Chapters Keep Pretending, One of Three
Help! My House Thinks It's a Castle!
One day, Derpy’s house said, “I am the keep of the castle! Who goes there? Friend or foe?”
Since the door wouldn’t open, Derpy stood outside and tried to think of a sensible answer. She had no idea how to talk to houses, but politeness was always welcome.
“Are you playing pretend, Mister House?” she said politely.
“No!” said the house. “I am the keep of the castle!”
“Oh, but Mister House,” said Derpy. “You can’t be the keep of any castle. I’m your owner, Miss Derpy Hooves, remember?”
The house harrumphed. “I know Princess Derpy, who I protect, but not Miss Derpy.”
Derpy made herself comfortable on the grass outside. “But a keep,” she said reasonably, “is a big building.”
“I’m big!” said the house. “Bigger than you by far!”
Derpy admitted the house had a point. “And it’s made of strong stone.”
“So am I! The finest stone in Ponyville!”
Again, Derpy admitted it had a point. She knew she’d never been very good at logic.
“Erm… Doesn’t a keep look after a castle?” she said, trying to remember what little she knew about architecture. “If you’re the keep, where is your castle?”
Silence. Derpy suspected it was searching. How, she wondered, could a house search when it had no eyes to see, or ears to hear, or hooves to touch? Houses couldn’t talk either. Yet here it was, talking. So, she reasoned, who was she to judge?
Eventually, the house said, “That castle over there.”
“Twilight’s castle?”
“Yes.”
“Ooh, that gives me an idea!” Derpy rose. “I’ll be right back.”
When Derpy returned, Princess Twilight followed her. After all, who better to discuss logic and castles than her? Perhaps she could help.
“And now it thinks it’s a keep,” Derpy finished.
“I see,” said Twilight. “Luckily, I came prepared. You see, Mister House, a castle and a cottage are very different. A castle needs an inner and outer wall for defence.”
“Ah, but you see,” said the house, “I have a wall around the garden.”
“Does it have watchtowers? A barbican with a drawbridge? A moat?”
This time, the house sounded uncertain. “No, but…”
“A bailey for growing crops? A motte so that attackers struggle uphill?”
“No, but…”
“I have pictures here to show you what a cottage and keep look like. Please compare the two.”
But when it spoke, the house gloated. “I see no pictures! Because keeps don’t have eyes!”
Finally, Twilight growled with frustration. “There’s no reasoning with you.”
A sudden thought struck Derpy. “How do you know you’re a keep?”
“I… can feel it?” tried the house.
“Oh, that’s easy then. Twilight, could you help Mister House by turning him into a keep so he could feel the difference?”
“I’ll try. But what about you?”
“I’ll sleep at a friend’s house tonight. Don’t worry.”
“Um… okay…”
So Twilight worked her magic, and the cottage bloomed into a keep. The space around it scrunched up to stop the neighbouring houses from being crushed.
“I told you I’m a keep!” crowed the house.
Twilight growled. When she went to change it back, however, Derpy stopped her.
“Let’s come back tomorrow,” said Derpy. “We don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
Because the house wouldn’t let her in, Derpy left. Initially, the house laughed because it was big, but soon it felt how empty the rooms were, and since there were lots of rooms, there was a lot of empty. It was made of strong stones, but the stones chilled it. The other buildings had to be kept away for their own good, so it became lonely.
The house shouted, “I hate being a keep! Won’t you come in?”
Hearing it, Derpy returned, but it was so empty and cold and lonely that she went outside again. “I’m sorry. I’d need to be a princess, I think, and I’d be very bad at it.”
“But I’d protect you!” pleaded the house.
“Ponyville’s a peaceful town.”
“We’d be big and powerful.”
“Oh, I’m happy just as I am!”
The house moaned until Derpy fetched Twilight and changed it back. Now it was nice inside; she lit a fire that warmed the interior quickly. Since she knew all the little rooms, she felt cosy.
“I prefer being a cottage,” said the house. “The biggest and the strongest cottage in all of Equestria!”
“How about,” said Derpy, “the warmest and nicest cottage?”
And eventually, the house said, “Oh. Yes. I like that even more! Goodnight, Miss Derpy!”
“Goodnight, Mister House.”
Keep Pretending, One of Three
Villainy Ain't a Piece of Cake
When the new player materialized, Mane-iac sensed the age difference instantly. So instead of cackling madly and planning world domination, she rolled a cigarette.
“Rather old for this game, aren’t we?” She smirked.
Under the simulated costume of the Masked Matterhorn, Mr Cake blushed.
Eventually, he said, “Er… it… was… recommended to us. By friends.”
“Us?” said Mane-iac.
Another player materialized, giggling and flapping her new wings. “Oh YES! I’m fresh as a newly-baked pie! Just wait until I find this Mane-iac –”
“Er… s-sweetcakes?” Mr Cake coughed and nodded urgently towards Mane-iac.
The newcomer – Mrs Cake – spun around and blushed even harder than her husband. “Oh my. I’m sorry. Just… trying to get into character. I didn’t know there’d be… other players.”
Mane-iac puffed her cigarette, her headaches melting away. Even a fictional character needed a time-out. Plus, she could easily play these two like panpipes.
“No,” she said. “I’m part of the fantasy.”
“Oh,” said Mrs Cake. “Um, we’re a little unfamiliar with this whole ‘jumping into comics’ thing. Do we wait?”
Mane-iac shrugged.
“Only friends of ours recomm–” began Mrs Cake.
“I heard already.”
“Sorry. I guess we forgot some of the rules?”
“Pardon me my frankness, darling,” said Mane-iac, ever the petty villainess. “But I don’t think your figure’s cut out for Zapp’s costume.”
She took a sick little pleasure, seeing Mrs Cake try to cover her stomach. Faces reddened.
“Been married long?” Mane-iac took another puff.
“Twenty-five years, this April,” said Mr Cake. “Erm?”
“Congratulations!”
“Uh… thanks…”
“Long time to be together. Such commitment is rare these days.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that…”
“You’re Mane-iac, right?” said Mrs Cake, looking flustered. “The bad pony we’re supposed to fight?”
“Yep.” Another lovely puff.
“Do you start, or…?”
“I’m on break.” Mane-iac’s prehensile mane removed the cigarette. “Let me guess: the magic’s starting to fade between you. Twenty-five years: long time to experiment. So you thought you’d see what the young whippersnappers are doing these days.”
“Excuse me,” said Mr Cake indignantly. “I’m not sure you should talk to us like that.”
“Successful business?”
Mrs Cake stiffened. “We run a bakery together. Since our wedding.”
“Jolly good!”
Both Cakes exchanged nervous glances. Oh, they were trying to be stiff with affronted pride, but their movements were too jittery, their faces too red. Probably nice ponies, in real life. Not that Mane-iac knew much about real life.
Mane-iac dropped the cigarette on the Maretropolis sidewalk. “I’ve seen no-hopers trying to escape miserable lives in this game.”
She barked a laugh.
“And the best part is they think it works, yet keep coming back! You’d think medicine wouldn’t be needed eventually. But they’re young. They’ve achieved nothing yet. You’ve a steady income, a strong marriage, a happy family helped by friends…”
Mr Cake bristled. “How could you kn–?”
“You enter my world, you’re under my purview,” said Mane-iac. “We scan you before matching your characters. Please don’t waste time on this nonsense. Go out. Talk to someone. Solve problems. It’d be kinder.”
The Cakes looked at each other. Even scanning them, a flicker of envy passed through Mane-iac. After all, she had to stay here and meet countless strangers. She couldn’t give anyone a look that’d speak a thousand words, draw upon a history, share a future…
“I… think it’s nice…” said Mrs Cake carefully, “to act young. Sometimes.”
“It’s only a bit of harmless fun,” said Mr Cake, straining with cheer.
Mane-iac sensed their emotions. Genuine happiness flowed: totally useless to her. Yet in the depths, desperation flickered. Self-aware desperation now, thanks to her comments.
She licked her lips. “You want to give this young colt’s fantasy a try?”
They winced, especially Mrs Cake. The comment about her costume still stung; Mane-iac sensed embarrassment lurking there.
She tasted it.
Delicious.
“Very well,” she said, sounding peeved while inside she was laughing. “Whyever not?”
After all, two middle-aged ponies trying to act young? A rare find, but their emotions could be useful.
No-hopers, escapists, deluded fools… All food for her. She’d scanned lives so often that she’d taken on a life of her own. Exploring. Manipulating. Feeding. She’d gather millions in a day, through multiple dimensions, as essence of Mane-iac reached through millions of comics.
Fuel.
One day, she’d eat enough. Perhaps the real world would open its pages to her.
While the Cakes prepared for an amateurish battle, Mane-iac – once a mere puppet of a publisher’s enchantment – crept that much closer to delightful escape.
Keep Pretending, One of Three
The Party That Never Starts (For Me)
Amethyst Star hated today, mostly because Lyra loved it. Nothing good came from being that cheerful.
Irritably, she moved through the partygoers, wondering why she felt like the one pickled onion in a tropical salad. Look at Pinkie Pie, swinging on the lights! Didn’t she ever worry about breaking something, or hitting someone? Plus, seeing ponies emptying the punch bowls and dancing on tables brought out her black depression like endless coffee. No one, she suspected, got that casually carefree without a lot of fretting, sprucing, and acting.
“What do you think!?” Lyra yelled over the beatbox.
“What!?” yelled Amethyst.
“Enjoying the party!?”
“No!”
“But it’s loud and bright and happening!”
“That’s my point!”
“What!?”
“What!? ”
Amethyst pointed; they slid into the kitchen. Beatbox music thumped the walls, but at least they could stop shouting. Straggler ponies walked past, looking for treats.
“You’re not enjoying any of it?” said Lyra.
“Pretty narrow idea of enjoyment.” Amethyst paced up and down. She felt too energized, as though someone had dumped a load of radioactive heat inside her and locked it in.
“Oh no, there’s loads of ways to enjoy yourself. You mean not one of them’s come to you?”
“What do you mean? You’re either happy, or you’re not. I need a drink.”
“Berry’s punch is over there –”
“Yeah, no. Orange juice, please.”
“But the punch had barely been spiked –”
“Orange juice, if you please. ”
One glass dutifully appeared. Amethyst wasted no time gulping it down.
“You know, Misery-guts,” said Lyra, smiling, “you keep pretending there’s only one form of happiness, but we both –” she winked “– know better. Don’t we?”
Refreshed once more despite herself, Amethyst placed the glass carefully in the sink. “Sorry?”
“That theory you had, way back. You know, how there’s basically six emotions? Anger, disgust, fear, happiness, sadness, and surprise. You got it from that book?”
“You called it baloney.”
“It is baloney! Just one happiness against five bad emotions?”
“Surprise is neutral.”
“My good mare, I call baloney! There’s all kinds of good emotions. Excitement, indulgence, contentment, that rush you get after eating cake…”
Amethyst sank where she stood. Only loyalty and a failure to think of anything better kept her listening. Already, she heard the debate rumbling on the horizon, under that blasted music.
What a birthday, she thought miserably. My own birthday, too. Sheesh.
The worst part was that she’d had to organize the party herself. Her presumption that no one else would schedule it turned out to be true… except in Pinkie Pie’s case, hence the mad chaos steamrollering over her own plan.
“Heck no,” she said when Lyra finished rambling. “You’ll find the bad stuff outnumbers the good easily. Taxes, politics, diseases, annoying neighbours, stress, work… You know what they say about happy families and unhappy ones. Plus, there’s a very long list of mental disorders.”
“Phooey,” said Lyra, beaming. “You only focus on problems. I focus on solutions .”
“That again? Laughter isn’t the best medicine. I’m sure doctors would have noticed.”
Despite the shaking in her legs, Amethyst turned and walked towards the door, towards that overloud, overcrowded sinkhole. It was her party. She had to be there. Duty demanded it. If she wasn’t, well, what would they think? In her heart, she trembled. What would they say if she ditched them?
So when Lyra grabbed her foreleg and pulled her towards the backdoor to the garden, she squirmed.
“Lyra, what are you doing!? I’m supposed to be the host!”
Yet they stepped outside. She made no effort to get back in; Lyra slammed the door.
Cool breeze.
Butterflies zipping past.
Trees ablaze with autumn.
Green hills and boundless skies.
“But what about –?”
“I’ll talk to them, they’ll understand,” said Lyra. “Just savour it. Enjoy it. I know you. Everyone’s got a type of happiness that fits them best. I work out the who and the what.”
“You do?”
“Well, it’s like music. Different genres, doing different things. But it’s all a kind of art, right?”
Silence. Not even a hint of the party out here. Only peace.
Amethyst sighed. “Something’ll go wrong. It always does, right?”
Her defeat disappeared into nothing. No chance against the garden, or the quiet town, or the lovely greenery. Amethyst wouldn’t admit she was happy. She wouldn’t let go of what she knew: that life waited for the party to end. It wouldn’t be stopped by one kind gesture.
Yet they stood outside a long time. Lyra never once let her go. And Amethyst felt less like a pickled onion.
