Hassenfeld Pony Anthology

by Chicago Ted

Rating: everyone
Tags: Anthology, Twilight Sparkle, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Rainbow Dash, Sad, Princess Celestia, Pinkie Pie, Human
Length: 10192

A collection of vignettes about various Hassenfeld ponies and their owners.

In 2025, Hasbro Biotech introduced a new product---the Hassenfeld Pony---genetically-engineered horses made to look and act like the characters of an obscure show called My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.

Despite the high asking prices and the ethical questions surrounding them, they took the world by storm. Thousands of households in America, and tens of thousands more overseas, soon had one of their own.

These are some of their stories.

Coverart by Gryphon BBQ (not on Fimfiction). Preread and Spanish language support by Ghuntz.

Inspried by the Hassenfeld Pony threads on /mlp/.

Featured on 7--10 June 2020.

Has a reading by No One and Nobody for some reason.

Published 2020-06-07 15:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2020-06-07 15:10:01 UTC

The Real Hero

Just before he walked into the communications room, Matt inserted his card into the punch clock, and waited a moment. 10 PM—right on time. He slipped the card back into its sleeve, and went over to his desk.

His coworker was just about to wrap up her shift. “Hey, Lisa,” Matt greeted. “Got anything going on?”

Lisa rolled her eyes. “Don’t I always?” she replied. She started logging out of her terminal account. “We have a structure fire at 2400 of Jackson, and a 211 at Bishop and Elm.”

“Wait, 2400 of Jackson?” His eyes went wide. “Please tell me that’s not Meyer’s Emporium.”

“It is.” She nodded. “Other than that, today’s actually been pretty—”

“Nope, nope! Don’t say it!”

She quickly caught herself. “Sorry. Nearly jinxed it.” She pulled off her headset and receiver and handed them to him. “Your turn. Good luck, champ.”

Matt pulled on the headset and took Lisa’s place. She walked away to punch out. Right as Matt got himself set up, a cell call came in from the 2400 block of Jackson Street. Instinctively, he knew who was calling. “Hey Tony, how’s the fire?” he asked.

“Completely contained,” Tony replied. “I dunno how well Mr. Meyer’s insurance is gonna take the news. His supermarket is just toast at this point.”

Matt sighed. “Yeah, I’m gonna miss that place. How’s Mr. Meyer? Is he okay?”

“Accidentally breathed in some smoke, so he’s on oxygen right now. Good news is he should be fine, or so the EMTs said.”

“Alright, I’ll mark this as resolved. Good job out there.”

⁂

Perhaps thanks to Lisa’s quick thinking, the night was almost perfectly silent; hardly any calls came in. Matt was starting to get bored—but right at 4:34 AM, another call came in. He sipped some coffee, then calmly took it. “911, what’s your emergency?”

A young-sounding female voice came on, seemingly panicked. “Please, you’ve got to help me! My owner won’t wake up, even though he usually does at this time! I’ve tried, but he’s still asleep!”

Owner? That stunned Matt for a moment, but he snapped out of it to ask her, “What’s your address, miss?”

“It’s—uh. . . .” Does she not know her own address? He thought he could hear rustling paper on the other end. Then she told him, “One-four-two-seven Maple Avenue. Please hurry!”

“Miss, I need you to relax. I’ll get someone out to you. In the meantime—” he started dispatching the nearest available ambulance, from St. John Hospital “—I need you to do a few things for me, okay?”

The caller took a deep breath. “Right. What?”

“First, can you check for your. . . owner’s pulse?” His mouse cursor hovered over the tickbox.

A pause. She must be doing that. Then she starts panicking again. “No pulse!”

Matt already feared for the worst, but knew he had to calm her down for the next step. He ticked the box, which opened up the next question. “Okay, do you know how to perform CPR?”

“Uh. . . I think so? Thirty chest compressions, two rescue breaths. . . right?”

Matt smiled. Not too bad. “That’s right, but first make sure there are no obstructions in his breathing.”

“Okay, let me see. . . airway’s clear, let’s do this.” She evidently set the phone down and started pressing on his chest. “How long do I do this?”

“Until help arrives,” he answered. He checked the map—the ambulance was still several blocks away, but was closing in fast. “It should be there any second. You’re doing great; don’t give up.”

“I hope you’re right!” She inhaled sharply, presumably for the rescue breathing. A few moments of chest compressions later, she stopped. “There’s someone at the door. Is it them?”

Matt checked the map again. The ambulance had just arrived at the 1400 block of Maple. “Yes, it’s them. Please let them inside.”

She was gone in an instant. Matt thought he heard galloping hooves. Am I going crazy? Then he heard footsteps come into the room. “This him?” an EMT asked. Matt recognized his voice—it was Eddie, his childhood friend. For now, though, he had to focus on saving a life, if it were still possible. “Yes, it’s him,” she told Eddie. “Can you help him?”

Matt heard something moving around. Eddie then sighed. “Rigor mortis,” he said. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing we can do for him. He’s dead.”

“Okay miss,” Matt said, “I’m going to hang up.” And then he did just that. Meanwhile, he marked the 1400 of Maple case as resolved. So long, sir. . . . Well. He’d have to talk with Eddie about this over breakfast later in the morning.

Another call came in a moment later. It was not the same number as before. Oh well, duty calls.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

⁂

6 AM. Matt sighed in relief. The next guy was already walking up to his desk. “Morning, Toby.” He stretched out. “I’ve got a gas leak along Fifth Street. Police have closed it off already, and fire crews are on site.”

“Oh boy, my favorite.” Toby sipped some of his coffee. “Ready to tag out?”

Matt was slipping off his headset, having logged out already. “All yours, man. Go get ’em.”

Toby took the headset, thus freeing Matt from his desk. He went back to the punch clock, punched out, and grabbed his car keys. Even though he’d been staring at several computer monitors for an entire shift, the morning sunlight still hurt his eyes. After taking a moment to adjust, he got into his car and called Eddie.

It rang a few times, then he picked it up. “Hey Matt!” he said. “I thought I heard you earlier this morning.”

“You did,” Matt replied. “It was that 1400 of Maple at half-past four. I’ve got several questions about that call.”

“I figured you would. Meet me at Hungry Joe’s, I’ll answer them all.”

“Sure, on my way.” Matt started the engine. “Guess it’s my turn to buy, huh?”

“Yep. See you there!” Eddie then hung up.

Matt shifted into gear, and pulled out of the lot. Okay, he thought, Fifth is closed for a gas leak. . . If I take Fourth and cut across Rose, I should be fine. Wonder how bad traffic is gonna be.

⁂

Matt pulled his car into a parking space at Hungry Joe’s Diner. Traffic was increased, but not terribly much. Apparently Sixth was the public’s alternative. He killed the engine, got out, and went inside.

The usual breakfast crowd was here—and there, in the middle of it all, was Eddie, who had already ordered Matt’s usual for him. “Hey Matt!” he called out. “Traffic keep you?”

“Nah, not really.” Matt took a seat. “So, about the 1400 of Maple—”

“Right, I know what you’re thinking, but you’d never guess who the patient was.” Eddie grabbed his sandwich, but anticipated a response from Matt.

Matt only shrugged while sipping his drink, but it was enough for Eddie.

“Old Man Whatley!”

Matt struggled not to spit. “Seriously? Him? I’m surprised he didn’t die sooner.”

Eddie swallowed his bite. “Same. Just shy of eighty-eight—I’d say he had a good run.” He chuckled. “Hard to believe that’s the same old geezer who yelled at me when I threw the paper at his porch.”

Matt stopped cutting into his pancakes and looked up. He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? Wasn’t he always like that?”

“Apparently he changed. And this is the part you’ve been waiting for.” Eddie set his sandwich down.

“He got a granddaughter?” Matt guessed.

“Nope! He got himself one of them Hassenfeld ponies.”

“Oh! I’ve heard of those,” Matt said. “Not your usual run-of-the-mill ponies, right?”

“Right. They’re made—not bred, made—and sold by Hasbro Biotech, spearheaded by fans of a children’s cartoon made a decade ago.” Eddie returned to his sandwich.

“Wasn’t your cousin a fan of that show?” Matt asked. He dipped some bacon into the egg yolks.

“Yeah, and now his STEM degree makes sense.” Eddie sipped some of his drink. “Well, more sense than it normally does. Anyway, you were wondering who was calling, that was his Hassenfeld.”

Owner. . . galloping towards the door. . . now it all makes sense. But still. . . . “I guess he was just lonely,” Matt theorized. “But why not get a dog or something?”

“Dogs can’t exactly talk back. . . and Hasbio doesn’t have the rights to Clifford. Not yet, anyway.” Eddie cleared his throat.

“So what happens to her?” Matt washed down his food with his drink.

“We just leave it to Animal Control. First thing they do is start making calls to friends and relatives to see if they’re willing to take in the pony.” Eddie swallowed his bite. “Turns out Old Man Whatley was a lot lonelier than I thought—they couldn’t hail anyone. The pony was all he had.” He sighed. “So they had to drop by to pick her up themselves. She’s probably at a shelter someplace right now.”

Matt cocked his head. “I thought they were too attached to their owners to let them be adopted out.”

“See, you would think that.” Eddie snapped his fingers. “It’s possible, but it’s very difficult. They make a deep bond with the first person they see when they climb out of the cryobox, which can’t be severed. Unless. . . .” Eddie pulled out his phone and started tapping and scrolling rapidly.

Matt waited with baited breath, eager to see what solution Eddie had in mind.

“Bingo!” He turned his phone around to show Matt. “Hasbio’s been working on a new drug for that—Project Midsummer. One injection lets the ponies reset that bond. Trouble is, it’s only being trialled in a few big pounds. I doubt it’s anywhere near here.”

“You know which shelter she’s at?” Matt asked with a renewed interest.

“I dunno, Pueblo Heights? That’s the usual one. Why?” Then Eddie’s eyes went wide. “You’re not seriously considering—”

“I am.”

“Matt, buddy, I love you, but you’ve got enough on your plate as it is.” Eddie put his phone away. “You seriously think you’ve got time for a pet, never mind a broken Hassenfeld? And what if they don’t have any Midsummer?”

“Then that’s the chance I’m willing to take.” Matt sounded resolute.

“Are you just going to bring in every broken Hassenfeld in the city? Huh?”

Matt shook his head. “This one singlehandedly turned Old Man Whatley into one of the happiest people in the world. I owe it to her. We owe it to her.” He sighed. “Look, I’ll work things out, okay? It’ll be fine.” He then got up and walked away.

Eddie was surprised. “Dude!” he called back. “You said you were gonna pay!”

⁂

Matt parked his car at Pueblo Heights Animal Shelter. He killed the engine and went inside. Okay Matt, how do you ask them about Old Man Whatley’s pony?

When he opened the door, an overhead bell rang. The receptionist looked up to see him. “Good morning, sir!” she greeted. “How can I help you?”

“Hey, uh. . . .” C’mon Matt, think! Think! “I’m looking for a particular pony. Should’ve gotten here this morning.”

She tilted her head. “That’s oddly specific. What makes you think that?”

Alright, time to lay the cards on the table. “I work as a 911 operator,” Matt explained. “Early this morning, I got a call, apparently from that pony, that her owner wouldn’t wake up. EMTs said he was dead on the scene.”

“Oh. . . my.” Matt looked up to see what looked like a butter-yellow pegasus, with a baby-pink mane and tail. “That sounds tragic,” the pony said.

It was the first time Matt had ever seen a Hassenfeld pony.

“Anyway, they told me that Animal Control dropped her off here, since they couldn’t get ahold of anyone to take her in. So, well. . . .” He scratched the back of his neck. “. . . I’d like to. Take her in, I mean.”

The receptionist smiled. “I really wish more people were like you,” she told him. Phew! Nailed it. She turned to the pony. “Fluttershy, would you show him to the enclosure?”

“Sure!” Fluttershy turned to the door. “Follow me, please!” Matt followed her down the hall, to the second right, outside the building. There was a large, walk-in cage with four Hassenfelds, none of which looked remotely like the others, or Fluttershy. “You want the purple one,” she told Matt. “She’s a Twilight model, but her name is Twinkle.”

Twinkle’s ears cropped up.

“Okay, thank you. I’ll take it from here.” Fluttershy flew off, back to the front desk it seemed. He knelt down. “Twinkle?”

She turned her head around, tears still trickling down her face.

“My name is Matt,” he told her. “Do you remember me? When you called 911, you were talking to me.”

Twinkle’s temper flared up. “And then you hung up!” Then she sighed, and looked down on the ground, her anger gone as soon as it came.

“I had a job to do,” he explained. “But it doesn’t excuse what I did. That was wrong of me, and I accept that.”

“Saving lives?” she asked. “That’s your job, right? But you couldn’t save him.”

“You can’t save everyone, Twinkle. Mr. Whatley was an old man. He was going to die someday, and no hero can save him from it. But you know what? Twinkle?”

She didn’t respond.

“Twinkle, please look at me.”

Slowly, she looked back up at Matt.

“You’re the real hero here.” Matt said this without any insincerity. “Before he took you in, Mr. Whatley was a pretty cranky old man. I realize now he was just lonely. You only kept him company, but in doing so, you changed a bitter man’s life, for the better. You made him happy in his final years. Honestly, I should be thanking you.”

“You mean that?”

“As sure as the sun shines. And I think anybody would be lucky to adopt you.”

“Really?” She sighed. “You think someone would want a broken pony like me?”

He smiled. “I’ll do you one better.” He opened the door to the enclosure and gestured her out. “C’mon!”

Slowly, and on shaky hooves, Twinkle got up and left the enclosure. She went right into his arms and wept. Matt did his best to hold her, despite the thick, blunt horn on her forehead. For a few moments, he did nothing else, save for stroking her back, silently letting her know that things were going to get better.

Twinkle eventually stopped crying. “Feel better?” he asked.

“A little, I guess.” She got off of him. “Where are we going?”

“Right this way.” Matt stood up and went for the door to the building. He held it open for Twinkle, who entered underneath his arm. He rounded the corner and went straight for the front desk, her following closely behind. When he got there, he rang the desk bell.

“Oh! Hello again,” said the receptionist. “Did you find what—or who—you were looking for?”

“Yeah.” He indicated Twinkle, who, despite her tired, misty eyes, was beaming up at him. “How much to take her home?”

Backbreaking Competition

The airhorn sounded. The gates flung open, and the ponies ripped across the track.

“And they’re off, ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer said. “And right away, Number 4 takes the lead, but Number 7’s gaining on her. She’s not giving it up without a fight—they’re neck and neck, closing in on the first bend, but Number 7 is closer to the inside edge, so she takes the lead.

“And in a surprise upset, it looks like Number 5 is overtaking them both, despite being further out. They’re out of the bend now, and good God just look at Number 5 tear up the dirt! Of course, our radio listeners can’t tell, but she’s putting some serious distance between her and the rest of the pack.

“Here comes the next bend, folks, and Number 5 takes it like the champ she is! She’s already halfway around by the time Number 4 starts turning; she’s relentless! Finish line’s just yards away, and I can confidently say. . . the race is over, and the winner is Number 5, a Rainbow Dash model named Spectrum! Second place, Number 4, Lightning Dust model, Jolt. Third place, Number 7, Spitfire model, Spitfire. . . .”

Ten tired, sweating ponies eventually made their way to the communal water basin for a nice, long drink. A few even dunked their heads underwater to cool off.

Spitfire eventually came back up and stared at Spectrum. “What. . . are you?” she asked.

Spectrum just grinned. “A born winner, of course! What’d you expect?”

Spitfire’s stare lingered for a moment longer, before she sighed and went back to drinking.

Spectrum, meanwhile, kept listening to the announcer. There was talk about advancing to a bigger regional championship, the top prize being a large, shining gold (actually brass) trophy, being immortalized in a hall of fame, “. . . and twenty thousand dollars!”

Trophies and fame be damned—the prize money was her aim! Not that they weren’t nice bonuses too. . . .

Once she got to her stable, she shimmied out of her race jacket—white and emblazoned with an orange 5 on both sides—and waited for the stable hand to undo her anti-flight belt.

He came around soon enough. Once he got it off, the release of pressure from her midsection and especially her wings felt almost therapeutic. “Thanks!” Without further delay, she grabbed her saddlebags and headed for the derby exit.

The stable master was leaning on the outside wall, on a smoke break. “Hey Spectrum. Going home?”

“Yep. Long day!” She turned left and trotted off. “See you next week, Dylan!” she called back.

Dylan just waved back. Then his head jerked up when he heard some loud cluttering from inside the stable. “Bah, this again?” He spat out his cigarette and stamped out the flame, then went back inside to deal with the problem.

⁂

Being a pet implied that one needed a leash when in public, but Hassenfeld ponies were not ordinary pets. Their intelligence was on par with their human owners, so it was not out of the question for them to navigate city streets on their own.

Still, it was an uncommon sight, as Spectrum knew full well. Just her unaccompanied presence turned quite a few heads as she waited for the traffic lights to turn. She watched the cars, of all sorts of vibrant colors, zipping past her left and right at almost blinding speeds. Finally the traffic lights turned yellow, and the cars started slowing. A moment later, the lights turned red, and the crossing man lit up.

As she was crossing Castillo Street, someone called out to her, “Hey, you lost or somethin’?”

Spectrum didn’t answer—she got that question all the time, and it just wasn’t worth it to shout herself hoarse “I’m fine, thanks!” Or perhaps the more witty “No, I won!”

She turned right at a corner café, and almost bumped into a small child. “Woah. . . .” She had to look up to Spectrum. “Pretty pony!”

Spectrum just grinned, and went on her way. Before she could get far, the child’s mother called out to her, “Hey! Does your owner let you wander out here alone?”

“I do it all the time,” Spectrum reassured. “No big deal.”

The mother shrugged. “If you say so. C’mon, Sarah!”

“But Mom. . . .” Eventually Sarah parted with Spectrum, and they went their separate ways. Good thing too—where Spectrum was going, she didn’t exactly want a small child to be. After glancing both ways to make sure nobody was looking, Spectrum dipped into a dark alleyway.

This was not the way home.

The alleyway was empty, save for a blue dumpster and a couple of garbage bins. Oh, and Carlos, Spectrum’s bookie. She walked over to him and sat on her haunches. “Buenas tardes,” she greeted. “¿Tienes el dinero?”

“Sí, aquí está.” He handed her a bundle. Spectrum quickly counted the bills—twelve hundred dollars.

“Nada mal,” she said. “Pero. . . tengo otra carrera la semana que viene.”

“¡Pues ándale! Tú sabes como es.” He held his hand out. “¿Cuánto es?”

Spectrum gave it some thought. Then she pulled out a few bills. “Veinte,” she told him.

“Uyy, ya te crees la gran cosa y todo.” Carlos pocketed her bet. “Dale, no te preocupes; la que te vas a ganar si lo logras. Y yo sé que lo harás.”

“Bueno pues, gracias.” She got up, slipped the money into her saddlebag, and started walking away. “¡Te veo el Sábado!”

Carlos said nothing. Spectrum checked both ways of the alley before exiting the alleyway, and this time going straight home. Do not pass go, do not collect another $200.

⁂

It was three in the afternoon when Spectrum got to the front door. She fished her house key out of her saddlebag, then with some oral flexibility, unlocked the door and let herself in.

She then shut and locked it behind her. She still remembered the time her owner yelled at her for leaving the door unlocked. Never again, she reminded herself.

Down the hall she went, to her bedroom—really a spare closet, she certainly never slept in it—where she slipped the money inside a cardboard box that her owner never checked.

She then did the math on a spare sheet of paper. Eleven hundred eighty, plus the ninety-six thousand, two hundred forty already there, was ninety-seven, four hundred twenty. Exceedingly close, but still short of her goal of one hundred thousand—still, not bad for a Hassenfeld.

Anyone else would have spent it by now on some needless bit of opulence—a Rolls-Royce, diamond jewelry, a work from some famous artist—but Spectrum was a Rainbow Dash model, and that meant loyalty. Not just to herself, but to her owner.

Satisfied with her work, she shut the box, slid it back onto the shelf, did her best to make it look undisturbed, slipped off her saddlebags, and shut the closet. Then she went into the bathroom—as the adage goes, she was “rode hard, put away wet.”

She stepped into the shower, and reached up to the “cold” knob. The water came at once, and she took a moment to bask in the refreshingly cool stream. Besides the race, it had been unseasonably hot today. She needed this.

Okay, that’s enough water wasted. She grabbed her shampoo from the rack, and lathered up her mane and tail, letting some of the suds spill out onto her coat. After a few moments of this, she rinsed them off, and then properly lathered up her coat.

Once she was done rinsing out her coat, she started cleaning off her hooves, paying careful attention to pick out any stray specks of dirt she picked up from the racetrack. It was a miracle she hadn’t tracked anything inside the house yet.

Satisfied with her work, Spectrum shut the water off. She knelt down to the drain and grabbed up the loose strands of hairs she shed while showering, and threw them in the trash. She pulled a fresh towel from the cupboard under the sink, and dried herself off. Once she was done, she threw it onto the towel pole, and went into the living room.

Right as she lied down on the couch and stretched herself out, she heard the familiar clicking of the front door’s lock. She looked up just in time to see the door open, and see him—the reason why she left the house behind his back, the reason she entered herself in so many Hassenfeld pony races, the reason why she consistently pushed herself to her physical limits, the reason why she even stooped to illegal gambling on the side.

Once he got the door opened, Henry wheeled himself inside and shut it behind him, firmly locking it. “Hey, Spectrum,” he greeted wearily.

“Hey Henry!” She tried to act chipper, like she stayed home and did nothing all day. “How’d your day go?”

“About as well as they usually do.” He wheeled up to the couch to meet her. “Just busy accounting work, lots of math involved. I doubt you’d like that.”

“What? Nah,” Spectrum lied. “Math’s for eggheads! . . . er, no offense.”

Henry just rolled his eyes. “If what’s paying the bills around here makes me an egghead, then I’ll wear the shell.” He started to roll into the kitchen. “If you could just help me—”

“Sure thing!” She hopped up and went into the kitchen. As much as he wanted to be self-sufficient, Henry still needed some practice. Ever since the accident two years ago. . . .

Spectrum remembered that day vividly. One day she noticed Henry was running home late, far later than usual. Then the phone rang. She didn’t know how to use it yet, so she listened to the answering machine. It was the emergency room—just after noon, Henry had gotten into a terrible car wreck. He survived, the other driver did not.

Serves him right, she thought, for driving drunk.

Henry’s survival came at the cost of his mobility. According to the doctors, the accident damaged his spinal cord, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. Fortunately it was reversible, but Henry balked at the cost of the surgery needed.

Even with Henry’s job at an accounting firm, there was no way he could afford it. And literally to add insult to injury, his insurance refused to cover the surgery, meaning he’d have to pay the full amount out of his own pocket.

A cursory Google search found that surgeries of this nature cost up to one hundred thousand dollars. A steep amount, to be sure, but Spectrum was nothing if not determined. And as is typical of Rainbow Dash models, she wanted to put a flourish to her task—for two years, she entered pony races, won thousands in prize money, then won thousands more on the side when she met Carlos—all this was kept under the radar, in order to surprise him.

“Spectrum, did you say something?” Henry asked her just then.

Spectrum realized she was seconds away from giving away her secret. “Uh, nope! Must’ve been hearing things!” she said. Better not get caught this soon.

⁂

Come Saturday, the day of the regional championship, Spectrum was in her A-game. Once she got belted and jacketed—again with Number 5—she stood in her stall and waited for the airhorn.

“Hey, who are you!?”

Spectrum turned to see that Number 6 was another Rainbow Dash. “Name’s Spectrum, what’s it to you?”

“Iris. And that trophy’s mine, you got it?”

“On your marks. . . .”

Spectrum and Iris kept staring each other down.

“Get set. . . .”

Then they looked away, to the track ahead.

The airhorn sounded, and the gates opened.

“And they’re off! And already Number 5 and Number 6 tie for the lead. They’re neck and neck—it’s 5! No, 6! No, 5 again! And that’s just before the first bend!

“And there they are! Number 6 is closer to the inside, so she’s edging ahead. Can Number 5 beat her? This is where she usually activates her trap card, if her previous races have anything to say.

“They’re out of the bend, and it looks like Number 5’s still behind! It’s still a close contest, and it’s pretty clear none of the others have a chance. Here comes the next bend!

“Unbelievable! Number 5 must has tripped over something on the racetrack. The other ponies are giving her room, going around her, and it looks like she’s twisted her hind left ankle! Unfortunately, that means she’s going to be out of the race. . . .”

Spectrum stopped listening—it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She came all this way over two years, just to walk away with a crippling injury, with no prize money nor betting profit. Slowly, she started limping off the track, to get herself unbelted and her wound dressed as soon as possible.

⁂

Henry must’ve been let off early, since, despite her flying home as fast as she could—who knew getting a twisted ankle bandaged could take so long?—he was home way before Spectrum. And he was most displeased.

“Spectrum, where have you been?” He was waiting at the door for her. “How long have you been gone?” He finally smelled her strong sweat. “Have you been running here?” Then he looked at her bandaged leg. “What happened to you out there!?”

She sighed. “Guess my secret’s out.” She quickly flew to her closet and grabbed the box. At least it was my hind leg and not my front. She dropped it right in front of him and popped open the lid.

Henry’s jaw dropped. “How did you—”

“For the last two years,” she explained, “ever since the accident, I’ve been running in races at Summerdam Derby. Most of that’s prize money. The rest is from my bookie, once I figured out I could place bets on myself. I’ve been raising enough for you to get your spine fixed. Why?”

She hovered right in his face. “Because I love you. I can’t imagine you going another day without walking like you used to. I want to make this better. But I tripped and fell in today’s race, and I couldn’t get you the full hundred thousand. I’m sorry.”

Henry started checking Spectrum’s math. When he got to the end, he started tearing up. “Spectrum. . . honey. . . I could easily afford the difference. Thank you, but. . . ” He set the paper down. “You really shouldn’t have gone out racing without my knowledge, and certainly without my permission. Now look at you! You’ve gone and hurt yourself just to help me. Tell me Spectrum, was it worth all the trouble?”

“As long as you’re better,” Spectrum said, “it’ll be worth the pain.”

“And furthermore—” he pointed at the money—“how would I explain all of this to the IRS?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. For now. . . .” She wrapped her arms around him, as best as she could.

He returned the gesture, and started crying into her barrel. “This is the greatest moment of my life. Thank you, thank you Spectrum, from the bottom of my heart.” He let go of her. “Now go hit the shower. . . champ.”

The Lights Were On, Yet No One Was There

“Today’s the day!”

It had been four years, two months, a week, two days, twenty-one hours, fourteen minutes, and twenty-seven seconds, by her count, since Pinkie’s owner left home for army deployment.

“Deployment.” To her, it didn’t seem like a word—just a jumble of nonsense. “Deee-ployyy-ment.” What a funny word, for something so apparently important to her owner that he had to leave for so long.

That didn’t matter right now, because now he was coming home! You know what this called for? A party! P-A-R-T-why? Because she was so excited and she gotta! No, it had nothing to do with watching The Mask for the fifty-third time yesterday, no way.

Right! Time to get serious.

Pinkie distinctly remembered some party supplies down in his basement. Her owner insisted that they were left over from a previous homeowner, but she was convinced that he got them just for her. Once she finally twisted the doorknob in her mouth and opened the door to the basement, she went downstairs to find them.

The lights were on, yet no one was there.

“Hmm. . . .” Pinkie wasn’t sure if she should grab the supplies first, or find out who left the lights on. After all, she was the only one who’s been down here in four years. . . right?

“Hello? Anypony down here?” She crept slowly around the basement, before jumping to behind the water heater. “A-ha!” No one was there. “Hmm. . . tricky, tricky, tricky. I know you’re down here!” She stopped dead still, and listened carefully for any faint sounds.

Nothing. Guess I am alone after all.

Whatever, she’ll shut the lights off on her way back up. I just hope he doesn’t see the power bill, she thought. At any rate, she found the two boxes that had the supplies—balloons, streamers, confetti, the works. With a bit of effort, she put one box onto her back and carefully carried it upstairs. Not a sway to either side; can’t risk spilling anything onto the stairs. She could trip and fall on them, after all, and that’s just no fun!

Another quick trip down the basement later, both boxes were in the foyer, contents still together and intact.

And one last trip down to hit the switch to kill the lights. Thankfully it was a rocker switch; they were easy on her hooves.

First, she thought, I better start baking. She could mix the ingredients together in a matter of minutes, but the baking part of baking always takes a while. Might as well get that out of the way, and kill that time decorating the house.

She could Google dozens of recipes, but she had her owner’s favorite—red velvet—memorized for when she baked for his birthday. It started with flour, sugar, baking soda, cocoa powder, and just a hint of salt in one bowl, and oil, buttermilk, two eggs, and vinegar in another.

Any recipe would also call for red food coloring, but Pinkie refused to use any.

“Oh, right!” She nearly forgot to preheat the oven. Before she started actually mixing, she went over to the oven and twisted the knob to the 350 mark. The oven fan kicked in. “Now where was I?”

Before she could return to the mixing bowls, she heard the doorbell ring. “What, already?” Her tail twitched, her right thigh itched, and her mane and tail straightened themselves for a split-second—in that order. “Oh.” Her owner had a different set of Pinkie Sense effects; this was someone else. Someone she’d gotten to know very well in the last four years. . . .

She went and answered the door. “Oh hey, Mrs. Wilcox! What brings you here?” she asked.

“Just the usual business, making sure you’re safe and sound,” Mrs. Wilcox replied. “Don’t want to give James a panic attack, now do we?”

Mrs. Wilcox was their next-door neighbor. Before he left, he asked her if she could look after Pinkie. He wasn’t confident that she could completely look after herself. Considering Mrs. Wilcox had a Hassenfeld of her own—a Rarity model, to be exact—she understood perfectly, and was happy to do so.

Speaking of—“Hey, while you’re here,” Pinkie asked, “would you mind if I borrowed Sapphire? I could use some extra help setting up the party.”

“Really?” Mrs. Wilcox noticed the boxes of party supplies in the foyer. “Well, I suppose it is a special occasion. But on one condition!”

“Name it.”

She grinned. “You’ll have to invite me, too. He’s my neighbor too, you know.”

Hey, the more the merrier! “Deal!” Pinkie vigorously shook her hand.

“I’ll be back in a few moments, dearie. Don’t burn the house down while I’m away.” And with that, Mrs. Wilcox disappeared out the door.

“Right, the cake, the cake. . . .” Pinkie dashed back into the kitchen and quickly resumed her task. Peep-peep-peep! The oven finished preheating behind her. “Guess that’s time I’m not getting back,” she told herself.

As she started mixing the dry ingredients together, there was another knock on the door. Twitchy tail, itchy right thigh, mane and tail straightening themselves for a split-second—but this time, they also curled up neatly before going back to their usual poofy selves. Mrs. Wilcox was back, and she had brought Sapphire with her. As promised.

“Alright, what are we waiting for?” Pinkie said. “Let’s get bakin’ and decoratin’!” She gestured them inside.

“Baking, you say?” Accepting Pinkie’s invitation, Mrs. Wilcox walked into the kitchen and saw what she was up to. “Looks like you could use a hand here. Or did I interrupt you for the second time?”

“Uh, well. . . .”

“That’s quite alright, I’ll take it from here.”

“It’s red velvet cake, just so you know.” Pinkie tapped her head. “Got it all in here!”

“So I see.” Mrs. Wilcox took up the whisk and started mixing the dry ingredients again. “Sapphire, why don’t you help start decorating? You always have a keen eye for style.”

“I’d be delighted to.” Sapphire’s horn lit up, using patented Hasbio technology, and in a move that would make any physicist’s head spin, started grabbing some streamers from one box.

“I’ll help you when I can, Sapphire. For now, the cake awaits!” Pinkie grabbed a second whisk from a rarely-used drawer, and started whipping the wet ingredients together, at a quick yet clean pace.

Mrs. Wilcox had just finished mixing the dry ingredients. “All ready for you,” she told Pinkie.

Without missing a beat, Pinkie started combining the two bowls into one, carefully keeping an even mixture on the fly. In what seemed like no time at all, she formed a perfect cake batter.

“Cake pans,” Pinkie told herself. “Where does he keep those—”

Already Mrs. Wilcox was spraying down three of them with some cooking grease. “Bottom left cabinet by the stove,” she answered.

“Oh. I knew that,” Pinkie lied. She grabbed the bowl, and one at a time as Mrs. Wilcox was greasing them, poured the batter into each pan. Somehow she knew the precise amount to make each one hold exactly the same. Mrs. Wilcox just chalked it up to baker’s intuition.

Just before Pinkie could put the pans into the oven, Mrs. Wilcox stopped her. “Ovens can be dangerous for a little pony like you,” she told Pinkie. “Let me handle the rest.”

Pinkie opened her mouth to protest, but then deflated—almost literally. “Fine. James likes cream cheese frosting, if you can handle that. I’ll go help Sapphire with decorating.”

Mrs. Wilcox set a timer on her phone. “They should be ready in a half hour. Want to help frost when it’s ready?”

“I’ll be back,” Pinkie replied in an Austrian accent. Then she dashed off. “Hey Sapphire! How’re you doing?”

“Quite well, darling, thank you for asking.” In her pursuit for perfection, Sapphire had been focusing her efforts on just the foyer. Indeed it was lavishly decorated—but perhaps too lavishly, as the other rooms were left bare, and she had already burned through almost all the streamers and balloons. “Although I really do wish I had more to work with.”

“Ooooooor. . . .” Pinkie started to undo one streamer.

Sapphire started panicking. “Not that one! Anything but that one!”

Pinkie reached for another streamer. “Okay, how about this one?”

“Not that either!”

Pinkie stood on her hind legs, her front ones crossed. “Sapphire, c’mon. Those supplies are all I have. If we’re going to decorate the whole house, or at least the foyer, living room, and dining room, we’ll have to be a lot less wasteful.”

Sapphire sighed. “Very well.” With her telekinetic grasp, several seemingly redundant streamers were taken off the walls and moved into the living room. Pinkie rounded up several balloons and followed Sapphire.

Sapphire was humming to herself as she set it up. “That goes there—hmm, a bit off. Ah, better. Oh, Pinkie, could you set the balloons in each of the corners?”

“My thoughts exactly.” Her task was relatively easy, and once both were done with the living room, they moved on to the dining room. This one took a bit longer, since Sapphire wasn’t just moving decorations over, and they had a dining table to set.

“Pinkie, would you mind getting—oh, never mind.” Mrs. Wilcox came in with dishes and silverware, setting the table for them. “And we are finished.”

“Gotta say, that was a piece of cake!” Pinkie commented. “And speaking of which. . . .” Pinkie zipped right in front of the oven.

“Pinkie, sweetie,” said Mrs. Wilcox, “I don’t think the cake is—” But she flipped the oven door open anyway—and right as she did, Mrs. Wilcox’s phone timer went off. She looked at it in disbelief, and shook her head. “You never cease to amaze me,” she conceded. She knew by reflex where the oven mitts were, and pulled the pans out. They didn’t have a cooling rack, so they used some nonstick paper instead.

After some time letting it cool, Mrs. Wilcox got the frosting she made in the meantime. Pinkie did most of the work frosting it, with Sapphire adding the finer details, turning a delicious treat into a work of art.

“I’ll set it on the table.” Mrs. Wilcox picked it up gently and carried it over to the dining table. She set it down undisturbed.

“Do either of you know when he’s coming back?” asked Sapphire. “Oh, how I long to see that hunk of a man again. . . .”

“Sapphire, please!” Mrs. Wilcox chastised. “That’s not very ladylike!”

Sapphire pouted. “Hm!”

“And don’t forget the finishing touch!” From the bottom of one box, she pulled out a package of cheap party poppers. “We’ve got three left—everyone gets one!”

Mrs. Wilcox chuckled. “Going all out, I see?”

“In typical Pinkie Pie fashion,” responded Sapphire. “What about the boxes, though?”

“Oh, I’ll just set them over here, out of the way.” Pinkie grabbed both boxes, now much lighter, and carried them into the corner of the dining room. “We’ll use them for cleaning up. Easy peasy!”

Mrs. Wilcox nodded. “Good thinking.”

Pinkie’s Sense went off again. Twitchy tail, itchy thigh, but now she noticed a stronger heartbeat in her chest. Go time. “He’s almost here! Everybody hide!”

Mrs. Wilcox hid around the corner into the kitchen. Sapphire hid under the dining table. Pinkie hid around the corner just outside the foyer.

“When the light comes on,” Pinkie whispered, “we jump out, pop our poppers, and shout ‘Welcome home!’ Got it?”

Mrs. Wilcox and Sapphire nodded.

A moment later, Pinkie heard the doorknob jiggle. Then the door opened, and she heard her beloved owner, James Hall, walk in—or rather, shamble in slowly, and close the door behind him. After considering the light switch for a moment, he flipped it.

Everybody jumped out of cover, setting off their party poppers at the same time. “Welcome home!”

“Incoming!” He immediately dove to the ground, dodging a nonexistent artillery shell.

None of the three expected this reaction. Mrs. Wilcox clutched her heart. Sapphire darted over to her, to make sure she was okay. Pinkie stood still, unsure if she should leave him alone or comfort him.

Eventually he got back up on his feet, but he was still pallid and alert from fear. Pinkie chose the latter, and cautiously approached him. “James?” she asked.

Silence.

“James, it’s me, Pinkie Pie.” Her voice still had its trademark sweetness, but none of the excitement. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

Silence still. He didn’t even look down to see her, though he did eventually move his hand down to pet her mane. “You’re alright, you’re alright,” Pinkie thought he mumbled. He cautiously moved into the dining room, where Mrs. Wilcox and Sapphire were waiting.

“James, honestly, what’s gotten into you?” Mrs. Wilcox didn’t sound angry so much as concerned. “This isn’t like you. What happened out there?”

James sat down at the table. He eventually mumbled out a “Don’t wanna talk about it.” He shook his head.

“Why talk—when there’s cake?” Pinkie grabbed a knife and started cutting it. “Red velvet, your favorite. And you get the first piece!” She lifted the piece away and set it on its side in front of James.

Evidently that was not a good idea. He started breathing heavily, and he looked away from it. He rested his face in his hands. He sounded like he was crying.

“What?” Pinkie set the knife down. “I could’ve sworn you would’ve liked it! What’s the matter, hm?”

“I just. . . .” James lifted his head up. “I just want them to stop screaming. . . that’s all. . . .”

Mrs. Wilcox nudged Sapphire. “Sapphire, would you mind running back to the house? I don’t want you to see this.”

“Thought you’d never ask, Rosemary.” On mostly silent hooves, Sapphire galloped out the room and out the house.

“Who’s screaming?” asked Pinkie. She already took the slice of cake away from him, and turned the rest of it around so he couldn’t see where she cut it.

He didn’t answer.

“James, darling, I mean this with no disrespect, but you really should talk to someone about this.” Mrs. Wilcox pulled out her phone. “If not me, or Pinkie, then I can call a therapist for you.”

James shook his head. “No. . . no. . . nobody should know what I’ve seen. It’s just horrible.”

Now Pinkie looked more determined than ever. “I’ve got one last trick up my sleeve. . . even if I’m not wearing any sleeves!” She got down from her chair and trotted around to James’ seat. Slowly and carefully, she climbed into his lap. Carefully, she wrapped her front legs around his midsection, and snuggled him as closely as she could.

Surprisingly, James returned the gesture—though not nearly as tightly as hers. He started gently stroking her back, mumbling something even Pinkie couldn’t hear.

“You’re safe now, James,” she reassured, though unsure if that would mean anything to him.

And finally, in that moment, Pinkie and James made eye contact for the first time in four years. Only then did she understand just how far gone James was.

The lights were on.

Yet no one was there.

A Princess's Love

Bus line 14 stopped at Old Creek Road, and a single man got off. “Thanks!” he shouted to the driver. After lingering for a moment longer, the bus pulled away, and the man started walking.

It was late in the afternoon, getting cold, and his walking was growing weary. His apartment building loomed beyond, an ominous gray from its brutalist concrete construction. Unperturbed, he went through the front door, and entered the stairwell.

Once he got up on the third floor, he stopped at the communal mailboxes. He unlocked number 314, and pulled out a single envelope. Another bill from the power company. He sighed, relocked the box, and went down the hall to his apartment.

When he got to his apartment door, he fumbled around for his key, then unlocked the door and went inside.

As he shut and locked the door behind him, he noticed the smell of sautéed garlic on the stove. “So, what’s cookin’?” he asked.

“Almost done getting dinner ready, Sam. How about spaghetti tonight?” A Hassenfeld Celestia grabbed the pot of spaghetti in her telekinetic grasp and brought it over to the sink. She ran the contents through a strainer, then dumped the spaghetti onto two plates.

“Sounds delightful,” Sam replied. When he sat down, he let out a weary sigh.

“One of those days?” she asked. She set a plate in front of him.

He just nodded, and started with his dinner. His cheeks started flushing with the first bite, from the warmth, from the flavor, from the love she had seemingly poured into it straight from her own heart. “I dunno how you do it, Celestia,” he commented, “but you nailed it. Again.”

She sat down with her own plate. “I’ll be honest with you,” she told him, “I’m starting to worry for you. Every day, I watch you strain yourself to your limit between your classes and your job. This isn’t good for you, Sam; you should take some time for yourself.”

“I know.” Sam cleared his throat. “But you shouldn’t have anything to worry about yourself. As long as I stay on track, I’ll be out of college by the end of next semester with a proper degree, I’ll land myself a better job, and then we can relax. Just a little. . . .”

Celestia wasn’t convinced. “Please. Just relax, if only for just tonight. My heart aches for you when you put yourself through this.”

Sam didn’t say anything. He just kept eating his dinner, unbothered by Celestia’s concerns.

“If nothing else,” she followed up, “know that I won’t be around to take care of you forever. I’m ten years old; I’m halfway through my lifespan. What are you going to do when I’m gone? Hm?”

That got Sam’s attention. “What are you, my mother?” he asked.

She giggled. “I may as well be, with how our relationship is.” She sighed wistfully. “I remember watching you grow up into the man you are today. I remember seeing you in the bathroom, cleaning your wounds from He-Whom-We-Won’t-Name from middle school. I remember the last time you went trick-or-treating. Your father was brilliant in coming up with going as Don Quixote. Was I a good Rocinante?”

“You were,” he replied, “even with the horn and wings.”

“Yes, even with my extra. . . appendages, I should say, I managed to pass as your steed.” She looked out the window behind Sam, watching the sun set. “I remember your first day of high school, and how you apparently got lost on the way to science class.”

“Hey!” Sam jerked his head up. “That was a typo in my schedule.”

“Well, if you’re going to be so defensive about that, then what about the time I first caught you—”

“Nope, nope!” Sam put his hand up. “Don’t wanna hear it!”

“. . . watching My Little Pony.” She giggled. “What did you think I was going to say?”

“Uh, yeah. Let’s just go with that.”

“Fine, I’ll stop my reminiscing.” She rolled her eyes. “Though sometimes I wonder—what if I could live a thousand years?”

“Then we’d have the opposite problem.” Sam had cleaned his plate, and was getting up to wash it.

Celestia’s telekinesis grabbed it out of his hand. “Uh-uh, young man. I’m doing dishes tonight. You’ve earned a rest.” He opened his mouth to protest. “Nope. I’m not going to hear it.” She pointed her hoof towards the bedroom. “Clothes off. Jammies on. Now.”

He sighed in defeat. “Yes, Mom.” He trudged into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.

Celestia’s telekinetic grasp was invaluable for a task like washing dishes. The horns of Hassenfeld unicorns and alicorns had varying upper limits on how much they can carry in their telekinetic grasps. Simply put, the heavier the items were, the looser their grip was on each item. Alicorns could generally carry more than unicorns, but even then there was some variation between models and even individuals. There were reports of some owners experimenting with “overclocked” horns, but this was extremely dangerous, often fatal, and a surefire way of setting off the remote distress.

For Celestia, it was a cinch to do dishes. She queued up the plates, glasses, and silverware in her grasp, then with the same, lathered up the sponge and started scrubbing each one under the water, setting them in the rack once she was finished with each one. It was a smooth operation, almost mechanically so, and she was in and out in two minutes.

As if on cue, Sam reappeared in the kitchen, dressed in freshly-laundered pajamas instead of just being in his underwear. “Well, now what?” he asked.

“Couch. Plant it, mister.” She pointed in that direction. “It’s Movie Night, and I’m picking.”

“But—”

“Hup! No buts.”

Almost with a sulk, Sam took a seat in front of the TV. Celestia joined him a moment later, taking up the two seats next to him and laying her head on his lap. “We’ll be watching Avatar 2.”

“Really?” Sam asked. “I was in the mood for some anime.”

“Lu rä’ä nafi’ua snaytuti.” She winked at him, then grabbed the remote in her telekinesis. “There’s a reason why Cameron broke his own record again, with a sequel no less.” With a few button presses, she pulled up Netflix and selected the film.

⁂

The next morning at college, Sam was having trouble staying awake in his philosophy class. Ugh, why did I sign up for this again?

As fascinating the subject could be for some students, many felt like fish out of water—Sam included. The professor droned on and on about the difference between a dog and the idea of a dog. . . or something like that. Basically put, things change, ideas don’t. Next lesson, please.

The worst part about it was that he was barely engaging the rest of the class. Even the ones who were genuinely eager to sign up were starting to space out. The professor had a whiteboard and projector at his disposal, but was simply content to read from his copy of the textbook. Sam had half a mind to address him as “Professor Audible.com,” but the last thing he wanted was a disciplinary action on his record.

The only upside about this class was the lack of homework assigned. In theory, the professor explained at the start of the semester, students who were interested in philosophy should be motivated to learn the subject outside of class without his help. But in practice, at least for Sam, what happens in philosophy class stays in philosophy class.

He checked the math in his head. Okay, if I get at least an 85% on the next quiz, I should squeak by with a 70% overall grade. Quite a bit to ask for, considering his track record, but hey, stranger things have happened.

“Samuel, are you paying attention?” Just one question out of the blue was enough to snap him out of it.

“Uh, yes sir!” he stammered out. Did I miss something actually important?

“Well then, perhaps you can tell me, besides nominalism, what the other view of the nature of universals is.”

Christ, didn’t catch that part. C’mon, think. . . Realism? No, that’s too cheap. Determinism? Nah, haven’t seen that come up on Wikipedia. Better go with my gut. . . . “Realism.” I hope that was convincing.

The professor nodded. “Very good. I guess you were paying attention after all.”

Speech 100. As the professor started droning on, Sam’s mind then started wondering again, this time on something else.

Celestia’s always been there for me, ever since my parents got her for me. He was grateful, not least because of the price tag—alicorn models cost three thousand dollars apiece, and that was ten years ago—but probably because she never left his side since then.

She’s helped him with his homework, chores around the house, comforted him in his darker moments—in some ways, she was his second mother. But he wondered, maybe she was holding him back. As nice as it was to come home to a hot meal in a clean, warm apartment, perhaps it was better if he got used to doing these things himself. Maybe she had a point last night. . . .

Then, finally, 12:00 noon rolled around. “Unfortunately, my time is up, so you are free to go,” he drolled out. Surprisingly, this snapped him out of his reverie.

Finally. Now that class was over, so was his day at college. Time to go home. . . .

⁂

Celestia was bored.

Usually she was content with tidying up around the place, but his apartment is now spotless all around, having completed that task within two hours.

Apartment. Right. Because Sam couldn’t afford a house yet. Not with his current pay. If only these college semesters would just hurry up and pass already, so they can move on to more promising pastures.

“Ugh.” She flopped onto her back on the couch. “Sam, when are you coming back home? I miss you.”

She grabbed the remote with her telekinesis and flipped on the TV. Netflix came right up, as it had the night before, but now. . . it just didn’t cut it for her anymore. Am I really so bored, she pondered, that I can’t find something satisfying to watch?

Eventually she gave up and went over to his computer. Looks like someone forgot to log out, she thought. Hopefully he won’t mind if I looked up something on YouTube. . . .

But the first thing that popped up caught her eye sooner. It was a diary entry, dated just this morning. She paused to read it:

Last night was pretty interesting, to say the least. Celestia was insistent that I take a load off, when I know that's not exactly an option. Work and class come first.

Somehow... I liked it. Maybe it was just the familiar feeling of seeing Celestia again. Or maybe I'm just so pathetic I can't even take care of my own self. I feel guilty for putting Celestia through this. I know she's a Hassenfeld, that she's supposed to love me regardless, but still... I want to do something for her. But what?

I've been considering getting her something, but what does she like? Well, she likes me of course, but that would be superficial. Besides, I don't know if I CAN afford whatever I have in mind.

I could of course give her the same treatment she gave me last night, but I can't imagine how much that would backfire.

Maybe I'll just have to lay the cards on the table and have a talk with her. It's blunt, straightforward, almost too much so, but it seems like the best option I have. I just hope she's receptive...

Celestia was moved. For starters, it was true—a Hassenfeld’s bond with its owner was absolute. The owner meant everything to the Hassenfeld. Celestia models, in particular, were more maternal than the others—it was very much in their blood to care for their owners, sometimes rather than the other way around. Their owners’ satisfaction was their own reward, no gifts nor favors necessary.

She sighed. “Maybe I should have a talk with Sam,” she told herself. “Be more honest with our feelings.”

She checked the time in the corner of the screen. 12:00 noon, on the nose. Better start on lunch, she thought. He’s coming home early from college. Good time as any to have that talk, now that I think about it.

⁂

Just as Celestia was finishing up, Sam walked into the door. “Welcome home, Sam,” she greeted. “I’ve got lunch ready right about now.”

“Thanks.” This time, Sam didn’t sound so tired. He didn’t have a shift today, and he only had the one class. He took a seat across from Celestia, as he typically did.

But before Celestia could serve lunch, she had something else on her mind. “Sam, I don’t want to alert you, but. . . .” She looked away from him. “. . . I may have seen what you typed on your computer this morning.”

Sam was taken aback. “I could’ve sworn I had logged out,” he said. “Why were you looking on there?”

“That’s not important,” she replied. “What is important is how you feel about me. You think I’m doing this as a favor, and that it need be paid back someday. Let me assure you, that isn’t the case. I like caring for you—keeping the apartment clean, cooking your meals, cuddling you when you sleep—really, I don’t mind it at all.”

“And yet you told me last night that you wouldn’t be around to care for me forever,” he shot back. “So which is it?”

“The two are not mutually exclusive. I don’t mind caring for you, but I also want you to care for yourself. You’ve got a great big life ahead of you, but mine’s genetically predetermined.” Celestia’s telekinetic grasp pulled Sam’s hand into her front hooves. “I want to see you succeed. I’ll help you however I can, but ultimately, it must be you who succeeds.”

Without warning, Sam leapt from his seat and grabbed Celestia in a bearhug.

She was startled, but returned the gesture. “I love you too, Sam,” she told him. When he finally let go, she followed up with “I’m sorry if I was a bit forceful last night. Maybe it worked against my goal of getting you to relax for once.”

“Eh, maybe you’re right,” Sam admitted. “I’m pushing myself to succeed now—but I want you there to see it, and maybe. . . I just wanted to keep you around a little longer. Do you know how much you cost?”

“Three thousand, five hundred dollars, plus tax,” she answered, seemingly from rote memory. “I know, I’m a high-end pony, but considering what we’ve done in the last ten years, and what we’ll do in the next ten—you think your parents got a return on their investment?”

Sam sat back down. “Yeah, and then some. Now, what about lunch?”

“Oh, right. Here you are.”

With their confessions out of the way, they both ate in silence.