The Farm Girl and the Drake

As she ran, all Applejack could think about was her parents and Big Macintosh and how they had left her.

“Why did they leave me here alone like this?” she thought as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Applejack was so upset that she ran without looking where she was going.

She didn’t pay attention to where she was going and she didn’t care. She just wanted to get as far away from Miss Harshwhinny as possible.

It wasn’t long before Applejack found herself in town. Horns blared and tires screeched as she raced blindly through the crowded streets, in between passing cars.

Up one street and down another until she found herself lost—across the railroad tracks and in a very bad part of town. She ran down a dim and quiet alley, stumbling over trashcans, and attracting some very unwanted attention.

She heard the angry growls of a group of three big, mean Dragons. They saw her run by and, thinking she would be easy game for them, started to chase after her. When she heard the Dragons behind her, Applejack ran even faster.

Spike, who was nearby, also heard the Dragons, and turned just in time to see what was happening.

“I’ve got to help her!” he thought as he took off after them.

The three Dragons continued to chase after Applejack, until they had her trapped in a blind alley.

When Spike caught up with the Dragons, he saw Applejack cornered by the three snarling thugs. She hid behind a stack of barrels and shook with fright.

The other Dragons inched closer, but before they could harm Applejack, Spike jumped between her and them. Spike, now dressed in a basic T-shirt, blue jeans and a black leather jacket, snarled at them, baring his teeth, and they froze at the sight of him.

“Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size, Garble?” Spike shouted.

“Like you, pipsqueak?” the leader replied.

The three guys were each a useful size. The shortest, and lightest, was an inch over six feet tall and maybe an ounce under two hundred pounds. But they all had bruised knuckles and thick wrists, and they were looking for a fight.

Their leader, Garble, had thirty pounds and three inches on Spike, and the third guy had more than that. Ultimately, it was going to be their cumulative six hundred pounds against his one hundred and eighty. Not great odds, but no real cause for concern. Spike had first fought three-on-one when he was five years old, against seven-year-olds. He had won then, easily, and he intended to win now.

Spike stood with his hands down by his sides, his feet apart, securely planted on the ground. Tensed up and ready, but not visibly. The others stood in a wide semicircle and crouched, fists ready.

Garble and his boys weren’t armed, Spike was pretty sure about that. Plenty of members of the Dragon street gang had private weapons, but generally pulled them at the start of a fight, not later on. They wanted to display them. Show them off. Intimidate, from the get-go. Nobody in Spike’s experience had ever waited to pull a weapon.

So, unarmed combat, three-on-one.

Spike rehearsed his next moves.

He spun and hurled a fistful of dirt at the three thugs. As they raised their hands to shield their eyes, Spike charged the guy in the middle, Garble, and smashed his elbow flat against the bridge of the Garble’s nose. Garble went down and before he hit the ground, Spike jerked sideways and put the same elbow into the big guy’s ear. Then he bounced away from the impact, backed into the skinny guy and buried the elbow deep in his gut. The skinny guy folded forward and Spike put his hand flat on the back of the guy’s head, powered it downward into his raised knee, and then shoved the guy away and turned around fast.

Spike ducked under the inevitable roundhouse kick incoming from Garble, let him follow through, and put an elbow in his gut. The big guy launched forward with a wild grimace on his face. Spike danced two steps and took a left hook to the shoulder (it was a weak punch) and put a straight right into the center of the grimace. The big guy stumbled back and shook his head as Spike snapped a reverse headbutt that made solid contact with the skinny guy’s face.

Not as good as a forward blow, but useful.

They weren’t total amateurs. They reacted well and they reacted fast.

Spike fought like an animal. Growling, biting and barking, he fought off Applejack’s would-be attackers.

He accelerated backwards and crushed the breath out of the skinny guy against the alley wall, some bricks smashed and loosened and Spike dodged an incoming right from the big guy and snapped one of his own to the guy’s jaw.

Not a powerful blow, but it rocked the guy enough to open him up for a colossal left to the throat that put him down when Spike grabbed the guy by his shirt and threw him into a stack of barrels that crushed under his weight.

Almost a dozen blows delivered, one taken, one guy down.

Time to get serious.

The skinny was rolling around on the ground, holding one hand to his face, whimpering. Spike kicked him in the ribs hard enough that he broke a couple of them and then forced the guy’s forearm to the ground with one foot and stomped on it with the other.

Spike stepped back and glanced at Garble, who straightened like they were in a timeout.

Then Garble put his hands in his pants pockets and came out with two switchblades. Neat wooden handles, pleated bindings, plated buttons. He stood in the dusty alley, panting, and popped the first blade with a precision click and then paused and popped the second.

Spike’s stomach clenched.

The two small clicks were not attractive sounds.

He hated knives. He would have preferred it if Garble had pulled a gun, or even a pair of guns. Guns can miss. And given enough stress and pressure, they usually did.

Knives didn’t miss. If they touched, they cut. The only opponents Spike truly feared were small whippy guys with fast hands and sharp blades. Garble was neither fast nor nimble, but with knives in his hands dodged blows would not mean dull impacts to the shoulders. They would mean open wounds, pouring blood, and severed arteries.

Not good.

The best defense against knives was distance. And the best countermove was entanglement. A swung net or a blanket was often effective. The blade would get hung up in the fabric. But Spike didn’t have a net or a blanket.

Garble took a breath and started swinging, the blades hissing through the air and winking in the light.

Spike danced backward as Garble swung the blades through tiny arcs. Spike backed off, grabbed a wooden crate and threw it high and hard. Garble flinched and jerked his arms up. The crate bounced off his elbows and Spike stepped in. He jabbed hard and caught Garble low in the side, below the ribs, above the waist.

Nothing but soft tissue.

Garble’s body froze and went rigid as his face crumpled. He dropped both knives and clamped both hands down on his stomach. For a long moment, he stood like a statue and then jerked forward from the waist, bent down, and puked a long stream of blood. He staggered away and fell to his knees. His shoulders sagged and his face went white.

“Let’s get out of here!” the skinny guy yelped.

And all three of them turned and slunk off like a bunch of dogs with their tails between their legs.

The alley went silent. No sound, except Spike’s breathing.

Spike spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He had won a three-on-one brawl and he had nothing to show for it except one bruised shoulder and an ache in his knuckles. It had gone way better than he could have hoped.

He forced himself back under control and picked up the fallen knives. He pressed the blades back into their handles against the brick of the alley wall and slipped them into his pants pockets. Then he turned and approached Applejack.

“Hey, what are you doing on this side of the tracks?” he asked, still panting.

That’s when he recognized her.

Her heart still pounding in her chest, Applejack looked up at Spike. He had just been in a fight, and yet he looked handsome to her. So strong and so brave.

“I’m sorry you had to see that--” he said.

She traced a finger over his cheek. Then she finally broke down and cried. She buried her face into his chest and he wrapped his arms around her and slowly began to rub her back.

“Oh, there, there,” he said in a gentle tone. “Let it out.”

As her head rested on his chest, she could hear his heart beat. He stopped rubbing her back and she tilted her head back to look up at him. His eyes said everything to her. Every glint of those emerald orbs was a promise that she was going to be all right.

As he held her in his arms, she couldn’t help but take in his scent. He smelt like brimstone and spices. It was nice, and she felt safe.

“Here. Take my jacket,” he said as he wrapped it around her. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. My name is Spike. Now, tell me what happened.”

So, Applejack told him the whole, sad story.