Don't Know, Never Tippled
The mayor was smiling when she trotted into the library on that cool autumn day, and said smile was really the first thing Spike noticed about her. In the aftermath of the goose incident, Applejack had darkly advised him to never trust a smiling politician and before Spike could stop himself, he'd pointed out that technically, the Princess qualified for the profession and she smiled rather a lot. It had sent the farmer half-staggering out of the library while muttering to herself, and given Spike a lot to ideally never think about again.
It wasn't all that unusual to see the mayor smile, although it was a sighting which had become steadily less frequent as the town's elected leader continued adjusting to life in a Bearer-hosting settled zone, along with all the disaster relief forms which came with it. But Spike had grown up among ponies, knew their expressions better than those of other dragons, and so the second thing he noticed was that this smile felt as if it had been somewhat... forced.
"Miss Sparkle," the older mare politely said as she came up to the checkout desk. "Mr. Twinkle, I would appreciate your presence as well, for I need to speak with you both. Would you pause in your reshelving and join us, please?"
Twilight, who'd been busy putting together an order from the winter release schedule and so had mostly been lost in both desperate budget juggling and jotting down theories which the soon-to-arrive multi-novel arc grand finales would in every way disprove, looked up just a little too late. Saw the earth pony looking at her over the edge of the glasses' frames, then used a split-second for a very visible mental review.
"I haven't done anything," she quickly said, even as several patrons quickly closed their books and hastily began to evacuate from the anticipated Ground Zero.
"I didn't say you had," Marigold Mare politely replied.
Twilight risked a glance at Spike, who quickly shook his head.
"We haven't done anything."
"Miss Sparkle --"
"-- and if any of the others did something, I mean, I guess that's possible --" another review, one which went on for considerably longer, producing several winces along the way "-- or probable --" followed by a small twitch "-- actually, when you run the historical odds..." and then scrambled to recover. With increasing speed, "Anyway, I just got back into town after the Equestrian Magic Society conference! So I missed some things. I really don't know what anypony's up to or did, but if you need us to try and fix --"
"Miss. Sparkle."
The echoes lasted for quite some time, perhaps because there were no longer any other pony bodies to absorb the vibrations.
Twilight stopped. Spike froze halfway to the desk. And the mayor indulged in a small sigh.
"I will make this brief," the older mare said. "As you may or may not be aware, Ponyville's tri-annual Homemade Beer And Wine Festival will be held two weeks from today. Given that scheduling, it will be the first one which the two of you will be able to attend. As such, I wanted to ask for a pair of minor favors."
The siblings, who were both aware that minor favors for Town Hall had a way of leading to very large backfires, glanced at each other again.
"Tri-annual?" Spike asked as he reached the desk.
"Yes," the mayor replied. "Not only does the interval allow for both fermenting and some degree of aging for certain brews --" and now there was an oddly weary tone to her words "-- but there needs to be some time between Festivals, which should not be increased. Now, Mr. Twinkle --" Spike looked up, forced himself to listen for the name of their House as a direct address "-- your favor first. As I understand it from all the arguments which Ms. Belle repeatedly carried into my offices while demanding that I grant an exception to the law on your behalf, you are effectively immune to alcohol. This is correct?"
It took a moment before he could respond, mostly because 'Ms. Belle' had initially made him picture Sweetie: hardly anypony ever used Rarity's surname -- designer very much included. "Well... yeah."
"He can drink it, but he's never shown any effects from consumption," Twilight clarified. "We think his body just -- burns it off."
The mayor smiled again. "And as I've seen from spotting you at our shops and restaurants... well, while some of your nutritional needs are different from our own, for those areas where we overlap, you essentially possess a pony's palate. I shall never know the flavor of sapphire, but we both identify oranges in the same fashion. Also correct?"
Spike, still trying to figure out where this was going, nodded to a half-truth.
"In that case," the mayor told them, "I would like you to serve as one of our judges. There is a competitive factor to the Festival, you see. And where ponies must quickly spit out their sample sips in order to stay on their hooves for the entirety of the day, you have the capacity to truly savor what you're drinking, appreciating it for the flavor alone. Additionally, your judgment would not become impaired as the day went on, and when it comes to your rulings -- well, all taste is subjective. Are you willing?"
Twilight, who hated it when Spike drank in public, automatically winced. (It wasn't any degree of concern for him: it was the tendency of some egotistical ponies to spot a sapient of his size putting away entire bottles to no visible effect, decide they could do better, and challenge. There had been drinking contests, accompanied by appropriate wagers. There had also been a time-staggered line of mares and stallions who hadn't woken up for a while.) "Um..."
"I am addressing your brother, Miss Sparkle," the mayor stated. "Not you. This is his decision. Please allow him to make one."
"Legally," Twilight tried to protest, "he's still too young to --"
"-- a law written by ponies," the mayor interrupted, "about ponies, for ponies. Upon review of Ms. Belle's arguments, it now seems to me that such a statute does not need to apply when it comes to someone who cannot experience any of the detrimental effects. And so I am now prepared to write an executive order allowing him to drink when he wishes while within our borders, which will also free him to accompany some of his older friends on the nights when they go out and enjoy a pleasant mug along the way. And given that he would usually be traveling with Ms. Belle..."
Everypony winced.
"Exactly," the mayor said. "Additionally, there is a one-day salary which accompanies the position. Mr. Twinkle?"
Realistically, the worst which could happen to Spike was that he'd be asking for the location of the nearest bathroom. Repeatedly. "I don't mind," he decided. "It'll be nice just to see what everypony came up with. Is there really a lot of home brewing done in Ponyville?"
"You," the mayor wearily said, "have no idea. Thank you, Mr. Twinkle. I'll inform the panel that you'll be joining them."
"And me?" Twilight quickly asked. "You want me to get a library event going, right? Take all our books on the subject, do the usual display table -- I guess I could invite a guest speaker, but I don't think I should have any readings for the kids..."
"No," Marigold said. "Nothing like that. I have a rather different role in mind for you."
Spike looked at his older sister, standing proud and... tall... under Sun in the center of the forward-facing line, with her chin elevated and rib cage swollen against the new strap running across her barrel, and he just barely managed to choke back the laugh.
Twilight possessed intellect, magical power, connections she'd never really been able to make herself perceive, much less use, and quite a bit of raw determination. What she didn't have was size. She was rather small for a full-grown unicorn mare, and exceptionally slender. Quite a few of Ponyville's teens were larger than she was, and just about every adult possessed more in the way of raw bulk. And now she was standing in the middle of the line which comprised every member of Ponyville's physically-formidable police force, as their one-day recruit. The strap she was wearing had recently seen several progressive holes punched in it as the closest approximation to a tailor in the group had desperately tried to make it fit, and there were three hoofwidths of excess badge-bearing strap poking into the air on her left side. Her elevated chin was at least a horn length below everypony else's, and she was trying to puff out a rib cage which she just barely had.
She looked fierce and resolute. And when compared to the bulkier bodies surrounding her, she also looked like a fierce and resolute kindergartener who was trying to get away with the world's least convincing dress-up.
None of the policeponies had laughed, not even during the third revised fitting. Spike, who was family, had felt the mirth. The officers, who knew what had just been added to their ranks for the day, were simply watching their chief trot towards them.
It was unusual to see Miranda Rights under Sun. It was slightly less unusual just to see her: the surprisingly young unicorn mare had the kind of fur which blended into most Moon-shadows, and even the briefest of blinks on a dark night could lead to a moment of completely non-magical invisibility.
"All right," she told them -- then snorted. "Or rather, all wrong for the sake of right, because this is the Festival. Look to your left." Everyone did. "Look to your right." Again. "You saw all the buildings?" Everypony nodded. "Good. Take one more look at them because if we fail today --" and stopped trotting -- "it's best that everypony got to have one. last. look."
Nopony breathed.
"Cadet Sparkle, you're with me," Miranda told the entire line, "and you stay with me. Swoops, anything you see which you think needs direct intervention, you fly to my station and then we all get there as fast as possible. Gallop, carried, teleported if the Cadet has an arrival point nearby, I don't care." A brief moment of consideration. "But we will have to be careful about teleports. Safe spots often aren't during the festival. Ponies turn up in odd places. Positions. Trees."
"The pegasi?" one of the newer hires asked. "I suppose there's no harm if they fall asleep in --"
"-- I wish I was talking about the pegasi," Miranda snorted. Followed by, in tones where the friendliness removed all of the harshness from the words, "Spike, any reason you're here?"
"I wanted to see Twilight off on her first day of work," he grinned, and then raised the camera. "And get a picture for the record." (That purple rib cage strained a little more, managed to achieve one whole tail strand's worth of extra width.) "Besides, the Festival hasn't started yet, right?"
Miranda nodded.
Spike made sure the framing was right (beyond that provided by the officers on each side), took the picture, stowed the camera in his little backpack -- then frowned. "Actually -- when does the Festival start? There wasn't an official opening hour on the banners or one-sheets, and the mayor told me you would let us know..."
"Not me," Miranda said. "The Festival lets us know when it's started." She glanced up at Sun. "So. It's about ten-thirty in the morning. The sellers have been setting up since before Sun was raised. Official selling isn't supposed to start until eleven, but ponies have been wandering through, friends tend to be generous with each other, and the more nervous booth occupants eventually look at their own stock... You want to know when the Festival starts, Spike? Everypony, go quiet. Completely. I don't want to hear so much as a single feather rustle."
It was an exaggeration, of course: feathers could rustle a little just from normal breathing. Still, the pegasi among the officers locked their wings against their sides, and the group fell silent.
After a few seconds, sounds began to drift in from the rest of Ponyville, carried on the warm air. The Festival had been scheduled on a day of echoed spring: pleasant from Sun-raising until lowering, far warmer than most of the season along with having that warmth be more consistent -- balanced out by a plunge into near-freezing temperatures just as Moon was brought over the horizon. Spike, who didn't want to get caught outside after the transition, couldn't work out the reasoning for that last part.
Off in the distance, colts and fillies laughed as they played, for the Festival was taking place on the first day of the weekend, with absolutely nothing scheduled for the second. The few birds which had yet to migrate or settle in for the season were chirping to each other, and larger wings disrupted the air above them as a pegasus passed by. Spike could just make out a distant hiss of steam as a train left the station. The world sounded... normal.
There was a thump.
Again. From off to the left. It repeated a few times, enough for Spike to tell that the thump wasn't the whole of it. There was a little sharp ting! at the very start of the sound, followed by a sliding screech of a miniature skid, and then you got the thump! at the very end. It was actually a surprisingly complex sort of sound, especially once you found out what action was producing it.
Policepony ears perked. Several veterans among the officers winced. Miranda merely sighed.
"The first pony," she announced, "has just trotted repeatedly into the same wall." She listened again. "Unicorn, if you're curious, going into wood. The Festival has now officially begun." Her ears pivoted. "Huh. Oak. Get ready for a long day, everypony, because it's way too early for oak."
In retrospect, the other portions of silence should have been a hint.
Ponyville was buzzing as Spike neared the Festival area -- or rather, the central section. Ponies who wanted their efforts to be visible to the maximum number had been encouraged to purchase booth areas in the space which the town's open-air market generally occupied -- but for some reason, the rents on those spaces had just about tripled. Spike didn't understand the reason for the increase, nor could he work out why so many ponies were willing to pay it -- but many had and for those who didn't want to take on the financial burden, there was always the front of their own homes. Drinks were available just about everywhere, and it seemed they were also available from about a tenth of the town's population. Spike had been given a map: rented spaces and the names of their occupants, those citizens who decided to host at their own properties. It hadn't taken much more than a glance to realize he would be making the rounds for most of the day.
Things were lively on the walk in. Adults were happily trotting around, swooping overhead, calling out greetings to each other. Some were addressing ponies with so much enthusiasm as to make Spike wonder how many moons it had been since they'd spotted that resident. (A few almost made it sound as if they hadn't seen their friend in roughly three years.) There were jokes being told, family news was exchanged, hooves jokingly pushed into flanks (followed by the recipient of the fake shove laughing it off), and everypony seemed to be having a good time. Which was a positive thing, because when it came to having a good time, the Festival was all there was.
Both he and Twilight had been asked to do other tasks, and so the library was closed. (The mayor had made an odd point of telling them that for Festival, the library was always closed.) But the tree wasn't the only thing which had been shut down. Anypony seeking a secondary source of reading material would find the bookstore's overnight security spells had never been turned off for standard business hours. Every bar had a prominent CLOSED sign on display, and that made sense to Spike: they probably didn't want to deal with all the competition. But the restaurants had taken the day off. Absolute silence came from the bowling alley, which didn't seem to know what to do with it. The cinema had barriers in front of the ornate doors.
It all felt strange and when he passed the metal reinforcements which now blocked the entrance to Barnyard Bargains, that sensation began a rapid tilt into 'weird'.
Still, everypony was happy. They were talking and joking and having fun, laughing to each other as they approached the central area. Some called out to him, and he waved back. A few attempted false bribes, grinning all the way: news of his status as judge had spread surprisingly quickly, and some ponies were making deliberately pointless attempts to curry favor for those friends who were waiting for Spike's arrival. For the testing. But none of them were serious about it, while Spike was completely serious about his duties.
He was a judge. It felt like a true responsibility. Not so much as being a narrator upon the stage, for plays were more important than festivals, but... it was something he wanted to do properly. To be fair, neutral, completely unbiased, even when dealing with friends (and there were two friends waiting up ahead). He didn't want anypony to question his decisions, and the best way to do that was through being serious.
Spike checked the map again, read the names which had been carefully written into each space, then winced as he decided on the first stop.
He was going to take it all seriously. And the best way to make sure he could do that was by getting the worst out of the way immediately.
Also in retrospect, it should have been the second sign, or perhaps even the third. It didn't really register a while, well beyond the point where anything could have been helped.
"It's dandelion wine," declared the hostess at his first stop as she proudly nodded to the gold-filled little mugs which had been carefully arranged along the stained plank. "Liqueur, technically, but everypony calls it wine. You'll be taking the rightmost mug, because that's reserved for the first judge to come by. I've never had a judge come by this early." She eagerly craned her neck forward. "Did somepony recommend me?"
Spike stared at Flower Wishes. ('Daisy' to her friends, all two of them, or 'Instigator #2' on the majority of Ponyville's police forms which recorded charges for inducing herd instinct panic riots.) It took a moment before he could make himself stop, because the tied-for-first mare among the town's leading three paranoids never spoke to him this much. She barely spoke to him as if he was real at all. On a good day, it was 'the dragon' and on a bad one, it was 'RUN!' And because she saw just about every day as a bad one, she cried out 'RUN!' a lot. But when it came to Spike, Ponyville had long since stopped running -- with a Flower Trio of exceptions.
"No," he carefully said. "I just thought I'd see you first."
She beamed. "Of course you did!" Her body arched forward a little more. "Because... you know."
"I've never had dandelion --"
"You know," Flower Wishes declared as her voice dropped into whisper, her eyes going over his head and checking on every laughing pony passing by before risking the rest of the sentence, "about what they do. To commercial wine. And beer. And anything with alcohol in it."
"...huh?"
She reared up a little, rested her forehooves on the plank. Gold-tinged light reflected from the mugs, played across the tiny pupils.
"That alcohol," she hissed, "is naturally harmless."
He did what so many others had done in the presence of a Trio declaration, at least when the primary option wasn't available. But Spike had no means of just walking away, for he had yet to judge her liquid effort. Instead, he wrapped his soul in armor of dread, and waited for it.
"They," Flower Wishes declared with the low-decibel power of absolute conviction, "contaminate it. To make ponies stupid. To make sure ponies don't believe in them. They travel the world getting into every barrel, every cask, so they can keep making the world scary and fearful while nopony does anything to stop them, no matter how many articles those who know put in the magazines, nopony does anything, Spike."
He blinked. It was entirely due to what she'd just said, but most of it got focused on the last word. He was fairly sure it was the first time she'd ever used it.
"But this," she told him, "is pure alcohol. I've been guarding it for moons now. They never got near it, not like they managed to get past me for the last two Festivals. This is completely untouched. Harmless. There's nothing to it but the taste. You won't get drunk off it, because you can't."
"I... can't get drunk," Spike tried, because it was hard to listen to a Trio speech without making at least one pointless attempt to bring the other side back to sanity.
"EXACTLY!" she enthused. "I tried the first two mugs myself and I'm perfectly fine!" Her right hoof lanced forward, went through a mug's loop, practically tossed the contents towards her waiting mouth. "And now it's three! No effect!"
She smacked her lips a few times. One tiny pupil rotated in a lazy circle.
"Go ahead," she smiled, at least with the side of her mouth which still worked. "Try it."
Spike took his mug and carefully sipped at the contents.
"It's good," he declared, for it was, and he had vowed to be fair. The liqueur tasted something like almonds, somewhat like glass, and a little like summer, but rather a lot like getting the buck out of here.
But he was a judge, so he took a few notes first. "What do you want me to call it? Just dandelion wine? I should really have something else here in case somepony else made it."
"Courage," Flower Wishes mistily said. "Liquid Courage."
He nodded, then set the mug down and quickly walked away.
Behind him, Flower Wishes, who was sure they had lost the round, drank a little more.
"Somepony," she told the air (and just the air, for few wanted to get near that booth), "should do something..."
"Let him through! He don't have t' wait in line! Everypony, Ah want you t' clear some space for one of our judges!" Applejack added a few hoof stomps to the last part, perhaps to get past the slightly unhappy muttering which had sounded from a few of her line-cut patrons. "C'mon, everypony, while he's still fresh! Got a mug waiting right here for him an' everythin'!" She winked as he crossed the last bit of distance. "Gotta say, Spike, kinda surprised t' see Twilight letcha do this."
"The mayor asked me." Even to his own ears, it had sounded oddly defensive.
"Yeah, yeah..." She grinned, then picked up the mug with her teeth, leaned forward and lowered it to his level.
Spike took custody, sniffed at it. "This smells... familiar?"
"It should! It's cider!"
He blinked up at her.
"Hard cider," she smiled. "Not quite what ponies wait in line for."
Spike automatically glanced backwards. Fifty ponies very nearly glared at him.
"The other line," Applejack clarified. "Anyway, Ah gotta say, it's good t' be back! Or it's good t' be here. One of those. Y'see, Granny had t' take the one six years ago. Then Mac, he up an' said he was old enough the next time around, an' he an' me, we had a little go-round this week 'bout who was gonna show up t'day, but guess who won?" Thoughtfully, "Maybe that's kinda obvious. Anyway, hard cider, Spike. An' Ah know Ah can trust you. Ain't gonna be mad if'fin Ah don't win mah category. Just take the drink, write it up honest, and Ah'll live with whatever comes."
At which point, she hiccuped.
Applejack pulled back slightly at the sound -- then giggled. Her hat slipped, three tail strands to the right.
"...Applejack?"
"Serves mah brother right, losin' our contest t' be here," Applejack mistily said, speaking to a place some distance over his head. "Too young when Granny had it. Then he grabbed the last one, big ornery hauler he is, jus' took what he said was the responsibility an' Ah wound up home the whole day with all the chores. Waitin' what felt like mah whole life t' do the other cider. An' Ah know Ah did it right, 'cause Ah tried some. That's what y'do, when it's the other cider. Y'open the first cask an' y'see how it came out."
This time, she was the one who glanced backwards, at the forty casks stacked behind her. Six of them had scent-wafting vacancies where plugs had once been. As Spike watched, a tiny brown drop formed in one hole, then dropped to the thirsty soil below.
Ponies moaned.
"Been testin' every cask," Applejack happily told him. "That's what those dumb con artist brothers taught me. Wasn't teachin' me nothin'. Taught me that Ah gotta check 'em all. Maybe Ah need a new scroll..."
"...Applejack?"
She smiled at him.
"Are you drunk?"
She reared back a little, hat jostled by the sheer level of offense. "Spike! Ah? Am an earth pony! Most durable! Most stamina! Ah do not get blasted t' the ground by six mugs."
"You don't need to drink a whole mug to check for quality --"
"-- unlike some ponies Ah could mention," she wickedly grinned. "Ponies who never reached five once in their white-horned lives. Ah am an earth pony, Spike. An' six mugs is water splashin' on rock."
Another hiccup.
"Ain't feelin' a thing."
Two more. The hat slipped backwards.
"Nothin' at'tall."
It occurred to Spike that Applejack had to be telling the truth. And then it also occurred to him that there was more than one reason for a pony not to be feeling a thing.
Then he remembered that water wore rock away. Slowly.
"So drink up," she encouraged him. "Got ponies behind you. Enough that it should get me t' Cask Seven. Maybe even Eight. Good ol' number Eight... go on, drink!"
He drank, then made a note about the oak underpinnings, along with a few words about the cork. "Okay. See you later?"
"Maybe after Moon comes up." She looked up. "Maybe Ah should save some. Moon might want a dram or six. Maybe six million. 'course, gonna need a delivery service. Where's a pegasus when y'need one? Ah'll tell y'where. Lazin' on a cloud far, far away, jus' waitin' for the world t' come t' her..."
One last hiccup sounded as he hurried away.
"That sleek little feathered sky-explodin' race-cheatin' prismatic bitch," Applejack muttered. "By the by, have y'seen her?"
"Um..." Spike said without looking back, not quite sure about returning the exact form of identification. "I haven't gotten to any pegasus areas yet..."
"Nah. Not prismatic bitch her. Her-her."
"I don't --"
"-- Spike, the whole town is an open bar. Have. You. Seen. Her?"
Realization dawned with the golden light of dandelion wine. "Oh!" And then he really thought about it. "No. Not yet."
"Me neither. Kinda surprised. You'd think... well, anyway, get goin', you. Before the first her runs out."
He almost ran for it.
"Stupid little dust devil," sent him on his way. "Jus' because Ah make her stand in the line... probably won't even save me any..."
It took over an hour for him to reach Rainbow. There were stops to make along the way, and one gave him some trouble: it turned out that when just about every place in town was closed, restrooms were hard to come by. Fortunately, one of the ponies offering home-served samples was happy to let him use hers, and it only took her six attempts before she gave up on trying to provide directions and just let him go inside, down the hallway, to the right.
Over an hour, and during that time, things... changed.
There was still laughter, but some of it emerged in response to jokes Spike didn't understand, or couldn't even recognize as being jokes at all. For the ones he could work out, the majority didn't seem to be funny.
Here and there, ponies glared at each other. Ponies planted their hooves with a little too much force. Pegasi ruffled wings with irritation. Coronas flickered in and out.
Drinks had been had, and drops had been spilled. In the places where the cobblestones of the streets ran out, the soil had consumed whatever ponies had missed, and so the very ground was taking on alcohol. That might have been why a few ponies were taking uncertain steps across it: checking for wet spots.
Laughter, greetings, reunions, and... an underlayer, something he couldn't quite identify yet.
He made his rounds. Some of the efforts were putrid, and he left those places before the pony could ask for a preview of his opinion. Some of those ponies followed him. Others got in front and tried to nose him into returning. He'd stepped back quickly on the third pony to try that, found his nostrils flaring a little too widely, and it had made that pony vanish. But he'd also told a maker of blackberry wine that she'd had the single best effort he'd found so far: it had been too good not to say anything. And then she'd told him all about how it was made. For three blocks, leaving her station behind as she happily babbled through harvesting and fermentation and quality checks, right up until the moment she trotted into a tree. The impact seemed to make three police officers materialize on the spot, and they helped her up before walking her back.
There were officers everywhere. The pegasi were constantly monitoring from overhead. Unicorns tensely checked for unexpected displays of corona light. Earth ponies stomped about as if their entire lives had turned into a trotting extension of NO.
There wasn't any tension in the air, because he didn't want there to be. It was the Festival, and so it was supposed to be fun. No tension in the air at all.
The tension turned out to be waiting at what a not-drunk Applejack would have termed "the prismatic bitch's stop."
"Oh, hey!" Rainbow flipped over, got off her back and onto her hooves in something close to a heartbeat: she'd been resting on an exceptionally low-lying cloud (technically fog, and just about that dense: the vapor was holding up her sample mugs), tail lashing with not-at-all-repressed boredom until the moment she'd spotted him coming up.
"Hi," Spike called out as he closed in, moving around a stray bit of cloud which was sticking out of her neighbor's stand: it might be just vapor to him, but it was considered rude to walk through somepony's construct. "So how's it been so far?"
"Slow," Rainbow grumbled, her tail lashing again. "Boring and slow. I know some dumb ponies say pegasus stuff is an acquired taste, but I haven't even seen that many pegasi coming through! Just because it's my first time at the Festival..."
He mentally tallied Rainbow's time in Ponyville. "Weren't you here for the last one?"
"Yeah," she admitted. "So?"
"So why is this your first time?"
"Because," Rainbow crossly declared, "Applejack is doing it. In the market square and everything, with the rest of us stuck out here in the boondocks just because we don't go to the market every week and don't feel like paying that price. It's discrimination, Spike. Pure discrimination."
A familiar snort sounded on his right: a sound made by a pony who'd decided the subject was stupid, then immediately extended that status to at least one of the parties in the discussion before deciding she didn't care who knew it. Rainbow's tail lashed faster.
"I think it's seniority," Spike tried.
"Same thing," Rainbow decided, dismissively waving a foreleg. "You drinking or what?"
He looked at the closest mug. It took him a moment to realize there was actually liquid in it: the contents were perfectly clear, and only the glint of Sun on the surface acknowledged their presence.
"What is it?"
She leaned forward, ears twitching with excitement. "White lightning."
He'd never heard of it, and said so.
"It's a pegasus speciality!" Rainbow beamed. "Nopony else can make it! Because nopony else has the magic. After you do the initial brewing -- can't tell you about how that's done, some things have to stay secret, but it makes the stuff strong, stronger than anything on the ground -- you put the stuff in glass. Perfect glass, with one little hole at the very top of the sphere. And then you hit the stuff with lightning. The hottest, purest lightning anypony can trigger, over and over, for two whole hours! Or until you run out of clouds. Or take a nap because bringing out lightning for anything close to two hours really takes it out of you. Honestly, I think the 'two whole hours' bit is overrated. But anyway, you hit it with lightning! And who else but a pegasus could do that?"
"Maybe a pegasus," the neighbor declared, "who knows white lightning has to be made by teams? So they can keep going for two hours without six breaks? Some pegasi without the ego to delude themselves into thinking they can manage it alone?"
The prismatic tail was now kicking up more of a fall breeze than the recently-passed weather team. "And what did you make? I don't see anypony stopping to try your stuff!"
"Maybe," the neighbor said, snidely leaning forward, nearly putting the unironic mane bow into Spike's crest as she watched Rainbow from the corner of her eye, "you would have if you hadn't been nearly two hours late."
"Whatever it is," Rainbow decided, "you screwed it up."
With malice aforethought, "Wanna bet?"
The trigger words had been pulled, and Rainbow instinctively dove directly in front of the missile. "YEAH!"
"Fine," Flitter smugly agreed. "Okay, dragon. This? Is moonshine." (Spike looked at the empty-seeming mug, then tilted his head until the reflection of Sun appeared.) "And what you've got to know about the brewing is that once the first part's done, which makes it more powerful than her fail, you fly the glass sphere up to the highest part of the atmosphere any pegasus can reach, so high that you can't stay for more than a minute because it's too cold and hard to breathe. And you're pushing it on a cloud, because you can't really weave one up there. The densest, most solid, durable cloud you can make. And you do that for the three nights of full Moon, every moon, for five moons. Because some brewers expose their work to Sun, and that does the job. But if you're serious... you go up there and let it all bask in moonlight. Soaked in moonlight. And if you do it wrong, the cloud comes apart too early, and you lose everything. You can't get that high, you can't do it at all. You miss one night because you had other plans or overslept --"
"-- or had a life," Rainbow muttered. "Or could actually get a date because ponies could stand to be around you instead of just some cat."
Flitter's tail did not lash. Instead, her ears silently slammed into her head as she continued. "-- and it won't work. If a different pony carries it, it doesn't work. Any team can make white lightning. Moonshine takes dedication."
"I get missions," Rainbow angrily pointed out. "I'm not here for every full Moon! I couldn't do moonshine --"
"-- you've got that right --"
"-- if I wanted to!"
"That's okay," Flitter immediately decided. "You can't do white lightning either, so least you're consistent."
Furious magenta eyes fixed on Spike.
"Drink," Rainbow growled. "Mine, then hers. I don't want to hear where we are in the rankings. I don't want to know about stupid hard cider when she's probably not going to save any for me. I just want you to say which one of us is better."
"Which one of our brews is better," Flitter both smugly and falsely corrected.
"Shut. Up," Still glaring, "Spike?"
The little dragon, feeling as if his crests were wilting, tried the mug from the left-side cloud. Then he had one from the right.
"WELL?" Both mares, leaning directly into his face with what felt like the same motion, their snouts nearly colliding.
"They're..."
"THEY'RE WHAT?" For an unpracticed chorus, it was pretty much perfect.
"...the same."
Flitter looked at Rainbow. Rainbow looked at Flitter. Both silently decided to blame Spike.
"The same," Flitter too-carefully repeated.
"Well..." Spike tried, "the silica content was higher in your glass. And Rainbow's still has a little hint of ozone. But other than that, they're pretty much identical."
They kept staring at him. His tail went into the dirt, mostly in self-defense.
"You know what this means," Rainbow softly said.
"Yeah," Flitter agreed. "I should have seen it coming."
"Dragon taste buds?"
"Don't match pegasus ones."
They pulled their heads back, nodded to each other.
"Then there's just one way to settle this," Rainbow declared. "You pick a mug for me. I'll pick one for you. We'll keep going until somepony admits defeat."
"You could," Spike helplessly suggested, "just wait for somepony else to come along --"
"-- so here's yours," Flitter decided, shoving a mug across the gap. "Got something pitiful for me?"
"This one's as great as any other," Rainbow declared. "Drink!"
They drank.
"Now one of our own," Flitter eventually said. "Each. To compare."
They did that.
"Dish... this isn't ba... ba... bad?" decided the prismatic representative from the pony race with the fastest metabolism, who had just hard-slammed two mugs of the strongest alcohol known to Equestria. "Can't quite work it out, though. Workout. Working. I'm off work. I can drink."
Flitter's lips pursed. Then she giggled. "Funny! I can't either! We'd better do another round and around and around and around..."
"You should wait for other ponies to come by!" Spike desperately suggested.
"Boondocks," Rainbow huffily stated. "Drink!"
They drank.
"I think I spilled some," Rainbow admitted.
"That's fine, Captain Crash: I did too. S'okay, though. Got plenty more..."
Again, with Spike's desperate lunging attempt to snatch at least one mug away coming just a little too late.
"Dumb mane decorashuning," Rainbow decided.
"Shtupidish factory 'plosion mane."
Which was when the first explosion went off.
It wasn't a very big explosion. It was your basic firecracker, times about two hundred, preceded by flash and thunder. But it was an explosion, and Spike's head whipped in that direction.
"What happened?" he cried out. "What's going on over there?"
Rainbow fuzzily looked towards Sun. "'bout... two, right? Two innainnainna after'noon?"
"Yeah..." Flitter vaguely agreed. "Zat right for Ponyville? Wasn't here three years ago."
"I was," Rainbow decided. "I think. So kinda righton time." She forced her neck to turn towards where she now thought Spike was, and was slightly surprised to find herself regarding her own tail. "Two. Time for 'plosions!"
Spike ran for it. And because of everything which had happened since they'd come to Ponyville, he ran towards the source.
It was the first time he'd seen Twilight since leaving the police assembly. She was standing, with her horn ablaze at the single corona level, directly under the field bubble which currently contained a frustrated-looking Whitewash. The police chief was on Twilight's immediate right.
"One more time," Miranda said, taking an involuntary glance at the lightning-blasted hole in the fence. "What do you think happened to your neighbor's fence?"
Whitewash's clouded eyes widened with fury.
"THE SLATS STARTED IT!"
It was thirty minutes, one very loud argument over who'd asked that mare out first, three family squabbles, a single bluff at divorce, five major spells, a mini-tornado, and an extremely good dark-brewed ale later until he came across the first of the other judges.
"You're holding up well," Time Turner decided as he approached, faint traces of Trottingham coloring the words. "I'm starting to feel the burn myself, even with spitting more than a Shire colt." He took a moment, did something necessary before closing the rest of the gap. "Mind if I take a look at your rating on Amethyst? I promise not to change what I wrote down for the overall rating: I'm just curious about what you thought."
"You... you just jumped over Boundbrook."
"Yes," the stallion said. "He was in the way. So, Amethyst. Did you reach her booth yet? If you didn't, you'll have to go two blocks that way and hang a hard left at Marwari Road --"
Slightly louder, "You just jumped over him! He's lying in the middle of the road, he's asleep in the middle of the road, and you just --"
This was interrupted by another explosion. Both heads turned to look at the flares of green and orange corona light shooting into the sky. Four eyes carefully noted the exact shades.
"Oh, Lacey's here," Time Turner shrugged. "I didn't think she was coming after what happened with Doily last time around. Which appears to be happening all over again with Setting."
Pinkish-purple joined the fray.
"But I see your sister's on top of it," he finished. "So what did you think of Amethyst?"
"But... but..." Spike nearly choked on the word as he swallowed it back, hoping it created room for another. "...ponies are fighting! There's so many ponies fighting!"
"Yes," Time Turner patiently said. "That's why we have police." There was another explosion. "And a fire department."
"This morning, ponies were acting like they hadn't seen each other in years --"
"Townwide parties do that," the stallion cut in. "You go to work, Spike. You go home from work. You go out and indulge in your hobbies, if you have any. You stay with your friends. It's possible to lose track of ponies between Festivals."
"-- and now they're fighting!"
"Because," the adult said, "when they see each other after three years, the first thing they remember is that it's been three years. And then after the first two drinks, they start to remember why it's been three years. Around the fourth mug, somepony decides they're still upset about it. You can pretty much hear where it's going from there."
Two more explosions went off. The first alert siren wailed.
"This," Time Turner said, "is actually a refreshingly quiet year. I credit your sister. By the way, have you seen her?"
Just barely able to get words out, "Her field was just active over --"
"-- no, Spike," Time Turner smiled. "Her."
"Oh." A deep breath. "No."
"I wonder why," the stallion mused. "You'd think this would be her day of days. But I've been here for four Festivals now, and she's never around. I don't think I've just been missing her over and over... at any rate, Amethyst. Show, please?"
Wordlessly, Spike held up his judge's pad, flipped pages.
"Hmm," Time Turner considered. "We agree on the nuttiness. Also, I see you picked up on the exact wood of the cask. Very refined, Spike."
"...thank you?"
"I'm not quite seeing where you got 'cigar box' and 'pencil lead', though."
"I eat gems," Spike helplessly said. "I taste things ponies don't. There were hints of things in her ale which I can't describe to somepony who doesn't eat gems, because there's things only gems taste like. It just tasted like -- a cigar box smells. A really old one which a pegasus made, so it holds the humidity perfectly. It tastes like the waft in the air when somepony opens it for the first time in two seasons."
"Oh." Visible thought. "And the pencil lead?"
"She's always had a little trouble opening jammed items with her field. So I'm pretty sure she pried the cork out with a pencil."
"Ah."
Two lightning bolts slammed into the tree on their immediate right. Spike jumped. Time Turner, working under the benefit of many partially-absorbed sips, rather passively looked up.
"Tartarus chain it, Thunderlane," he called to the feather-strewn sky. "Aim!"
He saw the earth pony twice more, each time talking to another judge. On both occasions, the words were too quiet for him to make out, especially through all the spells and wind gusts which were now ripping their way through the streets. But Time Turner definitely seemed to be excited about something. The battles just weren't it.
There were more fights. There were multiple ponies sleeping in the road. A few booth operators, who hadn't distributed enough of their product, had decided it wasn't worth hauling anything home and rather than feed the stinking soil, had transferred liquid from mug to stomach. This probably wasn't going to count for hauling it home because, judging by sub-aspects of the smell, several ponies were having a lot of trouble finding bathrooms.
It wasn't just fights, of course. Ponies were stumbling along together, flank to flank. Most of them were singing. Some of the words vaguely resembled Equestrian. A few were more or less speaking Protoceran, substituting pony tooth clicks for griffon beak clacks. One unicorn was doing his best to imitate a sea pony, but since sea ponies didn't exist, this meant he'd just gotten his snout jammed in a mug and was forcing his words to bubble through the beer. This did serve to keep it carbonated.
Spike witnessed two declarations of love. They were sincere, heartfelt, and promised a lifetime of dedication to the adored party. In both cases, the ponies held their ground, waiting for an answer. There was probably a chance for the tree to somehow talk back, but Spike didn't like the odds of getting a yes from the cloud.
Every three years. They do this every three years...
Sun was lowered. The temperature, however, crashed.
Spike was already starting to shiver as he concluded his final duty as judge: turning in the pad. The perfectly sober mare sitting behind the table looked it over.
"Oh," she said, openly bored. "Another cigar box. Also, the taste of fresh towels. And here I was hoping that having Ravine turn in, and I quote, 'that feeling you get when somepony's plowing snow that's been trod on and some of it lands in your mouth' would be the silliest thing I saw all day. I don't know what got into everypony this year, beyond the extremely obvious. Thank you for your service. We'll send the results to the winners in two days, when everypony's capable of reading again. Please step over the body to your right. Good night."
And Spike, cold and getting colder, could have make his way home. Gone directly for the warmth of the tree. But there were things he had to do first, and so he retraced his steps until all of them were done.
He found Rainbow on her back again. Flitter had fallen on top of her. (Spike resisted the sudden urge to take a picture.) With neither pegasus in any shape to pay attention to their perch, the clouds they'd been using for their stations were starting to lose cohesion in the cold night air, and the mares were slowly sinking towards the ground.
"Rainbow?"
Her eyes didn't open. But her legs shifted, moved in small circles. She looked as if she was trying to do a swimming backstroke, one where nothing was propelled. The cloud, and Flitter, stayed where they were.
"...Rainbow?" This time, he poked her right shoulder. One eye cracked open.
"Itsaitsaitsatie," the weather coordinator declared, and passed out again.
The shock of the day came from Fluttershy.
He had expected -- well, nothing, to be honest: he hadn't thought about it. If he had given it a single moment of consideration, he would have decided that such an event would have the caretaker hiding in her cottage until it ended. But Fluttershy had been slowly changing, and those changes had brought her all the way to the most lonely booth at the very edge of town. She'd done what she'd probably felt was appropriate, and then she'd kept doing it right there because she didn't want to get any closer to the growing chaos. And now...
The bear, who knew Spike on sight, didn't growl at him. Instead, it silently waited as two dozen raccoons and badgers combined their efforts, lifting from below as some of the cottage's largest birds gripped legs hind and fore as gently as talons would allow, then flapped for their lives. Spike added his strength, and it all ended with the reeling pegasus curled up in the center of the bear's broad back.
"...this was... nice," Fluttershy murmured. "I didn't know it was so nice. And all the lights were pretty..."
The animals surrounded her, formed a protective barrier against position shifts and anything else that might threaten. And then the bear, looking vaguely exasperated, trundled away.
Applejack was draped across three casks, with her tail across one more and her hat adorning the fifth. She was also conscious, at least in the sense that she was awake.
"Spike!" she called out. "Jus'... just the dragon Ah wanted t'... wanted t'... give me a minute, Ah wanted t'... huh. 'kay. Ah wanted somethin' an' now Ah don't know what it was." She giggled. "Who's a silly pony? Ah'm a silly pony!" Some very visible thought. "You're a silly pony, Applejack. Somepony should do somethin' 'bout that..."
He sighed, wrapped his arms tighter against his body. "I'm going to send a letter to Big Mac," he told her: there were always extra scrolls in his backpack, just in case. "He'll get you home."
"Don' need no big brother."
"Yes, you do," Spike firmly said, forcing himself to reach for the paper. "You need him right now."
"Need... need the ones who... who made sure Ah had a big brother, an' he had a sister, then two sisters, and... Ah need 'em, Spike. Every time Ah think 'bout 'em, Ah need 'em." Limp dangling legs briefly shifted, swatted at the air. "How old do Ah hafta be? How many years before that stops? Part of me... don't want it t' stop. Part wishes for it. Don't know which part's right..."
And there was nothing he could say.
"You know," she told him. "Someone laid your egg, but Twilight raised you. Somepony birthed me, an' we had years, not enough years, an' then Granny, she did everythin'... she could, but... you know, Spike. You know, an'... Ah think that's why Ah can talk t' you so easy. Pony and dragon. Still the same."
The right foreleg curled. Motioned him closer. He went to her.
"Wanna know a secret?"
"Applejack --"
"It's a big secret. One of the biggest. An' Ah know... 'cause you an' me, we're the same... y'won't tell. Not until Ah tell the world. Which ain't never gonna happen, so never. You'll never tell."
"I'm sending the letter," he said, fumbling for the quill. "Right now."
More slowly, "Y'know... how some ponies are ugly? So ugly y'don't want t' look at 'em any longer than y'have to? But y'gotta, 'cause it's rude if y'won't?"
His cold claws accelerated to full scribble.
And just above a whisper, "Turns out... there's other ponies. Ones so ugly... y'can't look away. Ah saw a pony like that. An'... Ah wanna look away 'cause Ah've gotta, but -- Ah keep..."
She fell asleep. And he stayed with her until Big Mac arrived to take her home.
Flower Wishes was in police custody, which might have been the most normal thing about the entire day.
"We are warriors!" she screamed to the stars. "I struck against them! I kicked them where it hurt! They shall know my wrath!"
"What's 'they' this time?" the weary officer on the left asked her partner as they marched their reeling burden towards the station.
"Judging by where I found her? A pine tree."
With morbid curiosity ascendant, "Did it feel her wrath?"
"Up to the fifth branch." The pegasus sighed. "I have no idea how she got that far up the trunk..."
"It's their fault! I guarded my wine! They got to the dandelions!"
And finally, as he wove through fallen ponies (breathing slowly, snoring, wrapped around mugs, benches, each other), around a small impact crater and past the freshest of lightning scars on a tree, he heard the last singing of the night, and his heart sank.
"Oh, no..."
There was one pony among the Bearers who could be counted as a pure lightweight, and that near-total lack of resistance followed a guaranteed progression. After the first mug, she would be happy. The second would start to send her reeling. By the third, coherence would probably be taking a partial holiday, plus there might be singing. And upon the fourth... after the fourth, she was gone, and the party who took her place wouldn't be particularly concerned about what would have happened to the original's reputation by morning. And in the name of irony, that pony was the one who spent the most time in bars, and so longed for a companion who would accompany her, make sure she didn't do anything stupid, and perhaps enjoy the mugs which she could not.
She was at three mugs now. He knew what she sounded like at three mugs. Off-pitch and accent-free.
The singing stopped. She'd just seen something she could gossip with.
"...and my, and my, and my little ponies, she calls us! Well! Well-well-well, I am a full grown mare! Just because she's so big and... big and... fabric. Extra fabric. Lots of fabric. I want to fabric her. All over. Which takes a lot. Of fabric."
The booth said nothing.
"Well, of course of course of course I'm waiting! All the times we've done so much, all the times we've -- we've -- well, we clearly did something! And all I want is a tiny little thing for a big little pony. Why can't she see that?"
The abandoned booth had nothing verbal of substance to contribute. Several still-present mugs weren't quite sure of their place in the conversation.
"I like her hooves."
The mugs were instantly scandalized.
"I like hooves. In general. In specific. In... in... in the summer, when we met, Sun high in the sky, in the summer, where we met, a pegasus did fly..."
Spike sighed. "Rarity?"
She turned. Her eyelashes fell off.
"You don't have hooves," she observed.
"I know," he sighed again. "Come on. The tree's closer than the Boutique. You can sleep it off at the library."
"Did you know," Rarity told the booth as she turned back to it, not wanting to appear rude, "that I keep waiting for him to molt? I want to use his scales. I want to weave them into the outer layer of... of... something. Something which stays close. Something... not to sell, but to... because I know and... he knows, he knows and..."
She looked at him again.
"My father. My -- dad. Have you met him?"
"Yes." He came a little closer -- and then, for the first time, "I met him before I met you. I never told you. I snuck out of the Gifted School --"
"-- he wanted a son, I think. Not many mares play hoofball, you know. None with my build. He must have wanted a colt. But there was me. And then there was time, and finally there was Sweetie, but so much time and... two girls. Two fillies. And he loves me, Spike, I know he does, he loves me so much, but he wanted a colt and I wanted a brother, but Sweetie was born so late and..."
Her eyes slowly closed. She reeled.
"Twilight," she muttered. "Stupid lucky Twilight. Stupid twice-lucky. Stupid doesn't know she's lucky. Smartest pony and so stupid..."
He crossed the last steps, placed his cold palm against her left flank.
"Come home."
"I drank," she sadly said.
"I know."
Self-loathing now. "I shouldn't."
"You -- keep trying. Even when you know you're bad at something. You always try."
And instantly into concern. "You feel like you're shivering. Like you're cold."
"I..."
"Like the cold went inside."
He took a slow breath.
"There's fire inside," he told her. "It helps."
"I wish... I wish I had that..."
She did. He knew she did, somewhere deep. He'd seen it, little hints of light and heat, when her dreams were closest to the surface. But it was a pony fire.
"Home," Spike said. "Let's go home."
She leaned against him for most of the way, and he carefully angled himself to prevent scales from scraping white fur.
It was autumn: past the sales of what he now thought of as true cider, beyond Nightmare Night. It meant Sun was lowered early, and it also meant that when Rarity opened her eyes to see Twilight and Spike looking at her position upon the guest bed, it was still the same day.
The blue quickly vanished behind a wall of wincing white.
"Painkillers," Rarity said. "Now."
"Rarity," Twilight sighed, "we've talked about this. If I'm going to let Spike go out with you, his word on when you stop has to be --"
"Painkillers. Now."
"-- absolute, and you should be old enough to know your limits, to know better --"
"-- Twilight?"
"...yes?"
Painfully, "You -- understand that you are my friend? That I care for you deeply, that I cherish you in my heart always?"
"Yes..."
"That as my friend, I love you now and forever."
"Yes...?"
"Spike? You know that you are..." Her right forehoof came up, pressed against the base of the horn as she winced again. "...my dearest one? That --"
"-- yes," he cut her off. "...yeah."
"Good. Then I hope you both also understand that when I am questioned on the witness stand prior to my sentencing, I will repeat those exact words before declaring that should the circumstances be presented to me a second time, I would kill you both again for not having waited to lecture me. Painkillers. Please.”
The siblings silently regarded the heavily-spiking corona dancing on the white horn, then mutually backed away towards the ramp.
There was a gentle knock at the door.
"And whoever just made that horrible noise," Rarity added, "please murder them for me. Thanks ever so."
Twilight slid her hooves all the way down the ramp, Spike tipclawed, and when they reached the bottom, the most silent exchange possible traveled between them. The unicorn went towards the headache medicine stored in her desk, while the dragon answered the door.
"Good evening," Mayor Mare quietly said. "Do you have a moment?"
"I guess," was the best he could do on the first attempt. "Just... don't make too much noise. Rarity's..." and didn't want to say more.
Her expression suggested she'd easily guessed. "Yes. It's rather common. One of the many reasons that nothing is ever scheduled for the day after Festival."
"For recovery," Spike tried. She nodded. "Will the stores be open?"
"Those whose owners can manage it. The pharmacy, however, always makes sure to welcome all. Perhaps at what is now a slight markup."
"Why were they all closed today?"
She sighed. "Drunks make poor customers, Spike. I came to check on the two of you. To see how the day went, as the first Festival for both. Chief Rights told me that Miss Sparkle helped in several respects. But when it comes to your judging, I have a few questions about your choice of descriptive terms --"
"-- why?"
The mayor could have readily assumed he was asking about the pad. She didn't.
"Why," she repeated instead. "Indeed, why have a Festival at all? When ponies quarrel, and ponies fight, and all the little resentments spill forth on a sea of alcohol, and I know that is what will happen? In my second year in office, I placed a public referendum question on the ballot. I asked all of Ponyville whether they wished Festival to end. Knowing what happens. What always happens. I listed all the damages. The number of ponies who sleep it off at the police station, and that sometimes if they're lucky. The repair costs. And also the outright gouging at the pharmacy, which I did at least manage to legislate out of existence. The vast majority said no. That Festival was needed. And in time... I agreed. It is necessary. Perhaps more than ever, now that the Elements are among us again."
"But --" He didn't understand.
The older mare gently reared back, pressed her forelegs against the sides of her glasses, carefully set them on the floor as she dropped down.
"Spike," Marigold softly said, "every mayor in Equestria runs herd over a full settled zone of individuals with issues, arguments, petty quarrels, disagreements with their neighbors, and magic. We are civilized, or pretend to be so most of the time. But after being in office... it can feel like a veneer. The thinnest of coatings covering raw instinct. To strike against those who offend us. To hold land. To prove strength. To release anger as action. The emotions build up under that coating. Fail to see that, allow the fire to build, and... there can be explosions. Far larger ones than you saw today. Events which take place while the police are not on constant patrol, and they discovered many issues today, some of which will be sent to counseling. But when they are absent, and ponies know it... we have events where ponies are truly hurt. Ponyville is not the sole settled zone with a Festival, and those who ended theirs for a time came to regret it."
He couldn't speak, and so simply listened.
"Today was squabbles and little fights. The next court session will be community service and ponies sentenced to repainting. Together, with paint which was paid for by space rentals. A number of things can be worked out on the same side of a fence. Even within the principles of Harmony -- principles more speak about than truly follow -- civilization is a boiler, Spike, constantly building steam within a shell less solid than it appears. The Festival? Is the pressure valve."
"I..." He swallowed. "I still don't understa --"
"-- you do," she carefully said. "Maybe you don't wish to, and I can appreciate that. But you are rather insightful for your age. Somewhere inside, you understand."
She sighed.
"There will be fights outside of Festival," she wearily finished, "because there always are. But they've had their excuse, to let out the things which they would otherwise suppress. That's all alcohol is sometimes: an excuse. It's not their fault, it's the drink, or so they badly need to believe. But ponies say and do those things while drunk that they dreamed of while sober. Confession not to the bartender, but to the world. Dreams have been expressed. Problems have been identified, and so treatment begins. Peace resumes."
A quick head shake, enough to let him see the roots at the base of the mane dye.
"Oh," she added. "I must ask. Did you see her?"
Spike wearily smiled. "No."
"I don't get it," the mayor admitted. "This of all days... I remember when she found her mark. I know how many Festivals have passed since then. You would think she'd be at the heart of it all. But nopony's ever seen her there." She shrugged. "Or perhaps ever will. So, regarding your sister's first day as a cadet --"
"Has anypony murdered her yet?"
Deep under Moon, a single pony stood in the market square.
She was not the only pony there: in fact, she had plenty of company, all of whom had their breath puff out as clouds in the chill air as they slept on the stinking ground. One stallion's tongue had lolled from his mouth and was poking at the soil, as if searching for one last taste. Others were collapsed on booths, clouds, and a few were in the central fountain. None had any awareness of what was to come and had that single standing pony expertly gauged that even one member of the audience would retain memory, nothing ever would have happened at all.
Berry Punch took her deepest breath in three years.
"AMATEURS!"
