The Gift of Growth

An Earth Pony working farmland ought to be the most natural-looking thing in the world, but Trace somehow managed to make it appear almost downright alien.

He was the picture of a born-and-raised city-colt forced to hack it out in the sticks. Clothes that were a little too inauthentically rustic, accompanied by a gallery of modern creature comforts. High-end sunglasses, a personalized flask, a toolbelt marked with a prominent brand-name logo… By any other standard, Trace was an unremarkable Earth Pony stallion – average build, dark brown fur, green mane – but out on the border farms, he stuck out like a sore thumb.

Not that the southwest frontier was an especially dangerous place where only the most hardened badflanks dared to tread. Many of Hoofbrook’s residents were recent transplants themselves, seeking new jobs, buying new land, and starting families. Living out here just came with a nonzero risk of magical creature encounters, only slightly moreso than living in Ponyville next to the Everfree Forest.

So it wasn’t primarily his appearance that made Trace stand out. It was more the way he carried himself, his demeanor that constantly screamed “I’m not happy to be here.” At least if it looked like he was enjoying his work, his minor oddities could be ignored, but joy never seemed to be on his mind.

His work, his role on Happy Hoof Farms, was pest control. Yes, the warm season crops had gained a new enemy this year: Thunderblights. Tiny thrips that buzzed around the fields, sucking out the juices from the ripening plants. Called Thunderblights for the way they would create sparks in groups; though easy to mistake it for an electrical charge, it was actually a volatile magical charge that grew in strength as the swarm got bigger. They weren’t necessarily aggressive or deadly to ponies, but the sparks made a mean defense mechanism – no one wanted to get close to them for fear of getting an irritating zap for their trouble.

Enter Trace. Beneath the one-size-too-big overalls, his cutie mark was a set of curvy rainbow lines carrying two leaves, suggesting a fragrant gust of wind. For that was somehow his speciality: Perfumes, fragrances… and pheromones.

It was a simple application of his limited talents. The right smell, or combination of smells, could repel the Thunderblights, or lead them into an adhesive trap. It’d taken all of a day to set up his samples and see how the bugs reacted, and then he was off to the races. The fruits of Happy Hoof were Thunderblight-free, or at least much moreso than they would be without him.

The work was grueling and stressful, though. There were four fields under his singular protection. The traps had to be cleaned out almost every day, the fragrance wells refilled twice a week. He frequently got zapped for his trouble. Many of the substances he used needed to be imported from shops in central Equestria, and there’d recently been a price bump that went beyond the operating cost coverage outlined in his contract. Renegotiating his terms wouldn’t happen until the end of the harvest season – three weeks from now – and that was only IF his contract got renewed.

And in the last couple of days, the likelihood of Trace still having a job at the end of the summer had dramatically dropped. Apparently the magical creature situation had attracted the attention of the Caretakers – druids and subordinates of Kindness herself. Apparently this one particular Caretaker could… talk to the insects, figure out why they were out in swarms this year. Apparently Mr. Cocoa Bean and Mrs. Lavender Grace, the owners of Happy Hoof Farms, were looking for a more long-term solution to the Thunderblight problem. A reasoning that Trace completely understood, even if it threatened his livelihood.

Of course, that was Trace’s whole problem. He could understand, in an intellectual sense, why all these things had happened to him. Why he was out here in the sticks. Why he was working pest control. Why his job, his paycheck, was about to be taken away from him. But that didn’t stop everything about it from feeling so… so wrong. Beyond mere ennui, deep down, Trace was possessed of a profound anger and sadness that had been building up over the last few years, threatening to boil over.

Then, the day came. Heralded by heavy footsteps that shook the very soil.

Trace was just finishing up his rounds of cage-cleaning, scooping out the incapacitated bugs so they could be released back into the forest (treating them equinely and all that), when the shaking of the earth pulled his attention to the right. Then up… and up.

So much green, motherly mare approached him, practically posing for a magazine cover with every step. Seven and a half, maybe even eight feet of thick muscle and bounteous curves, contained only by tight jeans and a southern-style poncho that her chest mercilessly deformed. J-cups? K-cups?! The mare’s bust was insane, yet perfectly formed, and her strength kept it bouncy and perky.

Hyper.

It was a simple fact of life on Epona that there were normals and there were hypers. (And then there were alicorns, but Trace dreaded ever encountering them – their legendary virtue-driven aggression made their great beauty and strength as terrifying as they were arousing.) Hypers were bigger, stronger, and more well-endowed by several orders of magnitude compared to normals. And with the size came greater responsibilities, more required maintenance, bigger lusts. Or so Trace had heard. And read. And fantasized about.

Being normal wasn’t really supposed to be a source of shame, though. Normal ponies were still capable of great power, great feats of both magic and ingenuity, and Equestria’s social structure was such that everybody worked together and complemented each other anyway. Normal and hyper ponies hooked up all the time in happy (and fun-filled) marriages. No, it was only a sore point if you were the envious type. If you wanted and wished to always be that big, but ended up short-changed on the genetic lottery, or failed to be born into a family or community that cultivated hyper qualities.

Trace’s mother was a wedding planner. His father was an accountant. Both normal. Neither of them notable in any way – a trait apparently passed down genetically to him.

While his life flashed before his eyes, the hyper mare began to speak. “Is this your exterminator?” she asked in an airy, carefree voice.

From behind the mare stepped out Cocoa Bean, the stallion in charge (though everypony knew his wife Lavender was really in charge). A deep frown on his face, he said, “No, he doesn’t exterminate, we just send them out at day’s end– Ah, Trace? This is Orchid Blossom, the Caretaker I told you about. Orchid, meet Trace.”

Orchid Blossom smiled warmly and extended her giant, muscular arm, which Trace reluctantly mirrored. She shook his hand, and his arm might as well have been a limp noodle for all the strength he had compared to her. Trace pulled back and rubbed his poor elbow, while the hyper Caretaker just made a low, rumbling laugh in her throat. “Ahh, sorry, don’t know my own strength sometimes!”

Trace wasn’t feeling very good-humored. If the boss and the Caretaker were coming to him specifically, it could only mean one thing…

Cocoa Bean took off his straw hat and placed it on his chest. “Trace…” he said slowly, knowing full well how much this was going to hurt, “Orchid and the Thunderblights have come to an agreement.”

Even though he was expecting it, it didn’t sound any less absurd. “Excuse me?”

“I talked with the hive’s queen,” Orchid said authoritatively, unconsciously placing her hands on her wide, breeding hips and cocking them to one side. “They’re not evil, they’re desperate. An ancient evil cursed them, and many other creatures in the area, to be its minions. This land used to be called the Plaguelands for a reason, you know. The evil’s gone, but natural resources are dwindling.” She clapped her hands together, going from serious to cheerful in almost an instant. “So! In exchange for a tiny portion of crops to feed on until they and the cursed lands heal, they’ll protect all of Happy Hoof Farms from other pests!”

“Yeah…” Cocoa Bean mumbled. “The Fearcrows will start comin’ out in autumn. Turns out they can’t stand the little blighters.”

Trace swallowed a lump in his throat. “Great,” he deadpanned. “Everything works out, then.”

“And now you don’t have to lock up innocent insects!” Orchid cheered. “Isn’t it great when we respect nature and nature respects us right back? It never ceases to amaze me, and I’ve been doing this for most of my life!”

Trace’s heart turned cold and dead so he could delay his raw emotions until later. “Back up a second,” he muttered. “Why is it great that I’m not doing this anymore?”

Orchid just blinked at him. “Well… Mrs. Lavender told me you don’t even have a cutie mark in pest control. Cutie mark mismatch is one of the most severe causes of workplace stress, you know.” She beamed. “Now you can find new work that makes you happier!”

“Take my advice – once you finish your community service, leave Ponyville. Go far away. Never look for work in central Equestria again. At least out there, you have a chance no one cares about your… contemptible record.”

“Uh… I guess maybe pest control? Because that involves… scents… and stuff? I dunno, yer not giving me a lot to work with here.”

“Sure,” Trace said distractedly. “Whatever.”

Finally, the hyper Caretaker seemed to take the hint that something was wrong, and her chipper mood dampened by the tiniest degree. “What is your cutie mark in, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Trace grumbled, “‘Scent management.’”

That had been the official designation he’d been given after going through Crusader Counseling – the second time.

“Hmmm… Oh!” Orchid had a sudden flash of insight, which seemed almost dizzying for her floaty personality. “So you’re a botanist!”

That was technically true; his work involved enough specialized plant extract on a weekly basis for a hyper pony to take a bath in. Though Trace didn’t consider himself an expert. “More or less.”

“Have you considered opening up, like, a fragrances and perfume shop? City ponies love that sort of thing.”

“Tell me anything, order me around... please, master…! It feels so good!”

“...Out. Get out! OUT!!”

Trace swallowed again, and blinked in advance of the stinging feeling behind his eyeballs. “Tried. Failed,” he said robotically.

“Ohhh,” Orchid whined, like a sad puppy. “Bad business? Sales tanked?”

“No, more like a… bad accident,” Trace mumbled, and that was as dangerously close to the truth as he’d said to another living soul in years.

“Awwwwww. That’s a real bummer! Well, here.” And the hyper mare reached into her back pocket and pulled out a… pamphlet? Trace mindlessly took it, barely scanned over the cover with his eyes. Orchid continued, “The Caretakers are having a meeting next month in Ponyville. I think you should go!”

“I’m not a druid,” Trace pointed out, stating the utterly obvious. “And no offense, but it’s none of your business, ma’am.”

“Well, sure it is!” Orchid insisted, pouting with those full lips of hers. “I’m displacing your job, after all – I wouldn’t be a good Caretaker if I didn’t make sure everypony I affect was being taken care of, now would I? And you don’t need to be a druid to go to a Caretaker meeting; they’re a great resource for anyone who has a connection to nature and needs a little help! You could get some advice, start an apprenticeship, who knows!” She smiled her best motherly smile (completely ineffective on Trace’s black coal of a heart at this point) and said, “Won’t you at least try?”

Trace resisted the urge to tear up the pamphlet in front of her, and simply put it in his own pants pocket. “I’ll think about it,” was all he could trust himself to say.

Orchid nodded in understanding. “Okay.” She clapped her hands again. “So! As a gesture of good faith, we need to set all the captured Thunderblights free!” She put a finger on her cheek thoughtfully and added, “We also need to come up with a new name for them. ‘Thunderblights’ is just so awfully negative…”

Trace walked up to her and lifted up a jar full of natural adhesive and trapped insects. “Here,” he grumbled, shoving it into Orchid’s hands. He pulled out a bottle of dissolving agent and placed it in the crook of her arm. “Take that out of the fields, spray into the jar; in five minutes, they’ll be buzzing free.”

“Oh, sure!” Orchid said, more than a little confused. “But, um, aren’t you supposed to…?”

Trace put up his hands and stepped back. “Not my job anymore.” He then spun on his heels and marched off – before he could explode and do or say something he’d regret even more.

Twenty yards down the row of tomatoes, Cocoa Bean caught up to him in a sprint. “Hey, hey Trace!” As the two of them came to a stop, Trace’s now-former boss said, “Look, I’m sorry.”

Trace closed his eyes and put his hands up placatingly. “Don’t be,” he said as calmly as he could muster. “You’re the last person I’m mad at, sir. You’re doing what’s best for your farm – that, I ain’t got a problem with.”

Cocoa Bean nodded, still grimacing from the awkwardness of the whole situation. “I did warn you this might happen…”

“You sure did.”

“Well… then did you do what I said? Started looking for new options?”

“Yep.”

“...Find anything?”

Trace thought back to the coffee table in his dingy apartment, and the single letter left open upon it. The only company to respond after he’d submitted his application to that employment service.

We are happy to inform you that you are a suitable candidate for a position at Seaddle Waste Management! As you may have read in the news, Seaddle recently passed a local law prohibiting garbage facilities in northwestern Equestria from becoming too odorous. You, and your talent for scent management, would be ideal for protecting the sensitive noses of Seaddle residents and helping SWM stay within the bounds of the law! Contact us at your earliest convenience so that we may discuss the terms of your contract.

“Y-Yeah… I did.” The thought made his blood boil, but that answer was technically the truth.

“Okay. Okay, good!” Cocoa said, trying to stay positive. “You gonna be fine, then?”

Trace opened his mouth, but no words came out, completely frozen in indecision. He wanted to say ‘Yes,’ but twisted Honesty wouldn’t allow him to outright lie. He wanted to say ‘No,’ but twisted Generosity couldn’t permit him to foist his personal troubles onto someone else.

Thankfully, Cocoa just sighed and gave Trace a pat on the arm. “Well, look. You’ve got until the end of the harvest season. Wanna keep you around during negotiations so these Thunderblights know we can still go back to the old solution if they try to get greedy. Come in tomorrow, and if Orchid has these things under control, then… Well, I guess you don’t have to keep your traps up no more. Which gives ya… three weeks of paid vacation. Severance, if you wanna call it.”

A silver lining to this terrible news, finally, besides not having to get stung by Thunderblights anymore. “I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it.” Cocoa stepped back and put his straw hat back on his head. “Listen, Trace, I’m not tryin’ to be a father figure or nothin’, but… You’ve got three weeks. Take the time. Sort things out. Think about where you wanna take things. That’s… really what you need right now.”

More preaching. More advice. More people trying to solve the failure that seemed to be his destined path through life. “Thanks, sir,” Trace grumbled.

His boss gestured towards Trace’s pocket with the Caretaker pamphlet in it. “And consider going to that meeting, huh? I’ve never worked with a Caretaker who didn’t know their stuff.”

Sure, because the precise thing he wanted to do right now was walk into a convention hall full of Orchids. Trace couldn’t stop himself from gritting his teeth at the idea. “Will. Do.”

Cocoa Bean nodded awkwardly and started heading back through the fields towards the farmhouse. Trace turned the other way, towards home. It was a long walk, giving the depressed stallion plenty of time to think about the events that had led him up to this moment. One event in particular.

That oblivious hyper druid… She’d just had to mention the perfume shop.

It’d actually been a flower shop, mainly – one that sold perfumes and little wooden crafts as well. They’d called it Little Spice of Life.

There’d been three of them: Sunny Days, himself, and Carver. Sunny was the flower girl, earnest and hardworking, unquestionably the leader of the group. Carver was a shy unicorn stallion whose hobby was, well, his namesake. They’d been friends all throughout school, and once they graduated they all decided to go into business together.

“It’ll be a little scary,” she’d said as she pitched the idea, “but I don’t have a doubt it’ll push us to be greater than we are. Even if the business tanks, we’ll all have learned something that we can take with us for the rest of our lives!”

Just like that (and with a bit of Sunny’s father’s money), Little Spice of Life was open for business on the side streets of Ponyville.

To be honest, business had never been… great. Trace remembered a lot of long hours waiting for exactly zero customers. But eventually ponies started wandering in, word of mouth spread, and they were on their way to breaking even. All three of them were selling their products and having a grand old time, pushing themselves to make better and better things.

It was this pursuit of greatness that landed Trace in the biggest trouble of his life.

Before closing time, he’d walked into the manager’s office – Sunny Days’ office – carrying a tiny porcelain pot with a single bloom growing out of soil. It was a stalk of freesia blooms, giving off the most powerful scent he’d ever concocted, and he’d been sure it would sell brilliantly once he distilled it. He’d wanted to show her first and get her approval.

He still wasn’t sure how exactly it had all happened. He’d been rattling off about how excited he was, failing to notice how Sunny Days had transitioned from intelligent responses to quiet docility, grinning dreamily as she stared blankly at the flowers.

Trace stopped prattling on for a second and took notice, unable to ignore how vulnerable she looked in that state. Sunny wasn’t a hyper mare, but she still had an attractive body. The trio’s friendship was platonic, but once or twice Trace had dared to imagine what she’d be like… and that spark of curiosity surged again that day.

To this day, he wasn’t sure if that thought was the trigger, but he knew that a second later, Sunny had pulled her shirt off and was groping at the cups of her bra, showcasing her C-cups almost blatantly for Trace’s hungry eyes. That glassy eyed grin burned into Trace’s retinas, a display of complete helplessness that both horrified and... aroused him.

“Do that again,” she’d said huskily.

“W-What??”

“Make me do what you want,” Sunny, or the creature calling itself Sunny, moaned. “Tell me anything, order me around… please, master…” She threw herself against Trace’s body, rubbing up against him. “It feels so good!!”

Trace’s wide, terror-stricken eyes darted from her face, to her exposed body, to the porcelain pot held out in his hand…

A second later, he smashed the pot on the ground and stomped the freesia into the floorboards.

The spell broke in moments. Sunny stumbled back, blinking away her confusion. “What… What in the world…?” Then it all became clear – her half-nudity, Trace’s proximity, the fragrant plant on the floor...

“...Out. Get out! OUT!!”

“Why’d I hafta get the power fer shcumbagsh and shupervillainsh…” Trace slurred.

Laying on his couch in only his underwear and a t-shirt, sipping from a bottle of craft ale, fighting off existential dread. This was something Trace did every once in a while, and after practically being fired from a job he really disliked only to soon end up in an even more... less... dis...like...ing-er job… Well, indulgence was his only way to cope.

He had no close friends to speak of, no shoulders to cry on. Letting someone get to know him meant revealing that he’d pled guilty to one charge of Accidental Mind Control.

Pheromone control.

You can do a lot with pheromones. Trace knew that, because that had been a part of Trace’s job. You could repel or attract Thunderblights, for instance. But that was only the beginning. For many species of the animal kingdom, pheromones were an entire language; everything was spoken in undetectable scents and smells. Ponies of the modern age only appreciated ‘male,’ ‘female,’ and the most recognizable one, ‘horny,’ but the receptors were just as strong as any other animal’s, the scent language just as complex. So it wasn’t too much of a leap to assume that ponies could be swayed by more advanced pheromones creating powerful impulses in their unprepared minds.

Practically science fiction to the laypony, but to someone whose special talent was entirely about, to put it the Crusader way, ‘scent management’... Well...

Trace sighed and took another swig. The only reason he wasn’t still serving a life sentence in prison was because he’d stopped it as soon as he realized what was going on. It had been an uphill battle, though – it took truth draughts and mind-reading to satisfy the court regarding the veracity of his account. And downgrading the charge to Accidental hadn’t stopped it from ruining his life.

His addled brain struggled to remember the first person in charge of his case. Starlight… Shimmer? After Trace had finished his community service, Starlight had outright told him he would never be able to work in Ponyville, or any of the surrounding cities, again. Then she’d dumped him onto Bulk Biceps, Princess Fluttershy’s Captain of the Guard – of all ponies – who put him through Cutie Mark Crusader Counseling. Twice.

The first therapist had walked out in disgust as soon as he brought up the mind control incident, which had been devastating. (And strange, in retrospect. Had no one told the doctor beforehand? Had he never even looked at the file?) When the second therapist arrived, he just started pretending the whole thing had never happened – which made it hard to deal with his problems because he wasn’t sharing the actual source of his problems. Eventually, they wore him down to calling his cutie mark ‘scent management,’ recommended him to pest control, and sent him on his way.

But that was all a lie, wasn’t it? Even though it involved botany, shooing off bugs on a farm had felt subtly but thoroughly wrong. He was never happy to show up to work, never fulfilled in a way that mattered. He didn’t belong in Hoofbrook, not in this capacity.

And yet, what were his options?

Trace glanced at the coffee table, where the letter from Seaddle Waste Management lay, stained from being thrown in the trash can, and pulled out, multiple times. It was the only lucrative employment offer he was likely to get with his vague-ass cutie mark designation and his delinquent record. But it was job about making other ponies’ shit smell slightly less like shit. If pest control felt “wrong,” then just the thought of becoming a garbage-pony made all his bones want to tear themselves out of his skin!

The thing was, he couldn’t go back into botany again, back to the “right” career path. That power to control others’ minds had never really gone away. It was still within his grasp. Tartarus, he still had plenty of freesia extract for his lures! So inevitably, going down that path again would mean exposing himself to that power again, along with the consequences.

It wasn’t like he could go to the Caretakers for help. Trace looked down at the discarded pants on the floor, the pamphlet still sticking out of the front pocket. If a room full of upstanding druids found out he could use the power of nature to control others’ minds… they’d label him an abomination for sure. No, the Caretakers were not an option.

So that left him with… nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Well, no legal options, anyway.

Trace smacked his own forehead. He knew what he was about to start thinking, and it was always a bad road. But the pesky, villainous train of thought came regardless.

What if he replicated that power but didn’t chicken out? Could he use that ability to regain control of his life? Secure his finances? ...Find companionship? He hadn’t had a fillyfriend since college, well before Little Spice of Life was a thing. With the right pheromones… maybe he could even bag a hyper...

Smack! No. Trace was not going to rob ponies of their money. He was not going to take mares against their will. He was not the next Equestrian villain in larval form! He was just…! Just…

Trace sighed and rolled over.

He was just nopony worth caring about, clearly.

Through the haze of the dreamworld, Mrs. Lavender Grace’s office materialized. “Hello, Trace,” the farm owner said simply. “The bugs seem to be standing down, so it looks like we don’t need you anymore. Feel free to head back home and mooch off us for a couple of weeks before dying in a gutter somewhere.”

Trace looked down at the tiny porcelain pot in his hand, with the special freesia bloom. He just smirked and looked back up at the boss-mare. “You don’t mind me sticking around for a little bit, do you? In fact, you want me here…”

Lavender Grace nodded passively, a blush forming on her cheeks. “Y-Yes…” she murmured, unbuttoning her blouse. “I… I want you so bad…”

There were a couple of stomping footsteps, and the door to the office opened. “Mrs. Grace, you asked for me…?” The hyper mare Orchid ducked her head as she entered the room, but as the smell of the bloom entered her nostrils, she fell to her knees and stared open-mouthed at Trace. “W-Wowie…”

Trace reclined on the edge of Lavender’s desk. His pants had disappeared all of a sudden, letting his hard six-inch prick stab out into the open air. “I think you owe me a better apology than yesterday’s, don’t you?” Trace asked, grinning.

“Oh… Oh yes…”

“Me too…!”

Lavender Grace knelt down before him and took one of his balls into her mouth, gently sucking. The act seemed to fill her with pleasure. And Orchid threw off her poncho, baring her incredible green K-cups to Trace’s hungry eyes. With her might, she smashed them against Trace’s groin, burying his cock and Lavender’s head in the process.

Trace let out a sigh of contentment. At last, things were going his way.

A dainty hand gripped Trace’s shoulder; a pair of lips hovered near his ear. That was strange… When had a third participant entered the room?

“Do that again.”

Trace turned and recoiled in horror – there was Sunny Days, wearing the same glassy stare as that fateful day and a lustful, unnatural smile nearly splitting her face in two. The desk and the room dissolved and he flailed backwards. Now Orchid and Lavender had the same looks on their faces, their heads stretching upwards into the inky blackness and looming over his body.

It was all over. He’d let it happen again! He’d lost control, and now he was going to lose everything!

He fell backward as the growing, elongated eyes of the mares stared down at him, simultaneously begging their master for more and condemning his very soul. More faces stretched over him – friends, family, princesses, gods, demons; all judging him. All preparing the sharp instruments with which they’d take away more and more of him until there was only a husk of a pony left.

“No…” Trace begged, curling up on the ground. “No, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

And then – POW!

Something crashed into him, sending him and it careening through the void, until with an “Oof!” he landed on something... fluffy. A cloud? His assailant was now laying on top of him, massive and… soft. Very soft, mountains of softness, but big and incredibly strong, too, gripping him tightly.

Trace finally opened his eyes. A pair of golden, glowing thestral eyes gleamed playfully back at him.