The Saga of Slate

by Slate Sadpony

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, Sad
Length: 31753

A peculiarly unsocial pony finds himself friends with the Mane Six, and slowly learns that there's more to life than himself.

Slate is a pony who finds himself alone. Due to his rather peculiar mental state, he is unable to understand those around him, much less develop worthwhile relationships. Nonetheless, when he finds himself in Ponyville, the Mane Six refuse to let him continue being lonely - knowing that it is not only destructive to him, but to those around him as well. But when he tries to repay their kindness with his own unique form of saying thanks, he ends up being a bigger problem than they know how to solve - at first…

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-08-24 18:20:03 UTC

Chapter 1: Mundane Modernity

    “So did you finish analyzing that trademark application from Turnip Seed Holdings yet?”

    Slate grumbled at the voice of his boss. Of course he’d finished the application. In full, on time, and correct. He always did. And yet, Comma Dash was going to bother him about it, rather than checking his inbox for it.

    “Yes, it’s in your box,” said Slate, not even bothering to look up from his desk. He hated Comma Dash almost as much as he hated his job. While there was a certain satisfaction in examining the various patent, trademark and copyright applications that flowed to his desk, and an intellectual challenge in determining if something was truly unique or merely derivative, the challenge was invariably subsumed by politics. He was constantly being overruled in order to favor some well-connected pony, or asked to “massage” some of the numbers or marks in order to expedite the process. When he refused, he was invariably criticized for being a “career bureaucrat” who “drowned new ideas in red tape.” This, and worse, from co-workers who had never gone to Engineering School, and yet were being allowed to rule on the inventiveness of new train engines or appliance designs.

    It didn’t help that he was an earth pony - and a fat, clumsy, drab-colored one at that - in a career dominated by unicorns. While he had to carefully hold his pencils in his teeth, they effortlessly manipulated quills using their magic. While he had gray fur, a black mane and dark green eyes, his co-workers were all the colors of the rainbow. It was like being a moth in a flock of butterflies - even though he did exactly what they did, and just as well, his different-ness meant that he was derided and excluded. Why else would he process more applications than the next two most productive evaluators in his office, and yet be denied promotions and bonuses for five years straight?

    “Slate, get in here,” said Comma Dash, the slim, tall unicorn using his magic to point his quill at Slate accusingly. “I’ve got a special request for you.”

    “Pilkunnussija,” grumbled Slate, using one of the few words he remembered from his Northern Languages class in college. Comma Dash was always giving Slate “special requests,” generally instances where Slate did Comma’s work for him. What would it be today? Reading papers Comma was supposed to be evaluating? Or maybe it would be expediting the applications of some new product or company that Comma was investing in? Slate’s sole comfort in this job was that, in all likelihood, he would one day have the opportunity to testify in court against his boss.

    Slate went into Comma’s office, slamming the door behind him. He winced as it shut, realizing only too late that he’d kicked it a bit harder than necessary, the resulting impact making the numerous framed diplomas (all from diploma mills and correspondence courses, of course) that hung from Comma’s walls. Comma scowled at slate, who of course scowled back. “We’ll talk about your attitude later,” said Comma. “But for now, I need you to take the 8 AM train to Ponyville for an on-site trademark evaluation.”

    “Ponyville?” said Slate, startled. Ponyville was a small, relatively remote hamlet, a full day’s train ride from Fillydelphia, where the Pony Mark Registration Office was located. It was also not exactly a hotbed of scientific and intellectual achievement - indeed; it didn’t even have a college or a major business headquarters. Slate wouldn’t even know about it at all, but for the fact that it was a stop on the route to Canterlot, the wellspring of all paperwork in the Equestrian bureaucracy. “Why Ponyville?”

    “It appears a local bakery there has hit on a fascinating new style of cake, called the ‘Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness’, which they wish to have trademarked,” said Comma. “As you might imagine, transporting baked goods such a long distance is difficult at best, especially when issues of staleness need to be considered. Apparently the prototype was destroyed when they attempted to enter it in the National Dessert Competition last year and they’ve put in a special request to have us come to them instead of vice-versa. Normally I wouldn’t honor such a request, but Princess Twilight insisted.” Slate huffed. Princess Twilight? The young upstart had come from nowhere about a year ago, and now she was part of the Equestrian Royal Family. To Slate, she symbolized, more than any other pony, the inherent unfairness of life.

    “Okay, fine,” said Slate. This was good news, really. Most of his co-workers hated being pulled away from friends and family for days or weeks at a time on such assignments, but Slate, having none of either, enjoyed the opportunity to get away from his hated co-workers and bosses. Maybe he could even find a few excuses to stay late, and get some reading done. Ponyville had a library, he knew, and if it was as disused as libraries in such remote towns tended to be, he might find a quiet place to sit down and finish Charger the Brave and the Red Nails.

    “You’ll need to pay for your own ticket and seek reimbursement on your return,” said Comma, grinning slightly. Slate withheld his anger. This unnecessary pay-first-and-reimburse-later policy might make sense in terms of the monthly budget, but it was a hassle to employees and generally waived. Waived for everyone but Slate, of course. From where he stood, it was as if Comma took pride in the fact that he could pick on Slate with impunity, keeping the stallion’s rage boiling without simmering over into violence. Slate knew he was being toyed with, but felt helpless - Fillydelphia, despite its sprawling population, was not exactly an economic powerhouse, and Slate, due to his absence of wings or magic, was hardly qualified for most jobs not involving farm work or manual labor. Comma had Slate over a barrel, and like a cat toying with a doomed mouse, he took perverse pleasure in seeing how long he could string Slate along before the game finally ended.

    “Fine. I’ll stop by the station on the way home and get the necessary tickets and papers,” said Slate. “I won’t be reporting for work for the next few days, but I’ll have reports mailed to you as usual.” Considering most of his reports were placed in the “round file” and subsequently sent, unread, to the recycling center, he knew he could probably get away with not filing them. But still. It would prevent Comma from accusing Slate of laziness, which was a regular problem.

    “Good. And try to improve that attitude of yours,” said Comma. Slate cursed under his breath and made his way out of the office, closing the door much more gently this time. It would be easier to improve his attitude if Comma and the other ponies quit giving him such a hard time. But it was easier for them to put the blame on his bad attitude rather than their bad behavior. And so they did.

***

    “So did you catch the game last night, Blank Slate?” said Chalkboard. Chalkboard was one of the few Earth Ponies employed alongside Slate, and for this reason alone, he had decided that he was Slate’s friend. Hence the unwelcome nickname “Blank,” referring to the fact that his slate-board cutie mark had nothing written on it, and also the term “blank slate,” implying that he was either full of possibilities, or full of nothing. It was a nickname that everyone thought they had invented, but that had in fact plagued him since elementary school.

    “You know that I’m not into sports,” said Slate, not even turning around at his seat. What was it with ponies and coming into his cubicle to make small talk? Did he need to put up a “GO AWAY” sign or something?

    “Oh, right. Well, what did you do last night?” said Chalkboard. “After the game, I went home with this sweet mare...” As Chalkboard continued to talk, Slate continued to ignore him, trying desperately to get ahead in his work so he wouldn’t find his desk drowning in applications whenever he got back from Ponyville. Chalkboard’s persistent friendliness, and apparently blindness to the fact that Slate wanted to be left alone, was maddening. He knew other ponies found Chalkboard endearing - a cheerful, friendly, helpful creature who never said a bad word about anypony. But to Slate, he was just another annoyance in a day full of them. Why couldn’t they understand that he just wished to be left alone to do his job? He didn’t want to go to the office holiday party, he didn’t want to celebrate his birthday, he didn’t want to make friends - he just wanted to work and get paid, and didn’t understand why everypony else seemed to be different. Or rather, really, why he was so much different from everypony he’d ever met.

    As he continued to dive through the applications, Chalkboard droning on in the background like he hadn’t noticed Slate was ignoring him, the issue of his different-ness drifted repeatedly to the forefront of his mind. He didn’t think like other ponies. He didn’t feel like other ponies. In a world of brightness and color, he was drab and gray. In a world of friendship and magic, he was just a horse - and a horse who couldn’t get along with anyone at that. Whether it was his tendency to blurt out the truth (accidentally revealing his prior boss’s marital infidelities had been the whole reason he ended up where he was in the first place) or to not realize he was hurting someone else’s feelings (he considered a “successful” date to be one which did not end in crying) he just couldn’t get along. He couldn’t even remember and identify faces reliably - were it not for cutie marks, he’d never even be able to tell who he was talking to. The rush of bad memories and terrible experiences sideswiped him despite his attempts to concentrate, and he suddenly found himself very depressed.

    “Are you okay?” said Chalkboard, the stallion setting down his coffee. Slate buried his face in his hooves, trying his best to hide from Chalkboard. He knew he was going to cry, and that his other co-workers would no doubt mock him for it. Little colts cried. Proud fathers cried. Slate was not supposed to cry. Even though he had so much to cry about.

    “Yeah, I’ve just got a bit of a headache,” said Slate. “I’ve got this assignment in Ponyville starting tomorrow, and I’m just really overworked, trying to get everything in before I grab the train tomorrow.” Slate could feel tears on his cheeks, but with his voice kept carefully level and his eyes buried in the crook of his front leg, they would be invisible for now.

    “I’ll go get you some aspirin,” said Chalkboard, who slowly trotted off to the employee lounge.

    “Thanks,” said Slate, quickly wiping his eyes clean once he knew Chalkboard was out of sight. If pressed, he would call Chalkboard a “friend,” although he knew that Chalkboard treated him no differently than anyone else - indeed, that was the biggest reason Slate considered him to be more than just “somepony I know.” But still, Slate couldn’t bring himself to trust the stallion. He couldn’t admit to Chalkboard how lonely he felt, or how hard it was for him to come home to a dark, empty apartment every evening. He knew that such revelations would frighten, disturb, depress or otherwise drive away Chalkboard, just as they had so many other ponies in his life. That did not mean he didn’t desperately want to talk about them, though.

    “Here’s that aspirin,” said Chalkboard, presenting it to slate with a smile and a glass of water. Slate put on his best attempt at a plastic grin and downed them both in an instant. “So do you need any help or anything?” Slate shook his head, looking over his shoulder at the papers on his desk. The less he made eye contact, the less awkward and terrifying a conversation was.

    “Nah, I think I should be good,” said Slate. “I’ve got enough finished to hit quota for the week, the only problem will be if I’m not back by next Monday.”

    “Jeez, it’s only Tuesday, and you already hit quota?” said Chalkboard, chuckling and leaning on the side of Slate’s cubicle. “I rarely manage to make it before noon on Friday - and even then I usually have to scramble in a few things before Friday.”

    “You could be done by Monday most weeks if you didn’t spend all your time hauling that coffee cup around and making small talk,” thought Slate. He bit his lip, the best way he knew to keep from blurting out such true-but-unwelcome information.

    “So how come you haven’t been promoted yet, huh?” said Chalkboard, retrieving his coffee cup and backing up back towards the hallway.

    “Because Comma hates me, you know that,” said Slate. He felt cornered now, forced to talk about things he’d rather not.

    “He’s not as bad as you seem to think,” said Chalkboard. “I mean, he’s a bit rough around the edges, but I don’t get why you and him don’t get along. It’s probably just to do with that attitude problem of yours. I bet if you smiled more - “

    “It’s because I know he’s embezzling,” said Slate. Instantly he cursed himself for admitting such a thing aloud. Chalkboard blanched, his coffee cup tumbling onto the carpet.

    “Slate, don’t even joke about things like that!” said Chalkboard, hurrying to avail himself of Slate’s paper towels and clean up the spilled coffee before it made a stain.

    “Chalk, even you know he’s doing it,” said Slate, now indignant. He’d let the genie out of the bottle, and now he might as well go with it. “Everypony here does. They’re just afraid to do anything about it, because he’d fire anyone who tried.” Chalkboard was getting increasingly frightened, and as difficult as it usually was for Slate to figure out what somepony else was feeling, even he could tell that lines had been crossed.

    “Well, look at the time, it’s almost five,” said Chalkboard, his nervousness now so blatant even Slate could see it. “Guess I should go make sure everything’s ready before I head out.”

    “Yeah, I’ll see you when I see you,” said Slate, turning around. He hated himself for saying such things. But they were true, dammit. Why did telling the truth always turn everyone against him? Everyone praised the value of truth and honesty, but nobody actually wanted it in their lives. “I’m going to stay late a bit, try and get a few more applications done before I leave.”

***

    Slate slowly turned the key in his apartment door, hesitating as he did so. As much as he hated being out in the world all day, he dreaded coming home. He had no angry wife or disagreeable pets to deal with, but he had something that was, to him, much worse - nothing. Or rather, not just that there was nothing in his apartment, but that he could painfully feel the absence of things it felt like everypony else had. Every other pony had something to come home to, but what did he have? A sofa, a record player, and a perennially empty fridge. This was the biggest reason he worked late, even on Friday - he feared the rush of sadness that fell on him every time he closed his door.

    Nonetheless, he walked into his apartment and locked the door behind him, moving first one, then two, then three bolts into place. While he was certainly in the low-rent district, one could hardly call his neighborhood “unsafe” - indeed, other than regular bouts of vandalism from young fillies and colts who had too little to do, crime was almost unheard of in his area. But still, he needed to keep ponies out. Loneliness had its own dark comforts, and the thought of others seeing his pain and laughing at him for it, as they had done when he was a colt, was worse than the agony of being absolutely alone.

    Desperate to break the silence, Slate quickly moved over to his record player, deftly flipping a record onto the spindle. His collection was modest and eclectic - an assortment of albums he’d obtained over the years, neatly organized and kept in good condition despite their heavy play. Soon his small apartment was filled with the voices and tones of singing ponies, and though their music was unerringly sorrowful (Slate couldn’t stand happy songs - they always seemed so disingenuous to him) and, despite the poor lighting, it felt less empty and alone. Not filled, to be sure, but lacking emptiness to the point where Slate could avoid obsessing over how empty it was.

    Continuing his efforts to distract himself, he went to the fridge, helping himself to a beer - one of the few things actually stocked in his otherwise surprisingly empty and unused fridge. Having no skill at cooking, he had simply gotten used to spending too much on eating out, and what with everyone always making a joke of his weight, he’d given up trying to eat less and bring home leftovers. There seemed no point to it anyway - when he starved himself and worked out, he was fat and miserable, and when he ate what he wanted, he was fat and miserable. Eating more had the advantage of being less work, and busy as he always was, less work was appealing.

    He looked at the clock. It was eight. That meant he had at least two hours to kill before he should make an effort to go to bed. If he went to bed now, he’d wake up at three or four in the morning, and find himself with nothing to do - at least, nothing he could do without waking up his upstairs neighbor, who would respond by incessantly pounding on the floor with her hooves until he quit. A light sleeper, she seemed to blame every noise she heard on Slate, and one time he came home to the sound of her pounding away like a jackhammer, even though he hadn’t been home for three days. What she thought she heard he’d never know, but if he wanted to avoid the obnoxious trampling, he’d need to find something to do for the next few hours.

    While deciding what to do, he made his way over to his coffee table and helped himself to a cigarette. Though he knew they were bad for him - indeed, deadly - he needed the focus they provided. It wasn’t easy operating a lighter with hooves, but years of practice had gotten him to where he could do it reliably, and once he got the first one lit, he could just light the next one with the butt anyway. He couldn’t smoke at work, of course, and he certainly missed the sensation for those nine to ten hours each day. But in the quiet privacy of his home, he was free to smoke like a chimney, the buzz and focus of the nicotine helping him to keep his mind off of the thoughts he was trying to avoid.

    Going over to his desk, he began searching around. His desk, and the shelves around them, were cluttered with model ships, trains, buildings and other objects he’d assembled and painted over the years. He told people it was his hobby, but really it was more of a way of keeping his hooves busy. Without magic to steady the brush and glue, his works always came out slightly off, with dabs of glue, material or paint seeming to appear in the wrong place even without his awareness of such mistakes. At first they had been maddening, but over time, he had learned to ignore them. Most of his models ultimately just went into the trash anyway, so who cared that one of the horses had eyes pointing in opposite directions, or that a train’s wheels weren’t perfectly straight? It wasn’t the finished product but the construction process that mattered, and during the process of creation, Slate’s mind could briefly relax. Other than this, all he had was books, and he wanted to save those for tomorrow’s train ride.

    Finding a model of the Cloudsdale Coliseum unopened; he tore into the packaging and got to work. Just by looking at the picture he already knew where everything went - the assembly was never the hard part for Slate, it was the painting that led him to failure and despair. His hooves and muzzle moving quickly, he glued and placed the pieces together at a rapid pace, barely giving the glue time to dry before new pieces were applied. Deep down he knew it was this impatience that resulted in his models appearing “off” at best, but if he slowed down, his mind would wander, and the results there were much worse than screwing up the construction of a model he had no interest in keeping anyway.

    By ten o’clock, he’d managed to get the model most of the way finished, and after the quick application of a few final strokes of paint, it was certainly “done” enough for him to quit working on it. Yes, the brush-strokes were still visible, and one of the columns was listing in a way that only a failure to properly shave and balance the plastic pieces could cause. But it didn’t matter - he’d made it to bedtime without letting his mind wander, and it had only cost him the price of the model, three bottles of beer, and yet another pack of cigarettes. And with nothing else to spend his money on, those were bits well spent.

    Momentarily satisfied, Slate moved towards the sofa, still smiling at his creation for a bit. It wasn’t even all that ugly - a bit childish, to be sure, but the smooth lines and high columns inherent in all Cloudsdale buildings were there. He could imagine seeing the pegusai racing around inside the hippodrome, just like he’d seen as a colt - from the ground, of course, but it was still an amazing thing to see. Such speed! Such power! Such grace! Nothing filled his heart with wonder and delight quite like the sight of a pegasus performing stunts of speed and agility.

    Slowly, however, his fond memories of seeing pegusai performing gave way to the real need for sleep. Slate dreaded sleep. Though he longed for the rest that it brought, he feared the nightmares that went with it. Invariably, even when he went to bed with the best thoughts on his mind, he’d find himself up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, terrified by some monster that he only just now realized wasn’t real. The dreams were always the same - he was a colt again, and something - or some pony - was out to get him, and invariably they succeeded, again and again, until he escaped by waking himself up. It was exhausting, and every morning he woke up feeling almost as tired as he had when he went to sleep. But staying up all night was even worse - he would invariably pass out at an inopportune moment and wake up to find himself screaming into the kitchen tiles, or worse, with a lit cigarette threatening to immolate his furniture. Better to hunker down and prepare, so that at least he could slide in and out of nightmares until sunrise.

    Every evening was a ritual, the comfort and structure of habit helping Slate to steel himself against what he was about to face. Teeth were brushed, hair was combed, sleeping pills were ingested, and the sheets on the sofa were carefully arranged just-so. The whole process was like the application of armor to slate - not intended to provide protection, but instead to try and reassure him and give him confidence. Nonetheless, he buried his face in a pillow, leaving only a small channel for him to breathe between the cushions of the sofa, and then stuffed his hooves between the cushions that remained. No need to risk waking the neighbors up again if he started screaming, or fell out of bed because he began to run in his sleep.

Chapter 2: Pinkie Problems

    Slate groaned, rubbing his hoof into his eye as he stumbled off the train. The ride had been surprisingly exhausting, and though he’d finished Red Nails (the best one yet in the series) he was still disoriented from the ride and the lack of sleep he’d gotten the night before. His nightmares had been particularly ferocious, and he woke up exhausted, the bags under his eyes so pronounced he could feel their presence. Nonetheless, there was work to be done, and the train ride was pleasantly uneventful. He just wished he could have taken a nap or two. But there was nothing doing, what with those hard seats and the steady bumping and swaying of the train on the tracks.

    Unpacking his saddlebags, he examined his local map, doing his best to figure out where, exactly, this “Sugar Cube Corner” was. Ponyville wasn’t exactly laid out on a grid - it could be more accurately described as a hub-and-spoke system, with numerous streets running to and from the town center. Convenient for carts, which wouldn’t need to turn around or back up in order to get anywhere, but maddening for a pedestrian unfamiliar with the streets. Still, he’d only need to get to Sugar Cube Corner, and then his hotel. Maybe he should just spring for a cab and be done with it.

    “Hey there! I’ve never seen you before!” Slate jumped, surprised by the sudden appearance of a voice in front of him. Generally he could hear ponies coming, and even when he couldn’t, they usually left him alone. He was taken aback by the sound, and it took him a moment to realize that the pony who had been speaking to him was directly in front - a bright pink thing with cotton-candy hair and an enormous smile. A mare, to be sure, and an earth pony, she was shorter and smaller than Slate, and the party balloon cutie mark was hard to miss. “I bet you’re new in town!”

    “That would be a sorry bet,” said Slate, vaguely annoyed. “Only a fool would take that - they can’t win.” Slate had never understood why ponies said they “bet” things were one way or another when it was clear how they were. Why not just say “I think” or “I believe that” instead?

    “So you ARE new in town!” said the earth pony. Slate considered just walking around her or pushing his way through, but there were ponies watching. Surely, if he shoved his way by, ponies would complain he was being rude, or worse, that he’d attacked her - similar incidents had happened before, especially when he was trying to shove his way through crowded hallways and streets. He wasn’t due at Sugar Cube corner for a few hours, and this mare would get bored with him, surely. “My name’s Pinkie Pie. What’s yours?”

    “Slate,” said Slate, bringing up the map to continue to study it. This usually worked, especially on the casually curious. Most ponies that bothered him were just bored, and once he proved uninteresting, he’d be left alone.

    “Are you looking for a place?” said Pinkie. Slate continued to ignore her. “I’m from Ponyville and I know every place in town! I bet I can totally show you exactly where you need to go! Like this one time, a donkey named Cranky came to town, and - “

    “Do you know where Sugar Cube corner is?” Best to end this now, lest he be pelted with chatter all morning.

    “Of course I know where it is!” said Pinkie. “I work there! But you wouldn’t know that, cuz you’re new in town! You know, at one point, I was new in town...” Pinkie continued to prattle, and while she was distracted, Slate stepped around her and began to make a break for the waiting taxi cabs. “Oh, hey! Let me show you the way!” Slate sighed, and resigned himself to following this hyperactive, spazzy thing. Maybe at least he’d spare some cab fare, and find a book store or library he could stop by later.

    Pinkie continued to prattle as they walked, going on about one thing and then another. Slate found it inane and boring to the extreme, but since he wasn’t being asked to join in the conversation, it was at least tolerable. Besides, Pinkie had a nice plot for him to stare at while they walked, and if she (or anyone else) was upset by his staring, they certainly didn’t say anything.

    “And that’s how I ended up working for Sugar Cube Corner, the bestest most deliciousest bakery in all of Equestria!” Slate looked up, surprised at the distinctive architecture of the building. It looked like a gingerbread house with a cupcake on top, although he could see clearly that it was the result of careful and highly talented woodworking and painting. It was rather whimsical, and reminded Slate more of something from an amusement park than some sort of formal business. But if the smells, and the visible smoke from a bakery oven, were any indication, then this was indeed a fully functional bakery. And his mouth was watering, even from the street. “So why do you need to go to Sugar Cube Corner anyway? Is it to try out our new Chimi-Cherry-Changa? I couldn’t decide whether to call it a Chimi-Cherry or a Cherry-Changa, so I decided to name it both!”

    “Tasty as that sounds,” and it certainly did, especially after the unpalatable “sandwich” he’d had on the train - more like two slabs of cardboard separated by pond scum - “I’m here to judge the authenticity, originality and trademarkability of the Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness. I’ve been sent by the Fillydelphia Ponymark Office, and I can’t accept or purchase anything in the shop until after I’ve completed my evaluation. Impartiality and all that.” Slate regretted mentioning such. He could probably get away with a cupcake or three, and he knew some of his compatriots usually accepted free meals and product samples as a matter of course, but it just felt wrong to him. Besides, he could always swing by for donuts in the morning.

    “Ohmygosh, I brought you all the way here from the train, and I totally forgot I was supposed to expect someone from the Ponymark Office!” said Pinkie. She bounced around wildly as she talked, filled with inexplicable energy. Slate found himself fascinated by the performance, although he couldn’t begin to pay attention to what all she was saying. “C’mon in!”

    Once inside, the smell was all the more overpowering. It was all Slate could do to resist digging in. High quality pastries were something he dearly loved but usually avoided both because ponies would make fun of him for eating them when he was already so fat, and because his love of them invariably led to overindulgence, which made even the sweetest treat unpalatable.

    “Are you the representative from the Ponymark Office?” said a bright-blue earth pony with a pink mane that reminded Slate of an ice-cream cone.

    “Of course he is!” said Pinkie.

    “I can speak for myself,” said Slate, irritated. Pinkie was beginning to get on his nerves. She was like a clown that didn’t know how or when to stop performing. “My name is Slate,” said Slate. “I presume you are Ms. Cake?”

    “Yes I am,” said Ms. Cake. She had a charming accent, and she, at least, seemed to be calm, cool and collected. “My husband is upstairs with the foals. We weren’t expecting you until after noon.” Foals? In a bakery? Hopefully they were diligent when it came to cleaning, and also making sure that no foals were about when oven doors were being closed.

    “That’s fine. If you’re not set up, I could come back in a few hours.” Silently, he hoped they would opt for this. The smell of baked goods all around was making him very hungry, and if he didn’t stuff something into his mouth before evaluating the Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness, it was going to be hard to contain himself.

    “Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Ms. Cake. She turned to Pinkie and smiled. “Pinkie dear, would you mind heading up stairs and helping out with the foals?” Pinkie suddenly stood to attention and saluted.

    “It would be an honor to foal-sit for you, Mr. Cake!” said Pinkie, dashing up the stairs with a clatter of hooves.

    “Is she always so...Random?” said Slate. Ms. Cake smiled a bit, apparently trying to apologize for how strange her employee was.

    “Oh, I know she takes a little getting used to, but she really is an excellent baker,” said Ms. Cake. “And she’s good with the kids, and excellent at throwing parties - which of course means lots of catering for us.” Slate nodded. He couldn’t put up with such a pony, but this wasn’t his bakery.

***

    “Shouldn’t you be upstairs watching the Cake Twins?” said Slate, leaning up against the counter as he continued to idly take notes on his clip board.

    “They’re sleeping right now and I don’t want to wake them up,” said Pinkie as she twisted, twirled and mixed yet another batch of cake batter. “Besides, it takes no less than three sets of hooves to make the Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness! Isn’t that right, Mr. Cake?”

    “It sure is, Pinkie!” said Mr. Cake, who was frantically working to prepare frosting of some sort. Slate just nodded and tried not to interfere. He’d already decided to grant the trademark, even before seeing the production process, but still, procedures needed to be followed. He was getting desperately hungry, though - it was well past noon at this point, and the Cakes were still going through the initial preparatory phases. Had he known that this dessert was an eight-hour thing, he would have had them put it off until tomorrow. Having to be surrounded by baked goods and unable to eat any was agonizing enough most times, but when he was starving, it bordered on cruelty.

    “How are we doing, Mr. Slate?” said Ms. Cake, who was quickly going about measuring and preparing ingredients for Mr. Cake and Pinkie to put into use.

    “It’s just Slate,” said Slate. “And you’re doing fine.”

    “Is there anything I can do to help?” said Pinkie.

    “Aren’t you already helping?” said Slate, raising an eyebrow.

    “I mean helping you, Slate,” said Pinkie. “You’ve been sitting there, still as a statue, for like hours! Can I do anything for you?” Slate sighed. Why couldn’t they make it easy for him?

    “I know I was checking out your plot earlier, but that doesn’t mean that you can guarantee your trademark application by sleeping with me.” Why was it always the ones he found unattractive and obnoxious that tried to bribe him with their bodies, anyway? Why couldn’t it be some handsome young stallion with a soft flowing mane and a tight butt? It always had to be ponies that were too old, too ugly, too annoying or too married.

    “WHAT?” There was a loud crash and the sound of shattering ceramics. Slate looked up to see Mr. and Ms. Cake standing there, wide-eyed, with shattered cookware at their hooves. At first they stared at Pinkie, but seeing her every bit as shocked and surprised, they turned to look at Slate, their faces still filled with disbelief.

    “Never mind. Pretend I didn’t say anything.” It was fruitless to be sure, but Slate still put his clipboard in front of his face and began to scribble furiously. He instantly realized how moronic his statement had been - of course Pinkie wasn’t offering to sleep with him. She probably wasn’t even offering to bribe him. She just realized that he’d been standing on his hind legs for a good three hours by now, and that he’d skipped lunch while doing it. Why did he think anything else? And more importantly, why did he say anything else?

    “That’s, not quite what I meant,” said Pinkie, blushing a bit and smirking to herself. “I just...I know you skipped lunch, and I could hear your tummy rumbling and...I wanted to help.” Slate reached back into his saddlebag and dropped a bag of bits on the floor, hiding his now beet-red face behind the clipboard.

    “Take that and go buy me a tofu burger with hay fries and an oat smoothie,” said Slate. Such an order could hardly be more boring, and any fast-food joint in town should be able to satisfy it easily. “I’m not supposed to accept anything during the evaluation, but there’s nothing in the rules about using my own money. Just...” He sighed, trying to resist the temptation to begin banging his face against the clipboard. He was baffled by his own stupidity, sometimes. “I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions there. It’s...It’s happened before.”

    “I’ll...Be right back,” said Pinkie. Slate tried not to look, but she seemed almost to be trying to apologize to him. He didn’t understand why. He was the one who was in the wrong here - why would she want to do anything other than punish him? He sighed again. It was going to be a long, awkward day.

***

    “So, how did we do?” asked Ms. Cake. She was keeping her distance from Slate, even as she tried to smile politely. Clearly, neither she nor Mr. Cake had quite gotten over what Slate had said. At least he could give them good news and then disappear.

    “I’m granting the application,” said Slate. “I’ve reviewed dozens of pastries, and I’ve read the applications for thousands, and there’s nothing quite like the Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness. So I’ll file the papers with my superiors and you should receive a confirmation in the next few months.”

    “But...It’s approved, right?” said Mr. Cake.

    “It’s approved as far as I’m concerned,” said Slate. “Although of course it’ll need to be looked over and confirmed by my superiors, and ultimately they have the final say. But if they read my paperwork and follow my recommendations, then yes. It’ll be approved.”

    “But what do we do in the meantime?” said Ms. Cake. Clearly, she was concerned - and justifiably so. Though Slate hadn’t said a word after Pinkie had come back with his lunch (which had been surprisingly delicious - he regretted not asking where it had come from so that he could get more later) he had paid rapt attention, watching how much time and effort they put into their cake. He’d never seen a pair of ponies so dedicated to their craft, or so skilled at working together. It was as if he was seeing one pony, rather than two, and the way they focused on the task at hand rather than talking was inspiring. Pinkie, too, was rather impressive, if only because she was somehow able to keep an upbeat and cheerful attitude through hour after hour of intense manual labor. Even farm ponies rarely managed to pull that one off.

    “Throw a party!” said Pinkie. “I’ve got tons of balloons to set up! And we can all have some of the MMMM! And there will be music and pin-the-tail-on-the-pony and I can invite all of my friends over!” As Pinkie continued, Slate began packing up his notes and forms into his saddlebags. He certainly wasn’t going to be able to stretch out this assignment as long as he liked, but he could at least dawdle for a few days. Ponyville was supposed to have a very good library, and if he was ambiguous in his reports, he could at least stay gone until Thursday. If Comma Dash asked, he’d just say it took him a few extra days to go over the paperwork and make sure all the research was done properly. Comma Dash never dared to question how long paperwork took for fear of revealing how slow and incompetent he was at completing it. And anyway, all he had to do was rubber-stamp and take the credit.

    “While we’d normally be up for it, both Ms. Cake and I are really tired,” said Mr. Cake. He gave Ms. Cake a slight squeeze. She smiled back, nuzzling him lightly. “Plus the twins are cranky from being in the play room all day. They need a diaper change and a walk if they’re going to sleep tonight.”

    “What about you?” said Pinkie. Slate was started to look up and see Pinkie’s enormous smiling face only inches from his own. He backed up a bit, suddenly frightened by such an invasion of his personal space.

    “I uhm...I have lots of paperwork to fill out to ensure the application is processed,” said Slate, motioning to his saddlebags. Without warning, Pinkie set on them like a cat on a mouse.

    “What paperwork? These are all filled out already!” It was true. In his determination to “make up” for the faux paus earlier in the day, he’d poured every spare moment into the applications, even going so far as to fill out, in careful detail, the portions of the application usually left to the applicants themselves. Except for the signatures and initials of his superiors, the application was done.

    “There’s uhm, more paperwork, in the bags I had sent to the hotel,” said Slate. “And I really do think I should get to it later.”

    “What hotel are you staying in?” said Pinkie. “The Moonlight Inn? The Dancing Donkey? The Celestial Suites?” Slate picked up his saddlebags, hoping this would clue Pinkie in to the fact he wished to leave.

    “The Office doesn’t have the money for such things,” said Slate. “I’m at the Holiday Hideaway, out on the edge of town.” Slate cringed at just the mention of the name. Holiday Hideaway hotels were always cheap dumps, with lousy beds, small rooms, and poor bathroom facilities. He knew budgets at the Ponymark Office were always tight, but why they couldn’t spring to put him up in a Celestial Suites was beyond him. Celestial Suites were owned and operated by Princess Celestia herself - surely there could be some sort of arrangement to let the low-rent rooms to traveling bureaucrats at a decent rate!

    “Ohmygosh, that’s like, right down the road from Sweet Apple Acres!” said Pinkie. “I should TOTALLY throw the party in one of Applejack’s barns! Then we won’t wake up the twins, and we will have tons of room for all the balloons and games!”

    “That’s nice,” said Slate. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really should get going.”

    “See you at the party!” said Pinkie, waving a hoof.

    “You won’t,” said Slate, accidentally slamming the door on the way out. What was it with him and doors, lately? They seemed to slam even without his intending them to.

***

    Slate sighed and lay down on the bed, grumbling. There was nothing to do in the hotel room - no papers to fill out, no music to listen to, and worst of all, nothing to read. He regretted only bringing one book now - when he went to the library it was closed, and the book shops in town only had the sort of sappy paperback novels that middle-aged mares read on their beach holidays. At this point, even a Daring Do book would suffice - written for young fillies and colts though they were; at least they had something going on in them. Something more than vampire ponies having impossible love affairs with repugnant, self-centered Mary Sues. Why didn’t anyone write stuff like Charger the Brave anymore? Was he really the only pony who still read that sort of thing?

    Slate was considering putting in his sleeping pills early and hoping he woke up at something approaching a reasonable hour, but before he could get started; there was the unmistakable sound of a hoof pounding on his door. Instantly he was in a panic, dashing around the room and trying to figure out why, exactly, someone would want access to his room. Was there a fire? A robbery perhaps? Did they think HE was a robber? Or maybe his superiors had sent someone to check in on him - someone who would, no doubt, quickly realize that he didn’t need three days to evaluate the Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness, and that he could easily come home immediately. Were they already instituting a fraud action against him for not returning home early and filing the proper notices? He could lose his job! And though he hated his job, how else was he going to get bits for the rent? For his cigarettes? For food?

    “Open up, Slate! It’s Pinkie Pie!” said a voice beyond the door. Slate dashed over to the door and looked through the peep hole. It didn’t take long to instantly identify the pink pile of fluff that was Pinkie Pie. Slate opened the door.

    “What in Celestia’s name are you doing here?” said Slate. How did she even get here? And why?

    “To see if you can come to my MMMM Trademark Celebration Party, silly!” said Pinkie, bouncing up and down on her hooves. “It’s going to be MMMMagnificent! And we couldn’t do it without you, so you’re totally invited and you should totally come!” Slate grumbled. She was disturbing him for this? Hadn’t he already told her he wasn’t going?

    “Pinkie, I’m not going to some stupid party for a cake,” said Slate. “Besides, I have - “

    “My party is NOT stupid!” said Pinkie, her face suddenly mashed up against his. Slate staggered back. Was she going to hit him now? Would it be okay if he hit her back? Or could he just shut and lock the door? Was jumping out of a second-story window an option? “It’s the bestest most funnest party ever! And I made a special cake just for you! So you have to be there!” Slate growled, backing up and trying to slam the door. He would have, but Pinkie was in the way, and he was pretty sure “slamming a mare’s head in a door” was not on the list of things he was allowed to do.

    “I said no and I meant no!” said Slate. Before he could say anything more, though, he found himself face-to-face with Pinkie’s enormous, sad eyes. They reminded him of the way a puppy did when it wanted attention. Even Slate couldn’t resist that.

    “But pleeeeease? I really want you to be there!” said Pinkie, her lips in a pronounced faux-pout. Slate sighed.

    “Fine, just...Take me there.”

***

    The music was loud. It wasn’t unpleasant or obnoxious, but it was loud. The food was fine, but after seeing a few ponies giggle at the way he had been stuffing his face, he was too embarrassed to go back to the catering table. He didn’t want to do any of the games. At this point, all he wanted to do was go. But both times he’d tried, Pinkie had stopped him at the door, shoving him towards something-or-other. Even his usual excuse of hitting the punch bowl until he was too drunk to stay (or, at the very least, feigning it) had been prevented by a purple pony who, somehow, managed to drain the bowl almost by herself. He couldn’t even go outside for a smoke - the orange pony on the cowboy hat had been very clear about her policy against open flames, considering the abundance of hay and the very real danger of an orchard fire on her property. Disheartened, confused and tired, he found himself surrounded by an enormous crowd of ponies having fun, when all he wanted to do was go home.

    “Uhm, excuse me,” said a small, timid voice. Over the noise, Slate could barely hear it, but he realized it was coming from a yellow pegasus immediately to his left. “I don’t mean to be a bother, but...You’re standing on my tail.” Slate lifted his foot, smiling meekly.

    “Sorry about that,” said Slate. “I’m...Well, sometimes I just don’t know quite where my hooves are.”

    “It’s okay,” said the pegasus. “I’m sure I can get the dirt and mud out when I wash it tomorrow, and I know you didn’t mean to step on me. I mean, you wouldn’t step on my tail on purpose, would you?”

    “No, of course not.” Slate blushed, looking down at his hooves. He hated his body. Not only was it big and ugly, but it was always getting into trouble.

    “I didn’t mean to bother you, but its past Angel’s bed time,” said the pegasus. “I wanted to go home thirty minutes ago, but you were standing on my tail, and, well, it just seemed so rude to ask you to stop.” Slate was taken aback at this. Thirty minutes? Most ponies shoved him aside the moment he so much as touched them. And this one let him stand on her tail for half an hour without even saying anything about it? What was wrong with this mare?

    Before he could ask, the entire party was interrupted by a rolling, stumbling thud. In the middle of it he saw a mostly blue, but clearly multi-colored, pile of dust and fumbling limbs, which was crashing through the middle of the party and threatening to knock over the dessert cart. The tumbling pile stopped just short, however, and revealed itself to be a sky-blue pegasus mare with a rainbow colored mane and tail. Slate stared; slack jawed at the creature in front of him. He’d never seen anything quite like her before, and he didn’t know quite what to make of her. It was like seeing a beautiful painting for the first time, or a particularly spectacular sunrise. He was awestruck.

    “Where’s the punch? Please tell me there’s punch!” said the pegasus, frantically looking around the table. When she saw the empty punch bowl her face curled into a disappointed frown, her ears going flat at the disappointment. “Pinkie, you promised me there would be punch!”

    “There was punch an hour ago, Rainbow Dash,” said Pinkie Pie, smiling at Rainbow and giving the mare a nudge. “Lemme guess - you were napping again and you didn’t get my invite until just now, huh? Well I guess it’s true what they say - you snooze, you lose!”

    “Just tell me it wasn’t - “

    “My super-yummy, soft-and-gummy, slightly rummy Raspberry and Pineapple Punch? Of course it was!” said Pinkie, apparently oblivious to the look of disappointment on Rainbow Dash’s face. “I know it’s your favorite, so I made up an extra big batch, but I guess it was just so awesomely scrumptious that everyone else finished it off first!”

    “It was Berry Punch again, wasn’t it? I swear if I find her” - before Rainbow could finish, the pony with the hat and hair bands interrupted.

    “Dash, I’ll go down into the cellar and get a barrel of cider, but you gotta promise me a few things first,” said the mare. Her accent was thick like molasses - and twanged with the peculiar pronunciation that seemed endemic to farm ponies from the southern lands.

    “Wait, your cellar? You mean Apple Family Reserve?” said Rainbow Dash. “You’re the BEST, Applejack! I’d kill for a barrel of that stuff!”

    “I’m...Not going to ask for anything so...Harsh,” said Applejack, smirking a bit at Rainbow Dash. “But I am going to ask that you one, promise not to get mad that Berry drank all your punch, and two, that you get your usual routine of showing off how awesome you are out of your system BEFORE you start drinking. We don’t need another late-night trip to the emergency room because you flew into my barn again.”

    “Pff, you just want me to show off my awesome moves before I get all wobbly,” said Rainbow Dash, tossing her mane in the haughtiest manner possible. Applejack rolled her eyes. “Well far be it for me to turn down a request from my fans.” Upon hearing this, Pinkie leapt up onto the table, sending empty cups clattering to the floor.

    “Everypony listen up! Rainbow Dash is going to perform for us outside! Grab your cake and find a seat under the stars!” Slate found himself in the middle of a slow-moving and generally good-feeling mob. Surrounded by ponies he didn’t know, he struggled both to keep from showing how frightening it was and to keep from stepping on any more tails this evening. Soon he was outside, and, freed from the motion of the crowd, he realized that now was the moment to escape. He took a few steps off to the side, and then stopped. He could hear Rainbow Dash beginning her ascent, and he realized he really did want to see her in action. After all, watching the pegasus races had always been his favorite thing as a colt. And if Dash’s physical appearance was any indication, he was in for quite the performance.

    For one of the few times in his life, Slate found himself enthralled. His eyes open wide, his mouth agape, he could do little more than stare in wonder at what was going on above him. It started out simple enough - a few tight turns, ascending spirals and long, straight dashes to show off speed, agility and climbing power. But after that, Dash’s motions became more and more impressive. When he thought she’d go left, she went right. When he thought she’d go up, she went down. Indeed, she showed an astonishing lack of fear, and indeed lack of concern about the ground rushing up at her. Strutting and dashing across the ground at high speeds, Slate could see her kicking up great clouds of dust on the road - only to suddenly ascend in a high, sharp arc, twisting this way and that in a dizzying spiral.

    At the peak of her rise, Rainbow suddenly began to plummet. Slate felt himself compelled - suddenly, somehow, he was running, his hooves moving like they never had before. Something deep in his mind, in his very being, told him to be on the ground where she was falling. He could no more stop his hooves than he could his breathing, though, just when he thought they were about to collide, he found himself awash in dust, dirt, gravel and sand. An enormous, powerful burst of air struck him, and through the haze he could see Rainbow Dash taking off again, a rainbow of colors trailing behind her as she zoomed upwards.

    Feeling sheepish as he realized that, in reality, she must have been in a controlled fall and thus no real danger, Slate was just glad that, in all likelihood, no one could see what he was doing. Also, what with him now being a good distance from the crowd, he could proceed back to the hotel without anyone noticing. Dusting himself off a bit, he prepared to go.

    “Sorry about that. Didn’t see you there!” said a voice. Slate looked over his shoulder, to find himself face to face with Rainbow Dash, who was hovering just a few feet above him. He immediately looked down at his hooves, his body filling with anxiety. What was he supposed to say? How? “Lemme give you a quick brush-off!” Slate felt himself being blown by quick, smooth blasts of wind from Rainbow’s wings, which was successful at removing some of the dirt and grit. He’d still need a good washing before he went to bed, though.

    “Thank...You,” said Slate. What now? He wanted - no, he NEEDED - to tell this pony how amazed he was, how impressed. He was overcome by emotion right now, and it seemed like his tongue had turned to stone. “Your...Your flying was...”

    “Awesome, I know,” said Rainbow Dash, smirking and closing her eyes as she tapped her hoof to her chest, her haughty nature in full display. “It’s not the best I can do, but I think it’s enough to convince Applejack to open that barrel of cider. I just hope she doesn’t make me tie up my wings before she’ll let me have any, like last time. Like she seriously thinks I can’t handle a drink or three!”

    And with that, she was gone - back to the party, no doubt. Slate was tempted to follow at first, but to what end? Drunken ponies he didn’t know made him even more nervous than sober ponies he did know, and anyway, if he went back to the party now, he’d no doubt need to explain why he’d taken off in such a hurry - a question he couldn’t answer himself. Best to head back to the hotel and simply deal with it all later. Or, even better, not at all - who said he’d ever need to see these ponies again?

***

    Sleep in the hotel had been particularly unpleasant, to say the least. Between the usual nightmares and loneliness, he hadn’t been able to get comfortable on the bed. Additionally, the room was a non-smoking one, and so when he needed his fix, he’d been forced to head outside - on an unseasonably cold night, no less. As it was, he found himself even more cranky than usual in the morning - and in need of several signatures from the cakes. He was practically kicking himself for not securing them the night before, but at least Sugar Cube Corner was on the way to the train station.

    Slate found the place with the door open but the lights out, which was more than a little peculiar. He knew bakers kept odd hours - especially what with the need to have breakfast ready by six or seven, despite a two to three hour baking time for most pastries. However, it was nearly six AM, and none of the ovens was going. Nonetheless, the door was open, and Slate went inside.

    Pinkie Pie was sound asleep in the middle of the floor, wearing a half-destroyed party hat and covered in frosting and confetti. Well, that explained the open door, at least. But where were the cakes? And why wasn’t anyone baking anything? Did Sugar Cube Corner not open until lunch? And if so, why did they have so many muffins, donuts and other breakfast treats on the counters?

    Looking around and seeing no pony but Pinkie, Slate quietly slid behind the counter, taking a few bits from his bag and placing them next to the cash register. What with there being no place open this early in the morning, Slate found himself exceedingly hungry, and surely they wouldn’t mind if he helped himself to a few day-old donuts at list price. While he was behind the counter, fumbling his way into a case of chocolate--chip muffins, something unusual caught his eye - namely, a hoof-written register right under the counter. This couldn’t be the bakery’s books, could it? Surely, such private, confidential bookkeeping needed to be kept in a safe somewhere - not where it could easily be damaged, modified or stained with cake frosting.

    But upon closer examination, Slate realized that was exactly what it was - and that, whatever their skill at baking, Mr. and Ms. Cake had the accounting skills of a small colt. Everything was written down in proper columns, with expenses on one side and earnings on the other, but they seemed oblivious to the numerous tax breaks, depreciation benefits, and other legal systems put in effect to favor small businesses like Sugar Cube Corner and enable them to compete on equal hoofing with the larger suppliers like Barnyard Bargains.

    Slate was disgusted. How could anyone let their books get into such disarray? How could anypony throw away such huge amounts of money merely by neglecting to care for it? Without even thinking about it, he pulled out some of his own spare paper and began re-working and re-making the ledger. Re-copying it into a cleaner form was the first step - eliminating all of the corrections, crossed-out marks and clearly erroneous mistakes at first, and then sorting this great pile of entries into those items which could and could not be deducted, and organizing those deductions in the most financially beneficial way. It was all Basic Accounting, which he remembered from his classes back in college. Did these ponies not know about such things? Were they just lazy? No matter - this problem had to be fixed, and regardless of how or why it became a problem, it was Slate’s problem now - he’d seen it, and until he fixed it, he wouldn’t feel “right.”

    “What are you DOING?” said a voice. Slate looked up suddenly, and found himself face to face with a surprised - and enraged - Ms. Cake. “Why are you behind the counter? And what are you doing with my ledger book?”

    “It’s broken,” said Slate, suddenly realizing that he’d done something horrible. Reading another pony’s ledger book was equivalent to opening their underwear drawer - worse, in some ways, since what was in an underwear drawer was only embarrassing. What was in a business ledger could often be incriminating. “I just...Look at it. There are notes all over. And where are you listing your deductibles? All of those ovens have to be capital purchases - have you been depreciating them at all? I...I...” Ms. Cake just stared, looking at Slate, and then the ledger, and then back to Slate.

    “Fifty thousand bits?” said Ms. Cake, staring at the big number Slate had totaled up at the bottom of his “Deductions” sheet. “That’s...That’s more than we spent on both the ovens!”

    “Well you can’t deduct all of that at once,” said Slate, using his pencil as a stylus to point at various lines on the sheet. “But those ovens, this building - and a lot of your other long-term purchases, all of those can be depreciated over time. And you can deduct a lot more than just your material costs, you know - the money you pay Pinkie is deductible, as is what you spend on childcare for the twins. Speaking of, did you file your paperwork to get a preschool grant yet?” Slate looked up from the paper and realized that Ms. Cake understood little, if anything of what he just said. “Never mind. I’ll just...Go.”

    “I had no idea,” said Ms. Cake. Suddenly he found himself being hugged. Panicked by the sudden touching of his body by another, he began to squirm, but fortunately Ms. Cake let go before panic gave way to terror. It was disconcerting to be touched, but not so bad as to be severely upsetting. “Oh Mr. Slate, with this kind of money, we could make so many improvements to the bakery! New tables and chairs! We could finally get that wobbly table in the kitchen fixed! And we can start putting away for the twins’ college fund!”

    “Uhm...You’re welcome?” said Slate, slowly edging his way out from behind the counter. Day-old donuts would just have to wait, or be skipped entirely. Maybe there was a Hay House open somewhere near the station or up the road. The food would be terrible, but at least he could smoke. “You really should invest in a good accountant. You see them once or twice a year and they save you thousands more than they cost. I only have basic accountancy certification - enough for myself. I bet a real accountant could help you locate cost overruns and plan for price fluctuations.”

    “You mean there’s more?” said Ms. Cake. “And...any pony could learn to do this? I mean, you’re not an accountant, are you - you’re a bureaucrat with the Ponymark Office. So this isn’t even your job or anything.”

    “No, it’s just something I learned how to do,” said Slate. The conversation had gone on long enough to make him uncomfortable, and Slate desperately wanted to leave. Maybe if he just broke into a run, she wouldn’t follow. “Hey! Uh, Pinkie is passed out in the middle of the floor.” Ms. Cake turned to look. Slate seized his chance, trying to make a break for the open door. He didn’t get far, though. Apparently, seeing Pinkie in such a state was a regular thing for Ms. Cake.

    “Pinkie, dear, it’s time to get up,” said Ms. Cake, gently caressing the earth pony’s head. How strange, thought Slate, that somepony could treat another with such kindness in the face of her obvious and potentially damaging and destructive mistakes. “You forgot to lock the door when you came home again. Also, you’re sleeping on the restaurant floor again.” Pinkie woke up surprisingly quickly, going from her sleeping state to a slightly ruffled and frazzled version of her normal self in only a few seconds.

    “Ohmygosh Ms. Cake!” said Pinkie. “I was in such a rush to make it home last night, and I was so tired that I totally forgot to close and lock the door! And now I’ve overslept and I didn’t get the donuts into the oven by five! What are we going to do Ms. Cake? I. Need. Those. Donuts!”

    “We’re going to start making them right now, Pinkie,” said Ms. Cake. “They’ll be a little behind schedule, but we should be able to get everything ready for the morning rush. I just hope that ponies don’t mind waiting a bit.”

    “Where’s Mr. Cake?” said Pinkie, shaking her hair and moving into the back to wash her hooves before work.

    “He’s upstairs with the twins. He’ll join us later,” said Ms. Cake. “The twins will too, likely. I hope you don’t mind taking care of them while we bake.”

    “Mind? It’s the best thing EVER!” said Pinkie, already beginning to bounce on her hooves. Slate was amazed at how quickly she picked herself up and went about her day, in spite of a lack of coffee, sugar or other stimulants. Pinkie was a mysterious creature indeed. But there was no need to think or worry about that now. Sensing he had no more purpose there, Slate quietly made his way towards the door. No point in staying here if he was hungry, since the breakfast goods wouldn’t be ready for several hours.

    “Won’t you stay, Mr. Slate?” said Ms. Cake. Why did everyone keep calling him “mister” Slate? It was just Slate. He’d gotten rid of his family name years ago. “I know it’ll be awhile, but there will be fresh-baked muffins and donuts in about an hour and a half. When does your train leave?”

    “Actually I haven’t bought the tickets yet,” said Slate. “And the whole reason I came by is that I need you to sign off on a few last things. So...Yeah, I guess I can wait.”

    “Great! The morning paper should be by any minute,” said Ms. Cake. “Help yourself to it, but please, leave the coupons. What with a bakery to run and two little foals to raise, every bit helps!”

Chapter 3: Flutter, why?

    Slate found nothing interesting and several things depressing in the paper, but as smells began to emerge from the bakery, he found himself unwilling to leave. Every time he thought things couldn’t smell any better, they proceeded to improve yet again. Mr. and Ms. Cake were working hard now, and Pinkie was busy cleaning up the interior, removing day-old baked goods, sweeping the floor, and greeting the slow trickle of customers with a wave and a smile. While certainly not the sort of pony Slate was inclined to get along with, she was nonetheless reasonably friendly and he could see why the cakes found her so invaluable. She worked hard, was eager to please, and seemed to have an insatiable drive to make everyone around her happy. Also, she brewed a damn good cup of coffee, and while there were no donuts, muffins, croissants or Danishes ready yet, the biscottis were good. Slate liked the pistachio and chocolate ones especially.

    “So are you enjoying your breakfast?” said Pinkie, eagerly refilling Slate’s coffee cup for the third time. The caffeine was slowly helping him to be more awake and lightening his mood, and were he inclined to do so, he might even be up for a smile or two.

    “It’s all right,” said Slate. “Though I’m hoping to follow up these biscottis with something a bit more substantial. How are the muffins coming along?” Slate realized he shouldn’t have said that - after downing half a dozen biscottis, he should at least feign being full, let he be thought a pig. Choosing way to say was always so hard. Why couldn’t he just say what he felt, and not be judged for it? It’s not like he wanted to steal anything or beat anypony up. He just really liked Mr. and Ms. Cake’s cooking.

    “They’re coming along just perfect, like always!” said Pinkie, bouncing on her hooves and almost spilling the pot of coffee she was carrying.

    “I mean, how much longer will it be?” asked Slate, trying to disguise the grumbling of his stomach. How could he be so fat and yet still be hungry all the time?

    “Oh! Well, I don’t know! But not much longer!” said Pinkie. Slate sighed, and went back to fumbling with the paper. Maybe there was something that he’d missed, other than the sports page or the farm reports.

    “Uhm, excuse me,” said a voice. He looked out from his paper and recognized the pegasus mare from the night before - the one whose tail he’d stepped on. “I don’t want to bother, but if you’re not reading the farm reports, I’d really appreciate it if -”

    “Here,” said Slate, tossing them to her without so much as a thought. “I don’t invest in the Stalk Market anyway.” The pegasus seemed surprised. Was it really that odd to not invest in the Stalk Market in this day and age?

    “OH! Thank you! Usually I have to wait forever, especially when Rich gets the paper first,” said Fluttershy. “Oh, I uhm, don’t believe I got your name last night. My name is Fluttershy. It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

    “I’m Slate.” He looked over the side of his paper and realized she was holding out a hoof. Slate shook it perfunctorily. Where WERE those darned donuts?

    “Oh, okay, I’ll just go now,” said Fluttershy, quietly sidling off to another table. Finally, somepony who understood what Slate wanted. Now if he could just get a few pastries and signatures, he’d be off, and that would be the end of it.

    After much more waiting, the pastries finally arrived. Seeing the rush of several dozen ponies all coming to the counter as the Cakes began to take orders, Slate decided to stay where he was. There would no doubt be enough for everyone, and by pushing, shoving and yelling his way to the front, all slate was likely to get was a headache. Besides, they wouldn’t let down someone who’d just saved them thousands, would they?

    As the crowd continued to jostle, though, Slate began to regret his decision. First, the chocolate-iced donuts sold out. Then the chocolate muffins. Then the blueberry ones. Clearly, he had massively underestimated the demand in light of the supply. Even as the cakes struggled to bring out more baked goods, it became painstakingly clear that, while he could get something, he couldn’t get what he wanted. Instead, that went to those who pushed, shoved and yelled their way to the front. He sighed again, setting down the paper and going to get into the queue. Help somepony out and all you’ll ever get is a “thank you,” if that. He might as well just grab a few plain donuts and head on out to the train station. He was fat anyway, and it’s not like he needed them.

    “Hold it right there, Slate!” said Pinkie, coming up next to him in the crowd. “What are you waiting in line for? I’ve got a special breakfast that I made just for you!” Turning around, Slate saw a most un-bakery like breakfast - chocolate chip pancakes, hash browns and orange juice. Slate blinked, startled.

    “Where...Where did this come from?” asked Slate, staring at it. It was all he could do to keep from digging in. The hash browns were neither soggy and undercooked nor stiff and burned. The pancakes had plenty of chocolate chips, but were not a soggy, wet mess of melted semi-sweet chocolate. Indeed, whoever made this seemed to have understood his preference for food that was not too fatty, not too sweet, and not too overdone - a rarity in this modern world of high-fructose corn syrup, inexpensive vegetable shortening and sugary soda drinks.

    “I made it myself, in the kitchen, after mixing up the twins’ formula!” said Pinkie. “I was totally watching you eat last night and I was like ‘I bet he’d like a real breakfast!’ So I made one! And it’s all happy! See the smiley-face I made with the ketchup?”

    “It’s very nice,” said Slate, digging in as slowly as he could. Had he found himself unobserved, he would have wolfed it down in minutes, loving every minute of it. Slowing down wasn’t so bad, but it took a level of self-control that he wasn’t quite used to. Or fond of. “Thank you, Pinkie. How much do I owe you?”

    “Are you crazy?” said Pinkie, ruffling his mane. Slate froze, nervous about being touched, but she quickly backed off and let him resume his meal. “You TOTALLY saved the Cakes like, thousands of bits per year! I should be cooking you breakfast like, thousands of times!”

    “You’re just an employee, though,” said Slate.

    “That doesn’t matter!” said Pinkie. “The point is, you helped somepony out, and so somepony should help you out! With a big super-awesome breakfast so you can have a really good day!”

    “All...Right,” said Slate, still not quite sure what was going on. “Well, thanks again.”

    “Aren’t you going to smile for me?” said Pinkie, putting on a fake pout. “Doesn’t this awesome breakfast and the way you so awesomely helped somepony out make you just feel good inside?”

    “Yes,” said Slate. He put on his best smile, but he could tell from the way Pinkie looked at him that this wasn’t enough.

    “That’s not a smile!” said Pinkie, putting on her biggest grin. Had she been any less cute, it would have been frightening. “This is a smile! C’mon, smile for me!”

    “I...Can’t,” said Slate, burying his face in his food. Smiling - indeed, any expression of happiness - had never been Slate’s “thing.” Every time he tried, it felt so disingenuous - so obviously fake.

    “What are you talking about?” said Pinkie. “Everypony knows how to smile! You just put your lips up like this!” Her smiling was so big, so overpowering, that it made Slate sick just to look at. How could anypony possibly be that happy?

    “I just can’t, ok?” said Slate, angrily turning away. “Just let me eat my breakfast in peace!” Slate expected Pinkie to press the point, but much to his surprise, she left him in peace, going back to tending tables, working the counter, and whatever else needed doing. Slate sighed a bit, feeling bad for telling Pinkie off. She was just trying to help, after all. And she’d made such a nice breakfast for him. Why was Slate always being mean to other ponies? It wasn’t as if he meant to. And yet, it just kept happening. It was just so frustrating.

***

    The crowd cleared out by ten, and as the bakery began to shift from the morning to the lunch schedule and layout, Slate finally managed to get the Cakes away from their ovens long enough to get the necessary signatures and hoof prints on the paperwork. Carefully sorted and organized, it was now ready to be processed. All he had to do was go home and hand it in.

    “I can’t tell you how much you’ve helped us,” said Ms. Cake.

    “Yes you can,” said Slate. “I processed your paperwork and helped you balance your booking more efficiently.” Ms. Cake stared a bit, and Slate realized that, once again, he’d taken a statement too literally. Sometimes he wondered if he should just try not to speak at all - seeing as speaking rarely seemed to work out in his favor.

    “Yes, well, thank you nonetheless,” said Ms. Cake, who proceeded into the back to help with the various day loaves and sandwich breads that she and Mr. Cake were preparing for the lunch and grocery crowd.

    “So do you have to go now?” said Pinkie. Slate blinked. Of course he had to go. He was finished, wasn’t he? “Because my friend Fluttershy could really use your help!”

    “Oh, he doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to,” said Fluttershy. “I mean, he seems like a very busy pony, he probably needs to get back to Fillydelphia. Besides, you don’t want the Cakes’ trademark getting delayed, do you?”

    “Nonsense!” said Pinkie, waving a hoof in the air. “Fluttershy, every other week you’re running dozens of bits short, and every time you read the farm report, you cry more than Rarity does when she chips a hoof!” Fluttershy seemed to retreat into her own mane, blushing deep red with shyness. It was a clever trick - if he ever grew out his mane, he’d have to learn to make use of it.

    “Oh, it’s uhm, it’s nothing,” said Fluttershy. Slate sighed. Clearly, Pinkie wasn’t going to let up, Fluttershy wasn’t going to break down, and Slate wasn’t going to get anywhere. It was time for him to act.

    “Look, I’m not an accountant or anything,” said Slate. “But let’s go over your expenditures, maybe there’s something I can help you with.” Fluttershy suddenly brightened up, shyly beaming at him with appreciation. It was going to be a long day. Hopefully he could convince Pinkie to pay him with lunch, at least.

***

    Slate sighed, taking a long, slow drag on his cigarette and rubbing his forehead with his hoof. He’d been back and forth over Fluttershy’s expenditures and ledger, and there was simply nothing doing. He’d never seen a personal expense record - even his own - so meticulously recorded, categorized and optimized. An examination of her tax returns revealed that she was taking account of every deductible she could - and, unlike many ponies, none of the ones she shouldn’t - and was, in fact, investing her bits very wisely in the Stalk Market. The problem was that she simply did not have enough regular income to cover her expenditures which were, while very carefully managed, surprisingly large for a single pegasus. It wasn’t that Fluttershy had expensive tastes - far from it. Rather, she had expensive responsibilities. From taxes and upkeep on the extensive landholdings around her house to enormous expenditures on animal feed, Fluttershy had to spend thousands of bits per month just to keep everything working. And the fact that she kept lending money out to friends was certainly not helping - although it was clear that this expense could not be helped.

    “Uhm, if you don’t mind, and it’s not too much of a bother,” said Fluttershy.

    “Out with it!” demanded Slate, almost growling as he spoke. “I’m sick of your whimpering; just tell me what you want!” As Fluttershy shrunk back in fear of his words, Slate realized he’d let his anger get the best of him again. First Pinkie and now Fluttershy? Things were not going well today.

    “I’d really appreciate it if you stopped smoking,” said Fluttershy. Slate could barely hear what she was saying; it was so soft, and muffled by her mane. “It’s just that Angel Bunny doesn’t like the smell of cigarettes, and I know you don’t mean to, but the smoke is getting into my curtains.” Slate looked down to see a small, apparently angry rabbit wearing a gas mask. Where did you even get a gas mask for such a small animal?

    “Why didn’t you ask me earlier?” said Slate, confused. He knew most ponies hated his smoking, and generally, they told him to stop before he even got started - or, at the very least, asked him to go outside. “I must have burned through a pack and a half while I was working on your papers.”

    “Well, I tried to,” said Fluttershy. “But you were concentrating so hard, and I didn’t want to disturb you!” Slate stubbed out his cigarette on a saucer where he had been accumulating them. He realized, looking at the burn marks, that he had in fact ruined it. Even when he tried to help people, Slate made himself a nuisance.

    “Well, about that,” said Slate. “I honestly don’t know what there is to be done. I’ve never seen any pony keep such a good accounting of her finances. Even I’m not this meticulous. And I can’t figure out any way you could reduce costs either - not unless you agreed to get rid of some of your animals or stop giving so much money to your friends.” Fluttershy frowned, burying her face in her mane again. It would be cute if it wasn’t so frustrating.

    “Oh, well, I guess there’s nothing I can do, then,” said Fluttershy. Slate tilted his head a bit. Was she crying? Clearly, things were worse than he thought.

    “Look,” said Slate, not knowing what else to do. “What about getting a second job or something? I mean, taking care of the animals might be fulfilling, but it certainly isn’t financially rewarding.” Fluttershy began to cry in earnest now. He didn’t understand. What had he done wrong? He was just stating the truth again. “How about working with a local veterinarian or something?”

    “I just...I wouldn’t have the time,” said Fluttershy. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault.”

    “So the problem is time?” said Slate. Fluttershy was still crying, but Slate was intrigued. “I imagine that animal washing and cleaning couldn’t be automated, but surely feeding and some of the other processes could be automated.”

    “Automated?” said Fluttershy. “What’s that?”

    “Well, if you’ll give me a minute, and access to your tool shed, I’ll see what I can come up with...”

***

    “Uhm, if you would, I mean, if it’s not any trouble...” Fluttershy flew this way and that, trying unsuccessfully to stay out of Slate’s way, and also to stop him from helping himself to everything that was at hand. “Uhm, please, that clock was an heirloom from my mother-”

    Slate, however, was paying no attention to her whatsoever. Deep within the fervor of his idea, everything that came to hoof was grist for the mill. Cabinets, clocks, appliances - they were nothing more than sources for parts. And what great parts they were! Fluttershy purchased such high quality goods, and kept them in such great maintenance. He usually had to deal with garbage and scrap when making prototype projects like this. But as it was, he barely had to fix anything at all after removing it from its source. He needed only to clean it and hook it up. Fluttershy even had an abundance of solder, and some basic welding gear. Clearly these items, along with the circular saw, were intended for building animal shelters, but they did just as good for constructing machinery. The circular saw was even a nice, high-end cordless one.

    “There he is!” said Fluttershy. She was in tears now, and accompanied by an astonished and frightened Pinkie. “You’re his friend, make him stop! He’s ruining my house!”

    At this, Slate finally turned around, looking over at the two mares. He couldn’t believe how big he was smiling. It was rare that he managed to find so much satisfaction in a project. It felt good to build something that was more practical than beautiful, and though it was certainly a rush job, it got the job done.

    “All right, mister!” said Pinkie. She was furious. Slate blanched. What had he done wrong? “Fluttershy says that you barged into her house and started breaking everything! Is that true?”

    “No,” said Slate, increasingly confused. “It’s just...I went over her numbers, and there was nothing she could really do to balance her budget...”

    “And what does THAT have to do with this...” Pinkie looked over Slate’s shoulder, and her jaw dropped. “What IS that thing?”

    “Isn’t it fantastic?” said Slate. He couldn’t help but be filled with pride whenever he looked at his contraption. “I call it the universal automatic feeding system. It tracks each animal by height, weight and girth and dispenses the correct amount of food on a regular feeding schedule. I knew that if Fluttershy just left food out for her animals, they’d fight over it or eat too much. So I thought about using a system of counter-weights, to enable animals to only have access by species, but I think this automated system is much better. From badgers to bears, chickens to cockatrices, it’ll feed any animal an amount calculated to be ideal for its metabolic needs - never too much, or too little. And it’s all solid state, so it should be phenomenally reliable!”

    Pinkie and Fluttershy just stared. Slate frowned. Had he not explained it properly? Did they not understand how it worked? Maybe they didn’t like the look of it. He hadn’t had time to paint it, and there were a lot of pieces and parts that he’d like to sand off, grind down, or simply place protective panels over. As it was, it looked too much like a bizarre pile of broken appliances with a series of small panels, levers and bars in front of them. Even if those pieces of equipment were carefully balanced, calibrated and installed.

    “Look, just lemme show you how it works, I know you’ll love it!” said Slate. Pinkie moved in to stop him, but Fluttershy, now seeming to understand what she was looking at, held her back - for now. Grabbing one of the nearby chickens from the coop, he carefully placed it on an appropriately chicken-sized panel. Gently, probes extended around the very confused hen, and when they retracted, a small quantity of high-quality grain (direct from Fluttershy’s extensive stocks) was delivered to a small tray. The hen pecked away at it happily, and then began tapping the machine for more. The machine refused to dispense more, until Slate replaced the just-fed chicken with another, who was likewise fed. “You’re still going to have the problems of re-stocking the machine, and keeping it in good maintenance,” said Slate. “Oh, and of getting the animals used to using it. But if you can solve those problems...”

    “It’s magnificent!” said Fluttershy. “Usually feeding every animal takes hours, especially because I have to keep them from eating one another’s food!” She flew around the machine gently and slowly, examining it in great detail. “And these storage containers you dispense from appear to be air and water tight - so that shouldn’t be a big problem when dealing with the fact that the machine is largely out-of-doors.”

    “You should still see about building some sort of outdoor barn or shed to keep it shaded from the sun and properly protected from the weather,” said Slate. “But I can help you with -” before he could continue, he found himself being hugged by Fluttershy. Normally he began to panic when other ponies touched him - it instantly brought back terrible memories. But this felt different, somehow. It felt nice. He slowly, gently, put a hoof around her shoulder, and she didn’t yell, scream, or even stop hugging him. And that just felt so incredibly...Nice.

***

    “I’m sorry that he destroyed your house,” said Pinkie Pie. “But at least he left the broom, right?”

    “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” said Fluttershy, holding the dust pan for Pinkie and then emptying the contents in the garbage. “He didn’t mean any harm. I mean, just look at the contraption he built! Even Angel Bunny is using it!” She was right in that he’d used it once - and then demanded that Fluttershy make him an extra-special additional lunch as well. But at least he was willing, somewhat, to get with the program. And the other animals were quickly learning how to use the machine, and how long they’d have to wait before its gears, cranks and computing machines determined they were eligible for food again. “I just wish he hadn’t run off after I thanked him. There were a few more things I wanted to discuss.”

    “Like what he did to your dishwasher?” said Pinkie, pointing to the hole in the kitchen countertop where it once had been. “Or why none of the lights upstairs now work?”

    “Well, that, yes,” said Fluttershy. “But there’s more. Slate isn’t just weird, there’s something very wrong with him. Something...Broken.”

    “How do you mean?” said Pinkie.

    “Look at how afraid he is of other ponies,” said Fluttershy. “It’s one thing to be shy - and I know shy. But Slate isn’t shy.”

    “Yeah, no kidding,” said Pinkie. “I haven’t seen this big a mess since Pumpkin Cake decided to have a pillow-fight with sacks of flour.”

    “That’s right,” said Fluttershy as she disposed of what was left of her microwave, trying not to look at what she was throwing away. She’d always liked that microwave. It managed to heat things so evenly, not like the one she’d replaced. “I think Slate...well, he reminds me of a dog I took in once.”

    “In that he’s dark gray and fluffy?” said Pinkie, grinning a bit. Fluttershy smiled meekly. “Sorry, I guess I’m not on my game in terms of jokes today.”

    “More in that something terrible has happened to him, and now he’s afraid of everypony,” said Fluttershy. “The dog I took in, named Molly, she’d had a very bad series of experiences as a puppy. And even though she was very smart and loved me very much, she was always afraid of the ponies around her, and had trouble trusting ponies - even me.”

    “What pony couldn’t trust you?” said Pinkie. “You’re like, the most trustworthiest pony EVER!”

    “My point exactly,” said Fluttershy. “I’m just worried that Slate acts the way he does not because he’s weird or strange, but because he’s in a world he doesn’t understand, and he thinks everypony is out to hurt him.”

    “Who would want to hurt slate?” said Pinkie. Fluttershy lowered her eyelids a bit and pointed a hoof at the enormous mess that was her house, and at the huge, clattering, clanking, noise-making machine that now took up a large footprint in her back yard. “Oh, right.”

    “A lot of ponies wouldn’t be so nice to him if he made a mess like this and they didn’t know what it was for,” said Fluttershy. “Even I got just the teensiest bit mad when he smashed up my grandmother’s clock. And it wasn’t until I realized that he was making this huge machine - putting in so much time and effort - all for me that I realized he wasn’t just blindly destroying my house. He was trying to help me out in the only way he knew how.” Pinkie nodded, rubbing her chin with her hoof.

    “Now that I think about it, that’s what he was doing with the Cakes too,” said Pinkie. “Out of nowhere he just started looking at - and messing with - the books at Sugar Cube Corner. Ms. Cake doesn’t even let me touch those - and here’s this pony she doesn’t even know looking them over and writing in them!”

    “Exactly,” said Fluttershy. “He was just trying to help - but imagine how infuriated somepony might be if they didn’t understand. And Slate definitely doesn’t understand. Think how scary it must be for him. He thinks he’s helping ponies, and they lash out at him because he’s destroying their house, or invading their privacy.”

    “I never thought of it that way,” said Pinkie. “That’s...Really sad. But if there’s one pony who knows the cure for sad, it’s Pinkie Pie!” She grabbed Fluttershy, dragging him towards the door. “C’mon Fluttershy - there’s a pony out there who needs our help, and if he’s not on the train yet, then we’ve got work to do!”

***

    Slate had missed the last train of the day, but he didn’t care. All of the papers had been duly submitted via the post, and while there certainly was a benefit to his being present while they were reviewed, he had other, more pressing concerns. Helping Fluttershy with that machine had been a good start, but what he needed was something more impressive. Something awesome. Something that he could give to Rainbow Dash. She wouldn’t be interested in a mere accounting review or some gadget for her pets. He needed something better - something that would fill her with the wonder that she’d put into his eyes that night outside Applejack’s barn.

    It had taken hours, but he now had the germ of an idea, carefully sketched out on various bits of scratch paper he had strewn across the picnic table in front of him. Every pegasus could fly, but only a precious few could do so at speed - and the sort of speed Rainbow Dash exhibited was beyond exceptional. But he knew there was more - he just needed to get around the physical limitations inherent in any pegasus, even Rainbow Dash. It was a question of shape, not strength or ability.

    “Hiya Slate!” Slate jumped, only now realizing that Pinkie Pie was behind him. How did she manage to consistently sneak up on him like that? He’d always thought he was rather good at avoiding ponies, or at least hear their approach. “I just got back from helping Fluttershy clean up, and I have something very special for you!”

    “What is it?” Slate was confused. He was sure that Fluttershy had really liked her gift, and that Pinkie Pie’s anger had been mollified when she realized that Slate’s actions had been beneficial rather than harmful. “If it’s about the appliances, I can pay to replace them. Really, I can. Just give me time to make up an itemized list and head down to Barnyard Bargains. I meant to do it before I went home, I just got distracted.” Pinkie blanched for a moment, then smiled.

    “Well, that’s nice, but we can talk about appliances later,” said Pinkie. Seemingly out of nowhere, she brought forth a cake. A large, nice one, even - with chocolate icing and those little curled bits of shave chocolate that he always loved. “Now is the time for cake. And I made this one just for you!”

    “Well uhm, thanks,” said Slate, confused. Was this some sort of prank? No pony had ever given him a cake out of nowhere before. Pinkie was an unusual pony, to say the least, and it seemed she became more and more unusual as circumstances permitted. Slowly, tentatively, he took the proffered knife and cut himself a slice of cake. He tried not to pig out, but the smell was making his mouth water, and as he bit into the slice, it was all he could do to keep from moaning in ecstasy as he tasted the rich chocolate in his mouth. Pinkie grinned.

    “You really like chocolate cake, don’t you?” said Pinkie. Slate swallowed, staring at the floor. He wasn’t supposed to like such things - he was fat and ugly, and fat, ugly ponies weren’t supposed to have cake. They were supposed have boring, disgusting food in very small quantities, until they either got thin or learned to despise food. And Slate had achieved neither. “I knew it! I saw you at the party and I just KNEW you were a chocolate cake pony! Some ponies, they’re all for the yellow cakes with extra frosting, but the way you dug into the Mud Pie I made for the ‘celebrating the Cake’s balanced books’ party, I knew it’s chocolate all the way for you!” Slate chewed slowly, still confused.

    “So is this...For Fluttershy’s automated feeding apparatus?” said Slate, cautiously digging in to another slice. He wasn’t entirely sure everything was okay just yet. But the cake was certainly very, very good, and he couldn’t help but enjoy it.

    “Well, partly,” said Pinkie. “But I was talking to Fluttershy, and, well, she says that what you need right now is a friend! So here I am - hey there, best friend!”

    “That’s nice,” said Slate. “But I mean, I’m not ever going to see you again. I’m going to get on a train back to Fillydelphia and then that’s it. Why even bother to get to know my name?”

    “Because I like you, silly!” said Pinkie, ruffling his mane with her hoof. Slate still didn’t understand.

    “I thought you didn’t wanna sleep with me,” said Slate. Pinkie put her hoof to her face, sighing.

    “Slate, I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours,” said Pinkie. “But there’s more to life than sex and cake. There’s friends. And you really, really need one.”

    “That’s as may be,” said Slate. He didn’t entirely agree with Pinkie, but he’d long since learned that arguing about friendship was a surefire way to get ponies upset with him over nothing. “But the point is I’m going to hop on a train and head out and never see you again. So what’s the point of getting to know you?”

    “What’s the point?” said Pinkie, incredulous. “The point is that everypony needs some pony to be their friend! And I’m the friendliest friend who ever had a friend!” Just then, Fluttershy came up, blushing a bit and apologizing profusely.

    “I’m so, so sorry, Pinkie!” said Fluttershy, gently sitting down on the bench next to Slate. “Angel Bunny kept trying to outsmart the feeding machine, and when he couldn’t, well, let’s just say I think I need to help Angel Bunny learn how to share.” She smiled at Slate. She certainly had a beautiful smile, and with the careful way her mane draped around her face, it was delightful just to look at her. “So do you like the cake Pinkie made for you?”

    “Yes...” said Slate, his voice filled with suspicion.

    “Oh, I’m so glad!” said Fluttershy, smiling meekly. “I know it’s not much of a thank-you for all the hard work you did, but Pinkie said you liked chocolate, and I thought at the very least it would make you feel better.”

    “Feel better?” said Slate, his suspicion giving way to confusion. “I feel fine.”

    “Uhm, you know I don’t mean to correct you,” said Fluttershy. “But I know you don’t. Just look at those bags under your eyes - you have trouble sleeping, don’t you? And the way you almost panicked when I gave you a hug. You don’t like to be touched, do you?” Slate looked at Fluttershy, incredulous.

    “How...How do you know so much about me?” said Slate. “Have you been spying on me or something?”

    “Oh no, I’d never spy on anypony,” said Fluttershy. “I just pay really, really close attention to animals. And what are ponies but just a very special kind of animal? Not, um, that other animals aren’t special too.”

    “So...You’re giving me a cake because I have sleeping problems?” said Slate. What was up with these crazy mares? And what, exactly, were they planning on doing to him?

    “We gave you a cake because we’re your friends!” said Pinkie. Out of nowhere he felt himself embraced by her legs. Without thinking he began to panic, kicking and flailing his legs wildly, desperate to get out of Pinkie’s arms.

    “Now Pinkie, please,” said Fluttershy, gently prying Pinkie’s arms off of Slate. He stopped squirming. “Slate doesn’t like to be touched. Please don’t make this hard on him.” Fluttershy smiled at Slate, keeping her distance but making sure she held his eyes. He was unnerved - eye contact was disturbing to him, even when he could tell it was well intentioned. “Slate, we want to be your friends. Do you know what that means?” Slate looked nervously to the left and to the right, not wanting to admit that, in all honesty, he did not.

    “It means we’re gonna be your bestest pals!” said Pinkie. “We’ll throw parties and go on adventures and have so much FUN!”

    “Pinkie!” said Fluttershy, summoning what little ability to command she had. “Please try to control yourself around Slate. I know he doesn’t look it, but he’s very fragile. This is all very frightening and strange for him.” She looked into Slate’s eyes, and despite his initial fear, he felt himself melting in her gaze. “It is, isn’t it? You’ve never had a real friend, have you? And you don’t know what to do.”

    “That’s...That’s not true,” said Slate. He was terrible at lying, but what else could he do? Admit that Fluttershy was right? “I had lots of friends growing up!” Fluttershy just leaned in and gave him a light, gentle hug. To his surprise, he didn’t panic. Instead, he just felt himself wanting to cry. Fluttershy made him feel inexplicably safe. It was no wonder that the animals opened up to her so readily.

    “We’re your friends now,” said Fluttershy. “And friends help each other! So why don’t you tell me and Pinkie Pie what you’re drawing out here? Maybe we can help!”

    “Actually, maybe you can,” said Slate. He didn’t entirely feel safe yet, but it was clear that these mares weren’t out to hurt him. Whatever their intentions might be, they weren’t selfish, and they weren’t cruel. They probably wouldn’t even make fun of his idea. At least, he hoped they wouldn’t. “Do you know of a good library in the area?”

    “Oh, Twilight Sparkle has just the most AWESOMEST library with like, the coolest books!” said Pinkie. “Everything from Amazing Apples to Zelda the Zebra!”

    “Well, I’m more interested in some books on physics and aerodynamics,” said Slate. “But seeing as this library is operated by Princess Twilight Sparkle, I’m sure she’ll have what I need.”

Chapter 4: Twilibrary

    Things had been going well for Twilight these past few months. Not only had she ascended to princesshood and saved all of Equestria from an other-worldly threat, but she had not yet been asked to take up the sort of responsibility and hard work that being a princess normally required. All of the respect, none of the effort. She didn’t know how long this would last, but in the meantime she’d make good use of her time - there were, after all, new books in her library she hadn’t even gotten to yet.

    “Spike, did the new shipment from the Equestrian Press arrive yet?” said Twilight, her eyes filled with delight. Exercising her princessly authority, she had commissioned several books intended to compile and expound upon various magical scrolls that she’d found moldering in the Canterlot Archives. Between her recent re-discovery of Starswirl the Bearded’s magical inventions and her portal-swapping adventures, Twilight had revealed vast gaps in Equestria’s magical knowledge - gaps she intended to fill.

    “It hasn’t come in yet,” said Spike. “But the mail-mare said it would be arriving special-order later today. You just ordered too much for her bag!”

    “It’s probably better this way,” said Twilight. “You know how clumsy she is - I don’t want dirt and hoof prints all over my brand-new First Editions!” There was the unmistakable sound of a hoof pounding on her door, and she eagerly went to open it. “I bet that’s the delivery stallion now!”

    It most certainly was not. Rather than the tall, handsome, muscular book-delivery stallion that she normally got to ogle, she found herself face to face with somepony shorter, fatter, and considerably less handsome. He clearly wasn’t here to deliver books, but he was flanked by Fluttershy and Pinkie Pie, so clearly, he had good reason to be here.

    “Hey there!” said Twilight, extending a hoof and looking at Slate warmly. “Princess Twilight Sparkle, here to help!” Much to her surprise, though, rather than shaking a hoof, the stallion stared at it for a moment, apparently not understanding. Was he a foreigner? She knew that the representatives from Saddle Arabia didn’t shake hooves, they bowed politely. Maybe she was supposed to bow?

    Pinkie whispered in the stallion’s ear and he got the hint, shaking Twilight’s hoof vigorously. Clearly, he knew of the custom, but for whatever reason he didn’t understand it, or at the very least didn’t understand that she wanted him to go through with it. It was certainly an awkward way to start things off, to be sure.

    “So you’re in charge of the town library, then?” said the still-anonymous stallion.

    “Oh, yes!” said Twilight. “Are you here to use it?” Rather than answering with words, the stallion simply made his way inside, wandering around and looking up and down the rows. After letting Fluttershy and Pinkie in, she closed the door, staring at the stallion quizzically.

    “Oh, um, don’t mind him,” said Fluttershy. “He’s...Different. But completely harmless, I assure you.”

    “What’s he here for?” asked Twilight. He moved around the stacks seemingly at random, apparently frustrated by something he either saw or did not see.

    “His name is Slate,” explained Pinkie, her usual bubbly smile helping Twilight to deal with the uncomfortable nature of the situation. “He’s one of the inspectors from the Ponymark Office in Fillydelphia.”

    “Oh! Does he need access to our official records in order to help out with the Cake’s trademark application?” asked Twilight. As a newly-minted member of the Equestrian bureaucracy, Twilight had taken the MMMM’s trademark application as an opportunity to study Equestrian intellectual property law. As such, she’d obtained all the recommended form books on the subject and had even helped the Cake’s submit the initial forms. It was rather exciting, in its own way.

    “Actually he finished that yesterday, and mailed it out,” said Pinkie. “But he’s got something else he’s working on, and he said he needed your library to figure it out.”

    “Oh! Well, what is it? I’ve got books on everything in here,” said Twilight. Her library was a point of pride, and she always worked hard to keep it up-to-date and well organized. While most ponies were only interested in the latest Daring Do novella or spicy romance stories, she nonetheless worked hard to keep an accurate and up-to-date reference section. While most libraries kept the latest volume of the encyclopedias and almanacs and left it at that, Twilight brought in everything from textbooks to treatises as best she could. Sure, the demand was light, but with a princess’s budget, bits were no object. If she wanted a book, she’d have it.

    “No, you don’t,” said Slate, indignant. “I can’t find a damn thing I want.” He was clearly upset about this, but Twilight was used to it. She did all of the stacking and shelving herself, and as such, either she or Spike invariably ended up retrieving most of the books for patrons. They would search briefly, walk past what they wanted, get upset about it, and Twilight would mollify them. It was just part of being a librarian - even a princess librarian.

    “Well, why don’t we check the catalog?” said Twilight, using her magic to levitate the massive, hoof-written book over to Slate. He looked at it, apparently even more upset.

    “What the hay is this?” said Slate, turning the pages indignantly with his hoof. Twilight winced. Mud and dirt were hard to remove from pages, and she hated it when patrons used their hooves, rather than magic or a page-turning tool, to move from one sheet to the next. “Everything’s in the order you acquired it. This is useless. I can’t find anything in here.”

    “Of course it’s in the order I acquired it,” said Twilight. “I record each and every acquisition as it arrives.”

    “And you remember them all?” said Slate, incredulous.

    “Well I’d be lying if I said Spike didn’t help out a lot,” said Twilight. “He’s my number-one assistant, you know. So why don’t you just tell me what you want, and Spike or I will retrieve it?”

    “I don’t know if the book I want exists,” said Slate. “But if you could point me towards whatever you have on high-speed aerodynamics, I can at least eliminate what I’ve already read.

    “Aerodynamics?” said Twilight, confused. She’d heard the term before, mostly from Rainbow Dash, but she’d never heard it to use anything other than the uniforms worn by professional flight groups. “You mean like with gryphons and pegusai?”

    “Well, they use aerodynamics, sure,” said Slate. “Look, do you at least have a physics section?”

    “We have a delightful selection on physical manifestations of magic…”

    “How does that help me?” said Slate, indignant. “Do I look like a unicorn to you? I need to study the physical properties of matter, not just wave my horn around and make everything better.” The way he said “unicorn” dripped with contempt. She knew that many earth ponies were jealous of unicorns and pegusai, but she’d never met one who was so open in his jealousy.

    “Hey now, I’m just trying to help,” said Twilight, growing indignant. This Slate character was excessively rude, and even if he was with Pinkie and Fluttershy, he had no right to talk to her like that.

    “Help me how?” said Slate. “Your library seems to be shelved almost at random, you don’t have any books I can actually use, and your entire front hall is filled with romance novels and books for foals.”

    “The front area is set up so that casual readers can find what they want easier!” said Twilight. Her library was her pride and joy, and to have it dismissed so casually hurt her deeply.

    “Casual readers can get their books from Barnyard Bargains,” said Slate. “I need real books. Not all of us our princesses, you know. Some of us can’t just magic up solutions to our problems.” Twilight was now fuming. This pony came in from nowhere, started insulting her library, and now he was insulting her. She had a good mind to throw him out this instant. And who was going to stop her? She was a princess now - she could make ponies behave whether they wanted or not!

    Before she could magically chuck him out the front door or buck him hard in the face, Twilight felt a small yellow hoof on her shoulder. “Uhm, I know you’re mad,” said Fluttershy. “But please, Slate is…” Fluttershy couldn’t quite put her feelings into words - a usual problem with her - but it was clear she felt strongly about Slate.

    “What she’s trying to say,” said Pinkie. “Is that Slate may be rough on the outside, but he’s just trying to help. It might not be clear what he’s trying to help, but…”

    “I’m trying to build something that will enable particularly talented pegusai to avoid the disturbances over their control surfaces inherent in transonic propulsion,” said Slate.

    “Oh...Kay…” said Twilight. She had no idea what he was talking about, which was a rare experience for Twilight. Even when Pinkie went off on a random tear, she was talking about understandable things, usually involving baking.

    “Look, how about we just go out for a nice hay smoothie and let him work?” said Fluttershy. “I’ve got coupons!” Twilight was hesitant to leave her library unattended - especially in the hooves of this ruffian - but Spike was around, and Spike always seemed to have a lot more patience than she did when it came to “difficult” patrons.

    “All right,” said Twilight. “And while we’re out, you can explain to me why, exactly, you brought Slate here.”

***

    “So explain to me again what, exactly, Slate built for Fluttershy?” asked Twilight. The smoothies were long since finished, as was the coffee, the biscottis and the two slices of chocolate cake. They had been gone for hours now, and the entire time, Pinkie and Fluttershy had been constantly pushing the conversation away from Slate and on to other topics. It was not that she didn’t enjoy talking with her friends, but she did want to know, in detail, why Pinkie and Fluttershy were hanging out with this strange stallion.

    “Well, see, he saw that I um, spend so much time feeding my animals each day,” said Fluttershy. She had finished everything she’d been given, but with the incredible, timid slowness that made it no small wonder that she was able to keep her light, cute figure. There was still half a biscotti on that plate, and no chocolate cake to be seen.

    “It’s like this,” said Pinkie. “Slate came in to approve the MMMM’s trademark, and he was like, totally weird and rude at first…” Twilight nodded, trying to pick out the facts from Pinkie’s convoluted and extended story. Jade Singer she was not. Twilight did manage to learn, however, that Slate was a rough, rude but well intentioned pony who, despite his inability to understand proper social behavior, had helped out the Cakes, and then Fluttershy, immensely. He was intelligent and hardworking, and the machinations that resulted from his actions were beneficial, although it took more than a little patience to put up with him long enough to reap the benefit of his presence. He was also phenomenally intelligent and, due to his experience and training at the patent office, very scientifically versed.

    “So you brought him to my library to help him finish this...What did he call it exactly?” asked Twilight.

    “He told me it was a ‘Shock Cone,” said Fluttershy. “Although I don’t know what that means.

    “Well, he kept asking for stuff about pegusai,” said Twilight. “And lightning bolts are the ultimate kind of shock. Do you think he could be interested in something involving the weather?”

    “I don’t know,” said Fluttershy. “When he audited my books and started looking through my living room, he was talking about money saving and efficiency. Then before I could stop him, he started ripping up my appliances.”

    “Fluttershy!” said Twilight, aghast. “You let him break your things? I know you’re not exactly Iron Will, but that’s a level of passivity usual even for you.”

    “He was just trying to help,” said Fluttershy, defending both herself and Slate. “After all, if he’d just told me that he was trying to build a machine that would feed all of my animals, I’d have gladly let him! I’ve wanted to redecorate the kitchen for a while, so losing the refrigerator and dishwasher isn’t all that bad.”

    “Refrigerator and dishwasher?” said Twilight. “And I left him alone in my library? Good intentions or not, some of those books are irreplaceable - and who knows what he’s doing with them!”

    “Calm down,” said Pinkie. “We’ve been here for hours, and if there was a problem, Spike would have let us know.”

    “Four hours?” said Twilight, mishearing Pinkie and not bothering to check for a correction. “I’ll be late for my bi-monthly reshelving! It was nice to talk to you girls, but I have to go!” she took off at a trot, leaving her yet-untrained wings and her teleportation spells aside for now. She didn’t want to be too rude, after all. And she was telling the truth - it was the second Tuesday of the month, and she and Spike were scheduled to do the reshelving. Still, she knew it was rather rude to leave her friends like that, but surely they understood - she had left her library unattended, and despite all their efforts to mollify her and convince her that it was safe, they had also told her that Slate had no respect for other pony’s property. And her library didn’t just belong to her - it belonged to all of the citizens of Ponyville, to serve as a source of knowledge and enjoyment for all of them.

    Much to her surprise, however, Twilight found the library to be, more or less, in the same shape she’d left it. Slate was still there, he was still grumbling as he worked his way through various books, and he was still rude and not worth talking to. Spike, however, was nowhere to be seen - which was strange, since he was usually the first to help library patrons whenever there were any. “Spike? Where are you?” asked Twilight.

    “In the kitchen!” said Spike. Twilight followed his voice, and found herself overwhelmed by pleasant smells. She knew that Spike had been studying cooking in his spare time, but thus far, his experiments had all been exceedingly unpleasant, excepting those cookie and cake recipes from Pinkie - provided he remembered that only dragons liked gems in their cupcakes.

    “Spike, what is that delightful smell?” asked Twilight. It was coming from a large pot that Spike was gently stirring.

    “It’s the marinara sauce I’m making for the spaghetti,” said Spike. He proffered a small spoonful to Twilight, who tasted it. It was astoundingly good. “Normally I don’t have time to make the sauce from scratch, but when Slate started reshelving the books, I realized I had all the time in the world! That’s why it came out so well - no need to rush it this time. Just nice fresh ingredients from the market, a little bit of dragon fire, and a whole lot of dragon stirring and spicing!”

    “You let him reshelve my books?” said Twilight, indignant.

    “Oh don’t get your mane in a tizzy,” said Spike, hopping down off the stool he was using to give him access to the stovetop. He opened the oven and pulled out a set of roasted hayballs. They smelled every bit as good as the marinara. “You always wanted to have your books shelved not only by topic, but to have the topics divided up alphabetically among larger topics. I showed him the plans you sketched out, and he went to town on them. I’ve never seen a pony sort, organize and categorize like that before. Even you, Twilight!” Confused, Twilight walked back into the library to check. Indeed, Slate wasn’t just taking books off the shelves to examine them - he was sorting and organizing them into type, and even following the plan she laid out. The Popular Fiction and Young Pony Fiction sections by the front door, the Magic books out by her favorite desk, and the various other Reference manuals sorted from Alicorn to Zebra in the reference room. He was clearly far from done - without magical assistance, reshelving was a slow process. But she saw no reason to interfere. Especially since interference would require her to talk with Slate, an experience which was doubtless to be unpleasant.

    “Well, if he’s doing that, then I guess we have time to enjoy dinner together for once,” said Twilight. Spike grinned, his satisfaction at a job well done beaming from his eyes. His helpfulness certainly did border on obsequiousness a little bit, but he had the sort of loving, hard-working nature that she had grown to love in her brother. It made Spike easy to love, and though he could be a bit of a doormat at times, he could always be counted on to do an excellent job. And that, more than anything else, was why he was her number one assistant.

    “It’s been a long time since we got to sit down and have a real meal together,” said Spike, who quickly set the small table in the kitchen. This was indeed true - generally Twilight would have a quick sandwich or something while she worked, and when she did eat a big meal, she would eat with her friends, which did not necessarily mean Spike was invited. It was, after all, somewhat embarrassing, having Spike and the waiter both fawning over Rarity while Fluttershy couldn’t summon enough bravery to get a refill on her water. Something quiet and simple, with Spike playing the role of waiter, was nice - and she hadn’t really had many such nights ever since she left Canterlot for Ponyville.

    “That does indeed sound nice,” said Twilight, going over to the cupboard and pulling out a bottle of wine. None for Spike, of course, but what could go better with pasta?”

    “If you think that’s nice, just wait until I break out the garlic bread!”

***

    Twilight yawned as she woke up, her head pounding much more than it should. She remembered over-eating more than a bit last night, and that she followed up that over-eating with over-drinking. It had been so long since she’d been able to sit down and chat with Spike as a friend rather than a “servant,” and she had been too polite (and too distracted by good food and conversation) to refuse his constant refills of her wine glass. Twilight knew she was a lightweight when it came to alcohol (even attempting to keep up with Applejack or Rainbow Dash had proven that much) and knew she was going to have trouble the next morning when she found it difficult to work her way upstairs to bed, but all in all it had been worth it. The pasta was great, the wine was even better, and getting to catch up with Spike had been the best of all. She’d need to make it more of a regular thing - especially what with her princesshood meaning that she’d be spending more and more time away in Canterlot. There was also her relationship with Flash Sentry to consider.

    Twilight worked gently down the stairs, avoiding the bright lights and trying not to step on Spike’s bed. She hadn’t heard the alarm yet, so he probably wasn’t awake. Therefore she should have just enough time to get some water in her, along with an anti-hangover spell, before he got up. Maybe she could even do her hair and get ready for the day. She knew Spike wouldn’t make fun of her for being a little hung-over in the morning, but still. It was embarrassing for a princess to present herself in such a manner.

    As she stood in front of the kitchen sink, nursing a glass of water and trying to remember the exact mental incantation for curing her hangover (always a downside of the spell - when one needed it, one was usually too out of it to cast it) when she saw Derpy, the mail-mare, bumbling about across the street. That was an odd thing to see before the seven AM alarm went off - Derpy usually didn’t show up until well after nine, even on a good day. Still, she was not known for dependability or reliability - only being loveable, and for somehow getting all of the mail delivered despite the inevitable delays, accidents and mistakes that came from her clumsy nature and strabismus. A real trooper, that one.

    Still, the sun seemed awfully high in the sky for seven AM. Though it was summer and the days started soon and ended late, usually she couldn’t see the sun until ten at the soonest, what with all the houses and buildings in the way. After finally managing to cast her “cure hangover” spell successfully, she trotted back up to her bed to check. Maybe she’d forgotten to wind up her alarm clock again. Or maybe she was just misinterpreting things in the haze of an early-morning hangover.

    Much to her dismay, however, she found her alarm clock was gone entirely. It had not merely run down or been accidentally knocked off its place on her bedside table, it was completely gone. Spike was as well - and his bed was still made from yesterday, indicating he’d never slept in it. This wasn’t just unusual, it was worrying. Spike was rigorous in his sleep schedule most nights (summer and winter solstice excepted) and she’d rarely found him oversleeping or waking up early. As she hadn’t seen him in the kitchen (his normal early-morning haunt - making pancakes or hay-strips along with fresh-squeezed juice) she headed to the bathroom, but found it empty. Becoming increasingly worried, she began to search the library, hoping to find him sleeping among the stacks. But he seemed nowhere to be found. Now in a panic, she began running around, calling out his name, but he didn’t reply. Fearful that he had been hurt - or worse - she threw open the door to the reference section of the library, the only part of the house (short of the basement) that she had not yet checked.

    As she threw open the door, she was overpowered by an intense and unpleasant odor, along with a vague, smoky smell. “Spike? Are you okay? Please talk to me, Spike!” Had there been some sort of a fire? She remembered Spike going off on his own after she went to bed, presumably to make sure all the doors were locked and that there were no patrons in the library now that it was closed. But she realized that she never remembered him coming back - and that she hadn’t seen Slate leave, either. Clearly, the two were connected.

    Using her magic to clear the smoke, she took minor comfort in that there had not been a fire, only an abundance of cigarette use. In the middle of the reference area, next to the main reading desk, a flower pot had been converted into a reeking, stinking mass of cigarette butts, many of which were still smoldering and emitting a disgusting smell. She had always hated tobacco smell, and had been glad of its near-universal ban in most Canterlot eating and educational establishments. It was likewise banned in her library - but apparently Slate had not bothered to follow the “No Smoking” sign posted at the door. Inconvenient, sure, but she could easily clean up the mess and stink with magic, and it didn’t explain Spike’s disappearance.

    As she was removing the now-ruined flower pot from the desk in order to teleport it to the Ponyville dump, she found herself off her hooves and sprawling on the ground. The flowerpot shattered, spilling cigarette butts and ash all over the floor. Startled, she turned around to see Spike asleep in a pile of small notecards, his body sprawled wildly in the position he took whenever he had to sleep, but had not been successful in making it to bed. Startled and relieved to finally find him again, she grabbed him close, hugging him tight in her hooves without bothering to wake him up.

    “Oh Spike, I was so worried!” said Twilight. He grumbled a bit, apparently surprised to find himself in Twilight’s embrace, as well as in the reference section.

    “What...What time is it?” said Spike, rubbing a claw in his eye as he struggled to wake up. She realized that his claw was slightly red and inflamed - the usual result of too much claw-writing. How did that happen? Ever since she shifted to writing checklists herself, Spike had only to check them off, and hadn’t gotten a case of claw-cramp ever since.

    “I don’t know, let me check…” In order to keep on schedule, Twilight had clocks stationed throughout the house, and she had put one rather large ornamental one in the reference room as a practical decoration. It read 10:24. She tilted her head. That couldn’t be right - she hadn’t slept in past ten since that nasty cold she caught last winter. Then she saw that her misappropriated alarm clock was on the reading desk, and that it read the same. “Spike, I can’t believe it! How...How did we both sleep in so late! Oh my gosh, the library was supposed to open hours ago! And I have a meeting with Applejack at eleven!” Before she could begin to genuinely panic about how much of the day she missed, she heard Spike groan. It was not his usual exasperated groan - a mixture of frustration at Twilight’s tendency to over-react to problems and his desire to not have to work 110% all of the time. It was a moan of pain, like he had let out that first time he got a serious case of claw-cramp.

    “He made me fill out these little cards all night!” said Spike, pointing to a series of neat stacks of note cards - misappropriated flash cards from Twilight’s exam prep, no doubt - which had been scribbled on and then placed in order. There was shelving for them too, a strange set of drawers which had clearly been built to hold the cards - and which, from the looks of it, had been constructed from the writing desk she’d been keeping in the basement and intending to refurbish.

    “Are you telling me Slate did this?” said Twilight. It was one thing to smoke in her library or mess with her books. But it was another thing entirely for any pony to terrorize her dragon like this. Spike was more than a pet - he was her number-one assistant, and the only true non-family friend she’d had before she moved to Ponyville.

    “He made me fill out cards and shelve books,” said Spike. “I tried to stop him - really, I did! But he’s so big and strong and mean, and he wouldn’t stop! I kept trying to go to bed, but every time I tried, he’d ring the alarm clock in my ears! And he wouldn’t stop putting these little stickers on all your books!” Twilight looked around, and realized that, indeed, small stickers had been placed on hundreds of volumes within her reference library. There were numbers and letters on them which seemed to correlate to the cards, and it was then that Twilight realized what Slate had been doing.

    “He...He was cataloging the books with these!” said Twilight, picking up a few of the cards. Most were carefully written in Spike’s superb claw-writing, although a few had the clumsy and unpracticed lines of an earth-pony using his mouth. Each one of them corresponded to a book, and the cards were sorted by author and subject. Further examination revealed that the paperwork on the desk was, in addition to strange scribblings of cones and mathematical formulas, a system of breaking down almost everything in the library into topics, subtopics and sub-subtopics. It was brilliant in its simplicity, and especially in the way it enabled new books to be added to the catalog merely by filing a couple of cards in the correct location.

    Brilliant as this was, however, it wasn’t something Twilight had asked for. And, even worse, it had come at the cost of Spike, who was clearly suffering from terror, claw cramp and exhaustion. She also wondered if the dense smoke had been affecting him too - Spike had surprisingly sensitive lungs and nasal passages for a dragon, and certain kinds of smoke and dust made him downright asthmatic at times. Concerned for his health, she picked him up and carried him upstairs to his bed, tucking him in gently.

    “You sleep for now, Spike, and I’ll just have to tell Applejack that our eleven-o-clock is off - I’ve got a stallion who’s got a lot of explaining to do!” Just then, she heard the doorbell. She rushed down as quick as she could, her mind now burning with anger. If it was Slate, come back for more damage, he was about to learn what a princess did to her subjects when they were so mistreated and used!

    Much to her surprise, however, she found herself confronted by the handsome delivery stallion that always brought her books. Though she never had the courage to flirt with him, she nonetheless found him pleasing to look on, and they had a good rapport - at least as far as his carrying of heavy boxes of books and helping her to shelve them was concerned.

    “Are you okay, princess?” asked the delivery stallion.

    “I’m fine, Gary,” said Twilight. She then sighed. No need to lie for the sake of it. “Actually, I’m not. Have you seen a gray stallion with a black mane and green eyes?”

    “Was he kinda fat?” said Gary, rubbing his hoof against his head. “I remember a stallion like that signing for some books I delivered here yesterday afternoon. I’d never seen him before, but he said he was reorganizing your library for you and said he had the authority to sign for the books.” Twilight sighed. Gary, for all his handsomeness and brute strength, was a bit too trusting and naïve. More than once he’d let someone sign for a package, only to find out later the pony was an impostor, and a quick search (indeed, in one case a criminal investigation) was sure to follow.

    “Please tell me he didn’t damage them,” said Twilight.

    “Actually he yelled at me, saying I wasn’t handling them properly,” said Gary. “After he took delivery he slammed the door on me. They aren’t damaged, are they?”

    “I haven’t had time to check,” said Twilight. “Look, just...Did you see him?”

    “Not since yesterday,” said Gary. “But he gave me this order form and told me that you needed these books ASAP. He even referenced a special expedited checking account from a bank in Fillydelphia. Said it was his own and you’d reimburse him.”

    “What books?” asked Twilight, confused. “You already delivered my Starswirl compendiums, if Slate did indeed sign for them.

    “These!” said Gary, throwing wide the back of his enclosed horse-cart. Twilight almost went slack-jawed.

    “There must be hundreds of them!” said Twilight. She hopped up into the cart and began examining them. They were all titles she’d never heard of before - A Cartoon Guide to Physics for Foals, A Brief History of Reality by Steve Hawkfeather, and The Nature of Things by Albert Holstein - there was, at least, a clear pattern of them involving this “physics” that Slate had been railing about.

    “Can you sign for them and help me unload?” asked Gary. “I would have gotten here at nine like usual, but it took an hour to get these on there at the overnight depot.”

    “Slate didn’t happen to say he’d be back for these, did he?” asked Twilight. She had to resist the temptation to open up these new volumes and pour through them. A whole world of science that she’d overlooked! She was going to learn so, so much in the next few weeks. After she dealt with Slate for hurting her precious little dragon, of course.

    “Actually he did,” said Gary.

    “Good,” said Twilight. “That’ll save me the trouble of looking for him. Because he’s got a hell of a lot of explaining to do…”

Chapter 5: Applefall Fabrics

    It wasn’t like Twilight to be late. In fact, among her friends, Applejack joked that, if Twilight was fifteen minutes late, they needed to notify the police, because she must have been kidnapped. As such, when Twilight failed to appear in front of the Apple Barn at 11 precisely, as scheduled, Applejack ran into town at full speed to find out what was the matter. This sort of tardiness had only happened twice before, and in both cases, Applejack found herself needing to rescue Twilight from a very inconvenient situation. Applejack just hoped it wasn’t something too disgusting or hard to clean up this time.

    The stench coming from Twilight’s library, and the presence of a heavy horse-cart, led Applejack to wonder if maybe there had been some sort of accident, but when she recognized the smell as tobacco smoke and the truck as a book delivery vehicle, she found herself filled with more questions than answers. Twilight didn’t smoke, smoking wasn’t allowed in the library, and generally books were ordered piecemeal, three or four at a time as demand and damage warranted. Maybe there had been some sort of a tobacco-related fire and Twilight was replacing stock. But if there had been a fire, where was the fire department? And how had Twilight known what books to replace even before the smoke cleared?

    “Twilight, are you in here?” asked Applejack, going in through the open door. Inside, the smell had mostly dissipated - thanks in no small part to Twilight’s magical cleaning, no doubt. Twilight was indeed inside, arranging books. “You didn’t show up at eleven, so I got worried.”

    “Oh, I’m so sorry, Applejack!” said Twilight. It was clear that she really, genuinely was.

    “Its fine, sugar cube,” said Applejack, ruffling Twilight’s hair with her hoof.

    “It’s just that, well, it’s a long story,” said Twilight. “But some great and terrible things have happened here lately, and they’re all due to this stallion called Slate.”

    “You mean that gray and black pony from Fillydelphia?” said Applejack. She had seen him at the party Pinkie threw in the barn, and found him shy and unexceptional. Other than the fact that he had a deep-seated love of Pinkie’s cooking (and really, who didn’t?) she knew nothing about him.

    “Okay, so you know of him,” said Twilight. “Do you know he’s very weird?” Applejack rolled her eyes. To such a down-to-earth and sensible earth pony, every pony was weird. It was what made them interesting.

    “Does his being weird have something to do with the fact you aren’t using your magic to help me with my apple maggot problem?” The invasion of these destructive pests, so recently come to Sweet Apple Acres and so stubborn to be removed, was the primary reason Applejack wished to speak with Twilight. Previously she had cast spells which made the apples unappealing to the maggots, which ensured they sought sustenance in the Everfree Forest instead. However, a new strain had appeared which was apparently unaffected by the spell, and Applejack preferred to turn to magical intervention before chemicals - so long as the magic actually worked. Which was surprisingly rare at times.

    “Well, partly,” said Twilight. “See, Slate is...A very peculiar kind of different. I left him unattended last night and I woke up this morning to find my reference room filled with smoke.”

    “I don’t see how smoking tobacco makes a pony weird,” said Applejack. “More that it makes ‘em unsociable. And coughy.”

    “Well, I also found that he’d re-shelved and re-categorized my books, and came up with a new filing system - all without asking. And he ordered a huge cache of new books on a form of science I’d never studied before, all without even telling me what, exactly, he was up to.”

    “Well, that’s certainly strange,” said Applejack. “But I don’t see the harm in it.”

    “Tell that to Spike,” said Twilight. “He forced Spike to stay up all night, turning my flash cards into catalog cards. The poor dear is laid up with the worst case of claw cramp I’ve ever seen.”

    “Now that’s a whole hay of a lot less acceptable,” said Applejack. Though there were certain unpleasantries inherent in farming, she did her best to be kind to other, non-pony creatures where possible. While she found Fluttershy’s approach a bit naïve, a soft touch usually provided easier and longer-lasting results than a buck to the face. Forcing a creature to work, especially one who could tell you they were in pain, wasn’t just counterproductive - it was needlessly cruel.

    “And I won’t even go into what he did at Fluttershy’s house,” said Twilight. “The point is that Slate is a problem, and even though he’s Pinkie’s friend, we need to do something about him.” Applejack rolled her eyes again. Everypony was Pinkie’s friend, regardless of good behavior (indeed, often in spite of it). More than once, Applejack had needed to remind Pinkie that friendship did not extend to a right to misappropriate or destroy another’s property.

    “Well, he’s not here to stay, is he?” asked Applejack. “Let’s just get him on the first train back to Fillydelphia, and after he makes his apologies, we’ll never need to worry about him again.”

    “That’s the thing,” said Twilight. “He was supposed to leave a couple of days ago, after he finished the trademark evaluation for the Cakes’s MMMM. Which, and I’ve talked to the local bureaucratic office, has already been filed and approved. He’s missing from work without approval for leave, and nopony seems to know where he is. He’s checked out of the hotel where he was staying, and after buying a mess of baked goods from Sugarcube Corner, he apparently fell off the map entirely. So I don’t know where he is, or what he’s doing. And even if he’s just trying to help…”

    “Even if he’s just trying to help, you want to know where he is,” said Applejack. It was certainly a reasonable concern. It wasn’t unusual for visitors to make trouble in Ponyville, even unintentionally, and the best way to keep them out of trouble was to know, at least approximately, where they were. More than once, Applejack’s rope-handling and herding skills had come into play to deal with migrating herds, drunken vagrants, and other dangerous but not malevolent threats. She doubted she’d need to tie up Slate, but if he was commandeering Twilight’s flashcards and books and forcing Spike to write until his claws gave out, he certainly couldn’t be left unattended and unimpeded.

    “Exactly,” said Twilight. “I just want to know what he’s up to, and make sure it isn’t malicious - even by accident. I don’t think Slate means to cause trouble, but…”

    “But he is,” said Applejack. “And that’s enough reason to keep tabs on him.”

***

    Despite the slight delay in obtaining Twilight’s help with the maggot problem, the rest of the day had gone rather well for Applejack. Once Twilight had talked her ears off about Slate’s apparent problems and the supposed damage he’d done to Fluttershy’s house, she was all too eager to put the “Slate problem” in Applejack’s hands and focus on her reading - after dropping by to cast the maggot-repelling spells she promised, of course. Applejack had, in turn, passed on the task of finding Slate to Applebloom and the other Cutie Mark Crusaders, who were all too eager to earn their “Pony Finding Cutie-Marks.” Though she had no doubt that the Cutie Mark Crusaders would not, in fact, find Slate in their wanderings, handing the task off to them would give Applejack a sense that something was being done while she focused on her farm work and tried to come up with a more sensible, in-depth solution to the problem.

    While most ponies found farm work agonizingly hard and painfully dull, to Applejack it was a form of meditation, a series of repeated, simple actions that helped Applejack to clear her head. Freed from the heaviest labor (it was Big Mac who did the plowing, log removal and other heavy lifting tasks) she was free to stick to apple-bucking, crop harvesting and other more mundane, repetitive tasks that were too delicate for Big Mac but not within the limited skill set of either Granny Smith or Applebloom.

    The time that Applejack spent pulling weeds and removing stones from the rhubarb patch was time that Applejack had to think about the problem. Clearly, Slate had a bit of a screw loose, but that didn’t make him dangerous. Thus far, he hadn’t done any serious harm, and other than Spike’s nasty claw-cramp (which seemed unintentional) he hadn’t hurt anyone. Also, he hadn’t boarded the train back to Fillydelphia, but he hadn’t been seen either - which was a good sign that he had probably made his own way back by another method, or simply boarded a train without being seen. The conductor could not be expected to remember every pony that got on and off his train, and from how Twilight had described Slate, the stallion was not the sort of pony who liked to stand out and get noticed. As for not reporting for work, there could be all sorts of reasons for such behavior - everything from a simple desire for an unplanned vacation to a sudden onset of unexpected illness. Applejack knew that, when she was laid up with a cold, the last thing she wanted to do was go around notifying every one of her illness. A few words to friends and family who came to visit and the rest would get the message.

    The weeding and stone removal done, Applejack loaded the unwanted stones and plants into separate carts and began pulling them down towards the rock pit and compost pile. Stones usually found a use, and it was cheaper and easier to use her own rocks than to buy them from a rock farm - despite Pinkie’s protestations that rock farms were important, and that the quality of rocks offered by Pie Family rock farms were superior to any of those that could be found sitting on the ground. Composting too helped save money, and there was always precious little to go around. It wasn’t that the farm didn’t make a lot of money - they practically minted bits themselves, especially during the cider season - but there were always so many expenses. Harnesses, carts and other tools wore out with surprising speed, and structures were always in need of construction, repair and destruction. Not to mention the share-and-share-alike nature of the Apple Family meant that Sweet Apple Acres needed to always be ready to subsidize a distant Apple Family farm that had fallen on bad times.

    Thinking about money brought Applejack’s mind back to Slate. Clearly, the stallion understood money on a very deep level - not only had he balanced the Cakes’s books as a matter of course, but he had inspected Fluttershy’s books and placed credit-based orders for Twilight’s library. This clearly meant that he knew his way around bits, and how to keep them flowing properly. Whatever he was up to must be expensive, and that meant he had to, one way or another, have access to the local branch of the Equestrian bank. It was so simple - all Applejack had to do to find Slate was to follow the money. If Twilight wasn’t so absorbed in her own mind, she would have realized this right away - Slate was either at the bank or near enough to where he could tap into its resources, and so the bank tellers must know where he was.

    Racing back into town to beat banker’s hours, Applejack soon found herself in the manager’s office, politely conversing with Cold Cash, the rather unsociable but surprisingly kind operator of the bank. Apparently he had become familiar with Slate over the past few days, especially in terms of Slate’s demanding and brisk nature.

    “Well, it’s not often that you get tellers complaining to me that a customer is yelling at them,” said Cash. “Generally it’s that customers aren’t filling out the proper paperwork. Short tempers are somewhat expected when large numbers of bits are involved. But with Slate, all of his paperwork is immaculate - excepting, of course, his somewhat illegible writing. But that’s common among many earth-ponies and pegusai.”

    “So you’ve seen him every day this week?” said Applejack.

    “Oh yes,” said Cash. “At first he was getting receipts and checks, presumably so he could file for reimbursement with the Ponymark Office when he got back. But then he shifted to bits, so I presume he’s buying local goods. Not a lot of Ponyville merchants accept checks, after all. I mean, they’re fine for large sums of money, but who would write a check for a pack of gum or a single sandwich?” Applejack chose not to answer this, though she knew Granny Smith was just one such a pony, generally out of an irrational fear of having her bits stolen by hooligans.

    “When does he usually come in?” asked Applejack.

    “Well generally, I’m not one to spread information about the behavior of my customers,” said Cash, smugly proud of the way he kept ponies’ money in strict confidence and with unimpeachable honesty. “But he’s like clockwork - first thing when we open, and with the paperwork filled out already. He’s bleary-eyed and clearly exhausted - I think he stays up nights, or gets up very early - and he always demands such large amounts! I had to contact the Central Office to verify that he does indeed have enough money in his Phillydelphia account to merit the withdrawal of so much cash. And he never seems to have it by the next day. He isn’t some sort of gambler, is he?”

    “Not that I’m aware of,” said Applejack. “Far as I and Twilight know, he’s no sort of criminal at all. Jes...He’s very strange, and we wanna keep an eye on him. To keep him out of trouble.” Cash nodded sagely, his experience with robbery, theft, embezzlement and fraud making him all too cautious about any pony that seemed out of the ordinary.

***

    After finding out where he was getting his bits, it was only a matter of talking with local merchants. Other than Rarity, who was in Canterlot purchasing supplies for her upcoming fall line, everyone else was in their respective establishments, and all of them were all too happy to talk with Applejack about the strange and mysterious character that had been coming into their shops and disappearing after making seemingly random purchases. The more chatty and suspicious shopkeepers were wondering why he needed so much wire and lightweight framing materials, and why he kept inquiring, again and again, about where he could get certain rare artificial fabrics. The answer was always “At Carousel Boutique, but it’s closed until Monday” and yet Slate kept asking, with increasing anger and frustration. He’d even tried to special-order some through Barnyard Bargains, and it was only Rich’s desire to negotiate up a high price that had managed to keep the deal from going through. Either Slate’s resources were indeed finite, or else he did not have the time and will to negotiate.

    After shopkeeper’s hours, she reported her findings back to Twilight, who began to piece them together. “From the look of things,” said Twilight. “I think he’s building a flying machine of some sort - something lightweight, which is why he needs all the wire and framework and fabric. Also the books he bought for my library - and that he never came back to read - are generally about physics, but the really advanced stuff is all about aerodynamics.”

    “Why would he want a flying machine?” asked Applejack. “If airships and balloons aren’t good enough, you can get a hoof-powered flying machine or a magic-powered one really cheap. Heck, even Pinkie has that sky-bike she uses to keep up with Rainbow Dash. As well as anyone can keep up with Rainbow.”

    “I can’t imagine,” said Twilight. “But if all he’s doing is building a flying machine, then we’ve got nothing to worry about. So long as he doesn’t try to come into my library again without apologizing for the mess he made.”

    “Well, I’ll always be ready to lend a hoof if he tries!” said Applejack. But before she could continue, Applebloom burst in through the front door, Scootaloo and Sweetie Bell in tow.

    “Big trouble at the farm, sis!” said Applebloom. She was clearly out of breath, and from the exhausted look on Scootaloo’s face, the three of them had come by Scootaloo’s scooter - a fast but not entirely comfortable or safe mode of transportation, reserved for only when the Cutie Mark Crusaders needed to get somewhere in more than a hurry. “All of Big Mac’s tools have gone missing!” Applejack smiled lightly. Everything was an emergency in Applebloom’s young mind. And Big Mac’s tools were never “missing,” only “misplaced.” With as many repairs as he needed to do on a daily basis, and as many times as he got distracted from his work (usually by Applebloom) it was inevitable that his tools would not be where they should be at times.

    “Calm down, Applebloom,” said Applejack, giving Twilight a knowing look. “I’ll help you find them. You can manage here on your own, right Twilight?” Twilight smiled.

    “I’ve got a lot of reading to catch up on!” said Twilight. “You just go ahead, and let me know if you hear anything, okay?”

***

    After her third hour of searching, Applejack had to admit that Big Mac’s tools had, improbably, disappeared. This had never happened before. Big Mac was not that absent minded, and while he lacked Twilight’s anal retentiveness, he nonetheless tended to keep things in a specified place, especially those things which he shared with the rest of the family. But it was now well past dark, and every closet, shed, gazebo and roof that Big Mac had worked on in the past month had been thoroughly checked out, and none of them had any of Big Mac’s tools. Not only that, but the search had revealed that a number of other tools were missing - from farming implements to sewing implements. None of them essential at the moment, but all important.

    “And you’re sure that you and your friends didn’t borrow them?” asked Applejack. She knew what the answer would be, but she felt obligated to ask anyway. They were out of leads, and it wasn’t like the Cutie Mark Crusaders didn’t help themselves to whatever they needed to keep their clubhouse well maintained and decorated.

    “For the last time, of course we didn’t!” said Applebloom. “I even checked the clubhouse myself - twice!”

    “Well they couldn’t have just disappeared,” said Granny Smith. “It’s one thing when we wake up and a bunch of apples have been eaten by the fruit bats or some zap apple jam goes ‘missing’ after a visit from one of your friends, but this is something else entirely. Those tools are important!”

    “Eeeyup!” said Big Mac. He looked despondent. Applejack knew he was blaming himself for this loss, even though it was not in any way his fault. He was always like this - putting everything on his shoulders. She sighed.

    “Look, it’s just a simple case of -” Applejack suddenly realized - all afternoon she’d been tracking down Slate’s movements for Twilight, and at no point had she found anypony who had sold Slate tools of any kind. Whatever flying machine he was building was one that would require tools, and what better place to obtain them than from the Apple Family shed? If Big Mac hadn’t needed them to refurbish a chicken coop, they might not have been missed before they were returned. “Applebloom, what’s the one place we haven’t looked?”

    “The old hay barn on the far side of the farm,” said Applebloom. “Nopony’s been there in months, not since that lightning bolt destroyed the roof.”

    “Then that’s where our tools are,” said Applejack. “And I bet our thief is there too!”

***

    In the dark, the dilapidated barn looked surprisingly spooky. However, it had signs that, over the past few days, somepony had been there. The roof had been crudely repaired with corrugated aluminum, covering the fire damage from the lightning bolt. The building was still in a dilapidated state and would need to be torn down as soon as time permitted, but it was suitable as a temporary structure, and it appeared the most loose and dangerous roof beams and pylons had been removed and stacked outside. The front door was locked, but a swift kick from Big Mac was a key that could open any door. Applejack expected to find Slate squatting in a hay bale, working on some strange contraption with the help of Big Mac’s stolen tools. But what she found instead was far, far stranger.

    “What is it?” said Applebloom, running this way and that as she tried to get a good look at the huge machine. Apparently, Big Mac’s tools were not all that Slate had stolen. The cider press, which they normally only used once a year, had likewise been taken, and it was now integrated into a large, sprawling machine on a series of wheels, powered by the same horse-wheel as before but now infinitely more complex.

    “Well, part of it is a cider press,” said Applejack. “But what in tar-nation…” Big Mac began to explore the device with his eyes and hooves, his understanding of complex farm machinery apparently making the device’s purpose clear to him. There were several bushels of (presumably stolen) apples that had been used to test the machine, and Big Mac placed them in a small chute at the front of the machine, then got into the wheel and began to turn it slowly. Apples were carefully drawn forward, pressed mechanically, and their juice separated into sealed containers, suitable for cider fermentation. The mash was then de-seeded, and seeds and mash placed into separate containers. Not only was the entire machine elegant, but it was as efficient as well. Even at a slow trot, three bushels of apples were broken down into their constituent parts and prepared for further processing in a matter of minutes.

    “That’s amazin’!” said Applebloom, who began to run around the machine, fascinated in the way it worked. She was more than a little mechanically inclined, and her eyes lit up as she saw the press working.

    “I don’t understand,” said Applejack. “Why did he build this? This can’t be what he was buyin’ all those air frame materials for. In fact, I think it’s all made from stuff that was bein’ stored in this barn, except for the apple press and what looks like that busted water pump.”

    “He who?” asked Applebloom. “Do you mean that gray pony you had me and Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle out looking for?”

    “Con-sarnit!” said Applejack. “Just when I thought I had this mystery figured out!” Before she could elaborate on her dealings with Slate and what she and Twilight had determined, Rainbow Dash appeared out of the sky, her hooves hitting the ground hard and kicking up a cloud of dust. Applejack was not amused. “What’s with the big entrance, Rainbow?”

    “Rarity’s been robbed!” said Rainbow Dash, ignoring the dirt, sand and dust kicked up by her hard landing. Clearly she had been sent over in a hurry, her hard landing more a result of high speed transit than her usual showing off. “She came back on the early train to find out that Carousel Boutique had been broken in to - and all of her sewing machines are gone, along with a number of bolts of very expensive fabric!”

    “That tears it!” said Applejack. “I know what pony did this, and now I wanna know where he is! Whatever his intentions are, they do NOT include stealin’ from my friends!”

    “Who did this?” said Rainbow Dash, stamping her hooves. She was every bit as mad as Applejack, and lacking in Applejack’s self-control. “I’ll stomp his plot so flat he’ll have to stand up to sit down!”

***

    Rarity was on her sofa, wailing with the sort of over-the-top drama-queen complaints that she was well known for. Applejack was the last to arrive - Fluttershy, Rainbow Dash, Pinkie Pie and Twilight had all arrived before her, and were likewise surprised to find out exactly how un-like a robbery this was. Slate had picked the lock rather than bursting in through a window, and while the cloth and sewing machines had indeed been taken, a large bag of bits had been left behind - in fact, several bags had been left. It was now clear why Slate had been taking out such large quantities from his bank on a daily basis - he wasn’t buying supplies, he was trying to reimburse Rarity for the ones he’d taken.

    “This is like, the worst...possible...thing!” said Rarity. Applejack and the others feigned interest, but really, the whole case seemed more peculiar than strange.

    “What’s so bad about it?” said Rainbow Dash. “There must be like, thousands of bits here. Didn’t you want to replace your heavy-duty sewing machine anyway? I mean it squeaked so loud, I had to stop napping on the tree outside your window. And there’s more than enough here to not only replace the cloth and the sewing machine - there’s enough to let you get started on that new gem line you’ve been meaning to start. The one with the gems you’ll have to buy instead of find!”

    “That’s not the point!” insisted Rarity. “My home - my SANCTUM - was VIOLATED by this mad pony!”

    “Well um, let’s not jump to conclusions,” said Fluttershy. “I mean, Slate has done a lot of strange things here lately, but they’ve all been for the best, haven’t they?”

    “Yeah, she’s right!” said Pinkie. “He’s done the Cakes’s books, he’s saved Fluttershy oodles of time, and he helped Twilight reorganize her library.”

    “And he built me a new cider press,” said Applejack. “But that’s not the point. Good intentions and good deeds aren’t enough.”

    “I never asked for my library to be re-cataloged,” said Twilight. “And while I’m sure he just wanted to help, it’s not enough to just want to do good in the world. You have to do the good that ponies want - that ponies NEED. Not just some random idea that you thought was useful.”

    “Would you have re-cataloged your library if Slate hadn’t done it?” said Pinkie. “He had a great idea that you never would have had!”

    “And if he’d told me that he was going to do that, I’d have let him!” said Twilight. “But the point is, he didn’t ask. He didn’t even tell me what he was doing! And he was so rude beforehand!”

    “Well what do you want us to do about it?” asked Pinkie. “We can’t change who he is. We don’t even really know who he is!”

    “I agree,” said Fluttershy. “I think he’s just really, really misunderstood. I’m sure he’ll bring back those tools and sewing machines when he’s done with them.”

    “Didn’t he destroy your ENITRE kitchen?” asked Rainbow Dash.

    “Uhm, no, not really,” said Fluttershy. “I mean, he took apart a bunch of appliances. And he did destroy that nice clock my mother got me for my birthday. But the next day, a shipment came in from Hooves Hardware, and he’d replaced everything he’d taken - it was all very nice!”

    “Wait a minute,” said Twilight. “Fluttershy, he built you a feeder.”

“Yes he did,” said Fluttershy.

“Pinkie Pie, he saved your boss from financial ruin.”

“He sure did!” said Pinkie. “And you should all be glad - where else but Sugar Cube Corner are you going to get chocolate dipped chocolate chip donuts?”

“And Applejack, he built you a new cider press?”

    “Sure’s shootin!” said Applejack.

    “And he gave Rarity a giant mountain of cash in exchange for her sewing machines and fabrics. Along with what he did to my library, that means the only one of us he hasn’t tried to help is…”

    “ME!” exclaimed Rainbow Dash, realization hitting her along with everypony else. “I swear to Celestia, if he so much as TOUCHED Tank…”

Chapter 6: Across the Sky

    Slate took a long drag on his cigarette, converting the last few dregs of tobacco into ash. His desk was positively drowning in ash and butts, and the near-constant smoking of so many hundreds of cigarettes filled the area with a constant, unpleasant haze. However, as he took one last look at his creation, he knew it had all been worth it.

    Never before had he made anything that was so large, and yet so light. In appearance, it was most similar to the cartoon space ships that made up the comic books and toys of young foals. It was smooth and sleek, with fins located behind a sharp, needle-like point. Behind what could only be termed a cockpit were two holes, which, other than the door, appeared to be the only access into or out of the strange craft. Its purpose was unclear to even the most educated observer, but to Slate, it was the most beautiful and wonderful thing in the universe - save, of course, for the one for which it had been created.

    And what a creation it had been! From initial sketches on discarded scraps of paper to the finished work had taken him weeks. Long, agonizing weeks of solitary labor and painful experimentation. Night after night without sleep, until the point where sleep seemed foreign to him. There was only the work, driven hard by coffee and cigarettes, his mouth and hooves carefully and quietly building, designing and assembling. Hallucinations were common now - auditory and visual, they served to drive him on, even as they became increasingly terrifying. Though he knew he was far from civilization, he nonetheless heard the trampling of hooves behind him and the shouting of voices. Monsters of unknown form crept up in the impenetrable darkness, only to disappear when he turned to face them. Even his own voice seemed not to come from him, but elsewhere in the cave.

    The first week had been the hardest - not only were the materials he needed scarce in Ponyville, he had no way of explaining what he needed them for. How were they to know that the duralumin struts he was purchasing would be converted into strong aluminum structural beams? How were they to know that roofing material would become a strong monocoque exterior, capable of withstanding high winds? How were they to know that the dozens of spools of wire would ultimately operate the control surfaces of such a magnificent invention? And, of course, there was the difficulty inherent in obtaining a sufficiently durable and soft cloth padding for the interior of the vehicle. When travelling at high speeds, simply slapping in a couple of cushions would not be enough. Everything had to be perfect. And it wasn’t like he had the pilot available to take measurements.

    The second week had seemed much easier. The supplies gathered - including sufficient quantities of coffee, pastries and cigarettes - he had but to bring his dream to life through assembly. It had been hard - his muzzle and hooves were badly cut and bruised from the work with so many tools, for so long, and under such harsh conditions. The hallucinations became more frequent, as did his exhaustion, the longer he worked. But somehow he was able to keep creating, and keep building, through all of the pain, discomfort and insanity. Somehow it all seemed to make sense. Somehow it all seemed to come together.

    He could hear a noise off to his side, near the entrance. He had fashioned crude hangar doors to keep out the weather, and from the sound of it, they were being opened. Trancelike, he walked towards the doors, a light grin on his face. Many times he had heard the door being opened, only to approach it and find that, in fact, nopony was there. But why not check? He was done with the work now. And if any pony was there, he could show them his creation and be proud of it.

    Slate was almost disappointed when he saw the angel on his doorstep. Up until now, the hallucinations he found on the other side of the door to the outside had been much more interesting, albeit infinitely less beautiful. Talking lamps, flying pink elephants and disembodied voices were entertaining and easier to “understand” than soft, blue-winged creatures whose eyes shone like amethysts and whose hair was like the shades of the sun shone through a prism. He had a vague recollection of this angel - and it was then that he realized who he was looking at - the pilot! The pilot of his machine! After these long and sleepless days of building, he had finally come face-to-face with the intended user of his contraption. She must have, in her angelic ways, come to know that what was being built for her was now complete, and that she was free to take it. He grinned broadly, though he felt himself swaying unsteadily on his exhausted and wavering legs.

    “You’ve come to claim your gift,” said Slate, his speech surprisingly slurred and undistinguished. Had he been speaking aloud or in his mind for the past few days? He didn’t remember his words coming out so mangled. Maybe it was all part of the dream he seemed to be experiencing? Because surely, the angel couldn’t actually be there to pick up her wings.

    “What...Happened?” said the angel. She looked confused. Slate tried to clear up his bleary eyes, but every time he blinked, the angel just seemed to get more blurry - and more radiant.

    “I made you something,” said Slate. “Don’t you want to see it?” He turned around, and found himself blinded by the darkness of the cave. Was it just an effect of the sunlight? Or had the lamps he strung up in the cave gone out? He took a step, and then found himself tumbling - falling, really, in some strange and eternal free-fall. Spinning end-over-end. There were voices shouting, as if from the top of a well, but even as he tried to look up, all he saw was the darkness. Where was the angel? Had she forsaken him? Had she turned down his gift? She must have - and this fall was his punishment. He curled up into himself, sobbing. He had given all, and found himself with nothing. No matter how hard he tried to help, he just made things worse. He shouldn’t have tried at all. He should have just given up. Because giving up and doing nothing was all he would ever be allowed to do.

***

    “Will he be all right, doctor?” asked Twilight.

    “Physically, all he needs is rest and fluids - and to lose a few pounds, and quit smoking,” said Dr. Stable. “I’ve never seen a pony so massively sleep deprived before, but he appears to only have suffered from a severe case of exhaustion.”

    “What about...The rest of him?”

    “I don’t know,” said Dr. Stable. “I’m not a psychologist. But normal, mentally healthy ponies don’t go converting caves into hangars and then building strange contraptions for weeks on end without bothering to eat or sleep. Not to mention all the other stuff he did. The paper dubbed him the Benevolent Burglar, considering he always left a pile of bits in exchange for everything he stole. And what normal, sane pony goes around doing that, instead of just buying things when the stores are open?”

    “Slate is definitely not normal,” said Twilight, sighing. Despite the doctor’s insistence that he was all right, Twilight had her doubts. He looked very distressed, passed out in that hospital bed. And he hadn’t woken up for well over fourteen hours at this point. “But...He isn’t bad, is he? I mean, he didn’t hurt anypony intentionally. And the things he did for me and my friends were good, weren’t they?”

    “It’s not for me to decide such things, Princess,” responded the doctor. “And I believe that what he’s done is a matter for you and the police at this point. My job is merely to ensure he recovers from the damage he’s done to himself. And all that means is keeping him sedated and hydrated while his body tries to rebuild itself. If you do intend on visiting him, make sure that the visits aren’t too intense - he shouldn’t do anything more strenuous than reading or eating until I say so. And keep him away from cigarettes.”

    “I’ll see what I can do,” said Twilight. “I guess it’s my duty as a princess to deal with him, one way or the other.”

    “Indeed it is,” said the doctor, closing the door behind him as he left. “Indeed it is…”

***

    The past few days had been unusually devoid of high-speed flight for Rainbow Dash. At Twilight’s insistence, she had spent her days visiting Slate and helping Applejack and the others clear out the cave he had commandeered for himself. Applejack’s missing tools were returned first, along with Rarity’s missing sewing machines. A number of other small items were also returned - missing pieces of electronic equipment, numerous lamps and cables, and a number of books on aerodynamics, physics and metallurgy. That which could not be returned was paid for using what remained of the cash that Slate had sequestered in the cave, leaving precious little for Slate himself.

    Rainbow had also found herself having to deal with Slate much more than she had ever wished too. He clearly adored her, but in the creepy, stalking sort of way. His feelings for her were certainly genuine, but they lacked the sense and sensibility of most of her fans - like, say, Scootaloo or Snips and Snails. Plus he was a good two years older than her, as opposed to being a young colt. Nonetheless, it was certainly flattering to have somepony dote on your every word, and it helped her avoid feeling guilty for all the damage he’d caused. After all, Slate’s mad construction binge was ultimately to create something for her and her alone.

    And what a thing it was! Although he called it the “Pegasus-Powered Sears-Haack Body,” the Rainbow Dash fan club had christened it the “Rainbow Rocket,” because of its similarity in shape and design to the toy rockets they were so fond of. Carefully painted by Scootaloo and her friends (mostly Applebloom, whose talent for outdoor painting was surprising for such a small filly) it was made to match Rainbow Dash’s unique mane and tail color scheme, helping make up for the fact that, when piloting the craft, nothing was visible from the outside but her wings. Even the cockpit window was surprisingly small and constricting - she could see forward, but that was about it, and even then it was like looking in through a mail slot on her front door. But the purpose of the Rainbow Rocket was to facilitate high speed, not high maneuverability, and the fact that she could barely see to turn was irrelevant in light of the fact that she could barely turn - even when pushing with all four hooves on the control wires.

    In those few moments when he was not silently enraptured by and listening to Rainbow Dash, Slate had managed to put together enough coherence to explain to Rainbow Dash what the Rainbow Rocket was and why he’d built it. Inspired by her Sonic Rainboom, he wished to create a device that would enable her to achieve unheard-of speed by piercing the air in front of her, enabling her to travel as fast as her wings could carry her. Her eyes had always watered to the point of blinding her when she performed a Sonic Rainboom, making it a particularly dangerous maneuver - especially since she had to dive to perform it, with gravity giving her the extra speed necessary to break through the sound barrier. Even putting her hooves in front of her to break the wind only did so much.

    As she allowed Twilight and the others to help her get into the machine, she was amazed at how light it was. She could lift it with her wings more easily - it couldn’t weigh more than fifty pounds or so. How Slate managed to make something so strong and yet so light was a mystery to her. The control surfaces were hard, to say the least, but she was a strong mare and wasn’t about to let some tough control surfaces hold her back. Besides, the entire town had turned out to see her take her first flight in the machine - and she wasn’t about to let them down! After all, inspirational fly-bys were kind of her thing. And if everything worked as planned, this would be the most inspirational fly-by of them all.

    Slowly spiraling upward to gain altitude, she was surprised to find that the Rainbow Rocket did not bend, flex or creak, despite the forces and strain she was putting on it. The control surfaces, hard as they were, pushed against the wind gently, and while they didn’t give her the freedom of movement provided by wing power alone, it enabled her to focus on pushing the craft forward, and leaving what limited steering she needed to her hooves.

    Once she was well above the few clouds that had been left in the sky that day, she began to push hard, seeing how fast she could go. Without the ability to look down and guess at her speed by the way in which the countryside went past beneath her, she had no real way to determine how fast she was going. But as the clouds began to disappear behind her, she realized that it must be exceptionally fast. The wind roared around her, but she could feel it only on her wings, which she beat faster and faster as she worked up more and more of her strength. As she continued to accelerate, the sluggish controls on her hooves seemed to almost become cemented in place, making even the most slight flight corrections difficult. It was like she was trying to extract her hooves from cement. But she could tell from the speed of the clouds passing by her that she must be travelling at tremendous speed now. There was a sudden shuddering, and she realized that she must now be trailing a Sonic Rainboom - the intense speed and shielding of the Rainbow Rocket keeping her from hearing the loud crack that normally accompanied this feat.

    Surprised to see her trademark move accomplished with so little effort, she began to push herself all the harder, beating her wings furiously. She felt them began to strain and flutter with the effort - they had never moved so fast, so effortlessly through the air, and neither had she. Only now did the Rainbow Rocket begin to show the strain of the forces it was under, shuddering and shaking as it approached its limit.

    Rainbow Dash could only imagine what it was like on the ground below her. She had probably passed over Ponyville at this point, and according to the compass installed in the cockpit, she was heading towards Canterlot at high speed. Applying all four hooves to the controls, she began a long, slow, upward bank at speed in order to put her back on the path to Ponyville. Then, once she was on the proper heading, she checked the small altimeter in the cockpit to see how high up she was. To her surprise, her altitude was intense - any pegasus would have trouble breathing at such a height, much less flying as fast as she was. Clearly, the pressurized cockpit was doing her favors.

    As she returned, she decided to give it all one last push. Dipping gently, to let gravity help her accelerate, she pushed in with her wings as hard as she could. Shoving with each one at tremendous speed, she strained hard, the clouds disappearing from view rapidly as she continued to accelerate. The Rainbow Rocket began to shake violently now, the great forces of on the outside straining against its rigid frame. It began to heat up as well - no doubt a result of the intense friction from the air rushing past. Still, it was surprisingly undramatic - ignoring the heat and the rush of noise around the cockpit, Rainbow could hardly tell that she was approaching the design limits of the machine - although she could tell quite clearly that she was reaching her own limits. Exhausted, she slowly began to slow down, making more and more wide, slow turns to burn off air speed and slowly bring the Rainbow Rocket back under control. She just hoped her friends could describe it to her and show photos from the ground - inside the rocket, everything was quiet and calm. But if what Slate had told her was true, the view from the ground was truly awesome - almost as awesome as Rainbow Dash Herself.

***

    “I’ve never seen anything like it!” said Twilight. “I’ve never even read of anything like it!”

    “That’s because nothing like this has ever happened before,” said Slate. Still confined to his hospital bed, he had been wheeled up to the window so that, while still immobile, he could see his invention in action. It had, in fact, worked even better than he had anticipated. He knew that it would enable Rainbow Dash to more easily create a Sonic Rainboom. He had not, however, anticipated that her high-speed pass at the Rainbow Rocket’s top speed would result in a continuous Rainboom, turning the entire sky into a kaleidoscope of color. It was as if every cloud, every rain drop, every particle in the sky had been turned into a prism, with dashes of color spouting every which way at once. It was dazzling to behold, and unlike anything he could even imagine happening.

    “So this is what you were working towards?” asked Twilight. She was the only one in the hospital with him. Though the other five had all visited him from time to time, they were all out in the field today, first helping Rainbow Dash get into the Rainbow Rocket, and then there with the crowd to watch her perform. Slate didn’t mind all that much - he had received more visitors in the past five days than he had in all the years of his adult life, and he found it surprisingly pleasant. He wasn’t afraid of these ponies, for whatever reason, and though they were not immune to his missteps and harsh words, they were nonetheless tolerant, loving and above all patient.

    “I don’t know what I was doing,” said Slate. “It’s all a blur now. I was compelled to act. I don’t even remember most of it. Looking back on my notes, it’s clear that, on some level, I knew what I was doing. But if you’re asking how, I’m honestly not sure.”

    “Well it is pretty amazing,” said Twilight. “And you did it all for Rainbow Dash, didn’t you?”

    “Yeah,” said Slate, blushing a bit. It was embarrassing. Rainbow Dash didn’t even know he existed when he was working on this, and yet she had consumed his every thought and act for weeks of sleepless work and maddening hard labor. Even now, he could tell that she considered him to primarily be a creepy, if harmless, fan.

    “You must care about her a lot,” said Twilight.

    “I do,” said Slate. “But not in the ‘Special Somepony’ sort of way. I think the best way I can explain it is that she is to me as Celestia is to you - an inspiration. A distant, benevolent force. Somepony I look up to. Somepony whose presence makes me feel that everything is all right with the world.”

    “That’s surprisingly eloquent, coming from you,” said Twilight. The dazzling rainbow of light and color was fading now, and in the distance, Slate could see the Rainbow Rocket coming in for a soft, slow landing, its skids extended to enable it to come to a halt on the long, level grassy field  where the spectators were watching. Even through the glass, he could hear their cheers. Although he could only imagine the look of triumph on Rainbow Dash’s face. She was now, officially, the fastest mare who ever lived.

    “I have a lot of time to think about and choose my words in bed here,” said Slate. “And with you and your friends visiting, I have reason to choose my words and put in the effort.”

    “Well then we’ll just have to keep visiting!” said Twilight, smiling gently. He felt her hug him slightly, and to his surprise, he didn’t panic the way he normally did when touched. All he felt was happy. It was delightful.

    “Thank you,” he said. “You and your friends. For everything.”

    “What are friends for?” said Twilight, ruffling Slate’s hair playfully. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a certain sky-blue pony who needs to come in here and thank you for enabling her to put on the most spectacular light show Ponyville has ever seen!”

***

    “You have no idea how happy we are to have you here, Slate.” The gryphon, his new boss, would not stop shaking his hoof. Slate was getting increasingly uncomfortable. Such friendliness from those in authority was new to him, and he wasn’t sure he trusted it yet. Was William Searfeather being nice to him because he was a nice guy, or just because Princess Twilight Sparkle had paved the way for him?

    “Okay,” said Slate. At least he was going to get a nice office. With a great drawing board. And access to the best aerodynamics library in all of Equestria.

    “I mean, the inventor of the Rainbow Rocket, working here at Sternfeather Aerodynamics,” said William. “It’s a big deal for us.”

    “Me too,” said Slate. That was quite the understatement, really. In the past month he’d been fired, testified in court against his former boss (who was jailed for his favoritism and fraud), and been picked up by the top aeronautics company in all of Equestria.

    “You know how much we’ve been set back by that airship disaster,” said William. “The only burning ball of gas that Celestia wants in her skies is the sun. At least there were no injuries.” Slate nodded. The disaster had indeed set back airships in Equestria, probably permanently. No one wanted to ride in something that might turn into a fireball at any time, and heavier-than-air flight was being pushed to the fore. While the Rainbow Rocket was powered by pegasus wings, other magical engines were available (indeed, they were so small and inexpensive as to be sold to pet owners) and all that was left was to figure out how to apply them properly.

    “Is there anything you want me to get started on?” asked Slate. This was all very overwhelming, but he hoped that, if he could just get to working on something, it would at the very least give him something to focus on. Something he could use to distract himself from how strange and new this all was.

    “For now, just familiarize yourself with the facility,” said William. “We’ll have a meeting on Monday to discuss upcoming projects, and there we can see about getting you some sort of assignment. Probably on that ‘airliner’ idea that’s been mothballed for the past few months.”

    Slate nodded, and moved behind his desk. He’d never had an office before, much less such a massive desk. It all looked very empty. Very new. Very clean and neat. He’d have to try and keep it this way.

    Upon closer examination, he noticed a small package on the desk, addressed to him. Someone from the mail room must have dropped it off before he arrived. The return address was Ponyville, letting him know precisely who’d sent it. Carefully, he gently opened it, doing his best not to soil the contents with his spit or smudge dirt on them with his hooves. There was a letter on top of two small frames. He opened it gingerly.

    “Dear Slate,” read the letter inside. “We hope you are having a good time at your new job and in your new office.” The pink, loopy writing was unmistakably Pinkie’s, although it was clear the sentiment came from all six of his friends in Ponyville, not just her. “I’m sorry I can’t be there for your birthday, but I wanted to enclose a picture of me and all your friends here in Ponyville as a present!” Shifting the letter to the side, he looked at the first photograph. It was a pleasant shot of all six of them together, complete with signatures. Though small, it was cheering, and Slate felt his heart rise as he looked at it. He turned back to the letter. “Also, please accept this small gift from Rainbow Dash especially - she told me to make sure you have an awesome birthday, and I know this is the most awesome present you could ever receive!”

    Turning back to the other frame, he looked at it closely. There was a single blue feather in the frame, carefully placed against a blue background. He instantly recognized it as Rainbow Dash’s - what other pegasus could have such a powerful shade of blue in her wings? Slowly, he caressed the frame with his hoof, staring deeply at the feather. This tiny, fragile piece of a wing had traveled faster than the speed of sound. It had come from his angel, and it was irrefutable proof that she had, indeed, existed in his life time, and inspired him to create a machine he’d be known for until the day he died.

    Smiling, he gently propped each frame up on his desk, placing them where he could see them. The office felt warm now- welcoming and encouraging. And deep inside, Slate felt warmed and welcomed as well. He had friends - at least six of them - and they cared enough to send him something he didn’t even know how much he wanted on his birthday. A birthday he didn’t even remember he was having. It felt good. And it let him know that, from here going forward; he would never again be truly alone.

    “An airliner, huh” said Slate, sitting in his office chair as he lazily looked at Rainbow Dash’s feather on the edge of his desk. “Well, with a little help from my friends, I bet I can build just that sort of a thing…”