Trotting off the Beaten path

by CrassBrass

Rating: everyone
Tags:
Length: 3001

Quick Reflexes. . . erm, Quinn Reffield chooses to believe that the Equestrian Society has too easily been controlled and molded by ponies that take advantage of those yet to reach the age of wisdom.

Quick Reflexes is a pony that is unhappy with his life. His "passion", his cutie mark, is senseless. He feels useless and knows that there are other ponies out there that feel just the same. Rather than succumbing to the unwritten rules of Equestrian society, he decides to look to the ones that do exist, and to follow his ideals.
I don't really know where this is gonna go. . . All I know is that I typed this up real quick in the middle of class and the bell delegated the end of the chapter. If anyone really lies it, I may turn it into something! Or. . . this is going to only rot with the thousands of other failed attempts of other fanfiction writers with big ambitions, but little to no skill.
All Criticism is appreciated! Whether ye be a Grammar Nazi, or perhaps somepony that feels like throwing in their two cents worth, feel free to shoot me down, or set me up on a soap box.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-12-21 04:10:03 UTC

Speech, Speech, Spee- oh. . .

Chapter 1: Speech, Speech, Spee- oh. . .

I walked into a musty old tavern, cringing at the sour odor of alcohol mixed with the vomit who knows how many ponies. As many of these places I’ve been to, I could never quite get used to that stench. . . Cautiously making my way up to the bar, I waved to get the barpony’s attention.

“E-Excuse me, sir, if I may ask, I reserved a room a few weeks back. . .”

“Under what name?” He snapped. His voice was deep, somewhat raspy too, making me jump a little and reflexively step back for a moment. Coughing nervously, I stepped back up to the counter and replied quickly.

“Quin Reffield”

“Oh, you’re that freak”

“What makes you say that?” I asked, not entirely surprised.

“I’ve heard of the bullshit you’ve been spouting in the other towns”

Groaning, I slapped some bits on the bar and headed towards the door at the back of the tavern, “Here’s the bits, I’m not paying you to try and verbally belittle me.”

He swept the money into the pocket of his apron, “You’re no different than those tipsy idiots lying in their own puke over there.”

Ignoring him, I pushed open the door and set my saddlebags on the table at the front of the room. Looking at the back wall, I saw what I believed to be a clock, its face coated in a thick layer of grime.

Figures as much, who knows what this room was used for last. . .

Looking on the ground, I noticed an equally dirty rag nearby and enveloped it with my dull, gray magic. Much to my dismay, me grime excavation revealed even more grime caked on the inside of the clock, making the digits impossible to discern. After grumbling incoherently to myself, I knocked the clock off the wall and replaced it with my own wall clock. Its glass surface was scratched some, scuffs of dirt all over it, but the thing did its job.

After nodding in approval at my “renovation”, I walked back up to the front of the room and grabbed a poster. It was nothing more than a piece of  paper that had nothing more than the words “Change your name, Change your cutie mark, change your LIFE!” scribbled crudely across it, but it was enough to get those who were interested to step inside. I unfolded a chalkboard and hung it upon the wall where I planned on standing for my “lecture”. I quickly scribbled the my name at the top of the board and sat back on my haunches as a few ponies curiously stumbled in.

Why was I here? Why am I wasting my time sitting in the rundown room of a beat-up old tavern? To reveal the truth and gather those who have realized the reality of my beliefs. I have traveled from town to town, holding preaches of my ideas in taverns and basements, hoping somepony would make sense out of my lectures that others viewed as blasphemous ramblings of a drunk idiot. Hell, I don’t even drink! That aside, today I was in Seadlle, Coltington, hoping to spread my ideas, and gain some support from other ponies in my quest for individuality.

Soon enough, a room of stolid mares and stallions sat before me. Their eyes were dead, their bodies empty, it was as if they had no soul, but rather dutifully performed their tasks as they always have, not out of choice, but for the sake of their supposed sanity. Something they did do out of choice though, was step into my room, being given a sliver of hope to change their lives, riding on nothing more than a quiet rumor that only mumbled among the mouths of few. I smiled to myself.

The perfect audience

My eyes took a quick glance at the clock: 8:00 p.m. sharp. Clearing my voice, I gained everypony’s attention before beginning my talk.

“Today, I am here to talk about how you ponies can change your lives by changing the way you think! To challenge fate and be one of the few who are able to ignore the public opinion and be able to live satisfying lives rather than lives pursuing what you believe to be your ‘special talent’. I hope that today, you will leave with a refreshing outlook on life, and if I have managed to peak your interest in the slightest, feel free to speak with me afterwards”

Silence. Not a single pony made a sound, not even a cough of boredom.

Taking this as a sign of approval, I began.

“The Cutie Mark. . .

A unique symbol located on the flanks of every pony, including myself. The idea of a cutie mark is just too perfect. It is a symbol that appears on one’s posterior that decides their fate for them; acknowledging its beholder the purpose of their lives. Simple, yes? Somepony asks you what you wanted to be in life, and all you had to do was simply show off your butt. Ironically, young fillies and colts cannot flaunt their behinds even when they are the most common demographic of this question, yet, they do so anxiously await the day when they can answer that question.  But that, is the greatest flaw in their thinking.

If you have yet to notice, anypony’s name can be easily related to their cutie mark, or “special talent” if you will. Not only that, but many ponies have a tendency to have one’s personality closely match, or be an attribute of, their name, should their name have such an adjective in it. Though this is not a good example due to that fact that it is fictional, Daring Doo, the popculture icon, as well as an idol for many young ones all across Equestria will have to doo,”  I paused, inwardly chuckling at my unintentional wordplay, though, the ponies across the room did not look the slightest bit amused. Frowning, I continued on with my lecture, “Aaanyways, let’s break down her name now, shall we? What can we assume from knowing nothing but her name?” Awaiting a response, I helplessly stared at my enthusiastic audience. Sighing, I turned to the chalkboard when I heard somepony clear their throat quietly in the front row.

Turning around, I saw a mare not much younger than myself. She had a red mane and a pure, white coat that resembled the purity of Celestia’s fur. I could not see her cutie mark from where I was standing, but there was  a good chance that it had not helped her very much in her life. Nodding slowly, I stepped towards her, attempting to coax out whatever answer she may have had. She smiled shyly as she followed through her cough with an answer, “The first part of her name is ‘Daring’, so we know that she is most likely bold or courageous. . . right?” Smiling broadly, I nodded quickly this time as I wrote the two personality traits onto the board. “Also. . .” She continued, but started to die off. Turning back around, I greeted her again with that same smile and asked. . . or rather, begged, “Please! Continue!” Regaining her confidence, she carried on, “Also, The second part of her name being ‘Doo’ We can be lead to assume that along with her Daring personality, she usually does a lot of things whether they are risky and intelligent, or impulsive and foolhardy.”

“Yes!”

Everypony stared at me with a look of surprise. . . actually, more of a look of annoyance. Realizing this, I regained my composure and turned back to the group after scribbling the words “doing” along with “Intelligent or foolhardy”.

“Thank you miss, now, without even meeting this mare, we have already managed to piece together her personality, and we haven’t even gotten to her cutie mark!” I awaited some kind of response from my crowd, but there was nothing. No raised eyebrows, or nodding, just lifeless stares that looked past me, stares that probably penetrated the wall that stood behind me.

Wow. . . these ponies are quite the energetic bunch.

“Daring Doo’s cutie mark is a compass rose, so, taking into consideration the previous personality traits that we have come up with, along with the fact that her cutie mark is an icon most commonly found on maps and compasses, we can suspect that she is an explorer of the sorts! At this point, we have managed to analyze the main aspects of a pony without even having to meet them in real life, how do you feel, knowing that as long as somepony knows your name and cutie mark, they can easily deduce your personality, as well as your occupation without having to exchange a single word with you? I personally would feel like my privacy has been invaded! Who decreed the unspoken rule of making your ‘special talent’ your occupation?” A younger colt in the back of the room spoke up, “Celestia, obviously.”

I shook my head, smiling knowingly, “That is where you are wrong, my friend, there is no Equestrian Law in the books that states that your occupation must be your ‘special talent’. If you feel that I am wrong, feel free to go to Canterlot and try to hunt down this ‘law’ that everypony has made up.” I was returned with an annoyed groan,  “Not only that, but the definition of one’s ‘special talent’ has no real definition. It can be something that you may be proficient at, or perhaps something that you may be passionate about. In most cases, it is the latter, but just because one is passionate about something, does not always mean that they will be successful.” I frowned at this thought, feeling that almost everypony in this room was suffering from this case.

A mare spoke up in the crowd, “Well, I love to play music, I was even in the Canterlot Symphony at one point.”

I raised my eyebrows, “At one point? How about now?”

The mare’s lip trembled a bit as she replied sadly, “Now? Now, I’m. . . I’m a poverty stricken mother with nothing to provide for her foals other than my m-music!” She burst into tears at this statement and I merely nodded. “See? This is nothing but proof that even when one feels that your talent is soo ‘unique’ or ‘special’ you’re always replaceable. Either that, or your talent is so useless that it is only useful in the most ridiculous of situations.” Suddenly, a familiar grimy disk came flying towards my face. I stared blankly at it until it came dangerously close to my muzzle before quickly sidestepping the projectile only to look out in the audience to find a now red faced mare seething with rage.

“A talent, like that,” I finished sadly.

The enraged mare stopped breathing heavily through her nostrils. I began to pace,back and forth across the front of the room as I began to elaborate, “My real name is Not Quin Reffield, but, Quick Reflex. How do any of you suppose my quick reflexes have helped me in life other than the venial matters in which distasteful ponies have thrown objects in my face?” There was no response, causing me to laugh darkly, “Exactly! None at all! There is no occupation in which I can utilize this special talent and make a living, and this is probably true for many of your skills bestowed to you by your cutie marks. Not only that, but my name is a dead giveaway to my ‘special talent’ along with this damned lightning bolt on my flanks!”

Stomping my hoof on the floor, I raised my voice, speaking now with a sense of urgency, “I am just like many of you! There is no way that everypony is satisfied with their cutie mark. Who in their right mind believes that they can comfortably live with themselves when they are “passionate” about cleaning the grimy outhouses of the nobles? How could somepony live as something as foalish as a traveling maregician that relies solely on the slight of hoof over actual magic itself? How could they, when our entire world has other magics that do more than play mind tricks; but can cure wounds, move objects and teleport ponies at their own will? They would be the laughing stock of everywhere they may travel! So, the questio-” All of the sudden, a blue mare wearing an absurd, pointed hat, along with a matching cape, stood up and stormed out the door furiously.

At first, I looked at the door with a look of confusion, a look that slowly deadpanned with realization.

Wait. . .was that her special- No way. . . that’s the same bloody example I’ve used. . . bah. . . never mind.

Shaking off this sudden interruption, I was about continue my talk when everypony began to stand up. Taking that earlier mare’s exit as a signal that the jig was up, they assumed that there was nothing more to hear. I raised my hoof in an attempt to stop them when I just put it back down onto the cold cobblestone floor upon which I stood. Staring sadly at the door through which they all left, I began to pack up my things when a familiar sounding cough came from the front row of seats.  Slowly pulling my head up, I was pleasantly surprised to see that same white mare from the front row that was kind enough to throw in her two cents worth about Daring Doo. She looked to me eagerly, attempting to coax an answer out of me this time.

A slight red tinted my otherwise grey cheeks, “Oh. . . you. . . you want to hear more?”

She giggled, “Well, you weren’t done with your talk, were you?”

“Alrighty then,” I started, but paused for a moment and looked across the deserted room, save for the mare awaiting whatever information I was willing to bestow upon her.

This is. . . so awkward

A look of concern spread across her features as asked, “Something wrong? Was that the end? From the looks of it, you sure didn’t seem like you were done,” she pondered aloud.

“N-nothing,” I stammered, “It’s just. . . not many ponies really care enough to want to listen, they just brush my beliefs and ideas off like they’re pests to their minds. . . And,” my voice lowered to a volume rivaling that of a whisper, “I'm only good in front of crowds.”

“Oh come on, you’ve got my attention, and now you’re turning away one of the few that have taken interest? Not a very good tactic if you ask me,” she noted.

I sighed, “Very well. So the question is: ‘Are these ponies truly happy, or are they simply forced to accept their destiny in order to remain order in this Equestrian Elysium?’ Everypony I know and have come to meet have accepted their fates, fortunate or not, but I refuse to submit to this absurd belief of allowing something as simple as one’s name or upbringing decide their path of life. For the most peculiar reason, everypony believes that they can only pursue their ‘special talent’ but you don’t have to! I for one am not conforming to society and following the same senseless getup that they have poorly dubbed as ‘lives’. I have chosen to spit in the face of destiny and pursue my own interests! Things like the education of others in order to help then come to the same realization as myself.”

The mare nodded slowly, taking in all this information and allowing her mental gears to grind together as she attempted to make sense of, as well as form an opinion on these ideas that have been brought to her attention.

“I agree,” she stated quietly.

My eyes lit up in when I heard her say the complete opposite of what I had anticipated, only to be met with a confused look.

“But,” she began.

“Hmm?”

“Where the hay are you going with this passionate rant of yours?”

“What?”

She laughed, “You don’t see the problem with what you have here?”

I knit my brows for a moment while pondering her question, “Not exactly. . .”

She shook her head knowingly, “No wonder you don’t have any other ponies backing your cause.” she giggled, earning daggers from my eyes. Looking directly back into my eyes, she went on, “You’re problem is as I said earlier: ‘Where in the hay are you going with this?’”

I was still confused. . . Were my ideas not enough? Was my analysis on life lacking in the evidence needed to sway her opinions to mirror my own?

Sighing, she now took the role of speaker, attempting to pass her knowledge onto me.

“Alright, look at it this way, yes, I get your message, it does make sense and to be honest, I find my life to be somewhat mirroring the situation you painted for us earlier. But, the real issue is what actions are you going to take?”

Still perplexed, I chose not to answer her question.

Going on, she walked up and sat right in front of me with a worried look plastered across her features, “Once you had gathered all these ponies you were hoping to rally up for your cause, what were you going to do? Do you have a solution to the problems that your ideas have introduced? How do you suppose we can ‘Change our lives’ as you had so confidently boasted about being able to do from merely listening to you talk for the better part of an hour?”

The realization hit me like a herd of stampeding buffalo.

“Oh. . . I was hoping somepony else would have a grand idea to begin a movement of the sorts. . .”

She facehoofed.