilities until her first prosthetic, and we made a habit of winding it up each night before we tucked her in to sleep. Some of her first words to us came on a night that first year when we forgot to wind her lion, and she had pushed her toy towards us with her nose, asking; “Daddy help Lion sing? Please?”

So even during all the stress we were all dealing with, no matter where we found ourselves on a given night, there were some familiar routines to rely on. We would plug her prosthetic in to charge, tuck her in with her stuffed lion, and both kiss her goodnight before winding up the little music box so she could fall asleep as her lion played 'Somewhere over the rainbow'. 

…

There was one talk-show host that Kevin and I really did admire, and after the first week of morning news shows and feel-good regional affiliates, we got the call asking us to come and appear with Ellen DeGeneres. Scootaloo actually knew her show well, and after she had noticed that the kind blond lady sounded just like Dory the fish from 'Finding Nemo,' that was how we had explained the concept of actors and actresses, and that sometimes when people are on TV, they are pretending to be somebody else. This made her sad for a moment or two, but then Kevin had explained that what she was watching now was a talk show, and that Ellen was very real. 

So, as we had traveled around from show to show, meeting second-string newscasters on the 'guaranteed good news' segments and slow-news-days, Scoot had occasionally, before cameras rolled, asked them if they were real talk-show hosts or just pretending. One poor newscaster on feel-good duty had confessed that he was really more of a meteorologist, and after explaining what that meant, his segment with Scootaloo had involved a surprising amount of discussion involving the various types of clouds, which Scootaloo knew well from one of the more scientific coloring books Mary had sent. 

But none of the hosts she met was as real to her as Ellen was, and we debated whether or not to tell her just whom she would be meeting as the plane touched down in Los Angeles.

It turned out we didn't need to worry. The kind lady knew our daughter very well, partly through having mentored a few of the younger newscasters coming up in the business whom we'd already met, and partly because, well, she's Ellen, and I got the impression that she really just is that nice. Instead of the usual “and what is it like to have four legs?” or “Do you like it here with people?” (as if Scootaloo were some kind of alien space pony,) Ms. DeGeneres talked with her exclusively about matters of great cultural importance to little girls. Favorite cartoons (both preferred She-Ra, Princess of Power to Strawberry Shortcake,) favorite foods, and especially favorite movies came up during their conversation. 

It struck Kevin and I that instead of how the newscasters and morning talk-show hosts had been a little nervous and edgy around our 'alien space pony,' to Ellen, Scootaloo was just another little girl who just happened to have four legs. As they talked about 'Mary Poppins' and 'The Wizard of Oz' as if they were the absolute height of cinematic art, and Scootaloo informed Ellen that her favorite was the Cowardly Lion, we could sense almost a tangible aura of 'aww' and 'she is so freakin' cute' coming out of the audience. As it happened, Ellen's present for the audience that day was a new make of portable Blu-Ray player suitable for the car (a fine choice, given the demographics who made up her typical audience,) and, since Scootaloo was present, a brand-new copy of the special anniversary edition of 'The Wizard of Oz' to go with it, as well as copies of the original book by L. Frank Baum to go with that for the audience, Scootaloo, and a lucky elementary school somewhere in America.

That night, Scootaloo fell asleep reading the original novel to her Cowardly Lion and telling him, at intervals, how awesome Ellen was in person. And so she had been.

We did what we could to shield her from it all, but some things were impossible to hide. During the next interview, at a morning talk show somewhere in the Midwest, Scootaloo was comparing favorite flavors of ice cream with a nice newscaster when a man stood up in the audience and began shouting obscenities.

“YOU FAGGOTS ARE GOING TO BURN IN HELL, ALONG WITH THAT GODLESS ORANGE FREAK!”

There was a lot more about evil liberals, black helicopters, and something about a pagan spaghetti monster being in violation of the word of god as security hauled him out. Poor Scootaloo cowered in my arms until everyone settled down and then looked right at the anchor and asked in a shaking voice “Why does that man hate my daddies?” 

Dead silence followed.   

“Daddy,” she almost whispered “am I a freak?”

Tears flowed, and we held her while she sobbed, comforting her as best we could. That one clip was probably played more than any other over the next week, but painful as it was, it seemed to help. The hate mail our friends had been sorting though dropped way off, and the news cameras seemed to keep a more respectful distance.

But then, of course, the clip got onto the Internet, and with that came the comments, the conspiracy theorists, the death threats and worse. A stern-faced female agent from the FBI or the NSA, we were never entirely certain which, began assisting with travel arrangements, checking in and I sometimes had the feeling Agent C.A. Tyler was watching us everywhere we went. When a strange-looking cab swerved to try and pick us up at the next airport and the agent had him suddenly arrested by local police and the TSA before ushering us smoothly into a black luxury car driven by one of her subordinates, we began to wonder, and when studios began bringing us in via back doors on unwritten, need-to-know timetables directed by that serious lady in shades and an earpiece, I realized two things. 

One, our government was protecting their most unusual genetic and scientific asset. And two, they had sent us a vigilant watchdog. An ersatz delivery person with a box of Cowardly Lion dolls had managed to get past studio security, but when Agent Tyler met him at the door of our dressing room with her gun drawn, handcuffed him, had the Lions removed by another agent, frisked the man, background-checked him with someone on the other end of her earpiece and then proceeded to give him a very stern lecture about bringing things to be autographed without requesting clearance first, even if they were for the children on the cancer ward where his residency was underway and what did they teach you oncologists nowadays, really! Scootaloo thought it was the funniest thing that had ever happened, laughed for the first time in two days and happily signed each and every Lion right on the tag for the terrified med student's sick patients, informing him that they would help them be brave, but Kevin and I realized exactly how dangerous the world could be. We knew all too well what could hide inside a Cowardly Lion doll from mending our daughter's, and even Agent Tyler's gruff 'Line of duty,  no problem at all,' didn't muffle the fact that we were surprisingly grateful to have a Fed on our side.

Still, it was the scariest week of our lives.

And then it all got better.

We got word over Agent C.A. ('Cassandra, if you must know,') Tyler's earpiece that we were needed in Los Angeles urgently. Scootaloo was on the plane the next morning, surrounded by an extra detail of agents, one of whom made remarkably good coffee and another of whom had enough of T.S. Eliot's cat poems memorized to keep our daughter exceedingly entertained while the inexplicable private jet landed. We transitioned smoothly from the fanciest Cessna Citation I had ever seen outside of magazines into a sleek black Lexus limousine that took us, surprisingly, right back to-

“Daddy, I know this place! This is where Ellen works!”

We had occasionally seen our favorite talk-show personality angry. We had occasionally seen her frustrated. But as we waited in the soundstage wings to go onstage, the clip of the horrible, bigoted man from the audience playing on a screen behind Ms. DeGeneres, we had never seen such a look of absolute contempt on her usually calm features.

“This happened just the other day, in America,” she explained, as the audience booed the man, his views and everything even remotely connected with him. “As you know, I'm familiar with what it feels like to have small-minded people trying to make me think I'm a freak. But Scootaloo is just a little girl. And I wanted to make sure she knew that not everybody in the world is like that. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome back the Scott family!”

Scootaloo came racing out at high pony speed to hug her TV heroine. And, to Ms. DeGeneres' credit, she was completely cool with being hugged by a little cartoon pony. I didn't quite catch the exact words she used when she told Scootaloo about how mean and intolerant people had said the very same things about her when she was younger and just out of the closet, but I'll never forget how personally Scootaloo took that news.

“They called you a freak?  But...but you're you!”

“I know, right? And you're you, Scootaloo. The kind of person who says mean, nasty things like that just doesn't understand that it's okay to be different. It's okay to be a cartoon pony, and it's okay to fall in love with whomever you want, just like your Daddies and I did. You just have to remember that for every one of those intolerant people, there will always be many, many more people who like difference, and who love you for who you are.”

The audience went wild.

“So, Scootaloo, what do you think we should do about intolerant people?”

“Daddy says we need ta' set a good example.”

“I think that's a great idea,” the dear lady agreed. “So I thought really hard, and I realized that the prosthetics you use to write and to pick things up, well, wouldn't those be nice for some other children who are different?”

“Can we give them some?” Scootaloo asked excitedly. “Mine are really nice. I write LOTS better wif' my prosfetic than wif' my mouth!”

“Actually, yes!” The same screen that had shown the horrible clip went to a split-screen satellite feed from no less than four Children's Hospitals, where two little boys and two little girls, victims of land mines abroad, childhood bone cancer, a nasty birth defect and an awful freak accident, were all waving and smiling with brand-new prosthetics. They weren't 100% the same as Scootaloo's, but they were very clearly from the same manufacturer, and for a second I wondered where Ellen had possibly found the money, but then one of the girls did a twirl with her new arms in a ballet position and I saw the sponsorship stickers on the harness near her shoulder blades. 

Evidently, when one is an actress, comedienne and beloved TV personality, there are somewhat richer places from which to call in favors.

Scootaloo waved excitedly at the other children and actually hopped up and down, hovering a little between hops as her little wings beat wildly. That soon replaced the Horrible Clip on the Internet, kick-started the new Web tradition of LOLScootaloos, and helped raise many hundreds of thousands of dollars for the new serious illness, prosthetic and tolerance education fund Ellen and Scootaloo founded together.

Our daughter's nightmares stopped, the death threats disappeared (we were never sure if it was our FBI agent or our TV heroine stopping those, but some combination of both seemed logical,) and before she learned her multiplication tables, Scootaloo was in Forbes' top 500 philanthropists.

So it wasn't that bad after all, dealing with the American media.

> Ch 3: Not a Big Chicken
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release



Chapter Three: Not a Big Chicken

We also received offers of help and support from people and organizations of all kinds, and Scootaloo got very good at shaking hands with her prosthetic. We happily accepted an offer from Mary’s hospital to provide free medical care in exchange for acting as the distributor of medical and genetic information, and Stephanie’s newly minted veterinary practice got the best publicity imaginable when she came forward as our daughter’s long-time doctor.

We also made it a point to locate a sympathetic city judge who declared Scootaloo to be a full person in the eyes of the law. There was a nice speech about not repeating the wrongs of the past, and he got a useful boost in his campaign numbers.

Our daughter’s most lasting memory from this time was probably her trips to see the professional prosthetic engineers who worked with her to design a set of two better stronger arms. She got the works, including prototype sensory feedback from the hands to electrode panels on the insides of her harness so she could feel pressure in the hands as a tingling in her sides. They also replaced my hack job control device with a much more sensitive purpose built ‘hat’ for more delicate motor control. They even designed a set of straps with bite cleats so she could take the arms on and off by herself. She adapted to the new prosthetics faster than we would have thought possible, and it all culminated in her beating both of us at a game of ‘horse’ at the basketball hoop in the backyard, which was followed by celebratory ice cream.


Scootaloo’s fourth birthday with us was a milestone for everyone. After the publicity nightmare subsided she was able to start exploring the neighborhood with us, making friends and just enjoying being outside in public during the day. 

As summer began to wane we made arrangements for her to begin attending school for a few hours a day, and after the hubbub had passed, she enrolled for half days in the forth grade. Of course things did not always go smoothly, but the children were actually more accepting than some of the teachers. It took a few stern talks about fairness, equality, and the average amount of punitive damages awarded for violations of the Americans with Disabilities Act and/or the free and appropriate education laws, but we were able to establish a supportive school environment for our daughter while she continued her home-schooling in the afternoons.

We also took Scootaloo and some of her friends to the mall for first time. She was practically vibrating with excitement as she led our group into one store after another, asking, “Hey what’s that? What does this do?” and pausing every so often to proclaim: “This is so awesome!” We could hardly blame her – internet shopping only shows what you ask to see, so clothing stores, jewelry, garden stores, and even Walmart were full of new experiences. When the nice lady at the jewelry counter asked if she wanted her ears pierced Scootaloo was too excited to pay much attention, but Kevin and I exchanged concerned glances – what were our house rules on such things? 

By the end of her fourth grade year she was spending the full day at school, and looking forward to summer vacation as much as the rest of her class. As the weather heated up she got her first trip to a pool and her first swimming lessons. She took to the water like a fish, but it was the diving board that she adored most. 

“Hey guys, watch this!” 

She managed three mid-air flips before face planting into the water halfway down the pool and coming up sputtering. 

“Scoot, you can fly!” one of her friends yelled “That was awesome, do it again!” 

With her friends cheering her on, and without the weight of her prosthetics, we all watched in amazement as she glided longer and longer distances before splashing down. She couldn’t quite fly no matter how hard she flapped her wings, but it was clear that wouldn’t last long. 
We helped her towel off and took the group out for waffles and pancakes afterwards, and while the kids stuffed themselves with syrup and strawberries I pulled Kevin aside.  

“I know we didn’t think Scootaloo would ever fly in our world, but it looks like we were wrong.”

He looked on as she mimed diving into the pool and the whole group laughed again. There were tears in his eyes as said “I didn’t think she could either, but I’m so proud of her!”

“I’m proud of her too,” I said, my own heart swelling at bit, “but we have to help her with this. We need to get her into pilot training.”

“Oh, but just look at her, why would she need-”

“Because they don’t have high voltage power lines in Equestria.” I intoned forcefully. I let that sink in; “or guide wires holding up cell phone towers, or gray glass buildings that disappear into the fog on a cloudy day. If she can fly we have to train her how to do so safely. The leading cause of death among young birds isn’t snakes or cats, its immovable objects.”

His face sank as the danger registered. “Its okay,” I said “Give me a few days to find a flight instructor willing to work with us. Seriously, what pilot wouldn’t want to teach a Pegasus to fly? And in the mean time she is already pretty good with the flight simulator you got her last year. We can do this.” I squeezed his hand reassuringly and he nodded.

Her first flight lesson came four days later. I told her to practice the flight simulator after dinner and her expression changed gradually she worked through;
‘they want me to play video games? Yay, video games! Wait, why that one, why the flight sim?’ I smiled and mimed airplane wings and engine noise. 

Her eyes lit up and she almost hovered for a moment “You guys got me flying lessons?! You are so awesome!”

...

Her instructor met her at the runway the next morning and asked her to tell him what all the controls in the old Cessna were for. She ran though all the instruments, the engine controls, petals, yoke, nearly all the important items as he smiled and had her strap into the left seat. I looked at Kevin and he gave me that grin of his; “What? She’s a smart kid and Microsoft makes a good flight simulator.”

They spent some time orbiting the airport before flying off to work on navigation skill. We stood arm in arm watching the plane dwindle into the distance when Kevin ask 

“Jayne? Do most parents have to worry about flying skills of their fifth graders?”

“Only the very lucky ones.”


Her fifth birthday party came with aircraft rides for the other kids, and a tablet computer to display flight and GPS maps. She had learned to read the flight maps and know what the highest obstacle within a given area was, and hence how high she had to be to stay safe. 
She had also expressed some concern about being the school’s only nudist, and Kevin was only too happy to teach her how to sew. His birthday present to her was a sturdy second-hand sewing machine of her very own, a set of aviator goggles, and a gift card to the local fabric store. 

On one and a half incomes we wouldn’t normally have been able to afford the flying lessons and rides, but the airport manager had agreed to shoot a few commercials with Scootaloo, and it worked out as a win for everyone. 

And it was on her birthday that she revealed she could fly! She disappeared from the party just before the cake was to be cut, and we found her arms lying under one of the folding tables. We were just starting to worry when she came sailing down the runway on her own two wings and stumbled to a landing in front of Kevin and I.

“Ta-da! I finally got it right two days ago, but I wanted to surprise you Dad!” Beaming 
we scooped her up, hugged her and told her how proud we were.


The sixth grade was off to a good start when it happened. It was a cool fall evening and the fog was rolling in when Scootaloo shed her prosthetic, pulled on her goggles, and flew off to a friends house to hang out for a few hours. When she took off to come home hours later she should have realized something wasn’t right, but she didn’t have her tablet, and so forgot to check the weather. As she flew home the fog obscured the ground and the sun sunk below the horizon turning the sky gray. When she got to about the spot she normally landed from she looked down to see nothing but fog and clouds.

“Oh crap, where is it…” She looked around in all directions, but the clouds had covered everything. Darkening sky overhead and a chill wind made her shiver, as she looked down into the featureless mass below that spread out as far as she could see in all directions like a dull gray sea.

“Dam, better get out my… Dam!” She’d left her heavy arms at home, along with her tablet. Without it she had no map to tell her where she was, or how high she was, not that she could use it without her arms anyway.

“Stupid stupid stupid! This is exactly what they told us never to do in flight school…” She shivered as the wind picked up and looked down into the gray mass below, rapidly disappearing altogether as the light faded.

“I’ve got to get down. I’ll just land and call Papa for help, he can come get me…” She flapped slower and gradually sunk beneath the surface of the clouds.
Her world became fog. Nothing to see but fog in every direction… “You got this Scoo, just keep cool and come down slow. Its not like you can miss the ground.” She tried to keep her wing beats even and steady, but she seemed to be picking up speed. “Too fast, too fast!” She beat her wings harder, but the wind just whistled by faster. “Crap! I must be pointing down! But which way is up!?” She pulled in the direction she thought was up and the wind slowed somewhat. Working franticly she concentrated on bringing the wind noise to a stop and eventually succeeded. Panting and shaking, she looked around her sphere of fog “Ok, ok, no wind, so I’m not moving. I’m safe. I just need to come down slowly so I don” 
WOOSH!!
A dull steel cable an inch in diameter wiped past a foot from her face. “Shit!” She lunged away, at least she hoped it was away, from the cable and spent the next few minutes trying to still her heart and body. “I’m not moving compared to the cloud, but the cloud is moving along the ground! And I’m getting tired, I can’t keep this up forever…” She shivered again at the cold wind and the terror she felt. It was just stupid fog, but it almost killed her once and she still needed to get down…



Around eight Kevin called her friends house to see when they were driving her home. “You aren’t driving her? … She said she was going to fly home?” A quick glance out the window at the dense fog sent a chill down his spine. “In this weather?! … Half an hour ago! Its IFR, she can’t fly in this!… No, IFR, Istrument Flight Rules, it means- Never Mind! Just call us if she comes back to you, she could be in real danger!”

I looked down to see the newspaper I had been reading crumpled and torn in my clenched hands. “You check the computer, see how deep the clouds are tonight. I’ll call the police, make sure they’re looking for her.”

“But shouldn’t we put out a light or something?” 

I though for a moment “It takes her about 15 minutes to fly from her friends house to home. She’s been gone at least half an hour. 15 minutes flight time could put her miles and miles from here, and she hasn’t called either. If she could get to the ground she’d call, but if she hasn’t called, she can’t see the street lights on the ground, or…” the syllable hung in the air.    



Scootaloo felt she was running on fumes. She knew she was sinking now whether she wanted to or not and she continue craning her neck, looking for something in her sphere of fog that looked solid, but in the gathering darkness that was rapidly becoming impossible. “I have to get down! Its almost completely dark and I have to rest!” Squeezing her eyes shut she let her wings go slack, and as the wind speed picked up she used a wing beat here and there to keep her speed reasonable.

SMASH! “OW!”

She spun as she hit and felt herself hurdling through tall grass, where she eventually rolled to a stop, bruised and hurting, in a mud puddle. She lay still for a few minutes trying to catch her breath before she struggled to her feet. “Ow!” She winced as she looked at her right wing which was bent in a direction it was not supposed to bend. Around her was grass over her head as far as she could see… no, not grass, wheat. “I must have landed in a farmers field…” 
She took a step and winced at the pain shooting through her wing as tears formed in her eyes. “Ok Scoot, you can do this. Just have to walk until you find a road and follow it to a person with a phone.”

She folded her wing at her side as best she could, nearly passing out from the pain, and set off through the muddy field in search of help. Time passed and she still walked through the wheat. Her wing hurt more than she had ever hurt before, but even so she was exhausted from her flight and had to concentrate just to keep walking. More time passed and she eventually found the edge of the wheat field…and the edge of the adjacent oat field. She followed the boarder between the crops for half a mile, then a mile. Finally it led to a dirt path, and her pace picked up as she turned left and followed the path, but after ten minutes it stopped at a rusty old plow. 

“Oh, why did it have to be the wrong direction?” 

She turned and went back the way she came, and this time after half an hour more walking she could see a cluster of lights up ahead though the fog. Soon a barn and some animal sheds came into focus, and as she rounded a corner she almost walked into it.

Hanging from the side of building was a deer, or what remained of one. It was cut down the middle with the entrails in a bucket on the ground, the head hanging limply to one side, eyes glassy and sightless. 

She leapt back hair standing on end as she looked up at it. She wasn’t stupid, she knew were meat came from even though she couldn’t eat any herself. Still, running into a hunters kill on a dark and foggy night wasn’t helping her nerves, and her heart was racing a mile a minute. Footsteps sounded in the distance, getting closer. 

“Okay, lets try going… somewhere else. Quickly!”

She scurried away from the footsteps and on toward the light, and hopefully, the road. As she passed the house she heard a car coming down the road, and she ducked behind a dripping rain barrel as a pickup truck crunched to a stop in the gravel by the front door. The door opened and a girl, maybe 16, got out and said goodnight to the pimply teenage driver who backed the truck up and was soon disappearing into the night. Scootaloo was about to speak up when the light suddenly shone from the windows and the front door flew open with a bang.

“Just where do you think your going missy? Do you know what time it is?!” 

The angry tirade poured forth, until the girl started shouting back that she didn’t understand, that she never let her do anything fun! She ran off sobbing as her mother shouted after her to get back here right now!

A man walked into view from the direction Scootaloo had come wearing hunters camouflage with a rifle over one shoulder and a concerned look on his face. The girls mother looked at him until he asked “Out past curfew agaain?” 

“Yes, again! I don’t know what to do with that girl!” There was a pause as he walked up to her and took her hand. Her shoulders slumped and started to shake. He leaned the rifle against the wall and took her in his arms as she broke down sobbing. “Oh Gerald, I’m so worried about her!” 

“Then why didn’t you say so?”

They both looked up, startled.

“I’m lost and need help, but when I saw the deer I thought you might shoot me too.” Scootaloo sniffed. “You just showed me you are good people who care, but I didn’t see that until after your daughter left.” 

They walked around the rain barrel to stare at the bright orange foal shivering before them. Scrapes and bruises covered her body, her feet were caked with mud and her wing was twisted and matted with dried blood.

“Why did you yell at her like that?” she asked looking up at them.

Jerald was the first to get over the shock “You poor thing! Look atcha, you’re a mess! Lets get you inside where its’ warm. How did you get way out here all by yourself?”




That was the longest night of our lives. It was 1:12 AM when the phone rang. It was Scootaloo, she was hurt but alive, at a farm twenty miles outside of town. We broke every speed limit in the district getting out there, and when we arrived we found mother, daughter and husband all working together to care of our child. They had cleaned her off, bandaged her cuts, and most surprisingly, ‘Gerald’ had set the bone of her wing and wrapped it against her body. 

“Twas no trouble” he replied when we asked “No different from setting the wing on a big rooster.” When we continued to stare he added “What? A good rooster is valuable; ya don’t go eaten em lest you have to.”  

Scootaloo sulked at this, muttering “Am not a big chicken…”

> Ch 4: Silver Spoons
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release


Chapter Four: Silver Spoons

Scootaloo put many a pro athlete to shame over the next few months. Instead of being terrified of flying by her close shave with death, she talked it over with her flying instructor. His first comment on seeing her limping in three days later, wing in a cast, was “You flew in the fog didn’t you young lady?”

She hung her head “Yes”

“Did you learn why I told you not to?”

She looked like she wanted to sink into the floor “Yes”

“And are you going to listen to what I tell you from now on?”

She look up at this. “Yes, I am.”

“Good, then lets go make today’s flight plan and file it. You’re almost ready to take your pilots test, and if you’re good enough to pass, then after that I can start teaching you how to fly in clouds safely.”

She studied her piloting books, guides and maps after homework each night, and that weekend she passed the test with flying colors. I had helped her in some of the calculations of her studies, and while she made her second landing I asked her instructor if I could start coming for lessons too. “A father has to keep up you know”

Her examiner signed off and handed over her pilot’s license as she hugged us all and did bro hooves with her instructor. Then before we were even done with congratulations she pulled out an IFR vision blocker hat and asked to go back up. “I bought this with my allowance money, and I really need to learn how to do this right. Will you teach me?” 

And so off they flew again, this time with her unable to see anything outside the plane. To pass her ‘Instrument Flight Rules’ license she had to be able to fly in total darkness and fog, just like what she got stuck in, and navigate using only the plane’s flight instruments. She persevered though, and with her healing wing an ever-present reminder, the same November afternoon I earned my pilot’s license, she earned her IFR license.


I took what I was learning along with a lot of self taught aircraft engineering design knowledge to the prosthetics professionals who built Scootaloo’s arms, and working with her we designed a proper flight system/suit. 

“The new arms have to be light enough for me to carry up. Flying on my own wings is awesome, but when I land its like having my hands tied up” She blushed “I can’t do anything without them!” 

The new arms were designed to use lightweight motors, and I purchased the materials to mold the carbon fiber framework. Scootaloo and I learned to work with the carbon fiber, Kevlar, epoxy, foam and fiberglass, to make molds and do vacuum bagging, and each week we built a new batch of parts from the CAD drawings the engineers sent us.

A pilot app by MGL Avionics designed to run on a phone using Google glass gave her a display she could see, with synthetic vision so that even in fog, the GPS would give her a picture of the ground and any obstacles around her. We fit the display into the vintage aviator goggles she loved and Kevin helped us form the saddle back that was to become the back plate of her new arms.
Finally fitting day came, only a week after her cast came off – we drove out to the lab and they updated the new computer to match the inputs she had built up with her old arms. 

“O M F G this is so light!” 

“Language, young lady!” I admonished. “But you did excellent work on this; look at how the carbon fiber gleams in the light!”

One of the engineers who was looking on with a smile added “Now you can change the trigger on this, but we couldn’t resist. Click your heels together three times.” 

She raised a purple eyebrow “And say there’s no place like home?”

“If you like, but put the goggles on first.”

She did, then hesitantly clicked her back hooves; both arms flipped up and tucked themselves away on top of her back, and the goggle over her right eye lit up as the pilot computer interface powered up.
“Sweeeet! I have got to try this!” She clicked her hooves to unfold her arms and went bounding out of the lab. The whole team followed Kevin and I out where Scootaloo was nowhere in sight.

“Woo HOOO!!” She launched off the roof overhead in an explosion of startled pigeons and did a series of loops and rolls before landing at our feet and hugging us both. Then to the engineers; “Thank you all so much, these are the best arms yet!”  

Back at the house she was all set to go when Kevin brought out his surprise. “I know you don’t get to fly as much as you might like when it’s cold, so I made you this.” He presented her with a wrapped garment box; “Merry early Christmas.”

She opened the box and slowly drew out the coat, admiring it in the light. “Oh wow! I know you’ve been giving me sewing lessons, but this is impressive work, it looks just like an aviators coat and pants… How long have you…?”

“Ever since we went searching for you on that cold foggy night. I just kept thinking of you lost, alone and freezing somewhere. And now that my little girl is about to fly again…” He sniffed “Just be careful and stay warm.” By now Scootaloo was tearing up too “And be home in time for dinner okay?” 

“Okay Daddy, I’ll be careful. I love you.”


Between her flight training and the new flight equipment Scootaloo managed to stay out of trouble in the air, though life on the ground proved more challenging. 

One day after school she came home grumpy and unhappy for no obvious reason. When we asked her what was wrong she snapped “I don’t want to talk about it!” and holed up in her room for the rest of the afternoon. Her temper swung between angry and weepy for three days before we put it together.

“Scootaloo, we need to have a family talk. Have you been feeling any… different these past few days?”   

She sulked in her chair “Maybe a little. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Scootaloo, we think you've reached puberty. The strange feelings you’re having, the wild mood swings; I think your having your first period.”

She was no fool, we had covered what we knew about human and pony biology years ago, but it still took a moment for it to sink in. “This is a period?” We nodded, and her face took on a look of horror “I’m going to feel like this every month from now on?!”

“It should only be for a few days out of the month, but yes, this is what female humans and ponies have to deal with once a month. Have you had any bleeding?”

“No... Oh crap, am I going to bleed too?!?”

“I don’t know, but I think we should make our monthly trip to see Mary early don’t you?”

Mary and Stephanie worked together on this, and soon had an answer; our daughter was now biologically a woman or mare, take your pick. They had a long private talk with her about her period, the changes she was going through, and what it meant to be a woman. They prescribed a variation on a common contraceptive to try to rein in her symptoms, and that plus the new information they provided helped to reduce, if not quite eliminate her time of the month.


Seventh grade and middle school brought new challenges and opportunities. She was accepted onto the track team within the first week, though with the title ‘honorary member’ to avoid legal disputes. Scootaloo could hit 30 mph on the ground, and a track member who could be pulled over for speeding in residential areas was great for moral, but not even remotely fair to the competition.

Kevin’s sewing lessons had begun to pay off as well, and as she gained confidence in her abilities she started wearing her outfits to school, often mimicking or improving upon whatever was the fashion. This earned her admiration from some girls, but soon made her a target for others. By October it had gotten bad enough that she came home in tears, crying that she was losing all her friends. 

“Okay dear, slow down, what is going on?”

She told a tale of back-stabbing, intrigue and deception that would have made a medieval lord feel right at home; apparently a clique of girls had been attacking her dresses, her appearance, and teasing her relentlessly since August. Now things had gotten worse as they told lies to her friends and tried to drive them away, and after one of them had stolen her phone and sent horrible texts in her name it was starting to work. We held her while she sobbed; the world she had spent so long building was being pulled apart in front of her for fun and she didn’t know how to stop it.

Kevin wiped her tears away and looked at her very seriously “Scootaloo, most girls go through a time like this in school. I can teach you how to fix this, but you have to promise that you will only use what I teach you to stop this sort of thing, never to start it.”

She sniffed. “Why would I ever do something like this to anyone? It hurts!”

“It is, but all these bullies got their start somewhere. Some of them suffered through what you’re dealing with, then did the same thing to each other. I need you to promise you will never use what I’m going to teach you to hurt those who don’t deserve it.”      

“Okay, I promise.”

Kevin talked the whole thing through with Scootaloo until he understood. Most of the clique turned out to be little princesses who loved to be the center of attention, and that seemed to fit the plan he worked out. 

“Okay, first we need to buy spoons.” 

We both gave him a confused look.

Working from scratch, Kevin drew up a letter of commendation from the ‘Silver Spoon’ organization and really loaded it with generic praise and ego stroking, while at the same time never using any specifics, even keeping the name to two elaborate cursive capital 'S' initials twined together with Photoshop. He added fancy font, a logo, and even put in a watermark. We printed off one letter for each girl in the clique and he even printed the “official” logo of the fictional organization on the envelopes. 

The letter told each recipient how great they were, and how the fancy silver spoon we enclosed symbolized the wealth and fame they would no doubt go on achieve. With Scootaloo’s help we mailed them out gradually over a week so they became a symbol of pride ‘I’ve got mine because I’m special and you’re not’. That alone seemed to help, as the in-fighting it caused proved a temporary distraction, but we weren’t done yet. Each letter directed the recipient to a web site and encouraged them to enter a picture and the phone numbers of friends and people they admired so everyone could learn about their acceptance into the SS club.   

Just as the silver spoon club hit its peak of popularity the text messages went out to everyone the recipients had entered. Each one featured a gif of a girl stirring a bubbling cauldron of brown ooze with a big silver spoon and their picture crudely pasted over the face. The title heading read “Because of her dedication to lies and backstabbing, NAME has been accepted into the Shit Stirrers Club! Congratulations!” 

Throughout it all Scootaloo kept her head down, feigning ignorance. Most of her friends soon returned as she explained the theft of her phone and patched things up, but two days after the text blast she brought home news that had her feeling very conflicted. 

“Its Brittany,” she explained. “She was one of the worst ones, she would never leave me alone, she teased me constantly, said really hurtful things, and she’s the one who stole my phone and sent all those horrible things to my friends.” 

We waited while she tried to find the words.

“The guidance counselor took her phone after the nurse found her cutting herself. They said...” she paused as her voice choked up “They said she was trying to kill herself! The picture on her phone was just the start of it. There were horrible messages telling her not to tell anyone, and pictures... then social services came to her house and found her mom's boyfriend had been doing… awful things… to her and her little brother! He’s in jail now and Brittany’s younger brother is in therapy! They had to take Brittany to a hospital, and she's going to stay there for awhile, is what the guidance counselor said.”  

She looked at us in confusion as tears welled up in her eyes “What did I do? Was this right?”

“It's okay dear,’ I said “lets think this through. Did she try to kill herself because of your text message or because her mom's boyfriend was abusing her and her little brother?” 

She had to think about that, so I continued “Can you imagine what that was like for her? Imagine what you would feel if someone were abusing one of your friends, really hurting them, and they told you they would do even more horrible things if you ever told someone. Yes, the picture you sent to her probably made her feel bad, but that wasn't the only awful thing going on in her life, not by a long shot. And because she felt bad, she did something stupid about those feelings, an adult caught her, saw what else was on her phone and going on in her life, and now a lot of really worse things are going to stop. It's even very possible that a big part of why she was bullying you is because of what was happening to her at home.”

Her face flashed anger and terror, then gradually, understanding. “Oh my God, I’m a horrible person!”

“Now hold on a moment there; what would have happened if you hadn’t done anything? Your life would still be miserable, and what would her life be like?” 

She shuddered. “You think I did the right thing?”

I looked at her seriously “I think you did what had to be done to protect yourself and your friends. In this case you also saved a teenage girl from a horrible situation she couldn’t deal with on her own. I don't think anyone can really be absolutely certain whether it was the awful things happening at home, or the picture you sent, or maybe it was both that made her cut herself. In the end, your actions set in motion a chain of events that saved her and her little brother, but had things gone a little differently, you might have only saved her brother.”

As she worked out what I meant, her face went ashen.

“This is why you need to use what Kevin taught you responsibly. Some people harass and bully because they don’t think or know any better, but for some of them, they're hurting others because they've been hurt so much that hurting is almost all they know how to do. They've been beaten down and victimized for so long, that the only way for them to feel better at all is to hurt someone else. And now you know exactly what you can do with this. You are smarter than a lot of kids your age, and you have to strike a balance; it would be so easy to bully others with what you know now. Alternately you could be a doormat and lose your friends to others who bully...or, you could learn to look at people very closely, try and guess why they're being the way they are, and instead of getting even or just dealing with their nonsense, you can confront them with empathy and show them they aren't alone, and when you need to, get an adult involved.”

“But that's the problem! I told my teachers about the bullying, and they just said that since they never saw any of it...”

“They couldn't do anything about the bullying, specifically. What might your guidance counselor have done, if you had come to her and told her how worried you were about the girls who were bullying you, how you suspected something must be going terribly wrong  for them to feel the need to be so vicious and hateful to others?”

“...She would've talked to them, and called all their parents in for conferences.”

“And the problem with Brittany would have been caught right then,” Kevin chimed in. “When the system won't work with you, sometimes you have to work the system.” 

I knelt down and put my hands on her shoulders “When I finally figured this out I was a lot older than you, and I tried to avoid conflict where I could, and stand up for those who couldn’t defend themselves. It wasn’t easy, but if you stand up for those who can’t, even when they're trying to hurt you because they're too broken to know better, you will earn more friends and become a better person.”   

“I… I think I can do that.” She managed with the beginnings of a smile.
> Ch 5: Our Girl is Growing Up
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release.


Chapter Five: Our Girl is Growing Up

Scootaloo’s new flight outfit and prosthetic had enabled her to fly much later into the year, and when she practiced acrobatics at the airport on the weekends she often drew a small crowd. The paparazzi who had lost interest a few months after we went public years ago made a re-appearance, and the airport manager let them stay provided they worked his logo into the shots. Her acrobatics also attracted the attention of researchers at NASA who soon inquired about testing. 

One day after attempting to race a Cessna 172 and losing to that minivan of an aircraft she came home with a complaint “Dad, is their something wrong with me? I’m a Pegasus, shouldn’t I be able to fly faster than 70 mph?”

“I’m not sure dear, but there is that team at NASA, they might be able to tell us something.”

“Bleh, more research. Don’t I get poked enough on our monthly hospital run?”

I smiled “I think you might want to actually read the letter they sent; they want you to fly for them in a wind tunnel and show off your skills. They're offering to pay quite a bit of money, and that’s to you, not the family.”

“They’re offering to pay me to show off?” She asked with a contemplative look.

“You do know this is the same NASA that launches rockets and flies the fastest planes in the world. If you've ever wanted to go for a ride in one of their research jets, break the sound barrier, pull some serious G’s, these are the people to talk to…” 

A week later, Scootaloo was wearing her flight outfit and standing in what looked like a long Plexiglas tube. She gave us the thumbs up with her prosthetic and they started the huge fan in front of her, then had her fly at different speeds while the bar she held onto measured drag and lift. They ran the whole gambit of tests, recorded video of airflow tests using the smoke machine, and setup many different recording devices around the tunnel itself.

Over a lavish lunch she asked one of the lead researchers what they expected to get out of all these tests.

“Well frankly Ms Scootaloo, we want to know how you can fly. There is no question that you can, but at the same time, there is no way aerodynamics alone could ever lift you.”

“What are you talking about? I’m a Pegasus, of course I can fly, why shouldn’t I be able to?”

He seemed unsure if he should keep going, but decided to forge ahead. “It’s a function of your weight and the size of your wings. You are not yet full-grown, and already weigh 210 lbs, yet your wing area is smaller than the world’s biggest birds, the heaviest of which is only 40 lbs and has a 9 ft wingspan. So you are lifting more than 5 times as much weight, and your wing span is only about 4 ft max, and less than half the area. 
After lunch we would like you to do some flying for us in one of the vacuum chambers we use to test space suits; we had one specially made to fit you.”

“You made me a space suit?!” She asked as her face lit up with glee.

“Well we could hardly ask you to bring your own now could we? Its just a simple pressure suit, air and power come from a tether, but yes, it is a suit for use in vacuum.”

“Dude, you guys are so cool.” She replied with a grin.

He offered a fist, and she did bro-hooves. “Always wanted to do that,” he smiled.


The test in the vacuum chamber took most of the afternoon. They helped her suit up and get through the air lock, where upon she flew a circuit around the small fiberglass dome as though nothing was different. She couldn’t lift quite as much in the vacuum as outside, but the difference was small, and her flight abilities were otherwise unaffected.  

Midway though testing, the researchers got an email from the magnet field study lab across the campus asking who the hell was tampering with their equipment. They were getting wildly fluctuating field strength readings from their sensors in the lab some miles distant. Finally it clicked. 

“Scootaloo, please land and take a rest, we have to try something.”

She did and they got on the phone with the mag lab. The readings had returned to normal and they wanted to know what we had done. “The readings are normal now? Okay, watch and tell me if anything happens – Scootaloo, hover for 5 seconds, then land.” 
She did so, “It happened again?… For about five seconds?… Okay, drop what you’re doing and get over here now… No I don’t care that the director is on site, bring him too, this is important… Yes, but we can only show you how we’re doing it if you a come right now.” 


By the end of the day they had a working concept, and the mag lab scientist who were irate when they arrived soon changed their tune and actually took us all out to dinner that night where they talked excitedly among themselves and drank entirely too much. As the news had spread though the campus, specialists from several different fields had shown up to hear the news first hand. 

Scootaloo put up with the techno jargon as long as she could, but finally interrupted one of the nearby researchers ”So I fly by magnetic powers or something?” 

The researcher she was talking to reluctantly broke off his conversation and tried to explain. “Somehow you are using the earths magnetic field to fly. Normally that would be impossible because the field is too weak to do much more than turn a compass needle, but you are somehow repulsing the field over an incredibly large area, and thus generating both lift and thrust. We can’t do that, it’s not possible with our understanding of magnetic field theory, but you can and that’s incredibly important. I think we will be seeing more of each other in a few months after we go over the data and construct the necessary sensors.” 

She mulled this over “Is that why my wings always hurt if I get too near an MRI?”

“Well yes, any magnetic tool or system would be affected by a field that strong. Have you ever had an MRI?”

“When I was really little, but they had to switch to ultrasound after a year or so because it was starting to hurt my wings and no one could figure out why.”

One of the biologists who had been listening jumped in “Well now we know. When you were designed, someone apparently incorporated EMFR or Elector Magnetic Field Repulsion into you very DNA. And whats more, they figured out how to make a biological system like your body not only tolerate a machine implant, but actually construct one! It would be hard to understate how much we can learn from your biology.”

Scootaloo gave her a hard look and she applogied. “Sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but you must have heard about the improvements that have already happened in genetic therapy?” She got a blank look from all of us. “You mean you didn't know? The trials they've been running at hospitals just in the US have already had incredible results! Some studies have reported 95% cure rates against previously untreatable diseases, and they are still pulling more information from your DNA in the laboratory. I know some drug companies are trying to keep this quiet because a cure for a disease can only be sold once, but even they can't bottle up something this extraordinary.”

“You mean that our daughter's DNA is resulting in research breakthroughs?” I asked.

“Yes, there's been a furor in all the medical journals for years now; many hundreds of people already owe you their lives, Scootaloo. And as we get a better handle on how your DNA was built we can expect even more breakthroughs.” She and her fellow researcher turned back to the technical conversation leaving us all in stunned silence.   

“Hundreds of people...?” She whispered in awe.



Some inquires around the hospital soon confirmed the story as well as bringing to light a revelation about her origin. It seemed that the video of her arrival that night had been analyzed in every conceivable way, and eventually, what had appeared as random patterns of distortion flashing though the image had been cleaned up into pictures. We setup a meeting with one of the government code breaking specialists who had solved the problem. 

“You see in the original there are theses blips every so often, and they don't look like much, but if you pull them out and run them back to back, you get 30 seconds of video over the many hours the camera was left on. Run that through some of the best description experts in the world and you get this:” 

A dingy rooftop appeared with the camera angle above and looking down across the equally depressing city scape. As we watched, a homeless person in worn clothes flashed by into his crude hut built of leftover garbage on the roof top, the sun set and the stars wheeled by absurdly fast, outlined by the sky scrappers in the distance.

“This is time lapse video...” Scootaloo said.

“Yes, it covers about the same length of time we saw on our side, but keep watching.”

As he said it a bright rainbow filly came tumbling into view. We all looked at each other. 

“Rainbow Dash!?!?”

“It sure looks that way.”

As the video ran out we saw the baby dash tumble out onto the canopy of rags. The homeless man flashed out, seemed to inspect her and disappeared with her.

Scootaloo almost shouted “Well what happened? Where is she??”

He looked at her seriously. “We don't know. This is the last frame that shows her in the video.”

A still shot held on the screen; a glimpse of Rainbow Dash inside a cardboard box in which the man had written in simple pen 'Give to good home'.

This time she did shout “Oh CRAP, we have to find her!” 

“Settle down Ms Scootaloo, its not that simple. You may have noticed the skyline looks familiar? It should.” He ran the video back “This is what Detroit looked like at about the same time you were found – some of the distant sky scrapers and the star patterns helped us nail down the time – but there’s a problem. See these street signs visible in the edge of the video? Those streets never looked like this. In the 1980's the mayor took on this part of the city as a pet project, and there was never this level of grime, of abandoned buildings and slums. They re-vamped all of it, and its still a thriving district even today. This is Detroit, but in our world, this never happened.”

He let that sink in before continuing “We think what we have here is a view into an alternate reality, the first concrete proof that they really exist. Some in the physics community are trying to lean what they can from this, but its rough going with only a single digital video to study. What we can say with some certainty is that Ms Scootaloo is not one of a kind: rather she is a member of a species, and that what we thought was just a children's cartoon has some basis in fact.”

Kevin spoke up “But that's ridiculous isn't it? Some of the things the show portrays are clearly not possible...”

“Not in our world at least, but it seems obvious this world, however distorted in the cartoon, is real. And yes we have interviewed the creators of the show extensively. While they reported an unusually sharp and shared creative focus and dreams of this world, we haven't been able to explain how they glimpsed it, or why.”

Scootaloo was thinking hard “But if I got here, does that mean someone will come looking for me?”

“We don't know Ms Scootaloo, just as we don't know why both you and Rainbow arrived so young and through a time distortion. We have to admit the possibility though. Over the years we have pored over the data from that night recorded by satellites, seismographs, any data we could find looking for anything out of the ordinary. We didn't find much, but the physicists are working on what we have.”


Throughout it all, middle school proceeded, but with everything else she had going on her grades started to slip, and for the first time in years we had to cancel her allowance for poor academics. We both spent more time tutoring her and helping with her homework, but she still had trouble focusing. 

It soon turned out that some of the reasons stemmed from issues we should have been expecting. While getting out her notes one evening she dropped her binder, and as Kevin helped her pick up he found a hand written note adorned with hearts: “Brad, meet me after class behind the storage shed. Your Scoot” 

He held it up for her to see and she went as red as I had ever seen her. 

“Daaad!” She snatched the note up and packed it back in her school binder.

“I think its time we had a family talk.”

We sat down and ran through the birds and the bees again using the same human anatomy text book we had used two years ago. 

“Come on dad, I already know this stuff. I'm old enough to make decisions for myself!”

“Alright, what form of protection have you been using?” 

She looked dumbstruck “Protection? But we haven't...”

“And you had no plans to? Really?” She went beet red again as I continued “Dear, if your system is anything like a teen girl, then your body is telling you to pounce anything that looks good,” I gave Kevin a significant look.

He drew me in for a long kiss while Scootaloo groaned “Daaad!”

I gave Kevin a smug look as he took his seat again. “And that's okay. We all have to learn about love and sex in our own time, but we're going to help you do so in a safe, smart way.”
I thought for a moment “You'll be eligible for drivers ed in a few years; how would that class go if on day one, first time you'd ever seen a car, the instructor thew a sheet over your head, turned out the lights, and told you to drive a car on the freeway?” 

That got a small snicker and seemed to break the tension. “Now first off, you are already on hormonal birth control to help with your period, but you can forget to take those pills, goodness knows,” I looked at Kevin and he grimaced “so I think we should talk to your gynecologist about getting you an IUD.”

“An eye u what?”

“Intra Uterine Device.” Kevin said, then to me “Shall we do the song?”

“There's a song?” She asked, mortified.

“Hail to thee, the IUD, the little plastic pal who lives inside of me!” we sang together.

Kevin looked at her trying to sink into the floor and said seriously “Rule one about sex: If you can't talk about something with your partner, you have no business doing it. Mature adults can talk about what they want. If you or your partner can't, then you're not ready.”

“We can talk to Mary about an IUD when we see her again this weekend. In the mean time, how many condoms do you have?” 

She turned red again, but finally ventured “He said he was going to get a box from the store. He said he had to wait until his parents drove out of town for shopping so no one would recognize him.”

“Hmm. Points for intent if not for brains. Lets get out your computer, we can use your emergency credit card to get them online.” She dug out her tablet while I intoned “search for 'rip and roll dot com'.”

We soon had her setup with a multi pack of 100 for less than 50 cents apiece, including a few fruit flavored ones, and a glow in the dark pack.

“Why would anyone ever need a fruit flavored... Oh!” She said and turned red again.

“There, that order should be here in a couple of days, and you should give a few out to any friends who might need them. No one deserves to be faced with the choice between teen pregnancy and abortion just because they couldn't find birth control.”

“Indeed” Kevin intoned “And we should also tell you what most girls experience their first time; a short and unsatisfying time they get little out of.”

She looked more shocked by this then anything yet “But, its supposed to be the best thing about...”

“Yes it is, and it can be” Kevin answered “but you need to know what you want, and have the openness to ask for it. Have you ever masturbated?”

There was that red color again. “Pappa!”    

"I'm serious. You won't know what you like until you experiment with yourself, and its a good low pressure way to figure out what you like and what you don't." Then to me; "Search Amazon for vibrators, they usually have a good selection. $50 should be enough to get some nice ones."

In a few short sentences, Kevin explained the very basic types, and after we left Scootaloo alone with the laptop for a few moments, we saw her entering the credit card number, redder than ever. "That should give you something to work with. The websites will send the packages in your name, so just keep an eye on the mail and you should have everything before the weekend. I know this is an uncomfortable subject to talk about, but isn't this a lot easier than trying to break the news to us that you're pregnant or caught a horrible STD?"

She was still blushing a bit, but she managed "That's true. Thanks, you guys."

We smiled, and hugged her. "We love you Scootaloo, and we don't want to see you get hurt."

As she turned to get back to her homework, Kevin spoke up again “We're not done quite yet. We also need to have the drug talk soon, and I want you to have this read before we do.” He produced a green book labeled 'The Consumers Union Report: Licit and Illicit Drugs' “You can also read it on your computer if you don't want to lug the hard copy around – just search the title, the entire text of the book is available free online. This is a good starting point to learn the truth about different drugs – it was written by the same people who write Consumer Reports, and because it didn't toe the line that all drugs are evil, it only ever got one edition. Its a bit out of date, being from 1972, but it still covers what all the major drugs do, where they came from, and how they got to be legal or illegal. By this time next week I want you to have read part one, 'The Opiates: Heroin, Morphine, Opium, and Methadone' so we can talk about it.”

She took the book hesitantly “Uh Dad, I don't like drugs, and I don't have anything to do with them, just like the DARE officer told us to. Do I still need to read this?”

“And you believed everything DARE taught you?” Kevin looked a little disappointed “We need to have a talk about how to evaluate a message based on the motives of the person delivering it.” He looked at her again “But yes, you do need to read it. Even if you don't have any interest now, that could change, and I guarantee some of your friends will at least try different drugs as they get older. Knowing what you're doing lets you know the difference between a harmless drug and one that might get you hooked for life in under 10 doses.”

She nodded, put the book in her school bag, and we got back to helping with her algebra and trigonometry. It wasn't an easy conversation to have, but she was our daughter, and we both felt better knowing she could make smart choices when we weren’t around to help.

And she didn't need to know how much Kevin and I cried that night about our baby girl growing up.


It took time, but her grades gradually improved, and as the weather warmed we made plans to take her and some friends to Oshkosh in July to see new airplanes and hopefully do some acrobatic flying. 

The NASA team invited her in a couple more times, and by April they held a press conference detailing their work, with Scootaloo sitting in pride of place next to the research team. Their prototype lifter was the size of a serving platter but could lift 50 lbs, and they were already talking about scaling the design up for launching orbital payloads at a fraction of current costs. She gave a short speech congratulating them on their work, and publicly revealed the information about Rainbow Dash in an alternate Detroit. This reignited public speculation for another few months and while the information was not explicitly classified, we did get an irritable phone call from someone at the DOD suggesting we keep such information to ourselves in future.

Spring also saw the FDA approve a number of genetic treatments and medications derived from Scootaloo's DNA. Much as finding a working 1930's tube radio would have revolutionized the theory of electronics in 1790, so Scootaloo's DNA had been reverse engineered into cures for all manner of diseases. Much more was still in the works, and her body's ability to build complex electronics, and apparently batteries was still poorly understood, but because of her cooperation, many lives had already been saved.
In June there was a press conference where the survivors stood and publicly thanked Scootaloo for saving them, and she hugged them while we all cried. We had to keep a box by the door after that for all the cards and letters from loved ones who were alive today because of our daughter, and who wrote in personally to thank her.  We always kept a few of the children's crayon drawn thank you notes on the fridge, and one memorable letter from  a five year old still stays with me:

“Dear Ms Scootaloo thank you for save my life. I had cancer and was going to die but now Mommy says I can go home. I drew this picture of you playing in a field with angels.”


Summer soon arrived, and we rented two Cessna 172's to fly the family and 5 friends out to Oshkosh for a week. I had just passed my own IFR license, and good thing too as we flew though some weather to get there, but with myself and three teen girls in one plane and Scootaloo at the controls of the other plane with Kevin and two other schoolmates we all made the trip out in less than a day. 
While Scootaloo warmed up for an acrobatic demonstration with a smoke trail, I got to look through the offerings and found myself drawn to the Cozy and Velocity canard designs with their slick styling and +200 mph speeds. I had to drag Kevin over, and after showing him the designs he seemed interested. 

“So, think we could get one?” 

“Jayne these things cost 40 to 90 thousand dollars! I think they're cool too, but we could never afford that.”

“I know the new ones cost that, but you can find just the airplane with no engine and instruments for 12 thousand. I could do the engine install with Scootaloo and put in the instruments and have a plane we could all use as a family. And with used parts I bet we could do it for less than the price of a new car.”

He thought about it “Lets talk tonight at the hotel. The budget is tight, but if we got a loan as for a new car, I could see this working...”

“Oh thank you!” And I kissed him in front of everyone, not even caring who might see.


That afternoon we all watched as Scootaloo did her acrobatic performance to a pounding selection from her music collection. All her friends cheered and held up a banner proclamation 'Scootaloo Rocks!' 

Later in the week, just as her friends were getting bored, Scootaloo wrangled a deal to get them all rides in one companies acrobatic aircraft. Of the six of them, only she and Christina managed to hold onto their lunch, and the two of them ribbed the others about it all they way home.
> Ch 6: That Poor Table
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release.



Chapter Six: That Poor Table

It was on this return flight from Oshkosh that the topic first came up; Kevin and I had taken one plane with two of Scootaloo's friends, and she was at the controls of the other aircraft along with three friends. After a solid week of airplanes this and flying that, the topic was soon focused on the upcoming school year.

Susan spoke up: “So, who else is going to try out for cheerleading in the fall?”

“I hope they pick me for the squad,” Melissa replied wistfully. “I've been practicing to be a cheerleader ever since my sister Christine got in last year. Its a lot of work, and you have to be so fast and strong, but the things they can do...”

“Yeah, and at least at our school it's not like the movies –the squad members all look out for each other.”

“You don't know the half of it! ...Does anyone remember last year when Silvia's boyfriend, well...”

“I heard about that,” Scootaloo chimed in. “She came to school with a black eye and we didn't see her for like a week after that. Who was her boyfriend anyway?”

“Ugh, it was that douchebag, Matt Ross.”

“Wait, you mean that jerk Matt Ross who spent like a week in the hospital right after Silvia took that week off? He said 5 big black guys jumped him in the parking lot, but no one ever caught them...”

Melissa gave them a sly smile. “Well I don't know. Personally, I never thought Christine looked like a big black guy.”

The other three girls all turned in their seats to stare at her.

Melissa shrugged and continued. “Maybe its just me; I never saw the resemblance.” Then, as the awed silence stretched on: “Hey, Scoot, shouldn't you be flying the plane?”

“Huh? Oh, its been on autopilot for the last half hour. But that sounds awesome! I've kind of wanted to be a cheerleader ever since the track coach told me I couldn't actually compete in the meets. I didn't know our squad was so hardcore!”

“Well duh, I'm like the biggest nerd in this group and even I know you don't mess with cheerleaders.” Josie spoke up from the back. “When they go to competitions the staff keep an ambulance waiting outside the building.”

“Why would they need an ambulance?” Scootaloo asked, with a raised eyebrow. 

“Really? You've all seen the squad throw the flyer girls up fifteen feet in the air. What did you think happened if they didn't make the catch?”

“Oh...”

“Yeah, that was probably the hardest part for my sister. Mom was not happy with her playing such a dangerous sport. It took months to get permission for the try outs, but hopefully that means I shouldn't have as hard a time getting in,” Melissa finished. 

“At least your Dad didn't object,” Susan replied. “You should have heard my Dad when I asked last year. 'I won't have my little girl on display for everyone, prancing about in a skimpy outfit in front of a stadium full of horny teenagers!'” she imitated her father's voice and mannerisms as the girls snickered. “I only got him to agree to let me try out this year by telling him exactly what your mother didn't want to hear.”

Scootaloo looked confused. “He wants you to get hurt?”

“No, he thinks if I can handle such a hardcore sport then I should be able to take on anything or anyone life throws at me. He might have a point...”

“It does sound cool,” Scootaloo replied thoughtfully. “But who's the coach? And will they actually let me compete?”

“Oh you know her! She's the guidance counselor who got your phone back from Brittany last year; Ms Chisholm.”

“She's a cheerleading coach? But she's so nice! Our track coach is always yelling at the team and driving us on. How could a guidance counselor be a coach?”

Melenie shook her head. “You haven't seen anything yet, Ms Chisholm may be the nicest guidance counselor you ever met, but on the field she's a whole different person. She says she has to be because if the squad makes a mistake it's so much worse in cheerleading then in any other sport.”

Josie spoke up from the back. “I know its risky, but I always wanted to be one of the flyers, the prestige, friends, not to mention the boys who come to drool over our meets and fetch us Gatorades, and carry our books...without their shirts... Me-ow!”

The conversation soon moved on to other topics, but any misgivings she had before were gone now. A hardcore sport she could compete in, and someone she knew and liked was the coach; Scootaloo wanted in, and as soon as they got home she would take it up with her Dads.

... 

“You want to do what?!” I asked in much the same tone I would have used if she had just told us she wanted to take up competitive pole dancing.

“I want to try out for the cheerleading squad. On the track team I'm just a glorified mascot; I can't really compete. The squad could really use me.” She mentally added 'as the best flyer ever!'

“Cheerleading is so objectifying! And the jocks on the teams you would be cheering for...” I trailed off as I remembered all the abuses I had endured at the hands of high school jocks. “Kevin, talk some sense into her!”

“Oh sweetie,” Kevin said as he held me. Then, to Scootaloo: “We both had a rough time in high school. The problems you had last year? Imagine getting that from half the school, for years, without let-up. We lost a lot of friends, and some of them... some left to avoid us, but some couldn't take it, and unlike Britney, no one tried to stop them.” He paused to find the words. “I never really knew hate until I watched a group of football jocks cracking jokes at the funeral of... of someone I cared about very much.” He wiped his eyes remembering that awful time. “So beyond any concerns about objectification, when you say you want to associate with the same groups whose members made our lives hell for years, yes, we are going to worry.”

“Oh Papa, I'm sorry, I didn't think...”  Kevin pulled her over and we all just held each other while I fought back tears.

“Scootaloo, I don't think this is a good time to talk about this. Give us a day to think it over and we can talk again tomorrow.”



That evening after Scootaloo went to bed we sat up and talked it out. 
“She's having an easier time in school as an equine then we ever did as gay teens, and her participation on the track team hasn't led to disaster... maybe it will be okay. She has some differences to work through, no doubt, but she also outweighs 95% of the people in her school and is much stronger than any of them. Remember when you needed help lifting the car for engine access and she just got underneath and lifted the front half like it was no big deal? She could put a hoof through a brick wall and everyone knows it.”

I nodded “She can take care of herself, and being an minor celebrity doesn't hurt either.”

“On the other hand, her grades still aren't back to where they used to be. All the drama and extracurriculars can't be helping. We know she's smart enough to make straight A's without a lot of effort, and she's only a few years from graduation now. Pony or not, she'll need to get into college soon, or at least have the skills for a day job.”

“It's easy to forget, but she is growing up so fast. And you're right, she's not living up to her potential academically...” 

“How about a compromise?” Kevin asked.



The next night, we took it up with Scootaloo at dinner. “We talked it over, and we are okay with you trying out for cheerleading on one condition.”

“All right!... Wait, is this about cleaning my room?” she asked. “Because I don't mind stepping on Legos an' junk in bare hooves.” 

I grimaced remembering the last time I tried to wade into her room without shoes. “No, I was thinking about your schooling. Kevin and I have been teaching you since you were a little filly, and I have seen your class work for middle school; you are smarter than the work they're giving you and you're not being challenged.”

She opened her mouth to protest, thought about it... “Well... school has been pretty boring for quite awhile now...” 

“I've often wondered how you could stay awake in class,” I added dryly. “If you are willing to work at your home schooling this summer you would have no trouble making it into 9th grade. Work with us on the academics, and we'll support you on cheerleading.”

She thought about it. “Well... I wouldn't mind skipping a grade and leaving certain girls behind... And if you'll let try out for cheerleading...”  

“I'll even help you make the uniform,” Kevin smiled. “I know it still seems a long way off, but in only three or four years you'll be looking for colleges. Extracurriculars do make a difference on your application, and you never know, maybe you might win a scholarship!”



The rest of the summer was a blur of work, study and play as Scootaloo put away one textbook after another in the evenings and spent the days hanging out with friends. Kevin and I found a project aircraft, hauled it home on a trailer and Scootaloo helped us with engine installation.

I also took the opportunity to teach her how auto engines worked, and after an afternoon struggling and cursing as we worked on a inaccessible water pump buried deep in our car's engine bay, we had an idea. 

It all started as I was cursing the idiots who designed the vehicle. 
We had lifted the car up onto jack-stands and I was wedged in up to the shoulder under the front bumper trying to reach the bolts holding the pump in place. Scootaloo had removed the top engine mount and was prying on the engine so I would have any room to work at all. 

Between curses I related a description of the mechanic that GM apparently thought would be working on their cars: “He would have one huge left arm, bigger around than his leg. #$&@ bolts! That would be used for your job.” I gestured up to where Scootaloo was prying on the engine and sweating considerably at the effort. “He would have a small right arm for delicate work, and a couple of &^%# tentacles to use tools in tiny spots like this!”  

With a peal of laughter, she lost her grip on the bar, and the socket driver was hopelessly pinned by the weight of the engine. I managed to extricate myself from under the car, and we took a break to wash off the engine grease from our arms, hooves and faces. Over lunch she brought up the idea my joke had made her think of. While GM might never get their ideal mechanic, that didn't mean she couldn't fill the role. 
“Think about it, Dad. My arms are designed to imitate normal human arms, but I bet if we asked, the engineers would build me a mechanical tentacle. It could even have different ends to do different tasks.”

I admit, I was startled. It was so easy to forget that the arms our daughter used so effortlessly were artificial. “You would want that?”

She gave me a look. “Well, not for daily use obviously, but there's no reason we couldn't keep it in the tool chest with the rest of the wrenches. Wouldn't it be nice if I could just...” and she tapped her rear hooves together and her arms folded out of the way, “plug in the new arms and just get to anything we needed, quickly and easily? You said yourself that this would be a ten minute repair with good access. Dad, we've been out here fighting with it for three hours.”

“...Well, no harm in asking...”

We let Scootaloo explain the idea to the engineers at the prosthetic design company, and I swear, their eyes lit up with glee. We had a set of  prototypes in under a month, and with all the adapters, she was soon able to do in moments what would take me hours. To be fair, some of the interchangeable ends the engineers came up with were a little much, and I wondered for awhile what our girl would think of to do with a high-speed rotary tool, a torque driver and a rapid-tap probe that looked a bit like a tattoo gun. (You can't give engineers open-ended requests unless you are prepared for them to build a system that they would like.) 

The amusing thing was that Scootaloo did eventually find uses for each of them. The rotary tool helped her complete some little soapstone sculptures for the art appreciation class she and Kevin took together at the community college learning annex, the torque driver let her help me with the car and build some alarmingly complex devices with her friends Josie and Melissa and poor Josie's little brother's Erector set, plus the rapid-tap probe was fairly easily adapted into a kind of hand-held sewing machine that let her help Kevin touch up hems.


---

It was mid July when Scootaloo got a got an unexpected call from an old friend of ours – Gerald. After his family rescued our daughter we had kept in touch, and though we didn't share a lot of interests, we made it a point to stay of friendly terms. Now Scootaloo had a chance to return the favor after a fashion.

Like most farms, Gerald's was large enough that the fleet of tractors and machinery needed a steady supply of fuel, and that meant keeping a tank containing hundreds of gallons diesel fuel. He had recently gone to refuel a combine, only to find someone had drained the whole tank, stealing thousands of dollars of fuel in a single night. 

“And you want me to help find the thieves?” Scootaloo asked.

“No. Ya see, I set up a game camera, but they wore masks and took the plates off that busted old truck. Cops can't do anything about it, and I can't sit out there waiting for a month, hoping they come back. The tank's way out in the south fields, and that's a long drive...”

Scootaloo smiled to herself. “But not a very long flight. I see where you're going with this. You put in an alarm but you can't get there fast enough. How does your daughter feel about a sleepover?”

We talked it over and she promised to stay high and out of sight. She would use the cell phone capacity of her pilot/Google glass interface to call for help and keep the thieves in sight until law enforcement arrived. 

Josie and Susan asked to tag along, and they spent the first week getting the feel for the farm, an environment none of them were used to. Gerald's family farm was primarily a grain and corn farming operation, but his neighbors did keep some livestock, and the girls used the opportunity to take horseback riding lessons. When we asked her about it over the video link on her second night on the farm her reaction was less than positive.

“I don't see why any little girl would want a horse. Real horses smell, and they crap everywhere!”

Between her pouty expression and her tone it took Kevin and I some time to stop laughing. “Well, most little girls don't know that, sweetie. Was it any fun to ride them?”

“Ugg, don't get me started. They are sooo dumb! It was like trying to ride a rabbit on a sugar buzz! The slightest sound or even something moving and the dumb thing would take off running! And they're not low to the ground like my bicycle, so if feels like riding a bicycle on stilts! Do you know how many times I got thrown off?”

That brought us up short. “Oh, I'm sorry honey, are you okay?”

She replied in exasperated tones. “Yeeesss. I can fly remember? Josie is going to have some bruises for a while though. And after a day of riding we had to spend two hours shoveling out the pen! I swear, they do nothing but eat and crap and run away. Miss Vita Bohème was right, internal combustion really is the ultimate accessory!” 

...

After three days with no sign of trouble from the thieves, the girls got another taste of farm life when thunderstorms came on suddenly and began flooding the barn where the machinery was kept. Gerald woke the whole family at three in the morning, and they all pulled on clothes and rushed out into the pouring rain to fill sand bags and help dig drainage ditches as the thunder rolled. It took several hours to get things under control, but the faulty sump pump was eventually repaired, and the battle against the encroaching tide was turned. As Scootaloo brought another wheelbarrow full of sand for bagging around to the low side of the barn, thinking some very unladylike thoughts about the whole mess, Gerald caught sight of her. 

“Nice work lass, you're pretty strong for as young as you are.” He complemented with a grin before squelching off through the mud to help his wife with the backhoe. It wasn't much, but being appreciated made it easier to put up with being soaked to the skin and ankle deep in mud at four in the morning.

By six they finally had things under control, and with the tools packed up, they all came back inside to dry off and devour a huge breakfast of pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage and hash browns. Scootaloo couldn't eat the meat, but the warm feeling of comradely and belonging seemed to make everything okay.

...

When the alarm went off on her sixth day at the farm, she tumbled out of bed, suited up and was out the window in under a minute- sleeping in her prosthetic was uncomfortable, but possible when necessary. She soon reached the tank in that distant field, and made her call to the state police as the thieves continued to unload the tank. Unfortunately, it took the dispatcher quite some time to understand what was going on, and where he needed to send help to. By the time anyone was on the way, the thieves were too, and Scootaloo orbited high overhead, following them and providing turn by turn directions as best she could, thankful for the monochrome FLIR camera that let her see them at all. After what seemed like forever, she finally picked out a cruiser moving to intercept, and before long the truck was pulled over and the chase ended. 
The thieves actually had the gall to claim they owned the fuel, and demanded to know who was accusing them. Scootaloo sent the video recording she had made down to the officers, and that put an end to that as they were unceremoniously packed off to jail, complaining all the while about illegal drone aircraft.

With the problem solved and the danger over, Scootaloo and her friends were reluctant to go, but after an extra two nights 'just to make sure', Kevin came to bring them home.

--

That summer we also taught her to drive, admittedly a bit of an anticlimax after learning to fly. When she asked why, the response was simply: “Do you know what a DD is?” 

She gave us a blank look. “Designated Driver. When you and your friends go out drinking in a few years, someone sober has to drive them home, and this way you can do so safely.”

I agreed. “And don't forget – if you ever get into trouble, if you ever need help, we are always here to come pick you up if you need it. You never need to drive, or fly, drunk.”

“Don't worry, Dad,” she agreed. “Twelve hours bottle-to-throttle. I know the rules!”



When school resumed in the fall, Scootaloo easily tested out of 8th grade in nearly every subject, and into 9th or 10th in the rest. The administration grumbled, but were ultimately overruled by her test scores and the recommendation of the remarkable Ms. Chisholm. Our daughter officially started the 9th grade. 

Tryouts soon came, and Scootaloo made the squad, quit the track team, and began spending her after-school hours training with the other girls. While everyone else ordered their uniform, if fell to Kevin and Scootaloo to make hers. Kevin had purchased all the  purple and white fabric ahead of time, so she brought home Christina and Steve, a new friend from the football team, and using Christina's uniform as a template, they copied the design and created a new uniform.

I soon learned to carry ear plugs when I went to pick her up after school – while cheers on the field may not sound like much, they were deafening in a gymnasium, and by her third practice session I made sure she had a set that fit her too -not so good as to completely muffle the sound of the cheers, but enough to damp them down and protect her hearing. The other girls were soon persuaded to follow suit, which had one positive effect...their cheers actually got louder. 

As they got into more complicated patterns and gymnastics Ms. Chisholm delivered the news; While Scootaloo had been an obvious choice for flyer, it wasn't clear if the competitions would permit self propelled flight by a cheerleader, so they needed to practice drills with and without her flying. 

“But I'm the best flyer ever. I can actually fly! And now they're saying I'm not allowed to fly in competition?!”

“Its not that simple” Ms Chisholm responded, “they haven't come back with a answer yet. If our squad doesn't do well it might not matter, but if we make it to state or nationals, you can bet that your flights will be used as an excuse to disqualify us.”

There was a murmur of surprise and anger from the girls and Christina spoke up  “That's not fair, Scootaloo shouldn't have to give up flying just because some other team wants to better their chances!”

“We don't know if you have to or not, but we have to plan for the worst. What would happen if we used your flight in every major drill and then lost all our best material because you weren't allowed to fly?” Ms Chisholm shook her head “No, we will still practice some drills with you airborne, but the bulk of it must be without your... talents.”

“You mean you're kicking me off the squad?!”

“No, of course not. I've seen you in gym class and you can lift more than anyone else on the squad; we'll just train you as a base.”

Scootaloo had the good sense not to complain in front of the squad, but afterwards when she got home and was alone with Christina and Steven she let fly. 'It wasn't fair, she should be able to fly' and on and on about the unfairness of it all. Christina was supportive, and pointed out this wasn't the end of the world; she was a base herself, and no one could fly without a good base to catch them. “Well, almost no one...”

Steve backed her up too, and although he wasn't clear on what a 'base' was, he helpfully told stories of the bad coaches he had worked with and speculated about Ms Chisholm's motives. As Scootaloo kept complaining, Steve put an arm around her, and soon Christina excused herself and left. While Scootaloo eventually warmed up to her new role on the squad, she also saw more of Steven.


Her progress in school was much better, and as the year wore on she settled into a comfortable routine of cheerleading practice, school, homework and friends. She also brought home her first boyfriend for us to meet: Steve Brown. 

They had met when she skipped into the 9th grade; he'd been over several times before, and somewhere along the way they had moved up to dating. We had our reservations about the young man, but after an initial FYI about our concerns, we kept our peace and let her figure it out. It lasted almost a month before she broke it off without explanation, at least to us. Kevin was cooking dinner and Scootaloo was out on the front porch with her friends when he overheard them discussing what happened though the open window.

“Oh, I'd been having second thoughts for a while.. it was like he wanted to be seen with me, like I was some kind of trophy. And I was beginning to think that was the only reason he was into me when...”

“When what?... Oh come on, you've been holding out on us for days!”

“Yea, how did he really get that broken rib? He didn't actually fall off a dirt bike did he?”

“Well... we were hanging out at his house and his parents weren't due back till late. He was coming on to me, and... he said he wanted to try something.”

“... Well?!” Melissa demanded.

“He put a bit and bridle on me.”

Their stares were clearly audible through the curtains. 

“... You have got to be kidding me!” Josie said “He had you all to himself, and that's what he wanted to do?!” 

That got a laugh. 

“Well... I didn't really mind that part...”

“Oh, girl!” 

“I know, but it was... interesting...”

“Damn, Scoot! But what went wrong?”

“Well, instead of... getting on with it, he jumped on my back and tried to ride me around the house!”

After a silence it was Josie who spoke up “Wow, I knew Steve was a dumbass, but Damn what a dumbass!”

“Yea, after all the buildup that was the last straw. I told him to get off, and he didn't, so I... helped him off... into a table.”

“The poor table!” Melissa laughed.

“So after that I put my arms back on, which took way longer with that bit buckled on, and no help from Steve. After that I unbuckled the bit, and told him it was over; as if the table wasn't enough of a clue.”

“Aw, I'm sorry Scoot, you deserve better.”

“Well, it wasn't that bad. He just turned out to be kind of a... starter boyfriend.”

Further conversation was interrupted at that point as the burning meat on the stove set off the smoke alarm. 


The first pep rally came soon enough, and though they were all nervous, the squad put on a good show with Scootaloo serving as both flyer and base. On one of the last drills Melissa slipped and lost her footing with her flyer still tumbling overhead, but with a dive, Scootaloo got underneath and caught her. I found out about her heroism when she called me at work right after a meeting. 

“Hey Dad, um there was an accident at the pep rally today.” She hastily added “We're all okay, I just, kind of broke my arm.”

“Oh my god! Honey I'll be right... Wait, which arm?”

“Yea, its my left... Do you still have the drawings for it? We're going to have to make a new segment, and probably ship it back to the lab to have the broken drive motors replaced...”

“Don't scare me like that Scootaloo! I'm just glad you're okay. We can work on your arm  tonight, and in the mean time you can use the... automotive right arm.”

That accident was the last time Scootaloo used her prosthetic on the squad – Ms Chisholm took one look at the broken shards of carbon fiber and put her foot down. Scootaloo grumbled, but eventually learned to drill without it, though she sometimes referred to chearleading practice as her personal shibari practice when she was feeling grumpy. (Knowing what our own teenage years were like, our policy was that if it didn't involve meeting someone from online or Nigerian princes, Scootaloo's computer was her own business.)
And during the week she used her automotive arm, she did manage to absolutely win the heart of her shop teacher, as well as the contest for best birdhouse.
Junior high was going well for our little girl.
       

> Ch 7: Unnatural 
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Our Girl Scootaloo

by Cozy Mark IV

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release


Chapter Seven: Unnatural

As Scootaloo's 9th grade year rolled on we got used to only seeing her in the evenings as her days were packed full of school, friends and cheerleading practice. She built lasting friendships with the other girls on the squad, and as winter gave way to spring they attended one competition after another. They made it to state because of their hard work and the long hours of drilling they all put in, but here the squad was confronted with a problem they had not expected.

Ms Chisholm had been right to train our girl as a base; the judges of the very first competition had tried to ban them from competition on grounds that Scootaloo's flight abilities were a 'safety risk'. The look on their faces had be priceless when Scootaloo performed without flying, instead carrying a partial pyramid by herself.

The judges at state called Scootaloo and Ms Chisholm up on the day before competition.

"We are sorry to inform you that Ms Scootaloo will not be eligible to compete in the state meet."

"You mean she won't be allowed to fly? That's not a problem, we understand your concern for everyone's safety, but she can compete without being a flyer."

Scootaloo and her coach shared a grin, but the Judge they had on the speaker phone wasn't done yet.

"Oh, we have no problem with her flying, we had to disqualify her for violations of the ethics code." The sneer as he said it was clearly audible. "You see we only allow fair competition of... Un-altered young men and women. We do not allow drugs, steroids, prosthetics, earings, or tattoos on any of our participants."

"But I take my arms off to drill! Why would you ban me?"

The tone of smug superiority only became more pronounced. "Why because of your hair color, Ms. Scootaloo. Purple hair is not a 'natural color' as defined in our rule book."

After a shocked silence it was Ms Chisholm who spoke with a hard edge to her voice: "You do realize that discrimination based on skin color is explicitly forbidden by that same rule book."

"Oh yes, and we would never dream of discrimination based on the color of your team member's orange skin. However, her purple hair is a clear violation of our policy, and so we regret to inform you that, due to her choice of unnatural hair dyes, she will not be welcome at the competition."

"What do you mean 'unnatural'?! I was born this way!"

"Oh, I am sooooo sorry, but any changes to the rules must be made by petition during the off season. Best of luck to you all. Goodbye!"

They heard the click and stared at each other in stunned silence.

"Damn. I should have known one of the other teams would try to cause problems, but this is really low... Scoot, how do you feel about a dye job?"

After a brief word with the assistant coach, they left for the local hair stylist, and gave her one of the strangest requests of her career.

As the hours wore on it soon became clear this would not be an easy fix. Despite their best efforts, the dyes refused to adhere, and after three messy attempts, all they had managed to do was darken her purple mane a few shades. As practice ended, the squad trickled in, and more hours ticked by as the light faded outside and the hair salon took on the air of a funeral parlor.

After a bleach job failed as well Josie burst out: "This is so wrong! There's got to be a way around it... What if we shave you?"

A soaking and bedraggled Scootaloo gave Ms Chisholm a hopeful look.

"No, the bastard thought of that -a bald head is considered 'unnatural' as well."

The whole squad groaned again. Kevin arrived as they made one last attempt, and it fell to him to towel her off and console her on the drive home.

Scootaloo exchanged texts with the other girls after dinner, and decided to at least attend the meet to cheer her friends on. I got the news around 11 PM that night -I was to drive Scootaloo to the meet the next day and be there by 9AM.

We arrived and made our way into the gym were all the other teams were warming up, but her squad wasn't there yet. We turned back to find them when the door swung open and Christina, Josie, Melisa and all the others burst through and practically tackled Scootaloo in a group hug. And every one of them, even Ms Chisholm, had bright purple hair.

"What?! You guys! Won't they disqualify you all now?"

"Nope. Melissa here found a loophole online after you left last night. The unnatural hair look came up once before in another district, the Barracudas, when a cheerleader suffering from cancer wanted to compete after her chemo, and her squad realized something. If every member of the squad wears something, it becomes the uniform. Our hair color is therefore part of our uniform, and hence, cannot be held against any of us."

"Yeah, you should have seen that Judge when Ms Chisholm showed him the line in his own rulebook!"

"You guys...I..." Scootaloo held back tears.

"Oh, don't give it another thought," Ms. Chisholm smiled. "We'd do the same for any member of the squad, because cheerleaders stick together!"

"And it beats having to shave all our heads," Melissa remarked. "That's how the other team beat the rules."

"And now that we can all compete, let's get out there and show them what we can do!"

The competition at state was fierce, and one of the city squads soon distinguished themselves with complicated drills executed with near military precision. They also stood out as the only squad with universally short hair. It didn't take long to pick out the barracuda logo and put it together.

During a break in the action the entire barracuda squad wandered over to say hi and wish everyone luck. "Wait, you're them! You're the squad we read about!" Melissa realized. "Thank you so much for putting your story online! We wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."

"Oh, you're welcome! We heard what you did and wanted to congratulate you. When you stand up for what's right, we all win."

"That's kind of you to say," Josie ventured "but you guys are so much better than us..."

"Well, its been a hard season... This is our first meet without Chrissy..."

"Oh, my God! You mean after all that she... didn't make it?"

It was suddenly quiet as our entire squad looked heartbroken. There were tears in the eyes of the barracudas, and their captain spoke up in a shaky voice. "Where is Scootaloo?"

She stepped forward. "I'm here, I'm so sorry to hear-"

"No you don't understand." She choked up... "She's going to live. Chrissy is going to live because of you! Thank you! Thank you so much!"

I watched in astonishment as the barracuda squad pulled Scootaloo and her entire squad in for hugs, some of them actually crying on each others shoulders.

"The chemo was only a last ditch effort, everyone knew she barely had a chance, but she fought it. She fought it long enough for a genetic treatment to become available. A treatment derived from you! She's recovering in the hospital now, but she's going to live! And we have you to thank Scootaloo!"

Nearly everyone was crying before they left, even our girl who usually got something in her eye at times like this.

The squad performed well, but not well enough to make it past state, however when the Barracuda squad placed second, they were cheered on like one of our own.

The summer between 9th and 10th grade saw the first flight of our family's newly-built aircraft, and we soon put it to good use. Over the summer Scootaloo and her friends visited at least a dozen amusement parks, Kevin and I took weekend vacations to New York, Baltimore, Tampa and two beaches, and the whole family attended several comic conventions.

In our city, 10th grade was the first grade in high school, and with that transition came the opportunity to enroll in 'distance learning' classes. The high schools offered a number of classes for college credit, taught by and graded by college professors, and viewed with video conferencing software so students at the high school could participate. With encouragement from Kevin, Mary and myself, Scootaloo signed up for a serious course-load with a math and biology leaning.

The high school cheerleaders welcomed Scootaloo, Christina and the other graduating squad members with open arms, and they were soon memorizing the cheers for the new school, and sweating to new, more complicated drills. Strangely, though she was making good grades in her college introductory biology and calculus classes, our girl seemed to be having a tough time with the new gymnastics needed for cheerleading, and she was soon spending long hours after school practicing with Christina. This worked out well as Christina found herself in need of tutoring in trigonometry, so we got to see more of her, and she even stayed for dinner some nights and helped Kevin in the kitchen.

Her ninth year with us also saw new breakthroughs in understanding her own biology. The mystery of how she was able to grow a complicated machine in her wings was partially explained when the doctors untangled some of her previously unintelligible DNA. Mary brought it up at one of our monthly visits.

"You probably don't remember, but years ago, an adorable little foal asked me if she was full of 'natobots'. Well it looks like you were on to something." She pulled up a series of

microscope photos showing cell cultures growing around and through a chip of bone. "It may not look like much, but your bones are wrapped in a latticework of synthetic cells. They look just like the biological cells around them, but split one open and the internal components are very different."

"You mean they're little robots?"

"No, robots have electrical circuits made of billions of transistors. These cells are built upon the model of an organic cell, but nearly all the internal parts have been heavily modified, and new interstellar systems added. We are still studying them, but it seems clear this synthetic biology is what holds you together, as well as giving you the ability to grow an EMFR flight unit into your wings."

We exchanged concerned looks. "What do you mean 'holds you together'?"

"You remember that your DNA contains sections from both horses and humans, as well as choice sections from a scattering of other animals? Well the job of combining all that together into a working animal is no minor task. The job was obviously done intelligently, but whoever did so seems to have had difficulty getting the reliability and robustness they needed. Now in nature, the fix would be to have generation after generation live and die, and survival of the fittest will result in a tried and true design in half a million years or so. Its tough to nail down the exact age of your species, but by counting the number of random changes in the DNA you share with other species we can make an educated guess."

"Well?" Scootaloo asked.

"If we have our baseline right, your species has been in existence for between 2000 and 10,000 years, certainly not the millions of years necessary to work out the bugs by natural means."

"But that's crazy; there was no one around with that skill level back then."

"And there still isn't anyone with the necessary skill today. But apparently there will be some day; the human DNA was difficult to nail down by age, but by the number and place of random changes, its first incorporation into your species is obviously from several hundred years... in the future."

We sat dumbstruck as it sunk in. "Wait, the people who donated DNA to build Scootaloo's species haven't even been born yet? How can you possibly know that?"

"Admittedly it is difficult to be sure with only one... Pony to study, but this is the same technique scientists used to figure out when humans first invented clothing."

We all looked confused. Mary sighed and mumbled "Public schools these days!"

"Okay, the question to be answered was 'when did humans first wear clothes?' and it seems impossible to solve. The best you would expect is to say 'we found a body this old with clothes, so that's when', but that's not much of an answer. Scientists know that body lice and head lice are two different species, and that body lice need clothes to live; they can't survive without them. So they got samples of DNA from each type of lice and looked at how many random changes had accumulated in the DNA since the two species had split. They knew that changes to DNA occur at about one change every X years, so they counted the number of differences (changes) between the species and multiplied by X to get the number of years since the species diverged: 170,000 years. Since the species could not have split without clothes for the body lice to live in, it therefor follows that humans first put on clothes about 170,000 years ago," she finished as though this was obvious.

"… So you counted the number of random changes to our daughter's human DNA and multiplied by 1 change per X years?"

"Now you've got it. Again, its tough to say with a sample size of only one pony, but it will take several hundred years for the changes to accumulate to the number we see today in Scootaloo's human DNA."

"So... I'm the only member of a species that doesn't exist yet?" She didn't seem to know what to make of that.

"Well, yes and no... We're just speculating now, but whoever built your species probably did so in the future of an alternate reality. You wound up here and altered our time line, so however your species was built, it probably won't happen the same way here, if it happens at all. We just don't have enough data to find out for sure."

Scootaloo shook her head to clear it; "Okay, go back to the part where you said something holds me together."

"Sorry, I was just saying that without millions of years of evolution to work out the bugs, the synthetic cells in your body act as an intermediary. Most of your systems can work without them... for a while, but when we removed them in the laboratory, problems soon show up. Cells attack each other, bones and muscle grow where they shouldn't -somehow your synthetic biology holds all your systems together, and it looks like its... programmable. Like whoever built your species gave it their best shot, and once they had a working Pony they fixed future problems by programing the synthetic cells instead of doing a complete redesign of your DNA. It would be like the difference between sending a mechanic to fix a car versus tearing the car down to its individual nuts and bolts every time they found a problem."

"So I'm designed to take... software updates?"

"That's the idea. And they also augment your organic systems – remember a year back when GE built that MRI brain scanner just for you so we could get images without hurting your wings? We're still going over the data, but it looks like your synthetic biology is helping your mind and memory."

"Yeah, I remember when they brought in that scanner. Aren't those things expensive? I wondered why they built on just for me..."

"Scoot, that MRI machine was custom built for you and cost about $50 million."

"They spent that much just for me?!"

Scootaloo was reeling from getting all this at once. Mary knelt down and put her arms around our girl. "I know its easy to forget sometimes, but you are incredibly important to a lot of people. There is only ever going to be one of you, and if it costs 50 million dollars to learn more then that is a small price to pay to jump hundreds of years forward in our understanding of medicine. More than a million people around the world owe their lives to treatments derived from you, and its continually impressive to me that someone whose work has healed more sick people than Jesus did in his lifetime still lives such a normal life."

The ride home that night was pretty quiet; it was a lot to take in all at once. After a long pause we asked Scootaloo if she was okay.

"I think so... I think I know what I want now."

I gave her a questioning look and gestured to a passing restaurant "Extra large Caesar with French dressing?"

That seemed to break the mood and she smiled. "No, Dad, I mean I think I know what I want to do with my life. I want to study medicine. I want to be a doctor or a scientist, to help people."

I held her hoof, "That makes me very proud, we always thought your future career would involve something dangerous and flight related."

She grinned mischievously, "Who said I can't have both?"

Her 10th grade year also saw the launch of the first satellites by EMFR technology derived from her wings. NASA had helped develop the technology, and with help form Lockheed Marten and Bechtel Bettis scaled it up to a something resembling an enormous floating barge trailing long cooling fins and a flat deck onto which the cargo was loaded. After a short speech about the new age of cheap space access, the small crowd cheered as Scootaloo broke a bottle of ceremonial champagne against its side, and with barely a sound the enormous machine lifted into the sky and climbed until it was lost from sight.

Not that we managed to get through a year without drama. It was a warm March evening and Scootaloo was helping Christina with Chemistry 101 at the kitchen table when we heard the booming of an overblown car stereo. The car pulled to a stop outside and a moment latter Christina's phone rang.

"Hello?... Brad, calm down... I'm kind of busy just now... Okay! Calm down, I'll be right out." She finished in a frustrated tone.

Scootaloo looked nervous as Christina got up from the table. "Its my boyfriend, I'll be back in a minute." She grabbed her purse and shut the door quietly behind her in stark contrast to the booming racket coming from outside.

Kevin and I looked at each other, then back to Scootaloo.

"Her boyfriend isn't a bad guy, but she's... been thinking about breaking it off," she added lamely.

We drew the curtains back and could see him yelling and waving his arms as Christina stood her ground, arms crossed. I looked at Kevin and he nodded. We both walked slowly and deliberately out to where they were arguing and took up positions on each side of Christina, and this seemed to bring 'Brad' back to reality.

"I've been good to you Chrissy, but I never see you anymore. Who have you been cheating with!"

"I haven't been with anyone else," she responded "but I've been wondering if I made the right choice with you." Her tone rapidly cooled as she added: "And what you've done tonight doesn't help your case. I think we're done, Brad."

She turned and walked back to the house as Brad tried to process what she said. His anger faded and he just looked heartbroken as he leaned against his still booming car. I reached through the open window and switched off the sound system so we didn't need to shout.

"I'm sorry Brad, I know it hurts, but don't take it too hard. If Christina chose you, for even a little while, you must be a good person with a bright future. Remember the good times and when you feel up to it, try again. There's bound to be someone out there waiting for you.

He didn't seem to notice as we went back inside, but it was a credit to his character that he did eventually get over it, and they managed to remain friends. I thought it said a lot about Christina that she chose someone who could make a mistake, learn from it, and grow into a better person.
> Ch 8:  Cold Steel, Zombies and Girl Scouts
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release


Chapter Eight: Cold Steel, Zombies and Girl Scouts

It was during the winter of her 9th year with us during 10th grade that Scootaloo had her run in with Dr. Kebaish. Our daughter had generally had positive interactions with doctors and hospitals, but on this particular evening her usual gynecologist was out of town, so the director of the department was filling in. Everyone else was on time, but had orders to wait for him. An hour and a half past the appointment time he finally walked in interrupting a conversation between Scootaloo and Mary.

"Hello, Ms Scudalo." He looked her over with a stern expression. "Why aren't you ready?" he asked gestured to the stirrups.

"Aren't you going to check my chart?"

"Are you having any symptoms?"

"Well, not at the moment..."

"Then why would I need to talk to you. Get in the stirrups so I can get on with this, I am on a schedule you know."

Scootaloo bit back a retort and climbed onto the table while Dr. Kebaish set out his tools on the counter.

"Ow! Take it easy doc! * &$ that's cold!"

"Doctor, we do have modern plastic speculum on hand right here."

"Stainless steel was good enough in my day and its still good enough today."

Scootaloo tried to keep her cool and relax as best she could, but just as she and Mary were resuming their conversation...

"OW! #$&! hell! What the &#% was that?!"

"Oh do be quiet, I just took the tissue sample for Dr. Gray's study."

"You ass! Didn't you read my chart?! Dr. Gray's study ended six months ago along with those painful samples every month!"

"Well its hardly my fault if your people" he gestured at Mary "fail to keep me informed."

"Oh that's it! Get out! I don't care if you have to get a resident in here to do the exam."

He stood over her and intoned severely "Ms Scudalo, which one of us is an experienced Doctor?"

She glared up at him: "And which one of us has owned and operated a uterus?"

He didn't seem to know what to make of that, and while he worked up a retort, Scootaloo took charge. "Mary," she gestured between the stirrups, "a little help?"

With the metal speculum back on the counter she slid off the table and opened the door. "Nurse?"

"Yes Scootaloo?"

"We need another table in here immediately, think you can help us out?"

She looked confused "Um, I'm sorry but we only have one table that fits you..."

"Oh, its not for me, just please bring a normal exam table with stirrups as fast as you can. Oh, and page whoever is the gynecologist on staff tonight, we need them."

Her puzzled expression changed to surprise, then amusement as she worked it out. "Yes Ma'am!"

Dr. Kebaish did his best to tower over her as she came back in and closed the door. "Well since you obviously aren't going to cooperate, I will be on my way. You can expect my bill in the mail."

Scootaloo spread her wings and squared her shoulders blocking the door as she grinned. "No, I don't think you will be. When I was a child my parents went with me on every hospital visit, got just as many needle sticks, and were always there to show it was okay. I think its time you followed their example."

The door opened, Scootaloo stepped out of the way, and the nurse rolled the new table into the room and set it up beside the first. "Dr. Habibah will be here in a moment."

Dr. Kebaish looked at the second table, then back to Scootaloo who was again blocking the door. "Get out of my way little girl. You won't listen to your betters so I am done here."

"That could be more true than you know if you're not careful. Mary, what would happen if I were to withdraw my medical cooperation because of the behavior of one of the hospital physicians?"

That seemed to get his attention and Mary had to think for a moment: "Well, at the very least they would be forced to apologize, and probably fired too." Mary watched as the danger he was in registered for the first time. "In fact there is a very good chance that the resulting lawsuit from the loss incurred by the hospital would bankrupt him."

Scootaloo looked up at him and in a cold but level tone said: "I've been working with this hospital for almost a decade and I've never had a doctor treat me like a laboratory rat before. So I'll give you a choice. You can try to fight your way out of this room, then explain what happened tonight to all the hospital's shareholders, and tell them you're very sorry you caused me to seek another medical center. And please keep in mind, this is all on video." She gestured to the camera in the corner that was in place to complement the hospital records. "Or you can put on the same hospital gown I'm wearing, and go through the same procedure I am."

"You can't do this, I'm the departmental director!"

Mary stepped up, arms crossed, and gave him a hard look, "And the departmental director can't take what he just did to his patient?"

"But, I'm..."

….

The rest of the exam went off without a hitch, and for the next half hour both patients waited in the stirrups. Scootlaoo and Mary picked up their conversation as though it was the most normal situation in the world while the good director squirmed and blushed and kept tying to cover himself with the tiny translucent hospital gown. And when the proctologist arrived midway through, they made sure he used the 'good stainless speculum'.

The spring of 10th grade also saw our daughters first involvement with the Girl Scouts. It all started after practice one evening when Melissa was talking about what her troop had gotten up to. The girls had arranged a trip to the local paintball field, but the date had conflicted with the schedule for the Boy Scouts, so in good form, they set a friendly bet –the troupes would battle it out and loser paid rental costs for both. Melissa's scouts, acting on some inside intel from the retired lady Sergeant who owned the field, had worn bright, neon colors while the boys had worn green camouflage. It was an indoor field that sold bright orange paintballs, and the boys had stood out like green beacons in a field of orange while the girls blended right in. Amid the laughter over the resulting chaos, Melissa finished: "And after we all showered off, we went out for ice cream with the money we saved...and we took the boys, too, to show 'em no hard feelings."

"I kind of feel left out here," Scootaloo said. "I never got the chance to be in Girl Scouts when I was a kid... It sounds like a lot of fun."

"You never got to be in Girl Scouts?" Josie asked.

"Oh you don't know what you're missing! It's not too late, we could always use another assistant troop leader." Melanie added "Why don't you come with us this weekend and give it a try?"

"Yeah, its the annual fall camp-out. You'll have a blast! We start with a hike, eat a picnic lunch by a stream, search for a geo-cache..."

"Oh, and when we get back we roast marshmallows and tell scary stories!"

"It is kind of fake camping... we have a cabin instead of tents, but running water, showers and toilets are pretty welcome after a day in the woods."

"That sounds awesome!" Scootaloo responded "Just tell me where and I will totally be there."

…

Early that Saturday morning 20 girls with backpacks and their troupe leaders were gathered at the entrance to the trail. Some wore ordinary hiking clothes with their sashes, a few wore shorts and uniform tops, and quite a few were yawning and complaining about having to get out of bed early on a Saturday, including Josie. "Yawn... All right, do we have everyone here?"

Melissa checked her list "Everyone but Scootaloo. You did tell her we start at 8AM right?"

"I did, and she should be here, but we are already a bit behind... Oh, I know!" She turned to the assembled group "Who here has a signal mirror or compact?"

About half their hands went up; "Okay, we're expecting one more member, but they'll be coming in from above, so I want all of you to keep an eye out for her. First person to spot her overhead and first to signal our location with a mirror can get credit towards the wilderness survival badge."

There was a murmur of enthusiastic surprise and with necks craning to watch the sky, the group made their way up the trail and into the trees.

About ten minutes later Scootaloo flew over the camp site and found cars in the gravel lot, but the camp ground deserted. 'Crap, they must left without me...'

She flew on in the direction she thought they might have gone, and inside of two minutes was surprised to see flashes of light coming from a clearing in the forest.

She touched down in front of the group to cheers from the younger girls. "Miss Melissa! Who saw her first? Who gets the credit?"

"Oh I think we can call that a team effort. Unless Miss Scootaloo could see who signaled first?"

"Hey! You made a contest out of me being late?"

"Well normally the pilot rescues the campers, not the other way around." She grinned, and Scootaloo's snarky response was drowned out by the younger scouts clamoring for an answer. After confirming that they got to share credit, they proceeded up the trail under the warm morning sun.

The day rapidly went from warm to sweltering, and everyone was making good use of their water before they stopped for lunch at a stream that cut a path down the side of a hill. Over a meal of sandwiches and trail mix the troop leaders talked about the birds and plants they had seen, and the older Scouts gave presentations to the younger ones on wilderness skills like how to use a compass, the importance of sanitizing any water found in the field, and how to build a small emergency shelter and read trail signs.

One of the thirteen-year-olds had her geology badge, so she helped the little eight-year-olds identify several kinds of sedimentary rock and one found a small fossil in the shale, and an eleven-year-old working towards her botany badge got a lot of help from her friends, who fanned out from the trail to snap pictures of wildflowers with their digital cameras. Scootaloo found some honeysuckle and was about to enjoy a big bite when one of the tiniest little eight-year-olds reminded her that Scouts 'take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints,' at which point Melanie showed the girls how to drink the nectar from the tiny blossoms and mentioned a ranger's report that honeysuckle is technically considered a pest species in some areas, including the National Park they were visiting. "Provided you leave some for the hummingbirds, you can all have some," she explained cheerfully, and Scootaloo helped the little eight-year-old reach a few blossoms to taste.

A question about the amount of trash they had seen at the beginning of the trail started a discussion about environmental responsibility, recycling and how aluminum was made. In grand old Scouting tradition, the girls had brought a few used plastic bags from the shopping center and were gathering any trash they found, with a friendly competition between the Ladybugs (ages eight-nine,) Butterflies (ages ten-eleven,) Crickets (ages twelve-thirteen,) and of course, the Great Big Spiders...or assistant troop leaders. Scootaloo seemed a bit puzzled by the names, and Melanie explained that age-combined troops always pick their own sub-unit sobriquets "and it was the week the entomologist came to speak."

"An entomologist came and spoke?"

"You bet!" a little Ladybug agreed. "I dissected a earf-worm and we learned all about lepidop...lepidopt...butterflies an' moths!"

"Wow. This is like...80% cooler than I imagined!"

The hike back seemed longer then the trip out, and before they made it back some of the Ladybugs had started hitching rides on Scootaloo's back, much to her amusement.

"You sure you don't mind, Scoot?" Melanie asked.

She just smiled "Hey, I carry all of you around during practice don't I? They're nothing by comparison." Her expression turned wistful, almost motherly as she looked at the little girl who had fallen asleep on her back nestled between her arms. "Besides, its nice to have someone to... care for."

They soon arrived back at camp and broke into groups to gather firewood, grill up dinner and clean up the cabins for the night. After burning three burgers beyond recognition Christina gently shouldered Scootaloo aside and helped her with the meal.

"Sorry Christina, I guess I'm not much of a cook."

"No problem Scoot, I know you don't eat meat. You could hardly be expected to know how to cook it," she smiled.

"I guess you're right, though Mary has told me that I should be able to eat it safely. It just doesn't... smell right."

"Wait, you could be a carnivore? That seems... wrong."

"I think so too. I'm trying to suck it up and impress them all, but the truth is those burgers smell bad raw, cooked or burned up. I guess I just can't smell the difference," she shrugged.

"I'm still hung up on you being able to eat meat –how do you know you could?"

"Mary figured it out a while back. I can eat the same hay and grain that a horse can, but they spend most of their day eating and re-grinding their food because it has so little food value. You know I don't spend 7 hours a day eating, and that's because I can process higher value foods like grains, fruits, nuts, oils, sugars and probably, meat. I tried some protein supplements once for a study and, provided I didn't have to taste them, I could eat them without problems."

Just then, the little Indian-American Ladybug who had reminded Scootaloo of the no-picking-flowers rule appeared with a soft-cooler lunchbox.

"Miss Scootaloo, if you don't eat meat, you can have some of my veggie burgers! I brought enough for three people."

"Thank you, Lalitha! I really appreciate that!" Scootaloo used her arm to get something out of her own backpack. "Would you like some of these trail mix bars I brought? My Dad made them with honey, oats and raisins."

"Yes, please!" the little Hindu scout accepted, happily nibbling a bar and telling Scootaloo about how these veggie burgers were the bestest kind because they had more mushroom and no green peppers, at which point she and Scootaloo began to discuss the relative merits of various vegetarian delicacies...and, of course, ketchup.

Scootaloo and her protege were soon called away to help with the firewood and Christina looked thoughtful as she served up the food.

After dinner the younger scouts were picked up by their parents leaving some fourteen girls left to roast marshmallows around the campfire as darkness fell. The troupe leaders each had their go at scary stories, but Scootaloo pulled Christina aside, and when her turn came she made up a story about creepy zombies that rose from the ground, grabbing any who came near and pulling them down into the grave. Just as she got to the scariest part, a pair of arms burst from the ground and grabbed Josie by the ankles!

"AHEEEEE! Zombies!" She screamed frantically scuttling backwards to safety as all the other scouts shrieked in terror. The arms continued to wave about, grasping for fresh prey for almost half a minute before Josie, still panting, noticed that Scootaloo wasn't screaming... "Hey, where are your arms Scootaloo?"

"They must have been taken by... The Zombies! Ohhhh!" She said, still gesturing with her arms. The same arms that she had buried in leaves near the campfire.

"Jeez, Scootaloo, you almost gave me a heart attack!"

"Yeah," one of the girls accused, "when did you learn to do that?"

The arms pointed to where her head usually was; "When I got the wireless control unit."

After a moments calm while Scootaloo dug out her prosthetic arms and strapped them back on Josie conceded "Okay, that was pretty clever. No one has got me that good in years."

They all shared a laugh, and soon everyone adjourned to their tent or the showers. The water was only luke-warm, but after all day hiking in the sun there were no complaints. Scootaloo borrowed a step stool to put her arms on and propped them up just outside the shower with the usual supplies. As she scrubbed off, one of the troop leaders who was not a cheerleader commented "Oh, so that's how you shower." She blushed "Sorry, I guess I never thought about it."

As her arms sat on the stool scrubbing her off she glanced up "Well yeah, try wrapping your hands and feet in duck tape and taking a shower. A brush and your teeth only get you so far." She looked cross eyed at the top of her head and sighed "I just wish I had thought to bring the stand for my control unit, it may be water proof, but I can only get so clean with this thing on."

"Oh, I should have remembered" Christina said taking the brush from stand "Do you mind if I?" She asked gesturing to the top of her head.

Scootaloo looked surprised, then "Oh, yes please!"

Christina pealed off the sweaty electronic pickup and Scootaloo's arms drooped as the control link was broken. She showered it off before taking the brush to the top of Scootaloo's head who practically cooed feeling her skin exposed to cool water after a long day under the hot sun.

As everyone toweled off one of the younger scouts asked "Melanie, how much longer do I have to wait before I get..." She said gesturing self consciously to her chest.

Melanie couldn't help but chuckle. "Well the bosom fairy comes to each house in good time. Don't be in too much of a hurry, these things can be a more trouble then they're worth sometimes."

"Are you kidding?" Josie asked. "I would love to have your figure! Your bosom fairy must have missed my house. I need most of a sock drawer to fill out any good dress!"

"You haven't had to lug these around all day. The bosom fairy didn't stop by my house, she dive-bombed it. You can walk into a room and guys treat you like a person. I show up and some of them only see an object... Though on poker night that can be handy..." she smiled again.

"At least both yours are even," Christina countered. "Mine are different sizes! You know how hard it can be to stuff tissues into half a dress and try to make it look natural?"

"Ahem." Everyone looked at Scootaloo.

After a moments embarrassed silence the youngest scout in the room piped up. "How many nipples do you have?"

Scootaloo blushed red. "Anyway!"

"Um, yes, off to bed with all of you!

They soon herded everyone into the cabin and as they settled down for the night, some girls went right to sleep while others stayed up chatting quietly in small groups. Among the assembled troop leaders, the topic soon turned to who had a crush on whom. After much giggling and stifled laughter Melanie asked asked Scootaloo who she was interested in.

"I don't really have anyone in mind right now... I've had two boyfriends, but nether one really worked out."

"So are you still a virgin?"

"Josie!"

"What?" Josie asked defensively, "It seems like everyone else I know has already been with someone." She curled up under the covers and finished in a sad tone "I hoped that I wasn't the only one left."

"Well, you still have me for company" Scootaloo replied ruefully. "Though from what I've heard from the other girls, we haven't missed much."

"Hate to say it, but I tend to agree," Melanie replied. "I lost my virginity to a guy on the lacrosse team, but it wasn't very good. You were right when you told us high school guys are, what did you call them Josie? Platypus?"

"Padawan," Josie laughed. "It means they're still learning, and they don't know much yet."

"That's almost exactly what my dads told me." Scootaloo added "I guess they would know," she said as she made a face.

"I just wish it didn't have to be such a contest. I'm so sick of the idea that we're all in a race to fuck someone." Christina spat.

"Yeah, whatever happened to love?" Scootaloo said. "I just want someone who I can care for, someone who can care for me... I... I just feel lonely sometimes."

"...I know what you mean." Christina answered as she looked across at Scootaloo "You see all the snuggly couples at school... that's what I want. I just want someone who cares..."

"Your last boyfriend didn't care?" Josie asked.

"He tried, but... he was still a kid himself."

"Maybe this will get easier in college," Melanie wondered.

There was a lull as they all wondered what the future would bring. Ever the pragmatist, Josie spoke up. "Well, if you're looking for someone, what about Conner?"

"Conner from home-ec" Schootaloo asked?

"Actually I-" Christina started, but she was cut off by Melanie.

Yeah, I know Conner. He's a good guy, if a bit quiet. I guess he must have a hard time meeting people because it seems like he doesn't normally have a girlfriend..."

"I've known Conner for years, he's lived a couple blocks away since my dads and I moved to the city. He is a nice guy, even tempered..."

"And I can't see him trying to use you like the last guy did."

"You mean the Rodeo Incident?" The all chuckled at that.

"I guess I just never thought of Conner in that way." Scootaloo said contemplatively. "He's just always been there as a good friend."

"Omg, are telling me he's been without a girlfriend for almost as long as you've known him and you think of him as a trusted friend?" Melanie accused. "Scoot! You friend-zoned him!"

"I did not! ...At least I don't think I did..."

Melanie continued: "He's never shown any interest? Never gone out of his way to spend time with you?"

Christina looked hopeful at Scootaloo as she added "Sometimes it can be... hard to tell someone how you really feel, even when you know them well."

Scootaloo considered for a moment, then "You guys are right, Conner is a good guy, and he's taught me a thing or two about sewing and fashion over the years. I'll do it. I'll ask him out to the 10th grade prom and see what he says."

Melanie and Josie both congratulated her and swore her to keep them in the loop about whatever happened, but Christina remained silent looking out the window. Eventually Scootaloo noticed and asked: "Whats wrong Christina? You look kind of down."

She seemed to struggle with something, then managed "I... I just thought I was going to help you design your dress for the prom."

"Oh don't be that way. Of course I still want your help on the dress! We can work on some designs after math tutoring next week, and I can help you with your outfit too."

Christina smiled weakly and agreed, and the conversation soon moved on to other topics. Eventually the need for sleep crept over even them, and after the days exertions, nearly everyone slept soundly.
> Ch 9: Midnight Sun
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release



Chapter Nine: Midnight Sun

It had now been several years since NASA scientists had reverse engineered our daughter's ability to fly, and the resulting Electro Magnetic Field Repulsion technology (EMFR) had by now made it into mass production, making access to orbit cheap and easy. Some of the results were predictable; more millionaires were now able to experience zero gravity, and a 'reality' TV show was soon aired showing rich snobs blowing chunks in zero gravity for everyone's amusement.

Some changes were more meaningful; the first orbital factories opened their doors producing products that could only be made in zero gravity, mostly medical and computer parts. The first manned missions to other worlds were being assembled and readied for launch in orbit, and there was much controversy over a company that wanted to bring big asteroids into earth orbit and build cities on them.

But out of all the changes going on, the one nobody expected was Sunbeam. Much like other silicon valley start ups, they started small with a handful of engineers and dreamers, building basketball sized satellites and booking even cheaper flights for them by cramming them into any leftover space on the orbital flights. Once in orbit, the satellites unfolded thin reflective foil several football fields across, creating an enormous mirror with the tiny baseball sized core at the center. The tiny core of the satellite was made from cheap off the shelf parts –all it did was aim the mirror with gyroscopes and communicate through a tiny antenna. Even the solar power cells were barely bigger then a laptop. But despite all their frailties, the little satellites were cheap to mass produce, and within months Sunbeam started selling sunlight.

The first customers were, ironically, cities in China that ran the math and found it was cheaper to buy sunlight overnight then pay for electricity and maintenance to all the street lamps in a big city. As more satellites went up and the price fell, cities around the world started to sign up, and some farmers started buying time to get an extra crop out each year. Before long, the first off shore power plant was online: hundreds of satellites concentrated 100 times the normal intensity of the sun onto the offshore platform, and as the black pipes on top generated steam, the ocean around the platform provided the cooling water. The concentrating solar power plant piped the power back to shore though undersea cables, and while the price of electricity fell, various governments around the world looked at the power of 100 suns beating down on the power plant, and dreamed of (or worried about) military applications.

Despite grumbling by environmentalists, Sunbeam continued to grow, and any doubts about their long term future were put to rest during hurricane Sabrina. Just as Katrina had destroyed much of New Orleans years ago, so Sabrina was on track to run right over the city with much higher winds, more rain, and undo all the progress that had been made. With less than 48 hours to go, Sunbeam pulled all their available reflector satellites and used them to alter the path of the hurricane, slowing it to a stop, then reversing its direction and sending it back out to sea. It was about as precise as a bulldozer, but for the first time in history, humanity had rudimentary weather control.

All these events were talked up on the news, but had only gradual impact on our day to day lives. As with others around the world, it all hit home that first night when our city signed up with Sunbeam and shut down the street lights. All three of us stepped out and stared as one after another, tiny points of blinding light appeared across the sky, and within a minute it was as bright as a cloudy, overcast day.

"Wow! That was awesome!"

"It's only possible because of you, Scootaloo." Kevin reminded her "The Russians launched one satellite like this back in the early 90's just to prove it could be done. But we needed a cheap way into space before this could happen, and your generously helped make that possible."

For my part, I just stood there watching as the street lights winked out, unneeded in the midnight sun.

Back in school, Scootaloo made good on her word and asked Conner out on a date. While he seemed confused at first, he soon assured her that he was interested, and would be happy to go out with her. Over a meal of salads and vegetarian food at a local restaurant they got to know each other better.

After the waitress delivered their orders, Scootaloo smiled softly. "That was sweet, but you didn't have to order vegetarian just because I'm here."

Conner looked surprised "What? Oh!" He blushed "Scoot, I'm a vegetarian too, have been since I was 14."

"Really? I've only met a few people who are vegetarian by choice. Why did you switch?"

Conner looked a bit confused. "Well beyond the dollar savings and environmental benefit, I would have thought the protection of helpless animals would be a concern to both of us."

"Hmm.. A concern yes, but I'm a vegetarian by genetics. My body can handle meat with no problem, but my genes change how I perceive it: it tastes and smells so awful I can't touch it. If I can't taste it, like protein powder in milk or if its baked into something like eggs into a cake, then it doesn't taste like meat and I can enjoy it without a problem. If I had a choice in the matter? I don't know." She grimaced and went on, "I went through a rebellious period a few years ago and made a leather coat, but almost no one seemed to notice."

"I would have thought you of all... people would find the prospect of eating animals even more repulsive."

"Because my body is so different?" Conner looked embarrassed, and Scootaloo frowned at him. "I'll thank you to remember that I'm not some kind of super bright horse. All the genetic work done so far shows my intellect is an improved version of a normal human brain. My body is different from yours, but under the hood?" She gestured at her head; "I've got a little more RAM and a more powerful processes than the average, but I'm still using the same parts, same setup and same layout as you.

"A truly alien intelligence would be instantly obvious as different by its behavior, its thought processes, its biology and physiology. Well, more than half my DNA is copied unmodified from normal homo-sapien DNA. Mentally? I'm an above-average human woman, though when it comes to spelling, I'd question the above-average part."

Conner put up his hands. "I'm sorry, Scootaloo, I didn't mean to offend you."

She leaned back against the booth. "Sorry, I'm just a bit touchy on that subject. So many people can't even be bothered to understand what they are, let alone who they're talking to."

"You mean who they are right?"

Scootaloo looked across the room at group of guys in scruffy work clothes and overalls who kept glancing in their direction and gesturing to each other. Every so often the group would burst into laughter. Scootaloo flashed them an irritable look as she continued. "No, I mean what they are. Most of the people you'll ever meet think they're some kind of demigods, unconnected to animals, and know next to nothing about how their own bodies work."

"Some brighter people have a dim notion that they're related to apes, but very few can articulate what that means, or why they should care."

Conner put up his hands again; "Please don't be mad, but I fall somewhere between those two groups." He cracked a small smile "But I would happily learn if you want to teach me. What difference does it make in day to day life?"

Scootaloo regarded him for a moment and her expression warmed. "Well, for starters, how much of male/female interaction in society is dictated by our genetics? Chimps and bonobos are nearly identical species that have very different behaviors based on recent evolutionary changes. Chimps are incredibly violent, and almost every chimp is a child of rape. Any female who doesn't sleep with every male risks the scorned male killing and eating her children out of spite. It's all because the females have to spread out to find sparse food in the trees, and hence can't work together effectively."

"Bonobos are nearly identical to chimps, but because they can find food on the ground and the females stay together, the females run the society peacefully, and all disputes are settled with sex. Where do you think humans fall on this scale of violence?"

Conner thought about it. "I don't know... Probably closer to chimps."

"Exactly. Have you ever heard about me getting in a fight? Despite all the times I could have?"

"No, actually, I never have..."

"Now we know my DNA has been tampered with; so, is my peaceful nature due to upbringing or genetic alteration?"

"I never thought about that... Is there more?"

"Well, in organizations, there's the rule of 150. Human brains seem to only be able to keep tabs on, and feel relationships with, about 150 people on average, probably because that's the biggest size group we evolved to run in. Organizations smaller than this tend to be tight-knit and function well; bigger, and they start to look like a bureaucracy, because the members can't perceive that many people as being human. Ever hear of a person in power doing something mean or cruel to their own workforce? 'Well they're just employees, it's not like I know them,' and so forth?"

"You mean there is a genetic basis for powerful people being dicks?"

"Yup. And what about vision? Ever wonder why you can see so many shades of red and green? And why women usually have better color vision? In our ancestors, it was important to tell the difference between ripe and unripe fruit that was often red or green. All us gatherers needed it even more, which is why we still see color better on average then the hunters, you men."

"I never really wondered about that... I follow you on the organizational bit, but you said this had bearing on day to day life. Is that all?"

"Well, what about our choice of diet? What makes food taste good?"

"Um... Well I like sweets and candy..."

"Now you're getting it. In the wild, we perceive sugar to taste good because the sweet, ripe fruit was good for us. Likewise fats and proteins taste good because they were parts of valuable, calorie-rich foods for our ancestors, and those who liked them and sought them out tended to survive better. But now that we can strip out all but the fat, protein and sugar, delivering just the reward without any of the reason we evolved to like it?"

"I get it! Strip out only what we got rewarded for eating, and you get health problems, obesity, diabetes and rotted teeth."

"That's right. And while most people have some dim recollection that some foods are bad, they often have no idea why or how they're bad. They're just parroting jargon with no understanding."

There was a long pause while Conner thought this over. "Well, for my part, I will try to pay more attention. I can see how in your position the ignorance of others would suddenly be a problem. That's a lot to explain before someone can grasp even the most basic concept of who you are."

Scootaloo looked a bit sad. "I learned long ago to simply say 'I'm a cartoon pony'. It solves a lot of problems."

He reached across the table and gently squeezed her hand as he changed the subject. "Well regardless of all that, I'm happy to be here with such a beautiful, well dressed young lady."

Scootaloo blushed again. "Oh this dress? Thank you for the compliment, I made it myself."

"I thought so. Your style is rather distinctive, much like my own work."

"I didn't know you could sew: when did you learn?"

"Well my mom had an old machine, and she taught me when I was little. Dad wasn't too keen on it, but I always had a knack for it. These pants? I made them to fit me perfectly -see how they cling in all the right places?"

"Well... they are clearly well made, but as to all the right places?" She swatted him under the table with her tail. "I tend to look more at the mind then the body."

"I've wondered about that -not to be rude, but you've dated other guys before. Were you... attracted to them at all?"

Scootaloo blushed "Yes, yes I was. My best guess is that a lot of the markers for a strong healthy... male... are shared across our two species. Toned sleek bodies, strong limbs, a clean well-kept appearance... I don't know if its genetics or growing up with a culture that shows me what I should want, but whatever the cause, yes, I do like the way you look." She finished with a smile and a blush.

"Hey, that's cool, I didn't mean to pry."

"It's okay. Besides, no sane person looks only at appearance. They covered some of that in last year's biology class."

Conner raised an eyebrow. "They covered dating in your biology class?"

She laughed. "Not exactly. Its one of those theories that no one can prove or disprove, but that's interesting none the less. You know how deer and elk grow big antlers that act like a kind of gauge for genetic fitness? Bigger rack means healthier male. Well some people have wondered if that might be how humans got to be so smart. The brain is a pretty good indicator of how healthy you are, and any number of problems can cause weird behaviors. The theory goes that the brain became the human equivalent for antlers as a gauge of genetic fitness, and that you guys accidentally bred yourselves for intelligence."

Conner smirked "So you're saying we fucked our way to intelligence?"

"I'm not. It was a one time event, and you can't study one time events, so we'll probably never know. Its plausible, but that doesn't mean it happened."

"That's what I like about you -you're smart, probably smarter than me, but you still have time to be a cheerleader and have friends. It's rare to meet someone so special." He leaned in and smiled.

"Well don't get too attached." She replied ruefully "I've been thinking of quitting the squad, or at least going to some kind of part time status. I've been cheering for a few years now, and it's all starting to feel the same. We show up, we drill the routines the coach wants... I'd like to try something less formal, where nobody is the boss of me. I'm friends with all the girls on the team, but it also takes so much time, and school is really challenging now with these college distance learning classes."

"Well do you have to take such a heavy course load? You could take it easy, there are plenty of simple classes..."

"I know, but... I want to do something with my life. I want to help people, and I'm good at biology. I think I want to be a doctor, or at least a nurse."

He looked at her thoughtfully. "Well maybe I can help with that. Have you ever considered the volunteer fire department? I spend a lot of evenings there, and I got the training though them so I ride along on calls and help with car wrecks and burning buildings."

Now it was Scootaloo's turn to be surprised. "Wow, you're a fire fighter? That's so cool! But I thought the fire department only put out fires?"

"Oh heck no. Fires are actually rare, more often it's a medical emergency, or a car crash. Our city has a volunteer ambulance corps too, and I bet I could put in a good word for you... any interest in riding along sometime?

"Sure, I'd love to! Think I could tag along this weekend?"

"I have to ask, but I would bet they'd be happy to have you along."

As the school year wound down the time was fast approaching to pick classes for the fall term. In Scootaloo's distance learning biology 102 class, her professor opened the last class over the teleconference with her usual friendly, businesslike manner.

"I want to thank you all for a good semester, and I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did." Looking though the monitor Scootaloo could see a lot of smiling faces nodding, but also noticed that quite a few seats in the back row of the real college class were empty.

She remembered the conversion she had with Kevin and I before starting the class.

"College is not like highschool" Kevin had said. "You pay to attend, and no one forces you to do anything. If you don't work hard you'll soon get left behind and fail. Look at the person behind the counter at the grocery store, the girls serving burgers or busing tables; some are in college or trade school, working hard on a valuable skill, but the older ones, the ones who are there year after year..." He grimaced, but Scootaloo didn't notice.

"They didn't work hard enough?"

"Some didn't work at all, some tried and failed, and some... Some people did what I did. I got a scholarship, a half ride, for a degree in fashion design, and I worked hard, I even added a minor in marketing communications... But it was a disaster. When I graduated, I found no one needed another designer, even if they were a good tailor and had clever designs. And people in the business world wanted someone with years of experience, internships, or a powerful connected family to land a job."

I put my arms around him and hugged him, and after a moment he pulled himself together and continued. "I'm still paying down those loans, and it took almost a decade before I worked my way into a job I enjoy and that pays a living wage. I don't want that to be you, struggling to make ends meet, saddled with half a house worth of debt, all for a useless degree."

"Colleges will do that?" She had asked. "But I thought if you did well in school and college you would get a good job!"

I smiled bitterly. "No honey, colleges are businesses, and they're in business to make money. Most schools today derive a significant part of their income from the 'drunk and flunk' – admitting people with no chance of making it, taking their money and letting them party for a year and flunk out. And most also offer useless degree's –it's not the colleges problem that the degree you select isn't in demand. And that happens more today than it used to. Over the last year the New York times has run article after article about degrees that used to mean something and are now close to useless: New lawyers have better then half unemployment in their field, veterinarians are having tough time finding work, English, news ed, journalism, theater, and even many education degrees have all become the new wallpaper degrees of this generation, and that's not including industries like advertising and computer science where better technology and outsourcing to India have destroyed most people's chance at employment."

Kevin had taken her hoof in his hand "I'm very proud of you Scootaloo, I know how bright you are, and I know you can succeed, but be careful when you pick your career. The world doesn't care if you make it or not, it only cares if you can do the job in demand, and if you want that job to pay well, it usually means working on something most people think is 'hard', something in the STEM fields – Science, Technology, Engineering and Math."

"We'll help you all we can" I assured her, "Just remember that good grades alone are not enough. You have to be good at a valuable skill that not many people can do. As an engineer, I can usually land a job in under three months, and the pay is fair, but I'll never be rich either."

"And don't underestimate how bad it can be when you're young and poor. Jayne and I graduated and worked at a time when being poor meant you did without medical care. You got sick? Tough, go to work anyway. Car broke down? Then fix it with your own two hands, and quick! If you miss work, you lose your job, and then good luck paying the rent. We only made it out because I got a degree that paid well and was in demand."

"I'm one of the lucky ones, and you can be too. You're a smart kid Scootaloo, and Kevin and I know you can do whatever you put your mind to."

Back in class Scootaloo shuddered as she saw those vacant seats and knew what they meant, but she also felt a glow of pride that she had made it through the bio 102 class with a solid A.

However her professor was not quite done yet. "As many of you know, the chair of the biology department teaches one or two advanced versions of required classes each year, and these highly sought after classes are worth an extra hour of college credit. Her advanced class this coming fall will be in bio chemistry, and as usual, it was immediately booked up with pre-med and other ambitious students vying for the challenge and the chance to list the class on their transcripts." She looked meaningfully at several of the brightest students in the class. "This year, in an attempt to thin the ranks, Dr. Moselle has requested that all applicants for the class submit a paper answering and expanding upon a single question. She recorded this video for those who want to try. Anyone who is not interested, or doesn't need bio chem; it's been a pleasure, and have a good summer."

There was the familiar rumble of bags being shouldered and chairs scraping as most of the class got up and left, accompanied by the 'ding' of computers as distance learners in high schools around the state signed off. When it was quiet again, only about 10 students remained in the large lecture hall, and Scootaloo found herself one of two left on the digital connection.

The professor looked over the remaining students, nodded, and set the video to play full screen on the projector. A middle aged woman with short cut, slightly gray hair, glasses and a well used lab coat introduced herself as Dr Moselle and explained the contest.

"In biology, as in all the sciences, it is necessary to know and understand the many details of how processes work, what structures are named, and how chemicals interact. However knowing details is only the start."

"Just as any mechanic can tell you what a coolant pump does, so you can describe how cells divide, but what separates a decent mechanic from a good one, and so a decent pre-med from an excellent one is the understanding and application of theory."

"If you bring in a car that makes a clicking noise sometimes, an average mechanic will start replacing parts (at your expense) until the noise doesn't come back. A good mechanic will test drive the car, and listen to it while moving and stopped, with the engine on and off, driving fast and slow, turning and straight. That good mechanic will hear the clicking only when turning hard, know the theory, the totality of how the car works, and diagnose a worn out joint in the drive shaft that turns the front wheel."

"By this point, those with no understanding of theory, such as creationists, have ether learned or failed out, much as would happen to a mechanic who thought cars were pulled by invisible horses. Understanding basic evolution is a good starting place, but I don't want students who mindlessly repeat cell types and car part names, I want students who can employ theory to do something useful. I am looking for the students who can hear that clicking and work through the possibilities to nail down exactly what's happening based on an understanding of how the system works. In short, I am looking for that rare, special person who is capable of thinking under their own power.

"Most of you hearing this are not that person. Yet. The question I want an answer to is simple enough that a competent sixth grader could answer it with a bit of thought if they understood basic theory could think for themselves. I will expect a detailed answer to this question, including examples illustrating your point; those who give the best answers by July 15th will get into the class. If you draw a blank, I suggest brushing up on the 'why sex?' chapter in the 7 part 'evolution' series.

"The question I want an answer to is this: Why do we grow old and die?"

> Ch 10: Steel Toes at the Ritz
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release


Chapter Ten: Steel Toes at the Ritz

It was late spring when Scootaloo took Conner up on his offer and contacted the ambulance corps as a volunteer. There had been a lot of forms and waivers to fill out, but soon enough the evening came where she was to ride along and see what an EMT did.

She showed up after dinner to ride with the night shift and was greeted at the door by Linda. "Nice to meet you Scootaloo, I'm the volunteer manager and you'll be riding in my ambulance tonight. I must say I was pleasantly surprised at some of the answers you gave on the application; I've learned not to expect much when a celebrity comes calling."

"You think I'm a celebrity?"

Lina laughed. "You don't? Well, we will soon see. The mark of a celebrity, at least the one's I've seen, is they show up once or twice, find this can be difficult, dirty, stressful work and then we never hear from them again. Wanting to make the world a better place sounds great until the first time you have to see a broken bone that has ripped though the back of somebody's leg."

Linda seemed to be watching Scootaloo closely as she said that, but she didn't flinch. "I've been studying biology for a while now, and I've done a few dissections. I wouldn't be here if I didn't think I could handle it."

Linda watched a moment more, then smiled. "We'll see. Goodness knows we could use the help some nights. Come on, I'll show you our ride." She finished, gesturing to the box truck style ambulance that took up most of the small building.

They went through proper use of the most common tools, then on to the different on-board systems the ambulance carried. Mid way through an explanation of the oxygen system the radio crackled to life with a call, and within moments the rest of the crew poured out of the brake room, the doors slammed and they were underway.

Linda pushed Scootaloo into the corner seat then quickly took her own and buckled in, motioning for her to do the same. Scootaloo's heart was soon pounding as they sped along, pulling G's though turns, sirens blaring all the while.

"What was that call? I couldn't make it out."

"We were told we have a child who fell from a tree on the west side of town. Dispatch said he's awake and told the parents not to move him until we get there."

They soon pulled up the house and everyone piled out of the back, two of them carrying the stretcher between them around to the back of the house where a boy, probably about ten years old, was laying on the ground in the deepening twilight. Scootaloo took one look at his arm and winced –it sure wasn't supposed to bend that way.

She stood by watching as the EMT's carefully lifted him onto the stretcher and began running though the questions about what year it was, and who the president was. Unfortunately they weren't getting very coherent responses, because when the little guy wasn't groaning, he was asking if his kitty was going to be okay.

Following the pointed finger on his good arm, Scootaloo looked up into the tree he had fallen out of, and way up there, at least 80 feet off the ground and just visible in the gathering darkness, was a fluffy orange cat clinging to a branch.

"You have to save her! She's all alone up there!"

Linda stepped over and followed her glance upward, then whistled with respect. "The kid is lucky he wasn't a very good climber. If he had gotten closer we would have a lot worse than a broken arm to deal with."

Scootaloo glanced at the boy who was still squirming and pointing to his pet. "What are we going to do?"

"We'll just let the fire department know, they should be able to sort it out."

Scootaloo thought of her (admittedly hot,) new boyfriend Conner getting the call to come fetch a cat out of a tree and smirked. "I don't think that will be necessary." She spread her wings and lifted off, soon coming level with the distressed feline who didn't look at all happy to see a big orange pony reaching for him out of the darkness. There was a flurry of claws, teeth, and a lot of yowling as Scootaloo tried to coach, then lift, then drag, and finally pry the cat out of the tree with both arms as he made his catly rage very clear.

"Come on you little fur ball!"

She pulled and yanked, and as the cat traded his grip on the tree for a grip on her arms, she felt her left hand go numb. She looked over to see the fluffy orange cat biting her left hand for all he was worth.

"Oh come on! Now I have to install another sensor panel and those things take like an hour!"

She carefully settled back onto the ground in front of Linda who had observed the proceedings with amusement, and gestured at the cat, then put a hand on her throat.

"I should, but he's just a cat and doesn't kno-" She looked down at the cat who seemed to be turning blue and was flailing at her left hand which had clamped around his neck. "Oops! Sorry, kitty!" She released her hand a bit and the cat panted for breath as he eyed her warily. "What? You broke my hand! I can't feel how hard I'm gripping something without that."

"You realize you're having a conversion with a cat right?" Linda interjected with a smile.

"But... I..." She shook her head. "I'll just show him his pet is okay."

In the back of the ambulance there was a heartfelt reunion between boy and cat, and he calmed down almost immediately. After a moment, his dad took the cat back to the house and his mother got in with the rest of the crew for the ride to the hospital.

After dropping them off, most of the EMT's returned with coffee and they set out on the road again, this time in search of dinner.

"You did good back there, I got to admit I didn't see that coming."

"Well thanks, but it was no big deal. I guess most of your volunteers can't fly." They both smiled. "But is that really what an average call is like? A broken arm? Pulling a cat out of a tree? I thought that was like a 1950's comic-book cliché?"

"In this line of work we see it all. I've seen kids and adults get hurt falling off of trees, houses, tractors, telephone poles, out of windows, you name it."

Another EMT chimed in: "Yeah, remember that guy that fell though the rotted outhouse floor?" The second EMT and Linda both winced at the memory.

"Was he okay?" Scootaloo asked.

"More or less. That's the only time I've ever had to hose off a patient before taking them to the hospital, but the poor guy had chemical burns all over his body from swimming in... Yeah. That was nasty."

The driver opened the window separating the cab from the back of the vehicle "Okay, where does everybody want to eat?"

"Jesus, Jim, you have a hell of a sense of timing."

Scootaloo's stomach growled. "Could Burger King be an option? They have a great vegetarian burger."

"Ah, fine dining." Jim responded. "That okay with you, boss?"

Linda agreed, and the vehicle meandered though traffic to the nearest Burger King, while the EMTs related stories of past calls, good and bad. With the partition window to the cab open, the occasional blasts of noise from the police scanner could be heard, making Scootaloo wonder how they knew which calls meant what, and which medical calls this team was responsible for.

They soon found a Burger King, and to her surprise, Jim ordered a vegetarian burger for himself along with the normal fare. She asked him about it as they pulled up to the drive though window to pay; "Huh? Oh, I didn't know they even offered a vegetarian burger until you said something. Its been years since I had one and I'm curious." He shrugged.

The teller had just given back his credit card and told them to pick up their order at the next window when the radio crackled to life again and in the same calm voice announced a code two four six, followed by an address. All conversation stopped as Jim pulled away from the drive-though, hit the sirens and roared into traffic, all thought of lunch forgotten.

Scootaloo looked from face to face as the team checked gear and prepped the blood plasma for use. "Um... Whats happening? Whats a two four six?"

Linda glanced at her and continued getting ready. "Its a time when we hope somebody's aim is as poor as their judgment. You stay here for this one, and keep out of the way."

They soon squealed to a halt outside an average looking home on a suburban street where two police cars were already waiting with their lights on. All three piled out with the stretcher and raced into the house. In what couldn't have been more than two minutes they were back with someone on the stretcher. With a start, Scootaloo saw it was a teenage girl who wouldn't have been out of place at her old middle school. She looked like she was dressed up for a date; a nice dress, hair tied back... except now she had a big red stain on the front of her blue blouse and was crying and gasping for breath. As soon as the doors were closed the ambulance began its race back to the hospital as Linda and her team cut away the girls top. There was a bloody hole on her right side just below her breast where it looked like someone had driven an inch wide drill bit to her flesh.

Scootaloo's mouth hung open as Linda poured some kind of clotting powder into the wound and the other EMT's started plasma, connected the heart monitor and fitted the girl with an oxygen mask. A rapid beep started as the heart rate monitor kicked on.

She seemed to be trying to ask a question, but couldn't stop coughing, and suddenly the translucent green oxygen mask was stained red from the inside.

"Intubate, now!" Linda barked.

Scootaloo flinched as one of the EMTs shoved a horrible-looking steel tool into the girl's mouth and was soon feeding a tube down her throat and connecting it to the oxygen supply. The team packed bags of ice around her as the ambulance took another sharp turn, and her head went limp and her features blank as she lost consciousness.

The girls body coughed involuntarily and shuttered as the blood pressure warning went off lending its high pitched beep the controlled chaos.

"Start another IV!"

Her body continued to cough and shutter for breath even after she lost consciousness, but she was obviously getting weaker. As Scootaloo watched the girls body went limp and the heartrate monitor gave began a long sustained note.

Without a word, Linda gestured to the other EMT to take the intubation tube while she started CPR. On the fourth or fifth round of chest compressions there was a sickening crack as one of her ribs gave way, but only Scootaloo seemed startled by this. They kept it up for another minute to the steady 'beeeeeep' of the heart-rate monitor until the ambulance slid to a stop at the emergency room. The doors were flung open and the team heaved the girl out of the ambulance and raced her into the building where the staff were waiting to take her to surgery.

Scootaloo just sat there in the corner of the ambulance in stunned silence. The lights were still on and though the open back doors she could see them sweeping against the hospital building, but after all the rush and noise, it was eerily quiet. She slowly unbuckled her seat belt and trotted out, trying not to step in the blood that had dripped on the floor.

It couldn't have been more than two minutes since the team had entered the hospital, but it already looked perfectly normal again, like nothing had ever happened. A nurse directed her to the ER staff room where she found Linda washing her hands and arms. She stood watching for some time before Linda finished, turned and saw her.

"Is... Is she dead?"

Linda sighed as she toweled off. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" This unsettled Scootaloo more than the answer she expected. "Maybe?! How can she be sort of alive?"

Linda seemed to really see Scootaloo for the first time, not as a veteran used to this, but as a scared tenth grade girl who was trying to hold it together, but was out of her depth.

She gestured to one of the seats in the big ER waiting room just though the door and they both took a seat.

"You really want to know how this works?"

Scootaloo shook her head angrily. "Yes, I wanted to be here to get a feel for what it was like; being a doctor or a nurse. Its... hard, but I have to know whats happening."

Linda considered her answer before speaking. "This job can take a lot out of you if you don't separate yourself from some of what you see. One way to do it is to know the mechanics well, and maybe that will help you as well."

"You asked how she could be 'sort of' alive. Scootaloo, tell me where you are. What organ is the entity called Scootaloo with whom I am talking?"

"You're saying that I am my brain. Its true, the brain is who we are, all the rest can be removed or replaced," she tapped her arm against the chair "but we are our brains."

"Good, I don't have to explain that any more. When that poor girl was shot, it disrupted her life support system. It tore into her lung, interfering with her ability to put oxygen in her blood, and it ruptured all kinds of blood vessels leading to a rapid fall off in blood pressure -she was losing blood faster than we could put it back into her. As her blood oxygen level fell along with her blood pressure, she went into shock and lost consciousness. Eventually, without enough blood to pump, her heart shut down. All though this we were trying to keep oxygenated blood flowing to her brain, to her, but we can't just jack in an external life support system and disconnect her own."

Scootaloo interjected "But you can! I saw a video where a Russian doctor did just that to a dog in the 1950's or 60's. The dogs head could live hooked up to the machines, we have video of it."

Behind them a middle aged man and woman came racing in and gestured frantically at the receptionist at the desk. She gestured to the waiting room and after some kind of back and forth, the couple sat down to wait. The man put his arm around the woman, but she angrily shrugged it off and he reluctantly sat alone.

"You know more medical history then I thought," Linda added, glad that the technical conversation seemed to be distracting Scootaloo from what she had just seen. "But you probably also realize that trying to connect such a device in the field would be impossibly hard, and that even if you could, a glorified heart lung machine like that can only keep someone alive for a limited time.

"We couldn't replace her body, but we could attempt to pump the blood for her with CPR, and we used ice to cool her body and brain to slow the oxygen starvation. When the life support system is damaged that badly the brain will die without help, but it takes time, usually several minutes to go from 'alive' though the levels of increasing brain damage to 'dead'. If we're lucky the surgeons were able to put her life support system back together enough before she died completely. That's what I meant by 'maybe'."

Scootaloo swallowed hard as she stared across the room at the couple who had to be the girls parents. "You think she still has a chance?"

"As long as she was out? She'll almost certainly have some brain damage if she lives -some of who she was will have died in that ambulance. But even cooling will only buy so much time; if the surgeons weren't able to repair the damage by now, then its too late. Even if they got her heart working again right now, her brain would be dead and there would be no one left to save."

Linda got up to leave but Scootaloo reached out and took her hand, her eyes pleading. "Could... Could we wait just a little longer?"

"Well..." She looked at the couple, then back to Scootaloo. "At least until the next call comes in."

The minutes ticked slowly by as they waited with the mother and father across the room. After almost five minutes a doctor entered the room and spoke with the receptionist who pointed at the couple. He walked over as both parents stood to hear the news.

Scootaloo couldn't hear what he said, but she didn't need to. The girls mother collapsed onto the floor wailing while the girls father sat down and put his head in his hands sobbing openly. After a moment the girls father tried to take her mothers hand, but she lashed out and clawed at his face, her wails of grief flashing to rage. "I HATE YOU! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!"

Linda put a hand on Scootaloo's shoulder. "Come on, we'd better go."

The mothers sobbing gradually faded as they left the ER behind and walked back to the waiting ambulance. Scootaloo sniffed and tried to dry her eyes as she asked; "Is this what every night is like?"

Linda put an arm around her and they sat in the open doors of the ambulance. "No sweetie, this was a bad night. If I had known, I never would have brought you, but things like this do happen. I just wish you hadn't seen it on your very first night."

Scootaloo watched as the distraught father stumbled out the doors of the hospital, his face streaked with tears and blood from the claw marks on his face. She sniffed again, trying to hold herself together. "But why did her mother attack her father like that?"

For the first time since they had met, Linda's face registered shock. "You didn't know?"

Scootaloo shook her head.

"He mistook her for a prowler when she came home from a date."

A look of horror grew on Scootaloo's face. "You mean?... He killed his own daughter?!"

Linda nodded. "I know, these are really sad, but we only get one every few months. With enough ambulances, each one of us only sees one of these every couple years."

"Wait, this happens regularly?!"

"Well yes. This is why I don't keep guns in my house. A single mistake is far too... permanent. There are lots of ways to stay safe; bats, tazzers, knives, mace, but some people just love their guns, can't use them responsibly and all too often we get to clean up their mess."

Scootaloo was staring off into space, mouth half open as she tried to process everything.

"Look, its been a rough night, how about I take you home."

...

Kevin and I had waited up for her, but we hadn't expected her back so soon. She had a lot to talk about, and we all finished off a box of Kleenex before the night was over.

Scootaloo had already led a full and interesting life, but she had never experienced death in such a graphic, personal way and it scared her. That girl could have been one of her friends from the squad, it could have been her, and the best medical care available hadn't been enough to save her. No matter what anyone said or did, her parents would never see their daughter again all because of one mistake...

Despite it all, she was determined to keep going, and though we asked her to be careful, she insisted that it was something she had to do.

We stayed up talking well past midnight, and though she had been going to bed on her own for a long while by now, that night, we tucked her in and kissed her goodnight just like when she was little.

After the evening with Linda, Scootaloo was looking for a distraction to take her mind off everything that had happened, and as the school year wound down the last real work was finished up in most classes, the high school prom fit the bill. Everyone important was going to be there, or would at least be stopping by on their way to another party where the booze flowed more freely.

We knew our daughter was no exception, and as her academic load tapered off, she had been spending the evenings with Christina, Conner and Kevin working on dress designs and sketching out concepts for each of them.

While a tenth grade girl would not normally get to attend the prom, Conner was still a grade ahead and had kindly volunteered to take our little girl, and we were only too happy to see her having a good time. Neither of them told us they were dating, and Kevin and I just assumed he was another of Scootaloo's friends.

After much debate over the serious issues involved, both girls eventually decided on dresses, and the sewing machine was soon humming as the garments began to take shape. It was a bit odd to see Christina holding parts of a dress with two hands, while our daughter fed the machine with two more plus two of her automotive arms from the tool chest in the garage. Having two arms and two metal tentacles with pincers did make the work go faster, but it still looked odd.

Christina was glad to be spending time with her friends, but she still looked sad as she watched Conner and Scootaloo working together.

Scootaloo noticed and spoke up. "Don't look so down Christie, we couldn't have done this without you. I've made some of my own clothing, but I don't have your natural talent for this." She smiled as she looked at her own dress taking shape on the table. "The dresses are coming out fine, and in yours you'll be fending them off with a stick."

She smiled weakly. "Yeah, with a stick..."

"Oh, don't tell me you still haven't found a date for the prom? I know you would need an older guy, but you're on the squad like me and even I've had to turn down a few offers!"

"I guess... I just haven't found the right person yet."

Conner looked up from the table where he was pinning some of the delicate parts together. "If you need a date that badly I know a guy who might oblige. Have you ever met Curt?"

"You mean Curt from the skate park? I don't know..."

Scootaloo looked from one to the other. "Who is Curt? I don't think I've met him."

"Oh I guarantee you've seen him even if you haven't met. Tall, lanky guy, lots of facial piercings, wears a lot of black? He used to skate board at school until they built the skate park downtown."

As they both gave him skeptical looks he put a hand up. "Hey, don't judge the guy by appearance alone. He's a good person, and he helped me out of a jam a few years back... He also cleans up nicely -you should see him in a suit." He added with a wistful look.

Scootaloo didn't notice as she had gone back to her sewing, but Christina gave him a raised eyebrow before conceding with a sigh. "Well I do need someone to go with. You think he would take me?"

Conner smirked "Well, he doesn't normally do formal events, but if you ask nicely he might be persuaded... I wouldn't wait though, I don't know how much longer he'll be without a date."

There were a few moments of thoughtful silence before Conner asked. "By the way Scoot, I know you learned some impressive gymnastics from the squad, but has anyone ever taught you how to dance?"

Christina blushed and looked intently at her work as Scootaloo answered. "Oh, that shouldn't be a problem. The football coach knows a surprising amount about dance and he's been teaching a bunch of the girls on the squad; Chrissy and I have been practicing for weeks now."

"But how do you...? I mean I've seen you carry three cheerleaders at once, but you're only three foot eight and -"

"Hey! I am four foot two and don't you forget it mister!"

Christina was still blushing, but she walked over and took Scootaloo by the hand, pulling her up from the sewing machine. She teetered on her back legs for a moment, then Christina grabbed her front hooves and held one on her hip while the other rested on her shoulder. Scootaloo's arms flailed a bit and with a resigned sigh she tapped her back legs together three times, folding her arms away on her back. They managed a few short steps before Christina was winded and had to put her down.

"Not bad, not bad at all. But doesn't that pose hurt?" Conner asked.

"Oh, a cheerleader learns to put up with a lot, but I have it pretty easy compared to... Why don't you let me show you."

Conner helped her up and took her by the hooves as they moved though a few steps. "Oof! Wow, no offense, but can't you support more of your own weight?"

"That's... not a good idea. I have to lean into my partner or I could fall over backward. My body just isn't built for this. I'm... I'm sorry I'm so heavy..."

Conner smiled at her as he looked into her eyes on the level for the first time while not seated. "You're not heavy, I just wasn't expecting it. I've never danced with anyone quite like you dear."

Scootaloo blushed and they continued the dance as she showed him what she could do. The basic steps were easy, but the more complicated ones almost always put more strain on her partner, so after showing off briefly they focused on training Conner in the basics.

Christina started as she remembered something. "Oh! And you'll want to buy new shoes!"

"Why would I...?"

Scootaloo blushed again and looked down. "I'm sorry, but... my hooves aren't as big as your feet, and I already outweigh you..."

"Yeah, we should get you to the shoe store tomorrow, they have a good deal on men's steel toe dress shoes. Poor coach nearly broke his foot before we figured that out."

...

The night of Prom Kevin was helping Scootaloo with her makeup when the conversation turned to her date.

"It was so nice of Conner to offer to take you to prom this year, I should help you bake him something as a thank you."

Scootaloo laughed so hard she almost choked, before finally managing. "Um, Papa? I don't think baked goods would be the most appropriate 'thank you' in this case."

Kevin looked confused. "But he's going out of his way to help you get in and enjoy the Prom. Just because he didn't have a date this year doesn't mean you should take him for granted."

"Um... Papa, I thought that was clear. Conner and I have been dating for weeks now; I am his date for the prom."

A look of confusion clouded his face. "But he... You..." He shook his head to clear it. "Scootaloo, I don't think you two dating is a good idea. Jayne and I though you were just friends."

"What? Why would you say something like that?" Scootaloo asked defensively.

"I just don't think you two would make a good match. You really shouldn't be dating him, it will only end in heartbreak for you, and I don't want to see that happen."

Scootaloo bristled visibly at this. "And you don't think I can tell a good boy from a bad one? Conner is a good person. He would never hurt me, and I'm surprised at you for judging him like that!"

Any further argument was cut off as a car pulled up to the front of the house and blew its horn. With a hard glance back, Scootaloo grabbed her purse and trotted down the stares in a huff. Jayne heard the door slam and the car pull away as Kevin walked unsteadily down the stares and met his gaze across the room.

"Kevin, what's wrong?"

"Conner isn't just getting Scootaloo into the prom. The two of them are dating."

A look of concern crossed Jayne's features. "Oh... Did you try to tell her?"

"Yes. You must have heard the door slam on her way out."

Jayne grimaced. "She took it that badly?"

Kevin nodded, and Jayne sighed. "Well, I suppose she has to figure this out on her own. It won't be fun, but Conner strikes me as a good guy. He'll let her down gently... eventually."

…

This year the prom was held in the main ballroom of a large hotel, and the banners and decorations seemed almost out of place among the marble columns and opulent settings of the room. They soon found Christina and Curt talking with a group of friends, and after introductions were made they dug into the buffet.

While everyone ate, Curt's skater friends started passing cell phones videos of various tricks and epic flops. "Check this one out: flip, spin the board, then – Ooh!"

"That did look pretty awesome, right up till the end. Did you break anything? I mean that looked painful." Scootaloo added.

"It wasn't that bad. Sometimes it takes a few spills to master a new trick."

"Hey, I've been meaning to ask you about that." Curt interrupted. "Not to be rude, but on the show you're pretty fly on a scooter. I know that's not you anymore, but, I don't know, have you ever tried skating? You sure have the gymnastics skills for it."

This did happen from time to time, somebody would see the show and assume she was the same little filly, with all the same wants, skills and fears. She usually laughed them off, but Curt wasn't being rude, and if she really admitted it, it did look pretty cool. "No, I've never tried it. When I was really little I didn't get to play outside in the road, and since then I've had other things to worry about." She paused in thought for a moment. "I might like to give it a try if you're offering though."

Conner smiled. "How about that Curt? Looks like you might have a new convert."

"Yeah, we could always use another girl to keep these guys in line." Said a girl with florescent green hair that matched her outfit surprisingly well. "You can usually find us at the skate park in town after school."

"Cool, I'll try to catch up with you there sometime next week." Scootaloo said as she pulled her date away. "Come on Conner, lets hit the dance floor!"

After a quick glance to confirm that Conner had worn his steel toe dress shoes, Scootaloo was able to relax a little and really show off her skills born of many weeks practice. The two of them were by no means the best dancers on the floor, but Scootaloo managed to hold her own quite well despite being a quadruped by nature.

After a few songs they took a break to catch their breath. As a faster song played, Scootaloo watched in amusement as one couple ground their hips together in a display that would make a pole dancer blush, until they were run off by one of the chaperones.

"Wow! Did you see that? Talk about something they'll regret in the morning." Scootaloo said pointing to all the other students who had taken video with their phones and were already posting it online.

"What do you expect from a bunch of horny teenagers?" Conner asked with a shrug.

Scootaloo stood up on her back legs again, and Conner steadied her as she leaned forward. "I expect them to get a room." She leaned in and kissed Conner with more than a little passion. "Just as I hope to latter." She finished with a sly smile.

Conner looked a bit shocked at this sudden advance, but pulled himself together quickly. "Are you sure that's what you want?" He replied in a serious tone.

Kevin's words still stung in her ears as she whispered. "Yes, I do want this. I've burned though enough double A's to power a car over the years, and I'm ready now. I know what I like, and if you're willing, then I can finally say I know who I like as well."

Conner smiled at her and gently returned her kiss, but his response was cut off.

"Hey gay wad, what the hell are you doing here?"

They both turned to see three juniors of moderate build in poorly fitted rental tuxedos leering at them. Conner helped Scootaloo down and did his best to stare them down.

"Easy Robert, I'm not looking for any trouble here."

"Shut up faggot, this is our dance and you aren't welcome here."

"Yeah, clear out you gay fuck, we didn't give you permission to show your face around here."

It was obvious these guys knew Conner, and Scootaloo could see him beginning to wilt under the verbal assault. A few people watched to see how this played out, but no one stepped in to help, and that, after all the other stresses of this night made Scootaloo's chest burn. She glanced over the drinks table and grabbed an aluminum can of grape soda.

"I don't think we've been formally introduced." She said walking over and staring up at the leader who stood at least two feet above her. "I'm am trying to enjoy this dance with my date, and you rednecks aren't helping. Why don't you go find somebody smaller and weaker to pick on."

The group laughed and 'Robert' leaned down into her face. "Hey, what are you doing hanging around this guy anyhow? You should come with us so we can show you a real party."

In a flash that was almost to quick to follow, Scootaloo brought the can of soda up over his head and did something she almost never did. She squeezed as hard as she could. Her right hand contacted on the unopened can, and it imploded in a spray of sticky purple soda, completely soaking Robert and spraying the other two bullies and herself.

Robert backed up sputtering. "You fucking bitch! This is a rented tux!"

Scootaloo completely ignored his rage and calmly regarded the crushed can in her hand. "That's one of the draw backs to prosthetics. Sometimes I just lose track of how hard I'm squeezing." She looked meaningfully at his crotch and the can in her hand gave up its last drops of soda as she changed her grip and flattened it into a biscuit without even looking.

All three of them started backing away, all the while keeping a close eye on Scootaloo's hands. "This isn't over gay fuck. We'll be waiting for you outside."

When they had gone Scootaloo's expression softened and she let out the breath she didn't realize she had been holding. Conner still looked shaken and she took his hand. "Conner, are you okay? Do you know those guys?"

Conner angrily wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "You remember the 'jam' that Curt helped me out of a few years back? It involved some of them and a baseball bat."

Her mouth fell open in shock. "Oh my God! You only talked about it like he helped you with a school project or something; what happened?!"

Conner led her away from the crowds to a quiet corner before continuing. "Guys like them are part of any kids life, but some of us have it worse than others. They had been threatening me at school and generally making my life hell for a long time when I ran into them in the park down town." He shuttered at the memory. "Its okay, the bones and bruises healed up in a few months, but that's because Curt and some of his friends happened by and stopped them before they got too far. That little scar under Robert's hairline? It matches the metal lip of one of Curt's skateboards."

"But that's insane! Why didn't you tell anyone?!"

"I did, and a lot of good it did me. My parents didn't want to listen, they just said boys will be boys and that I had to settle my own problems. The school said it happened off their property and they couldn't do anything about it. Curt's had some experience with the local cops, and he didn't want to get booked on assault charges. Said they wouldn't care about details, just that the other kids parents new some of the cops, and that it was better not to make a deal of it."

He sighed resignedly. "And now I have to think of how we're going to make it out of here without another fight."

A new voice spoke up from behind them. "Actually, no, you don't have to worry about that."

They both whirled around to see the high school principal, Ms. Baker standing behind them with a kind smile. "After what we found on them I don't think you need to worry about seeing two of those three at our school ever again. One of the other students got the whole exchange on video. I'm Sorry about your dress Ms. Scootaloo, seems they just don't make cans like they used to."

They both stared at her for a moment before Scootaloo managed; "Thank you Ms. Baker! I didn't realize you were looking out for us like that."

She laughed. "Well I would hope not. Its not your job to protect yourselves from violence –this is a school not a prison." She smiled sadly. "I suppose this will also be my last opportunity to say its been a pleasure being your principal. I hope you both go on to do great things."

"Oh, no I'm only a sophomore. You still have two more years to put up with me." Scootaloo corrected.

"I wish that were true, but I've accepted another job out of state in a different school, so regardless of grade, I'm afraid this really is it. Don't worry though, they already chose my replacement -a Pastor Gray if I remember right."

"Oh, well I'm sorry we didn't have the chance to get to know each other better." Scootaloo added. "Thank you again for your help."

"Not a problem. Now I'll leave you two to get back to where you were before you were so rudely interrupted." She added with a grin as she turned and walked off.

Conner and Scootaloo looked at each other. "Did she just...?"

"Yes, I think she did."

After a moment Scootaloo smiled. "Who are we to turn down such good advice? Come on Conner, after all that soda, this dress is badly in need of washing and so am I."

"But where will we...? The hotel is not likely to rent rooms to prom guests."

She stood up and kissed him again, enjoying the feeling of him holding her up. "Yes, and as a result, the upper-class girls have all but started their own travel and reservation company. Come on, I know a place that's not too far."

...

Due to prom and the upcoming graduation we had to move her monthly medical exam around so everything fit, but when she did make it in Stephanie had news and a request, but first, she had a friend to introduce.

"Jayne, Kevin, Scootaloo, I would like to introduce you to a mentor of mine, Dr. Gregerson." She said of the woman who had to be in her late 70's and wore a doctors lab coat and stethoscope. We all shook hands as she continued. "Dr Gregerson is a good friend of mine, and she and her husband head up the team that's been working to understand your synthetic biology."

Dr Gregerson took over. "We just finished analyzing your brain MRI data from the last few months, and it helped us put together several pieces of the puzzle we hadn't been able to make sense of before. We know you have synthetic cells that help hold your biology together and act as a patch enabling changes to be made, but we didn't know how. We knew you had some kind of modified metabolism, but we didn't understand how it worked. We -"

Scootaloo spoke up. "Modified metabolism? But that means I should be thin right?" She shuffled self-consciously and stared at the floor "I know I shouldn't worry about this, but I weigh almost 300 lbs! If I have a fast metabolism, shouldn't I be able to burn off weight faster?"

Stephanie smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. "Scootaloo, you're not fat; 300 lbs is lightweight for most ponies. And as to your metabolism, fast doesn't begin to describe it. Your body fat ratio has always held at a healthy level, the question we were asking is how you are able to generate such a huge energy output in the first place. Even with your very efficiently EMFR wing drive to lift you, you still need energy to climb, and climbing up a ten story building takes about the same minimum amount of energy whether you fly or take the stairs. You can climb at a rate that would put Olympic athletes to shame and when we figured out how you store and release energy for these bursts of flight we discovered your... batteries for lack of a better term."

"You mean a biological battery?"

"Exactly. And when Dr Gregerson's research team dug into the design, they didn't just find battery technology, they found a way to reprogram your synthetic biology!"

"Reprogram me? Why would you want to do that Dr Gregerson?" Scootaloo asked.

"Call me Betty" Dr Gregerson smiled. "And not you personally. We were able to reset the DNA the synthetic cells perceived as their own, and were able to grow your synthetic cells first in petri dishes, and then in mice and chimps. We started human trials recently and the results are impressive; your synthetic biology has a lot of internal programming of its own, and we are finding that it is pre-programmed to recognize and fix a lot of different problems. Haven't you wondered why you've never been seriously ill? You have what amounts to a synthetic immune system, or at least a heavily augmented one. I wouldn't be surprised if the culture you come from has much less disease, all without conventional medical care."

"But I have been sick, I get colds from time to time, and even the flu that once."

Dr Gregerson, Betty, frowned. "That's true, your programming doesn't protect you from everything, but in humans, its looking like it prevents some 20 to 60% of illnesses, though unfortunately, many of the really lethal ones like Dengue Fever aren't affected. Our best guess is that by the time this code was written, a lot of the really nasty bugs had been exterminated, and hence your synthetic biology doesn't recognize them."

Our daughter thought this over with a smile. "This is going to be a new line of defense against illness isn't it? Your work is going to save thousands of lives."

Dr Gregerson smiled. "Oh no, this will be well into the millions, and quickly too. You see, one of the things we figured out was how to set metabolic speed. This injection of customized synthetic cells allows the patient to choose their weight by choosing how fast they burn calories! The process to configure the cells to a new user is still expensive, but once in place? No more obesity, vastly less heart disease, lower blood pressure, reduced incidence of diabetes: All the big killers in western culture will be reined in by what our team discovered."

"That's great! I'm so glad that I could help make this possible."

Mary had been hanging back during this discussion, but now she stepped forward grinning from ear to ear. "There was one major side effect though, and when people figure it out there will be hell to pay... But it will be so worth it!"

Everyone looked at her expectantly.

"It looks like Scootaloo's aversion to meat products was programmed into her synthetic biology."

"You mean...?"

"Yes, anyone who uses your synthetic cells to live a happy, healthy life will find that all meat products suddenly taste awful to the point of being inedible."

"Sounds like karma to me." Jayne added.

"Its okay," Scootaloo laughed "I know a certain Girl Scout who has a great veggie burger recipe."

Stephanie chuckled as well. "While the fallout from this should be amusing to watch, this is all leading up to a request. The Doctors Gregerson, Mary, and a number of other scientists think we have underestimated how adaptable your body might be. We want to run an experiment, with your approval, and if it works, it will help you and a lot of other people with disabilities."

Scootaloo looked a bit concerned. "What do you have in mind?"

"Remember how your body built clusters of nerves around the places where your prosthetic sensor 'hat' picks up the signals used to control your arms?" Dr. Gregerson asked. "We think there could be a lot more to it than that, and with the new ability to give other patients your synthetic cells, if we can get your body to adapt to your arms, then we could conceivably use the same methods to restore sight to the blind, or motor function to patients with spinal cord injury."

"I don't understand. Mary; you helped fit my arms, how could I be more 'adapted' to them?"

"Well, right now your saddle bag has electrode panels pressed against your sides to give force feedback so you can pick up a tomato without squeezing it to pulp. With the current system, the resolution we can deliver is limited by your skin and so is the area -we can't wrap your whole body in electrodes. We have designed an implantable device -" She produced a small jewelry sized box with a clear lid and handed it to Scootaloo "that should allow much better feedback. With this you should be able to feel very fine detail, like the texture on the front of a penny -if your body integrates with it as we think it might. If this works it would mean you wouldn't have a sweaty back and flank on hot days because of your prosthetic, it would cut the weight of your arms and allow you to do much more delicate tasks then you can today. You may not think about it, but most people can reach into a box and pick out an object by touch alone, and if you've ever worked on a car, I don't have to tell you how useful that could be. There are lots of other things we could use this for, but it has to work first, and quite frankly, this is an experiment that will benefit others more than you."

Kevin stepped in a bit defensively "Mary, our daughter has already saved millions of people from cancer by her participation. Now you want to implant something in her body? At what point has she given enough?"

Stephanie answered; "This is completely voluntary. If you don't want to do this, then we don't do it, but it isn't some hair-brained idea ether. You know we can already build robot arms faster, stronger, and more precise than any human arm because you use them every day. You haven't needed eyes before, but those who do aren't so lucky. We can build cameras that are far better than the human eye, but that is useless to a blind patient because we haven't been able to get biological parts to talk to electrical devices. You know that a electrode-on-skin contact pad can only send so much information, and for vision it just isn't enough."

Dr. Gregerson stepped in. "If you are willing to help with this, we will use local anesthetic to numb you, then insert this tiny radio controlled device on the underside of a rib. If this works, we expect your body to build up nerves around the device over a few weeks to receive the signals, and we don't know if we want that kind of nerve cluster exposed close to the skin surface."

Scootaloo was looking thoughtfully into the clear top case at the dime size wafer inside. "That doesn't sound so bad, you had me worried there for a moment. You just numb the area and insert the wafer right? Heck, breast implants are a much bigger deal than that, and I know a few people who want to pay money for them. You're saying this could improve the control and feel from my arms, and lead to a cure for blindness? How could I say no to that?"

Kevin crossed his arms. "I'm still not comfortable with cutting holes in you or putting things into your body."

"Papa, how many piercings do I have? You know, ears, nose, nipples?" Scootaloo ran a hoof down her belly drawing attention to the twin rows of nipples, and Kevin squirmed in his chair looking even more uncomfortable. "And how many tattoos do I have? Skull and cross bones, curse words in other languages?"

"Okay, okay! You're right, you've never gotten into any of those things. I... I just want you to be safe."

Scootaloo held his hand while Mary continued. "There is no reason to be worried here, we all care for Scootaloo too, and we would never suggest anything that would harm her. We can setup the surgery for next month and get new skins made for your hands with denser sensory nets to deliver the greater volume of information. You need to leave the saddle bag electrode pads on for now, and we hope that with the crummy low resolution signal coming through your sides as always, and with the same information being delivered in much greater detail to the implant, your body will figure this out and begin to rely on the implant over the external pads. Its the same thing that happens if you put on an eye patch over one eye for a few weeks -pretty soon your brain is relying more and more on the eye with good signal, and when you take the patch off you will notice if you focus on something, your brain reaches for the eye usually left uncovered."

"This sounds good to me, but let's not wait. You have training as a surgeon, don't you Mary? Take an hour, round up who and what you need, and lets do this."

We were all a bit startled. "Scootaloo, are you sure? We could do it tonight I guess, but we hadn't planned on it."

Scootaloo looked from Mary to Stephanie. "Guys, I'm studying biology at the college freshman level and I want to be a doctor. I'm not some ignorant kid anymore. You've got laparoscopic surgical robots here, and if I know you Mary, you've already been practicing this on the simulator haven't you?"

Mary looked a little sheepish "Well yes, I know it's a simple surgery, but I want to be at my best."

"So lets skip the waiting and the drama. I'm here, along with the surgeon, the tools and the parts. I already get how many needle sticks every month? A few numbing shots and a stitch or two are no big deal."

And so with a shrug and and some quick work by Mary, Scootaloo had her new implant less then two hours later. We said our usual goodbyes and Stephanie admonished Scootaloo to take it easy for the next week so she didn't pull her stitches.

And when Mary called the next week to check up on her progress, we all looked up from our dinner table at Scootaloo's cell phone: "We are the Borg. You will be assimilated."

Kevin grinned at her; "Really Scootaloo? You ripped the audio from the movie to use as Mary's ring-tone?"

Scootaloo looked a little embarrassed, but we all had a good laugh.
> Ch 11: Red Dots and Coffee
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


guest chapter by my Editor and Collaborator, JanMcNeville

story by Cozy Mark IV & Jan. McNeville


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release



Chapter 11: Red Dots and Coffee

Scootaloo watched in horror as the raving, furious man shouted terrible things at her. She had seen people angry with her for existing before, and she'd heard some of the threats. Religious crazies, anti-gay bigots, conspiracy theorists and just plain crazy people had sent letters or made threatening calls just about all her life, but she'd never had one this physically close to her before.

And the bomb strapped to his chest, that was new, too.

Worst of all, her friends were with her. Josie was shaking half-hysterically, Christina had burst silently into tears and Melissa, brave, fearless Melissa, had gone deathly pale.

The madman was starting to shriek abuse at them as well, in addition to gesturing wildly with what looked like the deadman-switches she'd seen on bombs in movies. Scootaloo knew that she had to do something, and do it soon.

She knew how hard she could kick with one of her hooves. She also knew from her studies of biology and the first-aid books of Conner's she was reading, just how much damage she could do to a fragile human being. Unconsciousness would be definite. Whether that meant he might drop the little switch in his left hand or not, she was less certain. But worst of all, there was also the very definite possibility of death from the kind of kick she would need to use to protect her friends.

Just before she could act a red dot appeared on the man's hand by the switch and steadily tracked its' way up his arm to his forehead, and Scootaloo decided she preferred online shopping to the mall.

It had started out as such a nice day, too.

One of the technology companies who used research from her medical tests had sent her a check for the additional biofeedback sessions she had given them, and while she normally deposited just about all of such funds into her college savings, this one was small enough and the work had been annoying enough that she decided to spend it on some well-deserved retail therapy with her friends. It had been a matter of sleeping with a somewhat clunkier version of her sensory apparatus on her head for two weeks, and given the itching, the interrupted sleep, and the lecture she'd caught for nodding off in English class, Scootaloo wanted something immediate and tangible for her scientific volunteerism.

And so, to the mall with her friends she had gone.

She was seriously considering either a tablet computer for reading in bed, a small netbook for taking notes in class or a pair of those awesome multi-colored giant headphones that some of the kids in school were wearing between classes. They cost almost as much as an entry-level PC and her Dads had both criticized them as looking like 'fluorescent Eighties nightmares!' but it sometimes stung to not have a few of the trendy things the other kids got. Scootaloo couldn't really wear designer labels (except for the odd scarf or handbag,) and keeping up with popular sneaker brands was right out, but headphones, those were a thing that even cartoon ponies could enjoy.

That, and Josie's cool big brother had gotten her a set, and Melissa was all but certain she was getting a pair for her birthday. Christina claimed to prefer tiny noise-cancelling earphones and had a less-expensive pair, but they were still the most fashionable brand, and not, say, the $5 kind one's dad ordered from the same website that sold computer cables and squishy mouse-pads.

It was silly, Scootaloo freely conceded to herself, but she still felt her own conspicuousness keenly, and it seemed an awful shame to not participate in one of the fashions she could. Anyway, she'd already thought out how to explain her purchase to her Dads!

To Daddy, she would explain that the circumaural headphone design offered an improvement in sound quality with a better dynamic range and were very effective earmuffs in wintertime, highly efficient at muffling background noise on, say, the bus, so that she could …study or enjoy an educational work such as The Feynman Physics Lectures or a TED-talk podcast. Also, their larger size and bright color could be argued as making them less likely to be misplaced, unlike the several $5 pairs from the computer-cable website she had gone through. (The fact that she'd had to Google what 'circumaural' even meant and that she still had only the vaguest idea what 'dynamic range' implied beyond 'costs more' was fairly irrelevant.) And they did cost a lot less than aviation headphones, which was bound to be of some small comfort.

To Papa, she would point out that they coordinated easily with several of her more popularly-styled outfits, as well as the fact that the very fluorescent Eighties-nightmare-ness of them, when paired with very classic pieces such as her favorite cardigan and touches of appropriate color, such as her bright green scarf, the effect was charmingly retro and lent both practicality and a youthful flair to an ensemble that was otherwise perhaps just a little too old for her. Melissa had helped to come up with that one.

Josie also pointed out that large headphones did give one the convenient advantage of being able to pretend to not hear boys who were interested in one, especially as the relative attractiveness of the boy might affect sound quality. Alas, Scootaloo wasn't sure if the advantage of 'deters potential sons-in-law' outweighed the risk of rudeness or her Dads' assertion that if she didn't 'turn that noise down' she would be deaf before she was thirty. Christina then pointed out that parents were contractually obligated to say that regardless of anyone's musical tastes or preferred volume level, and had, in fact, witnessed her own grandma give the identical lecture to her mom.

"What was your mom listening to?"

"Something adult-contemporary that only middle-aged people like. Probably Fleetwood Mac. Grandma says Stevie Nicks sounds like a goat who went Wiccan to offend its' parents."

"…But I love Fleetwood Mac," Josie pointed out. Josie, of course, was a classic-rock fan who once charmed a teacher into giving back her confiscated mp3 player early after pointing out just which of his favorite albums were on it and letting him copy a few files.

"Your parents have called some of your music noise, I guarantee it."

"Well, yeah. It was weird, too, because 'In the Hall of the Crimson King' and 'Days of Future Passed' are both older than they are," Josie frowned. "And way better than the processed Nineties pop nonsense my mother likes."

"See, it's in their contract."

"I've been reading about evolutionary theory and I think parents really might be genetically programmed to complain about our music and think our fashions are stupid," Scootaloo observed. "Apparently, in chimpanzee groups, the only way to prevent inbreeding is for the teenagers to become rebellious and somewhat annoying to the elders and for the elders to become less tolerant, which causes the teenagers to strike out on their own, find other groups of teenagers and, well…breed."

"So my mother's endless complaining about my clothes making me look like a floozy is what will actually make me more likely to become a floozy?" Melissa grinned.

"Pretty much!" Scoot agreed. "Also, who even says 'floozy' anymore?"

"My dad said that this top made me look like a scarlet woman, couldn't you just die?" Christina laughed. "So I put a camisole underneath and now it looks like I have Ms. Chisholm's same outfit from bake-sale day. And you know she only said she was wearing a cami to keep muffin crumbs out of her sport-bra."

"I also think she was trying to rein in the perv factor from some of the divorced dads," Josie agreed, "but yeah, camisoles are totally crumb-catchers."

"I can respect the desire to keep your Victoria's Secret Compartment crumb-free, but a little bit of purely decorative cleavage does not a floozy make. Frankly, I don't think any of us but Melissa are even equipped to flooze," Christina sighed.

"These aren't floozy-ing boobies," Melissa objected. "I've told you a hundred times. These are poker-winning boobies. The very gas money for this outing was provided by a low-cut top and enough underwire to pick a lock."

"And you wonder why I don't play cards with boys," Scootaloo sighed.

"With the right skirt and heels, Scoot, you've got better legs than any of us," Melissa pointed out.

"Me in heels?" The pony almost choked on her lemonade.

"You'd have to machine them out of solid aluminum, engineer the ergonomics for quadrupedal perambulation and you'd need at least quarter-inch-thick treaded rubber for the soles, but it could be done," Josie announced, pulling out a notebook and indicating some drawings and calculations. "See?"

"So that's what AP Physics is good for," Melissa remarked admiringly.

"But shoes...I d'know. The whole 'nails' thing..."

"I think two-part epoxy would work just as well. Some farriers on the Internet use that now for horses whose laminitis precludes nailing. And I also designed a pair of platform sneakers capable of letting one run as fast and jump as high as a Spice Girl," Josie explained, turning a page. "See?"

"You complain about your mom's horrible processed Nineties pop music, but love the Spice Girls," Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.

"The Spice Girls are cool. The Backstreet Syncs or whatever, not so much."

"What determines coolness?"

"In this case? You multiply the cosine of Girl Powah times five pairs of platform shoes, solve for N when the Britishness ratio is 100%, the Spice Bus is bigger on the inside, just like a TARDIS, and Meat Loaf is their driver. Result: complete coolness." Josie grinned in a freaky, all-teeth-showing maniacal way that was strangely evocative of Rainbow Dash from the old cartoon.

"And again with your fixation on all things British," Melissa sighed. "And here comes a Doctor Who reference…"

"The Spice Girls are Time Lords, Melissa," Josie intoned in a flawless British accent. "You should accept them as your pop-singer overlords. Spice up your life, my friend. Spice up your life."

And with that, they all cracked up laughing, remembering all too well what had happened the last time a door-to-door evangelist arrived at the cheerleaders' sleepover. Josie's cheerful blending of classic-rock trivia and physics-nerd geekery, as well as a happy talent for being able to say truly ridiculous shit with a straight face had caused her to attempt to persuade two unfortunate Mormon elders into 'accepting Bonnie Tyler as their favorite female rock star of the Eighties.'

"Is it bad that I actually hope for religious nut-jobs when you're around, Josie?" Scootaloo asked.

"I don't think so. They only exist because God loves me and wants me to have nice toys," Josie grinned in her cheeky way.

"By the way, what did happen with the 'nice Baptist boy' your grandma asked you to go out with?" Christina asked.

"He's three sequins away from a Pride parade," Josie explained bluntly. Scootaloo cracked up and almost snorted lemonade through her nose. "I meant to ask, by the way, what is the correct LGBT-friendly etiquette for describing a person who trips the National Gaydar so hard that NORAD has to recalibrate every time he buys shoes?"

"I think you're okay. I told my Dads what you said about that one televangelist and I thought Papa was going to soil himself laughing."

"Well, far be it from me to not be 'protocoligorically correct' on such things," Josie looked very reassured.

Privately, Scootaloo had always thought her most hilarious friend used humor to hide the fact that she was about a quart low on self-esteem, though the fact that Melissa and Scoot both had made a habit of calling her or inviting her to dinner just because she cheered everyone up so much was really helping a lot, and Christina's parents liked Josie because of the physics prize she'd won recently and consistently 99th-percentile results in Math. The hope that she could improve Christie's knowledge of anything but Great Albums of the Early Prog-Rock Era and Classics of British Comedy was typical faulty parent logic, as Josie could only actually do mathematical calculations in her own head and couldn't explain them easily at all without her listener running the risk of weeing herself laughing, but what Christina's parents didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

Josie's older brothers both had Asperger's syndrome, after all, and Scoot always wondered if her ability to palm off gigabytes of memorized facts as funny was a very clever way of making her own slightly-off-spec mind seem a bit more neuro-typical. Nobody ever sent funny people who smiled a lot to the counselor for evaluation, and if Ms. Chisholm had figured it out, she was classy enough to help Josie without letting on that she knew.

And then Melissa; she was clearly the most mature of the group when it came to boys, fashion, social nuances and, curiously enough, economics, but there were times when her cast-iron bravery and unashamed sensuality were just a bit of a cover for a seriously romantic heart and a profound capacity for love. Scootaloo had been there for her through two of the most graceful breakups she'd ever heard of, seen her keep boys and even some friends at arm's length emotionally until something went wrong for them (at which point she was mother-duck to whomever needed it,) and as strong and feministic as Melissa was, her friends could tell that when she did find the right person, she was going to fall harder and deeper than any of them. Christina compared her frequently to a character in one of the old murder mysteries she liked so much and which nobody else had managed to completely read because the author occasionally lapsed into untranslated French or Latin purely because she could. Grad-student mysteries, Scoot called them.

Christina had smiled a little when Scootaloo called them that, set them aside and then suggested another, more accessible author. She loved to read, wrote a little herself and was never happier than when some great classic of literature that she knew backwards and forwards was made into a movie, at which point her friends all went out with her to see it and then, over dinner, sat back and watched with delight as she and sometimes Josie tore it apart for getting some key aspect or highly important piece of the book completely bloody wrong, or leaving out a favorite part, or for not being the nine hours long that to adapt the book properly would have necessarily required. Only British mini-series adaptations were ever really good enough for Christina to consider them 'passable,' and when a certain popular supernatural tween romance was given a bigger budget than the latest Jane Austen adaptation and cool YA sci-fi piece combined, the cheerleaders were all a little afraid Christie might hunger-strike.

Christina was brilliant in English and the absolute darling of Mrs. Stewart's Creative Writing class, but if she couldn't get her shit together in math, Scoot was worried she might not be able to stay on the squad. And to her delight, the tutoring after school at her house was helping a lot. Papa always brought them sodas or iced tea, and Christina got all her homework done and was actually understanding the basics of trigonometry at last. Scootaloo was fairly sure that her friend would have a meltdown if someone took her TI-83 calculator away and asked her to multiply in her head, but still, progress was progress. It was nice to have friends who relied on you the way you sometimes felt you relied on them.

"Speaking of protocol, what is the proper way to tell a salesperson that you aren't interested?" Scootaloo asked the group. "If one more person comes and tries to spray perfume on us or sell us freaky bath salts, I swear I'll fake anaphylaxis and freak 'em out."

"The thing to do is put on your haughtiest expression and say 'We're just looking' in a tone that implies they should fuck right off," Melissa explained. She had a part-time job working at a local warehouse store and was thus the go-to source for information on all things retail and business. "To be fair, we are teenage girls, so a lot of them are giving us attention because the stereotypes have them thinking we're going to steal shit, when in fact, by paying attention to us, they just completely missed that minivan-mommy to our nine o'clock shoving stuff into that tasteless giant purse." Melissa smiled blithely as a salesperson, clearly about to ask them something inane, did a double-take and then reached for the phone to call Security. "And of course, you can always let Josie deal with them."

"It is nice to have a purpose," Josie smiled in complete sincerity.

"Unless it's a bookstore, then we just deploy Christina like a tactical nuke somewhere between Classics and Mysteries."

"Oh, please don't use me as the distraction," Christina blushed.

"Why? Apart from your receipt's getting college-guy phone-number all over it, I don't see a problem with applying your lexicographical brilliance to the cause of getting uppity retail slaves out of our proverbial grille," Melissa, like all the girls, had been preparing for the pre-SAT lately and was thus enjoying the sesquipedalian loquaciousness admired wherever standardized tests with a vocabulary section are crammed for. "Though I still think that time the freaky couple in the Disney store wanted to measure you for a saddle was pretty damn funny, Scootaloo."

"That led to a very lucrative appearance at a six-year-old's birthday party, I'll have you know. Five hundred dollars for cancer research and our littlest fans still come to all our games."

"Is that where your mini-groupies came from?" Melissa asked. "I knew our Girl Scouts were showing up, but they're more like our beloved protégées, destined to carry on the pom-poms and proud traditions when we are gone. Your army of fun-size stalkers are kinda freaky."

"They're little girls!"

"They brought cupcakes in our team colors," Josie pointed out.

"And they weren't poisoned or anything," Christina agreed.

"They're from the kindergarten! I can't help that little girls in your species have a freakish attraction to my species. Even my biology books haven't explained that one."

"I think female rugrats are just profoundly binary creatures at that age," Josie looked thoughtful. "Apart from your rare and highly likeable overalls-wearing, BB-gun owning Scout Finch rugrat, you generally get either princesses or pony-enthusiasts, and what determines which seems to be whether or not they've ever seen shit before. If a little girl has a dog and is aware of the basic biological processes, then a pony, by extension, sounds pretty frickin' rad. If, conversely, a little girl grew up in an apartment without pets and thinks of equines as something that go in a circle and have metal poles down their center, then princess-ing starts to really appeal to them as a career choice."

"What causes your favorite kind, then?"

"Older brothers, badass dads, exposure to the concentrated awesomeness of BB guns and an allergy to pink frilly dresses, I believe. I still break out in hives at the very memory of what my Aunt wanted me to wear for Easter pictures."

"I actually went through a frilly-dress phase," Christina admitted. "But I outgrew it. Wanting to be a pop star comes after princess or pony-owner, right?"

"Yes, though wanting to be an astronaut also occurs around that same age. That's followed by…I d'know, what are we all under the impression we'd like to do?" Josie asked.

"I'm going to be a scientist," Scootaloo announced. Not want to. Going to.

"Well, yes, duh and all that, but what kind of scientist? Bio, chemical, research, theoretical, mad?"

"Biological research, I think, with a little mad," Scoot replied with a smile. "And I'd also like to be a test pilot."

"Perfectly reasonable ambition! I want to be an engineer at the moment. Theoretical physics are all well and good, but I'd really enjoy working in something that let me apply the principles."

"What kind of engineer? Mechanical, industrial, electrical, antisocial, aerospace, civil…?" Melissa asked.

"Whatever lets me design rollercoasters, prosthetics, adorable talking robots and whatever miscellaneous stuff NASA may require," Josie grinned. "Though, in all honesty, at the moment I'm interested in applied ergonomics, robotics, artificial intelligence and possibly taking over the world, you know, as a minor."

"Giving her those graphic novels was a mistake," Scootaloo informed Christina.

"It was," Christina sighed with a smile. "I would like to be a librarian, and also to write novels. How about you, Melissa?"

"I would like to work my way through school, get out with minimal debt, and then get a good job as a financial planner and stockbroker. I can set up a hedge fund for all of our retirement, and with my contacts in the wide world of healthcare, aviation, popular literature and, of course, mad science," she gestured to each friend in turn, "I'll be able to develop algorithms for investment that really do take technology and culture into account. Imagine it being 1991, and being able to predict just how big this whole 'computer' and 'Internet' thing was going to go, and then to invest your money accordingly."

"So you intend to be insanely rich," Josie smiled indulgently.

It was well-known that Melissa's parents had been raising her and three siblings on what had, up until recently, been retail salaries. She wasn't what she'd let anyone call poor, but her friends knew she knew a little too well what mac-and-cheese from a box tasted like and suspected her fashion sense had been partly developed through making Goodwill finds somehow work.

"No. I intend to be comfortable," Melissa explained. "Insanely rich is just as bad as being poor. For one thing, there's the tax implications, then there's how crazy much you have to spend just to manage the money, keep an eye on the money, protect the money, conspicuously consume just enough of the money that people know you have it, which means you have to work even harder to earn even more money…it's not worth it. It's stupid to try and be rich."

"So...you want to be middle-class?"

"No. Class, amount of money you have…none of that matters at all."

"…I think money matters, Mel."

"Yes, but not the way you think it does. Think about it. Let's say you have a job and it pays more than enough money to cover all your food, your shelter, clothes, a car, all your basics. What do you do with the rest of it?"

"…Buy better stuff."

"And then eventually you have all the stuff you want. Then what do you spend it on?"

"Save it for retirement."

"Good answer, but once you've got enough that retirement is assured, say…a million dollars in savings, then what do you spend it on?"

"I don't know…fancy vacations?"

"But you have that job, and it only gives you fourteen days off a year. One flu, two colds and a visit to Grandma's, all of a sudden your vacation time is all gone."

"So…go on the weekend?"

"That'd work for you, Scoot, but for those of us who don't have a VFR license, a plane of their own, plus, y'know, more wings than a Kotex box, traveling anywhere worth going takes enough time, it's barely worth it to go for just the weekend. You spend more time traveling than actually spending time at wherever you're going to."

"So…fancier stuff than you had before?" The girls paused and looked in the window of a jewelry store that seemed to contain 24-karat cellphone cases. Melissa sighed and shook her head derisively.

"You can only gold-plate and diamond-encrust so many things before you're paying more in security systems, guards and insurance than the amount the things are worth to you."

"So…quit your job. Live off your savings and enjoy all the free time you want, if you have that much."

"Josie got it," Melissa smiled. "Free time is the only tangible luxury. Fancy car, giant house, expensive clothes…what does any of that matter if you have to work so hard to get them that you never get to enjoy them? I'd rather have a cheaper car and a house that's just big enough and…well…some of my clothes can be expensive but not my everyday ones, and get to enjoy things like travel and hobbies and friends."

"So…why not be a teacher? They get three months off," Christina pointed out.

"Yes, but depending on where you get hired, teachers still struggle to make ends meet, and that three months is all the time you get to plan nine months of lessons, take your continuing-education classes and do any projects around the house you didn't have time for during the year. No, what I'm hoping for is the kind of job that I'd do even if it wasn't my job. You know, something that's pretty much a game."

"Professional StarCraft player? I think you need to be South Korean for that," Josie smirked.

"No, really. Managing money, moving investments around and such…that's like a game to me. I enjoy it. Even if I have to work sixty-hour weeks until I'm in my mid-thirties or early forties to be successful, I'd still do it even if they weren't paying me. But that's the other thing. Change what it means to be successful, and you don't have to work quite so hard."

Melissa gave them a big smile, but they still looked confused.

"…I don't get it. Successful means you have a job and money and…I don't know…"

"Exactly. People hear 'successful' and start looking for fancy cars and gold cufflinks and golf and a snooty-butt attitude. Most successful guy I've ever met? He wears scruffier shoes than Josie, drives an old truck and spends most of his time building playgrounds for poor children or flying that ridiculous hairdryer-chair thingy."

"Mr. Stewart from the warehouse store?" Scootaloo asked. "He flies ultralights at my airport. I know him."

"Did you know he only works two days a week, or whenever a cashier gets sick?" Melissa took out her phone and used the calculator. "He's built his chain of stores up to the point where he hardly needs to work at all anymore, but he still does to make sure the chain is doing well, and now that he's getting 90K a year for a 20-hour work-week, he can spend most of his time doing whatever he likes."

"Uh…90K a year is not that much at all, especially not for a CEO. My Dad makes almost 70K now," Scootaloo looked confused.

"Yeah, but your Dad has a family, a house, two older but not ancient cars and a Cozy Mark Whatsit plane, plus he's saving up a lot for retirement, I'd assume. Mr. Stewart's house is half the size, he paid it off years ago, his truck's older than God, his only family is that dog of his and his employees, and he spends a lot less on things like clothes and food and cars, because to him, those things don't matter as much as free time, flying his hairdryers and building playgrounds. That, and 90K a year is shockingly low for a CEO, given the size of his company, but that's another thing."

"So…how rich you are isn't your money, but your free time."

"Exactly. Take whatever amount of money you need to be comfortable, meaning all your needs met, most of your wants met and a little left over, and then find the job that lets you make that much with the minimum amount of time…unless you really enjoy your work like Mr. S. does, and then work isn't work at all, it's just what you do."

"You really take your boss seriously," Josie looked thoughtful. "He seriously only comes in two days a week?"

"On average," Melissa explained. "And you know what else? He pays us fairly. I'm making ten-fifty an hour part-time, if I needed benefits I could get them, and I already have a little 401K."

"You're sixteen."

"Yes, I am. And I already have a little starter fund for my retirement. If I stay with the store during college, there's tuition-reimbursement for part of my education, Mr. S. gives out a scholarship every year, and if I do well and learn new skills, he's more likely to promote me or another cashier who gets her degree into corporate than to hire some new person, because he likes his management to understand the place and how it works. Our biggest competitor? They pay minimum-wage starting, no bonuses, no benefits, they work like hell to keep everybody part-time, the 401K matches half what ours does, the products they sell are cheap junk because they're using sweatshop labor…they're just not nice people. But you bet your ass the uppermost management's got brand-new cars every year, fancy mansions, send their kids to private schools…Mr. S. was fixing his own truck himself in the parking lot the other day, because making sure we're all okay is more important to him."

"So it's not just about being comfortable," Scootaloo smiled, "but about being ethical."

"Yes! I'd rather be a financial-planner here in town or maybe the Chief Financial Officer for Mr. S and make 75K a year than go to Wall Street and make billions and billions just to cheat on taxes and starve the poor."

"…You must be the only member of the Future Entrepreneurs Club at school who's not a Republican," Josie observed, admiringly.

"Well, I'm sure as shit not a Democrat," Melissa growled. "I'm a progressive. There's a big difference."

"S'wrong with Democrats?" Josie feigned offense with a smile. "I mean, apart from being really whiny."

"Neither Democrats nor Republicans are really any good," Christina sighed. "If you look at their history, they're all, for the most part, upper-class white men with a very small amount of token women and minorities. They're all crazy rich. They're all older than 35. And once they've been elected for more than a single term, they've typically got investments tied up in matters that are affected by the laws they make."

"It's the most elaborate kind of insider trading," Melissa agreed. "Congressmen on the Energy committee agree to vote a certain way so the Congressmen on the Education committee will vote the way they agree with, meanwhile Energy's got money in a textbook company and Education is in bed with coal. What's best for the country, be it environment, education, medicine, science, even social policy…none of it matters as much as keeping the people in power not only in power, but richer than any of us could ever dream of. It's really unfair."

"Well, even the richest person isn't that much richer," Josie finished her lemonade with a slurp and threw the cup away in a recycling bin. "The richest people on the Forbes 400 make, what, a hundred times more than the entry-level employees of the companies that made them the money, right? Sure, it's a little unfair, but they do run the place…"

"Try many, many thousands," Melissa smirked wryly. "Here. I have the math in my paper for Economics." She took out a notebook and passed it to Josie. At the top of the open page was written

$27,900,000,000
$17,121

"What's this?"

"The net worth of the richest heir to a certain storei is the top number –that's 27.9 billion, with a B, and below it is the average annual salary of a cashier at said Now given the way that net worth is invested…it works out to approximately…" Melissa turned a page of calculations. "About every fifty-seven minutes."

"Fifty-seven minutes what?"

"How long it takes the person with the 27.9 billion dollars to earn the average annual salary of one of their cashiers."

Melissa could be insufferably smug sometimes.

"So what you or I would make in a year working for them, they make in about an hour," Scootaloo nodded. "That was about what I thought it was. Still, they pay a lot more in taxes, proportionally speaking, right?"

Melissa could be really insufferably smug sometimes. She shook her head with a shit-eating grin that had previously reduced an ardent trickle-down economist on another school's debate team to not merely incoherent, but incontinent rage as well.

"Proportionally speaking, as in 'what percentage of actual income goes to taxes?' Your dads pay more, And so do the middle-managers of the company in question. The cashiers make so little that they get almost all of their tax burden back, what with the Earned Income Tax Credit and the federal poverty line being where it is, though that's still money that comes out of their pay and which they don't see again until two weeks after they file a tax return, and the soonest you can do that is the beginning of February, with when most W2s come out."

"That's…that's ludicrous. That's what, the richest person in the country?" Josie took Melissa's notebook, rifled through it and found the Forbes 400 print-out. "Aw, hell no."

"This fellow, though, he gives a mess-ton of money to charity," Christina pointed out. "Most of these people give a lot to charity, though, right, so it's like paying taxes, sort of. Deductions and all, right?"

"Sort of," Melissa inclined her head a little to the side, with a 'kinda' hand gesture. "Paying to vaccinate sick kids in Africa, sure, I'm all for deducting that, and a lot of these people do genuine good with their money. But there's also a list of what these people contribute to Senate and House re-election funds, various think-tanks, propaganda groups, PACs…"

"What's a …oh, a Political Action Committee, I remember from Civics," Josie was still frowning over the notes.

"Yeah. That's sure not a charity," Scootaloo agreed.

"That's buying seats in the government," Josie absolutely growled. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

"And bear in mind, a lot of their investments are corporate stock, meaning that they're helping big corporations like the ones where they made their money to grow larger. It's not so much the municipal bonds, the school bonds, the small-business bundled securities, the angel investments…"

"In English, Mel!" Josie, Scootaloo and Christina asked, in unison.

"It's Wall Street, not Main Street. Makes the rich richer, doesn't do shit for the poor besides, just possibly, creating a few more jobs...but not very well-paying ones."

"Is this more of that freaky Bible-verse economics thingy you were on about at practice?"

"The Matthew Effect, yes. 'For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance: but from him that hath not shall be taken even that which he hath.'"

"King James version, twenty-five/twenty-nine," Christina clarified.

"Yes, yes, your cutie mark is a book,iv have a pretzel," Josie handed Christina a $10 bill and gestured vaguely at the Auntie Anne's, as they had come to the mall food court. "And get me a cinnamon one?"

"Sure! Thanks!"

"Explain this again, and use simple words," Josie demanded of Melissa, sitting down at a food-court table.

"It's like that song 'God Bless the Child,' that we did in Chorus, but it really applies economically. Rich people get richer and the poor get poorer. This happens no matter what. You can say 'oh, let's do trickle-down economics, and the job-creators will create jobs,' but in practice, you get the Matthew Effect. Then you can say 'let's be progressive, ask the rich to pay their fair proportional share of things in taxes, less what they can deduct for legitimate charity, institute a living wage for the statutory minimum,' and you know what happens then?"

"Socialism?" Scootaloo asked.

"A fair economy?" Josie asked.

"Pretzels for everyone?" Christina asked, bringing over an armful. "They had a special on! Two-for-one!"

The great discussion of economy and statecraft paused for a hearty laugh and a much-needed intake of delicious carbs.

"Ac'fuwwy," Melissa explained, enjoying a cinnamon pretzel, "it'ff the Maffhew Effect again. The riff get riffer, becauff even when *gulp* the poor get paid better and have more social infrastructure, like roads and schools and an army and police and shit, poor people still spend the majority of their income. It's only once you reach 'comfortable' when you really start to save or invest the stuff. And when poor people spend money, guess who they give the money to in exchange for" - she took another bite - "goodff and serviffefs?"

"The pretzel lady!" Christina grinned. Scootaloo and Josie just looked at her, and she seemed to cringe a little at the joke-fallen-flat.

"She's right," Melissa set her own pretzel down on its paper wrapper.

"The poor give their money to the pretzel lady?" Josie asked.

"Yes, and to many like her. The pretzel lady probably makes somewhere between minimum wage and $15 per hour, maybe more if she owns the franchise. But the pretzel company, which is almost certainly a subsidiary of some giant PretzelCorp..."

"The poor spend their money on things that make the rich richer," Scootaloo sighed, excitedly understanding it at last.

"Precisely. So the choice between letting the rich loophole and tax-break their way out of supporting society, keeping the minimum wage low, all of that neo-conservative stuff, and the more progressive proportional-tax-rate and standard-of-living stuff…either way, the rich are going to get richer and the poor will stay poor. Maybe the rich people have a slightly smaller yacht the first year in the second scenario, but on a long enough timeline, yeah. Matthew Effect kicks in."

"…But that's so sad," Christina looked down at her pretzel. "The poor people can't win either way?"

"No, some poor people can," Scootaloo remarked. "In any group of poor people, you'll get some who work their way out, just as in every group of rich or middle-class people you'll get some going up and some coming down, right?"

"Yes. Class mobility is a thing," Melissa conceded.

They crumpled their pretzel wrappers into balls for the trash can and returned the tray neatly to the lid, talking as they went. Having finished their lemonades by the time they got back to the little stand mid-mall, Scoot briefly asked if anyone wanted refills, then stepped a few yards over to get a complete second round. Seventy-five-cent refills and real lemons definitely made the Real Lemonade and Hot Cookies stand the best value in the mall. The all-natural, made-fresh-today-ness of it was a treat compared to the endless bottles of Gatorade or Snapple cheerleaders normally guzzled and the stand even had a zero-calorie diet option made with stevia for people like Melissa, who worried about her weight, and people like Josie, who insisted the cane-sugar kind was just too effing sugary. And if you came in through the middle doors and got one immediately, then did a loop of the east wing and food court, upstairs and down, you'd be ready for a refill right as you came back to the stand, and then after the west wing you could get a last refill for the drive home.v

A really nice and very big Greek-American family owned the lemonade stand (and a few other restaurants in the food court, for that matter,) and Scootaloo had discovered as a tiny pony that people of that particular heritage and profession were startlingly open-minded about pegasi. It was as if they'd always assumed that there must be a few around somewhere, nice to finally meet one, would that be cash or card? Mr. Kanakaredes Senior's sole observation on the fact that Scootaloo was four-legged was to remark that "I have something you kind of girl will like!" and offer some of the red-and-white peppermints they gave folks with every meal…and it was true. Scootaloo, like virtually all equines, loved peppermints.

To this day, every member of that family would put two instead of the usual one on top of the lid as they gave her an order of lemonade and ask "how you daddies doing?" or "you and you friends working hard in school?" She knew most of their names (they did not wear tags,) and enough about them to ask after the correct relatives and keep up a friendly acquaintanceship, as did Melissa, who simply seemed to have spent a lot of time at malls when she was a kid. It was funny, but when she and the girls were first old enough to be left unsupervised at the mall in middle school, the fact that Scoots and Mel would converse quite naturally with these and other clerks had seemed to really startle Christina and some of the other friends who sometimes came along.

Apparently some parents taught their kids never to talk to strangers ever and others taught them to always be friendly and polite to people who worked in shops, as it was Somebody With a Name Tag whom one was supposed to look for in the event that one ever got lost. Privately, Scootaloo sometimes wondered if a hell of a lot of shyness issues stemmed from being so petrified of being kidnapped that all strangers seemed scary. Her dads' attitude of teaching her the difference between a 'nice' stranger one could and should be friendly with and the sort who, well, not so much, seemed like the better choice, and sure made it easier to make friends.

Weird, really, how a look at some other folks' parents could make your own seem at least marginally less uncool.

"So the difference between neo-conservativism and progressivism is?"

"It's 'how poor are the poor people?' actually. You had Madame Trudeaux for French class last year, right?"

"Yep."

"Remember 'Les Miserables'?"

"I saw the movie. You couldn't pay me to read a book that long. He kinda lost me at the Battle of Waterloo," Josie sighed.

"I've read it nine times," Christina smiled, "but I'd have a book on my butt if we were all ponies, I know..."

"Compare what happens to Fantine in the 1800s to what happens to a girl in a similar situation now. How would Jean Valjean's life have gone differently?"

"Well, if he stole a loaf of bread, he might've gotten community-service and probation instead of nineteen years in jail," Scootaloo observed.

"Think back even further," Melissa smirked.

"Jean Valjean stole the bread for his sister's six children," Christina, who recalled such details, explained, "and while the window does count as destruction of property…wait."

"Six kids," Scootaloo breathed, realizing.

"Yeah. With no dad, and household income below the poverty line," Melissa confirmed.

"Can we say 'food stamps,' ladies and gentlemen?" Josie shook her head as if to say 'you magnificent bastard,' to Melissa. "And birth control and WIC and TANF, then school lunch, Head Start, the church food bank…poor guy never has to steal the bread at all. The whole book doesn't happen."

"Yep. Fantine either gets her shit to Planned Parenthood before schtupping what's-his-name-"

"Tholomyes," Christina, of course, filled in.

"Or, well, after, or else she has the option of open adoption, or WIC, TANF, EBT, job training, free community-college tuition and a stipend in most municipalities, plus she'd have a high-school diploma if she weren't a complete fuckup…the Thenardiers never enter the picture except maybe as slum landlords…"

"Also, she can't get fired for having a kid, and if she does, she can sue the shit out of the company," Josie piped up happily.

"Basically, the whole book goes from 'The Miserable Ones' to 'The Really Broke and Somewhat Inconvenienced but Otherwise Okay Ones,'" Scootaloo chirped.

"And that's what the progressive movement has done for us all," Melissa finished, triumphantly savoring a bit of pretzel. "We can all send Zombie Teddy Roosevelt and his homegirls a nice thank-you note. There are always going to be poor people, sure, just as there will always be rich people. The only difference between neo-conservativism and progressivism is 'how poor is the poorest person' and 'what is the baseline for a standard of living that we, as a moral society, are willing to tolerate?'"

"Neoconservatives would be perfectly fine with more Fantines nowadays if it meant their taxes were lower," Josie frowned. "But how is this not socialism?"

"Socialism and progressivism have sort of the same goals, but they are different. Socialism says 'everybody gets something, no matter what, even if you have to rob the rich to feed the poor.' Progressivism says 'everybody gets something according to how hard they work, where they started from and how well they do, but nobody will be left with nothing and nobody is allowed to get everything.' It's the difference between what neoconservatives think people on welfare are like now, buying big-screen TVs and such while refusing to work, and them actually standing real odds of being that way. Under progressivism, you still have an incentive to work and do well, because not only is the baseline standard of living, while better than what we have now, still not that great, but you remove some of the essential hopelessness from the poor. A living wage for the minimum gives you a shorter distance between 'starting out from nothing' and 'comfortable.'"

"But if almost everyone can be comfortable with less effort, why would they work harder?" Scootaloo asked.

"How does Mr. S. spend his money, now that he's comfortable?" Melissa asked with a grin. "Scholarships. Investments. Starting small businesses. Inventing stuff. Developing stuff. Charity. Hiring more people and paying them even better. Progressives want the poor to not only have the chance to get out of poverty, but the chance to do good for themselves and society."

"Whereas socialism…?"

"Just wants the government to do all of that."

"Oh. Socialism sucks."

"No, we need some socialism, just as we need some free-market capitalism within a progressive political economy. You need opposition parties to prevent ideological tyranny, the onset of fascism and single-party atrocities such as genocide," Christina explained. Melissa and the others stared at her. "What? They make books on political theory now."

"So why isn't there a progressive party now?" Josie asked.

"Well, we started talking about this in Hot Topic, and we're at the food court now," Scootaloo observed.

"Yeah, pretty much. It's kind of hard to get a basic explanation of economic reality, theory and socio-political implications into a thirty-second TV spot that the average voter can understand," Melissa popped a candy into her mouth and took a long sip of her lemonade.

"Yeah. And if you try and give people free books door-to-door, they assume you're crazy," Christina sighed. "Just ask the Communists. Or the Mormons."

"What do you think of this t-shirt?" Melissa interjected gently. Scootaloo liked it, Christina agreed and Josie nodded agreeably. The conversation continued as Melissa checked the stacks for one in her size.

"I like the Mormons," Josie smiled. "We had two elders, you know, the missionaries they send, come over one time when I was little. Mom had already read their book, so she asked them in to discuss it, except she was busy painting and couldn't step away from it or it would show. So they offered to help while we all talked, and darned if they didn't help Mom get three rooms done. We had them stay to dinner and it was really nice. They visit whenever they're in town, and just lately I've persuaded them to get mp3 players."

"Did they try to convert you?"

"Not so much, actually, I think they primarily like to see people discussing and thinking about faith in general. They were kind of like the Hare Krishnas in that respect."

"And what kind of DIY did your mom get the Hare Krishnas to help with?"

"Tiling the kitchen," Josie explained artlessly. Her folks had a habit of buying older houses, moving into them, fixing them up, and then renting them out when they bought the next. It made for a very paint-spattered, if happy childhood, and luckily they had done well enough with real estate to keep Josie in the same school district. "Turned out they were pretty darn good at grouting and the mosaic backsplash came out gorgeous. But they mainly cared about how open people were to new religious ideas, though the one fellow was pretty serious about vegetarianism."

Melissa had purchased her t-shirt by then, and the girls, not seeing anything else they wanted, continued on. The next store was, of course, a Christian bookstore.

"I'm still amazed that the mall put a Hot Topic next to this," Christina remarked.

"Store franchises tend to take whatever vacancy is available," Melissa explained. She knew a lot about malls. "Want to take a look inside?"

"Are they the kind of Christians who…well?" Scoot asked.

"Depends on who's working," Josie shrugged, plunging right in as if there was nothing eerie or strange at all about a store where crucifixes had their own inventory. "OH, SNAP!"

"Oh, no, she found something," Melissa sighed. They followed their friend into the store.

"They have VeggieTales coloring books on sale! Heck, yeah!" Josie pumped her fist in the air from behind a huge bin of marked-down children's literature. "And here's one on Joseph and his brothers, I can color his coat again…" The geeky cheerleader began eagerly gathering up a stack of coloring books, occasionally rejecting or exclaiming excitedly over various titles, almost as if she had forgotten the other three girls were there.

"I think she's serious," Melissa whispered out the corner of her mouth to the other two.

"And it's disturbing," Scootaloo whispered back.

"Well, she's always liked coloring books," Christina remarked.

"These are awesome!" Josie came back around the bin with a nearly ten-inch-thick stack of coloring books. "Look, Christina, Naomi n' Ruth are in this one. I bet they draw them like…yep, they always make Ruth look like Ashley Judd in this series. And Queen Esther…wow. Scoot, look."

"Is that Jadzia Dax from 'Star Trek'?"

"No, that's Queen Esther. That, or there's a stable time loop we really did not need to know about," Josie turned some pages excitedly. "The artist of this series is almost certainly a huge Trekker, he seems to use people on reruns for models when he draws coloring books. Like this, here."

"Is that…no. That cannot be…"

"Yep. Riker and Troi with the baby Jesus. And Balthazar is Captain Sisko, Melchior looks like Picard and if you adjust for the lack of Vulcan ears, Gaspar is totally Tuvok from 'Voyager.'" Josie's grin was less maniacal and actually kind of affectionate. "I really like this one."

"Is that why you have three of it?" Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I thought another one for me, one for my Sunday School and then I thought you might like one because of the 'Star Trek'-ness…"

"Another one?" Melissa asked. "So you've colored this coloring book before and now that it's on sale, you want another one."

"Yes," Josie replied, as if it were perfectly obvious.

"Precisely when did you color the first one?"

"Oh, maybe third grade," Josie shrugged. "This VeggieTales one has pirates in it for you, Mel. And Christina, look, Bible-verse acrostics."

"Oooh!" Christina took the book from her friend and began reading excitedly. "Crosswords, too!"

"So…we're getting Bible coloring books today?" Scootaloo asked, in the tone one might use when asking just where the aliens probed a friend who is acting a little off.

"Waaait, wait wait," Melissa held up her hands, noticeably not putting down the coloring book which contained pirates. "Your Sunday School?"

"I didn't know you were religious, Josie," Christina observed. She went to church with her parents, but didn't really take it seriously.

"You have a Sunday School?" Melissa continued.

"Well…yeah. After confirmation, just about anyone can teach if they have the time and know how to make lesson plans. I teach the third-graders now." Josie seemed a little surprised that they were surprised.

"Really?" Scootaloo was as startled as the other three.

"Yeah. It's really great, actually. We were reading the story of Noah's Ark last week, so I looked up the various measurements of a cubit and we learned how to calculate interior volume of a three-dimensional container. Then we used that to make a scientific guess at how many jelly beans were in the jar for the fundraiser and if we're right, we get to eat them all. And then we colored a bunch of pictures of animals."

"So…is this some kind of freaky hipster thing where you teach them ironically?" Melissa asked.

"I don't think so," Josie certainly looked perfectly sincere, but with her, that didn't necessarily mean she was. "I've been a member of a church pretty much since I was born. I know Christina goes to church and that you and Scootaloo don't, and I figured you'd either ask if it were ever important or it'd come up in conversation somehow. So…up it comes, I guess." For the first time, she looked a little uncomfortable.

"So…you're a Christian?" Scootaloo asked.

"Yeah, just about always have been. Don't worry, though, it's not the freaky fundamentalist-whackjob kind or the lobbyists-with-Bibles kind. We're more the 'keep your fork, there's pie after,' kind, if that makes any sense."

"And you're okay with gay people?"

"Well, duh. So's the Bible if you actually read the thing. Jesus does a long-range Heal Major Wounds on a Roman centurion's 'servant?'" She mimed the air-quotes. "Either the fundie crowd is incredibly gullible or never saw 'Spartacus' in their lives. And don't even get me started on David and Jonathan."

"This is…wow."

"I know, it must be weird to have me turn out to be a thing you've only ever encountered the worst kind of," Josie explained. "But for reals, Christianity's not quite what the fundies and judgmental types make it out to be. My second-graders and I built a catapult over Vacation Bible School last summer break."

"…What does that have to do with the Bible?" Christina asked.

"You know how in the book of Joshua the priests march the Ark of the Covenant around the Walls of Jericho and then blow their ram's horn and it's like pow! Controlled demolition up in the place, total religious pwn? So we built some walls out of empty Aldi boxes out in the parking lot around a Jericho made from MegaBlox, made a little Ark of the Covenant out of Legos for the kids to carry around it in some white t-shirts and we were going to use the amplifier and subwoofers from the church P.A. system and a ram's horn I got off the Internet to replicate the experiment, but then Pastor Josh was like 'no, you cannot have a bass cannon' because hearing protection and OSHA and 'is that a Barbie doll dressed like Rahab the Harlot on top of that MegaBlox Jericho, what the hell, Josie?' and just totally harshing my game with the little kids." She was talking very animatedly, with expressive gestures. "So he said we could make a catapult like the ones in Second Chronicles instead if we did the math and were careful not to dent any cars, so we did that instead."

Scootaloo, Christina and Melissa stared at her for a moment.

"So you're a Mythbuster for Jesus, then," Melissa retorted.

"Pretty much, yeah," Josie nodded. "Provided I keep it relevant to Scripture and don't start any fires I can't put out, that is pretty much how we roll."

"I find the 'can't put out' part of that sentence to be a little alarming, don't you?" Christina asked Scootaloo in a stage whisper.

"So…would anyone be welcome at your church?" Scoot asked Josie.

"Of course…well, I mean, within reason. We did have to ask an old man who was really racist to leave and Pastor Josh did tell this one couple that if they didn't accept God's gay children, they were welcome to choose another church, so they did, but yeah, anybody who's not a complete ass-pocket can come to services. And there's really good coffee there, even if I'm still only allowed to have the decaf when everyone else who's gotten confirmed can have regular."

"Was that Pastor Josh's decision?"

"Yeah."

"I have a deep respect for this man's commitment to public safety," Melissa snarked.

"Would my Dads and I be allowed to come?" Scootaloo asked.

"Naturally!" Josie really perked up at this. "I've been kind of wanting to invite you for years, but I was afraid you'd think I was trying to be all 'you should convert' or 'come get saved' at you like one of the freaky Christians. I mean, I really enjoy having a church family and a place where I can talk to God, but not everybody does, and it's like the comic-book store. If you ask the sort of person who likes comic books or has met nice comic-book-fans before, they're like 'oh, cool, I'd be happy to come see your favorite store,' but if they don't like comic books or have only met really ass-pocket comic-book-fans, then they're like 'eff you, nerd,' and I can't really blame them."

"You just said 'eff' and 'heck,' by the way," Melissa pointed out.

"Well, yeah," Josie collected the coloring books from them and gestured toward the cash register at the back of the store. "Pastor Josh's boyfriend is working today. If I cuss in here, I'll get a lecture and a half come Sunday."

"His boyfriend?" Scootaloo asked, astonished.

"I told you your Dads would be welcome, Scoot!" Josie grinned. "It does occur to me to ask, though…does your family have a Bible?"

"I don't think so. We might."

"Well, because I've just about made enough purchases on my frequent-shopper card to get one for free and these coloring books should put me over." She stepped over to another shelf and pointed out a medium-sized dark blue book. "This is my favorite translation, and it's got the most footnotes and annotations and stuff. Or there's also this one, it's the kids' version, but the illustrations are great."

"Do…do I need a Bible to get into church?"

"What, like scalped tickets? No, I just …figured it might be a nice thing to have so you could look up the context for whatever the service happened to be about that day, plus it comes in really handy to be able to tell judgmental ass-pocket Pharisees exactly why they suck. And there are even some half-decent smutty bits in the Song of Songs." This was a valid selling point to people their age. "I know Mel's got one because she quotes from it whenever she needs to tell an ass-pocket off and I'm pretty sure Christie's got sections committed to memory, but...you didn't know who Joseph was when the drama club announced they were doing 'Technicolor Dreamcoat' for our school play. And with all the stuff I buy for my class, I keep getting frequent-shopper perks here, so it wouldn't cost anything to get you one….thought I'd ask."

For the first time ever, Josie, the aspiring mad-scientist, math prodigy and manic Mythbuster-For-Jesus actually looked shy.

"I'd love one, Josie," Scootaloo nodded. "Can't promise I'll wind up a Christian myself, but you've always said the first step to understanding anything is 'RTFM.'"

"Read the –effing manual," Josie agreed, looking pleased with herself. "Which one do you want?"

"Don't get King James," Melissa remarked. "I don't like how they put 'woman' for 'servant' and the Elizabethan grammar just makes it harder than it needs to be, for all the quotations sound fancier. Besides, that one's free online, so why spend the money for the tree-meat copy?"

"My folks' church thinks the King James Version is the only true word of God," Christina explained with a sigh. "Never mind that it's possibly one of the least accurate, from a historical or linguistic perspective."

"I've said it before, Chris; your folks' church has an unnecessarily high proportion of ass-pocket Pharisees."

"I think the footnote-y one would be my choice," Scootaloo picked it off the shelf with her arm, only to notice from the pressure sensors at the hand that it was shockingly heavy before handing it to Josie. "Wow! It's huge. Way heavier than it looks."

"It has the maximum density of content within its' pretty blue cover, yes. Like a TARDIS Bible." Josie remarked appreciatively, patting the Bible on its' spine like it was a page-filled kitten. "And it's red-lettered."

"What's red-lettered?"

"Anything Jesus actually said Himself is in a red font."

"That's…convenient, I suppose. Does that symbolize the blood he shed for our sins?" Scootaloo inquired.

"Um…ew, no! It's so you can read the most important parts easier, I was told. Though I wouldn't be surprised if some enterprising publisher in the sixteen-hundreds thought that would be fabulous marketing." Josie looked over the bin of coloring books one last time. "Does anybody want anything else from here?"

"These angel magnets are pretty," Christina observed, looking at a display of delicate gold-and-crystal angels that sparkled in the fluorescent light, "and I did need to get something for my grandma's birthday."

"They're cheaper with my frequent-shopper card. I can get it with my debit card and you can just get the pretzels next time."

"But I owe you a pretzel already."

"Do not. You gave me lunch money and lady-supplies the day of the history test when I was up late cramming and forgot my backpack."

"The day you had your denim jacket buttoned all day long?" Scootaloo recalled. "Josie, did you forget your shirt again?"

"Hey, I got an A on the test, didn't I? And that time I noticed it at the bus stop, so there was time to muffle the underwires before anyone but the squirrels saw me."

"And this is a conversation you will have in the Christian bookstore," Melissa raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, they're well aware that sometimes I'll forget some critical piece of an outfit or pick up the wrong garment for the occasion. Acolyte robes cover a multitude of sins, including my 'Bat out of Hell' t-shirt."

"I'm really looking forward to Sunday now," Scootaloo remarked as Josie went up to the register with enough coloring books to calm a preschool zombie apocalypse, the 'TARDIS Bible' and Christina's grandma's angel magnet.

"I think I might go myself," Melissa agreed. "Not even for religion's sake, but because Josie in a church…"

"It's just something I've got to see," Scoot nodded.

"I wish I could go to her church instead," Christina sighed.

"Why don't you ask your folks if you can go with us all to Josie's? Maybe imply that we might start rotating and it'll mean we might someday come to yours, plus it'd be no big deal for me to pick you up on the way," Melissa grinned. Her 'new' car was only new in the sense that she had owned it for a month, two weeks of that actually running once the repairs were done, but she never missed an opportunity to offer people rides in

"I would really love that."

"I'm just hoping my Dads will go with me."

"Free TARDIS Bible!" Josie handed Scootaloo a bag, then handed out the rest of the items. "Coloring book what has pirates in, crosswords and special angel magnet. I got a box for it and some bubble wrap, so it gets to your Gran safely." Christina gave Josie a hug. "We should get a big ninety-six-crayons box someplace and do coloring at our next sleepover."

"I think the teacher-supply store by the sneaker place has crayons," Melissa said. "And Scootaloo, didn't you want to try Radio Shack for a better selection of those fancy headphones?"

"I was thinking a pair of them, or maybe a tablet."

"A tablet is really different from a pair of headphones," Josie looked contemplative. "Weird how they cost about the same…well, not all headphones, just the fancy kind."

"Do you suppose the fancy ones really are better?" Scootaloo asked.

"I got mine for Christmas and they're nice, but I wouldn't say they're any better than my old pair except for the not-being-broken part," Christina explained.

"Well, they fit me. Not every pair will, you know."

"That's true. But I thought you don't like the in-your-ear kind."

"Not really, no. I had wanted some like Josie's."

"Mine are awesome, but…it's not the actual headphoney-ness of them that makes them awesome. They are awesome because Demi got them for me and they have the soft n' padded kind of ear-cups. But they do make cheaper ones with padded ear-cups that are just as nice, plus the hobby store has fancy spray-paint that works really well on plastic, and then you could have any color you wanted."

"Wow, Josie. Normally I'm the royal princess of being a cheapskate," Melissa smiled.

"Well, after Demi bought the headphones, Laurie wanted to get me something that matched, so he got me this wicked-sweet gaming mouse, disassembled it, and spray-painted the shell and buttons separately before he put it back together and wrapped it. It matched the headphones, so you probably could do the same thing with a less-expensive pair and get much the same effect."

"You'll be the belle of the LAN party!"

"Pretty much," Josie smiled. "They're good brothers. Weird as a marmoset in math class, but good brothers."

"If I got some of these headphones," Scootaloo pointed to a pair marked $24.99, "do you think you could help me take them apart to paint them?" Josie and Melissa both looked critically at the style.

"I don't think these come apart."

"This pair, though, these have visible tri-wing screws," Josie pointed. They were $34.99. "And Laurie will lend me his tri-wing screwdriver and Ex-Acto knives if we bring him tribute."

"Tribute?" Melissa asked.

"Mountain Dew. Or energy drinks."

"Will homemade brownies do?"

"Scoot, he's a guy. If we bring him brownies, he'll probably do the teardown, paint job and rebuild for you, then offer to upgrade your RAM if you so much as hint that you might make more."

"Why are brownies more valuable than Mountain Dew? They cost less to make," Melissa looked puzzled.

"But Laurie is a guy. Guys do not know that a box of mix, some eggs, oil n' water are as easy to put together as Shrinky Dinks and about as expensive."

"The world of baking is as a walled city to them, where only the pure of heart and chic of shoes may enter and return with riches," Christina added.

"Verily, no man may slay the wild and fierce Brownie Mix Package upon the earth," Scootaloo chimed in. "Seriously, they can't. Even Papa makes his from scratch."

"Really?" Melissa asked, with a momentary faraway look in her eyes. "And how much is the special plastic paint?"

"From the hobby store, if you get the kind for models? Six to eight bucks a can. From the hardware store if you just get the kind marked 'For Plastic'? About three bucks, but there aren't as many metallic and sparkly options. They make a nice iridescent paint, too, but that's like twenty-five bucks a can and you can only put it on over black." Scootaloo tried on the demo pair of the $34.99 headphones and found that they fit her, and very comfortably.

"So I could afford these and a little netbook for taking notes."

"Yeah, but only the cool teachers let anybody use them."

"For high-school classes, yeah. Daddy says that in college, laptops and netbooks are A-okay."

"And you do have that college Bio class coming up."

"If the essay I wrote was good enough to get into it."

"Oh, the why-do-we-get-old one? Lobbying on the part of the buffet restaurant industry," Melissa chirped.

"And old people only die to keep movie theaters from going bankrupt with senior discounts and politics from staying really ancient and racist way longer than the public wants," Josie giggled. "Unless it's, like, for evolution or because the souls need to be recharged by communion with the deity every hundred-some years or after serious trauma, that's what I'd guess."

"Wait, wait wait," Melissa interrupted. "Recharging the souls?"

"Why not? If the flashlight gets broken, you take the batteries out and recharge them, then put them into another one. Same thing if it wears out. If human souls are like batteries, why wouldn't we need to die, spend time with God until we were ready to go again, and then get put into a new flashlight? The Hindus believe in reincarnation, and church always seems to make my folks feel like they've been on the cell-phone charger overnight, ready for another week of calls, texts and cat pictures. So it's as credible a theory as anything else, really."

During this conversation, Scootaloo purchased the pair of headphones. A nice netbook for class notes could be ordered from online later.

"This is why church with you is going to be worth the price of admission," Melissa sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as if Josie-logic was making her head hurt.

"Churches charge?" Scoot asked.

"They kinda pass the hat during communion, s'called 'offering,' but you don't have to chip in unless you want to. And even then, it doesn't have to be a lot. Like the Gatorade-pool at practice, that's way more than you'd need for church."

"I'm pretty sure you can't just pick and choose religious ideas from wherever you like and bolt them on, like…like a bad Honda kit."

"Why not? If a Hindu person follows the path of the Bodhisattva Yeshua bar Joseph of Nazareth and trusts that his Way will lead them to inner peace, that makes them just as Christian as I am, just in a different way. And who am I to say my Bodhisattva is best pony? The Muslims and Jews believe in a lot of the same morals and values, and even atheists just have one less God than the monotheists."

Scootaloo and Christina were trying very hard not to giggle, but Melissa just rolled her eyes.

"When Pastor Josh decided to trust you with Sunday School, were there…problematic children in the age group he chose? Maybe some complete write-offs in there that the faith could afford to lose?"

"I said I'm a Christian. I didn't say I wasn't also a complete bloody heretic."

"It's like you read some Spinoza and decided 'yay! Faith is like Legos!'" Melissa finished with a jazz-hands gesture and an imitation of Josie's mildly-manic tone.

"…Yes," Josie agreed sincerely.

"…I can't even deal with you. This is hilarious and I can't even laugh because it's your religion."

"Well, who the fuck said you can't?" Josie slurped her lemonade and smiled. "Religion can be funny."

"I've been trying not to pee myself since 'Bodhisattva is best pony,'" Christina admitted.

"I don't even know what a Bodhisattva is and I think it's hilarious," Scootaloo agreed.

"A Bodhisattva is a being which, having attained enlightenment, returns to help others," Christina explained.

"And also, incidentally, a Steely Dan song," Josie added.

"Was that the band who did that freaky song you like?" Melissa asked.

"Which one of several freaky songs Josie likes?" Scootaloo added with just a touch of snark.

"The one about the drug addict pawning a gold ring and dying of an overdose with freakin' Christmas bells in the background."

"Yeah, that's Steely Dan. 'Charlie Freak,' it's on their 'Pretzel Logic' album. Why, what made you think of that?"

"That is a fucked-up song, Josie, and convincing that stupid policeman from the middle-school that it was appropriate for your sixth-grade D.A.R.E. graduation skit was also fucked up."

"…It's caught in your head again, isn't it?"

"…Yes." she replied irritably.

That was one of the irritating things about Josie's taste in music. It was at once deeply weird, completely unpopular to anyone else their age and freakishly catchy. Melissa suffered from Josie-songs caught in her head constantly, especially as some of her whimsical friend's favorites featured heavily on the in-store music playlists where she worked. Of course, she also tended to collect Josie-songs herself and even had entire mix CDs from her friend in her car, but complaining hilariously about Josie to her face was just a thing more or less everybody did. It was never mean-spirited, just the kind of 'what're we going to do with you?' that every token eccentric in a group of friends would get.

(And, for her part, Josie always seemed to bask in the attention like a kitten in the sun. Attention is not a thing teenage girls with two special-needs older brothers tend to get a lot of.)

"I can play you another one of theirs. It's about telling members of a cult to STFU and DIAF, but in a really polite way and with a tambourine in the background. Would that help?"

"Why would you think that would help?"

"I want to hear the song about telling a cult to fuck off!" Scootaloo announced.

"Me, too!" Christina piped up.

So they found a bench, Josie's beat-up old mp3 player was fished out from her jacket pocket, the headphone-splitter she somehow always had was produced (but no headphones, their backpacks being sensibly locked in the trunk of Melissa's car,) and Scootaloo tried her new headphones as she and Christina listened to the song in question. (You could rotate the ear-cups to face outward and just put your left and your friend's right ear into a cup each if you were sitting down. Nice headphones.) It really was quite catchy and cheerful, and Josie beamed even as Melissa shook her head and playfully feigned complete exasperation.

"Where do you even find these songs, Josie? Do you have Pandora set to the depraved people's mid-life-crisis channel or something?"

"Actually, I've mostly been ripping CDs from the library. Every time some grownup gets an iPod and donates their stash, I can help myself to all manner of delights."

"That's…actually a really good idea," Scoot agreed. "Doesn't cost anything, and if it's crummy, just don't rip it or delete the mp3s."

"Yep."

"I'm going to have to do that now, and feel really silly for making fun of your favorite band, aren't I?" Melissa sighed.

"Pretty much. You can't always be the alicorn princess of being a cheapskate, Mel."

"I'm an awesome cheapskate."

"Twenty percent cooler," Christina agreed, and the four girls shared a group hug.

"Freaks! Filthy genetic abomination and teenage slut!"

"Fuck you, buddy!" Melissa retorted, glaring daggers at the scruffy, flannel-shirt-covered man who had yelled at them. She and Josie were already on their feet and spun to a fight-or-flight position.

"Like you don't have porn of cheerleaders doing loads worse at home!" Josie added. The other girls gave her a shocked look and she shrugged. "Bet you ten bucks he does."

Scootaloo stood up from the bench where she and Christina had been listening with one ear each to the new headphones.

"If you have a problem with me, sir, I suggest you leave my friends out of it."

"We've got your back, Scoot," Melissa confirmed, stepping to her friend's side like there was no question.

"Don't let's all curse him out at once," Josie added. "He'd enjoy it too much."

"I've got something you'll enjoy, bitch!" the man said, ripping his shirt open. Christina squealed and covered her eyes, Melissa rolled hers and Josie actually cracked up into pre-emptive laughter and pointed, the technique her brothers had taught her for flashers on the bus. Scootaloo just stared in horror even as Josie's giggling went higher, faster and vaguely hysterical, seeing what the man actually had revealed.

Under the shirt wasn't…well…rednecky-looking pervert bits, but a vest packed with what looked like plastic explosives, wires and some ominous blinky lights…a suicide bomb.

"…Shit."

And then he started to yell horrific abuse at them all, incoherent spitting raged words of pure hatred. Scootaloo recognized the deadman switch in his hand as just like the ones in movies, just as Josie's giggling died down to a dull mumble of what could be prayers and Melissa went absolutely white. Christina was crying, the bewildered mall patrons were running away and shrieking…it was pandemonium around the frozen bubble of Them and The Crazy Guy.

She could kick him. She could kill him. Break his neck with one hoof and stop his heart through chest-impact shock with the other. If she did it quickly, she could still stand a chance of getting the switch with her prosthetic before he let go. She tensed her muscles, original and robotic, and took a breath to do what she had to do to protect her friends.

…Which was when that red dot appeared.

The Crazy Guy stared at his hand as the dot scurried up his arm and onto his face, then back down to his heart. He panicked, first batting at the dot like a crazed kitty-cat (which wrenched a hysterical squeak from Josie,) and then whipping his head around wildly to the upper story, looking for whomever was aiming a gun at him.

There was nobody there.

But there was, however, one of those obvious old 1980s-style round mirrors, of the sort cashiers used to spot shoplifters in corners. It was high up in a corner formed by a column and the wall, overlooked the little alcove with water fountains just a few yards from their bench and Scootaloo realized the laser wasn't coming from the second floor at all, but from-

BANG!

The gunshot made all of the girls and The Crazy Guy scream and cower, but the Crazy Guy, weirdly enough, kept screaming. He writhed on the floor for a second or two more, then collapsed, limp, the switch still in his hand and two long, curly wires protruding from two Taser barbs in his back.

They connected to a device in the left hand of a very serious-looking woman with dark sunglasses, a dark suit so plain it could have come from a box marked 'Suit, Black,' and a tiny but visible transceiver in her ear. In her right hand was a black automatic handgun with a laser sight, which she had clearly used from behind the Crazy Guy purely to freak him out before firing the warning shot and her Taser, one in each hand.

"We're clear. Alpha team, move in," the woman in the dark suit and glasses spoke into her transceiver.

If she had been one-sixth scale, she could have been either FBI Agent or CIA Spook Barbie, the dark-haired kind that Josie had because it was Important To Have Dolls That Looked Like You.

She holstered the gun and detached the Taser leads before pulling out a pair of handcuffs and very efficiently cuffing the unconscious Crazy Guy. As she did this, the deadman switch fell from his hand and the girls collectively gasped again.

"Oh. That. No need to panic, there," FBI Barbie announced, picking it up and flicking open a battery door on the tiny device with her thumbnail before knocking two 9-volts out onto the floor. "We've been watching this one. His vest was bought from an undercover agent and contains less explosive or flammable chemicals than your common bottle of nail polish."

She had a steady, calm, and, under the circumstances, completely un-reassuring smile. "That, and those batteries were wired wrong."

The girls stared.

The agent –for she could really be nothing else, lowered her sunglasses just enough to look over them at Scootaloo and her friends. "Josephine Findlay, Christina Harcourt and Melissa Adams, I presume. Miss Scootaloo Scott and I have already met." She pulled a small ID wallet from her pocket and flashed a photo-ID cardvii with a badge the diameter of a Coke can, not including the eagle on top. "I'm Agent C.A. Tyler," the dark-bespectacled agent introduced herself to the other girls, putting out a hand. Scootaloo hesitated, realized the other girls weren't going to move, then extended her prosthetic. The sensors reported a firm handshake that was so evenly applied, it clearly wasn't meant to impress anyone. "Sorry about this little incident. I suggest we get some coffee."

"Little incident?!" Scootaloo squeaked. "He was trying to kill us!"

"…Yes."

"I haven't…that wasn't…"

"Been a while, hasn't it?"

"What are you talking about?" Scootaloo almost shrieked. "He could have blown us up! Murdered us and I don't know how many other people here!"

"No, I don't think so," Agent Tyler replied airily. She had a low, not quite monotone voice, but still deep and vaguely stern enough in pitch to be a little unsettling coming from a woman, especially one who was so average-looking apart from her work attire. "That isn't a functional bomb, nor was the switch capable of anything but some very realistic blinky lights." Contempt for the bomb-maker made the corners of that un-reassuring smile twitch. "Our undercover agent sold him such a good dummy kit, too, but the poor bastard even managed to wire it wrong."

Just as Crazy Guy woke from his Tased slumber and began to wriggle, another few agents in dark suits and several uniformed officers appeared. He was bundled off as unceremoniously as a dirty catbox and the other mall patrons who had fled were gathered up and checked on. Scootaloo could even see paramedics, though not from her EMT squad, coming.

"How do you know Scootaloo?" Melissa asked, suddenly, moving and speaking for the first time.

"Protection detail when she was a little filly," Agent Tyler explained. "I don't suppose you remember some Cowardly Lion dolls, or a ride in a private jet?"

"…The Cessna Citation," Scootaloo remembered. "After that crazy man…"

"Yes. I've just been reassigned to your case. About time, too, from the look of things," the agent remarked, perhaps a little smugly, even as she shook hands with the other girls and helped still-shaking Christina up off the bench. "Let's get that coffee, then."

"Does…does that mean your job is to protect Scootaloo?" Christina asked.

"For the moment, yes."

"Where have you been all these years?" Scootaloo asked.

"I had another assignment."

"Protecting people?" Josie asked hopefully.

"Yes." They were nearly to an exit door of the mall.

"Really important people?"

"Quite."

"…Is that where you learned to fire a warning shot indoors?" Scootaloo asked.

"No. I learned to fire a simultaneous distraction shot while incapacitating the threat when I was assigned to the Senator." The agent opened the door and ushered the girls, who did not complain, into a waiting black livery minivan, done up inside like a kind of tall limousine. "Keeping a blank cartridge at the top of my magazine, now, that I learned from my last assignment." The girls continued to stare and it took the Agent a second to realize that they expected some sort of follow-up. "Oh. The First Lady throws up at the sight of blood, incidentally."

That seemed to pretty well slam a car door on that subject.

"I'm just glad you were here for us," Josie grinned weakly.

"I'd like to know why these crazy people are back," Scootaloo almost whispered.

"Honestly? At the moment you only have the four serious threats. This was actually one of the minor ones. And considering the primary threats are either under surveillance, in other countries or both, I don't expect we'll be dealing with this sort of thing that often," Agent Tyler knocked on the privacy glass and another agent passed warm, lidded paper cups through to them. They had the girls' names on them in Sharpie and even little thermal sleeves. "So I wouldn't say so much that threats to your life, independence, liberty or well-being are back so much as that the situation so happened that you had cause to become aware of one for the first time in several years."

"I thought you'd always had people who didn't like you or your dads for dumb reasons, Scoot."

"I had…but…they never went after my friends before."

Agent Tyler did a different knock on the privacy glass and a soft cloth handkerchief was passed through for Scootaloo.

"Did your …coworkers make us a Starbucks run?" Melissa asked, looking at the un-branded cup.

"No. But this is one of the better-equipped vehicles in the fleet. How's your coffee?"

"…Good. Really good, actually."

"Mine is cocoa!" Josie chirped happily.

The other girls looked at her for a second, a little shocked that she could rebound so quickly.

"As you can see, you've been under the Department's protection and surveillance long enough to find out how you take your coffee…or not, as the case may be." As blank as the dark glasses left Agent Tyler's expression, Scootaloo had the feeling they'd just experienced her first Josie-snark. "Incidentally, what is the attraction of lemonade?"

"We only get it at the mall, and it's the really good made-from-real-lemons kind," Josie explained. Her slight case of what might be ADD seemed to be helping her recover unnaturally well, and Scootaloo thought of Pinkie Pie.

"Also, Miss Adams, I've taken the liberty of having your car delivered to your home. It should arrive there approximately when you do, and I've also had your schoolbags removed from the trunk just in case there is some delay. Under the seats is where Agent Stevens usually puts them, though you may need to swap."

Sure enough, their backpacks were under their seats, though, as predicted, Josie and Christina had theirs under each other's.

"How much warning did you have about that guy?" Melissa asked suspiciously.

"Honestly? This is classified, of course, but the agents following him gave us notice as of one Interstate highway exit from the mall. We had about eight minutes. Luckily, just before he made it inside the mall, I was able to send Delta team to handle your possessions, arrange for the tow and, of course, make the coffee. There is a protocol in place for this kind of event, after all."

"See if I ever bitch about where our taxes go again," Christina, still a little shaky, remarked. Melissa thought of something and frowned.

"Did you pick the lock on my trunk?"

"No, we copied the keys when you bought it, though we also watched you when you added an emergency key you didn't think anybody else knew about." Agent Tyler sipped her coffee. She wasn't smug. It would have been easier if she was smug, but she was actually just…so, well, matter-of-fact.
"Good move, incidentally, putting it where you did. We wound up using our backup so as not to waste time getting yours out from there…and yes, we did have a standing warrant. I thought you'd ask."

The agent pulled a blue-backed legal paper from her jacket, but Melissa was too startled to read it. "I'll send a copy to your email if you promise not to write a paper about it for Mrs. Ellsworth's class...or any of them, really. I trust that the need for the majority of Miss Scott's protective detail's activities to remain highly confidential does not, after today's events, need to be explained?"

There was an uncomfortable, ominous silence.

"Can I tell just my brothers?" Josie asked. "Please?"

"No, Miss Findlay. I will, in the next few forty-eight hours, arrange for some sort of suitably impressive de-briefing with each of your families, in which they are reassured of your safety, reminded of how very valuable classmate connections with someone like Miss Scott can be to various later career paths and if necessary, I will imply that scholarships and other advantages may be yours if they manage not to be complete twits about the whole inconvenient affair. And, since you asked so nicely, Miss Findlay, I shall allow your older brothers to notice my sidearm and, if you like, inform them that up until the fake bomb appeared you were…what is the word? Badass? Would that be good enough?"

"That would be nice, thank you." That was it. Josie was Agent Tyler's ardent admirer now.

"At any rate, we should be arriving at Ms. Adams' residence shortly, and," She pulled out her phone and seemed to be checking something "Your vehicle is already on-site and waiting. Incidentally, Agent Stevens advises that you need to have the passengers side drive shaft replaced as the CV joint is worn out and has begun clicking."

"Thanks..." Melissa answered with a dazed expression.

They felt the van roll to a stop and the agent opened the door for them.

"It has been a pleasure meeting you all face to face, and you should be hearing from me again in the next two days. After that... I sincerely hope we next see each other under happier circumstances."

She shook each of their hands as they got out onto the sidewalk, keeping hold of Scootaloo's a moment longer then the others. "You, Ms. Scott, have an appointment with me next week. There are certain skills a person in your position should have, and once this has blown over we can discuss them in detail."

The van pulled away and the four girls watched it go.

"Well... That was... different." Christina managed.

Scootaloo had begun shaking again as the adrenaline wore off. "I'm... I'm so sorry! I had no idea I was putting you all at risk by-"

"Stop. None of this." Josie cut her off. "Scoot, you are not responsible for what crazy people choose to do. I'll admit, this was not quite the day we were all expecting, but... We're your friends. We're here for you and we're not going anywhere."

All three of them hugged her as she sniffled a little. "Thank you, girls..."

The moment lasted only a short while before Joise's ADD acted up again and she blurted out.; "I can't wait for Agent Tyler to tell my brothers how badass we were!"

They all smiled. "Seriously, Josie?"

i Web address: /forbes-400/list/
Just type the http, slashies and three W's into your browser, then copy-paste any footnoted address, the bit after 'Web address' and the colon, after the dot in triple-W dot. Or just highlight them, right-click, and 'open in new tab' or 'Search Google for' option may work, on some newer browsers. And yes, feel free to steal Melissa's research for your own homework. Never let it be said that fanfiction isn't a perfectly valid use of study-hall time.

ii Web address: /Hourly-Pay/Walmart-Stores-Wal-Mart-Cashier-Hourly -Pay-E715_D_KO15,

iii Web address: /papers/just_how_progressive_is_the_u.s._tax_code/

iv Being not only Scootaloo's friends but teenage girls, they were all very well aware of 'My Little Pony' and its' related tropes. Speculation on what their cutie marks would be, were they also equine, was a standard topic of discussion even for girls their age who did not have the privilege of an actual cartoon pony on their cheerleading squad. Scootaloo found it highly amusing and occasionally offered extremely witty suggestions as to what various teachers and public figures would have on their proverbial flank, which generally cracked everyone up laughing.

v Plus, if you used a dollar bill to get each refill, you could use the quarter you got back for some fruit candies from the big Gumball Machine Mountain near the toy and weird-gadget stores. This mall had the unspeakable elegance to offer Runts, Red Hots and other choice little-kid delicacies sorted separately by flavor in the machines, and dropping a handful into one's lemonade had the lovely effect of turning it into a strawberry, a banana or even a sour-apple lemonade just as one was getting bored of plain lemon taste.

Scootaloo, of course, had been going halvsies on a handful of strawberry and banana Runts with Christina since seventh grade, because Strawberry Banana Lemonade, especially done with Runts, was to them an improbably splendid beverage and one of the great Epicurean pleasures of mall-going. Scoot's Daddy had seen them do it once and thought it was the most horrible diabetes-inducing thing he had ever seen since That Time With the Giant Pixy Stix At the Fair, but Papa actually took watermelon Runts in his lemonade and gave his husband a cheeky smile every time he did it. So at least atavism could then be blamed by the Philistines, like Daddy and Christina's Mom, who did not appreciate Runts at all.

Melissa did not approve of such indecorous behavior as dissolving Wonka products in a citrus solution and always ate her Runts separately, savoring first the candy itself and then sipping the lemonade to enjoy the subtleties of their contrast; exactly how her much-admired and wonderful grandmamma enjoyed peanuts with her Saturday evening Scotch, the one indulgence of a lady who had worked hard for fifty years and didn't intend to let a thing like being sixty-three stop her. It was not uncommon for Melissa to make up a pitcher of lemonade at home and open a box of Runts, then watch murder mysteries with Grandmamma until it was time for bed, and on weekdays they would share the pitcher and the box. After Melissa broke up with her first boyfriend and been brave and nonchalant about it all week (despite actually really feeling horrible and needing to cry several times in her room,) Grandmamma had said nothing, but quietly poured a half-size portion of Scotch into a second glass and placed the peanuts between them, tacitly acknowledging that Melissa had handled the matter like a grownup and a lady. Grandmamma understood everything.

Josie, however, liked to spend a second quarter at the candy store across from the cell-phone-case kiosk on a packet of red Pop Rocks to put in hers, which made it luxuriously fizzy and gave off a lovely strawberry-smelling cloudlet of CO2, which she always inhaled with the air of a gourmet and a contented smile. The first time she had performed this unnecessarily decadent ritual, the girls had given her deeply puzzled looks, to which Josie indignantly and haughtily replied that "my big brothers put Pop Rocks in drinks all the time," and that was the end of that. Josie's big brothers might be a little odd, with Demijohn the kind of brother who wasn't really a social asset in school despite being a senior, and it was kind of unusual that Lawrence still lived at home despite being twenty, but big brothers were big brothers and Josie was the only person on Earth allowed to say a word against them. It would be safer to visit Thailand and insult the King than to even imply that Laurie and Demi weren't the heroes Josie considered them, and of course the punishment for anyone who did anything to Josie that Laurie and Demi ever found out about was rumored to be something so awful that barbaric third-world despots from the Amnesty International shit list would need their blankies and night-lights just to hear described. Chrissie and Scoots were pretty sure Josie was only such a ninja at their ninth-grade Model UN because she'd grown up with big brothers and therefore was already used to realpolitik.

And yes, there are social mores and cultural implications in how one takes one's candy-and-lemonade. Examined closely enough, American high schools actually make the Court of Versailles under Louis XIV look like a damn fraternity house.

vi It took a 'tardy' slip at school to persuade Melissa that collecting random strangers from a bus stop and dropping them at their places of employment on her way to her destination so they could get there faster and skip a fare, while awesome and very kind, was not always the best idea. Still, the fellow whose Jaguar was in the shop had given her a fifty for gas money and several stock tips that turned out to be really good, and more importantly, the waitress on her way to a job interview at a better restaurant always comped Mel a Cherry Coke after she got the job.

vii In time, Scootaloo would begin to remember small details about that day, such as the fact that Agent Tyler's rank at the time was Lt. Cmdr, the organization for which she worked was not nearly so legible, and that, incredibly, she had dark glasses on in her ID picture as well. It was the sort of badge that could have seemed fake if anyone else had been carrying it, and some years later, Scootaloo was to find out why.


> Ch 12: Meet the Parents
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release



Chapter Twelve: Meet the parents

The summer had been a largely enjoyable one but for the incident at the mall. Scootaloo's implanted pickup had taken beautifully, and she no longer needed the side panels on her prosthetic which she very much enjoyed in the heat of summer. What she hadn't expected was that her body also was able to use the output side of the chip to send signals to her arms, finally ridding her of the control hat she had always needed before.

She and Conner had continued dating, and Jayne and Kevin had talked it over and decided it was best not to object. Over dinner a few weeks after prom Kevin had broached the subject.

"Scootaloo, I think I owe you an apology. You were right when you said Conner was a good guy, and it's not my place to judge him."

Scootaloo looked surprised. "You mean it?"

Jayne spoke up. "We talked it over, and decided you're right. Conner isn't going to hurt you or get you into drugs or such. We wanted to apologize for judging, and remind both of you that you are always welcome in our home."

Scootaloo raised an eyebrow. "You mean you don't mind if we...?"

Kevin managed a laugh. "Yes, we don't mind; in fact we would prefer you bring him home when you want to have your way with him."

Scootaloo blushed fiercely, and he continued. "We brought you up telling you we wanted what was best for you, and yet we saw your boyfriend we made you feel unwelcome. That was wrong of us. We don't want you shacking up in the back of a car, or God knows where else. Our home is a safe place, and you should always feel welcome here."

Scootaloo smiled warmly. "Thanks Papa."

"Besides," Jayne added mischievously "it's no accident your bed is built to support a compact car without creaking."

"Daaad!"

Scootaloo had been spending more time with her new skater friends in the park downtown and she was slowly getting better on scooter and skateboard. Her habit of hovering when a trick went bad instead of falling like everyone else had earned her the nickname 'Glinda" among the group, though they only teased her in good fun.

As she picked up the basics she was soon the envy of everyone in the group because, as Curt put it; "You can choose which direction is down!" This resulted in some surreal tricks, even if they were obviously the work of a dedicated amateur.

It was also deeply confusing to the park maintenance staff who never did figure out how somebody ground black skateboard grease into the underside of the gutters on the second floor.

It was on a hot weekday afternoon that Betty and George, the Doctors Gregerson, were walking through the city park when they caught sight of Scootaloo. She drew their attention not so much for being a bright orange pony on a skateboard, but because she was planing her board across the pond like a jet-ski to the cheers of her friends on shore. As they stopped to watch, Scootaloo saw them, waved and lost her concentration on the board which slipped from her hooves and disappeared beneath the water.

"Crap!" In a flash she flipped forward and plunged her right hand into the water up to the shoulder grasping for the board while keeping the rest of her body clear of the water like a person reaching into a well. In a moment she smiled and pulled her board from the water.

One member of the crowd to Betty's left, a girl in leather and green hair with a lot of piercings was laughing as she called out: "Not bad, Glinda! Come on, we're going to get some lunch."

Scootaloo, board still dripping, landed on the edge of the lake. "Hey, wait up Gina! I'd like you to meet some friends of mine: this is Betty Gregerson and George Gregerson.

The older couple smiled warmly as they shook hands and introduced themselves to the somewhat confused teens with dyed hair. After introductions were made, Curt stepped in with the obvious question. "It's nice to meet you both, Scootaloo has told us so much about you." He intoned as he looked significantly at her.

"Oh! Sorry guys. Betty and George are the doctors who have been working with me to develop medical treatments from my biology. Doctors, these are the friends I've told you about who've been teaching me how to skate."

"Oh! It's nice to meet you all at last." Betty said as she leaned in conspiratorially. "We were wondering who talked her into getting her ears pierced. The way her father went on you would have thought she had gone full 'National Geographic' instead of those simple little diamonds. I have more elaborate earrings myself for cocktail parties."

Most of the skaters gave them confused smiles but Gina seemed unfazed. "Yeah, she was crazy cool with it, she just pierced them herself like it was no big deal. You should have seen the needle she used!"

George grinned at Scootaloo. "twenty four gauge?"

Scootaloo shook her head. "twenty."

Betty whistled appreciatively. "Yes, I could see how that would look impressive. Goodness knows she's taken larger then that over the years."

George was grinning at the group now as well. "And come to think of it, I have a grad student who owes you a thank you as well. Your experimentations were the inspiration for his paper; The Comparative Effects of Cannabis on Equines."

"Ugg, don't remind me." Scootaloo replied. "I got so hungry I cleaned out the fridge and most of the pantry. Have you ever eaten an entire bag of raw onions? Because you really shouldn't."

"Wait, you found out about that?" One of the younger, slower, kids said in concerned tones.

"With all the medical testing Scootaloo puts up with we could hardly fail to. Don't worry about it; it's been how many years since Colorado legalized pot?" He asked his wife.

"About a decade now I think" Betty answered. "And besides, who do you think taught Scoot where to get the best breeds? I'm told you rather enjoyed the hybrid we recommended."

Up till this point the group had been unsure how to deal with these two old people who inexplicably knew Scootaloo, wondering when they would start acting normally and yelling at them to get off the lawn. The realization that some of the best pot they ever had was a recommendation from these same two was a bit hard to process, and most of them were gawking openly.

Both Betty and George were grinning now and obviously enjoying this. "Oh dear, I think we scandalized them." Betty grinned as she took George in her arms.

"You naughty thing you. Corrupting the youth with no regard for their delicate sensitivities. Shame on you." George said as he pulled her in and kissed her long and passionately.

After several very awkward moments watching the wrinkly old couple snogging like teenagers, Curt was the first to recover.

"Okay, that was pretty cool. I got to admit I misjudged you guys."

"Well darling, we were teenagers during the 1960s. What did you expect?"

"Indeed. We've seen and done plenty things you never have and a few we hope you never will." George added.

Seeing some eye rolling he decided to make a point. "I got my medical degree under the GI bill. Served in 'Nam just towards the end. Nasty business. But I still have a few funny memories from those years. You kids ever seen a monkey fight?"

Gina gave him an incredulous look. "A what?"

"It happened one week when a guy came through town with a chimp and set up shop in a local bar. The deal worked like this: He and the bar owner would wait until things got rowdy, and once a bunch of guys were good and drunk he would ask who thought they could take a monkey in a fight. Now these were beefy GIs. They'd say they could take any stinking monkey and so on, especially after they saw the chimp in the cage was maybe a hundred fifty pounds soaking wet. So the owner and the handler would start taking bets, and somebody, usually somebody big and very drunk would walk into the cage and start swinging."

Reactions among the teen skaters ranged from awe to disgust. "The poor monkey!" Gina said with obvious concern.

George chuckled. "There's a reason they don't do this anymore, but it has little to do with the welfare of the chimp. The result was always the same. They guy would get in one punch and then the chimp would beat the everloving shit out of him. It's a miracle he never killed anyone. Most mornings we would all line up for inspection, and there would be this one guy who looked like he picked a fight with a cement truck."

"That's wicked! But didn't anyone ever complain?"

George gave the kid a look. "Let's say you were an officer in a war zone. Guys under your command are coming back in body bags on a weekly basis. Are you going to worry about some dumbass and his buddies who lost their money and got the crap beaten out of them by a monkey?"

There was a contemplative silence before he continued. "Anyway, I'm just glad you kids have it better than I did. The war paid for school, but I wouldn't wish that on anyone. About the only good thing to come out of all that was the music." He turned to Betty. "Remember what Woodsock was like, right after we got out together?"

Betty grinned and wrapped her arms around him. "I remember making love while _ played 'I get by with a little help from my friends." She smiled mischievously. "I didn't sit down much during Woodstock."

The sound of grinding mental gears was clearly audible from the group of teenagers, and Betty could almost smell the smoke coming out of their ears.

George sighed. "I always liked that song. After the long months of military discipline and no time for each other, to suddenly be free from it all... I'll probably remember that song for the rest of my life. He sighed and after a pause, changed the subject. "Now, how did you meet Scootaloo?"

Curt was the first to pick his jaw up off the floor, and he related the story of the night at the prom. When he was done Betty smiling at Scootaloo.

"That was very well done; I didn't know you had it in you. Any word on what happened to Larry, Moe and Curly?"

"I think two of those jocks were expelled. I don't know about the other guy." Scootaloo added.

"No loss there." Gina amended as the rest of the group agreed.

"Hey, you kids said you were going to eat: how about we get some hotdogs from the corner stand. My treat." Betty said.

"Do they have a veggie option?"

Everyone, Scootaloo included, looked at George.

"What? I've had heart problems for years and when the chance to fix it came around I jumped on it."

Scootaloo's eyes widened. "You mean you've got some of my synthetic cells too?"

The smell of hotdogs roasting on the grill was carried by on the wind, and while the rest of the group felt their stomachs growl, George grimaced at the smell which thanks to the treatment, now smelled like burning garbage to him. "Yup, I haven't felt this healthy in years."

"Oh come now. You haven't been this frisky in years either." Betty consoled him as she groped his butt openly. "Come on, this vendor has tofu dogs as well."

After ordering lunch and finding some park benches to eat on, the topic came around to skating, tricks and skills of skating, then sports in general and the prospects of various local sports teams for the season. It was in the middle of this the topic came around to the Tour De France and the bizarre events of the year's race.

The race was normally dominated by young career athletes, but this year the race had been won by an amateur in his 50's and several other people of similar age had overshadowed everyone else. They had tested clean for all known drugs and the only thing linking them all was that everyone of these older athletes had received treatment for a heart or weight condition. A very specific treatment.

"You're kidding me! They got my synthetic cell transfers and were able to outrun world class athletes?!"

George nodded. "It seems that some other doctors have figured out how to do rudimentary programming of your biology for physical fitness. Left to its own, your biology seems to make people as healthy and happy as possible, but it's becoming obvious now that it can be programmed to deliver an impressive boost to physical ability."

"Hey, I heard about this." Gina volunteered. "Did the race organizers disqualify those guys?"

"Yes, they did." Betty responded. "But that's where this gets interesting. The genetic alterations they got were a legitimate medical treatment, yet it made them so good they were able to leave everyone else in their dust. It's happening in other sports too; they just kicked out a basketball player who was reliably sinking baskets from the half court mark, and a baseball player who had played five consecutive games without a missed ball – every single one was a home run."

"Wait, but if this was a medical treatment how are they kicking these guys out?"

"Don't you get it?" Gina answered. "They didn't have a choice. If genetic modification can make somebody that much better then no one can hope to compete without the same treatment."

"You got it." Betty answered. "Now kids in high school are having to make a hard choice: Do they want to be a great athlete in perfect health and break world records in their sport, or do they want to be mediocre and compete with everyone else? The only way into the top ranks now involves choosing to suck at the game."

Curt, who had been thoughtfully quiet thought the discussion at last spoke up. "You realize what this means don't you Scoot?"

"What?"

"You broke sports."

"Wait, what now?!"

Curt was grinning from ear to ear now. "You broke all the sports. The mantra has always been 'be the best but stay healthy and natural'. Well thanks to you, 'natural' now means giving up any hope of being even mediocre, let alone the best, and it sounds like it translates into poorer health too."

George agreed. "That's a fair assessment. I've been involved in the clinical trials, and while the treatment doesn't mitigate the effects of aging, it seems to make the body function as well as it could possibly hope to at the given age. The old guard doesn't seem to realize this is a game changer. Forcing people to forgo life-saving medical treatment to be allowed to compete isn't going to work out long term."

Scootaloo face palmed, then looked at Curt with a bemused expression. "Seriously? I broke all the sports?"

The dreaded day had arrived at last.

Conner volunteered with the fire department, and more than once he had run into a burning building. Scootaloo had been facing down medical exams, needles, and procedures for years, and in the last few months she had begun learning the job of an EMT, training to save lives under conditions where a mistake could kill.

They were both scared, but it had to be done sooner or later.

They had parked the car across the street, and she held his hand as they stood before the door. He gently squeezed her hand and with a deep breath she reached up, put a happy smile on her face, and rang the doorbell.

The door opened revealing a middle aged couple in their mid forties.

"Mom, Dad, I'd like you to meet Scootaloo."

"Hello, it's good to finally meet you. I'm Michael and this is my wife Nancy."

"It's nice to meet you. Please, come in."

No sooner then they all made their way into the living room then Nancy reluctantly made her apologies and returned to the kitchen to put the final touches on dinner. While they waited, Michael brought the conversation around to the events of the last few months.

"We both heard about what happened with you and your friends at the mall. Terrible, just terrible."

"It's kind of you to say so, sir, but it turned out Agent Tyler had things pretty well in hand, though it still gives me the creeps that he came after me."

"No doubt. That's why I never leave home without my 45." He said as he produced the handgun from its holster. "If I had been there, it would have ended differently."

Scootaloo felt distinctly uncomfortable and didn't want to talk about this, but these were her boyfriend's parents, so she tried to forget her unease and continue.

She deliberately avoided the question of what happens when you shoot a person carrying a dead-man switch.

"That's an old 1911 isn't it? May I?" She asked as she held out a hand.

He put the gun in her hand and she released the magazine, then pulled back the slide to eject the round from the chamber.

"I've learned a lot about these in the last few months. After the incident at the mall, Agent Tyler took me to the range and showed me the ins and outs of more guns than I can count."

"I'm glad to hear it! So what do you carry?"

Reluctantly, Scootaloo reached into a concealed pocket of her prosthetic and produced a plastic device with a pistol grip and rectangular end. "I have a special dispensation to carry, so I chose this one. It's more than enough to keep me safe from anyone who would want to hurt me."

Michael wore a confused look. "Isn't that a police Taser? What good is that?"

"It has a long range, three shots, and the biggest advantage is that it's not normally fatal. It delivers a nasty shock, but if something goes wrong, no one dies."

"You mean you don't have a gun of your own? Even after what happened?" He asked in consternation.

"I could have, but…" The memory of her first ride with the EMTs flashed to mind and she tried to think of a tactful way to explain herself. "I've seen firsthand what happens when you make a mistake with one of these." She passed the three parts of his gun back to him. "And I don't feel comfortable carrying something where the cost of my mistake is someone's life." There was an uncomfortable silence as both weapons disappeared back into their holsters, and he seemed to look her up and down as though thinking less of her.

"At least, that is, until I'm a better shot."

That seemed to satisfy him.

"So, you're a cheerleader."

"Yep."

"...That must be fun."

"Oh, yes."

Scootaloo couldn't think of anything to add, and apparently Conner's dad couldn't think of anything else to ask.

Before the silence could stretch too long, Nancy reappeared from the kitchen to let them know dinner was ready and Scootaloo and Conner jumped at the change of subject.

As they all took a seat at the table, Scootaloo took an appreciative sniff of her dish. "Oh, that does smell good! Conner has told me what an excellent cook you are."

"Oh, why, thank you, dear! I don't normally cook vegetarian food, but Conner told me all about your dietary needs, so I made that just for you."

"Thank you, it smells great!"

They all sat down and Scootaloo was just about to dig in when Conner tapped her on the flank below the table and silently nodded at his parents.

"Heavenly Father, we give thanks for all the provisions you have given us,"

Scootaloo bowed her head with everyone else and waited.

"Bless this food, and bless our friends and family who've come to dine with us today. Amen."

This time she waited until everyone else had begun before trying her own food, which turned out to be as good as Conner had predicted.

"It's good to have you here in our home." Nancy said as she passed a bowl to her husband. "We have been waiting so long for Conner to bring home some nice girl from school… Though I'll admit, you weren't exactly what we were expecting." She added with a self-conscious smile.

Scootaloo blushed. "Well, I know how some families feel about cheerleaders, but I have good grades in math and the sciences too. I'm just glad to have found someone as kind as your son. He's helped me get through some tough times recently."

"That's nice of you to say." Michael replied. "And I suppose you can't help what you are." He finished with a glance at Scootaloo's tail.

"Anyway!" Conner interjected, trying to change the subject. "Dad probably mentioned he works as a shift supervisor at the local plant. Mom; has anything interesting been happening with your work lately?"

"Oh, you know I just volunteer at the church. But actually, we did have some good news recently; Pastor Gray has just accepted a position at the local high school. I believe it's the same school you attend, dear."

"Oh that is good news, it's about time we put some morality back into our schools, and he's just the man to do it." Michael added. "Do you realize schools today actually teach our children how to have sex?"

"Yes, actually, I have heard of that." Scootaloo responded in a flat tone.

"Well now, dear, we could have really used-" Nancy was cut off as Michael barreled ahead.

"It's just not right, teaching children it's okay to have sex before marriage. I bet we could lay a lot of abortions at the feet of people like that."

"Yes, I actually do know of a case where that's exactly what happened." Scootaloo responded as she tried not to grit her teeth. "Turns out the girl in question came from a rural school that didn't teach sex-ed and she didn't know how to use birth control. It's almost as though if someone had taught her how, she might not have needed to visit Maggie Sanger's homegirls."

"Hmmf. Well if she couldn't keep her knees together it sounds like she got what she deserved." Michael added matter-of-factly.

The fork in Scootaloo's hand suddenly took on a much more pronounced bend.

"Yes, you know I've often thought that driver's ed should be taught the same way. Ban training of any kind, grant licenses based on marital status, not passing some silly test, and trust that everyone will just figure out the rules of the road and basic safety as they go."

Michael was giving her a hard look, and Nancy was shrinking back in her chair and looking uncomfortable as Scootaloo turned her attention back to her plate.

"Well, fortunately, under Pastor Gray I think we will see a lot less of these problems. That last principle, Ms. Baker I think? She was far too liberal for my liking," Conner's father growled.

"I never got the chance to know her, but I did hear that she had two nice boys from our church expelled at prom the other night. Something about carrying weapons on school grounds? Did you hear anything about that dear?" Nancy asked Conner.

Scootaloo and Conner both looked uneasy as he replied. "Well, I didn't see what they had, but I'm very glad of that."

"Oh, man up, son; those are good kids, active in the FFA and our church group. She had no right to expel them and I won't be sorry to see the back of her."

"I guess we never appreciated what she stood for." Scootaloo added with a worried glance toward Conner.

With some effort Conner managed to change the topic to school, classes, and other things less dangerous to the flatware. The dinner wound down more peaceably, and Nancy offered drinks and served up a delicious chocolate mousse over chocolate cake that was every bit as good as bakery fare.

Trying to stick to safe topics, Scootaloo soon found herself describing the merits and drawbacks to being a private pilot, and the various design attributes of her father's small plane. About the point Michael's eyes were beginning to glaze over, she relented and turned the conversation around to their hosts.

"But you've both been so patient to listen to my life story, what about yours? How did you two meet?"

Nancy seemed to perk up. "Oh, we met in high school. I was going to go to school for an education degree, and Michael was planning to study agriculture. We met in one of the school shop classes and we hit it off."

"Those were good times." Michael reflected. "I used to sleep till four and party till three. Never did get into college though. Life just kind of got in the way." He added with a smile at Conner.

"Lucky for you, your dad had an opening in the local plant. That job kept us going when I got married and pregnant with Conner."

The slight pause in her speech made Scootaloo wonder about the order of those last two events.

"That's sweet." Scootaloo replied pleasantly. "But why haven't you been using your degree? Goodness knows there is demand enough for qualified teachers."

"Oh, I never got to go to college either. After I met Michael, well... God had other plans for me." she finished lamely with an sad and downcast look.

Scootaloo's worked to keep her expression pleasantly neutral. "You mean you gave up your degree to have Conner?"

Michael answered for her. "Well of course she did. A good wife must be submissive to her husband."

Conner blushed red and Scootaloo couldn't help but smile. "Funny, I always thought it was better to take turns."

…

Eventually, even this uncomfortable evening wound to a close and Conner left to give Scootaloo a ride home.

"Arrgg. What a night. I hate it when Randy Milholland is right about something." Scootaloo grumbled.

"I know it was hard, but we made it through, and Dad didn't kick you out of the house. It could have been worse... Wait, right about what?"

"Oh, he did a famous eight page 'something positive' comic and my Dads have it framed on the wall. It's online, started October fifth, 2006. The punchline is 'The only time anyone's admitted they were a Christian before was when they were busy telling me why they're better than me.'"

She sighed. "Most of my friends are Christians, like Josie and Christina, and they don't make a big deal about it, but it never seems to fail that the loudest ones are... yeah."

"It's okay, Dad means well, and they did a good job raising me, didn't they?"

"Hey, your mom was nice, and I'd like to get to know her better. Your dad really seemed to take her for granted though, she barely got a word in edgewise all night." Scootaloo took his hand and gently squeezed it. "I won't promise to like him, but he is your dad." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "So I think I can put up with him if you can put up with all of my weirdness."

"I can live with that."

- Nine years later in Equestria -Dashie's homecoming – picks up where 'My little Dashy' leaves off.-

The huge castle chamber was empty but for two palace guards standing silently by the door and the palace doctor aimlessly trotting about. The Princess and her five companions had departed several hours ago on a dangerous mission, and those who seen them off were in other rooms of the castle, anxiously waiting for word of their return.

A light began to form at the center of the room, growing in intensity as it grew in size until it was a blinding white. One of the guards nodded and ran to carry the news, while the other remained to greet them and the doctor double checked his equipment for the hundredth time.

The light changed from white to orange then pulsed through the other colors of purple, yellow, white again, pink, and finally blue before fading away to reveal Celestia and the group of six.

Quite frankly, they looked like hell.

The doctor began inspecting them in turn, checking that all was well, and to a pony, they just stood there, tears staining their cheeks, still numb from what they had just been though.

Luna was the first to arrive, followed closely by Rainbow's father, Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom, and as they took in the group's drooping features and red eyes a feeling of dread crept over them.

It was Luna who spoke up first. "Sister, what in Equestria happened?!"

Rainbow's father had seen his daughter and ran to hug her, but instead of running to meet him, she backed away in concern. The two crusaders who had missed this, and both grabbed onto her legs, but Rainbow just looked down at them, not sure what to make of this.

As far as Rainbow could tell, this was all some kids' cartoon show, suddenly come to life and thrust upon her as her new life, whether she liked it or not.

"Okay, I've come with you, and I'm sure you're all nice ponies, but what about my dad?"

Her biological father looked hurt and confused, and Fluttershy quietly took him aside to explain.

Celestia wiped the tears from her eyes. "Rainbow, as I said before, your adoptive father cannot join us in Equestria."

Rainbow sniffled. "But why not? You saw him; he took care of me, raised me when no one else would. I owe him everything..." She sniffed, and it looked as though she might break down again at any moment.

Twilight joined in. "After what you told us about the human world I never thought I would say this, but... I agree with Rainbow. We should invite him to come visit our world, even if he doesn't choose to stay."

"Yeah, I could find space for him at the farm. He'd have no trouble earning his keep with a reach like that."

"And making clothes that fit would be an interesting challenge. I'd gladly help."

"Girls, I-" Celestia began.

"Oh! And I could throw him a welcome-to-Ponyville party to celebrate!"

Even Fluttershy looked up from her conversation. "I could always use a helping hoof taking care of all my friends."

"GIRLS!" Celestia shouted. They all looked at her and she hung her head and sighed. "I know you would like to invite Rainbow's adoptive father to visit, but it is simply not possible."

"Sister, I do not understand." Luna objected. "I should be able to bring this human here if you desire it."

A look of frustration crossed Celestia's features as she replied. "No, you don't understand. He must not come to this world."

Rainbow gave her a plaintive look: "But why not?"

"Because he could not survive here!" Celestia shouted in anger. "I wanted to bring him along as well, but I don't dare. Coming to our world would surely be his end."

The group looked shocked, as much by the content of her outburst, as by the fact that this was Princess Celestia talking so bluntly.

"But, how can you know that unless...?"

Celestia sighed. "Yes Twilight. Humans have come to Equestria before."

Twilight looked more startled then the rest of the group. "But I researched this before we left... I never found any record of humans having come to -"

"That's because I suppressed it!"

She sighed again and put a hoof on Twilight's shoulder.

"Humans have only come here twice that I know of. It was a long time ago, a little over eighty five years ago in both our time-lines, but after what happened..." She shuttered visibly.

"What happened to these creatures?" Luna asked.

Celestia looked like she wanted to make an excuse, but she could hardly keep this from her sister.

"They died. They died in the most horrible manner imaginable." Celestia actually tucked her legs under her and curled up on the floor with a shiver as the long dormant memory surfaced after more than eighty years. Twilight and Luna both took her in an awkward hug and she managed to continue. "They came in two groups of five and seven people, about a week apart. I couldn't speak their language, so I still don't know why they came here, but... something about our world destroyed them. They were healthy enough when they arrived, but over the course of a few hours, a day or two at most, they succumbed to a sickness the likes of which I have never seen in all my years." She shuddered again and held on to Luna and Twilight who shared a look of concern.

"It was too horrible to speak of, so I removed the memories of what happened from the few ponies in that distant town who ever saw them. More than once I have wanted to erase them from my mind as well, but however horrible, somepony must remember, to prevent it from happening again."

She looked up at Rainbow, who had fresh tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry Rainbow, but I dare not bring humans to this world. I would not wish that fate on my worst enemy."

"But... I can still go and visit him in his world... Right?" Rainbow asked in a heartbreaking voice.

"Yes... Yes, I will be happy to help you visit him from time to time." Celestia managed as she regained her composure. "He is a good man, and we should see him again, just please understand that it is no small effort to jump between worlds like this. I will need time to recover before we can go again and I believe our next trip must be in search of Scootaloo."

The crusaders looked downcast at this. "You mean you didn't find her?" Apple Bloom asked.

"I'm sorry, it appears she was sent to a slightly different human world." She saw Twilight about to ask and held up a hoof. "It is complicated, but there are many close copies of the world we just visited, just as there are many close copies of our world. Under any normal circumstance it is an academic issue, but I will explain later if you desire."

"Now, Twilight, if you would please use your spell to restore Rainbow Dash's memory? I believe we are all anxious to complete our reunion." She finished with a gesture to Rainbows father who was listening to Fluttershy with an expression of shocked distress.

Twilight nodded, got to her feet and her horn began to glow as she approached Rainbow, but Rainbow took a step back and spread her wings. "Hey, wait a second! What about me?!"

"It's all right Rainbow, this won't erase any of who you are, it will just restore the memories of who you used to be before... the accident."

Rainbow still looked concerned, but she allowed Twilight to approach and use her horn. The magic flowed from her and enveloped Rainbow, lifting her from the ground and cradling her as she squirmed, then gritted her teeth, closed her eyes and held her head in obvious pain. It only took a moment for the spell to work and Twilight lowered her gently to the floor where she collapsed in a heap.

The entire room looked on expectantly as Rainbow panted and slowly opened her eyes.

"Um, Twilight? Are her eyes supposed to do that?" Fluttershy asked as Rainbow's father looked on in concern.

Rainbow's eyes seemed to be working independently, one looking around while the other focused on her father and Twilight. It looked... unsettling.

"Dad! Twilight! Oh are you two a sight for sore eyes!" Rainbow cried as she got up and hugged them. "I am so glad to be back! But... Where am I back from anyway? And what the hay happened to me?" She asked looking down at her body. "I haven't been this out of shape since I was a kid."

"Hey, who are you calling a kid?!"

Everyone stopped and stared. The voice had been Rainbow's, it had spoken with Rainbow's mouth, but from the bewildered look on her face, it was clear that Rainbow had not said it.

"Twilight... What's going on?" Rainbow asked in tones of growing fear.

Twilight tried to think of a gentle way to break it to her, but, unable to come up with one, she just blurted out the truth. "There was an accident and you were thrown back in time to another world. You grew up there, had a father who loved you, and after fifteen long years your time-line caught up with ours and we were able to rescue you."

Her left eye widened. "I... I think I remember some of that..." Rainbow closed her eyes in concentration. "But... there's more... It's like there's somepony else listening."

"No shit, Sherlock, that would be me."

Rainbow jumped and look of terror crossed her features. "Twilight! There's somepony in my head!"

"No, you're in my head!"

"Who are you!?"

"I'm Dash!"

"No, I'm Rainbow Dash!"

This rapidly degenerated into an outright argument as Rarity asked in bewilderment, "Twilight... What did you just do?"

Twilight looked as confused as everypony else as she answered. "I restored Rainbow's memories of her life here with us. I thought all the memories would merge together and she would wake up as one pony with two childhoods, but... it looks like the memories didn't merge."

Across the room, Rainbow Dash had actually come to blows with herself before quickly realizing the painful futility of trying to kick one's own ass.

"It appears the two memories were different enough to form two complete personalities." Celestia observed. "You know this spell Twilight. Will they merge together over time?"

"Oooh… I don't know, I have to look this up." She turned and galloped out the door. "I'll be in the library!"

"I hope Twilight is as good in reality as she is in the show. I'm not looking forward to doing this long term."

"Oh, and I am? I didn't ask for this either you know."

"How are we going to get along until then?"

"What are you talking about? We'll do all right as long as you don't start punching me again."

"You insulted me! Besides, that wasn't what I meant."

"Okay wise guy, what did you mean?"

"I meant how are we going to…"

Half of Rainbow's face blushed scarlet.

"Going to what?" She asked impatiently. There was an inaudible whisper as her right hoof gestured to the bathroom and the left half of her face immediately blushed redder then the right. She looked self-consciously around the room at all the startled expressions staring back at her.

"Why don't we go find Twilight."

"Good idea.

As Rainbow trotted out the door and tried not to trip over her feet, Pinky seemed to finally come to terms with what was happening.

"Now I can throw two welcome home parties! Or would it be a welcome home and a welcome to ponyville party? And should they be two parties, or one party inside another party?" Her face took on a look of intense concentration, and she pulled a rolling chalk board out of nowhere and began scrawling equations on it. "If P1 is equal to P2 then P1 plus P2 would be Px2 or one party twice as big, but if P1 is not equal to P2 then we -"

The rest of the group all looked away at this point for fear they would start to understand what pinky was saying.

"Princess?" Rarity asked. "If it's all right with you, I think we ought to set aside a few rooms in the castle were we can all stay until we figure this out."

Celestia nodded. "I will make the arrangements."

"But!... But aren't you goin lookin for Scootaloo?" Apple Bloom asked.

"You're not going to just leave her behind are you?" Sweetie Bell followed, her eyes welling up with tears.

"Of course not!" Applejack answered as she hugged the two of them. "But it takes a lot of strength to make the trip so it will be a little while before the Princess is strong enough again. But don't you worry, we'll bring her back."

"You really mean it?"

"Course I do. We'll bring Scootaloo back safe and sound, don't you worry. Now come on, it's been a long day and its well past dinner time. Why don't you two show us where the dining room is around here?

The two crusaders perked up and led the way as Applejack and Fluttershy shared a worried look. "Do you really think she's all right?"

Applejack simply nodded. "After what the Princess told us about the human world I was ready for some dark and evil things, but that's not what we found was it? I think humans might not be so bad as we've been told. I can't say for sure, but I've got a feeling our Scootaloo's doin just fine."
> Ch 13: Live long Or Prosper
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release



Chapter Thirteen: Live Long or Prosper

When the time came for her August medical check-up, Scootaloo waited for her opportunity then pulled Mary aside for a talk. They took a side corridor and found an empty room to which Scootaloo closed the door.

"I'm sorry to pull you away like this, but I really need to talk to someone about this, and..." She grimaced. "And I just can't talk to my Dads about it."

Mary looked concerned and gestured for Scootaloo to take a seat as she grabbed a chair of her own. "Of course! You know you can always come to me for help. What's the matter? Are you okay?"

Scootaloo blushed. "I'm fine, it's... it's about my boyfriend. Can we...?"

Mary smiled warmly and took her hand. "Scootaloo, I'm a married woman. I've been with Stephanie for more than a decade, and on top of that, I was your gynecologist for quite a while. If you can't talk to me comfortably about sex then I have failed as a physician as well as a friend."

Scootaloo seemed to calm down; she took a deep breath and dove in. "I think there's something wrong with me, but I don't know how to fix it."

Mary gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and nodded for her to continue.

"It's... My boyfriend says he loves me... He does everything right in public, but... But in the bedroom..." She had been staring at her hands and now she looked up with tears in her eyes. "He has to work to be interested in me. The few time's we managed to make it work he had to have a blindfold and a football game going in the background."

Mary looked nearly as concerned as she felt confused, and she tried hard to remember who Scootaloo was dating.

Scootaloo felt tears running down her cheek as she continued. "I can't talk about it with my Dads because they didn't want me dating Conner in the first place..."

She sniffed. "Mary... Am I ugly?"

Mary finally remembered the boy Scootaloo was dating and felt relieved but a bit sad as she broke the news to her. "You're not ugly, Scoot. And there is nothing wrong with you being a pony."

Scootaloo took the offered tissue and wiped her eyes. "But how do you know?"

"Sweetie, Conner is gay."

Scootaloo stopped mid wipe and stared at her.

"Your Dads aren't stupid, they probably figured it out at the beginning."

Her eyes were quite large and still a bit red as she asked. "But why didn't they stop me? Why didn't they say something?"

Mary fixed her with a level gaze. "Scootaloo, how did you react the first time they told you it wasn't a good match?"

There was a silence that ended as she replied simply. "Oh. Yeah..."

"They probably tried to warn you, and knowing teenage girls, you probably weren't having any of it. Am I right?"

Scootaloo looked uncomfortable as she weakly nodded, but tears were already forming again as she asked. "But... Does that mean he never really loved me?"

"Oh sweetie!" Mary took Scootaloo in her arms and held her while she sniffled and tried to fight down her sobs.

"It's okay. You're a strong young woman Scootaloo, I've known you for a long time. We all make mistakes from time to time, but it will get better."

Scootaloo sniffled. "But how could he do that?" Her chest heaved as she tried not to cry. "Why... Why would he lead me on like that if he didn't love me?"

Mary pulled back enough she could look Scootaloo in the eye. "Did your Papa ever tell you how he knew me? How he knew Stephanie and I would be the first safe people who could come and see you?"

Scootaloo looked confused at the change of subject and shook her head.

"Scoot, your Papa and I were lovers once."

There was silence for a moment as her eyes widened. "But he's... You're..." Scootaloo shook her head, her own troubles temporarily forgotten. "How?!"

"We were both in eighth grade, and we didn't really know who we were yet. We both had an idea, but there was tremendous pressure to ignore what we felt and be 'normal'."

She sighed as she remembered. "We dated for more than a year, into the middle of ninth grade, in fact before we couldn't keep up the fiction anymore. Just because two people aren't sexually compatible doesn't mean they can't share a strong bond. I still have feelings for your Papa, they just don't involve sex."

"But ninth grade... that would have made Papa fifteen..." Scootaloo looked horrified as she worked it out. "And when you broke up, that's when...?"

Mary nodded sadly. "That was when his parents beat the hell out of him and threw him out of the house. He spent the next few years in foster care, but it took a long time for the injuries to heal. I wasn't kidding when I said we were under a lot of pressure. We wound up going to the same college, and we have always kept in touch, but yes, at one time during the worst part of high school your Papa and I... did what we had to do."

"But... that was a long time ago! Gay marriage is legal almost everywhere now! Things have gotten so much better than..." She trailed off as she saw Mary sadly shaking her head.

"Some people will always live in the dark ages. Women like us are supposed to be on equal footing with men, but we both know discrimination still exists. We still need to be mindful not to go to certain places, and know which bars to only buy sealed drinks from. Even if his parents are the most liberal and forward-thinking people, he would probably still have reason to hide who he is because you two are stuck in high school. Do you know why sexual harassment has been cracked down on so hard in the business world? It's because any business that allows this kind of abuse, the taunting, the threats, the violence, is liable for millions of dollars of damages. No business owner will tolerate this kind of medieval behavior anymore because it could destroy them."

She sighed and hung her head. "Unfortunately, children aren't important in our culture. The sort of abuses that would bring down a huge corporation are tolerated at schools because no one is held accountable. Even if a child hangs himself and leaves behind a note with names, dates and times, the school can just brush it off with. 'Oh, he was always a troubled child. So sad.' The only other place where the same rules still apply today is prison. A gay inmate gets stabbed or gang raped, and the warden just brushes it of as 'boys will be boys'."

Scootaloo actually felt Mary shudder at some long-forgotten memory. "I'm sorry this happened to you Scootaloo, but if you have any affection for him at all, you have to stop thinking of yourself as the victim. I know you would never associate with anyone who would do this maliciously, and that means Conner must be under a great deal of strain. He has to deal with this sooner or later, and maybe coming out to you would be a good first step, but you must be careful."

She sniffed, and with a start Scootaloo saw a single tear on her cheek. "Your Papa and I know only too well how badly this can go."

...

On the first day of her eleventh year, and Conner's twelfth they sat together with Josie, Melisa and Christina on an upper level of the high school bleachers as the students gradually arrived and filtered in for the start of the year introductions.

As the last busload of students arrived, a kindly looking older man with graying hair made his way out to the center of the gym to start the introductions.

"Let me be the first to welcome you all back. I'm Mr. Gray, and I will be taking over as your new principal this year after the departure of Ms. Baker. Some of you will know me as your Pastor, and others know me as your old junior high principal, while for some of you, this will be our first introduction."

He paused and looked over the assembled students. "Regardless, those who know me know that I am a principal of principles, and first and foremost of those is personal responsibility. You are all here for one purpose and one purpose only: To learn and ready yourselves for life outside of these walls. Be it work right out of school, a vocation, or a college track, everyone of you is here to learn, and as this schools recent test scores show, that has not been going as well as it should."

"Those of you who know me already know what comes next, so why don't we say it together. What time is it?"

There was a mumbled answer from some of the younger students as the rest of them wondered what he was talking about.

"Okay, lets try this again. The answer is 'it's time to take responsibility for learning'. That means that when you don't do well in school, it's not because your teacher doesn't like you, or your parents didn't help you with your homework, it's because you didn't take responsibility. Over the next year when any of you ask me what time it is, I'm going to answer 'it's time to take responsibility for learning. If anyone asks me what time it is and I forget, I'll give them a gift card to one of our local restaurants. Now let's try this again. What time is it?"

This time about half the assembled students responded. "It's time to take responsibility for learning."

"Oh come on, you can do better than that. What time is it?"

"It's time to take responsibility for learning!"

Gina leaned back to whisper to Scootaloo. "Way to target the bottom percentile. Some of us figured this out a while ago."

After a few repetitions of the chant, Mr. Gray continued. "Much better. That is going to be our focus this year. Academics and better test scores. And to help us get there, over the course of the year we will be trimming away some activities and programs that are not appropriate for a school environment, especially those that distract from better academic performance."

Christina asked in a worried whisper. "Does he mean cheerleading?"

Scootaloo frowned. "Well it would be pretty hard to see how cheerleading helps with test scores, but if everyone on the team is doing okay, I don't see that it's any of his business..."

Below on the gym floor Mr. Gray continued. "And now let me introduce our new part time policeman and our DARE representative, Officer Hogan."

The officer wearing a county sheriff uniform and dark sunglasses stepped forward. "Thank you all. Thanks to your new principal's efforts to expand our funding, the DARE program has been extended out of the middle schools and into this high school. Many of you remember me from your last school and when Mr. Gray asked me to follow him on, I was only too happy to accept. Many of you have known us for several years now, and working together, we're going to see to it that everyone graduates from this school healthy and drug free."

"Oh, not this crap again." Curt groaned. "Back in junior high they told us that LSD and pot were addictive gateway drugs – one dose and you're hooked for life." He grabbed his own throat and made a ridiculous face.

"Yeah," Gina answered. "And then we got to try them. Turns out this crap is all lies. And now we have to sit through it all again." She slouched back in her seat grumbling to herself.

Christina and Melisa gave Scootaloo a look with raised eyebrows and Josie whispered in her ear. "Uh, where did you say you met your new friends?"

...

The start of the school year also saw the beginning of Scootaloo's biochemistry class. She had really put in a lot of work on her essay answer to Dr. Moselle, and was elated to find she, an eleventh grader, had made the cut to get into the prestigious college course.

She logged in early, not quite sure what to expect, and was surprised to see she wasn't the only one. It was nearly fifteen minutes until the class was due to start, yet the classroom camera showed nearly every seat already occupied. The graduate student assistants passed out the syllabus for the semester, and as Scootaloo pulled up the document she whistled softly at the amount of 'recommended reading' listed on the document. Some of the books made sense, biology and chemistry texts Dr. Moselle must like, but a few looked strangely out of place, and she couldn't help wonder what 'Guns, Germs and Steel' was about, and what it had to do with a class about biology.

At length Dr. Moselle arrived and introduced herself.

"Good morning, everyone. If you are here today, then it means you made the cut, and indeed most of you should be proud of that. While a few of you struggled on my essay, everyone in this class has promise, and I am looking forward to an interesting semester."

"This is no one's first college class, so I will skim over the obvious. No one is going to force you to pay attention or come to class. If you can ace the tests and projects without showing up for lectures, that's your business, but in all my years, I have only met a handful of people who could do so."

"For everyone here who is not a genius with a hundred-and-fifty IQ, lectures will be the bare minimum needed to get by. Study groups are posted online and around the corner at the student lounge, and you should all plan on joining one. The recommended reading list is long, and I would try to put away one book each week in addition to your normal coursework."

"This is not high school, and I will not be assigning busy work to force anyone to keep up. You all got into this class because you are bright and interested in biology or medicine. Most of my students judge their progress by taking tests I have given in years past, all of which are available on the web site. I don't repeat test questions, but if you can get a good score on an old test, you stand a fair chance of doing the same on a current one."

The lights dimmed and the projector lit up showing someone's essay answer with the name deleted. "Now that the basics are out of the way, let's start the year with a laugh. Only about one person in three did well enough on the essay to be here today, and before we wade into the first lesson, I'd like to talk about some of the answers I received, good and bad. The question was 'why do we grow old and die'"

The screen changed to show a sheet of paper labeled in huge font 'Because god say's so'. There were a few chuckles as she commented; "The other 45 pages were blank"

The next page was an executive summary with highlighted text in the middle of the first paragraph that read 'As all machines wear out, so do all biological machines. Nothing lasts forever, and people are no exception.' Dr. Moselle smiled and changed to the next slide which contained a video clip of a beautifully restored Model T from the 1920's struggling to keep up with traffic on a modern road.

"A good attempt, but short-sighted. Our bodies repair themselves, and any system that can be repaired can last indefinitely, as this photo shows. This poor car may be in like-new condition, but what do you notice about how it's doing in the modern world?"

There was a moments silence before an Indian student spoke up from the front row. "You're saying that the car is poorly adapted to its environment?"

"Very nicely done." She complemented him. "And that's getting closer to the real reason. But let's see a few more attempts."

The screen changed to show a paper densely packed with prose. "This young man was incredibly long winded, and had excellent grammar and spelling, but after reading ten pages in I despaired of finding the point. I'm told he is interested in law."

The screen changed again to a more normal looking paper with the words 'I don't know' highlighted in red. "This was done by someone who was very interested, and really tried to find out, but didn't quite get there. I won't call him out, but he is in this class with us today because he added those three words. He didn't try to make something up, or force an answer to fit, he did the best he could and admitted he didn't have the answer."

"The screen changed again, this time showing something that looked like a shrub in a farmer's field. "Now let's look at some of the high points you found as a class. This is an example one of you found of an exception to the rule; it's not a bush, it's a tree that has been coppiced, or cut back every few years, for nearly a thousand years. This was an old practice of sustainable timber harvesting, but it has been noted that tree species that would normally die of old age after a few hundred years will live much longer if they are cut back over and over again. We see the same thing in bonsai trees, and this inconsistency raises questions about why changing the way the tree lives would change how long it lives."

The slide changed to a picture of a lizard basking on a rock in the barren desert. "Several of you included this example - this lizard is unusual because the species has no males, the species reproduces by cloning itself, and each daughter is an exact genetic copy of its mother. It lives in the barren desert where things change very slowly, and has a very long lifespan.

The screen changed again, this time to someone's essay answer. "One of you said it well when you wrote this: 'all animals and plants can be considered self-repairing machines, and if we can repair ourselves for decades, why does the process end? The answer is in the definition; all machines exist for a purpose, so what purpose do living things serve? We exist to carry on the species. Above and beyond all other reasons, life exists to keep making more of itself to perpetuate the species. Given that, we must then ask how causing an individual to self-destruct after a fixed time helps the species to live on.'."

The view changed again to show a beetle and the desert lizard from earlier. "This student put their finger right on the issue. How does the death of an individual after a fixed time help the species to survive? Our answer can be found in these two examples.

The lizard lives in an environment where resources are scarce and change is very slow, and it has adapted to this by having a very long life, modest litters, and even taken the drastic step of dispensing with males. While this means twice as many lizards are available to perpetuate the species, it also means that they have lost that 50/50 randomized mixing of genes that comes with sex, and so, they have drastically slowed their ability to evolve and adapt to change.

The beetle lives in an a rapidly changing environment where the farmers are using new pesticides each year to kill them off, and that is above and beyond all the larger animals that eat them and all the diseases and parasites that prey on them. They need to adapt rapidly or the species will perish. They adapted to this by having very short life spans and huge numbers of offspring. In short, they have become more evolvable. If you imposed a large change on the lizards, you could easily kill off the species before they could adapt to the new conditions. The beetle species is almost impossible to kill off because they can adapt at lightning speed."

She paused to look over the class. "That is the short answer. The more things trying to kill your species, be it predators, parasites, diseases or environmental changes, the more evolvable you have to be, and that means life spans get shorter. A species with long life spans is well adapted to a static environment, but when adults live too long, that means that there are fewer young ones born, and less genetic diversity to draw on when change comes."

A picture of two killer whales appeared on the screen. "Now some of you actually figured this out and cited exceptions to this rule, and here is one of them. Among killer whales, the females can live on well past the age where they are reproductively active. In most species, the end of reproductive years is synonymous with death, but not here. The reason the females can live on turned out to be tied to the survival of their male offspring. For whatever reason, the male children survive much better if their mothers hang around, and as a consequence of this, the species has adapted to allow mother killer whales to live longer."

The projector switched again to show a big family with kids, teenagers, parents, grandparents and great grandparents, all smiling at the camera. "Based on that information, what does this tell us about humans?"

She looked around the room, and soon a girl in the second row raised her hand. "Yes?"

"It means that humans live past reproductive age because our older generations help the younger generation survive."

"You got it."

The projector began cycling through pictures of people in their eighties and nineties; some were healthy and smiling, but many were in bad shape, reclining in hospital beds or worse.

"Now the problem is that while we understand why we grow old and die, it doesn't follow that we know how. The process is complicated, with many different systems working independently towards the same goal of self-destruction."

She surveyed the class before her. "Most of you are here because you want to go into medicine as doctors, nurses, or researchers. Understand that many, if not out-rightly most of the illnesses you will fight and the breakdowns you will try to repair will stem back to this core drive."

Her voice took on a hard edge. "I asked you this essay question for a reason. Too many people regard old age, illness and death as facts of life, to be accepted." She practically spat the word. "It is not okay to watch our parents slowly die as their bodies fall apart around them. It is not okay to stand at a mother's bedside and watch her die as her daughter cries. Never forget what you are really dealing with. Aging and death are evolved systems to keep animal species alive, but we are no longer mindless animals."

She paused to collect her thoughts before finishing. "Our understanding of biology is finally reaching the point where we can tackle this problem; genetic manipulation can revitalize cells in a test tube, and double the lifespan of worms in a laboratory. The telomerace gene has been clearly tied to progeria, the disease of premature aging in children, and all this was discovered before Ms. Scootaloo brought us her own wealth of genetic information." She added with a knowing glance at the camera.

"We are getting closer, but we're not there yet. The work and research you will perform during your careers will bring us closer to understanding this problem, and I pray that some of you will live long enough to see the breakthrough."

-----------inspired by the song 'Act Naturally' by SemiSonic – Google to listen -----------------

Since the arrival of the new principal the climate at school begun to change. While Scootaloo was used to answering other girls' basic sex questions, she found herself fielding progressively dumber questions from the new underclassmen who had already had Pastor Gray for several years at their middle school. One girl she had only met briefly during the first week of classes tracked her down in the hallway between classes.

"Scootaloo? Do you have a minute? I really need your help."

Scootaloo couldn't remember the girl's name, but did her best to be sympathetic. "Of course, what's wrong?"

The ninth grader gestured for her to follow into an empty classroom and shut the door behind them. She was obviously on edge, wringing her hands and blushing as well.

"I've heard that you know... that you can tell me about..."

Scootaloo smiled and finished her sentence. "Sex, right? What do you need to know?"

The girl looked down at her in obvious distress. "I... I think I might be pregnant!"

'So it is serious.' She frowned to herself as she gestured for the girl to take a seat. "Okay, let's start with the basics; how many methods of protection are you using, and have you taken a pregnancy test yet?"

She looked even more unsettled. "I... I don't know how... We never used condoms, he said they were too hard to get."

Scootaloo made a mental note to find and kick this boy when she was done. "Okay, how many times have you had sex?"

"It... It was only my first time..." Scootaloo reached out and held her hand, nodding for her to continue. "He said... He said he was going to pull out before he was done, but then..."

Scootaloo forcibly resisted the urge to face-palm. "Okay, it's okay. How long ago was this?"

"It was about a month ago... We broke up the day after and..." She trailed off as tears formed in her eyes.

Scootaloo squeezed her hand and tried to calm her. "Okay, it's going to be okay. There are ways to deal with this, even if you are pregnan-"

"But I'm only fourteen! I don't want to be a mother yet!" The girl cried looking down at her belly. "He said he knew what he was doing! I trusted him!"

Scootaloo took the frightened girl in a hug and held her as she cried into her shoulder. Outside the door, the bustle of the crowded hallway was dying down as third period began and the hall monitors herded the stragglers along.

"I'm sorry, but we need to know for sure." She reached into a pocket on her prosthetic and produced a pregnancy test. "I can show you how to use this, and it will tell us if you have anything to worry about." She finished, trying to keep her smile in place.

"Thank you... I... I should never have trusted him! I should never have swallowed! What am I going to do if-"

Scootaloo had done a double take and put up a hand to stop her. "Wait a second. Swallowed?"

"Well yes. I know its gross, but he said he would pull out in time, and then I panicked and..."

Scootaloo shook her head to clear it. "You can't get pregnant from oral sex. You're saying that you never actually had sex?" She finished indicating the correct anatomical region.

The girl followed her pointed finger and looked confused. "Well no, I have to save myself for marriage. You mean I'm not pregnant?"

Scootaloo was still having trouble wrapping her mind around this. "No. If that's all you got up to, then no, you're not pregnant. What fucking moron taught your sex-ed class?"

"Oh, we didn't have sex ed. Pastor Gray said we should practice abstinence, but we didn't really talk about it."

"Well didn't your parents talk to you at all? Didn't anyone teach you anything?"

The girl just looked relived and seemed to really relax for the first time. "Well, my boyfriend did show me some porn he liked... I did my best to learn, but..."

This time she actually did face-palm. "So your only education in sex came from pornography intended for men? Do you have any idea how contrived that stuff is?"

"But that's what he said he wanted..."

"I don't doubt it." Scootaloo deadpanned. "But the Castle Anthrax isn't real, and we are not objects." She sighed. "Here, pass me your phone." She took the offered device and transferred the sum total of organized sex-ed information she had amassed over the years. "Start with Dan Savage's column and read a few pages of that, then follow the directory and don't stop until Christmas. You came alarmingly close to ruining three lives, and you need to learn what you're doing."

The girl regarded her phone thoughtfully, and gave Scootaloo a big hug. "Thank you Scootaloo. Thank you so much. I won't forget this."

She passed the pregnancy test back and headed for the door as Scootaloo thought to herself 'Neither will I...'
> Ch. 14 Family Values
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release


Chapter Fourteen: Family Values

It had been a crisp autumn day at the skate park, and everyone was enjoying the weekend off from school. Gina had the opportunity to try out her new board, while Scootaloo finally mastered one of the intermediate tricks she had been practicing.

"Not bad Glinda." Gina ribbed her after she finally got it down.

"Hey! I got it right that time." Scootaloo pouted.

"And you are getting better, but until someone comes up a flying belt for the rest of us I think you will be keeping your pink bubble and your nickname. That was good though. You have a real edge thanks to all that training you got from the squad."

Scootaloo smiled back, and they shared a fist bump. They had been out practicing and fooling around for most of the afternoon and were starting to get hungry when Curt suggested they catch a bus back to his house for something to eat.

After a quick bus trip he soon led them to the basement den of the house where they laid waste to the refrigerator and sat down to some video games.

Gina took the opportunity to school them all in a first person shooter, and it was right after Scootaloo's character had been blown up by a missile that she took a moment to grab something to drink. The game would go on for another couple minutes until Gina hunted them all down, so she knew she had time, and on her way back to the couch she walked past two of the guys from their group doing something with a hypodermic needle.

She made it about three more steps before she did a double take and turned around.

"Hey, what are you guys doing?" She asked in even tones.

"Oh, hey Scoot. I got this new stuff yesterday and I've been waiting for the best time to try it."

"Okay... What is it?" She asked with some trepidation. He repeated a slang term she didn't recognize and popped the cap off the end of the needle.

"Whoa, hold on there! Is this stuff heroin?"

"Well yeah, that's like, what they used to call it years ago, I think."

Scootaloo leapt forward and grabbed the needle out his hand. "What the hell do you think you're doing?! Heroin is a member of the opiate drug family! Way more than half the people who try this shit get hooked for life!"

The two of them looked at each other, then just laughed at her.

"Whoa, calm down Scoot. That crap the DARE officer teaches is just a bunch of BS; remember how he taught us that pot was addicting?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it." His friend joined in. "It's all just a bunch of lies. This stuff is safe."

Scootaloo just stared at them for a moment before her she turned and walked out of the room.

"Hey, come back! I paid good money for that stuff!"

She made her way back to the den where everyone else was gathered.

"HEY! Pause the game, we need to talk."

There were a few startled looks, but she did get their attention. She held out the needle for everyone to see. "Does anyone know what this shit is?"

…

Some of them had known what was going on, and others were clueless. She proceed to read the two guys the riot act, explaining just how fucked they would be if they got hooked on heroin. Everyone got a copy of 'The Consumers Union Report on Licit and Illicit Drugs' direct to their phone, and when she was finished, several of them were looking at her in awe.

"Dude, when did you learn to talk like that? You sounded like a teacher."

Scootaloo crumbled the syringe in her hand and fixed Gina with a softer look. "I don't want my friends to get hurt, that's all. I care about you guys, and I don't want to watch you ruin your lives. I've only seen a little of the DARE program; I… I didn't know this was going happen.

...

As the fall wore on, the atmosphere at school wasn't the only thing that changed. Scootaloo had confronted Conner one evening after school, and explained that she was okay with whatever sexuality he had. It hadn't been easy for either of them, but he did come out to her, and that seemed to help, at least for a while.

Unfortunately, with things turning more hostile at school, and with his own parents to think about, Conner didn't feel he could come out to anyone else, and as the weeks went by he seemed to become more and more depressed, skipping classes, and even seeing her less often.

Scootaloo was still nominally his Girlfriend in everyone else's eyes, and late one September afternoon she stopped by his house after school.

"Why, hello dear! Have you come to see Conner?"

She tried to put a smile on and nodded. "He wasn't at school today. I was worried about him and wanted to see if he was okay."

"Oh, that's so sweet of you." Nancy replied. "He has been looking a bit down lately, and he's still sore from that nasty fall he took the other day at school."

Scootaloo kept up her smile as she stepped into the house and went upstairs to Conner's room, but privately she was worried. She reached his door and knocked.

"Conner? Its Scoot, can I come in?"

She waited and listened, wondering if he was napping; outside she could hear children laughing and playing, and downstairs someone was watching a game on TV. She tried again, louder this time. "Conner? Are you awake?"

The silence stretched on, and she was just about to go downstairs and ask when a tired voice answered.

"I'll... I'll be out in a second."

She crossed her arms and waited, more than a little worried now, but her train of thought was interrupted by the sound of metal sliding on metal. 'Chink!'

She didn't think. She moved.

She spun around, tucked both her hind legs in and kicked the door as hard as she could, tearing it from its hinges and throwing it across his room with a tremendous crash that echoed through the house. She lunged into the room and wrenched the handgun from him, nearly breaking his arm in the process.

They stared at each other, his startled expression looking back at her terrified, wide-eyed face as she tried to make sense of this.

"Conner... Why?!"

As he struggled for the words, Scootaloo had time to notice the black eye, the bruises on his face and arms from the 'nasty fall' he took at school. She felt it right in her chest. Her school.

She could hear footsteps running up the stairs as his parents came to investigate the noise. The startled look faded from his face and now he just looked empty and lost, turning to stare blankly at the wall, clearly not interested anymore.

She wanted to shake him, to hug him and tell him it would all be all right, but as much as it hurt to admit it, things were much worse than she had known.

"What the hell did you do to our door!?" Michael demanded from the hallway where he and Nancy stood looking over the wrecked woodwork in shock.

The plastic grip on the pistol creaked and popped as she bore down on the weapon's handle, cracking it in several places. Deliberately she turned and faced down his father's anger with an icy glare. She closed the distance between them, bits of plastic falling from the gun's ruined grip as Nancy took a step back, clearly aware that something was very wrong.

"Your son..." She managed as her voice cracked up.

"What?! What the hell gives you the right to destroy our home?!"

Her expression hardened and she continued forward, pushing him out of the room. "Your son very nearly took your advice to heart just now." She shoved the side of the gun into his chest hard enough to slam him back into the drywall and leave a dent. "In another second you would have heard this instead of the door."

He looked down at the handgun, and finally seemed to register what was happening. Scootaloo let the weapon fall at his feet with a hollow clatter, turned and took Conner by the hand. "Conner and I are leaving. When you get your priorities figured out, give me a call."

With that she led Conner out of the house and took him on a long walk that led home to her Dads. Jayne and Kevin were only too happy to help, giving Conner the spare bedroom and making it clear he was welcome to stay as long as he liked. The three of them worked together, and later that night seemed to finally get through. After a good cry, they coaxed what had been happening from him.

While his mother might be willing to accept him as a gay man, he couldn't imagine his father ever would. With things getting worse at school, he felt he had no-one to confide in. After the new principal had shrugged off another beating as 'boys will be boys,' he had gone to his dad's gun safe.

As he hugged them and cried, Scootaloo sobbed too, frightened at how very close she had come to losing him. As night fell, Scootaloo and Conner shared the bed in the spare room, and just cuddled together close, trying to keep back the darkness. Around two AM exhaustion finally won out, and they drifted off to sleep to the soft chimes of Scootaloo's stuffed lion playing 'Somewhere Over The Rainbow'.


...

As October faded into November things continued to get worse at school. By now three freshmen had 'taken a few days off' or 'gone on vacation', and while two had been back to classes within a few days, the third was now telling her friends she had decided to keep her child and become a mother at sixteen.

Pastor Gray had out-rightly canceled sex-ed, and trimmed away almost all the useful information from health class on the grounds that it was just an unnecessary distraction from standardized testing.

Some of the freshmen from his old school had also brought with them an attitude of intolerance that was beginning to find a foothold in the high school. For the first time since she had been there Scootaloo saw a group of freshmen picking on a fellow student for being gay. Fortunately their guidance counselor and cheerleading coach Ms. Chisholm was having none of it, and after an intervention that left most of the bullies crying (the details of which Scootaloo never did find out) the word went out that this sort of nonsense was not tolerated in gym class or anyplace Ms. Chisholm might be found, though the same could not be said for the rest of the school.

There were some teachers who agreed with what Josie had begun to call 'the Chisholm Doctrine,' the guidance-counselor's policy of 'civility or detention.' Mr. Malcolm the biology teacher was a firm adherent, to the point where opinions (and bets,) were divided on whether he had been bullied as a young man also or just had a raving crush on Ms. Chisholm. Scootaloo reckoned it was likely both. And Senora Cohen the Spanish teacher had caught someone calling someone else a faggot and proceeded to cuss them out in a blend of Yiddish and Spanish that took even the kids with the good smartphones over a day to completely translate. (Senora Cohen was the wife of the local Reform congregation's rabbi and had no patience whatsoever for 'Pastor' Gray.)

Sensei O'Riley the Japanese teacher and football coach knew full well that his subject, not being on the state's standardized tests, would only continue to be funded if the team won, and with a Kaizen grasp of morale, his response to bullying from his players was to implement a double-enforcement of The Chisholm Doctrine. If a player was caught bullying or speaking uncivilly to another student, he would be running twenty thirty-yard suicides and five ten-yard bear crawls on top of whatever punishment he'd already gotten or lose his place on the team. One 'golden boy' JV quarterback had successfully evaded detection with some truly cruel cracks about a ninth-grade member of the A/V club until Melissa caught him on her camera-phone and, with Byzantine cruelty, emailed the recording to Sensei O'Riley. The coach confronted his player, who, after middle school under Pastor Gray, actually had the nerve to try and justify his verbal abuse as 'trying to do that geek a favor, toughen him up so he's not such an embarrassment.' The good Sensei, who relied on the A/V kids for his manga and anime, proceeded to find the victim, informed him that if the quarterback hadn't made amends like a warrior he was off the team, and told the quarterback not to show up to practice until the A/V guy had forgiven him.

That ended very strangely. The A/V guy challenged the quarter-back to a first-person shooter game so they might settle the matter like men. A whole Saturday of frantic sniping and fragging later, the two became fast friends and within the month, the football team boasted a new 'manager' in jersey but no pads, whose job was both to film the games for analysis and advise on strategy. And the quarterback broke a finger punching a rival team's linebacker who dared make a crack about his new friend. Above this, the Sensei beamed, and when Pastor Gray asked how the boys were doing, O'Riley replied in Japanese with a serene look and a prayerful gesture. Gray took it to be some positive quote from some Eastern philosopher, nodded, and wandered off, but the two cheerleaders taking Advanced Japanese knew the phrase to be, essentially, "Up yours, motherfucker."

Other teachers, however, were not so kind. Mr. Frink the history teacher actually made a crack to a student's face in Mr. Malcolm's hearing and got a veiled threat about the union being informed of 'his little problem.' Nobody was ever sure what that meant, but Frink avoided Malcolm, and speaking directly to anyone about anything not class-related, for weeks afterward. Some of the less-talented teachers were content to let class clowns and kiss-asses waste time and even abuse others provided it meant they were called 'the best teacher' and not given any lip. Others skirted the issue by not allowing any talking in class at all, and for a lot of bullied kids, even an icy silence and dull PowerPoint lectures were better than the hallways, so they excelled in those subjects. The bullies and lazy ones who got their grades on personality, however, got a nap. But mostly, teachers took either the 'I didn't see it so it didn't happen' attitude or 'oh, they're just having fun, don't be so sensitive' one that people only have when they have forgotten absolutely everything prior to their twenty-first birthday. Some even thought the bullying was funny.

That lasted until Josie found Mrs. Gryle giggling as a popular girl speculated that a geekier-looking one was 'probably a dyke.' At that point, the cheerful coloring-book fan lost her temper completely. She proceeded to speculate herself, at length and in cheerleading-trained ultra-loud tones to rival the Royal Canterlot Voice about what the popular girls must have called Mrs. Gryle when she was young. The hypocrisy of a frumpy middle-aged woman tolerating abuse in order to have stupid bimbos who did little but waste class time like her was quickly revealed when Gryle first asked, then shouted, then screamed and cried for Josie to stop talking, shut up and finally 'shut the fuck up, you little bitch!'

The teacher went home with a sick headache and Josie got detention with Ms. Chisholm, (plus a three-pack of Pop Rocks from said coach to feast upon, unofficially for a well-made point.) The first day was for insubordination and the second day for her flat refusal to apologize, plus The Gryle refused to allow Josie back in her class and she wound up testing into AP English instead. Scootaloo realized that tensions were getting a little out of control, especially given that Josie hated English and had probably beaten the AP test out of sheer spite. (That, or Josie was actually a lot better at English than she let on and had just hated Gryle and sentence-diagramming in general. It was always hard to tell with her.)

Pastor Gray called Josie's parents in for a conference about the matter and whatever he heard, he came out looking vaguely disturbed and treated Josie from then on as if she couldn't be expected to know better, coming from such a house. Josie's parents came out with stern expressions, got their daughter to the car and then promptly took her out for actual coffee, because "after putting up with that man, you deserve it." That was also the day Josie started carrying a notebook.

Things were still tense that crisp fall day when one of the staff pulled Scootaloo aside in the hallway to ask a favor.

"Of course I can talk with one of your students, but what's going on? I know you teach special-ed, and I try to stay friendly with everyone, but it can be... uncomfortable to hang out with kids who keep trying to ride on my back or braid my mane."

The teacher looked a bit embarrassed but continued. "No, it's nothing like that. You need to have a talk with Amelia Findlay."

"You mean Josie's cousin? I'd be happy to, but what's wrong?"

"Um..." She looked very uncomfortable, but still didn't answer. "Just ask her what she's been up to lately." And with no more than that she looked around as though she was being watched and darted off down the hall.

…

When lunch came two hours later, Scootaloo suggested that her friends invite Amelia over to sit with them. There were more than a few raised eyebrows, but she insisted, and with their teachers permission, brought a very pleased looking Amelia over to sit with the cheerleaders.

"So Amelia, what have you been doing lately?" Scootaloo asked politely.

"I got picked by God." Amelia answered with a happy expression.

"Really?" Scootaloo asked, wishing Josie would get to lunch on time for once. "What did he pick you for?"

Amelia was nominally in the tenth grade, but due to her handicap, had the mind of a third grader. She looked at Scootaloo as though she had just been given a case full of the best candy she could imagine. "He picked me to carry the baby Jesus!"

Like most of the girls at the table, Scootaloo's first thought was of a church play for Christmas, but just as she was starting to feel relieved, she looked to the other girls and saw them staring at Amelia in horror. She was calmly rubbing her stomach with both hands.

"Um... Sweetie? Could you tell me a little more about your Christmas play?" Scootaloo asked as she tried to keep up a smile, hoping she was wrong.

"Our Christmas play? Are we having a play? Do I get to be in it?" She asked with enthusiasm.

"Um, I think what she means," Melissa interjected, "is that she wants to hear more about how you were chosen to carry Jesus."

Her face brightened immediately. "Oh! My Deacon at Pastor Gray's church said it was imacu... Imacumate... Immaculate conception." She finished proudly. "He said that the reason I'm feeling sick when I wake up is because of Jesus!"

"Okay, sweetie, did you and the Deacon do anything... different... recently?" Melissa asked with the beginnings of a cringe.

"Yeah! After our special time last week I asked him why God wanted me to throw up in the mornings and he had me go potty on a plastic thingy. He told me I was very special and that it was because I get to carry Jesus!"

The stony silence stretched for some time as the girls looked to each other for help.

"Hey guys! Sorry I'm late." Josie paused as she saw her cousin. "Hey, Amelia! What have you been up to?"

...

Josie dropped her cousin off when lunch was over, and, smiling all the while, thanked her for an enjoyable meal and promised to meet her for lunch again very soon.

"Scoot, I need to see you in the rest room." Josie added cheerfully as they walked away.

Scootaloo couldn't decide if she should say something about the callous way she was taking all this, and was just about to speak up when she noticed the blood dripping from Josie's clenched fist.

"Oh my God! What happened to-"

This time, the edge of pain and rage in her voice was impossible to miss even under the cheery facade. "You carry bandages with you from your summer job... right?" She asked, her voice cracking at the end.

They found an empty bathroom off a side corridor and Scootaloo locked the door.

"Here, let me see that." She ordered in the no-nonsense EMT voice Linda had taught her. Josie presented her right hand, and Scootaloo winced as the fingers of Josie's hand opened, revealing bloody punctures where her nails had been driven into her flesh. She looked up to see tears running down her friend's cheek.

"Hey, this is going to hurt for a while, but I've got all supplies I need right here. Just bear with me and I'll get you patched up in no time."

She led Josie to the sink, thankful for the hundredth time for prosthetic hands that didn't need gloves, and scrubbed out the wounds with soap and water. After drying her hand, she padded the area with gauze and wrapped the palm of her hand with tape to hold the bandage in place. Unfortunately, that meant the easy part was over.

"You really care about her, don't you?"

That was all it took to push her over the edge, and Josie fell to her knees on the hard tile and hugged Scootaloo as she cried.

It was some time before she regained her composure, but at length she managed to explain.

"I... I never told you how I knew Amelia did I?" She sniffed and wiped her nose. "She's only a year and change younger than me. We used to play when we were kids. Softball, basketball... Riding our bikes together." She finished as she broke down sobbing again.

"It was very nice of you to look out for her all those years." Scootaloo consoled. "It couldn't have been easy to have her tagging along with all your other friends."

"No, you don't understand..."

Scootaloo waited patiently, holding her close.

"We used to ride out bikes together when we were nine and ten. We lived on the same street, we were best friends! But...but her parents weren't well off, and she didn't have a bike helmet."

Scootaloo's eyes widened; "You mean...?"

"We were racing on the street and a car pulled out in front of us. She was winning, she was out in front, she didn't have time to dodge!"

"Oh my God... Josie, I'm so sorry!"

Josie was actually shaking in her arms as she continued. "I ran and got help... I prayed... I prayed so hard for her not to die..."

For a few moments, the little tiled bathroom was silent but for her sniffles and the drip of water falling from a leaky tap. She seemed to be putting herself back together though, and when she spoke again the hard edge had returned to her voice.

"But she did. The friend I knew died in that ambulance, leaving only a broken, crippled child behind with no memory of us or anyone else. I could have been the one who died that day, and if nothing else I have to believe I'm still here to help her when I can."

"And now after everything else that's happened, that chauvinist Pastor Gray and his anti-woman policies are going to put her through all this?! No. This has gone on long enough."

Josie stood up, dried her eyes and brushed herself off. "Scootaloo, I need you get everyone on the squad together after school tonight – we are going to need all of their help for this. We're also going to need your Papa's help to make this work; do you think he'll be willing?"

"Um... I'm sure he'd be happy to help, but what are we going to do?"

"Something drastic."

...

They had to be sure of their suspicions before they got too far, and with Scootaloo's help Josie soon had proof that Amelia was indeed pregnant. After school they rode the bus home with her to break the news to her parents.

At first her father flatly denied it, saying her weight only made her look that way, however the positive pregnancy test brought them up cold, and Scootaloo repeated back everything Amelia had said at lunch while the girl played with Legos in the next room.

"We have to call the police, and you're going to need to contact an adoption agency too. I know this isn't going to be easy, but we have to put him away for this so he doesn't hurt any more kids."

Her father's response was not what she was expecting. "Well... Are you sure it was really the Deacon?"

Scootaloo stared at him in confusion. "You heard what she told us. Who else could it be?"

"Well... We don't know for sure..." her mother backpedaled.

"The paternity test will soon settle that." Josie replied levelly. "And an amniocentesis would show the results even sooner. As soon as Amelia makes an appearance in a hospital the staff will make some inquiries, and then when they hear what happened they'll take samples and involve the social workers and the police."

This seemed to worry them even more, and after a few strained glances Amelia's parents thanked them for their help and sent them both on their way.

As they stood on the porch, Scootaloo looked at Josie in confusion. "What was that about?"

"You don't know them very well, so I'll explain." Josie replied in strained tones as she stepped off the porch. "They've just been told that their daughter is pregnant with a child she is in no way fit to care for. Not the neighbor's daughter, not a friend's daughter, their daughter. They've been campaigning to make abortion illegal for years, and now they suddenly find themselves badly in need of it."

"Abortion!? But they're members of Pastor Gray's church! They-"

"Yes." Josie continued in tones of anger and bitterness. "But that was before they had to deal with it themselves. Do you know what difference religion makes in likelihood of choosing abortion? None." She practically spat the word. "Because it's easy to tell others what to do, it's easy to hand out 'abstinence rings' but when you have failed as a parent, when it's your child, and you're looking at the next eighteen years of your life, suddenly it's not so easy anymore. After they figure out how far along she is they'll realize just how far they have to travel to find a state where late-term abortion is still legal. I'd expect them to come to you for a quiet airplane ride sometime in the next few days Scoot."

"But...!"

"You should probably offer first." She continued in tired tones. "Regardless of what else is going on, can you honestly say it's fair to force a third grader to give vaginal birth to an eight pound child?"

"And forcing her to have an abortion is fair?!"

Josie wheeled about on Scootaloo, her anger peaked. "Well, we kind of lost our chance for what was fair and right when she got pregnant!" She yelled. "Whose fault is it that she didn't know any better? Who pulled the sex-ed classes that would have given her a fighting chance? Who hired that pedo without bothering to run a background check?" Josie's eyes were wide and her expression had gone beyond anger, leaving a face that didn't look particularly sane.

Scootaloo took a step back. She had never seen her friend like this, and didn't know what to do.

"Okay, okay! I'll help however I can, just please calm down." She reached out and held her hand. "Didn't you say you needed my Papa's help for this plan of yours? Why don't we go to my house and talk to him. Goodness knows Conner would welcome the friendly company."

Josie used the walk back to calm down, and by the time they stepped into the kitchen, she was functional again. Kevin and Jayne listened while she explained what had happened, and what she wanted to do about it. Scootaloo had kept her dads up to date on some of this, and Conner's arrival and informal adoption had certainly raised concerns about her school, but neither knew exactly how bad it had gotten. By the time she finished, Kevin was nodding agreement, and had pulled out a tablet to order fabric, patterns and supplies.

"Okay, for a protest like this we'll need as many people as you can get. How many do you think you can convince?"

"I'm guessing we can probably get about a quarter to half of the high school girls to participate. The other girls who've been hurt haven't just been numbers and they're not just fellow students. I know several of them personally, and that doesn't count all the brothers and sisters, cousins and friends who have watched their lives fall apart around them.

"If school had always been fucked up it would be harder to sell this, but our school used to be one of the best. We aren't idiots; we can see the damage being done. Scoot and I need to talk with the squad and get them to help with the recurring. Its only Monday today... Do you think we can have the sewing done in time for next Monday?"

Kevin grinned. "If you get me some slave labor to run the sewing machines it could. Does anyone else on the squad know how to sew?"

"I know Conner and I do." Scootaloo amended. "How many of these will we need?"

"At least one hundred. They're not too hard to make, but they won't be cheap either. Can you guys afford this?"

Jayne and Kevin exchanged glances and all nodded.

"What you're doing is very brave, and we'll help in any way we can."
> Ch. 15 Hard Choices
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV & Jan McNeville


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release



Chapter 15: Hard Choices

"Um, remind me again why we're doing this?" Melissa asked nervously.

The cheerleading squad had picked Wednesday morning as the warm-up for their protest, and groups of four girls each were standing at the main hallway intersections with signs protesting the removal of sex ed. To ensure they got attention as well as doing some good, each group had a plastic punch bowl filled to the brim with condoms, and as the bell rang, they were soon mobbed by high-schoolers eager for free access to what many stores kept behind a locked counter.

The atmosphere of relief and plenty lasted almost five minutes before principal Gray found out what the commotion was about. He only had time to confront one group and steal their supplies before the class change was done, but Josie had briefed them to expect this, and with each successive class change of the day, the cheerleaders were out in force, spreading the word about the protest on Monday and handing out more free contraception. With each class change, Principal Gray would catch another group or two, and rail at them, threatening suspension or worse, and as the day went on his temper did not improve. By the time the last class rolled around he made an angry announcement over the PA that anyone else caught distributing 'sex aids' would be arrested on the spot by Officer Hogan and hauled out of the school in handcuffs.

When the announcement ended, Josie smiled across her desk at Melissa and Scootaloo who both looked worried.

"We better not do this again," Melissa whispered. "I don't want to get arrested!"

Josie just kept smiling as she kidded her. "Oh, don't look so worried, they're just like the fuzzy ones."

To the surprise of both of them, Melissa blushed bright red and buried her nose in her book.

Scootaloo wondered, but continued anyway. "Josie, I know we've done some good today, we've handed out hundreds of condoms, and with any luck we may have saved someone's future, but I've never seen the principal this angry! I think he meant what he said."

Josie's smile still didn't falter. "I sure hope he did, I'm counting on it. I suspect that before the day is out someone will remind him that there aren't enough cuffs for all the cheerleaders, and that we could still defy his threat if we wanted to."

Melissa put down her book, now looking very worried as she quietly whispered. "You want us to get arrested?!"

Scootaloo wrung her hands. "I don't know about this, Josie..."

"Stop and think about this. We tried talking with Gray, and he blew us off. We wrote letters and tried talking to the higher-ups in the administration, and they blew us off. Nobody cares what we think, and the usual channels aren't working, so that just leaves us the last option. The Court Of Public Opinion."

"The court of what?"

"It means if we want anything to change, we have to get the word out and make people care. A bunch of cheerleaders advocating for sex-ed is amusing, but it's not newsworthy. An entire cheerleading team getting arrested on trumped-up charges by a corrupt principal and hauled out of school in handcuffs, that's newsworthy. Remember how we drilled on what we would say today when confronted? We're trying to provoke Mr. Gray into doing something stupid. Provided we can get some news crews to be waiting in front of the school at lunch on Monday, this whole city will see exactly what kind of a person we're dealing with."

Scootaloo still looked confused. "But Monday at lunch... That's the protest. I thought we were going to be in it? I'm almost done with my outfit."

"Sorry, Scoot, but you won't be needing your outfit. The squad is going to be the focus of the protest, by standing up for what's right and very publicly showing what pastor Gray thinks of women."

"But getting arrested?" Melissa seemed to be trying to sink into the floor. "I don't know if I can do that..."

"Exactly." Josie deadpanned. "You're a teenage girl, just like the rest of us. He knows we're 'good girls,' that we have clean records, and that we don't want any trouble. Like most bullies, he's using that against us by changing the rules."

Her voice took on an authoritative note as she imitated his voice. "'You better sit down and shut up little girl. If you don't do as I say, I'll humiliate you in front of the whole school. You'll be all alone in front of everyone, they'll laugh at you, and then your parents will have to leave work early to come get you. They'll have to tell their bosses that their little girl got arrested at school. You want that? No? Then you better do what I say. You had better put up with the removal of sex ed.'" Her voice became more ragged as she went on. "You better not say anything when a friend gets pregnant and her life falls apart because I kept her ignorant. You better not tell anyone when the deacon rapes your childhood best friend and lies about it."

Josie struggled to calm down as Melissa and Scootaloo hung their heads in shame.

"I'm sorry Josie. I... I know we have to do this, it's... it's just hard."

Josie reached out and put a hand on Scootaloo's shoulder. "I know. But if we work together we'll not only be okay, we can fix this whole mess. Do you know what law Gray plans on charging us with to arrest us?"

They shook their heads.

"I don't think he does, either. If one or two others brought condoms to school again he would probably bluster and rant, but good sense would keep him from risking false imprisonment charges. We have to get him so mad that he does something reckless and indefensible like arresting the entire squad. And we have to do it in front of cameras; news, cell phone, the more the better. Do you remember when the squad went to competition for State and Scootaloo's fathers drove?"

"Yeah," Melissa nodded.

"In order to transport or authorize medical attention for a student, there's a form that parents have to sign authorizing teachers and/or chaperones to have emergency custody. I have copies of forms for you from Ms. Chisholm's computer, so if you get arrested with us, Scoot's dads can take both of you home, assuming we're released on recognizance. So your folks don't have to leave work early."

"...You've really thought this out. And what about your folks?"

"Seriously? My parents have an arrest record longer than some serial killers. Lots of college protests, apparently. It was my Mom who suggested I get the emergency-custody forms from Ms. C. and have them ready for you."

"So if you get arrested, your folks are okay with that?"

"...I think they may actually have had a blank page waiting in my baby book for this day. Mom might even cry. Parents!" That brought Josie's smile back, for a second.

"So while everyone else is getting dressed up for the protest, we'll be getting arrested in front of the school?" Scootaloo asked with some trepidation.

"If everything goes well, then yes. At practice tonight we're going to go over what we can and can't say to him on Monday. We can't use bad language and we definitely can't say anything negative about religion, but we still have to have enough material to get him really mad. If he keeps his cool on Monday, or if he doesn't arrest us, that makes us look like spoiled children and him look like the level-headed adult. For this to work, we have to reveal him for what he is."

The weekend was a chaotic storm of organizing, sewing and trying to spread the word to anyone who hadn't heard already. Christina, Kevin and Scootaloo kept the sewing machines running with barely a break, and the pile of costumes grew, despite the considerable number of students stopping by to offer encouragement and pick up their own outfits.

Sunday afternoon saw the entire squad knocking on doors and distributing the remaining outfits, reminiscent of a 'get out the vote' drive, and it was between runs that Josie caught up with Scootaloo and Melissa at the house with some important news. They all met up in Scootaloo's bedroom as Josie closed the door.

"It's Amelia. She's had a miscarriage."

Scootaloo looked shocked, while Melissa wore a relieved smile. "Thank goodness. What happened?"

"Apparently she just started feeling awful and her parents had to rush her to the hospital. There was no time to keep it quite or cover anything up; they tried to keep the social worker from figuring it out, but she got Amelia alone long enough to discover the truth. They sent the DNA sample out for testing, and they could have the results back this week."

Scootaloo slowly put it together. "So if we were right, the Deacon isn't going to be able to duck this. He'll be going down for statutory rape."

"I'm just glad Amelia got out of this so easily." Melissa breathed. "No secret trip out to the clinic and no traumatic birth to a child she couldn't possibly take care of."

"Yup. Good thing we got her those prenatal vitamins when we did." Josie smiled.

Scootaloo puzzled over that for a moment before her eyes went wide. "You did this?!"

Melissa put a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay, Scoot. This was the best way this mess could have ended."

"Hey, don't look at me." Josie feigned innocence. "I just got her a jar of prenatal vitamins. If it just happened that the first two were special ones that solved all her problems, why, I wouldn't know anything about that."

"But... How did you even get...?"

"Oh, I don't know." Melissa replied thoughtfully. "We might have found a local dealer of street drugs and persuaded him to expand his offering. We could have looked up the formula online to make something out of household chemicals."

Josie stepped in. "We could have ordered RU-486 from a shady online pharmacy like the kind that peddles off-brand and Canadian Viagra just as easily to gullible teenage boys. We might even have found a sympathetic local pharmacist, or a pharmacy tech who was selling on the side. There are so many possibilities and, you know, I wouldn't know the first thing about any of them," she finished with a smile.

"You really think you did the right thing?" Scootaloo asked, still not sure herself.

"Well, thanks to her parents and her school, she really only had three options left. She could take a long trip to a clinic that would let her parents hide the identity of the father until he raped again, she, with her third-grade understanding of the world, could give vaginal or C-section birth to an eight-pound baby, or she could feel sick for an evening, go to sleep at the hospital, and have all her problems disappear." Josie finished.

Melissa followed up with a scowl. "I'm particularly keen on the part where the Deacon who did this disappears."

"But...still. I thought you said keeping abortion legal was about a woman's choice and that no man or politician should have the right to make that choice for her."

"I did. The thing is, Scoot, there's a difference between a woman and a mentally challenged woman with the cognitive capacity of a child. If disabled minors lack the capacity to legally consent to sex, they also lack the ability to make such a difficult and important choice. That, and you're assuming something else about my being pro-choice." Josie sighed. "You know I'm a Christian, for a given value of 'Christian,' and that a lot of people from my faith are not cool with the whole 'killing babies' thing."

"Yeah. Amelia's parents are as anti-choice, pro-life...whatever it's called as it's possible to get."

"Despite the fact that they did call your airport, just not you, about a ride. Apparently someone implied that you couldn't be trusted not to reveal their hypocrisy." Melissa elbowed Josie in the ribs.

"It did create a nasty delay while the airport director called a lot of fifty-year-old pilots to see who'd be available, didn't it?" Josie asked parenthetically. "I'm not going to claim that I have all the answers about what God does or doesn't think about when life begins. Hell, I'm not even going to bother with the whole 'is it a fetus, is it a baby' question, because to me, that's not the issue. Choice exists not because fucking should never have consequences or because sometimes murderin' a fetus for shits n' giggles is a woman's God-given right. Choice exists because there are times, awful as it is to even think about, when death in the womb is more merciful than a life out here."

"And you're qualified to make that choice?" Scootaloo asked uncertainly, still struggling to take this all in.

"Not in the slightest. I'm a teenage-fucking-girl myself, you think I'd make any better of a choice if it'd happened to me? I can't promise I wouldn't have kept the kid, looked into open adoption or even taken a running start at raising the kid myself. Thing is, Amelia's parents didn't even consider that, and Amelia isn't capable of making the decision any more than she's capable of raising the kid herself."

Josie sighed. "That, and while I was looking up the laws on open adoptions, rape of minors, all that mess, I found something a little dark in this state's parental laws. If Amelia had kept the baby, gotten a paternity test -which is inevitable, by the way, when a mentally challenged person names her statutory rapist, the state we live in doesn't consider maternal rape adequate grounds to terminate paternal parental rights, at least not without a very lengthy trial during which the rapist babydaddy can block adoption, demand visitation in prison, all kinds of nastiness. That, plus the fact that the average sentence for statutory rape would let that psycho deacon out right about the time his legal offspring would be the age he seems to prefer...well...I just couldn't take the chance that either Amelia'd have a girl or he wouldn't be too picky about gender."

Scootaloo had taken to pacing back an forth, but she stopped and shook her head at that. "But her parents were taking her for an abortion anyway!"

"Yeah, and that's too much of a crapshoot, too. It isn't like Amelia has Down syndrome and actually looks disabled. She's got Traumatic Brain Injury and she looks just like everybody else. You'd have to talk with her for a hell of a lot longer than the mandatory pre-abortion counseling session's average length to realize she wasn't entirely capable of consent, but it wouldn't take five minutes to know that she wanted that baby. Odds are fair that the clinic would have told her parents to go pound sand. And if first one and then another did that, while I'm sure they'd eventually find somebody to get it done, by that time it'd really, really be too late. It's ironic, but the same 'are you sure you want to terminate this pregnancy' lecture bullshit their own side got passed into law just about everywhere was actually the biggest thing in Amelia's parents' way."

Josie sighed again. "If there was a way to get the kid born without traumatizing her and off to a good family where his or her evil rapist dad would never find her, that'd be one thing, but my parents tried for hours to talk her folks out of the abortion and ...no dice. That, and the whole 'inability to admit a DNA sample from products of conception aborted across state lines' in court thing was actually a selling point to them about getting it done! They didn't want their church to 'get caught up in some scandal!' They're so caught up in what people think of them that they were willing to hide their daughter's rapist! I couldn't take the chance that the kid would grow up with them for custodial grandparents, either."

Scootaloo had given up pacing and sat down hard in her computer chair with look of profound sadness. "Still...it was a hell of a thing to do."

"You don't hear me arguing. I thoroughly expect to have a number of serious conversations with The Big Guy Upstairs for what I did, and it might even be a one-way ticket to the hot place. But even if you could absolutely, positively guarantee that I'm going to hell for...solving the problem, I'd consider slapping a Return-to-Sender label on that kid's soul to keep them out of a world like this well worth it." And then the bravado, the bold fix-it-all, know-it-all attitude Josie wore like armor...somehow, it broke. "I just...well...I didn't quite realize it would hurt this much," she sniffed, looking more like a kicked puppy than Scoot had ever seen, even that day when they found out about Amelia. "Amelia apologized, to me that her baby had gone to be with God. She'd wanted me to be the godmother."

"Godmothers protect children," Melissa reminded gently, patting her friend's shoulder. "I'd say you're qualified."

"...But...does that make sense, Scoot? I know what I did was awful...but you can't necessarily tell me I wasn't right."

Scootaloo slowly nodded. "I guess you are right. I just don't know if I would have the guts to do what you did."

Josie's sigh was ragged with unshed tears. "Well, I didn't have much choice, did I? It was my job to take care of her, and I didn't catch this until now. I have to take care of her." She hung her head and Scootaloo saw a tear running down her cheek. "Because if I don't, it looks like no one else will."
> Ch. 16 Protest and Betrayal
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release



Chapter 16: Protest and Betrayal

The tension was almost palpable by Monday morning. The morning announcements began with a stern reminder from the principal that no more disruptive behavior would be tolerated, especially at the school pep rally later that morning. Scootaloo knew what they had to do, but she still found herself chewing on her pencil as the first period wore on.

During the class change to second she shared nervous glances with several other cheerleaders when they crossed paths in the hall. As second period got started, the girl next to her who she didn't really know except as the Library Club president passed her a tightly folded note with a wink and a nod to her hand. Scootaloo continued to feign attention to the teacher as she quietly opened the note, and nearly dropped the handcuff key that fell out.

"Scoot – thought you might need this. Good luck today."

Startled, Scootaloo openly stared at the girl who's name she couldn't remember. Without acknowledging her look, the girl gave her just the slightest nod and laid her hands, palms down, on her desk. On the back of each hand, written in red ink were the words 'I must not tell lies.'

A second later, she heard a snatch of a song whistled by one of the boys from Drama Club who'd been catching hell since almost any protection for gay or even just theater-fan guys disappeared under Pastor Gray. It was from 'West Side Story,' and as he tapped the side of his nose conspirator-style and winked at her, she remembered the lyrics were 'Play it cool' and that the song was about getting ready for a rumble.

Then, in the hallway on the way to third period, she could've sworn that one of the Goth girls winked at her and flashed a metal-horns gesture of support. A pair of girls and a boy whose campus-interfaith group had been driven to the margins by Gray matched pace with her for a second, the Jewish girl whispering something that sounded encouraging in Yiddish, the Sikh boy nodded in a meaningful way and tapped his jeans pocket, and the sole atheist girl said 'Brave thing you're doing!' in a stage whisper. They peeled off in different directions before a teacher could spot them and Scoot's next sight was of tall Demi Findlay, Josie's big brother, saying something in Klingon to Melissa. She patted his hand and Scootaloo realized that just about every clique in the school, from Literature nerds to Goths to the religious kids to even the Drama Club and the super-geeky boys from A/V were, if not on board with, at least aware of the protest.

She felt stage-fright beginning to make her chest tighten.

The morning wore slowly on, the clock ticking its way on towards the pep rally just before lunch when it was all going to happen. They had been over the plan again and again, but there were still so many things that could go wrong. As third period drug on the clock seemed to slow down as Scootaloo's mind imagined all the ways they could fail.

'What if only a handful of people join the protest?'

'What if they all chicken out?'

'What if nobody shows up to see this?'

'What if I get singled out? The only girl out in front of the entire school?'

She shook her head and tried to stay calm, but as third period ended and the entire school started filing into the gym she was just about ready to pull her mane out.

She felt like a fugitive as made for the girls' locker room with her saddle bag stuffed with condoms, having to travel the entire gym floor to get to the locker room on the other end of the floor. When she made it inside, she saw that the other squad members were looking at least as haggard as she was.

It was only as they changed into their uniforms that the atmosphere of nerves gradually faded.

"All right," Josie finally spoke up. "We all know what the stakes are here."

There were general nods of agreement, and a little enthusiasm.

"And we all know why we're doing this. We're doing this to get that old baggage kicked out of our school."

This brought murmurs of approval from several girls.

"We're doing this so we never have to take a friend or a sister to the abortion clinic."

For the first time, Scootaloo could feel anger as the group agreed.

"We're doing this for all the girls whose lives he's already shattered."

All of them knew someone who had been affected by Gray, and this got a shout of agreement as the momentum built.

"We're doing this for Amelia! We're doing this so that bastard can never rape another little girl again!"

That did it. The squad was now cheering Josie on and chanting as though getting ready for any other meet. Outside they could hear the band whipping up the crowd in the gym, and they each grabbed a bowl, loaded it up with the forbidden condoms, and burst through the doors, right on cue.

The response from the stands was electric, and as they formed two lines and showered the crowd with contraband, they belted out the school cheers just as they always had.

To say Pastor Gray was angry would be an understatement. Despite the warning, he hadn't expected a rebellion on this scale, and as his face burned red with rage he began shouting threats and ultimatums that the squad tactfully ignored. Josie swung by and showered the group of teachers with a handful of condoms, one of which stuck in his combover as she pranced off, still belting out the cheers with the rest of the squad.

Now seething with rage, Mr. Gray called Officer Hogan over and ordered him to help, grabbing a pair of cuffs for himself. The two of them each picked a cheerleader and unceremoniously yanked their hands behind them and cuffed them, spilling the half empty bowls of condoms in the process. They had obviously expected that a dramatic gesture like this would bring the protest to a halt, but Melissa only stopped long enough to fill her bowl back up from the one Josie had dropped, gave Mr. Gray a cheery smile, and went right back to cheering.

Officer Hogan and Mr. Gray were able to cuff four more cheerleaders before they ran out of handcuffs and Gray, nearly hopping with rage, had to send Officer Hogan back to the office to get more. Fortunately Josie had warned them that this might happen, and Scootaloo went back to the locker room and returned with more bags which she used to re-fill their bowls as crowd continued to cheer for the squad.

Eventually Officer Hogan returned with a box of cuffs, and as the two of them chased down the remaining members of the squad they started to get a mix of boos and catcalls from the disapproving crowd. Scootaloo chose not to comment on the stupidity of putting handcuffs on a prosthetic as she let the principal cuff her, suffering his anger with a wide smile as the boos and yells from the crowd became louder.

Even Mr. Gray could tell that this wasn't going his way as the band ground to a stop and only the angry boos and insults from the students were left.

"Officer Hogan! Help me get these sluts out to the front entrance, you can take it from there." Gray shouted over the crowd.

As they were herded out of the gym, Scootaloo caught sight of Melissa grinning; he had just shouted that in front of hundreds of camera phones.

Without their hands, the girls couldn't easily navigate the doors, so the two men shoved the squad members out as best they could. Scootaloo shouldered her way through and as she came to a stop outside she felt something pull on her mane. Looking left she was surprised to find Christina nervously holding on to her as best she could with her hands cuffed behind her. She was blushing fiercely as she answered Scootaloo's questioning look with a whisper. "I just need to hold onto you... Please..."

Scootaloo smiled warmly and edged closer to her. "It's okay, I don't know what I'd do without friends like you."

Only once they had dragged the last girl out, knocking several others to the rough concrete did they stop long enough to look around. Parked in front of the school were at least half a dozen news vans and nearly twice that many reporters already filming as the cuffed cheerleaders reached down as best they could and helped their friends to stand back up.

"What is this?! What are all of you doing here?!" Pastor Gray thundered as the first crew approached.

"Sir! Would you care to comment on the protest at your school today?"

Caught off guard, Gray answered. " What?... But it... It was nothing I couldn't handle. These students just disrupted a pep rally and distributed contraband in flagrant violation of school policy."

The news crew never missed a beat, almost as though they had been briefed. "Sir, we were told they were distributing condoms to other students. Is that a violation of this school's policy?"

"It most certainly is a violation of school policy and the law to hand out sex aids in a school!"

"Thank you, and who was it that authorized that change in policy?" a reporter asked.

"And when was that made a law?" another one piped up.

"What are you talking about?" Gray asked, his anger still running high. "This has always been policy!"

Scootaloo smiled at this; there was no such rule in the school handbook, nor anywhere else in the county or state regulations. He had just admitted to arresting them all without good cause. "Funny how people in a half-religious, half-crazy hurry to subjugate women forget all kinds of paperwork," Josie had smirked upon discovering this bureaucratic oversight.

As the reporters continued to pepper him with questions, Gray's anger only seemed to build, and just as he was responding to allegations of chauvinism, a word whose meaning he didn't seem to grasp, the front doors of the school opened and the rest of the protest began in earnest.

Caught in the middle of a tirade, it took Gray a good thirty seconds to realize that most of the reporters were no longer looking at him or the increasingly uncomfortable Officer Hogan. He turned around and just stared, obviously having difficulty processing what he was seeing.

Standing behind him were already over a hundred students, all of them wearing a variation on the Middle Eastern burqa that covered the girls completely from head to toe. The was no chanting, no youthful yells or jeering, just stony silence as their blank veils regarded them, and as Gray stammered and cursed, the doors of the school remained open and more and more students joined them.

Several of the news crews had gone to talk to the rest of the protesters, leaving the steaming Mr. Gray behind with a now very uncomfortable officer Hogan. They tried several times to get someone to comment, but despite their prodding, the rapidly growing crowd of high school girls remained eerily silent, only producing variations on the same message written over and over on cards or the backs of an envelops. Into the silence, broken only by the shuffling of feet and the rattling handcuff chains, the news anchors began reading the messages.

"This is how Pastor Gray likes his women."

"When I watched a friend's life crumble with an unwanted pregnancy, this is how I felt."

"Under Pastor Grey's governance, the teen pregnancy rate at his old school doubled."

"Is this what you want for your daughters?"

"This is where we are going."

More and more students continued to pour thought the doors, and as Scootaloo watched in amazement, she saw that some of them were not using the burqas she helped make. Scattered throughout the crowd were different styles, different colors and shapes. A few were better made than theirs, though most were more crudely done, the odd one here or there apparently made out of garbage bags, but nonetheless, they were here. As her heart swelled with pride, one of the reporters singled her out.

"Ms. Scott, what made you decide to lead this protest?"

At first she thought he must mean someone else, but then she felt a great many eyes on her as he repeated the question.

"Ms. Scootaloo Scott! Why have you led this protest today?"

Her heart skipped a beat and she felt the pit of her stomach drop as she turned to face the reporter. "Wha- What?"

"Several sources have reported that you have been leading and orchestrating the protest today."

She had been ready for a lot, but not for this. With most of the squad looking on, several more cameras focused in, waiting for a response as she pulled at her handcuffs, and struggled for words.

"But... I didn't..."

A single face among the cheerleaders caught her eye. Nearly everyone else looked surprised or shocked, everyone but Josie, who simply nodded towards the cameras.

One reporter rephrased the question. "What were you trying to accomplish here today?"

Scootaloo had spent a lot of time in front of cameras over the years. Her mind latched onto that question and she pushed her fright aside as best she could and answered.

Ten feet away, Pastor Grey looked like he was about to have a stroke. He was ranting at the assembled students, raving about violations of dress code and threatening them with joining the cheerleaders if they didn't go back inside at once.

The stony silence was unbroken, his voice the only one to be heard. "Oh, you think you can hide behind those things, don't you?! Let's just see who you are!" He finished as he grabbed a burqa and yanked it off. Before him stood a heavyset and very frightened looking girl Scootaloo knew from her advanced chem class.

"I'll see you expelled for this!" He thundered as he began grabbing the burkas and tearing them off one after another, revealing several more nerdy looking girls, two goths, and one big guy she recognized from the varsity football team who just fixed Gray with a stern look.

"What the hell is your problem?!"

Still getting no answer, he moved on down the line, not even bothering to look at some of them until he came to a particularly tall person who, once the burqa was yanked off, turned out to be Ms. Chisholm.

"You!? I'll see you fired for this! You can't do this-"

Her stern expression matched her deadpan tone as she finally spoke. "I think you want to stop this. Now."

He continued to rant at her, taking several seconds to follow her gaze to the last group of girls he had disrobed. Of the eight, most looked scared, but two stood out; one girl who looked about fourteen was clothed only in her underwear and as he stared at her she held his gaze.

"These burqas were made accurately. They can be torn off us by a man at any time. I think you can guess what comes after that."

As it finally seemed to register that this was not looking good for him, the smallest girl stepped forward, also in her underwear. She was shaking with fear, but the football player had a hand on her shoulder, backing her up as she slowly stepped forward.

"I went to middle school under you." She stammered and tried to collect herself as the cameras looked on. She was maybe fourteen years old and five foot one, and next to the huge linebacker beside her she looked especially frail and small. It was also impossible to ignore the bulge of her abdomen.

"I trusted you. I... I trusted you would look out for the kids in my school! You kept me ignorant! You lied to me!" Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks as she struggled to continue. "I could have done things differently, but I didn't know!"

"Well that's between you and your boyfriend! It's not my problem if you can't keep your knees together!" Gray's angry retort obviously stung her, and she turned her back on him, openly sobbing now as the linebacker covered her in his jacket. The huge football player slowly turned to face the principal, his hands balled into fists.

"I'm not her boyfriend." he managed through clenched teeth.

"That's not my problem! That's between you and your ex-girlfri-"

"I'm her older brother and she was date-raped."

That seemed to bring the principal back to the present as he looked up into the angry face of the huge man.

"So, if it's not your problem, whose problem is it?" A girl Scootaloo knew from her math class asked. "You could have prevented this! You could have taught her basic information and we wouldn't be here today! But you didn't, did you? And because you didn't do your job, all of us are going to have to clean up your mess!"

"This is ridiculous! I'm not going to violate my religious convictions so some slu-" The linebacker pulled his fist back and a number of others jumped forward to hold him back as pastor Grey backed off a few steps. At a safe distance, he looked him in the eye "I will not help a bunch of sluts like your little sister there avoid the consequences of their actions! My job is to teach to the state tests! If you ignore the Bible, the word of God, you are going to get what you deserve! I just pray you can change your sinful ways!"

It was now taking a good six people to hold back the girl's older brother as he struggled to reach the principal. Grey turned back to where Officer Hogan was waiting with the cheerleaders.

"Technically, couldn't that last statement be construed as a school administrator leading a prayer on the grounds of a public school?" Josie asked rhetorically, directly into the microphone of a fellow from Channel Four.

"Officer! I want that boy arrested for attempted assault! And those two as well!"

He added pointing at the two girls still shivering in their underwear. "And shut that one up!" he cried, pointing at Josie as if it were all her doing. "What would your parents think?"

"Hi, Sweetie!" a voice from beyond the reporters cried. The newscasters turned and saw a couple dressed in purple-and-white 'I Love My Cheerleader' shirts that the athletic association parent boosters had sold for last year's fundraiser, special hats in the school colors and, inexplicably, they had mini-pompoms in the hands that weren't holding cameras. Josie's dad was filming and her mom was taking pictures. They waved as if they were at the halftime show of a football game.

"Our baby girl's first protest!"

"I'm so proud!"

Hogan nodded reluctantly, (but not before glancing in shock at Josie's parents as if they might have, in fact, been from Mars,) and got out another pair of cuffs. But before he could close the distance, a sudden flurry of motion and noise drew everyone's attention to the huge TV that adorned the front entrance of the school. The camera angle swung around, and settled on the image of a somewhat scruffy looking tenth grade girl sitting in a hospital bed.

"Amelia, could you please tell me about what happened at your church?" Josie's voice asked.

A few of the cheerleaders knew, but to everyone else, this was news. Silence fell as Amelia proceeded to talk about her 'special time' with Pastor Gray's deacon. As she went into detail about what the deacon had had her do, Scootaloo could see that even some of the seasoned reporters were cringing.

"I was a little scared, but when I told Pastor Gray I was scared, he said I should pray about it. So I knew then that it was okay. Sometimes Deacon would even come visit me at school. In the special-needs classroom, there are padded..."

For the first time, the assembled protesters could be heard, and the anger now bubbling to the surface was visceral. As the reporters re-focused their attention on pastor Gray, officer Hogan stepped forward.

"Mr. Gray? I'm placing you under arrest in connection with the molestation and rape of... whoever that little girl is." he finished, a tremor audible in his voice. The principal was still too shocked to respond, and for the first time in almost half an hour, he was silent as the officer cuffed him, stuffed him into the back of his waiting cruiser and drove off to the station.

Christina was still holding her mane, and as cheers erupted from the assembled crowd she asked. "Does... Does this mean we won?"

"I... I think so..." Scootaloo answered, still obviously shaken.

"Hey, what about us?" Melissa asked, pulling at her handcuffs.

"Oh, hold on a moment, will you?" Josie answered from the back as the other protesters spread out, and several came to congratulate them. She fished the cuff key out of her pocket and proceeded to unlock the rest of them. As the groups mingled and the teachers tried to herd everyone back inside, Scootaloo noticed Melissa tuck the cuffs into her waist band. When she noticed Scootaloo's raised eyebrow she blushed and whispered. "What? Demi only has the one pair."

"Demi...you...what?"

"Who did you think was getting the video running during the pep rally?"

"You...this..."

"Yeah, the condoms were Stage One, the video was Stage Two, and Stage Three was strictly the grounds of the A/V Club," Melissa explained, removing a little clip from her ear and turning the end of what'd looked like a Bluetooth headset at her face. "Love you, Dem," she told the tiny camera, and to her side, there were two millisecond-long bursts of static on the TV screen, as if the unseen controller of the broadcast had just used glitches to say 'You, too.'

"Static? I thought that feed was digital," Josie remarked, stepping away from the clump of reporters now that the kids in their underwear and the brave pregnant ninth-grader's big brother were the focus of the attention.

"It is," Melissa sighed, in an entirely soppy and totally lovesick voice that would've made even Scootaloo want to heave if it hadn't been so, well...adorable.

That, and she was distracted.

"Josie...those reporters thought I was leading the protest."

"Yep."

"But you're the one who called them. You're the one who organized everything. You even had your geek-ass brother in on it!"

"Technically, I had both of my geek-ass brothers in on it," Josie explained, preening a little. "Laurie shot the video at the hospital and encoded it. Demi handled the broadcast. I was worried for a second that he might start it at the wrong time, but he said he'd manage." She noticed the camera in Melissa's hand. "Oh, he used one of them to watch? Funny, I assumed he'd hack the security cameras...did he give that to you?"

"Who cares about the stupid camera? Josie, you told those newscasters I was running this!"

"Well, of course. How the hell else did you think I'd get them all to show up?"

"But I didn't run this! It wasn't even my idea!"

"No shit, Scoot. Thing is, if an angry teenage girl whose cousin got molested starts a school protest, that's only going to even warrant print coverage if it's a very slow news day. If a talking cartoon pony with guaranteed ratings decides to lead her sister suffragettes with pompoms and the entire school in a mass protest against an already somewhat-controversial authority figure, that's the headline. It'd take a mass shooting or a terrorist attack to beat that for the regional daytime Emmy for news coverage."

Josie was matter-of-fact, straightforward and completely unapologetic. "And the best part is that until it actually happens, they can present it to their show-runners either way. 'Troubled child star falls in with malcontents?' 'Last of her kind and scientific savior of a legion turns to social justice?' 'Wow, the famous Scootaloo Scott is a cheerleader and we get to film her in uniform?' Scoot, we even got the sportscasters to film this thing. Two thirds of those cameras were running live."

"But you lied!"

"No, I presented the story in a way that mass media would find not only palatable, but irresistible. You think I could've told them about the rape and the pregnancies without turning them all off because it was depressing as fuck? You think they wanted to show a bunch of cheerleaders uniting their entire school to run a principal who was complicit in rape essentially out on a rail? What the fuck would that do to the status quo? If ordinary teenage girls promised that kind of a story, they'd never have believed us. So Phase Three was a secret, even to you. I thought-" here she gave Melissa the strangest look, "it was a secret to everyone."

"So you told them it was me running things? Josie, that's not fair!"

"We didn't do this for credit, Scoot. And frankly, I don't think the genuine look of shock you gave them when that screen lit up is going to hurt the argument that this wasn't just you by any means. You can't fake that look."

Josie looked a little sheepish. "That, and you're the only one of us with media experience. I couldn't depend on Christina to not stammer or get scared, even Melissa isn't the best with public speaking and...I'm not so hot with it myself. You're used to this. You've been on talk shows since you were a tiny filly. Those reporters asked you what the fuck was up and you were poised, confident and in control. You were on-message, didn't so much as use an 'um' and you came off as calmer, cooler and more rational than that idiot Gray."

"I was terrified!"

"Yes, but you were also the best public speaker we had, you're the only cartoon pony in the world and like it or not, Scoot, you're news. I had to talk up your involvement or none of these networks would even have shown up. You were the single biggest draw we had and I had to use that."

"You mean you had to use me."

"I didn't lie when I told them Scootaloo Scott's cheerleading squad was leading a protest."

"Well, that's some back-assward journalism, Josie Findlay. Melissa's the squad captain. So I'm the only pony here, big deal. I'd probably have been okay with it if you'd've told me what was going on!"

"I couldn't do that. If you'd sounded rehearsed, if it looked for one second like you were really running this thing, Pastor Gray's political party would be on you like flies on shit. As it is, all you have to say is that the squad did this, or hell, throw me under the bus right back if you feel like it! The tape shows a cartoon pony who was not leading the protest, but who had her friends' backs in the clutch. And don't forget, you're the only one here with no stake in this. They can't slut-shame the only girl in this place who is biologically incapable of being knocked up by a teenage boy."

"No stake! No stake in this? Because I'm a pony?"

"Poor choice of words maybe. You're the most bulletproof person here. Gray can call us sluts because we're young women. You're a different species, it's kind of harder to jump on you. Especially considering the school only has that new stadium, the sponsorships and those fancy new TV screens at every entrance for morning announcements because you're here."

"This wasn't supposed to be about me!"

"It wasn't and it was. You're one of us and we relied on you this time, but you know you can expect the same from any one of the crew. Sometimes the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few," Melissa explained.

"...Was that a 'Star Trek' quote?" Josie asked, looking suspicious again for a split-second.

"So you were in on this, too, Mel?" Scootaloo asked, almost tearfully.

"I had no idea Josie was persuading the reporters to show up because you'd be here," Melissa soothed, patting her friend on the withers near her wings. "But on the other hand, I can't say I'm all that surprised. And it did work."

"You could have told me. You could have asked me."

"Scoot, I know this seems really unfair and backstabby-"

"Seems? It seems because it is, Josie! And you know what? I'm tired of you making the hard decisions for everyone because you're some iron lady geek-girl with everyone from Jesus to Spock behind her. Sometimes it's not about you, either! This wasn't fair and…and I don't think I ever want to see you again."

"...I had prepared for that eventuality," Josie replied, her face absolutely expressionless.

"You were prepared for me to hate you like the Machiavellian traitor you are?!"

"Yes. If the cost of ousting Gray was me losing one of my dearest friends, well, I've earned a lot worse than that."

"Can you even hear yourself, you...you sociopath!"

Scootaloo, finally past the point of dealing with her ex-friend, wheeled on her hooves and galloped toward Ms. Chisholm, who was talking with Daddy and Papa. Her parents would take her home. Christina followed behind her and Melissa turned sternly to Josie.

"That was awfully cold."

"Better I lose a friend than we lost this battle," Josie sighed. "I hurt her and she's right to be angry. Better she hate me now than never have gotten those men out of here." Her voice was flat with pain. "If I'm not prepared to lose everything I care about in defense of others, I haven't got the right to friends anyway."

"Okay, you need to snap the fuck out of it. That is some suicide-bomber talk right there."

"Suicide is inefficient and counter-productive."

That was it. Melissa knew there was only one way to shock Josie off her depressive jag.

"Josie...I'm dating your brother."

"Really? I thought he seemed happier." Josie stared at her sneakers.

"I have fucked him several times and enjoyed it in ways of which a lady should never speak. He is exceedingly capable with his tongue and we enjoy depraved pleasures which would melt Pastor Gray's brain right out his hairy ears were he to hear of them."

"Everybody needs a hobby," Josie sat down on a bench, clearly impossibly depressed, but she did look determinedly away from Melissa, and she was blushing.

"I had to sneak into your room for more condoms out of the protest-supplies because we ran out of flavored ones. The cinnamon is our favorite. And we have frequently been making exceedingly erotic comments to each other in plain sight of others at this very school." Melissa watched Josie...still depressed. "In Klingon," she added triumphantly.

That did it.

"Oh, Jesus tap-dancing Tidy Bowl Christ on the blue water, Melissa! Did I need that mental image?" Josie put her hands up to her head as if to protect her skull from exploding with the impossible squicky yuckiness of it all.

"And you know what else? You aren't going to have anyone to bitch to about how exceedingly squicky and gross and awful the very idea of it all is, not until you apologize to Scootaloo!"

"You will assuredly answer for this at the Hague someday. Tactical TMI on an unarmed population of me."

"Yeah, yeah, when the Uniform Code of Military Justice recognizes descriptions of the sheer amount of smutty roleplay we get up to-"

"Please, no-"

"I'm just so comfortable with Demi and he's so accepting of my every fantasy. Even the-"

"OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE! I WILL CALL HER WHEN SHE GETS HOME!"

"Very good. And any time you two fight again, I have explicit text messages I can read aloud. And also emails."

"You are an awful person in every way," Josie growled. "...If...if you help me apologize, I'll help you and Dem keep mom n' dad off your backs."

"I could live with that."

"Though if you make an aunt of me, Melissa Adams, I will need to have you and Demi killed. Purely on principle."

"We went to Planned Parenthood on our fourth date," Melissa explained, getting that ridiculously lovesick note in her voice again. "We both got STD tests and went dutch on an IUD."

"First, ew, second, aren't those like five hundred dollars..."

"Seven, actually, but on the sliding income scale it was very affordable. And then, since we couldn't really do anything that day, what with the insertion and all, we went and got ice cream and saw a movie at the old drive-in out by the airport. Luckily, they make flavored dental dams as well, so ...we managed until I was back into fighting trim."

"This frank-discussion-of-our-sexuality shit is all well and good, Mel, but you're dating my brother." Josie looked seriously pained and cracked a Gatorade from her locker with the air of a tortured martyr, then straightened suddenly. "...Is this part of my punishment for telling the reporters Scootaloo would be here?"

"Oh, yes. And for every fucked-up Steely Dan song you have ever left in my head, and for every time it was your turn to unload the dishwasher and you said it was Demi's."

"...You know about that?"

"I'm dating your brother, Josie. If you had prepared to alienate your closest and dearest friends for the sake of your little sexual revolution, why hadn't you prepared for the less awful but more icky one, that your brother and I might bang like bonobos and then tell you all about it?"

"I'm capable of facing emotional pain bravely. A vicious case of the squicky-feelings, not so much." And with that, Josie's grin came back, then stiffened and faded. "Is she gonna forgive me, Mel?"

"I don't know, Josie," Melissa sighed. "But if she doesn't, I have some extremely smutty fanfiction Demi and I have been writing together that will email right to her smartphone."

"This must be how President Truman felt," Josie sighed. "You try to end a war and pow! A new age of horror and yuckiness! My own brother and my best friend."

"Well, you did kinda bring it on yourself."

"Stalin never had to put up with this shit."
> Ch 17: Among the Last of Their Kind 
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV & Jan Mcevilie


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release


Chapter Seventeen: Among the Last of Their Kind

Scootaloo was sitting disconsolately on the back porch swing Daddy and Papa had specially made for her. It was identical to the wooden porch swing across from it, just with a strong aluminum frame below the wood and a much thicker chain so a pony and as many as two human girls could enjoy it safely at the same time.

That made her think of Josie again and she sighed.

Why did friends have to stab you in the back? Why did it have to hurt when they betrayed you?

And why did she feel so stupid for being surprised by it?

"Your fathers said that you were out here," a low, monotone voice remarked.

Scootaloo looked up and saw a familiar figure. The completely black suit, tie and sunglasses, even though the sun was beginning to set, the gleaming badge on her belt…nobody made an entrance like Agent C.A. Tyler.

"Hey, there," Scoot sighed, motioning to the other swing.

Agent Tyler sat down stiffly, then, the chains of the other swing being at a length optimal for two men over six feet tall, realized her boot didn't touch the ground. The swing moved gently in the breeze and while Tyler seemed a little puzzled by this, she shrugged almost imperceptibly with an 'I'll allow it' look.

"I saw the protest," the agent explained –or, rather, didn't. She had the disconcerting habit of leaving sentences open for other people to finish. There was a long pause.

"So…what do you want to discuss about it?" Scootaloo asked.

"Nothing too particular, I thought it was quite well-done," the agent observed in her neutral voice. "Good organization, a high degree of participation, remarkable timing with the coup de grace, and even the preliminary security measures were excellent. Miss Adams was exactly right to put on an ear camera."

"…You noticed Mel's ear camera?" Scootaloo gasped, almost in disbelief.

"I was impressed by Miss Adams' ear camera. Too few protesters realize the remarkable defensive value of a well-placed and subtle video recorder." And to Scootaloo's surprise, the agent really did sound impressed…for a moment, before returning to officious efficiency. "Of course, in future I will expect you all to remember that redundant systems are a virtue and include button or hairline cameras as well. Miss Findlay's glasses, in particular, could easily be modified to include a small one, and given her penchant for demagoguery; I can't help but consider it a wise investment for her inevitable future encounters with both police and press."

"You should tell her so."

"Why, couldn't you?" The agent's voice took on a mildly sarcastic tone. "Or have you used up all the precocity, maturity and good sense you had for the week and now need to behave like an ordinary teenage girl for a while?" Tyler actually smiled, though her voice remained as clipped and precise as ever. "Can't blame you if you do. After a confrontation like that, I myself often feel the need to consume a whole package of entirely inappropriate candy for a person of my years and watch more than an hour of nostalgic cartoon programming before I feel entirely myself again."

"You…eat candy and watch cartoons?"

"When the stress has been sufficient to provoke the need for such coping mechanisms? Yes. I am particularly fond of Pop Rocks and a show called 'Animaniacs,' do you know it?" Scootaloo shook her head. "Must be from before your time. I shall provide you with an appropriate DVD of same, which may help."

"I…I really can't even picture that."

"Yes, the job carries a certain dignity with it which is arguably incompatible with Pop Rocks. I find that most people can't picture me experiencing stress at all, let alone coping with it in a healthy fashion. One of my junior officers inadvertently witnessed a particularly remarkable display of self-comfort with childish favorites and came within inches of putting himself in for Section Eight before I informed him that he had, in fact, not hallucinated the experience."

"What were you doing?"

"I was consuming the seventh packet of Pop Rocks and singing along with a particular cartoon cat. It was rather a challenge, mind you, as the voice actress for that character is one of the most prominent Broadway stars of my youth."

Just then, Scootaloo remembered 'Animaniacs,' realized what Agent Tyler eating Pop Rocks and singing along with Rita the cat must have looked like, and nearly choked laughing.

"There, that should feel better," the agent consoled with a rare smile. "Given the adrenaline crash following such a stressful event as the protest, I brought you these." Scootaloo looked up and saw that the serious, solemn and aggressively precise Federal agent, possibly the toughest and most dangerous woman she'd ever known, had brought her Pop Rocks.

They were strawberry.

Josie's favorite.

"Crying, also, is therapeutic," Tyler confirmed, patting the orange pegasus on the withers near her wings in a friendly way that didn't match her clipped voice at all as Scootaloo sobbed. "I take it you and Miss Findlay have experienced rather a difficult falling-out."

"Yeah," Scootaloo sniffed, feeling tired and sad and actually a little embarrassed, having a full-on mood swing in front of her Federal bodyguard.

"Describing the specifics to a neutral third party is standard post-traumatic procedure."

Could Tyler ever say anything like a normal person?

"She betrayed me. All those reporters thought I was leading the protest! They treated me like the ringleader, and I was just so afraid…"

"To your credit, you managed it perfectly. I have had the honor to protect heads of state who were not so poised under pressure, and certainly not at the disadvantage of age and inexperience."

"…Thanks. I…I guess I did do it well, and I see now why Josie did it…I mean, they wouldn't even have come if not for thinking I was in charge or at least involved…"

"But it must surely hurt, to believe that a friend would exploit a personal attribute one has never liked for the sake of the mission."

"Yes!"

"I am reminded of a much less traumatic but similar situation, when a colleague of mine took advantage of a certain personal attribute I have, myself, never liked in order to improve the odds of a mission's success. The details of the situation remain highly classified, and I cannot be entirely specific, but suffice it to say, I confronted said colleague in a manner not entirely consistent with departmental regulations afterward."

"…Does that mean you hit him?"

"I broke his jaw, yes." The agent's cheekbones below her dark glasses did redden for a split second, but only very slightly. "And amid the rather excruciating pain of the injury, my colleague pointed out that I had just employed the very same attribute I had always considered objectionable to inflict said injury. His failure to inform me of what he had been planning was no less of a betrayal, but I did realize that he had a point, and that for me to let my personal feelings about that attribute prevent me from employing it in whatever way would advance the mission was also a betrayal of the very ideals we were fighting to defend."

"I don't see how me talking to cameras is a personal attribute."

"You are famous, Scootaloo. You have been since you were very small and while you could, theoretically, stop being famous, it is highly unlikely and would mean that something much more radical had happened. Miss Findlay exploited your fame, that's all. It's something you've never liked and it feels like a betrayal for her to bring it into play again, even though the situation was desperate."

"You're left-handed, aren't you? That was the attribute."

"Indeed. It is a personal characteristic I had always despised about myself until that day. I had taken great personal pains to conceal the fact, taught myself to write with my right hand and even, at one point, strung my guitar the other way to try and prevent anyone from knowing."

"But nobody cares if a person is left-handed."

"Nobody cares anymore is closer to the truth. I attended a school in a somewhat less enlightened area where the faculty did not approve of left-handedness, and was bullied for the fact. So when I found myself at a different school, I became determined to hide it. Nearly inflicted a vicious case of carpal tunnel on myself in high school, and by college…well, suffice it to say, it was not an attribute I liked, nor one I wished to use."

"I'm assuming your left-handedness saved the day."

"It did," the agent replied smoothly, then pausing as if to savor a memory. "And my colleague, who was on the same duration of medical leave for his broken jaw as I had administrative leave for breaking it, well…" There was another almost salacious pause. "During that time he managed to impress on me that while I might not like my hands, I could use them very effectively. It borders on true ambidextrousness now, I'm told. We trained together for hours and hours, and I have to admit that I'm actually somewhat proud of my left-handedness currently."

"I don't think I can ever be proud of being famous, not for something I didn't even do," Scootaloo sighed.

"There's pride in what one is, and pride in what one does, yes, and you're wiser than you know to be aware of that already. Using your fame for good is like my using the ability to Tase a would-be suicide bomber with my left hand while I distract him with the blank-cartridge in my right. Make the thing you hate about yourself into a tool, and you can learn…maybe not to love it, as I did, but at least to accept it and live in peace with yourself as you really are."

"So I suppose I should make up with Josie so she can teach me to use my fame for good, just like you did with your colleague?"

"Um…not quite in the same way, no." Agent Tyler had gone scarlet.

"Well, obviously biomechanical attributes are different from social ones, but-"

"Not entirely what I meant. Anyway. Look, there's a second swing on this porch. Splendid design, a porch with two swings," the agent blustered, speaking faster than Scootaloo had ever heard and still blushing furiously.

"Agent Tyler!" Scootaloo perked right up. "Did you have an affair with your colleague after he forced you to use your hand?"

"I did not," the agent replied, determinedly looking away.

"I think you did."

"That is preposterous. The connotation of the slang term 'affair' implies that one or both parties is married or engaged to a separate third party. We were neither."

"And after you hit him, too! Come on, if I can tell you about a fight I had with my friends, surely you can tell me about one you had with an ex-boyfriend."

That made Agent Tyler stand, straighten, and, for the very first time Scootaloo had ever seen her do it, she lowered the sunglasses over a wicked grin. Her eyes were gray, a little bloodshot and very mischievous.

"He isn't my ex-boyfriend. I married him."

Then the glasses went back up, the grin melted back down into a neutral smile and the tall woman became Agent C.A. Tyler, Resident Badass and Federal Bodyguard again. Scootaloo realized that she had probably just seen Cassandra Tyler for the first and possibly only time.

"I see. So yes, very different for Josie and I."

"Yes. Miss Findlay is almost certainly heterosexual, and even if you were both of compatible orientation, I think you would make a simply appalling couple."

"Cartoon ponies shouldn't date human kids?"

"Cartoon ponies shouldn't date people with whom they have absolutely no chemistry and who are distinctly different from the physical type and personality they find attractive. Conner's turning out to be a gentleman who prefers gentlemen is quite literally the only problem you two would ever have as a couple, apart from his lamentable luck in parents."

"Oh, you've met them?"

"Not by choice, I assure you. The respect I feel for your fathers in sparing that child from that miserable excuse for a sperm donor he had at home is considerable. The mother may be redeemable, but I do think less of any woman with such a deplorable deficiency when it comes to spine." Scootaloo giggled and Agent Tyler, seemingly reasoning that she was among friends and able to speak her mind, continued. "I've met drag queens with more metaphorical ovaries than that wet jerk-sock excuse for a female."

"Have you ever met Pastor Gray?"

"Pastor? There's a laugh. I consider him one of the more appalling excuses for a religious or moral leader I've ever seen, and I've done covert operations in countries headed by the kind of person who calls himself General-For-Life and wears more decorations than your average Girl Scout troop."

"You know, I kind of had the feeling at points that he wasn't a total bastard, but then at the protest…"

"Oh, that's the worst thing about him. He isn't a complete git. He's a shallow, narrow-minded little man who is trying his best to do what he thinks is right despite a pathetic inability to consider that someone besides him might know what right is or that he might, just possibly, be wrong. The difference between a mediocre leader who nonetheless manages and one who is a danger to himself and others and must be removed, by main force if necessary, is whether said leader is self-aware. Gray was not. Gray will be removed. And there shall be much rejoicing."

"Wait. He ruined so many lives. That makes him a bad, evil person."

"Not quite. An evil person is a person who sets out to ruin lives on purpose. I could actually respect an evil person more, because at least they are honest and straightforward. A person who thinks they are doing good, refuses to see reason or consider a different point of view and succeeds in ruining people's lives, that's way worse than just evil-on-purpose. Such a person had the trust and even the admiration of others, and if they had just set aside their ego, opened their mind, or even just listened to someone from a different…call it alignment, maybe, and they could have been wonderful . But instead they were less than mediocre. It's twice the tragedy, really."

"Have you, by any chance, played Dungeons and Dragons?"

"Quite a lot, at various points in my misspent youth. You play?"

"Not often, but sometimes. You just…sounded a little like Josie, talking about alignments and good versus evil the way you did."

"I would be surprised if I didn't sound like Miss Findlay quite a lot. She reminds me more decidedly of myself at her age than anyone else I have ever met."

"Wow. She'll be impressed to hear that."

"It wasn't a compliment." Tyler almost growled. "Look at me, Scootaloo."

Scootaloo looked, and it was only then that she really realized just how awful Agent Tyler looked. Her skin was several shades paler than usual, her eyes had been bloodshot and red-rimmed behind the glasses, with circles so dark beneath them that they could even be perceived through the almost-opaque lenses. The agent had lost some weight, just enough that the shirt under her suit didn't look entirely right on her, the normally-steady hands had a shake in them and her left hand (which, Scootaloo realized for the first time, had always sported a very plain ring made of gray metal,) had still-fresh abrasions on the knuckles as if she had beaten someone or something wildly.

"I have done… things, things of which I can never speak, nor would I even if I were permitted to do so, because such things are beyond the capacity of speech to convey."

She stared at Scootaloo, her voice frighteningly calm as she continued. “ Do you know how to say 'Mommy?' in Korean? It's pronounced 'Eomma'.”

"And yet, I have done them, because it is my duty to do them and I cannot leave them to someone else, someone who might not have the capacity to live with them afterward. There are things beyond description as 'good' or 'evil' as a sane person knows those ideas, and all I will ever be able to tell you is that I did the closest to good anyone could do about things that were worse than evil."

"…Why?"

"Because I must," Agent Tyler said it with no inflection whatsoever, and the coldness in her voice made Scootaloo shiver. "That determination to do the right thing, to consider carefully every option, every point of view, and then to go and do the best one can under the circumstances, no matter what the cost…you saw that in Josie Findlay this afternoon. She has the capacity, even now, even at sixteen and a half years old, to become someone like me, to do the kinds of things I do."

"She could be a Federal agent?"

"She could be a spy, an assassin, a facilitator of unspeakable missions, a defender of people whose lives are important to governments and scientists and a person of very, very specific skills. But that's the thing, Scootaloo. I happen to work for the United States government, and most of the time, that means I'm on the side of what, more or less, adds up to something you might consider good. Sometimes it does not.

"I have an opposite number on every side you can imagine, and there have been people like me since the beginning of history. There were people like me who protected people who meant, to certain sciences at certain times, almost exactly what you mean now, though certainly not to the same extent. The problem was only that sometimes it's a kind, friendly cartoon pony who does medical research volunteering, and sometimes it's a Nazi scientist who kills little children and old people horribly. People like me protect either one, depending on when and where and for whom we work.

"When I meet someone like me who works for a different side, sometimes we actually just stop and talk. If our governments haven't sent us to actually kill each other, there's occasionally time for coffee and passing the time of day. We can't be too detailed in shop-talk, national security being what it is, but every chance we get, we talk about something. You can't seem to stop agents talking to other agents. It's because there are so very few people like us, we have to talk with any other ones we find no matter what side they're on. I've had more in common with people who…it's unspeakable…but they were still more like me than anyone on my side."

The Agent sighed with a rueful smile and continued in a nearly-cheerful voice, as if telling a 'not so bad, though,' story:

"You know, I once stopped and talked with someone I had to kill to keep other people safe? Completely understood why I was there to do it, didn't even really mind. We had a good long talk about home and our families, and I was able to fulfill three very important last requests. It was actually a privilege to end the life of a fellow…whatever it is we are, and when the target meets you and says 'I know why you're here, and I'm glad,' because they can't take it anymore either and want to die…it's a very strange feeling. By the end of it, I was pleading with her to consider defecting, to come to my side, but she just couldn't live with the memories anymore. She was much older than me, you understand, and had seen and done so much more…but all the same, I can understand where she was coming from."

"That's…that's awful."

"It is, in the oldest sense of the word. Very literally, filled with awe. I have the privilege now of permanent assignment to you, so it's very likely I will live out the rest of my career without picking up the kinds of memories where the most merciful end to that career is a bullet to the brain from a colleague on a different side. Likely…but never certain."

"I don't want you to have to kill people for me!" Scootaloo cried, hugging the poor agent. "I won't let you!"

"My dear Miss Scott, if you could change the parameters of my duty, not just the job, mind, but the duty I carry from an authority well beyond my boss, I would be very impressed indeed, but not all that surprised. It is very much a privilege to work with you," the agent smiled, hugging the pony back. "The point, however, that I was trying to express, is that I have become this creature of skills, determination, duty and not much else, because that was what I had to work with.

"I did not have friends who cared enough to forgive me when I exploited attributes they hated. I did not have people who shared other interests and different potential futures with me, to the point where I could have grown and improved into something very different. I might have been a remarkable barista. It's silly, I know, but I would have been very good at it and very happy doing that, but duty called, I answered, and after a while, there wasn't much left. If I hadn't met my husband…and he's not quite the same kind of person I am, you know, he's the rare sort of agent who has a life beyond the job and somehow he's helped me rebuild one myself…well, I could very easily have met my opposite number and said 'I know why you're here and I'm glad' in about twenty more years.

"As it is, I have my husband, I have a nicer assignment than most agents ever get, and I actually have some people I consider friends. Took me long enough, though, eh?"

"The only thing stopping Josie from growing up to be someone like you is friends?" Scootaloo asked.

"I'm not a hundred percent sure, and there were certainly many other contributing factors, but I know that if I'd had someone like you for a friend back then, I wouldn't be someone like me right now. I might still be an agent and I might still be called upon to do some things we never can speak about, but I wouldn't be like me. I'd be …better. Stronger. Healthier. It may or may not be too late for me, but Miss Findlay…she's luckier to have you than you realize, and you might not be too badly off for a friend like her. I mean, you can see about the worst it can get, and you still manage to have a decent conversation with the end result. That's a big part of why I am so very much enjoying being your personal bodyguard and government liaison."

Scootaloo understood, then. She had always kind of figured there was something very dark about Agent Tyler's job, given the way the stern, serious woman was able to sweep in and make things right and safe and good since she was a tiny pony. What she hadn't counted on, but which really made a lot of sense, was the kind of strain that kind of work, being that kind of person, could put on somebody, and the fact that Agent Tyler was still trying to be better…well…it gave her some hope, and it put the fight after the protest into very real perspective. It was very hard to be angry with a friend about what was, essentially, a high-school thing when a woman who'd killed people to keep you and your country safe was there and in awful pain next to your porch swings.

And suddenly she knew what she had to say.

"…You're also my friend, Cassandra."

"And that means more than you'd probably be prepared to believe…Scoot." For a second, Agent Tyler hesitated.

"Yeah. You can call me Scoot. We're friends and that is what my friends call me."

"…Thank you."

There was a long moment of complete understanding between the two women, one very young and strangely wise, one not all that much older and strangely broken but getting better, both of them very strong and among the last of their kind.

"So I really need to call Josie now."

"Yeah! In fact, I can totally give you a lift over. I have the really nice black van with the espresso maker in the dash."

"You drove alone?"

"Well, yeah. I'm allowed to take out any vehicle in that section of the fleet. None of the aircraft, though."

"You're a pilot, too?" Scoot perked up.

"No, I'm not, which would be why I'm not allowed to take out any of the aircraft."

"You should learn, it's fun and I bet you agents have great airplanes."

"We really do, though it's mostly helicopters we use state-side. And you know, not a single one of them is done up in black? Totally uncool and a complete waste of a perfectly good conspiracy theory, plus the white is hideous with dead bugs and stuff on it."

"I'm going to tell Pop and Daddy where we're going. Can I tell you about flying on the way?"

"I'd really enjoy that, yes."

And so they went, friends.

Plus, after Josie and Scoot made up, there was coffee and strawberry Pop Rocks for everyone. Just not in the same cup. That would be gross.
> Ch 18: Protecting Family
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release


Chapter Eighteen: Protecting Family

Life at school in the days after the protest was more stirred up than anything Scootaloo could remember, save only her first few days in public school when the world was still getting used to her. With the principal under arrest and the higher ups still struggling to figure out what to do, day to day life continued, but without the usual direction from above.

Having heard and seen the protest and the aftermath, Conner had gone back to school, and with help from Kevin and Jayne was catching up on his back school work, though it would take several more weeks. One teacher in particular had been refusing to accept his work, essentially dooming him to repeat the twelfth grade, and it had taken direct intervention from Ms. Chisholm to see him transferred to a different class where he would have a chance. The bullying had not stopped altogether, but with the principal's removal, the climate had improved markedly, and it was into this new school order that Scootaloo began her club.

One of the things her dads had described about college was the much more tolerant atmosphere, and the existence of clubs like 'The Gay-Straight Alliance' who's purpose was to offer help, support 'safe zone' training for faculty and provide a friendly ear to anyone who needed it. In the week following Gray's departure, Scootaloo had looked over a number of such high school and college clubs, tried to take the best elements out of each one, and written up her own founding documents.

Normally, the founding of new clubs was approved by the principal, but given the circumstances, Scootaloo decided to take the approval paperwork to the head guidance counselor, Ms. Chisholm.

"Wow, Scoot, you went out and learned about this all on your own?" she asked as she flipped through the paperwork.

"Well, not entirely on my own... Conner and my dads helped, and Josie helped me combine some of the better elements of the different charters."

She smiled. "I'm proud of you Scoot, this could save someone's life someday. It's not easy founding a club like this though. Do you have a membership roster?"

"Not yet... But I think I have enough friends that I can count on. Before I started signing people up I had to find a member of the faculty willing to sponsor the club; what do you think of Mr. Malcolm?' She asked with a slight smile.

That made her sit up in surprise. "Mr. Mallcolm the Biology teacher? He agreed to this?"

"Yeah, I asked a lot of teachers, but for some reason, they all had excuses. Everyone except him."

She seemed to think about it, and her smile gradually returned. "Well, I suppose it makes sense. It wouldn't be easy to find anyone else willing to take that first step. Tell you what, I'll approve the club here and now, and spread the word as best I can, but you'll have to get at least ten members by next Thursday."

She signed the paperwork and Scootaloo trotted out the door, now in search of the founding ten members of the club, while behind her Ms. Chisholm reclined in her chair, looking thoughtful. "Jake Malcolm…?"

…

Ten members in a school that size didn't seem like a big deal until she started trying to get signatures. In spite of all that had happened, or perhaps because of it, finding those willing to sign wasn't as easy as she had hoped. After getting shrugged off in class after class, Scootaloo made a determined effort, and tracked down her skater friends as school let out, practically ambushing them on their way home.

"Hmm… I've got no problem standing up for someone who needs help," Curt eventually answered, "but what's a 'straight ally'?

"It means you have friends who are gay and that you support them, that other kids can talk to you without fear that you will turn on them." Scootaloo answered with a significant look. "Conner told me what happened in the park. Not many people are brave enough to do something like that."

Curt looked a bit embarrassed. "Well I… we, couldn't just stand by and watch."

"Really? It sounds like everyone else did." Scootaloo replied seriously. "I'm guessing most of you already heard what happened with Conner?"

"We heard he tried… That he almost shot himself." Gina finished as the others nodded seriously. "Is it true?"

Scootaloo hung her head. "Yes, it is. That's was a big reason why I'm starting the Gay-Straight Alliance club. Conner had been getting abused and picked on at school for years. He couldn't come to his parents for help, and he didn't feel he could ask anyone else either. He had been all alone for so long…" Her voice cracked as she finished "He didn't think anyone would care if he never came back."

"But… he could have come to us!" Gina cried. "I would have been happy to talk… He didn't need to face this alone."

"He didn't know that. He was constantly afraid that anyone who he tried to talk to could turn around and stab him the back, tell everyone… Get him thrown out of his own home… The risk was too great for him to trust anyone. That's why we need to found this club. So people in trouble can have a safe place to go and talk things out among friends." She sighed and looked down at the very obviously blank roster. "And so far, you are the only people willing to even consider it. You don't need to attend all the meetings, or even most of them, we just need at least ten people willing to stand up and be counted."

Curt stepped forward and took the roster. "Aw, hell. It's a lot easier than swinging a skateboard."

"I'm in too." Gina added, as she got out a pen. "I'll be there."

Not all of the other skaters would sign, but she now had enough that with her own signature and Conner's she met the minimum needed to found the club. It was a start.

...

The day of their first meeting was set for that very Thursday. Scootaloo got up at six am, headed out early and spent almost fifteen dollars at the copy shop near her school getting the brightly-colored, cheerful posters her Papa and Conner had designed copied, and two of the copy-shop employees told her they looked awesome. That cheered her up considerably, and when she went to the copy-shop desk to buy a folder, the taller of the two copy-guys gave her a big smile.

"On the house, Miss Scott!" the handsome, muscular copy-shop worker grinned. "About time that school had a safe place for Family."

"Family? Oh, right." Scootaloo had nearly forgotten that one of the slang terms the gay community used was 'the Family.' It was actually kind of amazing, the way LGBT Americans who'd lost their original families had built a kind of new one for other kids. "Yeah, we're having our first meeting today."

"Are you expecting a big turnout?"

"Well…so far I have ten people, myself included, and I think my friends Josie, Mel and Chris might show up…"

"Hence the posters. Could I see?" The copy-guy, whose nametag read 'Brian,' took one of Scootaloo's proof copies. "Give me a minute."

He turned around to one of the machines and the other copy-center worker appeared with plastic bags for Scoot's posters –far too many for the thirty copies she had already made.

"I…that's all the money I brought with me," Scoot explained, especially as Brian was laying her poster onto the glass plate of one of the big machines behind the counter.

"High-school clubs get sponsors every day, don't they?" Brian asked. He took a business card from the counter, dropped it into a downward-loading printer-fax-copier and punched some buttons. Seconds later, a copy of the business card, just 120% larger, appeared on a sheet of 8 ½ by 11 paper. Brian swiftly trimmed off the excess with a huge chop-style paper cutter, then took a Sharpie and added 'Sponsored By' above the business card in handwriting so perfect it looked like a font. Then he pulled up the corner of the poster from the glass plate of the machine and added the 'sponsor' tag between poster and glass, so it'd copy into a bit of void space on the design. With a flourish, he punched buttons on the machine then thumped the big green one like he was firing a weapon.

His enthusiasm was infectious, and Scootaloo realized the other copy-shop guy was handling the other customers so she and Brian could talk business.

"I tell you what, Miss Scott," the handsome copy-guy grinned. "We'll give you all the signs you need, on the house, plus pizza for all your meetings. And not Little Caesar's, either, the good kind with any toppings you want. If the bastards tear your posters down, we'll print more. If you need them bigger, we'll print them bigger. And if any adult complains, well, we're the only copy shop within 20 minutes of downtown with email-in and rapid-fax capabilities, plus we're the cheapest. Something tells me that only parents with absolutely no rapid document production needs will ever tangle with you guys."

"Really? But…but…we only have ten members, and the meetings are supposed to be every week! That'd cost a fortune!"

"Yeah, and as soon as the other students realize you have the best posters and where they come from, we'll make the pizza budget and then some back in additional business. I've wanted the sports teams to come to us for years; we're closer than FedEx Kinko's and we do better work. Good for us, good for you. That's what sponsorship is supposed to mean."

"But all that printing…and replacing any destroyed posters? That might mean a lot of printing, way more than we could ever afford to repay."

"It's the Broken Windows theory," Brian explained. "They tear down one poster and it stays down, they get the message that the Gay-Straight Alliance can't even protect their signs. They tear down a poster and three more pop up, with new designs every week, posters for events…the difference between 'new' and 'normal' is only twenty-one advertising exposures on average, you know."

"Exposures?"

"Yeah. If you advertise enough, people start to think of your brand as familiar. Three exposures is enough to make them remember it and take action if they were going to. Twenty-one exposures, especially of different content with different messages, that's enough to make them think of your club as a familiar part of the school, something they don't want to see gone or changed, even if they aren't members. Human brains are fairly easy to hack like that."

"You're kidding."

"Imagine Christmastime with no Coca-Cola polar bears or Santa Claus on the box."

"…Well, but those are a tradition. I start looking forward to those around Halloween."

"And they run the first one during the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, knowing you've been looking forward to it for almost three weeks. You, me, and a million other kids look forward to those cute little polar bears, because when you're a kid, they're cute and funny, and by the time you're ten or so, assuming you see the ad only twice or three times, it's a tradition and you love it. One year, they decided not to do polar bears or Santa Claus and people actually revolted. They wrote to Coke and demanded the polar bears back. Even people who don't even drink the stuff, they love those stupid bears, and it's all because they've been conditioned to consider them normal."

"So you're going to make gay students and straight ones being friends normal…with posters? You can do that?"

Brian, whom Scootaloo suspected by now was 'Family,' snapped a Z with a flourish and grinned broader.

"Honey, I'm going to make your school prouder of the Gay-Straight Alliance than they are of that miserable excuse for a soccer team. Your teachers all keep calendars in their rooms, right?"

"Yeah, they do."

"Plain black and white, maybe a couple of old engraving-type pictures of the school a hundred years ago? Tiny little things?"

"Those are them."

"Well, not to be rude, but those shitty little calendars can fuck right off. I'm going to order a set of full-color calendars, big enough for a kid with glasses to read from the third row of desks, with more school-spirit, bright colors and seasonal nostalgia than you'd get from grinding up yearbooks and snorting them. I'm also going to order new gradebooks, and all of that we'll be bringing to your teachers as a free gift for the end of the next nine weeks. That's Tuesday, right?"

"Yep."

"Perfect. See, teachers don't always get the budgets they need to do their jobs very well, so free shit gets used. I'll also order up a big box of deluxe custom coffee-mugs, the good kind where the handle fits all four of your fingers, with the Safe Zone logo."

"You know about Safe Zone?!"

"Sister suffragette, look at this," Brian pulled up his sleeve and showed her a Safe Zone tattoo, among other excellent body art. "I was an RA in college. We bleed Safe Zone."

Scootaloo beamed, amazed and surprised to find someone who understood. "So whenever a teacher attends a meeting or gets the training from your faculty adviser, in addition to the beautiful Safe Zone signs they'll get for the classroom door, the complimentary packet of dry-erase markers in the cool colors the office supply store doesn't always have and a super-giant whiteboard eraser, guaranteed to blow away five lines of equations in one simple swoop…they'll also get a sweet-ass ergonomic sixteen-ounce coffee cup with their name on it."

"Why a coffee cup?"

"Miss Scott, I once had a teacher, seventy-one years old, sweet little old lady who taught English and the Knitting Club, and she would cut a bitch soon as look at you if you fucked with her coffee cup. Coffee is teacher crack. You give them a bigger cup with a better handle and their name permanently printed on it so other teachers can't steal it? Teachers would throw a man into a woodchipper feet-first to get that shit."

"But doesn't that seem an awful lot like bribing them to accept us?"

"It is bribing them to accept you, sister suffragette…at first. But the bribe isn't the coffee cup or the sweet teacher-crack swag packages –which we'll be paying for, by the way. It's the fact that instead of buying a coffee cup or a calendar or new markers n' shit, they've already got one right there to use, and on their salaries, they'll use it. And they'll see it. And the kids will see it. Every. Single. Day."

"You're going to make Safe Zone the new normal!"

"Exactly!" Brian grinned in a wicked way.

"Won't that cost a fortune, though?"

"Actually, no. I can manage the calendars, the cups, the swag…if you use somebody like Oriental Trading Company or the various buy-direct custom-printing firms online, you could manage this whole shebang for well under five hundred bucks. And we pay more than that for our softball team." Brian gestured to a picture of an adorable little girls' softball team marked 'The Rainbows.'

"Five hundred…it's that affordable?"

"Sure. Custom-printing is insanely cheap compared to what it used to cost, especially when you run things in huge batches. If you only had, say, two hundred bucks to make this work, I could even design you some Gay-Straight Alliance stuff that would work for any school with blank space to Sharpie or print-and-paste the school and schedule specifics in, then offer the same posters to other schools, so everybody could get them for super-cheap. And I foresee a huge market for Safe Zone teacher-crack mugs in particular."

"This could really work then!" Scootaloo squealed with glee. "And all of that by next Tuesday?"

"If God didn't want us to change the world, He wouldn't have given us expedited shipping," Brian remarked. "Then next year after the program is well in place, you'll have a new batch of homophobic little freshmen who wouldn't know shit from mud if they rolled in it, they'll ask 'what the fuck is up with this gay-as-hell Safe Zone shit?' At that point, it's the upperclassmen, the seniors and juniors and even the sophomores, who act like the freshmen are complete tards for not knowing what Safe Zone is and cussing them out for criticizing their tradition. You remember when that Mo*4thers for Healthy Eating group tried to ban the Coca-Cola Polar Bears?"

"They were driven off the Internet on a rail, as I remember it."

"Yeah! It made the flame-war over the 'Twilight' books look like a minor quibble with Star Trek! People protect their new normal, and they defend their traditions. Thing is, if teachers see the Safe Zone logo, day after day, on the spiffy cup which contains their delicious brown teacher-crack, they're going to become protective of Safe Zone because in their minds, Safe Zone means the same thing as teacher-crack. If every teacher who completes Safe Zone training gets a complimentary candy dish for the classroom with the logo on it, and which I will rely on the Gay-Straight Alliance to keep topped up, well, every senior in the place is going to equate Safe Zone with 'delicious candy' and 'the little sugar buzz that makes Mrs. Gryle's shitty class tolerable.' Seriously, if that bitch didn't keep mints in her room, I never would have showed up, and she wrote in my yearbook that I was one of her favorites."

"Wait, you went to my school, too?"

"Oh, girl! I only graduated from college two years ago. I had Gryle and that ass-pocket Frink and the rest of them, just like you. If our Mom hadn't had a stroke after Dad died and needed me and Jake to stay close to home, we would have both gotten the hell out of Dodge years ago. My big brother did his first year of student teaching my junior year, only thing kept me from getting gay-bashed even more often than I did."

"So that's why you're helping us!"

"Damn straight! This isn't just me paying back a long-overdue favor to people like Katie Chisholm and Sensei O'Riley, it's revenge on all those fucktards like Mr. Frink. Gay equality, tolerance and brotherhood become the new normal in that place, they'll have to live with a lot of guilt." Brian seemed to relish the idea, but then he sighed. "That, and I am too fucking tired of watching my brother come home looking like a PTSD case because he can't save them all."

"Your brother?"

"Yeah, Jake Malcolm the Bio teacher's my big brother...well, half-brother technically, but we don't count a difference. He came home from work the other day looking like he'd gotten twenty pounds of misery monkey yanked off his back, told Mom and me there had been a protest, and then when you asked him to be faculty advisor, well…I've never seen Jake so proud."

"Really?"

"You bet. He's been looking out for gay kids since his mom and stepdad brought home baby me from the hospital. And Dad adopted him, so he takes his brotherly responsibilities very fucking seriously."

"I had wondered why he was so excited to help us out."

"Well, protecting kids from the same kind of shit that happened to me is a part of it. He also has a major crush on Katie Chisholm in Guidance, but I'm sure you knew that."

"You can kind of tell …from space."

"That, and that doucher Gray left a hell of a mess. The Gay-Straight Alliance will be able to patch up a lot of it. Plus, it's about time he had something to do in the evenings. Mom's doing a lot better, I own this franchise now, and he needs to stop living like a monk. Don't hesitate to keep him out late, now."

"Wow. I…I just can't thank you enough for helping us…"

"Brian Malcolm." He extended a hand, which Scootaloo shook with her prosthetic. "You know, I am really digging your Borg hardware, pony-girl."

"And a Star Trek fan, too?" Scoot smiled flirtatiously. "Is this Guardian Angels for Straight-Ally Ponies day?"

"Make that the biggest queen since Princess Celestia showing up for corporate sponsorship!" Brian grinned, picking up a fresh, hot stack of new posters from the machine he'd chosen. "Isn't this the most fabulous thing you have ever seen?"

They looked professional as could be, there were easily fifty of them, and they were three times the size of Scootaloo's original document.

"…Wow!"

"Here's a tape-gun to hang 'em with, and I'll just get these bagged up for you before you're late for homeroom." Brian effortlessly wrapped the posters in brown kraft paper and then a quick pass with clear cellophane so the day's rain wouldn't bother them. The whole parcel draped neatly onto Scootaloo's back and tucked against her saddlebags. "Give 'em hell, sister suffragette!" Brian called as she headed off toward the school.

"Thanks, Brian!"

She was still galloping when she got to her locker and found Josie, Melissa and Christina waiting.

"Are those the new Gay-Straight Alliance posters?" Christina asked hesitantly.

"…Yeah."

"Sweet! We can put them up during first period. Mr. Frink's showing a movie rather than doing actual lessons and thinks we're on official cheerleading business," Josie explained. "That, and you can only watch him try to justify 'Alice in Wonderland' based on Lewis Carroll's being a mathematician so many times. I swear that guy just likes white rabbits."

"And if I can get the proof emailed to Demi, he'll put it into morning announcements and in with the rolling news updates on the screens," Melissa added.

"…Really? You guys…I didn't even have time to ask if you wanted to join the group, I've been so busy with-"

"Was there the half-ingrown toenail clipping of a chance that we wouldn't?" Josie asked. "We're your friends and we're Conner's friends and whether a friend's gay, straight, bi, transgender or too kinky to live-" here she raised an eyebrow at Melissa, "no one is so rich they can throw away a friend."

"I told you, Demi and I were buying whipped cream and Hershey's syrup for the A/V Club's ice-cream social."

"A likely story!"

"Seriously. It is Friday night and we both hope you all can come."

"Since when has the A/V Club ever done anything with the word 'social' in it that wasn't followed by 'media' or preceded by 'remedial'?"

"Stereotyping much? I suggested it and Demi agreed. We need to diversify the membership. Also, he says he'll have every one of his people there for the Alliance meeting tonight on pain of no XP or cut of the loot drops for a week," Melissa informed Scootaloo with a smile. "Given his D&D games and WoW raids are the key social events of their calendar, I think you should plan for all twelve of them to show up."

"Twelve…I only had ten people this morning!" Scootaloo hugged her friend.

"And the cheerleaders took a vote. I…informed them of my slight misrepresentation of your involvement with the protest to the media," Josie blushed a bit at this, "and it was decided that I am on super-secret cheerleading probation until the end of the nine weeks as punishment and that the entire squad is joining the Alliance as part of my apology to you. I will just owe all of them a favor, in accordance with the ancient code of the cheerleaders."

"What kind of favor?" Melissa asked.

"I'm thinking I may have to rent Laurie out as an emergency-backup prom date, fix some busted computers and possibly Xerox all my physics and math-class notes."

"I know a place where you can meet all of your Xerox needs," Scootaloo explained. "We have actual corporate sponsorship!" The girls oohed and ahhed over the details of the arrangement. "Plus, he's Mr. Malcolm's little brother. Isn't that so awesome!"

"That is pretty sweet!" Josie agreed. "Brothers do make for wonderful social capital. I might even forgive Melissa for depriving me of half my Emergency Backup Prom Date inventory someday."

"You knew you couldn't keep whoring your older brothers out forever, Josie."

"Eh, true. Sooner or later they were bound to revolt. Though they do both look damn good in boutonnieres."

"I look forward to it," Melissa purred.

Josie glared, Melissa grinned, and the girls all cracked up laughing, heading off to touch base with Mr. Frink before hanging all the posters there were to hang.

In their glee, nobody noticed how quiet Christina had gotten after seeing the Gay-Straight Alliance becoming reality.
> Ch 19: Any Minor World
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo


by Cozy Mark IV


Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release.


Chapter Nineteen: Any minor world…

The meeting turned out to be a bigger success than they had dared to hope. Mr. Malcolm actually had to move the group to a bigger classroom to fit everyone in, and the air of relief from the participants was palpable. Give that this was the first meeting; everyone introduced themselves, approved the club charter, and spent time discussing how to get the word out and build up a support structure.

A few people did come out to the group, though that wasn't the main focus, and most were people they had suspected for a while. They all got a warm welcome, hugs, and some variation on 'well, yes, we kind of suspected, but thanks for telling and we're all so proud of you.' There was even the vaguely hilarious 'coming out' of Demi Findlay, who explained that he had questioned his sexuality as a younger teenager, experimented with pornography featuring both males and females, and had at last come to the conclusion that he was heterosexual with 'some casual interests that fall under the kink heading.' It was eye-gougingly awkward to hear him speak at first on the topic, but then he continued:

"I'm fully aware that as a straight, white male, I'm very lucky in that I'll never be discriminated against –well, except maybe for being a raving geek. But it could so easily have gone the other way. I might have had to hide so much about who I am, to the point where I might never have been able to admit what kind of person I like aloud, let alone find someone who fit the bill. I have a girlfriend now whom I love very much, and our interests are so completely compatible. She's learning D&D for me, and I'm learning to understand post-Keynesian macroeconomic theory for her. Oh, and cheerleading. Lot more hit-points in cheerleading than I thought. We can walk down the street or the halls of this very school hand-in-hand and nobody says anything but 'aww, look how cute they are.' We need never fear teasing or violence because of who we are or whom we've fallen in love with."

There was a strained sound from the direction of the other students, possibly Josie trying not to hork at the ridiculous adorable snugglyness of her big brother and her best friend.

"Well, unless we make out in front of my little sister, that is. And even then, we'll never have to face anything like what the brave gay, lesbian, transgendered or questioning people may have to go through."

Melissa reached over and took his hand, and Demi gave the gathered students a broad, geeky grin that showed his braces and made his glasses seem to shine in the light. "I want what Melissa and I have for everyone, partly because dude, it is so freakin' sweet, and partly because it's only fair to have love and tolerance for everyone. Your raiding party isn't as strong if you keep clever rogues, strong fighters, brave paladins and wise clerics out just for something as completely dice-roll random as their sexual orientation, and I want to live in a world where orcs and elves, dwarves and humans, even wacky halfling-rogue little sisters can love and be loved in peace and harmony. Just because a person is gay doesn't mean I shouldn't be damned proud to walk down the street with them and to have them as my friends."

It was like he ran out of ideas at that point, and for a moment there was a long, awkward pause. "So…that's why I'm here tonight. I'm Demi Findlay, and I'm coming out as a…what are we called?" Melissa whispered in his ear. "Oh, yeah. A straight ally. One of those."

That seemed to give a thin boy with a half-healed black eye from the A/V group the courage he needed to come out as gay, and Demi thumped him on the back and welcomed him down from the podium as 'best cleric ever!' there were quotations of what sounded like mucus and support in Klingon from the various A/V kids and a couple of cheerleaders' boyfriends who had come to the meeting on pain of nookie loss patted him in a brotherly got-your-back kind of way.

And then someone unexpected spoke up.

"My name is Christina Harcourt and… I think I'm a bisexual." She finished, blushing fiercely as her friends stared, open mouthed. Then, before she could start to feel worried, there was a surge of scraping chairs as the entire squad jumped to their feet and hugged her, and for a moment Scootaloo was afraid they were actually going to break into song. That derailed the meeting for almost five minutes as they all congratulated her on coming out, and did she need any help, and how had she kept the secret so long?

When the meeting finally ended an hour and a half later, all traces of the pizza were long gone, and people just stood in groups chatting and catching with friends who had been in hiding, many of them for years. Scootaloo found a chair in the back of the room and just sighed contentedly as she looked out over the happy groups. Conner was talking animatedly with one of her skater friends and several cheerleaders, and it warmed her heart to see him up and active again after such a deep depression.

Christina, still blushing a little, walked over and took the seat next to her. "Hey, Scoot."

"Hey, Christina. Congratulations again, I have to say I had no idea," she replied, offering a fist bump. "I know it took a lot of courage to stand up tonight and I'm proud of you."

This only made her blush redder, but she took the offered hand…and didn't let go.

"Scootaloo? There's something I need to ask you…"

Scootaloo sat up and turned to face her friend. "Of course, what is it?"

"Um… This is really hard but…" She paused for a moment, then blurted it all out in a hurry. "But I've had a crush on you for a long time and really really want to ask you out!"

If Scootaloo had been surprised before, it was nothing compared to this. Memories of all the time they had spent together flashed though her mind; tutoring her in math, Christina volunteering to stay late and help her with squad drills after school, the camping trip with the Scouts…

Her first thought of 'How could I not have seen this?!' quickly became tinged with shame for putting her friend though this by sheer obliviousness. It was quickly followed by; 'A date leads to… Oh crap… How do I feel about having sex with one of my best friends? She's like my sister!'

Outwardly she smiled and squeezed her hand as turmoil raged inside. 'Could I be attracted to another woman? I never really thought about it before… And I really feel awful about this… She must have been crushing on me for months… Maybe even a year! But if I've never really had much interest in girls before it would be even crueler to lead her into a relationship that couldn't work…

And then she remembered her doctor Mary's revelation about having dated her Papa when they were young. If a gay teenage boy and a young lesbian could just 'make it work' to suit social pressures, wouldn't…what was the phrase the sex-ed columnist had used? Rounding up? If she 'rounded up' her so-far-straight orientation just to support and date a good friend with a crush, wasn't that the same sort of bad decision based on social pressure just in the other direction? If a decision could be wrong for bad reasons, surely making a bad decision for good reasons wasn't a good idea, either.

But how to say it in such a way that still spared Christina's feelings?

"I'm so very flattered you feel that way, Chris, but…I don't think I should really start a relationship with anyone at this point. Conner's turning out to like guys was really hard for me, and I'm honestly not sure if I prefer guys absolutely a hundred percent, but if it turned out I did, I already know how it feels to love someone, to be…close with them and then to find out it can never work."

"Most women aren't 100% completely heterosexual," Christina replied, a little hopefully. They had been reading the same columns together and sharing them with other girls during the sex-ed blackout of the school.

"I know, but…I've never even once had a fantasy about another woman. It's always been guys so far. I'm not sure if that's going to change or if that means anything specific yet, but if I were to date you, knowing that there were fairly good odds it would always be one-sided from a physical standpoint, that just wouldn't be fair to you. I love you as my friend, Christina, I always have. You're the sister I never had, and I'll always, always care about you."

"Just…not that way, probably," Christina finished, nodding sadly.

"Not that way…for now. I've been told that sometimes our sexuality can surprise us, and given that I'm, y'know, a whole 'nother species, heaven only knows what might change in college or at some point in the future. We aren't even sure of my specific chronological age yet, let alone when the processes of growing up are complete for me. I might be completely fifty-fifty bisexual, I might be ninety-nine percent hetero, I might turn out to like girls or I might discover a wild, polyamorous S&M shoe fetish. You never know!

"Thing is, I already care about you a lot, and I wouldn't want to chance what we have as friends on a relationship at a time in life when neither of us could promise each other anything. High-school sweethearts almost never wind up together forever, and to take a chance on an awful breakup, losing each other as friends…might it not be better to just stay friends, see if your feelings or mine change as we get older, and just agree not to risk it for now?" Scootaloo saw Christina's expression and sighed. "It's the same thing I'd say to a guy friend of mine who felt the same way. If you were Curt, for example, and Curt had a crush on me, I wouldn't go out with him except as a friend."

"So it's not because I'm a girl, but because we're friends?"

"Ehhh...it's also an issue of physical attraction, which has a hell of a lot more to do with me than with you. You're very pretty for a human female, just like I've been told Curt is a very attractive male as far as humans go, and both of you are smart and kind and really fun to spend time with. Problem is, whatever wiring's between my ears to say 'this or that person is one that you should feel an urge to mate with,' it doesn't seem to switch on when I look at either one of you. I think of you both the way people think of their good friends and siblings, not as a subject of lust or even of interest in that way.

"It's not anything you've done wrong or that could be changed or fixed, it's just that the cartoon pony sex drive doesn't recognize you as a target…at least, not at this point. And bear in mind, I just had what pretty much amounts to a hard breakup where my boyfriend turned into my emergency-custody foster brother, so it could legitimately just be that I'm not in a place to be attracted to anyone right now. Doctor Whooves, Princess Luna and Shining Armor from the cartoon show could walk in here now with an army of human strippers and I might be like 'meh, ponies n' naked folks' to all of them because I'm still kinda getting over Conner right now.

"That, and we're juniors in freakin' high school. We have a hell of a lot more to worry about right now than who we're going to kiss on prom night. The protest changed a lot, but it didn't change everything, and we've got a lot to do, both to fix this school so it's safe for everyone else and so we have a future beyond this place. I wouldn't say we don't need love right now, but sexuality and romance…they really can't be at the top of our priorities, and if I were ever to get involved with someone I care about as much as you, I'd want it to be at a time when you could be my biggest priority."

"That…may be the best 'it's not you, it's me' speech I've ever heard," Christina sighed with a rueful smile.

"Well…it's true. If I didn't think it'd be a really, really horribly bad idea to take the chance of breaking your heart and losing you as a friend, I'd have just made an appointment for coffee and tried my best."

"But it wouldn't have worked…would it?"

"I don't know, Chris." Scootaloo raised a hoof and patted Christina's hand. "For now at least, can friendship just be enough?"

"Sure thing, Scoot."

Scootaloo hugged her friend, feeling like twenty pounds of heel in a ten-pound bag. Then Josie appeared, looking indignant as usual.

"Christina, did you want to ride home with me? My stupid brother and Princess Frisky Makeouts over there need to stop by the grocery store, so Demi gave me the keys to his Subaru."

"Oh! Papa texted me to get…some darn thing," Scootaloo checked her phone. "Ricotta cheese? What the hell…oh! He must be making lasagna for Friday night. I should see if Mel and Demi have room for me."

"If you've got a strong stomach, go right ahead. Melissa's Civic seats five people and still has room for enough horrible sex toys to make Pastor Gray weep in his prison cell," Josie growled. "Those trunks were designed for dead hookers, not live dominatrices' toolboxes!"

"You do know they only make such a big deal of it all just to mess with you."

"Oh, of course! And it's actually pretty freakin' sweet to have a friend for a sorta-kinda sister-in-law person. She gets along with my mom crazy well and we'll have a sixth person for the family reunion at the roller-coaster park this summer." Scootaloo and Christina stared. Josie's being squicked-out by Mel and Demi had been a running joke for days. "Demi and I just haven't been able to have this much fun with one another since Dad told us we weren't allowed to hide snails in each other's rooms anymore."

"…Snails?"

"Oh, right. You two don't have brothers. Suffice it to say there is a kind of constant, Shakespearean merry war of gross-each-other-out brinksmanship. Demi hides a snail in my bed. I put a garter snake in his jockstrap drawer. Laurie tweaks the plumbing to dye me blue. Demi puts freaky Scandinavian porn onto Laurie's computer, the kind with goats. Laurie edits a really filthy bit of gangsta rap about penises into the middle of a dance remix I'd been working on for the cheerleading squad. I hack Laurie's ringtone not only to go off in the middle of his very portly female community-college professor's class, but to blare a line from 'Fat Bottomed Girls' by Queen with such epic timing that only my emailing said demagogue a personal explanation and apology (as well as the fact that she has six brothers herself and understood immediately once she realized Laurie had a sister,) kept him from being expelled with fire…such is our life."

Christina and Scootaloo continued to stare. "Seriously. This is normal for us. I left some goat porn in Melissa's backpack because she is part of the family now."

"That is at once the cutest and most awful thing I have ever heard."

"What? It was grown-up goats. None of that freaky pedophile baby-goat nastiness. And no humans in it either, just straight-up goats mating, vanilla as it could be. She is new to the family and must be slowly assimilated into the Borg-like entity that comprises House Findlay."

"I don't know if that is more or less like horrible 'Game of Thrones' fanfiction come to life."

"Prob'ly less. No way Mr. Mittens the tabbycat is a lion of Lannister."

"On that profoundly upsetting insightful note, I'd better go see about a ride," Scootaloo waved goodbye and headed off to see Melissa and Demi about a lift to the grocery store, after which, she knew, she would be flying home with the ricotta cheese and leaving them to whatever couple-tastic depredations or goat-related discoveries awaited them.

That left Christina and Josie to drive home in Demi's shabby old Subaru.

They talked for a while about desultory topics, the difficulty of finding really shocking goat porn anymore now that it was all hanging out for anyone to see on the National Geographic Channel, what was the media coming to, wasn't the meeting fun, the pizza was better than what the cheerleaders ordered last time, Scootaloo had really outdone herself… and that was what did it. Just the mention of their friend's name was enough to break Christina's resolve not to let the news affect her.

"Christina, why are you crying?" Josie asked.

"I'm fine."

"So, I take it you told Scoot that you have a crush on her, then?"

"…I do-"

"Oh, don't try to deny it, it's obvious. Who fixes computers here, anyway?" Josie sighed. "Sounds like it didn't go how you thought it would."

"She…she cares about me, but she doesn't…she doesn't…"

"Well, yeah. Scootaloo is straight. I could've told you that, if you'd bothered to, y'know, tell me." Christina looked at her dark-haired friend in surprise. Josie, who was driving, managed to give her a sidelong smile at a short red light. "Not everyone picked up on it, but I knew. Why did you think I've been acting like Pinkie Pie on methamphetamines every time you start to sigh over her? Melissa wouldn't have cared and I'm pretty sure she knew I was being a distraction, 'cause before we had the Alliance, there were some bitchy girls on the squad who would've torn you apart for crushing on another girl. And I won't have them picking on you."

"I'm sorry, Josie."

"Sorry? What the fuck do you have to be sorry about? You like girls. You like guys. That's okay. You shouldn't have to hide who you are from other people any more than Conner should've gone out with Scootaloo to try and hide who he is. There's nothing wrong at all with liking people of either gender, or both, or even some new ones we haven't discovered yet, though if it's that last one I hope you can draw, 'cause extraterrestrial porn has some serious Uncanny Valley shit."

"You don't suppose she's avoiding a relationship just because of the Conner thing?"

"With you? That's a very tactful pony-girl using a very real excuse to cover the fact that, unless I am very wrong with the most precisely-tuned gaydar this side of NORAD, she prefers something with the Y-chromosome factory-installed." Josie sighed. "That, and even if you discovered a magic Belt of Gender Reassignment and came to school tomorrow as a buff, tough dude named Chris, you probably still wouldn't be someone Scootaloo finds attractive."

"Why not? Conner and I don't look that different."

"I don't mean that as having anything so much to do with looks, as with brain chemistry. When we spend time with people a lot as young children, our brains tend to write them into the code as 'siblings' or 'sibling-equivalents,' just highlighting them as 'do not mate with this one.' It's one of the neurotypical impulses that have to be broken or situationally left out for something really counterproductive to evolution, like incest, to work at all. Unless I'm wrong, you've had a bit of a crush on Scoot since the spelling-bee in third grade, haven't you?"

"…You're right."

"First she just seemed so freakin' cool, and then as time wore on, you realized what the feelings meant?"

"Pretty much. How do you know all this?"

"Because that's how I felt about my one, tragic hopeless crush. Everyone seems to have at least one of them, yours just happened to hurt a lot more. While you were nursing that years-long crush on her, Scoot was thinking of you as 'friend' and 'fellow prepubescent tribe member' and 'sibling.' Her brain put you into something a bit more hard-coded than the friend-zone…you literally appear to her mind as a sister, and if she even tries to imagine you in a sexual or relationship context other than friend, it sets off the same squicky incest-prevention feelings we all evolved to prevent offspring being born with third eyes and flipper-hands and other such freaky shit."

"What was it you said in your presentation for Bio class the other day?"

"'Evolution makes a bitch of us all'?"

"That was it."

"Pretty much. You've evolved to share relationships and sex with both genders, like a super-enlightened post-Protestant bonobo-person. You could, theoretically, raise much healthier offspring with access to many more resources because your ability to mate with males and females lets you raise your offspring in a cooperative family group with multiple adults…assuming you're not completely monogamous. Some people are and some aren't. And even monogamy allows you to select from the biggest possible pool of mates, which means a larger statistical likelihood of having the strongest, most intelligent co-parent, even if you do just adopt 'em from foster care. Bisexuality isn't a problem, Christina, it's a superpower." Josie cracked a can of Diet Coke and offered it to her friend without taking her eyes off the road. "It's just rotten fucking luck that the same evolution that gave you the ability to fall for a childhood friend also coded said friend's brain to genetically lock you into the sibling-zone."

"You really do think that's it?"

"I've known you both for how long? And I may be fairly frivolous as a rule, but I'm not stupid. Scootaloo, being both tact personified and one of the few genuinely kind people in the world, would say or do anything just to spare your feelings. I, not being burdened with anything like tact, can say quite bluntly that 'yeah, Chris, it's a hopeless crush.' And I am. But I have also been there myself, and I can tell you, it does get better."

"Who was your hopeless crush?"

Josie pulled into a deserted lot and parked the car.

"You'll be shocked and appalled," she warned.

"I just admitted to a crush on my best friend, who is also a cartoon pony."

"Yeah, true." Josie took a sip of the Diet Coke. "Still not as bad as a thirty-five-year old gay pastor."

"You…what?"

"Pastor Josh, from my church. I'd loved him for years. Finally got the nerve to tell him…okay, maybe tell is being generous. I kinda-sorta cornered him after catechism, declared my undying love and snogged him."

"Josie!"

"I was fifteen, I'd realized that trying to just date boys who looked like Pastor Josh wasn't working out…there were hormones involved…and evolution makes a bitch of us all."

"What happened?"

"He was shockingly decent about the whole thing. Let me down as gently as he could, pointing out first that pastors do not get involved with their flock, then that he was more than twice my age, and finally he informed me that he is also gay. So I was three for three on the Impossible Crush Obstacle Scale. There was rather a lot of crying and cussing and it could've really done a hard number on my faith and trust in adults if he hadn't been just so damnably nice about it. He explained so calmly why it could never work, gave me a big hug and just kind of snuggled me until I felt better enough to go home."

Josie cleaned her glasses and sighed at the memory. "I haven't really tried to love anyone in that way since, not because I think it'll happen again, but because, well…knowing that Pastor Josh was never going to love me the way I wanted, but that he still loved me…that's been kind of enough, really, for now at least. I know that I'm capable of profound, perception-of-reality-warping love, and that's not something everyone can do. The fact that I happened to fall for a person who can only ever love me as a little sister and a good friend, well…that's hard luck, but after the first sharp cut of pain and disappointment and feeling so damn embarrassed for even saying anything about it at all…it does start to feel better. Really."

"How long did it take for you?"

"Well…I haven't dated anyone since, nor have I really wanted to, and it's been about eighteen months. So as for whether it's done a number on my love life or whether I've just used 'healing up from a tragic grand passion' as an excuse to pull down better grades than expected and save money on dates, it's really hard to say. As for being able to think of my pastor without crying, that took about an hour and a half. Being able to see him without feeling awkward, that takes a week or so. And being able to feel like I'm lucky for having a person who couldn't fulfill a crush, but could love me as a friend? That took about a month, maybe forty days. Your mileage may vary."

"An hour and a half?"

"To be fair, I did get some high-quality platonic snuggling, which does help solve most problems." Josie pulled off her raggedy old denim jacket and put it around her friend, then hugged her. "Do you think some of that might help?"

"…Yeah."

"Good." Christina slid down the bench seat to lean on Josie's shoulder.

"I just can't imagine what it's going to be like, seeing her every day and knowing she knows how I feel about her."

"Is that really embarrassing anymore, or just sad? Because it shouldn't be embarrassing at all. If I know Scoot, she probably feels just as silly for not noticing the crush as you do for having it. And you can't both of you be embarrassed for just some genetic hard luck."

"It was embarrassing, but now it's just starting to feel like sad."

"And it is. You're going to have to bury a dead fantasy. It's like when anything else you've had for a while dies. At first you feel like you can hardly go on, but in time, you're able just to miss how it was, and in time, maybe you might find it in your heart to consider a new one. Like…pets or something."

"Josie…are you straight?"

"Yes. Not that I'd say 'don't get any ideas' or anything, but I do have a strong fondness for Y-chromosome-equipped models."

"I was actually about to say 'if you're trying to steal me from Scootaloo, you are so not the same type at all.'"

"This does have an uncomfortably date-feeling feel to it, doesn't it?"

"Kinda, yeah."

"We should do something super-platonic after this. Like get those sticky nose strips and peel them off. It's probably impossible to do that with anyone to whom one is attracted."

"Oooh, and facials! And I know where we can watch this really bad Lifetime movie about Women Overcoming Adversity. We can take shots of root beer every time there's a predictable plot setback!"

"Christina! That was a perfect completely-bloody-frivolous conversation segue!" Josie beamed.

"I'm taking your advice on my love life, I might as well try Better Living Through ADD while I'm at it, eh?" Christina grinned despite red-rimmed eyes. "And I can kinda-sorta see how it's going to get better now."

"'Any minor world that breaks apart falls together again,'" Josie quoted.

"What's that one from?"

"I have it on my mp3 player, here."

And despite the uncomfortably date-feeling feel of Demi's shabby Subaru, Christina and Josie listened to the song 'Any Major Dude Will Tell You' by Steely Dan as the rain came down on the car. By the time the cheerful, up-tempo song about telling cult members to fuck right off and the 'fucked-up' one about a junkie overdosing that Josie had used for their fifth-grade D.A.R.E. graduation had played, Christina had fallen asleep on her friend's shoulder. High-quality platonic snuggling had once again saved the day.

So Josie drove her friend home, made up a shockingly credible lie about a more than usually exhausting combination of math tests and cheerleading practice to conceal Christina's having been to a Gay-Straight Alliance meeting to her less-than-gay-friendly parents, and generally had her friend's back. Again.

Because that is what friends do. Even fucked-up ADD ones with a weird taste in music and a fondness for awful pranks.
> Ch 20: Scootaloo goes to Church
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo

by Cozy Mark IV

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release


Chapter Twenty: Scootaloo goes to Church

Scootaloo followed Josie into the building with the stained-glass windows. As they walked, the sound of soft music seemed to surround them.  It went from the sounds of a traditional church organ to a pedal-driven electric guitar even as they walked.

“This…is a church?” Scootaloo asked.

“My church, anyway,” Josie explained, a shy grin turning up the corner of her mouth.

“Goin' up to the spirit in the sky
That's where I'm gonna go when I die
When I die and they lay me to rest 
Gonna go to the place that's the best…”

“…This sounds like that classic-rock CD you made for Melissa.”

“Yeah, Norman Greenbaum,” Josie grinned. “Your biggest problem, Scoot, is that you’ve gotten the faith confused with the supposedly-faithful.”

It was then that Scootaloo realized there was what essentially amounted to a rock band rehearsing by the side of the pews near the organ. So she took a seat next to Josie on a likely-looking pew and listened to them finish the familiar old classic-rock song. They were really quite good.

“Miss Scootaloo?” a voice called. Scoot looked up and saw a smiling, friendly young man in a pastoral collar, with a bass guitar slung over his broad shoulders. He was taller than average, but not as tall as her Papa, and older than her, but not as old as Pastor Gray. “I’m Josh. We’re so glad you came!”

“You’re…Pastor Josh?”

“Yeah,” the man grinned, reaching out a big hand to shake. “Though the ‘Pastor’ part is kinda limited to my actual flock and stuff,” he explained. Scootaloo realized that he couldn’t be much more than thirty years old. “Josie has told us so much about you.”

“And you, too,” she agreed, still feeling profoundly uncomfortable.

“Yeah, it can be a lot to take in,” the long-haired man agreed. “I bet most people don’t think of religion and picture our Josie.”

“…No, not so much,” Scootaloo agreed.

“Well, this is St. Francis of Assisi’s, we’re a Unitarian Universalist chapel, and every person of every faith is welcome here. I myself lean pretty far towards Christian, but you can be anything whatsoever and you’re one of us,” Pastor Josh explained, his blond beard making him look a bit more like a hippie than a preacher of the variety Scoot was used to. “I don’t suppose you’re an atheist, by any chance? The Theists vs. Atheists softball game is coming up, and one side is short.”

“…You have a Theists vs. Atheists softball game?”

“Yep. Josie plays catcher most years,” Pastor Josh explained with a grin, waving as Josie scurried off to go do something. “You’ve got that dub-tee-eff look on your face right now, so I figure I’d better explain a bit.”

“It might be a good idea, yeah,” Scootaloo agreed. “I thought Josie said this is a Christian church.”

“Kinda-sorta-maybe, yeah,” Pastor Josh agreed. “Unitarians believe that every religion, or no religion, or some any-of-the-above combination, all of them might be right. So we pretty much welcome everyone. You might believe in Jesus Christ of Nazareth, Moses son of Yocheved of Egypt or even Spock son of Sarek of Vulcan, doesn’t matter to us. So long as you’re trying to find the truth of existence and trying to be the best possible person you can, you’re more than welcome to come and be one of us.”

“Wait…wasn’t that a reference to ‘Star Trek’?”

“And isn’t truth potentially everywhere?” Pastor Josh shrugged. “You could be a Muslim, a Christian, an atheist, a Trekker or an observant Jew. Everyone is welcome here. We mean that. You could invite the Vogons to read us their poetry and I promise you we’d give it the college try.”

Just then, a handsome man with dark hair and a shorter beard appeared in the doorway.

“Darling?” he called. “I found macaroni-and-cheese at the Aldi on sale, three-for-a-dollar, so I got fifty dollars’ worth. Think that’ll be enough?”

“Every little bit helps,” Pastor Josh agreed, hopping down from the dais surrounding the altar and kissing the newcomer on the cheek. “It should be enough for many dinners indeed,” he grinned, hugging the dark-haired fellow. Scootaloo smiled as she realized this was a couple just like her Dads. “We have a newcomer here today. Miss Scootaloo Scott, this is Andrew Cacciatore,” the pastor introduced.

“Nice to meet you,” she remarked.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Andrew replied, shaking her prosthetic hand. “You must be Josie Findlay’s friend.”

“Yeah,” Scootaloo agreed.

“We’ve heard so much. The protest you girls carried out, I was quite impressed. It isn’t often we see that kind of courage from girls your age.”

“Really, ‘Drew?” Pastor Josh asked, with a gentle frown.

“Girls, yes, sixteen-year-olds, not so much,” Andrew clarified. “You handled it like college sophomores. About time we had young women with the courage of their convictions behind them.”

“Really?” Josie chirped, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. “It’s okay to be uppity young wenches?”

“I hardly consider you a wench, Josie,” Pastor Josh remarked, patting Josie’s shoulder even as he kissed Andrew’s cheek. “You are a child of God and our dear sister. Our dear, opinionated, somewhat uppity sister who occasionally leads the Sunday School children to start fires, but our dear sister nonetheless.”

“We do always put them out,” Josie protested.

“And for that, we are all grateful,” Andrew agreed.

“I kind of thought this was what Catholic churches look like,” Scootaloo observed, gesturing to the stained-glass that still adorned some of the windows, and the mix of old and new pews, some of which still had kneeling pads.

“St. Francis’ was once a Roman Catholic church,” Pastor Josh explained, setting the bass onto a little stand near the piano. “But their flock declined in numbers over time and couldn’t afford the maintenance or a priest’s salary anymore, so the Diocese decided to put it up for sale. That’s when our congregation bought the place. Some of the most historically important stained-glass windows were sold to a museum, both to lower the cost of insurance and to help us restore the building, and since then we’ve replaced them either with blank glass or the work of our Tuesday evening craft group.” The pastor gestured to a window with new-looking solder that depicted a series of famous authors, including Isaac Asimov, Mark Twain and a middle-aged lady whom, from the little dimension-diagram motif near her, was probably Madeleine L’Engle. 

“Someday we shall have every window done. Our pews are a mix of originals, some new ones people have donated and some we got from fire or renovation sales from other houses of worship,” Pastor patted one beautiful wooden bench with a Star of David and some Hebrew lettering on the side lovingly. “The synagogue’s contribution is especially comfortable.”

“Is that patch on the side with no benches –pews, I mean, for visitors in wheelchairs?” Scoot asked. 

“We do have some parishioners who use chairs, yes, and they do tend to sit there, though you’ll also notice where the carpet is a bit fluffier?” Pastor Josh gestured to a section where the carpet puffed up a little. “There’s a double-layer of padding under that section because, for a while, we were the closest thing to a mosque in town. We still have several Muslims who worship with us, and the softer floor, well, one of our parishioners made it his special penance for thoughts he had previously held about that faith.”

“Penance? Like, punishment?”

“Not quite. Self-atonement is more like it. We do not assign penance here, but if a person comes to me with guilt and recrimination in his heart, I have found that suggesting some physical task of their choosing, as well as prayer, sometimes helps. We have one parishioner who realized late in life that she had been brought up with beliefs that today we would consider very racist, and she took it upon herself to volunteer as a photographer for adoption days at the courthouse. She takes great pains to produce beautiful formal portraits of all the new families, even when said families include several skin colors. Apparently creating lighting that flatters all faces has taught her the beauty of all people, and as age limits her mobility, she’s acquired a series of photographer apprentices from the at-risk youth program. Almost all of them are young people of color, and she loves them like her own children.”

“That’s…actually one of the nicest things I’ve ever heard.”

“Our padded carpet section is much the same. We have a brother parishioner who had worshiped here for many years, but when the mosque in the next town burned and we welcomed so many Muslim brothers and sisters, he realized that he felt resentment and xenophobia toward members of his chapel family. He came to me for advice, and we talked and prayed for many hours. I had an imam, a good friend of mine, come and visit from out of state, to explain Islam better to the entire chapel, and he met in private with my parishioner who had such hate and fear in his heart. 

“In time, our brother came to accept his brothers and sisters, but he felt so ashamed of how he had been before that he wanted to do something kind for them and for his chapel family as a whole. As it happens, his skills include the installation of flooring, and I arrived at St. Francis one Thursday evening eight years ago to find him with a pry bar and a linoleum knife, taking out the old, worn rugs we had and putting in this beautiful carpet. He paid for every square foot and every staple himself and would have refused all help installing it if not for the fact that he wasn’t quite done by two a.m. Friday morning. So my imam friend and I helped him finish the last of it, and then we all prayed together. 

“When his Muslim brothers and sisters came for salah –prayers, that is, the next morning, laid down their prayer mats and felt that the floor had been made softer and warmer for them, they smiled, and after our next nondenominational service, our brother broke bread with his new siblings in faith –well, ate donuts and had orange juice, really. It’s so easy to let your language slip, as a pastor. 

“He now has many dear Muslim friends, and he and one of his Muslim brothers are making plans to take their families to the Holy Land together. The Nasser family shall make the Hajj and the Findlays shall visit Jerusalem. They have told me that by sharing hotels and traveling together to both sites (with the exception of those which are closed to outsiders of each faith,) apparently it is possible to qualify for the group package and save a significant sum, which they intend to give as alms to the poor, and by traveling together as fathers of families, they hope to show others in that land that peace is possible. I am told, also, that they are hoping the Bernsteins might join them.”

“Wait…Findlay? This was a relative of Josie’s?”

“Her father, yes,” Pastor Josh explained. “You see, Miss Scott, even for people who have lived their entire lives in a good land, a blessed country where every man, woman and child has the freedom to choose whatever faith their God, Goddess, Pantheon or belief in Reason alone may draw them to, it is still possible for people to misunderstand and fear one another, and for one of the greatest gifts we have as humans, people really, to become a weapon of hate and mistrust. 

“Josie tells me that you and your family have suffered from the intolerance of others, and that for this reason, religion has not been a part of your life before. So…I felt it might help, to show you that this is a place where hate cannot live. Have you had occasion to take wood or metal shop class yet?”

“Yes, I have…what does that have to do with religion, though?”

“Many things, really. A person who seeks truth can find their faith anywhere. I have a parishioner who found his faith in the lenses of a microscope, another who found it in the singing of children and still another, my dear fiancé in fact, who found his faith on roller coasters –God grants me patience, if not quite understanding of that last one,” Pastor Josh smiled ruefully and Scootaloo sensed that Dramamine was as essential to their relationship as coffee was to her Daddy and Papa’s. “In this case, though, I was wondering if you’d ever seen the little metal cabinet with the disinfectant light inside. The one where everyone puts their safety goggles at the end of class?”

“Yes, I know it.”

“Well, metaphorically speaking, St. Francis’ Chapel is like that cabinet. We have a safe place for every pair of goggles, no matter how differently shaped.” Here, he patted two mismatched pews. “Remember how Josie’s goggles and yours were probably different from the other students’ pairs, because hers must go over her prescription glasses and yours…don’t they have longer ear-thingies?”

“An elastic band, actually.”

“Oh. I bet that’s much more comfortable.”

“It really is.”

“I should get a set of that kind myself,” Pastor Josh observed absently. “But still, there was a place in the cabinet for every pair. We try to be like that here. You can be eighty years old and walk in with seventy-five years of experience in one single church, you can be thirty-six and have traveled to more houses of worship than some people try coffee shops, or you can be four years old and just hearing about faith for the first time. You can be sixteen and curious, sixty and fed up with the place where you used to pray…it doesn’t matter. Anyone, from anywhere, with any beliefs, is welcome here. We’re open seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day and there’s always someone here to talk to, hot meals for the poor and as soon as we can finish installing them, we’ll have showers for the homeless in the basement as well as cots and blankets.

“And that is part of what gives us the light. Just as the anti-microbial light burns away any bacteria that may exist on the safety goggles, the light of understanding and truth burns away hate and misunderstanding. You cannot fear a Muslim, a Jew, a Christian or even a Satanist when you’ve been sitting three feet away from them and praying together for a while. You cannot misunderstand your brothers and sisters when you have spoken and shared with them. What love has filled, hate cannot fit inside.” Pastor Josh stopped suddenly, as if realizing how he sounded. “Am I sounding too much like a daft hippie?” he asked.

“…I won’t say this doesn’t sound a fair amount like Dr. Gregerson’s description of Woodstock, but it does sound pretty darn awesome.”

“You probably have questions, and if you’re anything like me, could probably do with some coffee right about now, or maybe some orange juice?”

“Coffee would be great, thank you.” Together, they headed toward the fellowship hall.

“Just please don’t make a fuss over getting it. We’ve found that it is best to keep our sister Josie on the decaf. After Brother James brought us the espresso machine, there was a bit of an incident.”

“What happened?”

“I had asked our choir director to prepare a production of ‘Godspell’ for the Christian celebration of Easter, in the hopes that a performance might bring joy to the various senior citizens’ homes and nursery schools we visit.  That, and we hoped to raise a little money for the hospital. Josie consumed something on the order of three cups of espresso, used her smartphone to place an ad on Craigslist and incited the entire cast to move their dress rehearsal to a nearby Walmart. There, I am told that no less than three hundred musical-theater fans descended in a flash mob, accompanied our cast in song and somehow performed the entire show from ‘Prepare Ye’ to ‘Light of the World’ without incident. Then, while Josie was purchasing inexpensive grape soda and Dixie cups with the choir director, some members of the flash mob decided actual wine would be more ecclesiastically appropriate, ‘On The Willows’ became a decidedly somber eleven o’clock number and the Crucifixion on the racks of the bicycle department provoked a more emotional response than expected. And then the police arrived.”

“…Yep, that’s Josie all right.”

“Are you familiar with that particular musical?”

“No, but I’m familiar with Josie. Is that why she’s not allowed in the Walmart now?”

“Most likely.”

“I had wondered.”

“Well, and it did work out for the best. Several influential critics were there, either in response to the Craigslist and Twitter postings or, in the case of that nice fellow from the Times, actually to buy groceries. Apparently the decision to stage a musical about the Gospel according to St. Matthew in an actual big-box store, with props simply pulled from the shelves and everyone in the crowd participating with the cast…well…long story short, we wound up having to perform the piece for five solid weeks after school to accommodate the demand for tickets. We raised enough to buy some kidney-dialysis machines for Children’s Hospital.”

“Aww! I do remember Josie being excited about the dialysis machines. She …never did explain how her church managed that.”

“I suspect it was her entirely unexpected and frankly unbelievable sense of modesty.”

“Josie has modesty?”

“More like shyness, perhaps. She is actually somewhat insecure when it comes to her own public-speaking and especially singing abilities. Catch her up in the moment and she’s a wonderful performer. Give her a moment to think about it and she’s terrified. It was for that reason that our director found it essential to give her a song toward the middle of the piece, one with great energy, lest Josie think about it and risk stage fright.”

“Which song was it?”

“It’s called ‘Bless the Lord.’ Lovely pop-gospel-type number. Lynne Thigpen sang it in the movie. Takes a lot of vocal power and makes some demands of the singer’s range.”

Suddenly, Scootaloo remembered. Her Dad and Papa hadn’t been very serious about religion, but they were big musical-theater fans. Huge.

“Wait. Isn’t ‘Godspell’ the one where the John the Baptist guy in the ringmaster coat comes and collects people from their everyday lives in the Seventies, and it’s kind of like Jesus as explained by clowns?”

“That’s the one, yes.”

“Josie sang THAT song?”

“Quite well, yes. And she also had the lead on ‘By My Side.’ It wasn’t a very big cast, I’m afraid, folks had to double up.”

“I had no idea she could sing like that.”

“Most people don’t realize she has a good singing voice. She seems to avoid solos in your school Chorus and only joins in here under the duress of her little Sunday School students. I suspect it’s a combination of stage fright and the fact that as a young child, her voice was decidedly…squeaky. She was teased once in the chorus for one of our pageants, and since then it’s been very hard to get her to share her gifts.”

“I’m having trouble even picturing that. Josie being afraid to do anything is just weird to me.”

“She puts on a brave front, yes, but I’ve known her for ten years. Did you know she was more nervous about your coming today than she was about performing in a musical for a packed chapel?”

“Really?”

“‘What if homophobes show up, Pastor?’ ‘What if she thinks we’re all insane people who sing at the ceiling for no reason?’ ‘What if the kids try to ride on her? If any of my third-graders try that, then so help me…’ She’s been a mess ever since she found out you were coming to visit.” Pastor Josh grinned. “You should have heard her pestering the brothers and sisters on kitchen duty about making sure there was something vegetarian available. For mercy’s sake, we have two Jains, a Sikh and a Hindu on kitchen duty today!”

“Is that why Mr. Cacciatore bought all that mac n’ cheese?”

“No, that’s for the food bank. We try to feed as many of the poor as we can. Today, I believe there shall be hummus and something that smells of curry, as well as those delicious little cookies with seeds on them. Oh, and donuts. We are a house of worship, after all. There really is no way to avoid donuts.”

Scootaloo saw the people working in the kitchen, who waved, and she waved back. The Fellowship Hall was really just a big room with tables in it, but special tracks between the acoustic tiles in the ceiling allowed thick vinyl curtains to be pulled out to form several rooms. It was a lot like the multi-purpose room at her middle school, just on a smaller scale, and at present it was nothing but classrooms with two ‘hallways’ between curtained-off sections.

“The kindergartners and preschoolers are in the Noah’s Ark room upstairs,” Pastor Josh explained, “and first through sixth grades, as well as the adult small-group discussion classes, are held in the Fellowship Hall between services. I believe the second grade is studying the story of Mohammed (peace-be-upon-him,) and Muezza the cat, the first grade is doing a coloring book on the Hindu gods and goddesses, the fourth grade is comparing different religions’ humor by compiling a joke book for the sick children, and the fifth and sixth grades are collaborating on a geodesic dome structure for the playground. We’ll either put plastic over the triangles to make a greenhouse for plants or use it as a kind of gazebo to keep Muezza the Third and Daniel out of the preschool’s sandbox. Many things are sacred, but not to the chapel cats.”

“There are chapel cats?”

“There were church mice that took it upon themselves to…test the food we had gathered for the human poor. We could not, in good conscience, begrudge them this, but we also couldn’t risk myxomycosis or hantavirus. So now there are chapel cats. It was Nature’s solution. Daniel was named as a bit of a bible pun, being a long-haired cat who had gotten a lion cut while in the shelter, and Muezza the Third is literally our third Muezza. We try to adopt older cats from the shelter, and the first two were in their late teens and early twenties respectively. Thirdsie is only six, so we should have her awhile, God willing.”

There was a loud ‘whack’ sound from one of the curtained-off classrooms, the one with a ‘3’ by the door-gap.

“What is the third grade doing today?” Scootaloo asked.

“Jesus knows! That’s Josie’s class. Their big project for the year is making a special calendar of all the holidays they can find, from every faith and culture, and I must say, it’s been nice to have that many new HTML programmers in the chapel, but as for what they might be doing on any given day, well…why don’t we take a look?”

So they stepped over to a small gap in the curtains and peered inside.

There was a small assembly-line of children, happily sharing little two-paragraph essays they had written about the Greek and Roman gods and goddesses. The first two children were pulling apart some flattened cardboard boxes from what looked like a liquor store, Josie was moderating the discussion and working a large manual paper-cutter to lop the cardboard into three-inch-thick strips with the odd ‘whack’ as she made a slice, and the other children were patiently gluing, aligning, and clamping the cardboard strips together between stacks of heavy books. Then they fit them into empty soda flats with the corrugation exposed, and then the last few pairs of children were drawing some happy cat faces , paw prints and such on the sides with Crayola markers. The last two children had a bowl of water with greenish herbs in it and a paintbrush, with which they gently brushed the corrugated tops of the resulting product.

“Okay, rotate stations!” Josie called. Every two children then moved to the next station, with only the dangerous paper-cutter manned by the closest thing to an adult they had. “How many have we made so far?”

“Ten!” a little boy announced.

“Good job, guys! Katie, I believe it was your turn?”

“The goddess I chose was Demeter, also known as Hestia. She is frequently shown with a cat because she is the goddess of the home and hearf’ and cats eat the mice who come to desp…despoil the harvest. That means they eat it. Her daughter is Perseph’ne, who eventually married Hades, also called Pluto, and became the Queen of the Dead. Demeter was totally pissed about this and went to get Perseph’ne back, and ‘ventually they decided that ‘cause Perseph’ne ate three pomegranate seeds, she’d stay wif’ Hades for three months, and the rest of the time she’d live with her Mom. So every winter, Perseph’ne goes to the netherworld to hang out with her husband and Demeter gets all depressed, which is where winter comes from, and when Perseph’ne comes back, Demeter is like totally ‘party time!’ with flowers an’ stuff, which a’splains spring.”

“Very good, Katie! Is that eleven we’ve made?”

“Yes, Miss Josie!”

“Do you think the shelter cats will like the scratchers?” a little boy asked.

“I think so, Mark. What does the QC department think?” The little boy looked behind a file cabinet. 

“Daniel kitty’s asleep on one.”

“That’s a solid endorsement if ever I’ve heard one.  Which god or goddess did you pick to research, Jake?”

“I picked Hef…Hefay…” the little boy looked pleadingly at Josie.

“Hephaestus, maybe? God of the forge an’ blacksmithing and stuff?”

“Yep. That guy. He couldn’t walk but he made himself robots to help himself get around. They were called automa…automata. And even though he was the ugliest god, Afro-dight-”

“Aphrodite,” Josie corrected gently.

“Aph-ro-di-te,” Mark agreed, sounding it out, “she married Hephaestus. She is the goddess of love. And in this one book I found at the library, when Pollux got his hands lopped off in a freaky bladed-Frisbee game during the quest for the Golden Fleece, the blacksmith of the Argo asked Hephaestus for help and made Pollux new super-strong robot hands!”

“I remember that book, yes!” Josie agreed. “Definitely one of the more Tarentino-esque representations of Greco-Roman mythology. What other things did Hephaestus do?”

“Not lots. He made Zeus’s thunderbolts and that’s pretty much all I found.”

“Well, at least he had good job security,” Josie lopped another few strips of cardboard for her team, then realized Pastor Josh and Scootaloo were watching. “Hey, Pastor! Class, this is my friend Scootaloo Scott. She’s a cheerleader from my school.”

Scootaloo braced for a storm of questions, but the children were strangely quiet. For about three seconds, there was silence, and then everyone’s hand went up.

“Let’s start with Mark,” Josie nodded.

“It’s nice ta’ meet you Miss Scott,” the little boy who’d written about Hephaestus remarked, putting out his little hand, which Scootaloo shook with her prosthetic, surprising him a little. 

“Nice to meet you, Mark,” she replied.

“I have a question but what if it’s not polite?” Mark continued, shooting a look to his young teacher.

“Try your best,” Josie shrugged.

“Where did you get your cool robot arms?”

“They were made for me by a team of prosthetic scientists. I believe this specific pair was assembled in a small factory in Maryland.” Mark was trying not to stare, but was clearly very fascinated. “They’re made from titanium and carbon fiber.”

“Can you crush a pop can with them until it’s all squished?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it,” Mark sighed happily, sitting back down.

“Let’s see…Wendy?” Josie called on the next kid.

“Miss Scott, I also have a question, this one is about flying.”

“Oh, good, I love to fly!” Scootaloo gave the cheerful smile which was good for addressing audiences of children.

“What effects would you say your fur and mane have on your aer’dynamics with regard to drag, and if you were to put on a skin-tight bodysuit, would that fix it? And what if it were Teflon?”

“…Well…um…Wendy, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Wendy’s parents are engineers,” Pastor Josh explained. “I’m just going to go get ready for the service. You all have fun!” 

And with that, Scootaloo was left to face the children of Josie’s Sunday School class.

“…I see. Well, in all honesty, I have to admit that I have no idea what effect my fur and mane have in terms of drag. I would imagine that there’s probably some, but I haven’t had occasion to take the appropriate measurements and find out for sure.”

“Would you be open to a ‘speriment?” Wendy took out a notebook with a pretty good crayon drawing of Scootaloo in it and several different-colored arrows. “We could determine your velocity with a GPS, as well as your heart rate and caloric output, then put you into a bodysuit and have you fly at the same speed, internally speaking, then compare the external velocities to see if the reduction in drag made you go faster. And then we could measure lateral G-forces with an accelerometer.”

“…What would be the hypothesis?”

“Since your fur is all over you, the drag may be consistent enough to improve your overall control when flying. If that’s the case, then airplanes need to be fuzzy.” Little Wendy solemnly turned the page to a picture of several airplanes colored in bright, pony-fur hues. “It’s science.”

“But couldn’t you also say that since Miss Scott can feel her fur, that her being fuzzy isn’t just for drag, but for full-body airspeed sensors?” another little girl asked.

“Good point, Katie, but try not to interrupt if you can,” Josie took a sip of what Scootaloo hoped was decaf coffee.

“That is a good point, Katie. I really can feel my fur, just the same way you can feel the wind in your hair when you ride on rollercoasters or roll down the car windows.”

“Does it seem to help you react to conditions?” little Katie asked, taking out her notebook and big blue pencil, ready to take down exactly what Scootaloo said next.

“It seems to. I can definitely feel differences in moisture and temperature, and it seems to be a pretty good insulator.” Josie pointed to the next kid.

“That’s like our clothes, right?” little David asked.

“Exactly like clothes, yes. My fur helps me maintain my internal temperature.” Scootaloo looked over to a little boy in a dress shirt and tie. “You have a question, too?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Nick. Why are you orange?”

“I have no idea. I was born orange, with this kind of pinkish-purple hair in my mane, and my colors have never changed, so it’s almost certainly hereditary.”

“Oh. I thought it might be for vis’bility.”

“It does help with visibility, yes. I guess I’m lucky to be orange. Imagine if I were sky blue, instead; birds and bugs would fly into me all the time.”

“Have you ever swallowed a bug while you were flying?” another child asked.

“Actually, no. The first airport I trained at was within a short distance of a swamp, and I was so afraid of swallowing a dragonfly that I got into the habit of keeping my mouth shut on takeoffs and landings…that, and above a certain height, the bugs simply don’t fly that high.”

“Why didn’t you want to swallow a dragonfly?”

“One of the ultralight pilots already had and he told me they taste like yuck.”

“Do you eat hay like the horses at my riding class?”

“I have occasionally had some, yes, but it’s very bland, so I don’t really go out of my way to eat it. Imagine oatmeal with no sugar or raisins or anything, or graham crackers with the sugar and cinnamon scraped off or maybe Grape-Nuts cereal. It’s like what old people eat when they need to go to the bathroom.” That made the children laugh.

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Probably either pasta with mushroom Alfredo sauce and broccoli, or a big veggie burger with everything.”

“Even pickles?”

“Especially pickles.”

That seemed to divide the room momentarily into pro- and anti-pickle camps which were, respectively, vindicated and horrified.
“Josie said that you’re a vegetarian like Mr. Singh. Does that mean you don’t like chicken nuggets?”

“Well, I had some veggie nuggets once that I liked. They were made from batter-dipped tofu.”

“Do you have a cat?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

That perked the entire class up considerably.

“Would you like one?” the same little boy asked. “There are awesome ones at the shelter.”

“I…I’ll ask my Dads.”

“You have two dads, like us?” a little boy asked, a big grin lighting up his face. Scootaloo realized that the little boy next to him, despite completely different outfits, was his twin brother.

“Yes, I do. My Dad is an engineer and Papa works in fashion design.”

“Our Dads own a small business,” the other twin explained.

“The Sticky Lick on Fifth Avenue,” Josie explained with a whisper in Scootaloo’s ear. Scoot had never been to that particular establishment, but she had seen the neon sign with a rainbow-colored lollipop and enormous lips, as well as had a very awkward conversation around third-grade age with her Daddy about why anyplace that wasn’t a candy store would have that kind of sign. “Oscar and Harvey have two dads just like you, and Katie has two moms, and Wendy and her little brother have grandparents.”

“Those are all wonderful families!” Scootaloo knew to reply.

“And my family has three cats!” the little boy who had suggested one announced, as if cats were only slightly less rare and expensive than Rolls-Royces. “You should get a cat. Then when you shed feathers, you can make her a feather toy, and she’ll pounce it.”

“Evan is going to be a lion tamer when he grows up,” Josie explained, absolutely deadpan.

“Do you really shed your feathers?” a little girl asked.

“Yes, sometimes.”

“Is it all at once, or just some at a time?”

“Like one or two at a time. It’s like how you find hair in your hairbrush.”

“So you brush them?”

“I thought you would preen them like a bird,” little Katie observed, miming the action with her arm and a beaky facial expression.

“Neither, actually. I just sort of…oh, here.” Scootaloo spread her wings, shook them out and then smoothed over her feathers with her prosthetics as usual. “See? Like that.” A few feathers came loose as she did this, and she offered them to Josie. “Craft supply?”

“Could we add them to the dreamcatcher?” little Wendy asked, pointing to one that the class had made with yarn and which hung from the bulletin board.

“Or cat toys!” little Evan suggested. Somehow, the kids had managed to keep working on their cat scratchers, and Scootaloo, at a gesture from Josie, took a seat in the gluing-in part of the assembly line.

“What brings you to St. Francis today?” a quiet little girl near the box disassembly asked Scootaloo suddenly.

“I came to see what my friend Josie’s church is like.”

“So where do you go to church?”

“…Nowhere, I suppose. My Dad and Papa didn’t take me to one when I was little, probably because I had to be a secret for a while, and after that, I guess they either never got around to picking one or didn’t see a need for it.”

“Are they af’eists or a’nostics?”

“Actually, I don’t know. We never really discussed religion. So I’m really new to all of this.”

“That means we can help,” Little Evan remarked with the authority of a nine-year-old. “Do you prefer polytheism, monotheism or atheism?”

“…I actually don’t know. I mean, some people have told me about the Christian and Jewish God-”

“Yahweh or Jehovah, depending on the text,” Little Wendy nodded.

“And I have heard about Allah, who is the Muslims’ God, right?”

“Yep. They’re the same guy, just different names.”

“Plus we did read about the Greek and Roman gods in school, as well as some stuff about the Egyptians and Norse ones.”

“How about Bastet?” Evan perked up. “She’s the Egyptian goddess of cats. Excellent first goddess, very easy to worship. Or Freyja, the Norse goddess of love and battle. She rides in a chariot pulled by cats.”

“Well, which gods do you worship?”

“Oh, me?” Evan smiled. “I’m a Christian, but I worship Jesus in his aspect as Aslan, the Savior of Narnia.”

“…And that’s allowed?” Scootaloo asked, surprised.

“Sure,” Little Katie explained. “Some kids get mad at their parents and say they’re going to switch religions sometimes. So they go sit with different kids and learn about other faiths, and sooner or later they either go back or meet their parents in one of the middle pews. My uncle Jon became a Muslim while he was in the war, and when he came home, my moms decided to worship here so we could all be in the same building and church family.”

“I got mad at the Bible and worshipped Bastet for like two weeks,” Evan explained. “She’s okay as a starter goddess, but Aslan is better.”

“Isn’t your god or goddess supposed to be the best, and that’s why you pick them?”

“Well, you can think so, but it isn’t polite to say.”

“I was thinking about maybe Princess Celestia and Princess Luna being good goddesses,” the quiet little girl explained shyly. “They could represent the two sides of a balanced universe, in accordance with the Tao.”

“And I tried to worship Discord once,” little Nick revealed.

“What happened?” Scootaloo asked.

“I got grounded for a week and threw up from drinking a whole gallon of chocolate milk. Discord and Loki are crummy gods.”

For a moment, Scootaloo wondered if Josie’s frivolity and Pastor Josh’s incredible tolerance had simply diluted the very idea of religion down to an amusing game for little kids. It certainly sounded like something between favorite-books and Pokemon, to hear the third-graders speak of faith.

“What would you want to get from religion, Miss Scott?” the quiet little girl asked.

“To get from it?”

“Yeah. Pastor Josh says that we should all be seekers of the truth, and that faith takes what we put into it and returns it tenfold. So what do you want to put into it?”

“Well…I…” 

And Scootaloo realized that she’d never really thought about it that way.

She also realized that if anyone could take a complex concept like faith, or religion, and understand the good and bad perfectly, it was probably these intelligent little kids. They didn’t have decades of enculturation or bias to overcome. They just saw things and tried their best to interpret them.

“I have a friend at school named Conner,” she explained. “Conner is gay, like my Dad and Papa, and because his parents’ religion says gay people are bad, he had to come and live with me because his parents were…they were very unkind to him. And the principal at my high school, his religion told him to not teach the students some very important things, just because he was afraid they might use them to do things he thinks are bad, and that caused a lot of really bad problems.”

“So you want a faith with great tolerance,” the quiet little girl observed. 

“Yes.”

“What do you think happens when we die?”

“…I have no idea. I’ve never known anyone who has died.”

“Some people believe in reincarnation,” Little Evan smiled. “Cats have nine lives, and when my oldest cat died, she went to the Heaviside Layer and came back to a different Jellicle life. T.S. Eliot wrote poems about it.”

“Does that mean you’ll see your cat again?” Scootaloo asked.

“Most likely. Right now she’s probably someone else’s cat, and that might be in a different place or time. But when we die and go to heaven, the first place we go is the Rainbow Bridge. There’s a meadow where all the pets are healthy and young and not sick at all, and they play there until their humans come, and then they cross the Rainbow Bridge to heaven together.”

“So…where did your cat really go?”

“Her body went to our backyard,” Evan explained, as if he realized he was talking to someone who knew rather less than himself on the topic. “Her spirit, though, the part of her that made her Molly Fuzzypaws, that part went to the Heaviside Layer, I think, which is where T.S. Eliot says cats go to come back to a different life. They get nine, I think, and then they go to the Rainbow Bridge.”

“So…there’s reincarnation and heaven, it doesn’t have to be an ‘or’?”

“Nope,” Katie agreed. “Some religions don’t think cats have souls or that they go anywhere when they die.”

“But we know better,” Evan explained. “I had a dream about Molly Fuzzypaws a few days after she passed away. She was younger and wasn’t sick anymore. In my dream, I opened a can of tuna and gave it to her, and she ate it, then she purred for me and followed a big lion to someplace nice. That’s how I knew she was with Aslan and that everything would be okay.”

“But…but how do you know that your subconscious mind didn’t just make that up to make you feel better?” Scootaloo was confused.

“I don’t know.” Evan glued some more cardboard into a scratcher and passed it to the next kid for decorating with a smile. “But I have faith that that’s what it meant.”

“Faith means that you don’t know, but you believe.” Little Katie explained.

“But what if you believe something that’s…well…that’s wrong? Like Noah’s Ark. That makes no biological sense. No way is every animal descended from only two specimens, and even then, how on Earth is Noah supposed to have built an ark that holds every animal, let alone gotten the animals from all over the world?”

“Well, in Bible times people didn’t understand science quite so well,” Little Wendy smiled. “Like me. I’m nine. I understand science now, and when I flip a light switch, it breaks the circuit and the electrons can’t flow to my lamp anymore, so the light goes out. But when I was four or five, I thought that was magic. People in Bible times were like little kids with science. Almost all the religions have a big flood story, because floods were a thing that happened, just like they have stories of where different languages come from, different skin colors, lightning, fire and all sorts of things that we know why they’re there today. But they didn’t understand things like evolution or language-science-”

“Linguistics,” Josie interjected.

“Linguistics,” Wendy grinned at her teacher, “or how fire happens, or why lightning, because there was almost no science then. So they guessed at it the best they could, like me thinking light switches were magic, and that’s what they wrote down.”

“So if the Old Testament says Noah built an ark, what’s-his-head got swallowed by a whale and that gay people are bad, does that mean it’s something people have to have faith in?” Scootaloo asked.

“Not with context,” Little Wendy smiled. “Context is really super important.”

“Context means you look at who is saying a thing, and when, and you think about why they said it and what it might mean later, like now,” Evan scratched his head. “Like even if Noah’s Ark isn’t scientifically possible, it still makes a good story about God’s love and when you put it in coloring books, it’s good for memorizing the names of all the animals before our zoo field trip. It’s not literally true, but it’s still good for something.”

“An allegary,” Little Katie agreed.

“Allegory,” Josie corrected gently.

“Yeah, that. You don’t look at the story, but at what the story is trying to tell you.”

“So…why would the Bible say gay people are bad?” Scootaloo asked.

“It doesn’t, actually,” Oscar piped up.

“Daddy says that the prohibition in Leviticus might have been for population reasons,” his brother Harvey continued. “If gay men married each other back then before people understood God’s plan for gay people-”

“We believe God made our Dads specially to adopt us and be our dads,” Oscar explained.

“And the people back then didn’t adopt so much. They also had way higher infant mortality and shorter lifespans. They needed everybody to reper’duce as much as they could, or else their tribes and faith and all might die out.” Harvey was the twin in a polo shirt and khakis…assuming Scootaloo had gotten the right name to the right twin.

“They also thought that only men made babies by…well…they didn’t understand biology at all, and they didn’t realize biological mothers contributed the egg part and that half a baby comes from its’ mom. They also thought that men…well…doing sex things without a lady, that since baby seeds came from men, that that was like killing babies.” Oscar wore a tie-dye shirt and jeans.

“In context, they meant well, but they totally didn’t know what they were talking about,” Harvey smiled.

“It’s like when our aunt forwarded us an email that said WD-40 comes from fish oil and that it’ll cure warts and stuff,” Oscar agreed. “She meant well, but she didn’t know what she was talking about. WD-40 is a petroleum deriv’tive and you have to use sal’cylic acid or freezing to cure warts.”

“Yeah, the WD-40 just made our Daddy’s feet slippery.”

“That wasn’t a good day,” Oscar agreed with a wry look.

“We totally got grounded.”

“But why? If a grownup sent you the email, why wouldn’t you trust your aunt?”

“It was for not using crit’cal thinking, like using the Innernet to find out how the WD-40 was supposed to cure the warts before we tried it,” Oscar explained. 

“And for not telling Daddy we were going to cure his warts by putting it on his feet while he was sleeping. That was bad effics, doing a med’cal procedure wif’out patient consent.”

This made Scootaloo laugh, and Oscar and Harvey laughed, too. Soon the whole class was laughing, smiling, and telling funny stories. Some had to do with faith, others were just hilarious. Scoot looked over at her friend and realized Josie wasn’t actually so much teaching as just being a kind of moderator and source of any miscellaneous vocabulary the kids might need. It was as if they didn’t really need a teacher at all, just some reasonable excuse for a grownup to work the paper-cutter, keep the group on-track and make sure everyone got a turn to talk.

And then Scootaloo realized something else. She was learning more about faith and belief than she ever had, just by being around believers, of every sort, who were comfortable discussing their own faith non-judgmentally. These children, these adorable, funny little people who petted her fur every time she changed cat-scratcher-making stations, told her stories from Bible, Qur’an and What Happened Last Tuesday as if there were little difference and raised their hands in competition to see who would have the privilege of bringing her another cocoa and Josie a second cup of the decaf…they were just so cool to be around. She was teaching them, sure, especially when they had more questions about flying and what they called ‘big-kid chapter books,’ but they were teaching her just as much, if not more.

The fact that there were no other Equestrian ponies on Earth and that outside of adoption, she might never have a child of her own had never once bothered her until this moment, and all of a sudden the realization of what she wouldn’t have really began to hurt.

The fact that she knew of the ‘Readme file’ element of her own DNA from her talks with the Doctors Gregerson and therefore had more concrete, scientific proof that she, at least, had a Creator, even if the whole universe, humans, or the Earth might not, than any other being in human history…well…that hadn’t really meant anything to her before. But as the children were singing the clean-up song and tidying away their many completed cat-scratchers for Josie to take to the animal shelter, the quiet little girl mentioned having read a big-kids’ genetics textbook and asked what Scootaloo thought of the Readme File.

“Well…I never really thought about it. I mean, obviously somebody had to make Ponies.”

“I know. But…well…do you think that maybe, once we understand all of your DNA, and ours, too…maybe we’ll find our Readme files next and can find out who signed them?” The quiet little girl’s eyes shone with hope. “All the other kids have either gods or bodhisattvas or favorite philosophers, but …I’ve never found mine. I…I kind of wanted someone to thank for things.”

“Why not thank the people who gave you things?”

“Oh, I do. But what about the things that are really important? Like my foster parents. They’re adopting me this month, and I’m finally going to have a family like other kids. I thanked the social workers and I’m going to thank the judge on Adoption Day and Mrs. Phillips when she takes our special family portrait, but …who do I thank for bringing me my family? I thanked the firefighters who saved me even if they couldn’t save my birth mom, and I thanked the doctors who made sure I was okay, but who do I thank for starting the fire?”

“Starting the fire?” Scootaloo gasped. “But the fire was…didn’t it …kill your birth mom?”

“Yeah,” the quiet girl sighed. “I also need to know who to apologize to for being kinda glad that happened. My birth mom was cooking meth, and she didn’t always have food for me. My new parents love me and I’m safe now. I don’t even have nightmares anymore.”

Scootaloo, by some instinct she never knew she had before, put an arm around the little girl and gave her a snuggle.

“Under the circumstances, I don’t think you should feel bad about being happy your birth mom is gone. Addiction is a terrible thing, and even if she only went to that place full of kittycats Evan was talking about, I don’t think people stay addicted after they die. So she’s healthy and happy wherever she is, and probably trying her best to look out for you.”

“That’s kinda what Pastor Josh said, that people on the other side lose the flaws that maybe made them less than perfect on Earth. I don’t believe in Christianity like Evan, because I had a Christian foster mom once who was really…well…she meant to be nice, I guess. But the Tao says that there must be balance in the world, and while I feel like I’m getting good things now that kind of make up for the bad things, I kind of worry about there always being some bad in the world. A deity who could maybe be more than just bad or good, maybe someone with light inside the darkness…I don’t know. I was kind of hoping genetics might have some of the truth inside.”

“…What’s your name?”

“I prefer Kelly. It’s my new mom’s big sister’s name, and I wanted a new name for my new family, so I’m going to change it on my adoption day. I don’t like the name my birth mom gave me.”

“Well, Kelly…I know less about faith than you do, but I do know this. If there’s a God or a Goddess or a flying pony princess in the sky somewhere, they didn’t send you to a bad birth mom because of anything you did and they didn’t send you wonderful new parents because of the bad stuff you’d already been through. Life is just …like that sometimes, and it isn’t always going to balance out. We can try to make it balance, by looking for the good stuff even when bad stuff comes, but even if all the gods and goddesses and…giant magic lions from Narnia are all real and friends and up there somewhere…I don’t really think we could change their minds. Either they love us very much and the bad things happen to make us strong, which is what I’d like to think of any god of mine, or maybe they barely even see us amidst everything else that’s going on. Maybe they just set the world running and left us to sort it out.”

“Like Deism.”

“Yeah, like Deism. But no matter what’s going on up there, or down there, or anywhere, all we can really ever change is ourselves and maybe the world around us. So while we can keep looking and learning and praying forever…the change we want to see, we have to make ourselves. We can’t wait for magical men in the sky to change how the world is or how we feel, but we can work on making good change happen.”

Little Kelly, who was so quiet, so serious and with such tired eyes for a little girl, smiled.

“That’s really not bad for your first day here.”

“…I really don’t know what I’m talking about at all,” Scootaloo admitted. “The nothing-but-the-change-we-make theory, that’s something my friend Melissa said once when something really sad happened. My Papa says that as long as there is love, there is always hope. And my Daddy says that with a smart brain, a strong heart and people to love you, you’ll always be okay in the end. Josie says any minor world that breaks apart…something. I really don’t know what I believe, so I have no idea what to tell you. I can’t imagine my life without my parents, or having to wait for them as long as you did, and I can barely imagine what having a birth mom with such problems and then losing her must have been like. I’m not even sure what to say besides ‘I am so sorry.’ I just know that it makes me feel sad to not be able to help at all, especially when such awful things have happened, and…well…I want to help you not be sad. I want to help you find your faith –hell, I want to find mine! I want to make everything okay and I don’t know how!”

She felt like crying, and suddenly she realized little Kelly was petting her mane and snuggling her.

“It’s okay. We don’t have to make everything okay for each other. Just the fact that we wish we could because we understand how others feel and so we’re trying to help one another means that everything stands a really good chance of being okay someday. Pastor Josh says so. That’s what empathy means.”

“I can believe in empathy.”

And suddenly, Scootaloo realized exactly what she did believe in.

All the good she’d done with her medical and scientific volunteering, the Readme File in her very own DNA, the fact that something, somewhere, had created her…there was absolutely a force, entity or being somewhere out there which she could consider God the way these children accepted and regarded any of their personal deities. All her life she had demanded proof, just as so many bitter atheists condemning the faith of others and hopeful-but-rational agnostics wishing to feel it themselves had demanded something, anything, to prove that there was a benevolent Creator somewhere in the universe. 

And now, she didn’t merely have it. She was it.

Maybe Josie felt like this all the time. It’d explain the cheerfulness.

God was real. There was good in the universe, and there was a good reason. Sure, there was bad in the universe as well, but without a better understanding of what God was actually like, she wasn’t quite certain of how to parse that. Was it something like Princess Celestia and Nightmare Moon and good needed to triumph over evil and drive it from the corrupted until they were pure and whole once more? Or was it like the Tao, where good needed bad even to exist and balance was the point of the universe? Was bad a bit like how Christians viewed sin, or was the ‘bad’ merely part of nature, like animals who ate other animals to live? Was it a bit like Deism, where God created us, but gave us free will and then backed off? Or was it something else entirely?

It was a lot to take in, and Scootaloo didn’t have too many people whose faith she understood well enough to compare.

She thought of kind atheists like Melissa, who insisted that there was no God because she couldn’t imagine a world where God and cruelty could exist at the same time. She thought of agnostics like her father, who would be happy to believe, but whom some religious people had managed to sour on the idea of organized religion because of the intolerance that accompanied some of them. She thought of irritating atheists like the guy on the one talk show who seemed to really just resent religion in general. She thought of religious people with one well-organized, strict and absolute faith, like Pastor Gray, and then she thought of religious people whose faith adapted, took in new ideas here and cast off old ideas there, people for whom new information might change, but never, ever break their faith… people like Josie.

People…like her.   

“Empathy is good,” little Kelly nodded, petting the orange pony again. “There’s animal crackers for snack, do you want to go get some?”

“Yeah,” Scootaloo agreed. Her view of the universe and her place in it had just been rocked, but there were still animal crackers.

“And I think they have apple juice.”

Scootaloo accepted a Dixie cupful of animal crackers on a napkin and a second Dixie cup filled with apple juice. Little Kelly told her some more about her new family, and some of the other children joined them to talk about their families before being collected from Sunday School by those families. Little Kelly’s foster, soon-to-be-adoptive parents in particular looked like wonderful people, and Oscar and Harvey’s dads reminded her of her own, just a little bit.

And then it was time to go with Josie to her first church services. They went out the side door to walk around.

“So…how do you like my anklebiters?” Josie asked as they put the boxes of cat-scratchers into the back of Demi’s shabby Subaru on the way to the sanctuary.

“They’re adorable.”

“I’m glad they were on best-behavior for you. They can be a bit hyper sometimes.”

“Coming from you, that’s saying something,” Scoot grinned. “I think I kind of understand what you mean about God now. I mean, something created me…why shouldn’t I worship whatever that something is, or at least thank it?”

Josie’s facial expression did something interesting. First she looked elated, then puzzled, then calmly cheerful.

“Sounds like a good plan to me. What do you think your Creator’s like?”

“…Pretty darn good with DNA programming.”

“That’s a good start. Beliefs have been founded on less.”

“Isn’t this the part where you’re all ‘yay!’ about me believing in God and then start trying to persuade me to worship your personal version?”

“We really aren’t that kind of church. You’ll figure things out in your own time. All we can really do is compare notes, at least where the personal search for truth and faith is concerned. That’s, y’know, what makes personal convictions personal.”

“So…does that mean you can tell me more about yours? We can share notes here, too?”

“Sure. First, though, you might want to listen to Pastor Josh’s sermon and experience church at least once. Then you can decide, like, whether you even want my notes. You might very easily not need ‘em. I don’t want to push my views over top of yours or anything.”

“Josie, you are seriously like the Fluttershy of evangelists right now.”

“Beats being Pinkie Pie. I get the impression I’m kind of your Pinkie Pie. Which is weird, you know.” She sighed and patted her friend on the shoulder near her wings. “We can share notes. Do you need me to explain any of the rituals or the hymn-singing or anything?”

“I read a lot of Wikipedia before today, but…well…can you kind of whisper the next part to do if I’m not getting it on my own and just kind of catch me if I’m making a big idiot of myself?”

“Sure.” By now they were in the sanctuary, and Josie found them a seat near her brothers and parents. Scootaloo said hi to Mr. and Mrs. Findlay, who were happy to see her, and Demi and Laurie shook hands and told her they were glad she was there. Next, Josie handed her a hymnal and a program and showed her how to mark the hymns with the six different-colored ribbons of its’ bookmark. “That’s so we don’t get page-shuffling noises while people find their spots,” Josie explained. “The hymns that aren’t listed from this book or the blue one are printed in the program, see?”

“…I can’t actually sight-read sheet music yet,” Scootaloo confessed.

“It’s okay. They play an intro, and if you aren’t a good singer or aren’t confident, you can just kind of mouth the words. Nobody’ll notice, or if they do, well…they’ll likely just assume the show was right and you’re mildly tone-deaf.”

“I am not,” Scootaloo groused, before smiling again. “This one doesn’t have music, and this one’s in…Sanskrit?”

“A psalm and a passage from the Vedas, respectively,” Josie explained. “We’ve also got a cantor to read us some of the Torah today, and if you come back at the right time of day, you can try Muslim prayers, though their Sabbath is on Friday. There’s also a Greek food festival planned for this Thursday night, we’re clubbing together with St. Basil’s Orthodox since their kitchen’s being fixed.”

“This explains how you slept through World Cultures class and still scraped an A.”

“And the Christians get Gospel according to St. Matthew today, definitely one of the better texts.”

“You sound like you’re reading the cafeteria’s lunch menu.”

“Isn’t that what this is, just for faith instead of food?” Josie grinned, then her eyes went cold. “Oh…hell,” she cursed softly.

“What is it?”

“Be subtle about it, but look behind us, at who just walked in.” Scootaloo checked, subtly as could be managed. 

It was Pastor Gray.

“What the hell is he doing here?” she whispered. There was a susurrus and she realized that several members of the congregation were asking the same thing. But Josie didn’t respond. Instead, she was standing up and walking over to him.

“Hi, there!” the cheerleader greeted the disgraced former principal, her expression neutral. Scootaloo saw Pastor Josh peek out from behind a door marked ‘Sacristy’ in his vestments, blanch and then shut his eyes in obvious prayer.

“Miss Findlay! Oh, I…erm…uh…” Pastor Gray stammered. “I didn’t know you came here.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I…well…em…” And then Scootaloo realized that Gray was, well, gray. He was pale, visibly sweating and did not look well. It even looked like he might have been ill lately. “Please…can I stay just for services? My own church…well…they’ve asked me to leave and I…I…”

Scootaloo suddenly realized something about worship. Some people got a lot out of it, some people just showed up for the coffee and fellowship afterward, some people balanced their checkbooks there and called it close-enough and some people legitimately needed the peace it brought for their mental health. She had figured out a while ago that this was the place Josie went at unusually stressful times, but she had never quite realized why.

“Well, I’m terribly sorry, but you can’t sit there,” Josie informed Pastor Gray coldly.

Scootaloo’s heart sank.

“New parishioners who didn’t come with friends get to sit in front,” Josie explained with a cheerful smile. “You get to see better and the front pews are cushiony-soft. The Gospel’s from St. Matthew today, and the listed hymns are all in the green hymnal, not the blue.”

And with that, Josie shook Pastor Gray’s hand, pointed him toward a front pew, and slipped back into her pew next to Scootaloo.

“Oh, what is that look about?” Josie whispered, seeing the shocked stare Scoot was giving her. “You’ve read the Gospels, right?”

“…Yeah,” Scootaloo nodded, smiling at last.

There really was something to this religion thing after all.

> Ch 21: The Great Escape
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Our Girl Scootaloo

by Cozy Mark IV

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-made work of prose. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is the property of Hasbro. Please support the official release


Chapter Twenty One: The Great Escape


By mid-March some semblance of normalcy had returned to the school. The new BiGLTS was up and running, holding regular meetings and providing badly needed 'safe zone' training to interested faculty members. With more students coming out of the closet and with sex ed restored, the atmosphere under the new temporary administration was gradually shifting from suspicious or hateful to cautiously hopeful, but any innocence was gone for good.

Before the crisis, Scootaloo and her friends had never really thought too much about their school, but now they were very keenly aware just how little anyone in the administration cared what happened to them. Josie had released the recordings of the phone calls and meetings she had had with the superintendent of schools. Everyone could see and hear what she had said, how she had tried to sound the alarm, and how she was brushed off as some dumb kid. The protest hadn't been enough to make them care, even with almost half the school involved, and it had taken video testimonial of rape and pedophilia, broadcast to every local news channel to get anything to happen at all.

After the news got hold of the scandal, the superintendent and senior members of the Department of Education did eventually change their tune, but only after several days proved that the parents really didn't like the idea of their children attending school with a principal who had sheltered a child rapist.

Perhaps the most eye-opening lesson was that the community as a whole was okay with this. Even though it had taken days for the higher ups to switch from 'we have total faith in Mr. Gray's leadership' to 'we are looking into the allegations of wrongdoing' to 'Mr Gray has been asked to resign', the higher-ups all kept their jobs. When asked on camera they claimed that they had no warning and abdicated all responsibility for doing their jobs. And it worked. The community put all the blame on Mr. Gray and his Deacon.

The girls who had become pregnant and had abortions or given birth in their teens were labeled a 'political issue', and were left to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives as best they could. The gay and lesbian students who had been abused, picked on and beaten were not mentioned at all. It turned out the same treatment that would have opened up a multi-million dollar class action lawsuit against a company under the 'hostile workplace' laws meant next to nothing when only children were on the line. 

On one of the warmer days in March, Scootaloo was hanging around after school with her friends, watching the practice and catching up with Ms Chisholm between drills. After the practice wrapped up for the day, Melissa brought up the topic that had been on all their minds. They were sitting on the upper levels of the bleachers overlooking the field with its wilted grass, not yet turned green by the coming spring. The cool breeze whistled softly through the beams and seats around them as they talked.  

“It just isn't the same anymore, is it?” She asked looking out over the school.

“I know.” Christina answered. “I don't know what it used to be but... It just doesn't feel like home anymore.”

Scootaloo nodded. “After everything that's happened...” She sighed and looked down at her hooves. “And we still have twelfth grade, another full year of this. Of being patronized children.”

There was a contemplative silence, and they could hear the faint sounds of the junior high band practicing in the distance.

“Couldn't we try to get into college early?” Josie asked. “I know we have the grades, and even a local or community college would be an improvement.”

“We should, but we can't.” Melissa growled. “I've been over it with the new principal and the superintendent. They've cut the program for dual enrollment as 'too expensive'. Pastor Gray's last gift to us was the lawsuit resulting from the mess he left. The school hasn't paid a dime out, but they used it as an excuse to cut the funding for other programs. Dad said our only option would be to sue to have the program re-instated. We're guaranteed to win; what they did is a violation of state law, but it would take at least a year to fight the suit, and by that time it wouldn't matter, we would have graduated anyway. They knew all this and basically laughed in my face when I came to them for help.”

Josie leaned back and slouched against the seat behind her. “It's all about helping the children until someone has to pay for it. Besides, why should they help us? If they hold us back, our good test scores make them look like better administrators.”

“Actually...” Scootaloo trailed off and the others paused to look at her. She blushed a little, but continued. “Actually, I was kind of hoping to talk all of you into trying something with me. I've been talking this over with my dads, and they suggested we take our GED test this April. I know it’s less than a month away, but they agreed to foot the bill for all four of us, and if we pass, then the school can't hold us back anymore; we'd be free to go on to college, and on their money too for the first year. 'Free and appropriate education' up to age eighteen and all that.”

Christina looked uncertain. “But... What if we fail? We aren't even done with eleventh grade yet.”

Josie had begun to smile as she worked the idea through. “Then nothing changes. But if we study hard, if we pass, then we won't be stuck here anymore. We can leave this mess behind and get on with our lives!”

Christina was still staring out over the field and the school buildings beyond looking lost. Her voice shook a little as she asked. “Leave? All our friends and teachers?”

Scootaloo shifted over and put an arm around her shoulder. “It had to happen sooner or later. Is it so easy to forget the threats and bullying? The reason you hid who you are, even from your best friends?”

Christina blushed just a little and Scootaloo continued. “College isn't like that. You get to live away from your parents for the first time. No one bullies you or makes fun of you for being too smart. My dads met at school. They fell in love there and got married.” She sighed. “Aside from Melissa here, we haven't exactly been lucky in love. I want to try. I want the chance to get on with life, to study biology and medicine. I want to go to classes where fart jokes aren't the height of wit and humor.”  

There were a few smiles at that. “And all we have to do is pass the GED test? Is it hard?”

“Not as bad you would expect.” Scootaloo answered. She fished out her tablet and sent the example test questions she had been working on to her friends' email. As they pulled them up and looked over them Josie actually laughed. 

“This is all? Some of these are pathetically easy.” 

Scootaloo looked serious again. “They aren't all that easy, but I don't see any reason we couldn't do this. What do you say? We can go back to my house for a study group if you're game. We have nothing to lose but some time, and everything to gain.”

...   

Later that week at her monthly hospital checkup, Mary had some strange news for her.

“Did you hear about the new discovery some researchers made in your DNA?”

“Not yet.” She answered, sliding up onto the exam table. “What did they find?”

Mary grinned mischievously and produced a sick looking potted plant. “This!”

Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” she grinned sheepishly, “I couldn’t resist. You recall that some parts of your DNA are obviously carriers that store information not used in day to day life right?”

“Yeah, like that read me file written in a language no one can translate. Heck of a lot of good it does anyone.” She added with a frown.

“True enough, but some of that information has turned out to be designed for plants: someone bundled pieces of code for certain plants like wheat and oats into sections of your DNA. It took some real digging to find it and understand it, but that’s what brings me to this plant here. It’s one of the first seedlings they got to grow.”

Scootaloo really looked at the apple tree seedling in front of her for the first time. While it looked sickly at first glance, she now realized that it was actually healthy enough with one big exception. All the leaves were black. “Um… did something kill this one?”

“No, it’s growing just like it should. It’s already almost a foot tall, but it’s only a week old.”

Scootaloo was no farmer, but even she knew that wasn’t normal. “How could it possibly grow that fast? And why are the leaves black?”

“That was the discovery.” Mary smiled as she put the potted tree back on the counter. “Apparently, normal photosynthesis is between 2% and 6% efficient, and it’s pretty similar across a huge range of plants.  Cheap solar cells you can buy online for under a hundred dollars are about 10% to 15% efficient, and if you go for the multi-layer, multi-color designs NASA uses, you can get above 50% efficiency. The difference is that solar cells were designed by thinking minds, while photosynthesis is an evolved system. What we found in your DNA was designed photosynthesis! Normal leaves are green because they use all the colors of light except green which they reflect for us to see. This new type of photosynthesis uses damn near all the light that hits the leaf – it’s so black it’s actually difficult to see the surface details of the plant. The new cells produce energy at around 40% efficiency, and while a lot of plants can’t seem to use all that energy properly yet, it won’t take long to breed new strains that can.”

“Um… So this means we should all be on the lookout for black apples at the grocery store?”

Mary just shook her head in amusement. “It means that you’ve probably just dropped the price of food through the floor. Once they work the bugs out of this, we can expect crops that grow to maturity in 1/8 the normal time. Some environmentalists are already upset and working on controls for the new food crops. They’re worried plants that can grow this much faster will completely overrun anything else on earth today, and they might be right.”

“So… we’re going to have to weed apple trees out of the family garden?” She asked with a smirk.

“It might happen if they mess this up. Give them a few years to get the details right, but this could be really big! When they figure out the details this pretty much spells the end to world hunger, at least until things get a lot more crowded down here.”

“I’m not sure I follow you… There are what, 8 or 9 billion people on the planet now? You’re saying this would allow us to feed 8 times more?!?”

“Hypothetically at least. As I said, it will take a year or two to get the first crops out and approved, but long term? I think it’s safe to say this will save a few more millions of people each year.” She grinned as she slapped the stunned pony on the shoulder. “Congratulations Scoot!”

...

After sitting the test, the letters had gone out two weeks later, and they each brought them to school the next day. With everything turning green outside in the warmer weather, and less than a month remaining in the school year, the halls had that jubilant feeling of impending vacation that only a school can provide.

They had all agreed to open them together, and as the halls hummed with the hustle and bustle of class changes the four of them sat down on a bench between the lockers.

“Do you think you passed?” Melissa asked.

“I don't know... I'm so worried.” Christina answered. “What if all of you made it and I didn't?”

“Oh, really? What if you passed and we all didn't?” Scootaloo kidded. “Okay. On three. One... Two... Three!”

They all ripped open the envelopes and began pouring over the long winded letter, looking to see if they made it. Christina reached behind her letter and slowly pulled out an official looking piece of stiff paper with her name and a seal on it. Seeing that they had been beaten to the chase, the others looked deeper into their envelopes, and soon all four of them were holding their degrees as they squealed and hugged each other.

“Oh my God! This is so great!” Melissa bubbled.

“But, how will we get into our colleges now? The application deadline was way back in February!”

“I wouldn't worry; remember what my dads said? Colleges are businesses, and if you come to them with money, they're going to do what has to be done to get you in.”

“That's right, we'll need to choose our top schools and contact them now.” Christina interjected before practically squeeing: “We're going to college!” 

The glee and enthusiasm kept the conversation going for some time as they discussed which schools they wanted to go to,  what they would be doing their first week out from under their parents' roofs, and what other adventures they might get up to in just a few months. While they talked, the halls gradually emptied out as the stragglers hurried to their next classes, and before long they were alone by the bench.

Christina was the first to calm down enough to notice. “Oh, crap!” She yelped as she jumped to her feet. “I'm late for world history!”

Scootaloo put out a hand to stop her. “Um... Christina?” She asked, gesturing to the certificate in her hand. 

It took a moment for them all to realize what she meant.

“Wow...” 

“So... Is this it? We're done with high school?” Melissa asked.

The halls were now completely empty but for the four of them, and an eerie silence settled, one that had meant scoldings and detentions only minutes ago, but now held no power over them.

“Well, I still have a bunch of college credits of distance learning, but they're almost wrapped up, and I can log in to them anywhere.” Scootaloo replied.

“I guess you're right...” Josie muttered as she stared at her tablet. “This is it. No ceremony, no big fanfare to make the higher ups feel important. High school is just... done.”

“Yeah, and we get a year of our lives back!” Melissa crowed as she slapped Scootaloo on the back. “Come on, I think Josie here brought her car to school today didn't you?”

“Uh, yeah, but what does-”

“Who's up for a trip to the mall?” Melissa asked, adding in a tantalizing singsong voice. “The movie theater will have cheap matinee movies to help us celebrate!”

This was greeted with shouts of glee, and the four of them made their way down the hall. One crotchety old teacher did try to stop them, and was completely mystified as to why these normally well behaved girls simply smiled and ignored her admonishments and threats of detention. As they burst out the doors into the warm sunlight Josie's beat up old car blinked as she thumbed the key fob, and before long they were on the road, and off to see what the world had to offer.

...

The weeks that followed were a blur of college applications, finishing online classes, tests and interwoven through it all, a new-found sense of freedom. Scootaloo's dads were thrilled that she had passed, as were most of the other parents, and while some took a little convincing to understand just what a victory their daughters had won, even Christina's parents came around in a few days. 

Their school administrators had other ideas regarding their plans to leave early, but there was little they could do other than mourn the loss of four students who had boosted their district test scores. There were a few entreaties and offers to 'walk the stage' at graduation provided they came back, but with college looming in only three months, none of them were willing to turn back the clock. That is until Scootaloo got a very unusual letter.

It started with the usual placation, and she almost threw it away before she read the body of it. 

“As you know, the new Martian colonists have just established the first permanent settlement on the red planet, and they have expressed an interest in sending several earth based representatives of the Mars team to speak at your school. We would very much like to help with this, but it will only be possible if you are enrolled as a student. 
Please send your answer within the week so arrangements can be made.”    

Scootaloo stared at the letter and re-read it twice before she understood. With all the trouble at school, she had completely lost track everything else. The Mars colony was only possible because of her participation, delivering the drive they needed to get there, but now the school was holding their offer hostage as a bargaining chip!

Not sure what to do, she took the letter to her dads and explained everything.

“Wow. After everything they put you through they have the nerve to threaten you?” Jayne asked with a note of awed respect. “These guys don't know when to quit.”

Kevin leaned back chair looking thoughtful. “Well hold on a minute here. The Mars team probably just sent this to your current school because they assumed that all was well. I bet they would be happy to move the ceremony somewhere else.”

Scootaloo nodded. “I thought of that. Josie, Christina, Melissa and I would like to celebrate somehow, but who else besides a highschool can throw a highschool graduation?”

“What about a college?” Jayne asked. “Think our old alma mater would be interested?”

Kevin chuckled. “Hmmm... After the long string of mailings they sent asking us to donate or come and speak... I don't know...”

“I'd be okay with that, how about you Scoot? It’s not Harvard, but it’s a thoroughly respectable state school, and it was in your list of top five schools anyway. Should we ask our old college if they would be interested in including the four of you in their spring graduation?”

“I'm fine with it, though I'll have to ask my friends.”

And so their 'escape' from highschool ended better than they could have hoped as the four of them walked across the stage with the colleges graduating spring class to thunderous applause.