Megan Shears Fluffle Puff
Megan Shears Fluffle Puff
by D. G. D. Davidson
At high noon on a sweltering day in mid-August, the Warrior-Protectress rode into Ponyville on the back of Lyra Heartstrings.
Ponies ran inside and locked their doors. Lyra noticed, but it stung only a little; she was simply too pleased with being the chosen companion of Equestria’s famous guardian to have her feelings hurt by ponies who found that guardian frightening.
The guardian’s name was Megan, and only a year had passed since Princess Celestia, overwhelmed by an onslaught of giant cockatrices, had given the order to awaken her from her tomb. Princess Luna had been fighting a giant marshmallow pony in Manehatten at the time, so Celestia had overstepped her authority by directly contacting the reclusive wraith ponies and ordering them to bring Luna’s copy of the dreaded Equinomicon of Abdul Alhorsred, the mad Arabian, into Canterlot’s labyrinthine caverns. There, in the deeps, Celestia had performed the arcane and gruesome spells necessary to awaken Megan from her slumber.
Megan! The very name sent a shiver down Lyra’s spine. Here was the brave heroine who, before the Fall, had battled witches and monsters on behalf of the ponies of the Valley of Dreams. After Megan had become immortal from prolonged exposure to the Rainbow Amulet, those ancient ponies of Paradise had placed her in a deep slumber and preserved her within a golden coffin. During the Exodus, Princess Platinum had ordered that coffin to be carried from the Valley of Dreams to the ponies’ new homeland.
In the Second Era, the ponies had cast the spells to awaken Megan, and she had guarded the fledgling civilization of Paradise Gardens, which had been but a dim reflection of the original Paradise. After a hundred years, she had returned to her slumber, but, in the Third Era, the ponies had awakened her again to drive off the monsters that threatened Old Ponyville. Thanks to Megan, the Third Era had been a golden age of peace and prosperity.
Now, in the Fourth Era, Megan was once again awake.
Megan went clad in her traditional garb: she wore a long duster macabrely cut from real cow skin, and on her feet were high boots of the same material. She kept a worn Stetson on her head with its brim pulled low over her eyes. Spurs adorned her feet to represent her knighthood. On her breast, her Sacred Heart glistened like a drop of blood: this was the Rainbow Amulet itself, and ponies used its shape to decorate their homes and public buildings, in Megan’s honor.
Lyra wore the tack of the Warrior’s companion, a leather saddle carved with intricate, curling patterns interspersed with images of rearing horses. She wore stirrups for Megan’s feet, and, as an emblem of her role, she submitted to the bit and bridle.
In addition to the Rainbow Amulet, Megan kept two weapons. The larger of the two, Lyra had the honor of carrying in a sheath on her saddle. The smaller, shinier one, Megan carried herself on her hip. To indicate their power and sanctity, Megan had named these weapons: the larger she called Betsy, and the smaller she called Mathilda, but the ponies simply knew them both as the Machines That Killed.
When Lyra passed by a café, Megan tugged on her reins to tell her to stop. Lyra halted, and Megan’s booted feet hit the ground with a loud thud and a small cloud of dust. Without a word, and with her spurs jingling as she walked, Megan pulled the brim of her hat a little lower over her eyes and pushed through the café’s swinging door.
Lyra loosened her bridle, pulled the bit out of her mouth, and followed. She could watch as long as she didn’t interfere with Megan’s work.
The café’s interior smelled like coffee, oats, and home-fried hay. The scent was cozy, but the heat and moisture from the kitchen made the room muggy. Several ponies sat at the various tables, but the room fell silent when Megan walked in, and all eyes watched her warily as she marched up to the short-order bar and leaned on it. Lyra found a seat in a corner near the door and hid her face behind a menu.
A pony in a grease-stained apron appeared behind the counter, looked at Megan, and swallowed with an audible gulp.
“Barkeep,” Megan rasped from somewhere under the wide brim of her hat, “bring me a jack.”
The waiter’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open, but he didn't speak. He quickly disappeared into the kitchen.
Megan had asked for applejack. Ponies preferred their cider as fresh as possible, but to keep it when apples were out of season, they added yeast and allowed it to ferment. Some barrels of fermented cider they selected to sit outside during the winter; on especially cold days, they removed the water ice from the barrels’ tops, causing the liquor to concentrate. Ponies only used applejack for medicine, for cooking, for potable liquid on airships, to sterilize water during long journeys into the wild, or when they had nothing else, but it was Megan’s preferred drink.
The waiter quickly returned with a tiny glass brimming with brown liquor. Megan took the glass in her fingers, and then she turned and faced the room.
“I’m looking for a pony,” she said. “She’s pink, and she’s real fuzzy. You know the one I mean?” She downed the applejack in one gulp and pointed a finger at an unlucky stallion perched over a plate of scrambled eggs at the bar’s end. “You there. Know any fuzzy, pink ponies?”
The stallion merely hunched lower and kept chewing. Megan eyed him for a moment before turning back to the waiter and saying, “Dammit, barkeep, I thought I ordered jack, so why I am standing here with an empty glass?”
The waiter scurried off again and returned with a large bottle. He refilled the glass. As he tried to step away, Megan seized the bottle by the neck, wrested it from his hooves, and took a long pull straight from its mouth. Then she walked toward the silent stallion and said, “I asked you a question, pardner. When a lady asks you a question, the polite thing to do is answer.” She took another swig. “And if you ain’t polite to ladies, ladies can get ornery. You wanna see me when I’m ornery?”
She slammed the bottle down on the bar. Her right hand slid to her gun belt and fondled Mathilda’s well-worn cherrywood grip.
Without looking at Megan, the stallion pushed his plate away and said, “Check, please.”
Megan grabbed him and, in spite of his greater size, easily spun him around and shoved him against the bar. “Leavin’ so fast?”
“I suddenly don’t like the atmosphere,” he answered.
The stallion had the misfortune to be wearing a collar and necktie, which Megan grabbed in her fist. “Pink. Fuzzy. Pony. I want her. Spill what you know, pal, or I start spillin’ somethin’ else.” She slid Mathilda halfway out of its sheath.
With a sneer, he glanced at the weapon and said so quietly that Lyra could barely hear it, “You think that because you protect the ponies in emergencies, you’re free to bully them on your off-days? Get lost, Warrior. We have the Element-Bearers, and we don’t need your kind in Ponyville.”
With a snarl, Megan shoved him off his stool, flattened him against the floor, and raised a fist. Lyra, unable to bear it any longer, threw her menu away, jumped to her hooves, and ran to Megan’s side, where she pleadingly planted a hoof on the crook of Megan’s elbow to stay her hand.
Megan looked into Lyra’s face for half a minute. Lyra almost quailed, but, by sheer will, stood her ground.
With a grunt of disgust, Megan straightened and headed for the door. She banged it open and stepped into the street. After an apologetic glance around the room, Lyra followed.
Outside, Lyra walked cautiously toward Megan, who leaned on a fence in the hot sunlight. With her back to Lyra, Megan rasped, “What’s the first rule?”
Lyra didn’t answer.
Megan slammed a hand down on the fence. “Tell me the first rule, dammit.”
“Don’t interfere with your work,” Lyra answered.
“That’s right. And what did you just do?”
“I stopped you from hurting somepony who wasn’t even—”
Megan slammed her hand on the fence again, and Lyra fell silent.
After a moment, her voice barely above a whisper, Lyra said, “I interfered with your work.”
“Damn right you did. Don’t do it again.” Megan turned around, lifted the brim of her hat for a moment, and mopped her forehead with a kerchief before pulling the hat down tight again. “Damn, it’s hot as hell out here. If your blasted pegasus ponies can control the weather, why don’t they—?”
“They don’t control the temperature.”
“Well, they should put up some clouds or something, then.” Megan stepped out into the street, hooked her thumbs in her belt, and looked around. “This is your hometown, huh?”
“Yes.”
Megan nodded. “Not bad. More my style than Canterlot, really. You’d think we’d end up here more often, seeing as how it’s close to the Everfree, but what with Princess Twilight in town, they apparently don’t need us here much.” Megan reached into the pocket of her duster and pulled out a creased piece of paper. “And that’s why this has me worried. If Princess Twilight has a problem she can’t handle with the Elements, it must be a really big deal.”
Lyra craned her neck to peer over Megan’s arm at the paper. “What exactly does she say?”
“I ain’t too good at interpreting telegrams,” Megan admitted, “but the gist of it is, there’s some pink, fuzzy pony in town who gets dangerously out of control when she’s in heat, and Twilight thinks I can solve the problem by putting a knife in her.”
Megan shrugged, tucked the paper back into her pocket, and patted Mathilda. “I prefer less messy methods, but I ain’t here to ask questions. I’m here for just one thing.” She pulled the brim of her hat even lower. “I’m here to kick ass.”
Lyra frowned. “What did those poor donkeys ever do to you?”
Megan scratched Lyra behind the ears. “Never change, Lyra. Let’s go find this pink pony, shall we?” She walked up the street, Lyra trotting alongside.
“You know,” Lyra said, “we probably could’ve found her by now if you’d asked politely.”
“Lyra,” said Megan, tucking her coat behind Mathilda’s grip, “there’s a wrong way and a right way to do things, and my way is the right way. Just remember that.”
“Okay, so why don’t we go ask Princess Twilight, then? She wanted us to come here, so she probably knows where the pink pony is.”
Megan shuddered. “I’d like to avoid princesses for a while. There’s only so much of them I can take.”
“But—”
“Hush. We didn’t need a princess last week when we fought off that army of rock monsters, and we don’t need a princess now. We’ll find this pink pony on our own if we just use a little persuasion.” Megan cracked her knuckles.
Lyra rolled her eyes, walked to a house, and tapped on the door. The door opened a crack and a frightened pegasus peeked out.
“Hi, Sassaflash,” said Lyra.
“Oh, hi,” said Sassaflash with a note of relief in her voice. She opened the door a little wider, but, apparently seeing Megan, quivered and shrank back. “Um . . . did you need something?” She swallowed audibly and glanced over Lyra’s shoulder.
“Not much,” Lyra replied. “We’re just looking for a pink pony who’s really, really fuzzy. Do you know her?”
Sassaflash glanced again at Megan and said, “Try Sugarcube Corner,” before she shut the door.
Lyra turned and beamed at Megan. “You see?”
“You take all the fun out of this,” Megan replied.
“Sometimes it’s more fun to be nice.” Humming to herself, Lyra walked to Megan, nudged her with a shoulder, and said, “You getting on? I know exactly where Sugarcube Corner is.”
“Put your bit back in,” Megan answered as she swung a leg over Lyra’s back.
As they traveled, Lyra glanced over her shoulder to see Megan pull a slip of paper and a pouch from her pocket. She poured the black, powdery contents of the pouch into the paper and assembled what she called a “cigarette.” Lyra wrinkled her nose in anticipation of the unpleasant scent. The pouch contained nothing but dried, crushed clove, since, as Megan has told Lyra, she couldn’t find the plant she preferred, but it still didn’t smell good when burnt.
Megan stuck the cigarette between her lips, pulled a match from her pocket, and lit the cigarette’s end. Then she threw the match away.
Lyra immediately halted and pulled out her bit. “Pick that up!” she cried.
“Keep walking,” Megan answered around the smoldering cigarette.
“Megan, we’ve talked about this before—”
“We did, and I forgave you. Keep walking.”
Lyra set her jaw, stuck her chin in the air, and stood her ground.
Megan tapped her fingers on Lyra’s shoulder for a moment before leaning low over her neck and holding the cigarette close to her face. “You see this? The end is on fire.”
Lyra could feel sweat break out on her forehead, but she closed her eyes and answered, “That might work on others, Megan, but not on me. You’re not gonna burn me with that.” She opened one eye to peek at the cigarette’s glowing tip.
With a sigh followed by many muttered curses, Megan climbed off Lyra’s back, found the match she’d thrown, stuck it in her pocket, and stomped up the street.
“You’re not going to ride?” Lyra called.
“My horse is being a nuisance!” Megan shouted back.
“But you’re going the wrong way!”
Megan stopped, turned, looked up at the sky, and slapped her hips with her hands. “Fine! Fine! Where is it? Where is this damn Sugarcube Corner of yours?”
“Right there.” Lyra pointed across the street to what looked like an enormous gingerbread house topped with a birthday cake.
Megan put her hands in her pockets and took a long pull on her clove cigarette. “Huh,” she said. “How’d I miss that? You wanna knock, or shall I?”
“It’s a business. It’s open. We can walk in.” Lyra trotted up to the front door and pushed it ajar after making sure Megan was following.
Sugarcube Corner smelled pleasantly of baking cookies. Lyra took a deep breath and gazed around at the shelves displaying muffins, cakes, taffies, and lollipops. It had been a long time since she’d set hoof in this shop. Her mind floated off to memories of the life she’d once led in Ponyville.
But the creak of the door and the stomp of Megan’s boots on the floorboards behind brought her out of her reverie. She remembered that she was on duty, and that this was strictly business. She smiled at Pinkie Pie, who bounced around behind the shop’s counter.
“Hiya, Lyra!” Pinkie squealed. “It’s been forever and ever! We didn’t even get to see you for your last birthday party, and we had to throw you a big party in a cinch ya. Twilight taught me that! It means—”
“That must be her,” rasped Megan. “It’s time to cut that bitch.” She stepped past Lyra, threw open her coat, and pulled her Ka-Bar knife from its hidden sheath.
Pinkie let out a loud gasp ending in a squeak. She jumped into the air, spun around, and shot like a pink streak through the swinging doors of the kitchen.
“Damn!” shouted Megan. “She’s runnin’!” She dropped the knife and pulled out her gun.
Lyra tackled her and knocked her down. Mathilda went off with a deafening boom, shattering the glass front of the shop’s display counter.
With enormous strength, Megan kicked Lyra in the gut with both feet, sending her through the air. She crashed into a set of shelves and collapsed to the floor. A rain of falling candies and baked goods immediately inundated her.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Megan shouted. “Didn’t you see the orders from Princess Twilight? Now we gotta chase that damn—”
“That was Pinkie Pie!” Lyra screamed as she lifted her head out of the pile of confections. “She’s my friend, and she wouldn’t hurt anypony!”
“She was pink and she was fuzzy!” Megan screamed back.
“Half the ponies in Equestria are pink and fuzzy!”
“How the hell is that my fault?” Megan pulled the telegram from her pocket. “I’m just following—”
An explosion of white light, accompanied by a crack of thunder, appeared in the air behind Megan. Lyra squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, but when she opened them again, she saw Princess Twilight Sparkle, her horn glistening with magic, standing in the middle of the room. Twilight shouted, “What in Celestia’s name is going on in here?”
Pinkie peeked out of the kitchen. “Oh, hi, Twilight! We’re havin’ a break-everything-in-the-shop party! You wanna join?” With a grin, Pinkie ripped one of the kitchen doors free of its hinges.
Twilight shook her head and turned to Megan. “Megan! Honestly! Several ponies came to my library to complain that you’ve been threatening ponies, drinking applejack, and even littering—”
Megan found her cigarette on the floor, put it in her mouth, and climbed to her feet. “I was doing my job.” She threw the crumpled telegram in Twilight’s face.
Twilight scowled and demanded through clenched teeth, “What does smashing up Sugarcube Corner have to do with your job?”
“You told me there’s a pink, fuzzy pony here who gets dangerously out of control when she’s in heat!” Megan snarled. “You told me you wanted me to knife her! I followed your orders!”
With a groan, Twilight slapped a hoof against her face, but then she started to chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” Megan demanded.
“Megan,” said Twilight, “I said in my telegram that I have a pink pony who’s too fuzzy. It’s dangerous in this out-of-control heat. I wanted you to cut some of her hair off with a knife.” Twilight pointed a hoof at Megan’s hands. “I figured you’d be good at it, since you have thumbs.”
Megan pulled off her hat, scratched her head, and looked at Lyra.
Lyra, still half-buried in Sugarcube Corner’s ruined products, shrugged.
“Well,” said Megan as she slapped her hat back down on her head, “I really ain’t too good at reading telegrams.”
“In the old days,” Megan muttered from under her hat brim, “they used to say you shouldn’t try shearing a sheep unless you could bench-press at least a hundred and twenty. Course, thanks to that damn Rainbow of Light, I bench-press nine hundred and fifty, or at least that’s what I stopped at before I got bored.”
Fluffle Puff, a pink earth pony with a vapid expression and thick, long fur that made her look like a giant cotton ball, sat on her haunches and leaned back against Megan’s legs as Megan bent over her with a set of electric shears and removed the fur from her breastbone. Megan had decided that a knife wasn’t the best tool for the job, so she had asked if any farms in the area might have the proper equipment. Twilight and Lyra had taken her and Fluffle Puff to Sweet Apple Acres.
Lyra sat with Applejack and Twilight in the shade of an apple tree and drank from a tankard of cider while she watched Megan work. The shears filled the air with a steady buzz. Megan, efficient and businesslike, placed her left hand over Fluffle Puff’s teats to protect them while she sheared the fur off the inside of her hind legs.
Fluffle Puff, apparently oblivious, blew a raspberry.
“Should bring ’er down to help with the sheep,” Applejack said. “She’s mighty skilled.”
“She used to work on a farm,” said Lyra as she sipped her drink. “I dreaded coming to Ponyville, but . . . well, I think working with her hands like this helps calm her down. Maybe it reminds her of her old life. Maybe she should come help with your sheep.”
“I was thinking something like that when I sent the telegram,” said Twilight with a sigh. “I thought maybe it would be a good break for you two. I’m sorry about the mix-up.”
“It turned out all right in the end,” said Lyra. She gazed toward Megan, but her eyes became unfocused as images from the past year drifted through her mind. Shaking her head to bring herself out of the reverie, she said to Twilight, “How are you doing these days, now that you’re a princess?”
Twilight chuckled and offered a small smile. “It’s taken some getting used to. Spike keeps me from losing my head.” She waved a hoof toward Megan and Fluffle Puff. “And having that big, furry bundle of energy around keeps me from losing my humor.” She put a hoof to Lyra’s shoulder. “But how are you doing? You know you don’t have to be the companion if you don’t want to.”
“I want to,” Lyra said. “She needs somepony to look after her, and I don’t want anypony else to do it.”
She took a long, deep drink from her tankard while Applejack and Twilight watched her in silence.
After she lowered her cup, she added, “I talked to Princess Celestia about it, and we looked up some ancient records. Her mind used to be sharper in the old days, I think. Her body rebuilds itself whenever she gets hurt, and she doesn’t age, but, well, I don’t think living for thousands and thousands of years has been good for her mind. She hurts. But she’ll listen to me, even if we fight sometimes.”
Lyra pushed her empty cup away and swiftly wiped a tear from one eye. “Maybe, whenever we finally put her down, it might be best if nopony woke her up again. She needs the rest.”
“Ain’t right,” said Applejack, taking a long pull from her own cider and staring at Megan. “Ain’t right for folks to have to go on that way. Everypony needs an end to things.”
Twilight’s mouth shrank into a thin line, and her eyebrows knit together. She opened one of her wings, folded it forward, and ran a hoof across its primary feathers. “She’ll go sooner or later, somehow,” Twilight said. “She’s just taking longer than most.”
When Megan finished, an enormous pile of pink fur sat in front of the house at Sweet Apple Acres, and Fluffle Puff looked surprisingly thin and bony.
After brief farewells, Lyra, carrying Megan, began the long walk to Canterlot. It was a rough hike, especially with such a weight on her back, but Megan didn’t trust the trains, and Lyra, in spite of the physical difficulty, liked it when Megan rode. The day was coming to a close, and the winding trail bent west, though it would eventually curve to the northeast and take the pair up the slopes of Mount Eohippus to the cliffs where Canterlot perched, but, for now, Lyra and Megan rode toward the setting sun.
“Can’t believe that took it out of me like that,” Megan murmured. “Used to shear sheep all day as a kid, and I wasn’t even strong like now.”
Lyra could feel Megan’s weight shifting in the saddle.
“Damn, but I’m tired,” said Megan. “Never get a damn moment to myself on this job. Go here, go there, fight this, kill that. Never get a bit of peace. Even the tomb ain’t peaceful. They put me down, and the next think I know, somebody’s wakin’ me back up. No chance in between to take a breather. None at all.”
Lyra took the bit from her mouth. “Maybe we need a vacation,” she said.
Megan grunted.
“I could take you somewhere nice and relaxing,” said Lyra. “Neighagra Falls, maybe. Or we could see the Sparkling Sea.”
“Maybe . . .”
She could feel Megan leaning forward, slumping, perhaps fighting sleep.
“When we get home,” said Lyra, “I’ll pull your boots off.”
“Mm hm.”
“Then I’ll draw your bath and lay out your PJs, and you can sleep as long as you want. Nopony’s going to wake you up in the morning. You can just get up whenever you want to.”
“Sure, sure.” Megan’s voice faded to an almost inaudible mumble.
Lyra glanced over her shoulder to see the top of Megan’s hat. Asleep, Megan had fallen forward with her face almost on Lyra’s neck.
Lyra smiled to herself, put her bit back in, and reduced her pace to a slow, steady walk. She carefully avoided rough spots in the trail. It would be a long, long time before she reached Canterlot, but she didn’t want to interrupt when Megan was taking a moment to rest.
