Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Part 1: What's the Use of Crying?

The mid-morning sun streamed through the windows as the old, antique radio played another soulful old ballad. Pinkie listened for a while, then smiled, turned up the volume a little, and turned back to the task at hoof.

She stood by her big new mixer--almost as tall as she was--and proudly watched the dough swirl around in the deep, silver bowl. Well--new to her. The Cakes had needed an upgrade, and Pinkie had bought the old one. It wasn’t as nice as the newer, fancier models, but it worked, and it was hers. Plus, she’d been using this one for years--it was a little like meeting an old friend.

She had only paid the down payment yesterday, but she was already thinking of how to decorate it… would powder-pink, with some balloons stenciled on the side be too much…?

She smirked. Probably.

As she stared at the mixer, she felt a sudden pang of guilt. Though this mixer was big--in multiple senses of the word--she was going to miss hoof-making her product. It had been hard and slow, of course, but she had loved knowing that each cookie, each doughnut, each loaf of bread that she passed over the counter had been something special. Something unique. And, though this mixer might finally help her meet demand… well, she was going to miss that special feeling.

She bit her lip. Maybe she could start one of those Artisan lines that she’d been hearing about--fancy, hoof-crafted breads, with cinnamon and raisins, or rosemary and olive oil… or colored sugar and sprinkles…

She chuckled to herself, then turned back to the mixer.

As the soft music filled the air, Pinkie watched the dough go around, and around, and around, slowly, her eyes began to flutter closed. She dozed for a half-second, then jerked awake with a gasp. She yawned, then began to jog in place. Gotta keep the blood pumping. Gotta stay awake.

She had been right--she was making it work. But Twilight was right, too--it was harder than she’d ever expected. With the little ones being so, well, little, on top of trying to run her own business…

Well, at least she’d finally figured out how she liked her coffee.

Pinkie stopped her jogging, and turned back to watching the dough. She blinked once or twice--long, slow blinks--then, slowly, her head began to droop.

Suddenly, she stood bolt upright, eyes wide. She’d felt it--a little tic, at the base of her tail--a small, insistent tug. And there it was again.

“Twitch-a-twitch,” she said aloud.

She flicked the switch on the mixer with a snap, then sprinted up the stairs.

She skidded to a halt in her own kitchen and stared, eyes wide. Three sets of eyes stared back at her.

She saw the kitchen, just as she had left it--child locks on all the cupboards, dirty dishes piled in the sink, her new curler sitting in its box on the counter, half of a loaf of bread under glass--but with one exception: one of the wooden chairs from the table now stood by the refrigerator. And, on top of that chair, stood Waltzie; and, on Waltzie’s shoulders, stood Tango; and, on Tango’s shoulders, stood Foxie, one arm outstretched towards the cookie jar balanced on top of the refrigerator.

Pinkie and the kids stared at each other in silence for another moment before Pinkie leapt into action. “Get down from there!” she shrieked, rushing towards them. She grabbed Foxtrot off the top and set her down; almost as soon as she touched the ground, Foxie ran and hid behind her legs. Next was Tango; he came willingly, looking strangely pleased with himself. Finally, she grabbed Waltz, who groaned as Pinkie lifted her. She was only three, but Pinkie was still surprised at just how muscled she was for her age; she was going to be a holy terror on the playground when she got old enough. When Pinkie set her down, Waltzie stormed out of the room--but, a moment later, peered back around the doorframe.

Pinkie pushed the chair back into place, then leaned heavily on it and sighed. “You can’t do that,” she said sternly to the three of them. “If you fall, you’d get hurt, and then I’d be really sad.”

Tango looked away, and Waltz slid back behind the doorframe. “Sorry, mama,” said Foxie, from behind her.

Pinkie glanced around, then sighed. “If I give each of you a cookie, will you promise to be good?”

Instantly, with an almost-audible woosh, the three of them stood in a line in front of her. “Yes, Mama,” they said brightly, in unison.

Pinkie looked from one, to the other, to the other, and smiled. The three of them, looking back at her with shining eyes and wide grins almost melted her heart. She reached up, grabbed the cookie jar, and began to hand them out.

Waltzie took hers and immediately retreated to the corner. Her mane had grown in long, wavy and hot pink, and she tried to hide behind it, though she kept a careful eye on the rest of them. Waltzie, it seemed, had gotten a lot of Pinkie’s impulsiveness, but in all the wrong ways--it didn’t take much to make her mad, and, when she got out of sorts, she tended to stay that way for hours, if not days. She didn’t swing hard enough for her punches to really hurt, not yet, but Pinkie knew it was only a matter of time. She did so love to dance, though--even though she didn’t like to let anyone actually see…

Tango was next in line; he took his cookie with a “Thank you” and a satisfied little smirk. He trotted away, his dark, curly mane--curly, almost, as Pinkie’s--bouncing as he did. He was smart, wicked smart--he couldn’t read yet, though he absolutely loved making Pinkie read the board books that Aunt Twilight still occasionally brought them; he’d even started picking up the sounds the letters made. And, when the three of them got in trouble--which they did all too often--it was usually his idea. In fact, she realized with mixed irritation and pride, this had probably been his idea all along--to get Pinkie to get down the cookie jar herself.

“You little booger,” she said under her breath.

Last was Foxtrot; she took her cookie in her mouth, then clambered up into her booster seat to eat it at the table. She was an odd one; she was shy, private, and proper, but could be quite the charmer when she wanted. More than once, Pinkie had just fallen apart for those big, green eyes of hers. Her mane was short and brown, but she kept it back with a plastic hairband Pinkie had found somewhere on the cheap; she’d even stolen the one Pinkie had bought for Waltzie, she liked it so much. Of the three, Foxie was the closest to her Mama: whenever she could, she’d snuggle up to her and fall asleep, and she liked to watch her work, though Pinkie had gotten fast enough with the bread that there wasn’t often much to see.

Pinkie let the three of them eat for a minute, then grabbed a cookie for herself and put the jar back on top of the fridge. “Come on, guys,” she said, “Mama’s got to get back to work.” She shooed the three of them out of the kitchen, and watched them scamper back down the hall to their shared bedroom. “And play nice, please!”she called after them.

“Oka-ay!,” shouted Tango.

Pinkie took a bite of the cookie, then chewed thoughtfully as she walked back down to the bakery. She’d have to put a baby gate for the kitchen on the list… along with more baking trays, a bigger oven, a fresh tank of helium for the balloons...