Royal Blue

by Lunafilly

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life
Length: 843

They told me I could succeed, that I could be whatever I wanted to be. They told me that I'd always have her friends. Then one day, they told me the truth: some ponies never get their cutie marks. And those ponies have only one real option.

They told me I could succeed, that I could be whatever I wanted to be. They told me that I'd always have her friends. Then one day, they told me the truth: some ponies never get their cutie marks. And those ponies have only one real option. The Royal Guard. This is my story, it's my life. And now that I have someone to tell, you better listen up.

Your confidant, Scootaloo.

Cover picture courtesy of anonymousfemalebrony, an excellent artist.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-07-27 21:38:45 UTC

Pretty Brochure

They always told me to wait, and it would come. To just be patient. And I tried, I did. But they were wrong. Applebloom, Sweetiebelle, Babs, they’ve succeeded, moved on. I’m grown up now, and there are no more crusaders. Just me. And I have to take the last option left. I pick up the brochure, the one sitting on my table I promised myself I would never touch: “Are YOU a candidate for the Royal Guard?”, it says, in big gold letters. There’s a picture of one of the identical guards on the front. I flip through it, reading about how ponies without cutie marks still have “potential”. They target the blank-flank adults, because they aren’t afraid of lacking an identity: They have already learned to live without one. I skip to the end, and it tells me to submit my application and my written test, and then show up in Canterlot for a practical test and physical exam. I can probably clear it. I’ll never be the fastest flyer in Equestria, but I’m no wreck. And there can’t be that many candidates. Not many ponies end up like me, it’s a rare condition. And no sane pony with a cutie mark that guarantees them a job would do it. There’s the occasional pony with a useless talent who joins up, but that too is rare. Those can still find some menial job, but no cutie mark and no resume is a recipe for rejection. When you’re fresh out of school, looking for prospects, it doesn’t help that you’re not that good at anything. Me, I’m a farmhoof at Sweet Apple Acres, but if I wasn’t friends with Applebloom, I wouldn’t be. The pay’s chicken feed (oh, ha ha), but I do get a couple days off. This is one of those. And September 1st, I’m probably hopping the next train to Canterlot. But first, I guess I better try to pass the written test. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch. (The sad thing is, even I do it.) I tear the exam out of the back of the brochure, and go back in my house (shack on the edge of Ponyville) to work on it. Maybe I can finally do something with myself. Even if it’s a job nopony else will do. Except for me. Scootaloo, Royal Guard. I like it better than “Scootaloo, Useless Loser”. It’s not what I wanted to do, but who cares what I want? Nopony. So let’s see, because I’ve got nothing to lose. The first few questions are easy. Basic survey-type things, where I live and what I do, what my race is. They get a bit harder, theoretical scenarios and that kind of stuff. I hesitate. Is this really what I want? I have no other options. I start writing my application. After I finish, I shove the whole thing into an envelope, then realize I don’t have stamps. Yup, better head to the post office. I walk through Ponyville, over to the post office. Pinkie waves hello, just like always. When I get to the door, I see Derpy Hooves watching her daughter put something in the mail. An application. Addressed to the Royal Guard. I try not to think too much, and ask to buy some stamps. Derpy hands me a sheet of airship stamps, and I put a few bits into her outstretched hoof. I put the stamp on and mail the test, and the application. I might have just saved my life, or ruined it forever. I’m not sure which yet. But I can’t be chicken about it (okay, this joke  has run its course now). I'm a nothing. Maybe this'll make me a something, reinvent my life so it's not so useless. Reinvent me, so I can be a contributing member to a society, instead of a low-paid farmhoof hired on a friendship.

Railroad Track

Oh Celestia, it's been a week since I submitted? I check the dates in the back of the brochure, and start packing my bags. For some background here, I got my acceptance letter (via pegasus) two days ago. For the first time in a long time, I was actually pretty excited. I still am, even though the feeling should have soured by now. But I buy last-minute tickets for the Friendship Express, and I'm gone. My body, and my life, going down a railroad track to a place of last resort. It might go to good places, it might go straight down to Tartarus. But my life has gone to the dogs anyway (no three-headed ones yet). So I drag my bags into my royal guard-run hotel. I unlock my room, and step inside, and it's pretty much empty. There's just a bed, actually. But I guess it's a one-night stay. Either you move on to the barracks, or you move out and go back home. It's only two though, and the test is at three. So I crawl into the scratchy blankets and sleep. I'll need all my strength.